Broken Trails Read Free Page A

too.
    An Internet search had turned up some interesting facts. Scotch was twenty-three, and this was her third Iditarod, her best time overall. This year she had also won the Leonhard Seppala Humanitarian Award for the care she had given her dogs. Would she make another Iditarod attempt next year? Did she have what it took to win? And why the hell would a beautiful woman want to torture herself by racing dogs?
    Most importantly, where had she acquired such self-assurance and poise? She was a kid, born and raised in the boonies. Yet, she carried herself with a level of confidence Lainey had only seen in ancient matriarchs of various cultures around the world. Sure, a lot of women in America held themselves the same way, what with the advent of the women's liberation movement. If feminism had made such great strides in the Alaskan bush, however, then why was Lainey routinely referred to as “little missy' by the front desk clerk? Scotch seemed to carry a lot of weight with the men around her, more of an equal than as a woman. It was only natural Lainey found the subtle authority . . . exciting.
    She closed her eyes, the light of the display flickering against her lids. Regardless of her blindness, she still saw Scotch, sharing a smile with her. Her thoughts took her to other, more intimate questions, as her fingers began to stray along her body.
    What did she taste like?
     
    "Alaska?” Benjamin Strauss asked. To give him credit, he did not sound nearly as confused as his expression indicated. "You're kidding.”
    Lainey leaned back in her chair, and sipped her espresso. "Nope. I'm dead serious.”
    They sat in a small coffee shop in midtown Manhattan. Through the window, Lainey watched the wildlife of New York rush about on the corner of 57th Street and Sixth Avenue, every one of them bundled against the chill of a late winter rain. Even with the cold, she only felt a twinge from her injury, a relief after her sojourn north.
    Strauss' tan was incongruent with his business suit and well-trimmed salt and pepper hair. Ruddy features proclaimed an outdoorsman, though his clothes and demeanor screamed corporate executive. Lainey knew him to be more the former than the latter, having spent several months in the Australian outback on a shoot with him. They had met and become fast friends, the intervening years tightening their bond. He had been her sponsor in Alcoholics Anonymous, and remained a staunch supporter of her through her abrupt shift from war correspondent to nature photographer.
    He scrubbed his worn face, and peered closely at her. "Who are you and what have you done with Lainey Hughes?”
    "Ha ha,” she said, her face stony though the humor flashed in her eyes. "You did say you would agree to the next story I pitched.”
    "No, I didn't,” he said, waving a finger at her. "You hung up on me.”
    Lainey made a rude noise. "We both know you would have said yes.”
    A grin crossed his face. ‘maybe,” he allowed.
    She waved his objections away, and returned to the subject. "Well? What do you think? Is it feasible?”
    He mirrored her seriousness. "Considering we just published an Iditarod story this issue,” he said, tapping the current copy of Cognizance on the table between them, "why should I do it again in a year?”
    "Because this spread was a onetime article about the race.” Lainey set down her cup, and leaned forward to convey her enthusiasm. "I propose following one musher from sign up in June, through training, and the race itself. We could pull it off as an in-depth expose of an up and comer; either a full cover to cover issue next year, or quarterly installments beginning this July.”
    Strauss' fingers drummed upon the table. "Which up and comer?”
    She casually relaxed in an effort to disguise her true interest. “Scotch Fuller, tenth place winner this year.”
    "What makes this guy so special?”
    “The fact that she's a woman,” Lainey said. “This was her third Iditarod, and she's consistently