Across a Thousand Miles by Nadia Nichols Page A

inside the stove and thrust his fingers into the pot of water. It was plenty warm. He was mixing the food with a long-handled spade when the door opened and Rebecca walked in.
    She didn’t say anything, just crossed to the sink as if she’d been in his cabin a hundred times before, took a hand towel down from a nail above the washbasin and poured some water from the teakettle into the basin. Mac was astounded. She was going to minister to his wounds? He continued mixing the dogs’ food, deeply moved by this action of Rebecca’s and struggling with something inside he couldn’t begin to verbalize. Then, just when he thought that maybe he’d found the right words, she turned with the towel and washbasin in hand, cool, brisk and businesslike.
    â€œMac,” she said, “I think the reason Merlin tried to stop at that cabin was because he has a cut on his foot. He must have pulled the bootie off on that first stretch of river trail and cut his pad on some sharp ice. I’m going to clean and wrap it. It’s not that bad, but you probably shouldn’t run him for a week or so.” Mac looked at her, nodding dumbly, the important words he had been about to say remaining unspoken, unheard. “And I really think you’d better let Sadie have a look at you,” she added. “You have a couple of pretty deep cuts on your face, and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. Sam’s taking me to Dawson to get my truck.”
    â€œMerlin’s hurt?” he said.
    She nodded. “Merlin’s hurt. I’m going to wash his paw and bandage it.”
    He closed his good eye and slumped against the cabin wall. She watched him for a few silent moments and then put a hand on his arm. “You okay?” she said, and he nodded even as he struggled with the mental and physical pandemonium that her touch evoked. “Listen, Mac, if I were you, I’d seriously reconsider my plans to run the Quest. You still have time to drop out of the race and get your entry fee back.”
    He straightened to face her squarely. “And if I were you, ” he said, “I’d be home harnessing my own team just as soon as I got my truck back, because if you expect to finish that race ahead of me, you’ve got some serious training to do.”
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    F OR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS , they both trained hard, meeting each other frequently on the trail. Mac’s injuries from his wild ride out of Dawson didn’t slow him down, nor did his bruised ego. In fact, he seemed determined to flirt with her. Whenever they met, he’d stop to talk, and during the course of these conversations, he would switch the subject from training dogs to things of a more personal nature. “Ellin wanted me to ask you to supper tonight if I saw you out on the trail.” To which she would reply, “Really? I talked to Ellin just this morning and she mentioned no such thing. Besides, I have too much work to do. A deadline to meet.” He would lean closer. “All work and no play… Say, you owe me a beer. Remember? I could take you to Dawson tonight, and we could tank up on beer and pizza. My treat. I’m a workingman now. Sam lined up a few jobs for me on the side, mostly mechanical stuff for friends of his. Oh, and by the way, before I forget, here’s another installment toward the dog food. Go ahead, take it. It won’tbite. It’s good, honest money. So what do you say? I could pick you up after chores.”
    She would politely decline, and he would continue his attack the next time they met. “You know,” he commented during another such encounter, “I have this wicked craving for Chinese food. Ever get those cravings? Let’s hit Dawson after chores tonight. If you won’t let me buy, we could go Dutch. That way you wouldn’t feel obliged to kiss me good-night.”
    Finally, unable to face him again, she began changing her training routines, using