Across a Thousand Miles (2 page)

Mac's relief was followed by intense hunger. He ate a huge and satisfying meal, then had a couple of cold beers while watching some of the locals shoot pool in the barroom. His thoughts kept returning to Rebecca Reed. Try as he might, he couldn't get her out of his mind. Fred Turner was a taciturn old cuss, but he'd divulged a good deal about her when he'd stopped at Mac's cabin for a visit two weeks back. “Terrible sad story,” Fred had said, shaking his head and blinking the
sting of a large swallow of Jack Daniel's from his eyes. “She came here with her husband, oh, must be five, six years ago. Quiet little thing. Shy. Hard worker, though. Worked right alongside her man, never shirked. Good with the dogs, too. She helped Bruce train, ran some races herself and did real well.

“Bruce, he ran the long races. The Iditarod and the Yukon Quest. Those are thousand-mile races. Tough races. Rebecca ran some of the shorter ones. Two, three hundred milers like the Fireplug, the Copper Basin, the Percy DeWolf. They started up a business giving tours by dog team and selling dog food. Best prices in the Territory on dog food. And then Bruce went and got himself killed. Hit a moose with his truck coming back from a supply trip to Whitehorse. We all thought she'd pack up and leave, but by God she's stuck it out, all by herself. Folks say she hasn't smiled once since Bruce died, and she's got no family to turn to, just a mother back East who thinks she's crazy livin' way out here in the wilderness.”

Mac leaned his elbows on the bar and cradled the beer bottle between his palms. Fred hadn't mentioned that Rebecca Reed was an arrestingly beautiful woman. Long, dark hair plaited in a thick braid, high forehead, wide-set blue eyes, straight nose, expressive mouth that wanted to smile but wouldn't, and a determined chin with a little dimple in it. The thought of her living in that cabin all by herself, grieving for her husband, disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Divorced for several months, his own experiences with women had led him to conclude that most of them were fickle. Loyalty simply did not abide in them. Yet how could he explain this woman living in voluntary seclusion, this young widow who hadn't smiled since her husband
died? And might things have turned out differently for him in that military courtroom if he'd had the love and support of a wife like Rebecca? Would he have fought harder for his exoneration?

Mac sighed. Taking care of forty dogs must be a hell of a lot of work for a woman! Caring for his brother's dogs turned him inside out, and getting away from them for just one day was more of a vacation than a three-week holiday used to be. How on earth did she manage all by herself?

“Hey, mister.” A man leaned on the bar beside him, olive-drab wool cap with the ear flaps turned up, windburned complexion, black eyes, red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt, green wool pants with bright orange suspenders. “Barkeep tells me you play a mean game of pool and you're looking for some action.”

Mac finished his beer and straightened. “Well, I don't know how mean it is, but it's pretty good, I guess.”

“Good enough to place a bet on?”

“Maybe.” Mac followed the woodsman to the pool table, thinking smugly,
Ha! Easy money!

Six hours later he opened his eyes and stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was or why he felt so awful. Pool… He'd played pool with a guy named Joe Redshirt, and Joe played a pretty mean game of pool himself. Whiskey. Joe had bought him several shots over the course of the evening. One of the last coherent memories Mac had was of an easy rail shot he'd pooched, and Joe's deadpan voice drawling, “Don't worry, son, I couldn't make those shots when I was young, either.”

Mac closed his eyes, moaned, then opened them again, realization flooding through him. “Dammit!” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, not
overly surprised to find himself fully clothed. He held on to the nightstand for a moment until his legs steadied beneath him, then staggered to the chair. His fingers dug into the frayed pockets of his parka with frantic movements, and he knew a moment of wild relief when he drew forth the carefully folded envelope that held the dog-food money. He spilled the bills out onto the coverlet and counted them. Sweat beaded his brow. He counted again, as if more might appear the second time around then sank onto the edge of the bed. By nature he was neither a gambler nor a heavy drinker, but betting on a game of pool had seemed like such an easy way to win money to help pay both the vet and the hotel charges, and Joe Redshirt had kept handing him those shots of whiskey…

…and somehow Mac had gambled away half his dog-food money.

One hot shower and thirty minutes later, he was standing in the vet's office counting those same bills again. Then he pushed all but sixty dollars toward the receptionist. She counted it primly before writing him out a receipt. “I'll get Callie for you now,” she said, and disappeared into the back room. Mac stared at the remaining bills in his hand with a feeling of doom. “Oh, God,” he said to the empty room. “I'm flat broke.”

When he finally got Callie comfortably ensconced in the passenger seat of his old truck, he was stunned to realize that it was nearly 10 a.m. He had an early-morning appointment to pick up nearly a ton of dog food from a beautiful widow named Rebecca Reed, who lived about an hour outside of Dawson…and who didn't sell dog food on credit.

“Oh, God,” he said again, putting the truck in gear
and heading down the Klondike Highway. “I'm a dead man.”

 

“Y
OU'RE LATE
! Rebecca said, hands on her hips. I could have trained three teams of dogs in the amount of time I've spent waiting around for you.”

A stiff wind bent the tops of the spruce, and the overcast sky gave off an ominous thundering. “I'm sorry,” Mac said. He stood at the foot of the porch steps looking about as apologetic as she'd ever seen a man look. Those broad military shoulders were hunched, and his hands were shoved deep into his parka pockets. His tawny hair was tousled, though clean and freshly trimmed, and he had obviously shaved, revealing more clearly the strong, masculine planes of cheekbone and chin, but his eyes mirrored his abject guilt.

“Well, I'm not going to help you load the dog food. That's your job. Back your truck up to that door on the end of the dog barn. Your food is on pallets stacked to the right of the door. Forty bags, though I seriously doubt your truck will take the load.”

He nodded again, looked over his shoulder at the old rusted truck, then dropped his gaze to the toes of his worn-out pack boots. He stood silently at the foot of the cabin steps until Rebecca felt a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

“What is it?” she said.

He sighed and dug his hands deeper into his parka pockets. He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. A snowflake fluttered down from the leaden sky and brushed over his shoulder unseen. “Well, the thing is, I'm a little short of cash,” he said in a low voice, speaking to the ground at his feet. “The vet bill turned out to be higher than I expected. You see, Callie ate this big
rock…” He raised his eyes and pulled one hand out of his pocket, fingers unfolding to reveal the smooth egg-shaped stone cradled within.

Rebecca stared at the rock and crossed her arms in front of her. The wind was cold, but a curious feeling warmed her blood. “I see. Yes, that certainly is a big rock. So. You spent all your money on what had to be the most expensive surgery ever performed in the Yukon, and I suppose now you want me to extend credit to you?”

Mac shook his head. “I have enough left to buy a couple of bags. I can come up with more money. I'll sell some stuff up at the cabin. A couple of bags will hold me over till I can hock my watch. I have a good one. A Rolex.” He bared his wrist to display the watch, but Rebecca was unimpressed. Another snowflake whirled through the air, a tiny dance of white, a promise of winter. He watched it land and disappear, then raised his eyes to hers. “I'm not asking to buy on credit. I'll get the money. Callie's okay, and right at this moment that's all that matters.”

Rebecca's arms tightened against herself. Bruce would have done the same. He would have sold his soul to the devil to save one of his dogs. And truth be known, so would she. “Take the food,” she said shortly, “and pay me when you can. Your brother, Brian, did very well with his trapline. I expect you'll be able to make good on this loan in a month or so. I can't abide the thought of those good dogs of Brian's going hungry, and they can't live on chum salmon…and egg-size rocks.”

Mac stared at her until she felt the cold knot in the pit of her stomach return with a vengeance. “What is it now?” she demanded.

“Trapping.” His eyes pleaded with her to understand,
and the flush across his cheekbones deepened. Rebecca waited, grim-faced, for him to continue. “I tried trapping. I set the traps like Brian showed me. For a while there was nothing, and then I caught a fox,” he said. “When I came to check the trap, the fox was… It had…” He half turned away from her and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. His shoulders rose and fell around a silent sigh. “I let the fox go. It just didn't seem right.”

Rebecca looked at him for a moment and then turned her back abruptly, raised her hands to her mouth and coughed behind them to hide her smile.

“I don't know what I'm going to do to earn the money, but something's bound to come up.”

She turned around, her face composed, and nodded curtly. “I'm sure you're good for it. Load the dog food. You have a long trip ahead of you, and it's starting to snow.”

She watched him back the old truck up to the barn door and let her hand drop to rest on the head of the dog who was forever by her side. “He can't trap wild animals, Tuffy,” she said softly, a bemused smile curving the corners of her mouth. “Who can figure the heart of a man?”

 

I
T TOOK
M
AC
K
ENZIE
a good thirty minutes to load the bags. Rebecca spent the time mixing her own batch of dog food for the evening feeding. The cabin was warm, and she lit an oil lamp against the early twilight. The hardest part of living in the north was the lack of daylight in winter months. It wasn't so bad now, but come December the nights would be endless, and sunlight all but a precious memory. She gave the stew pot a stir and poked the pan of sourdough bread rising on the warming
shelf, shifting it to a cooler spot. A light tap on the door drew her back onto the cabin porch. MacKenzie stood humbly before her. “Thank you,” he said. “I'll be off now.”

“Good,” she said.

He nodded. “I'll pay you within the month.”

“I'm sure you will.”

She couldn't keep the edge of sarcasm from her voice. He nodded again and turned away, walked down the three steps and crossed the yard to where his truck was parked. He paused before climbing into the cab. “Need any mechanical work done on your truck?” he asked hopefully.

“Nope.”

“Two weeks,” he said. “I'll have the money in two weeks!”

She didn't reply, and he climbed into the cab and slammed the door. The truck started right up, but he had to work to get it into first gear. He pulled ahead with a lurch that stalled it. He started it again, waved his arm out the side window when the engine finally caught and slowly rumbled out of the yard, the old truck's springs sagging under the heavy load. As he drove cautiously down the long rutted track that led to the main road, it began to snow in earnest, the flakes whirling past on a strong westerly wind. By morning there would be a foot or more. Winter came all at once in the north country and stayed for a very long time.

She stepped inside to fill the buckets with dog food, hurrying now to beat the darkness and the storm. The dogs howled with delight as she reemerged bearing their supper, which she ladled into the feed pans attached to the sides of their houses. “We'll run tomorrow, Thor,” she promised the black lead dog, another of her hus
band's favorites. “Maybe even with the sled.” She'd been training the dog teams with a four-wheeler since the weather had cooled in August, letting twelve dogs pull the ATV down miles of dirt roads, and while rig training was important, she couldn't wait to get back onto the sled. Nothing compared to a fast run behind a good team of well-trained dogs. Rebecca had come to love the dogs and the lifestyle they represented. She had come to love this little place on the edge of the wilderness, the timeless cycle of the seasons, the ebb and flow of life, and the hard, harsh laws of the wild. If not for the aching loneliness that had hollowed her heart since losing Bruce, she would be quite content here.

“Okay, Quinn, I'm coming with the chow. Hold your horses!” She dished out the food quickly, moving amongst the whirl and dance of the excited animals with practiced ease, speaking each dog's name as she fed it. Finally she dropped the scoop back into one of the empty buckets with a weary sigh. “Done and done.” The snow was already turning the ground white, and strong gusts of wind lifted it up in streamers. “Wild night ahead.”

She wondered how MacKenzie was making out on his long drive home, and no sooner did this unbidden thought enter her mind than the dogs erupted into a frenzy of barking, all eyes focused on the dirt track that led to the main road. She followed their gaze and after a few moments picked out the dark shape of a man moving through the thick veil of wind-driven snow. “It can't be!” she said.

But it was. MacKenzie trudged into her yard and veered in her direction. His hair was plastered with snow. “I'm sorry to bother you,” he said over the roar
of the wind. “My truck broke a U-joint about half a mile from here, just shy of the main road.”

Clutching both empty buckets in one mittened hand, she stared at him. “I guess it was too heavy a load,” she couldn't resist saying.