Love Is Snowblind

LOVE IS SNOWBLIND

…Where things went next was up for grabs, but Dylan was going to enjoy this while it lasted. Damn the consequences! “Unless you really enjoy rolling around on the floor, let’s move to the bedroom and get more comfortable.” Grey untangled himself from Dylan’s embrace and pushed to his feet. He then reached back to give Dylan a hand to hoist himself out of the chair and make the dozen or so steps to the bedroom. The room was small, barely space for the queen-sized bed and a four-drawer chest. A blanket curtain covered the doorway when needed, but for now looped off to one side. Since Grey kept the stove going full blast, the cabin was warm enough Dylan had taken to wearing sweat pants with the right leg slashed to above his knee to accommodate the cast. He had some old fur-lined slippers that were enough to keep his feet warm. None of that was hard to take off. Dylan sat back on the side of the bed and dragged the pants off after he kicked the slippers aside. Grey stood, knees almost against the mattress, and watched him. “Well, do you think you’re going to freeze if you get bare-assed?” Grey shook his head, giving Dylan a sly grin. “No, I was just enjoying the scenery for a minute.” He proceeded to wiggle out of his lined jeans after he pulled off his mukluks, one at a time. How he could stand to wear them indoors Dylan had no clue, but maybe he didn’t have any other shoes with him. For the moment, it didn’t matter. What did matter were the lean, sleek contours of Grey’s body. His legs belonged to a runner or swimmer, defined but not excessively muscled, toned and well shaped. His cock thrust out of a mat of dark-chocolate curls at his groin, ruddy now with blood and stiff with expectation…

ALSO BY DEIRDRE O’DARE Armed And Amorous Beyond The Shadows The Canine Cupid Series The Chap In Chaps Daring Desires Fire On Ice Jesse’s Girl Journal Of A Timid Temptress Muscle Car Man Special Delivery Treading Dangerous Ground You Were Always On My Mind

LOVE IS SNOWBLIND BY DEIRDRE O’DARE

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com

LOVE IS SNOWBLIND AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2010 by Deirdre O’Dare ISBN 978-1-60272-689-5 Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Dedicated to the memory of Susan Butcher, a heroine of mine, who set a high mark for many following her to reach both as a racer and as a compassionate and dedicated woman, and Harmon “Bud” Helmericks, explorer, pilot and author, also an early hero of mine. Last to all the hardy and courageous folks who have mushed their teams across the frozen northlands and their wonderful canine partners. Like Grey in this story, I have been fascinated by Alaska all my life. This is a bit ironic since my body seeks to shut down whenever I’m exposed to extreme cold, so chances are I will never see this amazing region in person—my loss. I apologize for the many liberties I knowingly took with aspects of the dog racing community for the sake of my story and for those I probably unwittingly took as well. All errors and misstatements are mine and I hope readers will not be unduly critical since this Alaska exists only in my imagination. I intend only honor to the reality as I hold in deepest respect all involved in this incredible adventure. I admire all of you very much! Thanks as always to my friends and “family” at Amber Quill Press. You are all top drawer and make my efforts so much better than they would ever be without your help and support. Brightest blessings to you all.

LOVE IS SNOWBLIND

CHAPTER 1 Outside of Anchorage, Alaska January 5 With a word, Dylan Norgard halted the sixteen-dog team. He cast an anxious look at the lowering sky. Definitely time to turn back toward home. Before he wheeled them around, he walked the length of sled and team, scanning each of the dogs with a practiced eye. They all appeared fit and not overly stressed. Good. This had been only a test run, but proved his contention. He and the team were ready. The first of the critical races would begin in three days, and gods willing, the storm would have passed on to the east and south by then. A series of good finishes was necessary to establish 1

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positive credentials before he went on to enter the Iditarod, the big one. The first time he’d been naïve and ill prepared. The second had been bad luck. This time they’d win. “Third time is the charm,” his superstitious Celtic mother always said. With success and prizes in hand, he could finally move to the ultimate phase of his life-long dream. It was time. “Mush.” Sasha and Sergei, the lead pair, surged to their feet and leaned into the harness at his command. The rest of the dogs responded almost as quickly. In seconds, they were moving out at a smooth trot, drawing the sled across the packed snow. It was as if they already scented the warm, rich meal awaiting them back at the homestead. Situated in a sheltered tree-lined vale just far enough from Anchorage to be protected from public scrutiny, and blessedly quiet, Dylan’s home was not fancy, luxurious or anything beyond utilitarian. Still it was good, it was right, and above all it was home. For him and the twenty-four dogs he kept, it was more than enough. The cabin and outbuildings provided shelter, warmth, food, and comfort. It was safe, private, and it was his—perhaps the most important quality of all. Solitude suited him. Too many years jammed in elbow-toelbow with people who tolerated crowds, noise and wearing the mental blinders permitting them to ignore the clamor had convinced him—life was best spent alone. This remote outpost was where he’d finally dug in to stay. A trace of modernity crept in with the advent of cell phones and satellite communications. He’d added a small diesel powered generator and a snowmobile that let him travel without working the dogs when that was necessary. He almost wished these high-tech 2

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items did not exist, but, at times, they were essential to survival, especially for one who had not grown up with the wilderness skills of the past. For that reason, he tolerated them. Still, he preferred as close to total isolation and solitude as he could manage. He found it the only way he could survive with a modicum of sanity. *

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Greyson DeVille Trammel III, Grey to friends, clumped down the stairs from the airplane to the tarmac. The savage bite of the bone-chilling cold shocked him. Even through the layers of parka, long johns, and all the arctic gear he’d donned for the last leg of his travel from the warmth of Southern California, he felt its teeth. For a moment he considered scampering back to the plane’s shelter, but no, he’d waited too long and come too far for this. He’d adjust, adapt and make good. It was his choice this time, not something foisted off on him. Beware of what you wish for… He spared a crooked grin for the thought as the old adage crossed his mind. So this is Alaska. He looked around at the landscape tinted in shades of gray, hardly any color to break the monotony, except for the splotches of bright parkas worn by the ground crew attending to the plane. A strange exultation filled him. At long last, I’m really here. Ever since childhood he’d dreamed about the frozen northlands, absorbed the books of Jack London, Bud and Constance Helmericks, and others who had lived the adventures. Of course, everything was more modern now, but all the technology in the world would not change the harsh reality of the snow, the cold, the wind. The stark, unfriendly environment defied humans to adapt. 3

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He expected that would always be the same. He’d dreamed of and worked hard for this day. Now armed with several cameras and a ruggedized notebook computer, he was ready to cover the races leading up to and including the famous Iditarod. If all went well, he’d be staying to do more journalistic coverage of sports and other activities in the northernmost state. This was the career and locale he had chosen, both as remote as possible from the Burbank-located family law firm and related accounting enterprise, which he hated with a fierce passion. A bit later in his hotel room, which boasted satellite TV and high-speed internet, he almost forgot where he was, but as he watched the local news, a flood of reminders came to him. The local reporter was speaking to several of the contestants who were going to be starting the Kick-Off Race in two days’ time. One was a bearded giant of a man who looked like a great golden bear with his hirsute face and the bulk Grey was sure would be impressive even without the puffy parka. The man’s name tweaked his curiosity. What kind of a man would be named Dylan Norgard? The first name was clearly Celtic, while the surname sounded Nordic. Dylan carried connotations of a poet or an artist, not a rugged, rustic outdoorsman, but Norgard brought the vision of Viking warriors laughing at the cold. Grey laughed to himself for his fancies. Then his breath hitched and his heart stuttered in his chest. For a long instant, the camera zoomed in for a close-up of Dylan’s craggy face. His deep-set eyes seemed to gaze directly into Grey’s for a couple of heartbeats. They must be blue given the frosted golden color of his hair, but if blue, they were such a dark hue they appeared black. The musher smiled at some remark of the reporter’s that Grey didn’t hear and then the big man’s face went 4

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stern again. Grey shook his head. “No, we’ve never won the big one, but I think we have a good chance this year. My new lead pair are exceptional dogs and the rest are worthy to follow them, trained up and ready. It’s in the hands of fate, though, as always. All we can do is give the run our best effort and pray that’s good enough.” As the camera’s roving eye shifted to another of the entrants, Grey made a personal vow to seek out Dylan Norgard the next day. There was something about the big man that reached out to him on a bottomless, visceral level, something he knew he had to explore. *

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Dylan went through the ritual of checking in, having set up his drops and made the rest of the required preparations in the preceding days. He’d been doing this for several seasons now, starting with the smaller and shorter races, and now approaching the big one. If he completed the preliminary races well, he’d go for the Iditarod, not green and ill prepared like the first time, or risking too much like on the second try, only to lose badly. This time he’d finish in the top ten at least, and he was shooting for first. The Iditarod was the Grand Prix, the America’s Cup, the World Series and the Super Bowl all rolled in to one as far as mushers went. There was nothing like it in the world. At first he hadn’t realized how addictive this sport was going to be, but he’d found in it a home and a purpose. Coming out of a bad PTSD case spawned by back-to-back tours in Iraq as a Special Forces soldier, he hadn’t known what he should do. He’d retreated to Alaska to lick his wounds and try to find a reason to live. Now he was into mushing for life, dedicated to a sport that had totally absorbed him. 5

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Sasha and Sergei were, without a doubt, the best lead dogs he’d ever worked. It took a whole team, but the lead pair was the keystone. They had to be indisputably the alphas, obeyed without question and totally respected by the rest of the pack. Half-siblings, the two shared a common mother and had been whelped a year apart. Dylan owned the bitch that had produced them both. She’d been the best part of his first lead team. He still loved and admired her competitive spirit, her stamina, and her heart, but had retired her after an injury limited her ability to work. Tatia was one unique dog, mostly Malamute with a bit of Siberian from one great-grandsire. He’d bred her first to an Alaskan Husky with a trace of wolf. That litter had given him Sasha. Then he’d found a dog that came from the late Susan Butcher’s pack. He’d had to talk hard and pay a handsome stud fee, but the pups were worth it. Sergei was the best of that litter. Dylan would give his life for either dog and he felt confident they’d do the same for him. The bond among the three of them was that powerful. One more time, he checked over his harness, enumerated the contents of his sled bag, and ran a hand down the runners to be sure there were no cracks or rough spots. Then he waited his turn to get his bib number and head for the starting line. Turning around after a final look at Sasha and Sergei, he almost stumbled into a man who had slipped up without a sound while he was absorbed in the last-minute inspection. “Whoa, what the hell?” The man backed a quick two steps, stammering an apology. “Oh, sorry, man. I thought you saw or heard me. The dogs seemed to, but I guess you were busy.” “Yeah. You shouldn’t get this close to a team that doesn’t 6

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know you. They’re well trained, but most sled dogs don’t really care for strangers. They aren’t pampered pets but working dogs, and we treat ’em that way. You must be new to this. What are you after?” The smaller man pulled off a heavy glove and held out his hand. ”Grey Trammel. I’m a sports writer covering the preliminaries for the Iditarod. I saw you on TV yesterday and wanted to talk to you. Sounded like you’ve been in this a while and that it’s really important to you.” Dylan shook hands without removing his glove. It was a fairly mild day, but his hands were almost as critical as his dogs’ feet. They all had their booties cinched in place, and he had his gloves. Neither would come off until they needed to—the dogs to be changed to new dry and unworn footgear and him when he went indoors. “Dylan Norgard. Yeah, I’m a dedicated musher. I’ve run the Iditarod twice, and even finished my second time, but back past the middle of the pack. I think we’ll do better this year, but right now, I’m focused on this race. This’ll be the first for my new lead dogs. I’ve got hopes for them, but the proof is in the running. This is a short race, you might say an easy run, but then weather, wild animals—most anything can throw a monkey wrench at you. “I’m not big news, though. If you’re a writer, you’ll want to focus on the guys like the Mackeys, Paulsen and Borden. They’re the ones to watch, the proven winners.” The smaller man shook his head. “I’m looking for a different angle, a new way of seeing things here. I admit I’m new at this game. This is my trial run, too. If I can get something unique and powerful enough, pictures and a story, it could make my career. I know they don’t do riders on this one like the ceremonial start for 7

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the Iditarod, but I’d like to get out to a couple of the checkpoints and watch from there.” Dylan shrugged. “Get hold of one of the choppers that takes the vets and observers out and go with them. None of the racers can afford to be burdened with newbies. This is a short race, a fast one, where every second counts. We just had a storm blow through and another one’s on the way. We’ve got to get the race run before it hits, probably three or four days max. I have to warn you, though; this is serious business—life and death serious. If you don’t know the ropes, you can end up dead—real quick and real dead. Be careful, son.” He turned away before the other man could respond and sent the team loping toward the starting line. Sports writer and a cheechako green horn. Shit, the kid’s an accident waiting to happen and about the last thing I need to get tied up with. Lad ought to have a keeper.

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CHAPTER 2 Grey swallowed his disappointment. He hadn’t gotten off to a great start with Norgard, but up close, the big man was even more impressive than he’d appeared on television. He must be six-footsix and built like a small mountain. Gruff, though not really hostile. Yeah, of course he’s right. This is serious stuff, with the cold and snow, bears and wolves, and God knows what else out there. The bottom line was a musher and his dogs against nature and the worst it could throw at you. It was no game for the weak, any way you cut it. Grey knew quite a few women raced now—more since Libby Riddles’ historic Iditarod win—but it was basically a man’s game, or at least one for the tough and the strong, the courageous and the prudently daring. 9

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For a moment, he almost second-guessed himself. He could still go back to California and slink behind a desk at the family firm, give up his dreams and take the easy way out. Then he squared his shoulders and stamped off toward the area where the officials and veterinarians were lining up to airlift out to the checkpoints. No! Not only no, but fucking hell no! He was no sissy or coward and, despite his father’s contention he didn’t have the gear to be anything but a nominal VP of piddle in the family company, he’d prove them all wrong. Although it took some talking, he managed to get a seat on one chopper. Wedged between an official and a crusty old vet, he listened with avid interest to the two old timers talk. Thank goodness for his unobtrusive state-of-the-art recorder pen that took it all down so he could review the conversations later. He had to admit there were a few bennies in coming from a well-to-do family and having a trust fund to draw on. Of course, the chopper covered the distance a lot faster than the dogs. Once on the ground, Grey helped with some set-up chores at the checkpoint and absorbed as much atmosphere as he could, keeping one anxious eye on the trail to watch the leaders come in. Norgard wore a distinctive red-and-teal parka that would stand out against the black and white landscape. Grey hoped the big man would be one of the early arrivals. At the first checkpoint, Norgard and his team were the tenth of the fifty-six entries to come in. He’d ended up with bib number twenty-two. That meant he’d gained some ground on those who’d started before him, but the scoring counted a racer’s time from start to finish for each team. Grey almost missed their arrival. He’d been buttonholed by an 10

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incoming lady musher, Lacy Thurman, apparently out to make a name for herself and seeking any publicity she could get. She had lucked into bib number two and had arrived in eighth place. Her dogs looked like she’d picked them more for a handsome match than anything else, but the vet didn’t find any reason to pull one. While Lacy waited and went through the required checkpoint rituals, she kept up a non-stop flow of chatter that had Gray hoping the battery on his recorder pen would hold up. He had spares in an inner pocket, but no time to dig them out. Finally, she was ready to go and sent her sixteen cloned looking dogs off down the trail. A few teams might make the second checkpoint before nightfall, but most would sleep before they got there. Gray would try to make it to the second check-in base early the next day. Then he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eyes. Yep, it was Norgard. Grey hurried over to the station where the big man had halted his team. Grey kept out of the way while the vet, the one he’d sat beside on the helicopter, went over the dogs. They all seemed to be in good shape, calm but alert, breathing easily and standing steady in the harness. Doctor Madsen tucked his stethoscope away and gave Norgard a crooked smile. “They’re good. Not any signs of trouble. How are the new leads working?” It was Norgard’s turn to smile and he did, a wide, genuine smile. “They’re flawless so far. Sasha’s a natural…all that her mother was and even more. Sergei’s new, but he’s got the best of all his ancestors, seems to me. I lucked into a fine pair of dogs.” “A little more than luck, I’d say,” the vet responded. “You’ve learned a lot since that first race five years ago, Norgard. I wouldn’t have given a plugged nickel then for you or your dogs. I 11

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figured you for a wannabe who’d try it a time or two and then give it up. Guess I misjudged.” Norgard grinned, clearly holding no hard feelings. “I know. I was greener than July tundra, but I learned. As for giving up, no fucking way. This is my life now and I’ll give it up when I fall off the runners someday…I hope a long time from now.” The vet gave him an affectionate cuff on the shoulder. “Get your warm-up coffee and head out. I’ll see you at checkpoint three tomorrow.” When Norgard turned, he saw Gray. “Harrumph. You again? I guess you got here.” Gray nodded. “I got on a chopper, like you suggested. In fact, I sat with Dr. Madsen here and Jack Portola. He said he’s a race official. I haven’t seen him since we landed, but I know he’s busy.” Norgard accepted a mug of coffee from a volunteer and took a deep swig. “Yeah, he’s busy. Everybody here is busy. There’s a lot to be done at these checkpoints. You might put some of that into your story—the unsung volunteers and staff who make it all work. Nobody gives them the credit they deserve.” “I tried to help when we got here,” Grey said. “I ran errands and helped set up some stuff while we were waiting for the first teams to come in. I’ve been taking notes and watching everything.” Norgard’s stern face softened the least bit. “Good. Make yourself useful and listen—that’s the best way to find out the reality behind all this. I gotta go. Be careful. This is a rough world for greenhorns.” Although Norgard still spoke gruffly, Grey felt a bit better after their conversation. At least he isn’t ignoring me or treating me like an idiot kid. In time, maybe he’d get through Norgard’s reserve 12

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and learn about the man inside the parka and behind the team. For him, that idea held as much allure as the promise of gold had for the early miners. *

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Dylan completed the required checks, got his book signed and headed off down the trail. There would be a bright moon tonight, so he planned to go as far as he could, keeping a close eye on the dogs for any sign of fatigue or distress. It was cold, but not brutally so, and thus far, the team seemed eager and able to run a good many more hours. With no more than the first nervous edge knocked off by their initial five hours on the trail, Sasha and Sergei lunged into the harness and set a brisk pace for the rest. Dylan alternately trotted beside the sled and hopped on the runners for a break now and then. His weight added considerably to the load so he made sure not to stay there too long, just enough to rest his legs and let his heart rate and breathing settle to a resting state. He chuckled as he thought about the eager young reporter. Travers? Trammel? What the hell did the lad say his name was anyway? Dylan was probably no more than fifteen years older, but to him the younger man seemed like a kid. Maybe it was just his enthusiasm and a certain naivety that seemed both refreshing and unusual. Brash in some ways, he also appeared shy and a bit deferential, an odd dichotomy. Of course, as a totally green newcomer, he probably knew nothing about dogs, mushing or Alaska. Someone needed to take him under a protective wing and show him the ropes, but right now, Dylan’s plans, his team and the urgent need to do well in the 13

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next few preliminary races kept him thoroughly occupied. Besides, he liked his solitary life and had no intention of sharing any more of it than he absolutely had to with anybody. Solitude had done a lot to restore his balance and sanity, and he was not ready to give it up. Some six hours later, he halted the team, set up his small dome tent, and lit the compact stove he used to heat water for the dogs’ meals and his own. The aurora danced along the northern horizon, sheets and shimmers of green and scarlet, now and then a flash nearer blue and violet. The sight never failed to thrill him even if he’d been watching it for several years now. Once he had the dogs staked in a circle around his tent, he paused a moment just to watch the light show. Then he dished up the rich, hot food into sixteen bowls and made sure each dog had a good drink as well as the meal. Only after that did he wolf down his own meal, roll out his sleeping bag and settle down for the short night he allowed himself. Daybreak, which in midwinter was only a slight easing of the darkness, would find him on the trail again. He was determined to make the next checkpoint by mid-morning. That would be roughly halfway on this short race, and the sooner he passed that milestone, the quicker he would make the finish line. If he could finish in the first ten, he’d be pleased and confident he could run the next race as well or better. This was a shakedown run for the current team, but also a confidence builder for him and the dogs, as well as proof to some potential backers that he was worthy of their sponsorship, despite some poor showings in the past. Serious racing was a costly business, and he’d gone about as far as he could on his own resources. Taking on a partner would mean an end to a large part 14

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of his independence, but if the partner’s involvement was mainly financial rather than out on the trail with him, it would be tolerable. It would also allow him to move up the ladder to what he hoped would be a winning finish on the Iditarod, if not this year, then next year for sure. It was all big business now, so different from when he’d first heard of the famous race years ago as a kid in Minnesota. Back then, a few of his neighbors and friends had begun to do some weekend racing, but it was just a game, something else to enjoy during the long, harsh winters. Everyone was an amateur and threw together what gear and teams they could. At the time, it hadn’t seemed like anything to put his life into. Then came the army and a chain of events he’d just as soon forget—trauma that left him wounded in body and soul. He’d come to Alaska to hide out and reinvent himself, little guessing how an old interest in sled dogs would become the focus for that new life. Now here he was, Sasha and Sergei the best friends he could claim, and the lure of the trail still leading him on toward a goal so huge and distant it often seemed like a mirage. *

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Grey talked his way onto another helicopter early the next morning after the last team cleared the first checkpoint. His companion was a garrulous chap, and they soon had a lively conversation going. When the stranger learned Grey was recording everything he could about the race, offers and suggestions spewed like a geyser from his gap-toothed mouth. “I can hook ya up with a feller who can get you out to the final checkpoint ahead of the race, kid. He’s an old musher and knows 15

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the ropes, the shortcuts and all the ins and outs. It’ll cost ya, but I’ll get ya the best deal I can. Ya can be right there and not have to work or waste any time so ya can concentrate on interviews and takin’ pictures. If ya want to, he’ll get ya onto the finish line the same way, ahead of the pack.” Grey could hardly believe his ears. A small, niggling doubt made him hesitate, but as the other man continued to tout the advantages, he gave in. “What will it cost?” “Oh, let’s start with about a grand,” the other man said. “That’ll get his interest anyway and maybe a little more when he gets you where you wanna go…kind of a bonus for success, ya know.” Grey hesitated again. He’d put out a lot for his gear, the flight up, and accommodations for several weeks paid in advance. He was not on a seriously limited budget, but his trust fund did have a bottom, a limit to how much he could withdraw in a given period of time. But what an opportunity. “You say this guy’s a past Iditarod winner and a real old timer?” “Hell, yeah. He’s the real deal, kid. Ya couldn’t get a better guide and teacher. He’s forgot more about mushing than this current crop of yahoos’ll ever learn. You can’t go wrong with Bucky Hoolihan.” Even though the name did not ring any bells, Grey dug out his wallet. When they landed at the checkpoint, he learned Norgard had already been through, about half an hour earlier. That made him even more eager to get on down the trail to the next checkpoint. When his flight companion approached with a grizzled man in an ancient-looking, old-style sealskin parka, Grey was sure he’d made a good decision. Hoolihan proved less talkative than Grey’s recent helicopter 16

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companion, but he soon produced a team and sled and settled Gray atop the sled bag. The dogs were a motley bunch, and the sled appeared to have seen better days, but Grey told himself this was a real old timer’s outfit and not the slick and spiffy new gear sported by the upcoming crop of mushers. To him, it looked like something straight out of the pages of a Jack London novel. He snapped a bunch of shots right away for the record. Within about an hour of his landing at the second checkpoint, they were off down the trail toward the third. Hoolihan swore he knew a shortcut that would put them there well before the leaders, so Grey sat back to enjoy the ride. The fact it was already midafternoon troubled him, but he knew a lot of mushers liked to run at night, especially if the sky was clear and the moon out. Apparently, Hoolihan was one of them. Gray was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The sooner he was at the third checkpoint, the better off he’d be. He might even scoop some other reporters with a clue as to who was likely to come in first.

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CHAPTER 3 Grey was half-asleep when the sudden halt of the sled jerked him awake. “Got a problem,” Hoolihan growled out. “Something’s wrong with my off lead dog. He’s taken to limping real bad.” In the dim light, Grey could barely see the animal, a mottled brown, black and white dog, but it did seem to be holding up one paw. “What’re you going to do?” “There’s a native village about five miles back and a mile off our trail. I’m going to leave you here and take him down there, leave him with a friend of mine, and come back. I don’t want him to be hurt no worse, so he’s gotta ride and there ain’t room for him and you both. You got a tent and a sleeping bag, don’tcha?” 18

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“Yes, I have my gear with me, but this is going to make us late getting to the next checkpoint, isn’t it?” “I’ll push as fast as I can. Can’t help it. I won’t ruin my best dog.” Grey could hardly argue with that. He didn’t feel good about getting off and once Hoolihan strapped the dog onto the sled and headed away, he felt even worse. Glancing around, he could see nothing but snow, some broken ridges with rock showing through the white, and a few straggling trees. He might as well be the only man on earth. Hoolihan had said he’d be back in two or three hours. Not much Grey could do now except wait. He burrowed down into the snow in a hollow just off the dim trace they’d been following and wrapped his sleeping bag around himself. He didn’t figure he needed to set up the tent, at least not yet. There was not much wind and although he knew it was below zero, his insulated parka and overalls seemed to be adequate. He dozed a bit but never fell deeply asleep, fearful if he did he might not wake up. He wanted to be sure he saw and heard Hoolihan when he came back. Only he didn’t come back. Two hours became three and then four. The wind began to pick up and as the meager daylight came, he noticed the sky growing increasingly dark to the north. The clouds spread to cover more and more of the pale clear blue. Finally, he dug out his cell phone, not sure it would work, but it was the only link he had to the rest of humanity. He’d noted the numbers used by the race officials and tried them, one after another. After long moments, someone picked up. He tried to keep panic out of his voice, but it was hard and got harder as the voice on the other end faded in and out, now clear, then so faint he could hardly hear a word. He tried to explain what 19

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had happened, but the phone died, batteries giving up to the cold. Would anyone come? Could they find him if they did? Maybe he’d been taken for a ride in more ways than one. Hoolihan had Grey’s thousand dollars, but he was out here— wherever here was—perhaps left to die. The prospect seemed daunting to say the least. Now he began to feel the cold. Before hypothermia set in, he managed to pitch his tiny one-man tent and spread out the sleeping bag inside. He crawled into it and lay down to wait, either to be saved or to die. His end was now in the hands of fate. *

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Dylan hit the third checkpoint at mid-morning. Seventy-five miles to go. While the vet went over the team, he listened to the checkpoint crew discussing the weather. The latest reports had them cautioning all the mushers that the next storm was coming in a lot faster than they’d expected. By tonight, it would be nasty— cold, vicious wind and heavy snow. They were all praying most of the racers would make it to the finish before the worst of the storm hit, but everyone knew the weather goddess in Alaska was one capricious bitch. Just then, one of the volunteers rushed out of the cabin where they had the office set up. This checkpoint was at a village inhabited mostly by Native Americans, but also a few hardy European and American souls who liked to live in the most remote and harsh conditions they could find, generally under the radar of society. The cabin the race had preempted normally served as a kind of city hall, community center and office space for traveling Bureau of Indian Affairs and other state and federal officials who 20

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came through occasionally. The young man, not Grey as Dylan quickly noted, looked flushed and anxious. “We just picked up a distress call. The caller’s phone was fading in and out, but we did get a GPS fix on the location. It’s about fifteen miles south and west of here. Sounded like someone tried to cut across the big loop the regular trail makes and got into trouble. Ground out there is cut up bad, worse than ever now because of the fire last summer.” He paused for breath and looked around at the four racers who were going through the checks before he continued. “The villagers are trying to put together a crew to go out searching, but we need more, a good sled in case the party is injured…better dogs than the mutts the Indians have here. Most of them aren’t even real sled dogs, much less trained, just mongrels that hang around the camp. It wouldn’t be so urgent except the weather’s due to change, a lot earlier than they’d predicted.” Dylan glanced at the sky. Already a leaden haze was darkening the faded blue to the north and west, the leading edge of the storm. Then he looked over his team. They’d begun the day rested and raring to go. The twenty miles or so they’d covered this morning hadn’t phased them. This side trip would cost him the lead he’d managed to build, though. He could probably still finish, but it would be well back in the middle—or worse. He figured he was in the first five right now. Two of the three currently at the check were ready to go any minute. He weighed the options. What he wanted to do versus what he knew needed to be done pulled him two ways. How could he turn his back on someone, maybe another racer, who’d screwed up or a fan trying to follow the action and leave him out there to face the coming storm? Unless the stranger was well outfitted, such 21

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exposure likely spelled out his death warrant, and if the man was injured or had dogs down, fatal consequences were even more likely. He’d been close to that a few times himself. His gut still cramped at the memory. The volunteer said information had been sketchy as to what was wrong and the caller’s phone had apparently died completely before he finished the call. All they had to go on was a frightened voice calling in a broken SOS and a general location. Everyone knew without it being said that GPS was notoriously unreliable at times. Dylan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll go. Anybody got a map I can use to plot a route out there, a good topographic map that shows the terrain?” Someone produced one. He hitched the team and went inside to spread it out and figure which way he’d go. It was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack, maybe a big needle in a small stack, but still no easy task. He checked his own compass and GPS unit, watered the dogs and then headed out. Sergei and Sasha both looked askance at him, as if sensing they were leaving the trail and the route the other teams were taking. “It’s okay, kids. We’re going to make a detour here. If we get lucky, we might still be able to finish this race. If we don’t…well, someone’s life is worth more than a cup and a title, right?” As if they understood, the two lead dogs leaned into the harness and swung into a smooth wolfish trot that ate up distance with the least possible waste of energy. Dylan trotted alongside, knowing he needed to spare the team all he could now because there was no way to know what they might encounter. A keen regret knifed through him—he’d been counting so much on a good finish in this race and he’d just thrown that away. 22

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Am I a fool or a crazy, half-assed hero? Perhaps a bit of both, he decided. *

*

*

Two hours of that steady trot got Dylan close to the GPS coordinates he’d received. The wind had started to blow, swirling the dry surface layer of snow as he made his cautious way down a ridge. A bad forest fire had ravaged the area the past summer. Now dead trees that had not completely burned lay like giant jackstraws, and holes left where some had blown over, pulling out their roots, lurked under the snow to trap a dog or tip a sled. It was ugly terrain. Sasha seemed to have an inborn sense for hazards. She had slowed from the trot and zigzagged along, picking her way as daintily as a gymnast or a dancer. The rest of the dogs followed her lead, also showing cautious alertness. The ridge finally leveled off into a gentle bowl. Just before a stronger gust obscured his view, Dylan thought he saw a flash of color off to one side, color at variance with the uniform black and white of the landscape. Damn it, will the fucking wind die for just a few seconds? He squinted through the spinning, whirling white, trying to find the spot, the color, once again. If there were other dogs, maybe his team would scent them. The wind kept shifting so it was hard to line up with the place where he thought he’d seen something that didn’t belong. He didn’t speak, but sent the thought to Sasha. Sometimes she seemed to read his mind. Maybe she would this time. Find them, girl. If there’s someone here, close, find them. The lead pair halted, heads up, ears pointed like antennas. He 23

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knew their noses would be twitching, sampling the frigid air. Finally, Sasha stepped off again, moving faster now and in as direct a line as she could. Here the fallen logs were fewer and there seemed to be no holes or other booby traps. He didn’t try to guide the team. If Sasha was onto something, he’d let her find it. When the team stopped, Dylan almost tripped over the sled. For an instant, the blizzard let up and he saw it, a patch of red, just in front of Sasha and Sergei. A tent? It looked like one, but a damned small one. He edged along beside the team until he reached it. Yep, a miniscule half-tube of red nylon, stretched by several light plastic arches. He knelt at the end. “Hallo. Anyone here?” The next instant he rocked back on his heels as a very pale face suddenly appeared in the opening as a zipper slid down. At first, he did not recognize the person who drew opened the tent and began to wiggle out, dragging a green sleeping bag with him. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, I’m not going to die after all.” A gloved hand grasped Dylan’s and another reached out to Sasha. “Somebody heard; somebody came. I didn’t think anyone would.” “Don’t go bawling,” Dylan said. “The tears’ll freeze your eyes shut. Let’s get you packed up and on board, and head back to civilization before this blizzard gets any worse.” “Mr. Norgard? Is it really you? I thought you were trying to win the race.” Dylan didn’t know whether to laugh or cuss. It was that damn cheechako kid, the reporter. What in bloody fucking hell was he doing out here alone in the snow? “Where’s your team, your rig?” The younger man was fumbling to try to collapse and fold up 24

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his tent. “I—a guy named Hoolihan was going to get me to the third checkpoint ahead of the racers. One of his lead dogs came up lame, and he said he was going to take it to a village a few miles back just off the way we’d come. He said he’d be back in two hours. After four or five, I figured he’d left me.” “Hoolihan. Might’ve known. That sorry son of a bitch. You paid him, of course.” The younger man nodded. “Yeah, I paid him. And he suckered me, didn’t he?” “Looks that way.” Dylan took pity on the kid, and anxious to head back, slammed the tent into a bundle and jammed it and the sleeping bag into his sled bag. “Get on and hang on tight. We’re going to be fighting the wind all the way back, but we’ll make it, gods willing.” Almost before he gave the command, Sasha and Sergei turned and headed back the way they had come, following the tracks and runner-ruts that were rapidly filling with new and blowing snow. No trotting now, but they kept a steady pace, leaning into the harness to take the extra weight. Dylan muttered a prayer they’d make it back to the checkpoint. If they got that far, he’d forget about the race. There would be other races, but he only had one life, as did his unexpected passenger and each dog of his precious team. The trip that had taken two hours coming out took five going back. Long before they got there, the dogs had to break drifts higher than their backs. The wind howled like an insane banshee and ripped at them, sucking off every bit of heat their bodies could produce. A time or two Dylan considered stopping and making a cold camp, but he didn’t have enough to feed the whole team because he hadn’t picked up his drop bag before he left the 25

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checkpoint—mistake on his part. It was make it or die…no other choice. He stumbled now, pacing beside the sled, knowing that his added weight on the runners would be too much for the tiring team to handle. All at once he tripped, his leg twisting beneath him and he fell. A searing pain knifed up his right leg. Oh, shit, I’ve done it now. Somehow, the dogs knew, stopping almost at once. He grabbed at the sled and tried to get up, but he couldn’t. His leg was not going to bear his weight. *

*

*

Grey wasn’t asleep. He didn’t dare go to sleep. Even as green as he was, he could tell the dogs were tiring and the non-existent trail had vanished beneath the windblown snow. He sensed Norgard staggering along beside the sled and started to offer to trade places for a while. Then the big man went down. The dogs stopped, somehow sensing something was wrong. Grey unwound himself from the sled and scrambled to Norgard’s side. “You okay? What happened?” He heard the big man draw a slow breath and let it out. “Think I broke my leg,” he said. “Tripped over something. Tired…” His voice slurred with exhaustion and pain. He slumped against the sled, resting on his left knee. Panic gripped Grey for a moment, but then he steadied himself. It’s up to me now. I didn’t come this far to die, to lose everything. Damn it, what do I need to do? Later, he could not have told anyone how, but he managed to 26

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help Norgard onto the sled. The man probably outweighed him by seventy-five pounds, but together they did it. This was going to be a heavier load for the dogs, but somehow they’d handle it. He had to lean close to hear Norgard’s mumbled words. “Not too far, I don’t think. The village—maybe another mile or two. Just trust Sasha. She’ll get us there if it’s possible. Hold on to the handles, but try not to put too much weight on the sled. Talk to ’em. Tell Sasha it’s up to her.” Grey wasn’t sure if Norgard passed out then or not, but he hoped the other man would stay on the sled. Norgard’s gloved hands seem to lock onto the side rails at any rate. Grey raised his voice so the dogs might hear him above the wind. “Okay, Sasha, you know what to do. Mush, girl.” Much to his amazement, the lead pair leaned into the harness again and started forward. They seemed just to be inching along, but they moved, and he had to keep walking to stay in his chosen spot at the back end of the sled. One foot after the other, slogging and struggling, but moving, moving, moving. He held onto the handles like a lifeline, which indeed they were, but he didn’t lean, didn’t put any weight at all on the sled to add to the burden the weary team dragged through the snow, against the wind… When the dogs finally stopped, Grey almost fell. It took a moment before he realized he could see dim lights through the dancing snowflakes. Lights? Then he heard voices. “Hey, somebody’s here. Team in.” People seemed to come boiling out of the cold darkness to surround him. “Hey, it’s Norgard.” Then the fact the musher was on the sled and a smaller figure stood beside it soaked in on them. Grey tried to explain, but a haze wrapped around him as he felt 27

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himself sliding into a cold, silent, empty place. He sank onto the snow and everything went out like a quenched candle. *

*

*

Dylan fought his way upward through cold and pain. He felt himself being lifted free of the sled. “The dogs,” he managed. “Somebody take care of the dogs.” “We’ve got them,” a voice said. “They’re already headed for the straw and some warm bowls. They’ve done their job, a hero’s job, each one of them.” “What about the kid?” “Got him, too. Don’t worry, Norgard. Everything’s under control.” He faded in and out for a while, finally coming to again as one of the vets finished putting a splint on his leg. He yelped when the doctor tightened the bindings to stabilize the fracture. “Owww. Jeezus, that hurts.” “Aw, shut up. You’re going to be okay, Norgard. That’ll keep it in place till we get you back to Anchorage. Not sure when that’ll be, though. Nothing is going to get off the ground until this storm blows out. You’re damn lucky to have made it in. The Indians that went out searching gave up and came back hours ago.” Dylan levered himself up on his elbows. It looked like he was in the big cabin, laid out on a table to one side from where the race officials had their stuff. Another person in a sleeping bag lay on the floor off to his left against the wall. The kid? “I’m kinda hazy on the last part of the trip,” he admitted. “I know I fell, guess I snapped a bone. Hurt like billy hell. For a minute I figured it was all over, but the kid, that young reporter, he 28

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got off the sled and got me on it. I didn’t figure he could do much with the team, but I hoped Sasha would find her way back in. I didn’t think we had too much farther to go. Told him to holler at her. I guess he did. For a cheechako, he did pretty damn good.” “Damn right he did. He’s over there, crapped out. Got pretty cold, I guess, and tired and scared, but he made it in with you, the team and himself. We fed him, and he bedded down.” Dylan looked again. All he could see was a shock of dark brown hair poking out of the top of the bright puke-green bag. He grinned. “Well, guess I blew the race, but maybe it was the right thing to do.” Something in his gut told him that indeed it was. As much as his leg hurt, he felt almost like he was floating, warm and peaceful. He wished Sasha and Sergei were close beside him, but he trusted the checkpoint crew to care for them and the others. There were plenty of folks here who knew and loved dogs. The team would be okay. And, for now, so was he.

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CHAPTER 4 The storm raged for another twenty-four hours. Before it began to clear, Grey was prowling the cabin like a caged animal. He kept a close eye on Norgard, worried that he seemed to be sleeping most of the time. He grabbed the old vet who’d set Norgard’s leg. “Are you sure he’s okay?” The doctor grinned. “Yeah, it’d take more than a busted leg and fighting some bad weather to keep ole Dylan down for long. He can’t do anything else right now so, just like the dogs, he’ll sleep. It’s a thing you learn up here—let your body rebuild its stores of energy when you got the chance. I expect those sixteen dogs are curled up in the straw over in the holding tents, tails over their noses, snoozing away. You’d be wise to do the same. By 30

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tomorrow, it’ll clear, and we’ll get you back to Anchorage.” Grey wandered over to peer out the nearest frost-shrouded window, but he couldn’t see much. Finally, he decided the old veterinarian’s advice was sound and crawled back into his sleeping bag. He catnapped, but he also worried about Norgard and the dogs. How could the man care for his animals with a broken leg? How would they all get back to wherever his kennels were? They got word that ten of the entrants had finally made the finish. The rest had holed up along the way, most in villages. At least all of them had been accounted for. A cheer went up among the checkpoint volunteers and workers when that word came over the shortwave radio. It wasn’t perfect but often a bit more reliable in severe weather than cell phones. After he joined in the thanksgiving, a more somber thought swept over Grey. His stupidity had cost Norgard the race. The musher had given up his chance and near lead to save a person he didn’t even know. It had been clear Norgard hadn’t known Grey’s identity when he started off on the search. Now the big man wouldn’t even be able to finish and his chance for a win was long gone. You stupid, naïve dolt. You blew it big time. You shit away your best chance to develop a friendship with this amazing and admirable man and maybe get to write his story—and it’s clear he has one. That’s all blown south with the blizzard. He felt like crawling off in the snow to die of shame and regret. As the full impact of the situation settled in his mind, he wanted to cuss or cry, but neither would change anything. Then another thought occurred—the crazy notion that perhaps he’d have another chance. Maybe I can help now, like with getting the dogs home or taking care of them until he gets back on his feet. It won’t hurt to try, anyway. The worst he can do is tell me to go screw 31

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myself. He found a vague comfort in those thoughts and was able to drift off into a deeper sleep. When he woke, the howl of the wind had fallen silent and a wan light leaked in through the windows past the thick layer of frost. Within a couple of hours, the villagers had cleared a landing spot for helicopters and the first two landed. Norgard was set to go out on the first one, straight to a hospital in Anchorage to get his leg checked. It was so badly swollen the vet had had to relax the ties on the splint twice. The big musher was clearly in a lousy mood, especially worried about his dogs. “I ain’t going off to some shittin’ hospital and leaving my team God knows where. They’re my family, my life. How are they going to get home?” “We’ll find somebody to take care of ’em until you’re home, Dylan.” That was Jack Portola, the official Grey had sat beside on the first chopper ride. “Trust me, buddy. I’m not going to let anything happen to those great dogs. Hell, I’ve known most of ’em since they were whelped. We’ll find somebody to drive your truck back out to your place and stay there until you get home, longer if we need to. Alaskans take care of their own. You know that.” Norgard growled, but finally gave in. As they hauled him out to the chopper, Grey sidled up to Portola. “Let me—I mean I want to help,” he said. “I owe Mr. Norgard a lot and those dogs, too. I may not know all about sled dogs, but I’ve had hunting dogs and I’ve always loved dogs in general. At one time, I even thought about becoming a vet. Anything I can do to help, I want to.” The older man fixed him with a stony stare for several seconds. Grey’s heart fell to his mukluks. Then the other man grinned. He shook his head, but he grinned. 32

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“Okay, kid. You may be a rank cheechako, but you and them dogs got Norgard back here in as bad a storm as we’ve had in ten years. I guess your heart’s in the right place or else you’ve got a fuckin’ fine guardian angel. We’ll put you on the flight with the team, and I’ll get hold of somebody in Anchorage to meet you and work stuff out. I don’t think Norgard will be in the hospital long. He’s too damn ornery.” “Thank you, Mr. Portola. I know I cost Norgard the race and almost his life. I did some…some real dumb-shit things, but I do learn from my mistakes. Normally I’m a fast study. There’s a story here, but that isn’t what I want right now. I want to make up for the damage I did as much as I can.” Portola studied him for long somber moments. “I like you, boy. You have more grit than I thought at first. You might have the making of a sourdough in you after all. Get your gear; you’re heading out in a few minutes. They’re already loading the dogs.” The helicopter was jammed. Sixteen dogs crammed into separate crates were stacked like freight. Grey found a spot among them and squatted on the floor, half-sitting on his pack. He recognized the face of the closest dog—Sasha. That’s what he thought Norgard called her, anyway. When she pushed her black nose through a gap in the mesh, he put his hand up for her to sniff. “Good girl,” he whispered, hoping no one would hear. “You got us back safe, and I’ll do anything in the world for you. How about a medium rare steak or three?” She gave a doggie grin, and he would have sworn she nodded. “Sergei, too. Maybe all of you.” Her tail wafted gently twice and then she settled down in a compact curl and shut her eyes. He couldn’t believe how quickly they covered the miles back to Anchorage, the bulk of which he’d traversed much more slowly 33

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behind bobbing dog butts. *

*

*

Despite his protests that he was okay and the pain was tolerable, Dylan soon recognized they’d put him on a med-evac chopper and even before they took off, one of the techs gave him a shot. It didn’t quite knock him out completely, but everything got fuzzy and distant. He napped some, jerking wider awake when the aircraft set down. It landed on the helipad at the hospital. They whisked him off to an emergency room and from there quickly into surgery to pin the break. The orthopedic surgeon explained things to him in no uncertain terms. It was a bad break and the length of time that had already elapsed with things out of place made it necessary to do a surgical repair, or open reduction, and put in some hardware. Dylan was in no position to argue, as badly as he wanted to. He had to trust Portola’s promise to be sure the dogs were cared for. Damn the whole fucking mess. No good deed goes unpunished. No more races for me this year, that’s plain. He was still cussing under his breath when he went under in the operating room. It was the next day before he could talk them into releasing him. Then there was the problem of how to get out to his place— and how to manage once he got there. The doctor had not wanted to cast his leg yet, but Dylan insisted, promising to return at once if there was any unusual pain, redness, sign of infection or other issues. He could walk, but it was damned hard, and his foot felt like it weighed a ton. A mukluk, at least his normal ones, would not fit over the cast, which created another problem. How was he going to 34

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keep his toes from freezing? He ended up calling a cab to take him home, glad for once that he didn’t live any farther from the city than he did. Usually he cursed almost being in town and having neighbors crowding too close, but this time it was a blessing. Anchorage cabs were mostly four-wheel drive SUVs; this one was no exception and handled the icy roads easily. When they got to his cabin, he saw his dog truck parked between the cabin and the kennel building and he heard dog voices, a greater volume of sound than could be made by just the eight he’d left behind in the care of a neighbor boy interested in learning the musher’s trade. They must’ve all made it home. He couldn’t wait to see them. The cabin door swung open and a slim figure in an unzipped parka loped out to meet him. Too tall to be Sammy, the neighbor kid. Who then? Dylan struggled to find his balance, sorry now that he had not opted to borrow a walker or at least a crutch or cane. Even with the ribbed metal heel plate, he soon found the cast wasn’t made for walking on snow and ice. Before he quite knew what was happening, the still unidentified person had a shoulder tucked under his arm on the right side to help him along the path and into the cabin. Once inside, Dylan shrugged free and skidded to a stop. Everything was neat and clean, in a lot better shape than he’d left the place in the last-minute urgency to get to the starting area for the race. From beside the stove, two mottled gray piles of fur stirred and jumped up, coming eagerly to greet him. They almost knocked him down as he tried to pet both of them and still keep his balance. “Damn dogs aren’t supposed to be in the house,” he muttered. “What’s the deal here?” 35

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Only then did he really look at the man who had apparently moved in and made himself at home. Who had Portola found to watch things? Did this guy know what he was doing? The truth was, Dylan often let Sasha and Sergei and sometimes one or two of the others come in and share his space, just for the company, but that was contrary to custom and not the way real mushers were supposed to manage their sled dogs. They were working animals, not damned mollycoddled lap dogs or pets! Turning his attention to his unexpected guest, he watched as the other man shed the parka. All at once he recognized the untidy shock of dark brown hair, the narrow face and luminous dark eyes that watched him now with a bit of deer-in-the-headlights anxiety. “I—I felt like I owed them some special treats. I mean they got us to the checkpoint. They worked for me, even if I didn’t know shit about what to do. And they’re the alphas, so they deserve some special perks.” Dylan grinned. He couldn’t help it. The guy was so earnest, so anxious and he had obviously done the best he could, taking on a responsibility that was not really his. “Did Sammy help feed and stuff? He knows the routine here and he was caring for the dogs I left behind.” The other man nodded. “Oh, yeah, he’s out in the kennel right now. He’s been here most of the time since we made it back yesterday—well, actually the night before when we got here. He told me how you feed them and stuff, and we worked on it together.” Dylan nodded. “Sammy’s a good kid. At first, he was a pest, hanging around and bugging me to teach him about this stuff, but he’s picked it up fast. He’s a natural.” He took a moment to study the other man. Up close, he saw more age in the face than he’d 36

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realized. No, this wasn’t a kid looking back at him, but an adult, a man. He wasn’t sure whether that came as a relief or a new source of concern. He could deal with kids to some extent, but… “I’m sorry—I know you told me your name, but it just didn’t stick. I gotta have something to call you and maybe someone to make the check out to for stepping in and taking care of things for me.” “I’m Grey Trammel, and there damn well isn’t going to be a check. You saved my stupid ass and it cost you the race, not just this one, but now others you can’t make while your leg heals. I owe you a hell of a lot more than a couple of days here with the dogs. I owed them that, actually, not even considering what I owe you.” Dylan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Decision time. This was not going to be easy. Likely he owed this man something, too. His fall could have taken place on the trail. It was easy to get off the beaten track in a blizzard like that and make a misstep. Wherever it happened, he might not have been able to get himself onto the sled and convince the dogs to go on. He figured it was already on the books, no matter where he was. An accident waiting to happen. Whatever this cheechako had done, both wrong and then right, Dylan owed him, too. “Seems like maybe we’re each in the other’s debt,” he said finally. “Not sure how to deal with that. I know you’ve got a job or a career to get on with. I thank you for taking care of things here and for playing a big part in getting my team and gear home. I’m sure Jack gave you some pointers and maybe some others did, too, but it’s you I find here. Do you need to get a ride back to the city?” Grey shook his head. ”Nope. Unless you kick my ass out into the snow, I’m here until you get that cast off and are ready to take 37

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your normal place again. You can tell me what to do and watch that I do it right, but you can’t be out in the weather with that cast on, trying not to bust your ass falling on the ice. You can repay me by telling me all you know about dog racing and how you got into it, stuff the average reporter isn’t ever going to find out. That’ll be my story, whenever we get it done. Meanwhile, I might get into the city off and on to cover a few other things, but this will be the big one.” Dylan wanted to growl, to swear, to do a lot of things, none of them sensible or even possible in many cases. Share not only his space but his life with a stranger? Have his life story and his crazy dreams splashed all over the internet or some magazine or on television? This dude was asking way too much. And yet, even with Sammy’s help, could he do everything that was needed for the next six or eight weeks while his leg healed? Too many hard questions and not one fucking answer came to mind. He managed to stumble a couple of steps and sink down in his beat-up old recliner. “I gotta think about this some,” he croaked out. “This is gonna be a big change for me. I’m a loner; been one ever since I came to Alaska, even before really. I know right now I can’t do everything, but that’s temporary. I’ll get used to this cast in a day or two, then I’ll get my balance and strength back.” Grey stood, still looking at him intently. “Take all the time you need. I’m here until you tell me to leave. I can cook, help with the dogs, drive to town if we need to go and—well, do whatever has to be done. Don’t be too fast to throw that away. We all need help sometimes and it’s stupid to be too proud or too independent to take it.” As hard as it was to swallow that sensible truth, Dylan knew he had to. He nodded after a few seconds. “You got me there, Grey. 38

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Okay, let’s take it day by day and see how things go.” *

*

*

Grey almost sighed with relief. He’d been scared to death Dylan would pitch a fit to find him there, in his personal space and invading his life in ways Grey probably had no business attempting. He’d taken a huge gamble, and although he had not won yet, he had a chance. If he played this hand right, everything might work out. “I’m going to go help Sammy with the feeding,” he said. “Then he really needs to go home—school tomorrow and stuff, you know.” Dylan hunched in his chair. He didn’t look at Grey or even acknowledge him. Sasha and Sergei slipped up on either side of him, as if they agreed their master needed some special TLC. Sasha licked his hand, resting her head on the knee of his sound leg. Sergei seemed more hesitant, but finally nudged at his other hand until Dylan put it on the dog’s head, stroked slowly between the pointed, black-edged gray ears and down over his solid neck and shoulders. Grey slipped out then to let dogs and master have their time together. He’d won a round, but it was not the time to push his luck. Anyway, he wanted to go through the feeding one more time to be sure he knew exactly how to do it. He figured Sammy was about fourteen, a tall, gangly kid, still awkward with his new height and the size of feet he had not quite grown into yet. Despite those handicaps, the boy had a way with dogs. He’d clearly been a good student and was learning the musher’s trade well and fast. He had the feeding down, and now 39

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Grey had mastered most of that as well. Working together, they filled the dishes and got each dog settled in its pen in the kennel barn for the night. They left the gates open on Sasha’s and Sergei’s pens since the lead pair would be coming out after they had some time with Dylan. “Do you need a ride home?” Sammy shook his head. “Naw, I can run over the hill. Ain’t far, less than a mile, and I’ve got a trail beat out pretty good. Now you holler tomorrow if you need any help. Mom can run me over after school or I’ll just come by. Mr. Norgard can be pretty cranky, you know, but he’s a damn good musher, one of the best even if he hasn’t won the big race yet. Shitty luck him breaking a leg, but he won’t give up.” Sammy didn’t know the whole sordid story, and Grey was not about to tell him. He’d needed the boy’s help and the contempt he probably deserved would have interfered with that in a serious way. “I know,” Grey agreed. “That’s one reason I’m here, to help him get back to it as fast as he can, but he’s got to get healed first. Thanks for showing me the ropes, Sam. You’re going to be a good musher yourself the way you’re going.” The boy beamed. “I sure hope so.” He let himself out the kennel gate and disappeared down the trail to the east. Then there was nothing left for Grey to do but go back inside and face the music. Not that Dylan would do him any harm or even try to, but he could be a surly bear and probably would be. I guess I’ve got that coming, don’t I? Grey laughed to himself. Funny the turns life takes sometimes. Blindsides you with luck, both good and bad. 40

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CHAPTER 5 Grey slipped back into the cabin, shutting doors behind him. The system of an entry area with two doors helped battle the cold and the wind. He decided it was practical if a minor nuisance. He found Dylan still in the chair, his head tilted back at what looked to be an awkward angle, fast asleep. Sasha and Sergei curled on either side of his legs, which were thrust out in front of him, the cast resting against the sound leg. When he saw the stress and weariness marking the big man’s features, Grey’s heart clenched. Damn, I put him through a hell of an ordeal. What an asshole he must think I am. And he’s right. Talk about a spoiled rich kid who didn’t have a thought for anyone but himself and his own plans. From here on out, that’s got to change. 41

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Dylan had managed to get out of his parka. It lay on the floor to one side of his chair, the side away from the stove. Grey peeked in to make sure the fire was still burning well and added another chunk of wood. Then he looked around for a blanket or something to throw over Dylan. Maybe it wasn’t really cold, but it felt mighty chilly to him and he’d read people’s temperatures often dropped a bit when they slept. He ended up going back to the bedroom and pulling a Hudson Bay striped blanket off the bed. Dylan mumbled something as Gray spread the blanket over him, but did not wake up. Grey then headed for the kitchen to see what he could scare up for an evening meal. He’d actually taken a few classes in cooking, just for a lark, and he’d enjoyed it, even though he decided it wasn’t the career he wanted. This was no time for a gourmet meal, but he could fix simple, hearty dishes as well. He’d found plenty of packages of meat in the freezer, some labeled for the dogs and others simply marked venison, elk, moose and so on. He had gotten a package of elk out earlier and it had thawed enough now to cut up. Browning the meat and then mixing in some canned vegetables, he managed a savory smelling stew. After that, he made a pan of biscuits. Before he got the biscuits out, a sound alerted him. He turned to see Dylan standing in the doorway. The big man was still not steady on his feet and he’d grabbed the door jamb in a death grip to keep his balance. Grey sensed the other man’s infirmity embarrassed him, so he ignored it for the moment. “Ready for some grub? I’ve just about got it done.” “Smells good,” Dylan admitted. “I guess that’s what woke me up. Maybe you better take the dogs out. I try not to give them people food. They have their own special diet and that’s best for 42

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them.” “I know. Sammy told me. Okay, let me get the leashes and I’ll take them to the kennel. May be a few minutes because I’ll have to reheat their food, though. It’s over an hour since Sam and I fed the others.” “Take your time. Is there any coffee?” Grey nodded. “Yep, full pot on the stove. Sit and I’ll get you a cup before I do the dogs.” Dylan’s mouth opened and then snapped shut as if he had thought the better of whatever he was going to say. He stumped the few steps to the table and dropped onto a chair. “Thanks.” The word came out in almost a growl, which let Grey know what it cost the other man, but he did say it. Dylan clearly did not like to be beholden to anyone and he didn’t like not being able to do everything for himself. This was going to be difficult for them both until they got past that. As he passed Dylan on his way to collect the dogs, Grey started to put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. He caught himself just in time. How Dylan would have taken that gesture, he had no idea, but he might not want to find out just yet. The unthinking action startled Grey as much as it had apparently jolted Dylan from the look on his face. The musher turned his attention to the coffee mug so fast Grey almost heard his neck pop. Well, shit, it isn’t as if I was making a pass at him! Not that I wouldn’t like to, but it’d likely go over like the proverbial lead balloon. There…he’d finally admitted to himself what he’d tried to pretend away ever since his first glimpse of Dylan on the TV screen. There was something powerful and incredibly attractive about the big blond man despite his rough-hewn appearance and 43

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rough-edged manner. As much as Grey wanted to learn and write Dylan’s story, tell the world about his new hero, he wanted to get personally close to the big man also. All at once, he was not sure which motive was driving him the most. It was more than the fact Dylan had thrown aside his chances in the race to save Grey’s sorry ass; it was more than Grey’s lifelong fascination with Alaska and sled dogs and the whole mystique; it was probably even more than simple lust fueled by an intensely masculine and forceful man who epitomized the qualities Grey had always admired. So what the fuck am I going to do about it now? *

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Cussing under his breath, Dylan lifted the steaming mug and took a deep swig. The damned coffee was so hot it burned his mouth and all the way down. At least that searing pain took his mind off the angry twinge of his leg and the pressure of his cock inside his overalls. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m not going to get het up over some candy-assed kid from the lower forty-eight, damn it. In a day or two, I’ll send him packing and get back to life as I knew it before this shitting accident. But I guess right now I do need some help. Damn it to bloody fucking hell, I need help whether I want it or not. I’m sure I couldn’t do everything right now, and wanting to won’t get it. A few minutes later, Grey returned, revealing a tinge of pink on his face as he collected plates and utensils from the simple cupboard and dished up stew and biscuits. He didn’t say anything, just poured himself a cup of coffee and then sat down across the 44

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rustic table from Dylan and addressed his own meal. Damned if the stew didn’t taste as good as it smelled. Dylan could not be surprised at that. Despite a couple of really stupid stunts, Grey seemed to be pretty good at whatever he did. It was hard not to like and even admire him. He might be a cheechako and probably a pampered kid from a rich family, but he didn’t seem to be afraid of work or unwilling to dig in and do whatever he saw was needed. Dylan remembered how Grey had pitched in at the checkpoint and had everyone singing his praises. He’d done the same thing here. All of which was going to make Dylan’s intention of keeping a safe distance until he could send Grey back to Anchorage that much harder. Nobody had turned him on this way in a long time. He’d figured he was okay on his own, with mother thumb and her four daughters for relief when he needed it, and no one around to complicate his life. Now this young man and this situation had him questioning his assurance, his solitude and the choices he’d made. He needed that like he needed a case of pneumonia. Well, for tonight his damned leg hurt too much to think about anything else. He’d take one of those pain pills the doc had given him and hope he could sleep through the night. That decision made, he wiped the last of the stew from his plate with a final scrap of biscuit, lurched to his feet, and headed for his room. He paused at the doorway, trying to pretend that taking a halfdozen steps didn’t tax his strength and balance. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Gonna take a pill and prob’ly pass out like I was kicked in the head. You got a place to sleep?” Grey nodded. “I spread my sleeping bag on the floor in the front room the last two nights. I’ve got an air mattress and it’s 45

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comfortable enough. That way I can keep the fire going, too. If you need anything, just holler.” Dylan growled under his breath. What I need would scare you shitless, kid. At the very least, a blow job and if I could stand on my two feet long enough, a fucking like you never had in your young life. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled. “Used to being here alone.” *

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For the next two days, they danced around each other with some verbal fencing and a great deal of care not to get too physically close. The third night, Dylan could not use pain as an excuse and he really didn’t want to take any more of that damn codeine-laced junk anyway. The ache in his leg had subsided to a dull, itchy throb, which he could barely classify as pain. In his past life with the army, he had learned he healed fast. Apparently, that had not changed. Grey was a good cook, the dogs seemed to take to him, and he wasn’t given to the constant chatter so many folks took refuge in, and which rubbed Dylan’s nerves raw in no time flat. It was getting harder by the hour to come up with reasons to keep the other man beyond arm’s length. Maybe if we just get this over with it’ll be okay and we can move on. Temptation talking probably, but what the fuck. Did anyone ever die of horniness? He was going to go crazy pretty soon, with his cock so stiff it ached more than his leg and that hyper-awareness of Grey’s presence, even when he was not in the same room. He’d even started to get used to being waited on. Grey was reading a book, sitting in the opposite corner of the main room and 46

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hardly making a sound. Dylan pretended to watch TV, but he saw only a vague blur of color and motion and a distant buzz of sound. His gaze and attention kept drifting. Grey got up, carefully set the book down, and went into the kitchen. He came back with two mugs of fresh coffee and crossed to Dylan’s side to put one on the table by his recliner. Dylan turned to look at him—really look—which he’d been trying to avoid. He reached out to cover Grey’s empty hand with his own after the other man released the mug. “Are you ready to stop playing games and do what we both want?” Grey’s eyes widened for an instant. “Do…uh…stop…uh. What do you mean?” Dylan barked out a harsh laugh. “Oh, quit being coy. You know—and I know—there’s something going on here between us. We haven’t been able to ignore it or pretend it away even though we’ve both tried to. So I’m asking you—what are we going to do about it? I’ve had a woody for two days. It’s hurting worse now than my leg is. And from the way you’ve been moving around, you’re in about the same shape.” Grey’s dark gaze flashed to his for a moment. A slow grin spread across the younger man’s face. “Are you serious? You’re not just trying to pull my chain or make a smart-ass joke to ease your cabin fever?” Dylan decided it was time to act rather than talk. He gave a sharp tug on Grey’s hand, a pull strong enough to bring the smaller man down onto Dylan’s lap. Grey let out a gasp and tried to check his fall, but he couldn’t. He did turn enough to land half on the arm of the recliner, but the momentum still carried him into Dylan’s arms. An instant later, their lips met and fused in a kiss bordering on savage in its intensity. It was as if they each tried to devour the 47

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other with avid lips, questing tongues and even teeth. When he broke that kiss, Dylan stared into the bottomless brown eyes, centimeters from his own. He saw a tangle of emotions reflected there. Dylan had surprised himself with his sudden decision to act on the nagging lust and longing that had beat at him relentlessly since shortly after he got home from the hospital. He wasn’t sure when Grey had ceased to be a nuisance and then a necessary evil to be tolerated until he recovered, but major changes had occurred over the past few days. The younger man was now inside at least some of Dylan’s protective walls and he could not deny the urgent need that raced through him. Where things went next was up for grabs, but he was going to enjoy this while it lasted. Damn the consequences! “Unless you really enjoy rolling around on the floor, let’s move to the bedroom and get more comfortable.” Grey untangled himself from Dylan’s embrace and pushed to his feet. He then reached back to give Dylan a hand to hoist himself out of the chair and make the dozen or so steps to the bedroom. The room was small, barely space for the queen-sized bed and a four-drawer chest. A blanket curtain covered the doorway when needed, but for now looped off to one side. Since Grey kept the stove going full blast, the cabin was warm enough Dylan had taken to wearing sweat pants with the right leg slashed to above his knee to accommodate the cast. He had some old fur-lined slippers that were enough to keep his feet warm. None of that was hard to take off. Dylan sat back on the side of the bed and dragged the pants off after he kicked the slippers aside. Grey stood, knees almost against the mattress, and watched him. “Well, do you think you’re going to freeze if you get bare48

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assed?” Grey shook his head, giving Dylan a sly grin. “No, I was just enjoying the scenery for a minute.” He proceeded to wiggle out of his lined jeans after he pulled off his mukluks, one at a time. How he could stand to wear them indoors Dylan had no clue, but maybe he didn’t have any other shoes with him. For the moment, it didn’t matter. What did matter were the lean, sleek contours of Grey’s body. His legs belonged to a runner or swimmer, defined but not excessively muscled, toned and well shaped. His cock thrust out of a mat of dark-chocolate curls at his groin, ruddy now with blood and stiff with expectation. It drew Dylan’s gaze even as he knew his was drawing Grey’s attention. Neither of them was under-endowed, although Dylan’s prick tended more to girth than excess length. It fit the size and shape of his body, and never gave him any insecurity. Dylan sensed Grey would not make the first move. It was up to him. “Things are going to be clumsy with this fucking cast, so why don’t we start out with a BJ? Your choice—blower or blowee first?” Answering with action rather than words, Grey dropped to his knees between Dylan’s legs. “I plan to eat you like an ice cream cone,” he said, “and savor every lick. I’ve been thinking about it from the first day.” Dylan barely had time to slide forward so his ass was at the edge of the bed before Grey grasped him in one hand and stroked a few times, bringing Dylan to the brink almost too soon. He gritted his teeth and willed himself not to come, not yet. “Suck me.” The words came out in a throaty growl that would have done a hungry dog proud. Grey did not hesitate. As he bent forward, he spread his lips to 49

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encompass first the head and then to slide down over half the length of Dylan’s dick. He did things with his tongue then that had Dylan clawing at the blankets and choking back moans of ecstasy. The darting, tickling licks were going to drive him insane. Then the slow suction, slide down and pull back, lips tight against the skin sliding over the steel hard shaft, in and out, and lick and hold… Then Grey reached up and cupped Dylan’s balls in one hand, rolling the loose, pebbled skin over the roundness of his nuts, very gentle and yet with just enough pressure to add another incredible sensation to the rest. His nerves throbbed and twitched as the pressure built until he didn’t think he could hold out another second. He came in an explosive eruption, shooting into Grey’s mouth with a force that he thought would choke the other man, but Grey held on, continuing to suck in a firm, steady draw until the spasms subsided. “Holy fucking shit! Where did you learn to do that? I’ve been blown a time or two, but never in my life like that. Damn, man, you’re good.” Grey rocked back on his heels, a self-satisfied grin on his narrow face. “You liked it, huh?” Dylan sat up, straightening from his half-reclined posture resting on his elbows. He reached out and settled one hand on Grey’s head, spreading his fingers across the other man’s crown and digging them into the untidy tangle of mahogany hair. “Yeah, I liked it. Get up and come here, and let’s see what I can do for you.” *

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I don’t believe this is happening. I’m going to wake up in a minute and find it’s just a dream. I’ll have a hard-on like the Eifel Tower and nothing to do with it. Grey stood, swaying on legs that prickled and tingled when the blood coursed back into them. There was still enough for his cock, though, and it thrust out stiff as a poker. He took one step and then another until his legs hit the mattress. Dylan’s powerful thighs bracketed Grey’s legs and then Dylan’s big, strong hands clasped his hips, pulling him closer still. The musher’s fingers dug into Grey’s ass, holding him as solidly as a bear trap, but with no pain, only a delicious sensation of restraint. He knew he was not going anywhere until Dylan let him. That was good, excellent. Their heights were wrong, though. Dylan wasn’t able to reach Grey’s crotch without folding himself over at an awkward twist. He growled a curse. “Oh, shit. Come on up here on the bed and kneel over me. That’ll be better for both of us.” As Dylan fell back, Grey eased up to straddle the larger man. He crawled forward until his prick bobbed just above the other man’s bronze-bearded face. Dylan wrapped one big fist around Grey’s prick, right at the base. He squeezed, not enough to hurt, but a firm clench. Then he drew his clasped hand the length, from base to right behind the head. Grey bucked, electricity shooting through his nerves. “Awwww, man. Oh, God.” Dylan guided the tip to his mouth. The silky golden hairs of his beard and moustache tickled as they brushed Grey’s cock and balls, heightening the sensations flashing through Grey’s body. Dylan thrust his tongue out and swiped it across the tip, catching the bead of pre-cum before sliding beneath the head to circle the nerve buds there. Then he widened his jaws and engulfed a good 51

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half of Grey’s cock in his mouth. Grey clutched at the headboard, giving in to the urgent need to anchor himself to something stable as his world spun out of control. The log bedstead stood steady beneath his grip, even as his whole body was wracked with shudders in the final moments before he exploded. Dylan sucked him dry, not releasing him until Grey’s legs felt like overcooked spaghetti and he could no longer keep his ass off Dylan’s powerful chest. He sat for a moment, letting the spasms subside. “I’m prob’ly smothering you. I’ll move just as soon as I can.” Dylan grinned up at him. “I’m fine. You’re not going to break any ribs there.” Echoing Grey’s earlier words, he then said, “You liked it, huh?” He ran his tongue across his lips, clearing most of the gleaming moisture from them, but drops still shone in his beard and in the dark curls at Grey’s crotch, the contrasting colors almost interwoven where they met. Enthralled by the simple but erotic sight, Grey could only nod. Finally, he admitted, “Yeah, I liked it.”

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CHAPTER 6 After he was able to move again, Grey climbed off Dylan to sit on the edge of the bed. Now what? He waited, not sure what Dylan would say or do next. There was so much he didn’t know or understand yet about the Alaskan—he wanted to know everything from the moment of Dylan’s birth, but that would take time, maybe a lot more time than he was going to have. After a few minutes, the chill began to bite in. He needed either to get dressed or find something to cover up at least part of his exposed body. He could feel the chill bumps popping out and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shiver. “Hey, cheechako, getting cold?” There was a teasing note in Dylan’s voice that took away any sting in his words. “Well, here.” He flipped back the blankets and shifted around until he could 53

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get under them, sliding over to make room for Grey. “Unless you’re in love with that pallet out by the stove, why not stay here? Two bodies make it a lot warmer than one.” Grey didn’t hesitate. The bigger man did seem to radiate heat, as much as came from the cast iron stove. He used that as an excuse to snuggle close. How long had it been since he’d been in bed with anyone, not for sex, but simply for the human comfort of touch and closeness? He couldn’t recall a time. He’d been in bed with several lovers since the first time early in his college years, but as soon as they finished, one or the other always seemed to get up and go. Almost as if there were a taboo or stigma attached to the kind of sharing or trust that went with sleeping side by side. Even if it was just this once, Grey wanted to experience that feeling. The next thing he knew, dawn was breaking. He could hear the dogs beginning to voice their need for some hot food and a chance to get out into the exercise yard. Dylan came awake about the same time, stretched and kicked his casted leg in a fit of disgust. “Damn, but I want to get out of this fucking cement boot.” Then he seemed to realize Grey lay beside him. Morning after was another new experience. Grey wasn’t sure how to behave. “I better get up and go see to the dogs,” he said. “I can hear them starting to fuss.” “Okay,” Dylan replied. “You know the routine?” Grey nodded. “I can manage.” Without really looking at Dylan, he wiggled out from beneath the press of blankets and fumbled into icy clothes. Out in the living room, the fire was down to glowing coals, but he had it going again in a few minutes. From there he went on to the kitchen to heat water for the dogs’ meals and then out to open 54

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the gates from each of the dog’s pens into the exercise yard. Then he went back and started to fill twenty-four dishes. That took a bit more time. He carried them out two by two, Sasha and Sergei’s first, and on down to the two newest and youngest pups. The dogs had a precise pecking order and each knew its place from the alphas to the omegas. Before he was done, Dylan had managed to dress and come out, stumping along with his cast. Dylan just watched, but he didn’t say anything, leaving Grey to hope his work was satisfactory. He was pretty sure the musher would correct any mistakes in no uncertain terms. Grey didn’t expect praise. He didn’t even expect encouragement or anything more than basic courtesy. In fact, he considered himself lucky to have avoided an ass-chewing. When it came to Dylan’s precious dogs, only perfection was really good enough. *

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Dylan recognized at once that Grey was floundering, still unsure about his position and what impact, if any, the new turn of their relationship would have on the rest of daily life while he remained there. It wasn’t easy for Dylan either—he hadn’t lived with anyone else other than in the disciplined confines of military barracks since he left home at the age of eighteen. The constant reminders of another person’s presence abraded his nerves. He was never unaware for more than a few seconds that someone else was in his space. It wasn’t that Grey was an obtrusive, noisy or demanding individual. Quite to the contrary. He was just there, unavoidably and constantly there. 55

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Another storm blew in and kept them indoors, other than caring for the dogs, for two days. When it finally cleared, Dylan was ready to break out of the cabin with an axe if he had to. They’d passed quite a bit of the time in bed. The sex was good, although he was getting frustrated with the restrictions his cast and limited mobility placed on them both. Blow jobs were great and beat hell out of jacking off alone. Even mutual masturbation was better than doing it for yourself, but he still wanted more. And that final fuck was going to have to wait until he could stand on two feet and do it right. Whether Grey was getting impatient or not, he wasn’t sure. The other man never complained or seemed to be dissatisfied, but Dylan found him harder to read than he’d expected. Before they were really acquainted, he’d thought Grey wore his heart on his sleeve, right out there for everyone to see. Now he realized that was only a superficial appearance. There were layers on layers to this guy, depths Dylan saw would take months to plumb. On the first clear morning, they fed the dogs and had their own breakfast. Then Dylan got a wild idea. Grey had not really driven the team, but he’d run with the sled and gotten them to the checkpoint in the storm. What if Dylan taught him some rudiments of mushing? The dogs would be overjoyed to get out and run. Dylan was pretty sure he could exert enough control by voice alone in the fenced area surrounding the homestead if it came to that. They would not likely challenge the five-foot barbed wire fence, and there was adequate room inside it for them to run enough to stretch their legs and burn some energy. “Come on,” he said, as Grey cleared away the dishes. “Got an idea. You wanna take a try at driving a team around the yard?” 56

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Grey looked at him like a kid who’d glimpsed the Christmas loot. “You mean, you think—really?” “Yeah, the dogs need some exercise. I’m not up to even trying to ride the runners yet, but you can take them for a spin here close.” When they headed out to the kennel, Dylan could almost see air under Grey’s feet at every step. His plan had plainly made the other man’s day. Working together, they hitched the lead pair and six more dogs to the older sled Dylan kept as a spare. He went through the basic commands to Grey and then instructed him to open the gate to the main area. Dylan blocked the portal until Grey got in place and gave the signal for the team to move. They charged out, leaping with enthusiasm. For a moment, Dylan fought a twinge of misgiving. If they decided to take off, what in hell could he do? Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure the gate at the road in was closed. Oh, shit, what if… But they didn’t. Grey wasn’t completely confident or competent, but the dogs knew him. They might even recognize he currently controlled their rations. That in itself seemed enough to buy some respect. Apparently, he’d impressed them enough to earn some more. For an hour, he circled around the area, making the team turn, speed up, slow down and finally return to the kennel yard and come to a halt. “Hey, I did it. I’m a musher! Well, not really, but I did it!” Dylan had to grin at the other man’s boyish exuberance. “Yeah. They took you for a ride all right.” Seeing Grey’s crestfallen look at his careless put down, he took pity on the other man. “No, you drove ’em. You were in charge. They did exactly what you said. Part of that’s their training, but if they didn’t respect 57

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you, they wouldn’t have obeyed as quickly or as well. With some work, you might be able to take a short team into a novice or kidlevel race before too long, maybe even this season. Wanna try for that?” “Oh, man, do you think I could? As the kids down south say, that would be awesome!” “You’ll have to work every day, start training yourself as well as getting the dogs used to your ways. It’ll be a few more weeks before I can be back on the trail—I know that. Meanwhile, they all need exercise and regular work to keep in practice. This sounds like a win-win situation for everybody if you want to try it. I’d been thinking of starting Sammy driving before long, too. We have enough dogs to make up two short teams so both of you can work. Might be easier to do some of it together. ” “Oh, man, I feel like there really is a Santa Claus. I guess it’ll help you to keep the dogs in shape until you can race again, but for me, it’s a wish come true. You know how long I’ve had a dream of driving a dog team?” “I reckon about five years less than your age,” Dylan said, grinning. Grey nodded. “About that. I learned to read real young and discovered Jack London when I was in maybe third grade. From then on…” “Well, it ain’t a Sunday school picnic as you should know after our experience in the blizzard. A lot can happen out there, and the daily drudge work is not exciting, not fun, actually tedious as shit. Think you can stick with it? There’s no use starting unless you’re going to see it through.” Grey stopped, folded his arms across his chest and squared his stance. “Look. I may have been a spoiled rich kid, but I’ve grown 58

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up. I’m here because I want to be, and I got here on my own. I’m following a dream my dad and everyone else told me I was a fool even to consider. They said I’d either kill myself or come crawling home with my ass busted. I haven’t done either one yet. Came close, but I’m still here. If you’ll trust me and teach me, I’ll give it my best shot. That’s a promise!” Without waiting for Dylan’s reply, he turned his back and stooped to start unhitching the dogs. Dylan’s eyes went a bit blurry when he saw Grey hunker down beside Sasha. Grey took her muzzle in his gloved hands and brought his face down within inches of hers. Dylan could not hear what Grey said, but Sasha stood very still, ears up in a listening alertness. Finally, she swiped her tongue in a quick flick across Grey’s face. He laughed and scrambled to his feet. That told Dylan more than hours of talking or anything else. Sasha had made a decision. She was still Dylan’s dog and always would be, but she and Grey had come to an agreement. Maybe this was not such a crazy wild ass idea after all. *

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The junior novice race dubbed the Minitarod was scheduled for the third Saturday in February. The twenty-five mile course, laid out and clearly marked, had been planned to offer a mild challenge, but nothing beyond a newbie musher’s ability. The weather forecast looked good. With some help from Sammy’s dad, who had taken an interest in the developments once Sammy began to train, they took two sleds and short teams to the starting point. Gotta remember to call the kid Sam, damn it. He says Sammy’s a little boy name and he’s growing up. Maybe he’s right. Okay, 59

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Sam. Dylan cursed the fact he still wore his cast, but in some ways, that was good. He couldn’t give in to the temptation to take too strong a role in the debut of his two protégées. Still, he did watch with an eagle eye as Grey and Sam hitched their teams and prepared to run. Grey had Sasha and Sergei as his lead pair, and Sam would use Tonka and Toler, a couple of young dogs who’d begun to show real promise. Six more pairs finished each team. They had not loaded the sleds heavily since the one-day race did not require a lot of supplies and equipment beyond the basics. This allowed the smaller teams to handle the load. Sam got bib number seventeen and Grey had twenty-three. In their turns, they moved to the starting line and gave the command. Dylan had gone down to watch, but he stayed on the sidelines and did not interfere. He wasn’t sure whether to beam or cry, but his heart was nearly bursting with pride. Grey had learned a shitload in a short time, and Sam seemed to have the musher’s mindset in his blood. Dylan felt confident they’d both make a creditable run. Still they were competing with some juniors who had a lot more experience already. The only adults allowed were those who had never raced before. Well, everyone had to start sometime. Wins could come later. This time he just wanted them to finish, somewhere ahead of the tail end team. *

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Grey waited patiently for his turn to move down to the starting line. Sam had already gone down, and Dylan had tagged along with the boy, walking almost normally now despite the cast, which 60

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would be coming off soon. I hope I do well enough today that we’ll have something to celebrate besides Dylan ditching the cement boot. He turned and looked behind him at the racer who had drawn bib number twenty-four. His gaze fell on a diminutive creature, who came nowhere near his shoulder. It sported a screaming pink parka and matching pants. He turned around to watch as she—he assumed it had to be a girl—checked her team. When she reached the lead dogs, she looked up at him and grinned. “You’re a big kid.” For a moment, he was taken aback. “I’m a cheechako grown up,” he admitted, “but since I’ve never raced before, they let me in. You’re a pretty small kid.” She squared her shoulders and puffed out her chest. “I’m twelve. Been racing since I was nine. ’Course both my parents are mushers so I could hardly avoid it. My name’s Mattie Seabrook.” “I’m Grey Trammel. I just got here before the January KickOff race. If I remember right, a Seabrook won that one.” The girl beamed. “Yep, that was my mom. She ran it with me when I was a year old, riding in an Eskimo baby carrier on her back. I guess some of the old timers gave her hell over that, but you don’t tell my mom what to do.” She looked over his team, a slight frown on her rosy round face. “Those look like some of Dylan Norgard’s dogs.” Grey nodded. “Yeah they are. Dylan’s still got a cast from the accident he had during the Kick-Off. I’ve been helping him take care of his dogs, learning a little. He’s working with me and Sam Bentley. Sam drew seventeen, so he already went up to the start. They’ll call our section in a few minutes.” “I know Sam. He and my brother are buds. He was trying to 61

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hang around our place and learn mushing, but my dad said he didn’t have time to work with any more kids, since there’re six of us. I was sorry about that. Sam’s kinda cute.” She grinned. “But I’m glad he’s getting a chance to learn somewhere. I know he loves the dogs.” Just then, the officials called their group. “Nice talking to you, Mattie. I’ll try to get a picture of you and your team for a story I’m working on, ’specially if you win.” “Good luck, Mr. Trammel, beginners luck.” The girl gave him a saucy grin. “I’m kinda torn. If I finish in the top five, I’m out of the novice category. But there aren’t too many races open to twelve-year-olds, not the big professional ones, just a few kinda wildcat things, so we’ll see.” Grey turned back to his sled, called the command and sent Sasha and Sergei heading down the street toward the starting line. He glimpsed Dylan, but the other man left him alone, didn’t even come to check on anything or give any last minute instructions. Grey was on his own. That made him a little tense, but it felt good, too. Moments later, he again put the team in motion and started down the trail. He could barely comprehend the reality of it. He was in Alaska, he was driving a team of sled dogs and he was running them in a real race! It didn’t get much better than that. Unless he screwed up badly, he figured he’d be able to keep working with Dylan. If he got really lucky, he might slowly gain the other man’s confidence as both a protégé and a friend, maybe even as a long-term partner. That was his new dream. Someday he’d get that book written, the story of how Dylan Norgard became a top-level musher. For now he had the material for several good feature stories, two of which he’d already 62

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submitted. Next year when Dylan won the Iditarod—that’s when he’d do that book. He pulled his thoughts up short. No time to daydream now. Looking ahead down the trail, he could see several sleds and teams. It was a clear bright day and with any luck, they’d cross the finish line before nightfall. If he could hold his position, even maybe finish twenty-second or better he’d be one happy man. Before they were out of sight of town, Mattie zipped past him with a jaunty wave. “Come on, cheechako. Get in here behind me. I’m gonna make this a fast run so you can, too, if you keep up…” She yelled something at the dogs, too, which he did not quite make out. Sasha seemed to respond, though. She’d been moving out nicely, but at that point picked up her pace and the rest of the team surged with her. Grey hit a jog, holding on to one handle and trotting beside the sled. The cold air burned his nose enough that he wasn’t about to open his mouth, even though he felt like he could use more air. Finally, he gave in and hopped on the runners for a while. Most of the trail had clear markers, but now and then, a gust of wind would whip up the snow and limit visibility. That was when Grey fixed his gaze on the bright pink parka ahead and followed it like a beacon. Of course, little Mattie probably didn’t weight eighty pounds with rocks in her pockets, so her slight weight on the runners didn’t put much drag on her team. Despite that, she ran more than she rode, and Grey tried to emulate her pattern. This short race only had a single checkpoint. Dylan said it was as much for the racers as the dogs. Every racer and every dog got checked before they went on to the second half. Still close on Mattie’s heels, Grey pulled up the team at the station and stood by while the vet checked the dogs. Of course, they were in great shape 63

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and pronounced able to run the second lap. Grey took a cup of steaming cocoa and gulped it gladly. The sweet warmth gave him new energy and renewed his enthusiasm for the rest of the race. He learned that Sam had come through about twenty minutes earlier and that Mattie and he were now in the number sixteen and seventeen places. She’d set a good pace. A lot could change in the second half, but so far so good. He put fresh boots on the dogs, made sure they each had a drink of water, and then started off again. Dylan, with Sam’s parents, was going meet them at the end of the race. Sam’s dad was driving Dylan’s dog truck and Sam’s mother drove the Bentley family’s SUV to take Grey and Sam back home. Since they had two short teams all the dogs would fit in the dog truck. They’d tie the two sleds on top. Catching his thoughts wandering, Grey dragged his attention back to the race. Even on a good day like this, you couldn’t go on autopilot and expect to survive very long. Alaska’s outback was not forgiving. Still, when Mattie stopped suddenly, he almost ran into her. He halted his team, then walked up along the side to see what was wrong.

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CHAPTER 7 Mattie knelt by the second pair of dogs in her hitch. One was holding a hind leg up, and whimpered when she touched it. “I think Vixen sprained or tore something, dang it. We hit a soggy spot in the snow about a half mile back and she got the worst of it. Damn!” “Can you make it with six dogs?” “It’ll be harder, but yeah, I think so. My sled’s light, and I’ll stay off the runners. I can let Rex run with me and I guess set Vix on the sled.” “Put her on mine. I’ve got the full eight dogs and I’ll stay off the runners, too.” Together, they adjusted the harness to take two dogs out of the linkage. Grey lifted the injured dog and settled her atop his lightly 65

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loaded sled bag. “Should I harness her down?” Mattie shook her head. “She’ll ride. I think that leg hurts enough she won’t try to get down. If she starts moving too much, we can stop and strap her down, but for now, let’s not.” A couple of other teams passed while they were making the adjustments. When the drivers saw things were under control, they did not linger, moving on down the trail. Within about fifteen minutes, Grey and Mattie did, too. Now she did not push, and Grey kept pace with her. Although they were passed by some other teams, that was okay. Speed was not so urgent any more. “We’ll get in all right,” Mattie promised. “I really thank you for taking Vix. She’s not a lead prospect, but she’s a good dog and I love her a bunch. I sure hope she’ll be okay.” The dog was staying quiet, curled up in a slight hollow in the middle of Grey’s sled, as if she knew that was the safest and most comfortable place she could be right now. A smaller dog, she looked to be a mixed breed. Grey noted she had a sweet face and keen eyes. Now and then, she would look up at him as he paced the sled. He reached down once and scratched around her ears. After a couple of hours, they topped a ridge from which they could see the village where the finish line was drawn. Mattie halted. “Listen, Mr. Trammel, why don’t you put Vixen on my sled now and get going? I can make it from here and that’ll give you a chance to make up a little time.” For a moment, Grey was tempted. Then he shook his head. “No way, Mattie. We’re going to go down the hill and finish this together. I’m not trying to set any records here. This is my first race. I just want to finish. That’s all Dylan expected of me, and I’m not going to be showboating.” 66

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The girl looked at him keenly for a long minute. “You sure about that?” He grinned at her. “You betcha. You didn’t want to finish too high anyway, did you? Now you can compete as a novice another time or two. I can’t because I’m an adult and I can only race novice my first run.” Her small face went sober. “You’re a nice man, Mr. Trammel. You’ll make a good musher. My dad always says what goes around, comes around. You do a favor for somebody today and next time it’ll be your turn to get something you need.” She flashed him a sly glance. “Are you really going to put me in a story?” “Damn straight, Miss Seabrook. You can count on it.” “Cool.” She spoke to her team and they headed off down the hill, Sasha and Sergei close behind the runners of Mattie’s sled. *

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Dylan started to fret as soon as he reached the race’s end with Sam’s parents. Never having been part of the sledding community until now, they seemed to be calm. He couldn’t be. This was the first race for both of his trainees and he knew he couldn’t forgive himself if anything went wrong. Although nothing should in such a short race, you could never take anything for granted. He stumped down to the finish line and settled himself to wait. Within about thirty minutes, the first teams came into view. A lanky boy was the first in, taller and probably older than Sam, and clearly an experienced racer despite being only in his teens. About five more teams, and then a girl and another boy, moving almost in tandem. He saw something familiar about the boy. Yep, it’s Sam. They were loping along neck to neck, both teams moving easily 67

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and showing no sign of distress. They crossed the finish line side by side, the girl maybe a nose ahead. Sam saw Dylan and then his parents and gave a huge whoop of delight. “Hey, Mr. Norgard, Mom and Dad. I made it! We did really good.” Dylan let the proud parents have the first hugs before he moved to congratulate the young musher, too. “You did great, Sam. I think you’re on your way to a long and successful career!” After they unharnessed the dogs and took care of them, Dylan went back to the finish line to wait some more. Where was Grey? He had worried about Sam, but his concern for the young California refugee was even greater. Sasha and Sergei were experienced lead dogs and the rest of the hitch were all seasoned and trained. Nothing should go wrong, yet he knew that anything could… Sam had actually gained time on several teams who had started earlier. Would Grey be able to do the same? Out across the snow, they could see several more teams coming as the light began to fade into twilight. Way to the back, he caught a flash of pink. Well, Grey was not wearing pink, for sure. His new racing parka was Kelly green with yellow trim, bright anyway. It should show up almost as well as the pink and orange shades most of the girl racers favored. Six more teams crossed the finish line and moved aside to unhitch. The pink drew closer and then Dylan saw a splash of green side by side with the pink. Was it the right shade of green? He wasn’t good with colors, but he thought it was. He would have been hopping from one foot to the other had not the cast still weighed him down. Straining his eyes in the fading light, he studied the dogs. 68

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Yes, he’d know Sasha anywhere and Sergei, too. It was Grey’s team. As they drew closer, Dylan saw the pink parka belonged to a girl who was driving a hitch of only six dogs. Another dog trotted at her side. Then he saw the gray-and-tan blotch of another dog curled on top of Grey’s sled. What the hell? At that moment, Grey saw him, waved and gave a loud shout. “We’re here, coming in!” A couple pushed forward then to greet the pink parka-wearing young racer. “Mattie, what happened?” Glancing their way, Dylan recognized Mary and Jake Seabrook, a couple of avid racers well known in musher circles. Must be their kid. Hell, she’s no bigger than a minute. Grey and the girl crossed the line side by side, him first simply because he had two more dogs in the hitch. “Mom, Dad, Vixen hurt her leg, but Mr. Trammel helped me. He wouldn’t go on and leave us and this was his first ever race.” Grey halted the team and turned to Dylan. “I made it, with some help from this little lady, who’s an experienced musher at the age of twelve. We might have finished a little faster, but with her running six dogs, we didn’t want to push them too hard. I hope that was the right thing to do.” Dylan grabbed Grey in a powerful bear hug. “Hell, yes, it was the right thing to do. Paying it forward is how we do things up here. I’m proud of you. Real proud.” The group had to hear the whole story, related in rushing words by an excited Mattie and an almost equally excited Grey. The older Seabrook pair repeatedly expressed their thanks and said Vixen was surely better off for the ride she’d received. Jake checked her 69

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over and announced he was sure it was not a permanent injury. Mattie gave a huge sigh of relief. Finally, they got the dogs sorted out and loaded, and everyone got aboard to head back to Anchorage. Dylan was almost relieved to be riding with Dick Bentley instead of Grey. Right now, his emotions were on his sleeve and he was liable to say or do something he might regret later. Already things had gone a lot farther between them than he had intended or planned. Could he— should he—take another, maybe a final step? *

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Grey climbed into the Bentleys’ SUV. Sam got into the middle seat and let Grey ride in the shotgun position. Joy Bentley was a pleasant woman, easy to talk to. Between her questions and Sam’s eager narrative, there were no awkward silences. Still, Grey kept wishing he was driving Dylan’s truck and Sam’s dad was here with his family. Despite the delay and slower progress for the last forty percent of the race, he had crossed the finish line in the twentieth place and Mattie in the twenty-first. Surely that reflected well on the dogs and their trainer and maybe a little bit on the very new musher who’d handled them. Whether Dylan would see it that way or not was another matter, though. At least in public he’d been complimentary. Grey had to take that as a good sign. By the time they unloaded everything, took care of the dogs and got into the cabin, Grey was feeling every mile he had run beside the sled and a few more besides. He managed to fix a meal, but Dylan did more of the work than he had been able to until recently. Grey almost fell asleep, nodding over his bowl of chili. 70

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Dylan laughed. “I think I need to pick up the kid racer and put him in bed,” he said. “Go ahead and bed down, Grey. I’ll clean up from the meal and check the dogs a final time.’ “I was planning to celebrate,” Grey mumbled “but I guess that’s not gonna happen.” “There’s always tomorrow, and I just might have my cast off.” Grey crawled into Dylan’s big bed and moved over to leave room for the larger man. He was asleep almost before his head settled in the pillow. He dreamed of races and blizzards, and of hot nights under the down comforter that covered him in a snuggly cloud; hot nights in a pair of powerful arms and of days and years to come, times shared, partnered like Sasha and Sergei to pull together. He awoke hoping that was not going to be just a dream, even though he was almost afraid to believe it could become real. *

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It wasn’t because Grey drove badly that Dylan squirmed in his seat all the way to town the next day. The only automobile he owned was the beat-up old GMC that served as his dog truck. She was a contrary bitch, but Grey seemed to manage her well enough. He handled the stiff clutch, the ragged idle and the lack of power steering with aplomb, like he seemed to do damn near everything. Talk about the Midas touch. Damn guy could fall in the cesspool and come out smelling sweet and looking clean as a whistle. Is that what being upper crust does for you? The real problem was, Dylan didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t get that fucking cast off today. He’d wakened with his cock cushioned between the cheeks of Grey’s ass this morning, stiffer 71

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than a poker and wanting nothing more than to find its way home, but he refused to do it. That final step in their relationship was going to be done right or not done at all. He’d started to drag his sorry ass out of bed, trying without success not to wake Grey. They’d ended up doing the blow job routine yet again and then got up and started the day, avoiding talking of anything more profound than feeding the dogs and fixing breakfast. Now in another hour or two, he’d have the news, good or bad. The x-rays would either show his leg was healed and he could get back to his normal routine or it wasn’t and he’d drag this lump of fiberglass around for another week or two—and probably turn into a spring bear in the process. Grey parked in a handicap space near the door of the orthopedic surgeon’s office. Then he got out and came inside with Dylan. Dylan wouldn’t have asked him to, but it still stirred a warm feeling. It seemed like the sort of thing a real partner would do. Grey didn’t follow Dylan when the nurse came to take him back to the examining room, though. She had to put him in a damn fucking wheelchair. That pissed him off, but he knew it was SOP. First stop was the x-ray lab. Then he had to wait in one of the ugly little cubicles while the doctor looked at them and probably saw another patient or two. By the time he finally bustled in, all self important and superior, Dylan was madder than a hungry dog, but he made himself sit calmly. The doctor slapped a couple of prints up on the light box. Dylan couldn’t make heads or tails of them, but he saw a piece of metal in his leg that looked like it belonged in some kind of cabinetry. And no sign of a break. He didn’t really relax until the doc got out a little machine that looked like a power cut-off and turned to him with a grin. “You’re 72

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going out of here a free man, Mr. Norgard. You heal fast, but don’t push your luck. It’s going to take some time to get back to normal agility and strength with that leg.” The saw whined through the fiberglass, spitting dust, and the cast fell into two pieces. Dylan wiggled his toes, eased down on the foot and slowly put weight on it. No pain. It felt stiff and itched like flea-bit dog where the air touched his skin, but he could stand on it without discomfort. Whew. A few minutes later, he walked out to the waiting room, feeling about ten years younger and fifty pounds lighter. Grey looked up, anxiety painting his face. Then he saw the cast was gone and a wide grin replaced his expression of concern. Dylan pushed through the final paperwork as fast as he could, took the card for the follow-up appointment in two weeks and started for the door. Grey beat him to it and held it open. “Get your ass in the truck and let’s get home,” Dylan said. Grey held out the keys. Dylan shook his head. “No, you go ahead and drive back. I know I’d have trouble with the clutch right now and I just want to get home.” The trip back went a lot faster than the trip to town. They got out of the truck and into the house in record time as well. “Now we’re going to celebrate,” Dylan declared, as they shrugged out of their parkas in the main room. “I think I’ve got some good old Scots whiskey squirreled away. We’ll have a sip of that to get started.” He paused, looking at Grey, finding a sudden need to alleviate the anxiety he saw in the other man’s expression. “I should’ve said it last night, but I was feeling kind of… Well, right then I wasn’t sure what to say. Now I’ve got to let you know how proud I am of your performance in that race. Yeah, you could’ve maybe come on 73

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and made faster time, but the way you stopped to help that little Seabrook girl, that’s the real sourdough way. No more cheechako. You’re a born again Alaskan.” He would have sworn he saw a flash of tears in Grey’s expressive eyes, but that was okay. His had gone a little hazy, too. They both moved and came together in a fierce embrace, holding each other as if there was no letting go. Grey managed to say, “Thank you for that,” an instant before Dylan’s mouth closed over his. The celebratory drink forgotten, they started peeling off clothes and left them in a trail to the bedroom. Eager hands swept over each other’s bodies, exploring as if they were not already on familiar ground. Their cocks bumped and tangled around each other, seeking with hungry need. After a few minutes, Grey turned around and presented his back to Dylan. “I know what you want—I felt you this morning and I was ready to say just do it, but I could tell you didn’t want it to be that way. Now the time is right.” Grey leaned down and braced his arms on the footboard of the bed, presenting the tempting sleek shape of his naked buttocks for Dylan’s admiration. Dylan ran his hands over the smooth white skin, cupping the curves and finally running a finger down the crack to the puckered, tight opening that drew him like a magnet. He bent forward and traced his tongue along the same path, inhaling the scent and absorbing the taste that was Grey. “I gotta get a condom and some lube,” he muttered after a moment. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything contagious, but I don’t want to risk it for you. And I sure don’t want to cause you any pain going in dry.” “I got a clean bill of health before I left California,” Grey said, “just so you know.” 74

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Thank all the gods, the bathroom was close. Dylan made it back in seconds, sheathed himself and squirted a liberal stream of lube down the crack of Grey’s ass. Using a finger, he spread it and then worked it in, adding a second finger and then a third. Yeah, he can take me. Grey trembled, his breath coming in rapid gasping pants. Fear? Eagerness and arousal? Dylan couldn’t quite decide. “Have you done this before?” “Yeah, a few times. The first time I was scared. But I want this. I want you to fuck me good. It’s okay, so just do it.” Dylan couldn’t hold back any longer. He pulled his hand back, then steadied his prick. With his cock taking lead dog position, all he could do was follow along. Even as Dylan pushed past the outer ring, he could feel the clenching of Grey’s inner walls, gripping him. He sensed the other man consciously working to relax, opening and giving, and willed himself to move with care. He stroked slowly, thrusting a bit deeper each time, yet not really letting himself go, as badly as he wanted to. This was Grey, not just a causal fuck he’d hooked up with in some bar or hangout. This was Grey—brave, honorable and determined to rise to whatever the occasion demanded. A friend, a— The realization of how much the Californian had come to mean to him slammed into Dylan’s gut, almost bringing him to a halt, but lust and need carried him forward. Grey’s hoarse request added fuel to the fires. “Come on, Dylan. I’m not made out of silk. Fuck me. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks and I know you have, too.” That was all it took. Dylan let go, giving in at last to the urgency, to the hunger, to the overwhelming desire. It only took a few fierce thrusts before he came. The climax tore through him, 75

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wringing every ounce of strength and energy from him. He’d never experienced anything so intense. As much as he ached to win the Iditarod, even that could not be any more powerful. “Oh, my gods.” He exhaled in a gasp, slumping down over Grey’s body for a few breaths before he found the strength to pull free and move to one side. Then Grey pushed himself off the bed to stand upright. Dylan turned and sat on the edge of the mattress, only to find himself looking up at Grey’s tear-streaked but joyful face. He grabbed Grey’s arm and pulled the other man down at his side, then threw his other arm around Grey’s shoulders. Grey turned into his embrace, lifting his face to meet Dylan’s as their mouths came together in a binding kiss. Finally, Dylan straightened, pushed back and held Grey at arm’s length as he gazed into the other man’s eyes. “I hope you aren’t planning to get out of here any time real soon. I know the cast is off and in a few days I’ll be back to my old self. I might not require your help anymore, but I know now that I need a partner, a teammate. And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have sharing that harness with me.” “You sure about that?” Grey’s tone betrayed his anxiety more than his almost flippant words. “Damn straight,” Dylan replied. “I don’t think I need to be a loner anymore. I just had to find the right person to make me whole. Sometimes it takes a while to get the right dogs for the lead pair, but it takes two. It always takes two.” Grey’s face lit up like a spring sunrise. “I never thought, never dared to hope, but I’m here as long as you’ll have me.” Dylan grinned. “Sasha and Sergei knew that pair rule and they’ve been trying to tell me. Maybe I’ve been kinda snowblind. 76

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They do say love is blind. Maybe that was the problem. Somehow, though, I think I’m seeing pretty clear right now and the future looks real bright. Welcome home, sourdough.”

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DEIRDRE O’DARE

Deirdre O’Dare, who also writes milder (roughly PG-13 rated) romance as Gwynn Morgan, has loved reading and writing since early childhood. Writing came naturally to Deirdre/Gwynn, who scribed her first simple verse at age eight. An avid reader, she devoured hundreds of books while growing up and later as an adult. Somewhere along the way she found romance and then romance with more explicit and detailed love scenes. “Ah ha,” said she, “I think I have found my niche!” In the last decade after leaving her “day job” as a civilian employee of the U. S. Army, she finally settled into romantic fiction writing as a second career. Deirdre has a growing number of shorts and novellas, all published by Amber Heat. With Irish and Welsh ancestry on both sides of her family, Deirdre has always been enthralled by the history and customs of the Celtic peoples as they have come down to us. The Mother Goddess idea particularly resonates with her as well as the notion that physical expressions of love between consenting couples are both a divine gift and a sacred duty to honor the Mother. Deirdre admits her favorite heroes are cops, cowboys and Celts.

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