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“Because you’ve called me out here a lot.” Earl had years of experience. He knew how to pull a thorn from his dog’s paw and when to have it treated by a professional. “And you’ve gotten a lot of personalized veterinarian care during that time.” Where is Harry going with this?
“Right, but am I paying what I should be paying? I mean, I’ve always been good to you, but business is business.” He falters. “I’d hate to have to look elsewhere.”
I bite my tongue, waiting for him to continue.
He adjusts his stance, pulling his shoulders back, and says firmly, “You need to do better with your rates and your service. That’s what I’m saying.”
I struggle to keep my jaw from falling open. Does he realize how good I’ve been to him over the years? How many times I’ve prioritized his kennel over my other clients, dropping everything to race out here when he’s called? He already gets a discounted rate as it is. Hell, I don’t charge him a home visit fee or for my travel out here!
But losing the Hatchetts’ business would be a significant loss of income. It wouldn’t completely ruin me, but it would hurt. The question is—what’s more important, my business’s bank account or my pride?
I tamp down my shock and frustration and clear my throat. I need my father’s advice. “I will evaluate my costs and fees and get back to you. How about that?”
“That sounds reasonable, Marie. I know you’ll come up with a plan. And, make no mistake, I appreciate you.” I sense triumph in that look. Like he assumes he’s won.
I grit my teeth as I climb into my truck. With a standard wave out the window—I’d prefer to flash a middle finger—I edge my truck along the pothole-riddled driveway. It’s in desperate need of some fresh gravel. The property has fallen into disrepair since Earl’s death. I don’t know if that’s Harry’s inability to focus on more than the dogs, or if the money situation is worse than I suspected. Given this rehearsed speech he just delivered, it could be money related, but it could just as easily be Harry’s ineptitude.
I’m fuming by the time I reach the end of their driveway. The fastest way to the clinic is to my left.
I turn right instead, hoping the extra fifteen minutes I’ve just tacked on to my drive will clear my head.
The driveway one over from the Hatchetts’ looks the same as when I last stopped with a handwritten letter in my grasp, only without the blanket of winter to veil the bramble on either side of the gate. I’ll bet that barrier has proven more useful with his newfound fame. The trespassing signs still hang prominently from the trees.
But the personalized one for me has been taken down, I note, as I slow to a stop in front of the lane.
It’s been three months since the race, and I’ve done my best to push out all thoughts of Tyler.
After spending several days scouring the internet to read everything about Mila Rask and Tyler Brady’s life together, of course. It wasn’t hard to find information and pictures. Rask Huskies has an entire section dedicated to Mila—to her life, her achievements, which were impressive in the mushing community. She was gorgeous. Tall and slender, with sharp cheekbones, brown eyes, and jet-black hair rather than the more common to Scandinavian blue eyes and blonde hair. She styled it in various lengths, from pixie cut to a chin-length bob. And their life together looked perfect, living in Finland’s northernmost region of Lapland, on the family’s farm with a full staff of handlers and two hundred sled dogs trained to run tourist expeditions in the arctic wilderness.
The disappointment that overwhelmed me when Tyler and I parted still lingers, a dull nuisance that reminds me every so often of those brief moments at the checkpoints—the looks, the smile, that kiss. All parts of a man who is still very much in love with his dead wife.
If he wasn’t, it might have gone somewhere.
I would have at least liked the opportunity to find out.
I throw my truck in gear and continue, rounding the bend in the dirt road.
A lone figure approaches, jogging in the middle of the road. These roads are so seldom used, it’s not surprising that a jogger wouldn’t use the shoulder, but the man isn’t making much effort to move, shifting only a few feet to his right, forcing me to slow to a crawl.
I’m twenty feet away when I recognize Tyler.
A curse slips out even as my heart races, my eyes sizing up the soft gray T-shirt that clings to his torso, and the simple black track shorts that highlight lean but muscular calves and thighs.
A second curse slips when I realize he’s recognized me, and he’s coming to a stop.
