Alaskan Hearts. Teri Wilson

square underneath the palm of his hand.

       Kodiak had always been an expert nudger.

       “Subtle.” Ben gave him an affectionate scratch behind the ears.

       The husky nuzzled against his knee until Ben pulled a worn, leather leash out of the pocket of his parka. As soon as Kodiak got a glimpse of the leash, his plumed tail uncurled into a straight line and hung between his hind legs. He furrowed his doggy brow and gazed up at Ben with sad copper eyes.

       “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not any happier about being here than you are, you know.” He snapped the leash onto Kodiak’s collar and told himself this was the last year he would darken the door of this place during race week. Even beautiful blonde women in need of rescue weren’t enough to keep him coming back. The way he saw it, there was no reason he couldn’t commute from his secluded cabin on the outskirts of Aurora to the official race events.

       The plan was simple. Drive in, snap a few photos, drive out.

       His boss at the Yukon Reporter didn’t quite agree. He had all sorts of reasons why Ben needed to be “in the thick of things” at the race headquarters. That, and the very real threat of an avalanche wiping out the one highway between Knik and Aurora, kept him coming back year after year.

       So here he was. Again.

       But this was absolutely the last time he would agree to this arrangement. He breathed out a weary sigh and led Kodiak into the hotel lobby.

       He stomped the snow from his boots and looked around for a clock. This was a wasted effort, as every available square inch of wall space played host to some sort of mounted animal head. There was the customary Alaskan moose hanging above the enormous stone fireplace, surrounded by a variety of antlered cousins. Above the coffee bar, a bison watched over the mixing of flavored lattes and cappuccinos. Next to the registration desk, the full body of a polar bear rose up on its back legs and towered over guests waiting to check in.

       Ben groaned when he saw the crowd of people waiting in line. His heavy eyelids told him it had to be well past midnight, but from the look of things, half the population of the Lower Forty-Eight—as Alaskans called the rest of the United States—stood between him and a room key.

       “Welcome to race week.” A large hand smacked Ben between the shoulder blades. Hard enough that he dropped Kodiak’s leash amid a sudden coughing fit.

       “Sorry.” Reggie Chase’s dark face split into a wide grin. “I would have thought living out there in the middle of nowhere would have toughened you up by now.”

       “You live even farther out than I do,” Ben managed to sputter as his ability to speak returned. “Remember?”

       “Oh, yeah.” Reggie wore mukluks, the traditional winter moccasins common to those living in the bush. For as long as Ben had known Reggie, he’d made his home in the remote village of Prospect. Reggie enjoyed living in the bush, away from the road network. “Off the grid,” as he called it. Ben’s cabin in the woods seemed cosmopolitan by comparison, even with its long-abandoned doghouses dotting the landscape.

       Reggie let out a hearty laugh. “I saw your name tag over at the registration desk and wondered when you’d be rolling in. There’s just one problem—that tag still says Media after your name.”

       Ben’s jaw clenched, and a familiar throbbing flared in his temples. “Don’t start.”

       “It’s a shame to let that nice dog yard out at your place sit empty. That’s all.” Reggie crossed his arms, leaned closer and lowered his voice. Ben noticed his beard had grown a shade or two closer to silver since last year’s Gold Rush Trail. “How many years has it been, friend?”

       “You were the one who packed away all my sledding equipment, remember? You know exactly how many years it’s been.”

       Four.

       The number hung, unspoken, in the awkward space between them.

       Four years, five…ten. Ben knew without a doubt the passing of time would in no way dim the memory of the land surrounding his cabin, once scattered with sledding equipment. A sled here, a cabled line there. After the accident that had ended his mushing career, Ben couldn’t bring himself to touch any of it. He was afraid of his own muscle memory—that the drive bow would still feel comfortable in his hands. He’d let the snow cover it all, inch by inch, day by day, until it became nothing more than a series of mysterious white mounds. Then one day, he’d come home from work and they were gone. His yard was flat, smooth and white as a snow-covered sea of ice. Ben had been almost afraid to walk on it. He’d sat in his car and stared at his property—an unnatural blank slate—until darkness hovered on the horizon.

       He’d found his equipment cleaned, polished and carefully stacked in the shed out back. Reggie’s work to be sure, although he’d never admitted as much. Ben had taken one look, locked the door to the storage shed and never opened it again.

       Now he massaged his forehead with his thumb and index finger. It made no difference. The throbbing only intensified. A war was being waged in his head, full of long-forgotten memories of the trail fighting to make themselves known. “Kodiak is the only dog I need these days.”

       Reggie’s nostrils flared as he blew out a frustrated puff of breath. Let him be frustrated. Reggie could join the long list of people, led by Ben’s very own father, who were all frustrated with him. Ben couldn’t care less. “Where did that monster run off to anyway?”

       At that precise moment, Kodiak’s deep bark echoed off the wood-paneled walls, followed by a distinctly feminine squeal.

       “That didn’t sound good.” Despite his ominous declaration, Reggie chuckled.

       “Kodiak!” Ben called.

       By now, the barking had grown louder. Ben followed the sound to the crowd of people waiting at the registration desk, in the shadow of the outstretched paws of the rampant polar bear.

       The group parted like the Red Sea as he approached, revealing a woman with thick waves of blond hair standing alone, frozen to the spot.

      Her. Ben’s heart leaped with recognition.

       Despite the way the color was draining from her face with alarming speed, she possessed a sort of innocent beauty. That, coupled with her mass of platinum curls, gave her the air and grace of a princess.

       A princess who looked woefully out of place in Alaska.

       Ben tore his gaze from her delicate face and took notice of the small pink suitcase at her feet, which for some reason rendered Kodiak spellbound.

       The suitcase yipped. Kodiak yipped right back at it.

       “Kodiak, no.” Ben stepped forward and picked up the leash, which was dragging on the floor behind the husky.

       The suitcase yipped again. Kodiak whined, craned his neck toward the mysterious bag and swept Ben’s foot with his wagging tail.

       With Kodiak safely restrained, the color returned to the woman’s face in the form of a scarlet flush. It settled in the vicinity of her exquisite cheekbones.

       “You.” She scooped the pink bag off the floor and hugged it to her chest.

       “I’m sorry if he frightened you.” Ben ruffled the fur on the scruff of Kodiak’s neck. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He just likes to make noise.”

       “I’m not scared.”

       Clearly a bald-faced lie. She couldn’t have looked more terrified if the stuffed polar bear suddenly sprang to life and romped around the lobby. “All the same, I apologize.”

       “Apology accepted.” Her reddened cheeks faded to a soft pink, the exact shade of her barking bag. And her fuzzy sweater. And those ridiculous shoes, which resembled some sort of sheepskin bedroom slippers. If sheep were pink.

       Ben pointed to the bag. “What have you got in there? Whatever it is, my dog finds it