The Fur Rondy Dog Sled Race

A cheer rolled from the far end of the staging area. One of the teams had begun its approach, and the crowd leaned toward the lane as if pulled by the dogs themselves. Snow churned beneath boots. A child squealed. Someone dropped a thermos, and hot coffee splashed across the packed ice.

Meg planted one foot against a snow block and looked past the marshal.

Randy stood beside his sled, broad shoulders squared beneath a dark parka, one gloved hand resting on the harness of his lead dog. He had always known how to look composed when everything around him became disorderly. Four years without a championship had not softened him. If anything, the waiting had sharpened his face.

He glanced toward the barricade.

Their eyes met.

For one instant, the noise seemed to thin. Meg saw the familiar gray in his eyes, the same eyes that had once followed her across a crowded room and made every other person disappear. Then Randy’s expression closed.

He turned back to his team.

Meg slipped around the marshal while his attention shifted to the approaching sled. The crowd surged again. A shoulder struck hers, and her notebook flew open in the snow. She caught it before a boot crushed the page.

“Meg!”

Randy’s voice cut through the barking.

She looked up. He had stepped away from the dogs.

“Still chasing a deadline?” he called.

“Still avoiding questions?”

His mouth tilted, but there was no warmth in it. “Ask me after I win.”

“That would be a first in four years.”

A handler nearby glanced between them. Randy’s smile vanished.

The marshal shouted for everyone to clear the lane. A team burst through the opening at the far end, runners hissing over ice. The dogs lunged in unison, their bodies low and powerful. The crowd recoiled, then pressed forward again as the sled passed.

Meg flattened herself against the snow block. The starting gate stood less than ten feet away, its timber crossbar painted red and white beneath a crust of frost. One of the upright posts leaned inward.

She noticed the crack when the gate shuddered.

A thin split ran through the lower brace, dark against the pale wood. The next team’s towline brushed the gate, and the damaged post jerked. A metal fastener popped loose with a sharp ping.

“Back!” someone yelled.

The gate swung toward the lane.

Meg shoved off the snow block. The post scraped across the ice, dragging the crossbar down behind it. A handler grabbed one end, but the crowd had nowhere to go. People stumbled into one another. A dog snapped at the air as its team veered sideways.

Meg caught the nearest child by the hood and pulled him behind the barricade. The child’s mother screamed his name. Snow sprayed over Meg’s boots as the sled skidded past, the musher fighting the brake.

Randy reached the gate from the opposite side.

“Get clear!” he shouted.

He seized the broken brace and hauled it upward. The timber groaned. For a moment, the entire structure tipped toward him. Then two marshals rushed in, and together they forced it back against the post.

The lane went still except for the dogs.

One team whined and stamped. Leather creaked. The crowd’s fear settled into angry muttering.

Meg looked at the brace. The crack was clean at the center, but jagged around the edges, as if something had struck it hard. A bright sliver of metal protruded from the wood.

Randy saw where she was looking.

“Old timber,” he said.

“Old timber doesn’t drive a metal shard into itself.”

His gaze flicked to her notebook. “You came here to write about my dogs.”

“I came here to write about whatever happens.”

“Then write that nobody got hurt.”

“That depends on whether the gate falls again.”

The marshal shoved between them. “Both of you, move back. We’re closing this lane until the officials inspect it.”

Meg stepped away, but not far. The damaged gate had changed the shape of the morning. A routine race assignment had become a scene with a question inside it, and questions were harder to put down than notebooks.

Randy leaned close enough that she could hear him beneath the barking.

“You always did mistake suspicion for proof.”

“And you always did mistake confidence for control.”

His jaw tightened. “This year, I’m winning.”

The certainty in his voice unsettled her more than the threat in it. Randy had spoken about victory before, but never like this - not with the flat finality of a man announcing something already decided.

A marshal waved the press back toward the outer barricade. Meg retreated with the others, keeping her eyes on the gate. Officials gathered around the broken brace. One crouched in the snow. Another pointed toward the staging lane and spoke into a radio.

Randy returned to his team. He checked each harness, running his hands over the leather straps with brisk, practiced movements. His assistant, a narrow man in a gray knit cap, stood near the sled and watched the officials instead of the dogs.

Meg recognized him from previous races but could not place his name. He had been beside Randy for at least two seasons, always carrying tools, blankets, or a thermos. Now he kept one hand inside his coat pocket.

The officials lifted the damaged crossbar and dragged it clear. The metal shard remained lodged in the brace.

Meg raised her camera.

The lens fogged briefly from the cold, then cleared. She took one photograph of the crack, another of the bent post, and a third of the shard catching the weak winter light.

The marshal noticed. “No pictures inside the restricted lane.”

Meg lowered the camera. “The gate failed in public.”

“Maintenance will determine why.”

“Did maintenance inspect it this morning?”

He gave her a tired look. “Ask the race office.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I’m telling you to stay behind the rope.”

Behind him, the gray-capped assistant moved.

Meg saw him kneel beside the damaged brace while the marshal faced the crowd. He glanced toward Randy. Randy was bent over the lead dog, adjusting a collar. The assistant pulled a pair of pliers from his pocket.

Meg took one step forward.

The assistant gripped the metal shard and twisted. The wood cracked softly. He freed the piece, closed his fist around it, and slid the pliers back into his coat.

Meg’s camera was still in her hand.

She lifted it and took the photograph.

The shutter clicked.

The assistant looked up.

For a second, neither of them moved. His face held no surprise, only calculation. Then he turned his shoulder and disappeared behind the officials carrying the broken gate.

Meg pushed through the crowd, but a team surged into the lane before she could follow. Dogs strained against their harnesses, claws scratching for purchase. The marshal caught Meg again and dragged her behind the barricade as the sled shot past.

When the lane cleared, the assistant was gone.

Randy stood beside the starting line, watching her. His expression had changed. He knew she had seen something.

Meg touched the camera hanging against her coat. The photograph was secure, but the shard was not. Neither was the morning.

Randy lifted his chin toward the race course.

“Still writing about my preparations?” he asked.

Meg opened her notebook to a clean page.

“Not anymore,” she said. “Now I’m writing about the gate.”

End of chapter one. 32 more chapters and about 68,533 words in the full book.