Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
“Dad.” Liz gives a pointed look toward the girls, but their focus is riveted on the heaping brownie sundaes in front of them.
He offers a sheepish smile. “Is this new guy breedin’ those dogs he brought over with him?”
“That’s the thing.” I repeat what Tyler claims Harry did. “He made it sound like he will, just to spite the Hatchetts.”
Dad whistles. “Sometimes that family leans too much on their history around here. Things have changed, especially with Earl gone. It was foolish of Harry, trying to tell this man what he can and can’t do. Then again, Harry’s always been a fool.”
“Especially a guy like this one.” Who doesn’t seem like he’d back down from a fight. “Just wait until people around here see those dogs race. I’m telling you, Dad, they are impressive. The way they ran in formation, untethered?” I understand why Harry, a competitive guy by nature, would be nervous. Keeping a sled team is costly—thousands of dollars spent a year on a balanced diet of kibble, meat, and fish, housing them against the elements, outfitting them to race, bringing in veterinarian care for the revolving door of issues that arise from all those dogs together. It’s not unusual for a musher to spend thirty grand a year to prepare a team, and that’s not even considering the race fees, which are in the thousands themselves.
The Hatchetts pay for it by relying on sponsors, hosting tourist tours during the off-season, leasing dogs, and by breeding champion sled dogs for mushers. It’s an art form of sorts, pairing the right mix for speed, endurance, and attitude. Earl had a knack for it, his lines producing competent racers time and time again.
There have been plenty of doubts about Harry’s skills.
“So he thinks he’s gonna give Harry a run for his money at the race, huh? As a rookie in the Iditarod.” Dad’s skepticism is obvious.
“I don’t know, but he certainly thinks highly of himself.”
“Part of me would like to see that kid’s ego get knocked down a few pegs. He needs that before he loses whatever good grace being Earl’s son has afforded him. But the Hatchetts are also good for the sport. The fans really like them.”
Harry’s considered a local celebrity and media darling. He’s young, he never balks at giving an interview, and he has a face that female race fans flock to. But these fans haven’t met Tyler yet. What’s he like when he’s not being accused of abusing dogs? Does he have what it takes to charm the crowds?
Will they react to that ruggedly handsome face the same way I did?
Liz sets a bowl in front of Dad.
He examines the brownie suspiciously. “Has the warden approved?”
“Yes, it’s Liz’s special recipe.” Mom emphasizes special with a stare, which means it’s made with beets or cannellini beans or something equally unappetizing that the children are oblivious to and that won’t spike Dad’s blood sugar levels.
He hasn’t been able to eat a meal without Mom’s approval since his diagnosis. Fortunately for him, Liz can make even vegetable-laced brownies taste good, something we all appreciate.
The usual family dinner chatter takes over while we clean up. Then Liz bundles the girls to get them home for bath and bedtime and Vicki moans about her aching back as Oliver helps her pull her coat on.
Soon, it’s just Dad and I in the kitchen, with Yukon curled up next to Dad’s feet as he savors the last of his dessert.
“Jim called me yesterday. Told me to get you to increase your fees.”
“Really? He’s going to you now?”
“Because you won’t listen to him.”
“I did increase them.”
“That was three years ago, Marie.”
I’ve already had this conversation—twice since the fall. “Maybe Jim should decrease his accounting fees.”
Dad snorts.
“I’m fine. Overhead was a bit higher this year, and I have a few outstanding client bills that will get paid. But I’m fine.” I haven’t been flying out west nearly as much. I don’t have a mortgage to worry about, but there’s always something to repair or replace. Next up is my ultrasound machine, a fossil that needed to go five years ago. I could buy a new truck with what it’s going to cost, and the bank isn’t keen on lending me more. Thankfully, my father is willing to cosign for the loan.
Growing up with a veterinarian for a father, I was well versed in the realities of this career path before I submitted my application to vet school. I knew I wasn’t getting into this business for the paycheck, especially where I live. Still, sometimes I look at my life—at the amount of schooling I needed and the exorbitant debt I accumulated, at the nights I’ve spent curled up next to a sick patient I didn’t want to leave alone—and wonder if I would’ve been better off going to med school.