8. Lesson In Mushing

8

Lesson In Mushing

Zane

I spotted her from Belinda’s porch as I was walking out the door, and my heart stopped. She’s pretty hard to miss with that flashy “Mrs.” jacket she wears. Why would she even wear it if there’s no “Mr.”? And why would anyone leave this woman? That’s an even bigger question.

“I could ask you the same,” she says, standing up and turning around with a hand on her hip as Bobby stands up on his hind legs, trying to kiss her. “Are you following me?”

I raise an eyebrow, and she moves aside to escape the over-enthusiastic dog. “Bobby. Down,” I say, and he sits down calmly.

Ivy looks between me and the dog, wearing a confused expression. “Wait. Are you . . .? Do you work here?”

“Yes, I work here. It’s my farm, actually.”

She closes her eyes for a second. And when she opens them, they’re wider than ever, giving me a chance to appreciate the many hues of green they feature.

“Are you here for a sled ride?” I ask. It’s the only plausible explanation. She didn’t know I worked here, so she couldn’t have chased me down to shout at me or kick me in the shin—which was my first thought when I saw her here.

“I am.” She turns back around to cuddle Bobby, who’s back at it. “With Seth.”

“Actually, I’m doing the ride today. Seth is busy with something else.” The words tumble out without warning.

She turns around again, frowning. “But he said—”

“And I’m saying otherwise.”

“Fine,” she snaps, crossing her arms.

I start making my way back to the house when I hear her mumble behind me, “I guess you’ll suck the fun out of that too. ”

I stop in my tracks and wheel around. “What did you just say?”

Her cheeks flush. “Nothing.”

I want to retort, but my gut tells me not to push it. She was two steps away from crying after our lesson this morning, and I can’t handle crying. Or emotions. “I’ll be right back.”

As I start moving again, Seth appears with the blanket, and I stick my hand out to stop him. “I’ll take over. Tell Belinda I won’t be going with her to the market after all.”

He looks at Ivy, then at me. “Are you sure? I’m—”

I throw him a look that leaves no room for argument, and he walks back to the house.

“Who’s Belinda?” Ivy mutters behind me. “Your girlfriend?”

That rips a laugh out of my chest. I turn around to meet her gaze, which is almost defiant.

“No,” I say. “She’s my . . . She’s . . .” I clear my throat. “Never mind, she’s not my girlfriend. Let’s—”

“Oh, I’m sensing a vibe,” she teases. And if it wasn’t so ridiculous, I’d be annoyed right now.

Another chuckle slips out. “There is absolutely no vibe. Now, I’m not saying Belinda is old—learned my lesson.” I smirk. “But I’m not into dating sixty-five-year-old women. ”

“Oh!” Ivy’s eyes widen, and her cheeks tint pink to match her outfit.

“She’s my neighbor,” I say, nodding toward the house across the street. In truth, she’s way more than that. Belinda and her late husband, Bruce, pretty much raised me and my siblings. But Ivy doesn’t need to know that.

“Gotcha.”

“All right. So, I’ll give you a crash course on mushing, and then we’ll go.” I jerk my chin, gesturing for her to follow me inside the barn. Once there, I introduce her to the entire gang.

“Whoa. How many are there?” she asks as we walk down the length of the barn, the dogs scrambling toward her and jumping at the wooden fence.

“Twenty. Twelve males and eight females.”

She reads the names on the signs. “All their names start with B. Is there a reason for that?”

“It’s a tradition the previous owner started because his and his wife’s names started with B,” I say, shooting her a small smile. “So I kept it up.”

“Oh, that’s cute. How old are they?” she asks, patting Bella and Burger simultaneously.

“The oldest is almost eleven. Buck, over there.” I point to the far corner where he’s lazily gazing at us. “And the youngest is two years old.” I scan the barn for her. “There she is. Buffy.”

Ivy lets out a giggle. “As in the vampire slayer.”

I shake my head. “Everyone always says that.”

“Well . . . it’s the name of the show, and it was pretty popular in the nineties.”

I shrug. “I don’t watch TV.”

She returns to petting Burger’s and Bella’s heads. “At what age do they stop pulling the sled?”

“They usually retire at around eight to ten years old, but it’s the dog that makes the decision, not us. Buck still asks to go on rides, though for him, we keep them short. I never force any of the dogs to go out, but as long as they want to go, they are welcome to. I like to keep them around. They’re a great help when it comes to teaching the youngsters.”

A flash of horror crosses her face. “What happens to them after they retire?”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “Don’t worry, I’m not eating husky for breakfast.”

She gives me a pointed look.

“We have a rehoming program. Actually, Belinda has one of my former wheel dogs, Boomer, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to take Buck when he decides to retire.”

“Oh, that’s nice. At least they don’t move far. ”

I scratch my beard. “Yeah. A few of them are here in town, actually.”

“So, what’s a wheel dog?” she asks, her forehead wrinkling.

“Mushing is a team sport. Each dog has a specific place in the line and a unique function within the pack. Wheel dogs are hitched directly in front of the sled. They’re the strongest and calmest.” I point to all my wheel dogs. “You’ve got Buck over there, then Bea, Blue, Burger, and Bear.”

“Okay.” She nods, locating them in the barn.

“Next, we have the team dogs. They’re the horsepower of the lot. Bobby is a team dog, and so are Bolt, Buzz, Bella, and Blaze. Then, you’ve got the swing dogs, Brownie, Buffy, Bluebell, Buddy, and Bagel. They set the pace and turn the whole team. And finally, the lead dogs. They’re the ones answering to the musher’s commands and steering the team. My lead dogs are Bean, Boots, Bonnie, Birdie, and Bandit.”

“Whoa, okay. That’s a pretty complex system.”

“It is. But Siberian huskies are born for this, and they naturally learn and understand the hierarchy of the pack. I’m not saying training isn’t a big part of the job—it definitely is—but the learning curve is easier than it would be with other dogs.” That fact has always impressed me, from the first time Bruce explained the mechanics. Plus, teaching dogs is a lot easier than teaching people. But that’s just my opinion after my short teaching experience.

Ivy’s eyes are gleaming with fascination as she looks around the barn. “How fast can they run?”

“They run at fifteen to eighteen miles per hour for about twenty-five miles, then their speed starts to drop.”

“Impressive.”

“They are,” I say, giving Bella a scratch on the head before glancing at Ivy again. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yes.” Her sparkling eyes stretch wide with excitement. “Who are we taking?”

“I don’t know. Who wants to go on a ride?” I ask the dogs, and all of them except for Buck and Blue jump for joy. I chuckle at their enthusiasm, and Ivy giggles, petting them all. As she does, I have a hard time tearing my eyes away. Her interest in mushing, how happy she looks scratching their ears—it almost feels like she belongs here.