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)
The dogs have abandoned their hunt for rodents and trotted to sit by my father’s side. Yukon whines, his nose dipping toward Dad’s leg.
“Oh, so now you two decide to come,” he grumbles but spares a moment to pat each of them on the head. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Seventy-four years old and I’ve forgotten how to walk.”
I peer behind us, toward the road. We’re half a mile away. Too far for an injury like this unless there’s no other choice. “I’m going to get help. Someone will drive by soon enough.” I fasten the dogs to their leashes and then loop the handles around my father’s fist. “Just stay here. And keep your hands off it,” I warn. My father’s been known to skip medical professionals and stitch himself up from time to time, but there’s not a lot he can do out here.
“I’ll try my best,” my father says, a joking lilt in his tone, despite his grimace.
* * *
With mounting frustration, I check the time again. I’ve been pacing this desolate dirt road for fifteen minutes without a single vehicle passing. Most days in June, I’d be complaining that it’s too busy.
All I need is one car. One person to drive by.
If I’d just started walking toward the parking lot, I’d have reached my car by now. From there, it’s a short drive to the lodge and help.
Regret burns inside as I contemplate standing here any longer until I decide I can’t wait for someone. I’m about to head to the car when I spot a familiar white-and-green pickup truck in the far distance, creeping along the winding road. It’s a park ranger. Even better than a random tourist. Relief envelops me as I jump and wave frantically. It’s already heading in this direction, but I need it to move faster.
The park ranger vehicle eases to a stop—there’s little room to pull over.
The man driving hops out.
My jaw drops as I take in Tyler’s face. “What are you doing here?”
He smirks. “I would’ve thought the truck and the uniform are pretty self-explanatory.”
“Yeah, but …” I take in the standard khaki-brown and green ranger uniform, the bulletproof vest, the sidearm strapped to his hip. He’s wearing a baseball cap rather than the broad-rimmed campaign hat, with State Park Ranger stamped across it in yellow lettering.
I guess this answers the question of what Tyler does for money if he’s not running sled tours through the summer. A lot of mushers work seasonal jobs, taking on as many hours as they can with fishing charter companies or other tourist-type work, or in construction, before they start their rigorous fall training schedule.
But no … “Over three million acres of park land in this state, and you have to work here,” I mutter under my breath.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Nothing.”
He frowns. “You were waving me down. Is there a problem?”
“Oh my God. Yes.” My momentary shock over seeing Tyler here disintegrates as I explain the situation and my father’s compound fracture.
I’ve barely finished talking when Tyler’s reaching for his radio. He calls in to dispatch as he calmly strolls back to the truck.
I don’t think a park ranger uniform has ever fit someone so well, but I shift my gaze—and my thoughts—to more pressing issues.
He climbs in, throws his hazards on, and pulls over precariously close to the narrow, shoulder-free edge before stepping out again. “An ambulance is on the way.”
My pace is brisk as I lead Tyler toward my father, an uncomfortable silence sitting on my shoulders, interrupted only by the occasional buzz of his radio.
“Slow down, Marie.”
“He’s been sitting out there alone for almost twenty minutes. He’s diabetic, and he has high blood pressure.” Not to mention the bone sticking out of his leg.
“I get it, but the ground is uneven, you’re panicking, and we don’t need more than one broken leg today.”
“I’m not panicking. I don’t panic. And I’ve been hiking here since I was five. I know how to walk—ahh!” The stones beneath my hiking boots roll, much like what caught my father off guard, and I lose my balance.
Before I tumble to the ground, Tyler is there, his viselike grip locking on my biceps while his other arm loops around my waist. I feel his strength as he hauls me back to my feet. “You good?”
I test my ankle. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I falter on a thanks, stealing a glance upward to find sincerity in his eyes. His hands are hot against my skin, even through my shirt, and a pleasing masculine scent of cedar and citrus peel teases my nose.
He shifts away and opens his mouth, but promptly shuts it before a told you so comment escapes.
Good. He has some restraint.
“So … is this a seasonal thing? This …” I wave a hand at Tyler’s uniform as we continue at a slightly slower pace. It must be. There’s no way he can carry a full-time job and train his dogs for the Iditarod.