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"Whispers in the Wind"


Prologue
Dog Sledding Story for Kids 10 & up

By Alaskastory


This story is told by two characters. The story starts with Brook Anne, who is a fifteen-year-old who loves her dogs and races them in dog-sled races. Her biggest competitor in the village is James, who is sixteen. They begin as enemies in the dogsled racing world until a mutual attaction occurs.

Both Brook and James tell of the dangers faced by them and the dogs. They find their best solution is to work together.


Chapter 1
The Deaf Dog --by BROOK ANNE

By Alaskastory

The obnoxious roar of a snow machine sputters to a stop outside my dog yard. All by but one of the dogs yip and yelp as if a bellowing wolf made of steel might attack.

"Hey Brooke, you're never going win another race with Shemya. That dog is useless to you now," he yells. A taunting grin from under his gleaming black helmet flushes me with heat.

"A lot you know, James Samuelson." My jaw tightens. I glare into his confident gray-green eyes. I know he's come around just to bait me. "My dogs will beat the socks off your team at the North American."

"Ha! Not with a deaf dog, you won't." He cranks the Polaris's throttle wide open. The black and yellow monster kicks up a spray of snow, leaps forward, and thunders away.

I turn my back to him with cheeks red hot. I stomp the snow as I fasten booties on Tok's paws. All seven dogs are harnessed and tree-tied. They lunge and bark furiously until James vanishes beyond the last house in the village.

Only Shemya does not bark. A shiver trembles through him as he stares after the snow machine. His ears are pinned back and his tail is down.
In moments, the roar fades and the afternoon quiet settles over my anxious dogs.

I kneel before Shemya. I did not put a harness on Shemya and don't expect to ever harness him again. He sits obediently. Sharp, blue eyes look hopefully from a mask of white and black velvet fur encircling his brow.

"I know you hate those machines, Shemya." My throat tightens as I stroke his head. I know he shares the memory of that awful night when a snow machine crashed into his doghouse.

Every home has a snow machine. They are important for getting around during the winter months and they rarely cause problems. But Andy Chinkov was drunk last Saturday night. The crash gave Shemya a terrible whack to his head and left him bruised and unconscious. The bruises healed, but my best lead dog was left deaf.

I hug his sturdy body. "You can't hear my commands anymore, Shemya."

"Need a little help Brooke Anne?" my Uncle Earl calls from our house. He, in a springtime jacket, hustles up a path hard-packed by a hundred footsteps.

"Your dogs are raring to go." He chuckles. Grabbing a hold on the sled, he jams the heels of his mukluks into the snow.

"Thanks, Uncle Earl. You'll be help with this wild and crazy seven." He grabs hold of dogs in harness to keep them from tangling.

I tie Shemya to what is left of his damaged doghouse. As I turn away, a mournful howl stops me. I return and wrap my arms around his big, fluffy body. Trust shines in his blue eyes.

"You must stay here from now on, Shemya." I pick up one of the plump, fuzzy puppies that scamper around us. "Look, you can take care of little Muffy here and teach her to be a good leader like you did Tok."

The growling, playful pup sinks teeth into Shemya's thick fur. I leave him with a proud head tucked down. My heart aches.

I hurriedly brush by my uncle and untie the sled. Tok yelps, bursting to lead the team through the village. I mount the sled runners and jam my boot hard on the brake and call, "Okay, Uncle Earl."

He unhooks the rope that anchors the sled to a tree. "Get going, you huskies."
I stand on the sled runners and hang on tight. I free the brake and the sled lunges forward. "Haw!"

"Swish," go the runners sliding with ease behind high-flying tails. I glimpse Mom's smiling face pressed to the window of our wood-frame home.

Twin girls hop in flowered kuspiks and call, "Go Brooke. Go, go, go!" In summers I babysit them at fish camp so they don't fall into the Yukon River or try to climb a churning fish wheel. I wave at the jumping girls as the dogs pull onward through the village on a twisting path.

The sled eases around a turn beyond the village and there, within inches of the trail, James sits smirking on his idle Polaris. Perched on a mound of snow, he is obviously spying on my every move. He makes me feel like one of those reality TV contestants standing before a mean panel of judges.

The thing is, James knows that a racer's confidence is crucial. I know he is trying to shake me up enough to gain an edge over me. If he were any other guy, I'd think he's flirting. But, believe me, James only interest is in out racing me. We've been adversaries at every sport since he came to the village about five years ago.

I grit my teeth and shout to the team, "Haw". Tok jerks the team to the left onto a well-packed trail leading into a deep forest. Like scurrying rabbits, we flow away from James into a forest of snow-crusted spruce trees. Limbs are so thick that I keep ducking and dodging slaps from pine scented branches.

I hear no roaring motor so James is not following us. That makes me start humming a happy tune. Last spring my dogs, lead by Shemya, nosed out his team at the Junior North American races. With no Shemya, it'll take a lot more work to be a winning team.

"Come on guys," I shout to the dogs. "In just two weeks we have to be ready."
In the silent forest, sliding runners whisper on the trail. Booties on each dog paw make rhythmic thuds on hard, icy snow. The dogs pant and send gulps of steam into cold air.

I call, "Gee, Gee." Tok responds with an unsteady veer to the right. I think of how deftly Shemya would have managed the curve. We pull away from the forested trail and plunge down a steep bank onto the frozen river. The runners grate on patches of wind-swept ice.

I call one command after another and Tok responds with less hesitation than I expect, despite his tender age. He's Shemya's pup, born less than two years ago and has so much to learn. Will he make it in time for the races?

My eye catches the blur of something moving among trees then onto the ice right beside us.

It's Shemya. His tether drags out behind him. It is attached to a scrap of lumber that trails and bounces dangerously.

Author Notes An Alaskan adventure for kids 10 and up. Any suggestion by an FS reviewer is greatly appreciated.
Many thanks to Brand Image for the great husky photo.


Chapter 2
A Grizzly Bear -by BROOK ANNE

By Alaskastory

"Whoa," I holler and stomp on the brake making it drag in the snow. The hard pulling dogs slow until the brake anchors them. Shemya dashes up to the sled.

"I can't believe you caught up with us." I glare at him and give a gloved hand signal for him to come. He creeps up to me with his usual high-flying tail dropped down with worry.

I grab a hold on his collar and continue talking to deaf ears. "I didn't think you would bust away like this. Now, hold still and let me get that rope off before you get tangled up and hurt."

I pull off my mittens, unbuckle his snow-crusted collar, and toss it into the sled basket. I'm tempted to confine him inside the sled, but decide a run will be good for the speediest dog I've ever known.

"Now don't get in the way or confuse Tok." Shemya stands on two legs and rests paws on my chest and I look straight into apologetic eyes. "Tok needs to learn. Do you understand me, Shemya?"

He answers with a wet tongue across my cheek.

I slip my fingers back into beaver-skin mitts. As I straighten myself up on the runners and release the brake, I shout to the dogs, "Hike."

Shemya runs well ahead, teasing Tok to lead the team after him. Tok struts as if showing off for his beloved parent.

When the trail leaves river ice for a forest of leaf-free birch and deep green spruce trees, Shemya stops. His long muzzle studies a track in the snow. His body stiffens and his tail is still as he surveys the snow. The team and I rush by. I call to him, but my order to follow is but a whisper in the wind to his sound free world.

Below a sharp bend in the riverbank, without any weight to hold him back, Shemya lunges ahead of us at his championship pace.

Tok points his nose high in the air as if startled by a strong scent. He comes to a complete stop and the whole team skids into him. I stomp on the brake barely in time to avoid ramming the sled into the dogs.

The tangle of harnesses and dogs is massive. The gang line that attaches to their neck collars is supposed to hold the team in line, but it twists causing padded straps to slip off shoulders and forelegs. The dogs tumble in a heap and struggle to stand.

"Tok, what got into you?" My temper mounts and I spit out the names of each helpless dog. "Hold still Libby, Jonsey, Bingo, Socks, Dusty, Snowball, and you too, Tok."

With a big sigh, I tie the anchor strap on the sled securely to a nearby spruce. With grumbling, I use bare fingers to untangle twisted harnesses. Shemya nudges my knee sympathetically.

"I'm afraid Tok will never be as smart as you, Shemya. Just look at this mess. Oh, no. A broken strap." I hold up a piece of the woven nylon for all the dogs to see. They feign innocence with steamy, pink tongues sending white puffs into the air.

An old log cabin is nestled in a stand of spruce trees.

"I know Trapper Pete won't mind a bit if I help myself to a strap that might be in this cabin." I think of how he brings furs to the village and always stops at our house hoping Mom is cooking his favorite moose stew.

As I start to walk down the incline toward the cabin, Shemya surprises me by running right in front of me, blocking my path. He barks and barks. All the dogs join him in barking.

"Stop that, Shemya. Have you all gone crazy today?"

I hold my hand up in a stop signal. Immediately, Shemya obeys and stops barking, but then he growls. I get an uneasy chill as we stare at the cabin. The other dogs become still, too.

A bench with broken legs lay outside the open cabin door. Could it be a hungry bear waking up too soon from winter? With a loud clatter, a large four tin flies through the doorway thumping on the porch. Horror stops my breath.

I gasp.

A huge grizzly saunters out the doorway clinging to a sack of sugar. Its eyes point straight at me. In a thunderous growl, it warns me not to intrude on its meal.

I have no weapon, no place to hide. The forest is thick with spindly spruce except for one leafless cottonwood. That tree may be my best chance. Swallowing the scream that fills my head, I back toward low hanging branches. My boots crunch on crusted snow and moving legs make me a target.

The grizzly bear charges.

Shemya dashes out to one side, circles the on-coming beast and sinks his sharp teeth into its stubby tail. The snarling bear stops charging and spins to shake the pesky dog loose giving me enough time to jump for a branch and pull myself up. With heart pounding louder than the beat of a skin drum, I shiver, frozen on the limb.

A wild bear odor whiffs over me. White puffs of breath reek of meat gone nasty, and pieces of dry moss cling to shaggy fur. I know bear can climb a tree. My stomach twists in knots.

Shemya jaws come down on a second mouthful of bear fur, but the big beast plows on, dragging the attached dog toward the cottonwood tree. I want to call to Shemya, ordering him to run away and be safe. But, in his silent world, he can only hear his heart insist he save me.

I climb to a higher limb just as the bear rears up on hind legs and takes a powerful swat. With a sharp crack, low branches shatter sending splinters over snow.

A snarling Shemya shows teeth that clamp onto the bear again. A trace of deep red blood spurts from his mouth. I know he has pierced the tough hide as the bear whirls after him, away from me. Over and over, Shemya attacks the bear from behind. With uncanny instinct, he lets loose and gets away just in time to avoid the deadly claws.

I hear hysterical barking from the team tied up on the slope. I shiver. Suspense has me frozen, immobile on a limb, icy air creeps beneath my parka. My mind screams with prayer as I stare at Shemya's every move.

Shemya races easily over the surface of the snow, the bear flounders as its heavy weight breaks through the crust. Each foot sinks into deep snow. Finally, the bear sits. It exhales a rank cloud of steam with a huge dripping tongue hanging low. Its big head wags and he wearily snorts at Shemya. With one last snarl, the grizzly lumbers away into the forest.

When the bear is well out of sight, I scoot my shaking body down the trunk of the tree. I throw my arms around a trembling Shemya. I can feel the fast beat of his heart. His hot tongue licks tears right off my cheeks. Into a deaf ear, I choke out whispered words.

"I'll never, ever leave you behind again, Shemya. From now on, whether we ever win another race or not, you and Tok can lead together."

All the dogs still yap as we walk up the slope to them.

"You mutts, hush up," I command. If any one of you is ever as good as Shemya, then you'll have something to yap about." I can't resist patting each head, thankful that the dreadful bear actually had ignored them. Every dog is fit and ready to run.

I look at Shemya and point to the sled. His plume tail wags as he jumps gratefully onto the sled. I push a blanket around him as he nestles down.
With hands that I can't keep from shaking, I knot the broken strap to the rope I took off Shemya. The fix is good enough to get us back to the village where I long for the welcoming arms of my mom and dad.

"Gee, gee you huskies!" I shout and turn the team onto snow made pink by the setting sun.

Author Notes An Alaskan adventure for kids 10 and up. Any suggestions or comments by an FS reviewer is greatly appreciated.
Many thanks to LSandersPhotos for the fine looking bear.


Chapter 3
Home Comfort --by BROOK ANNE

By Alaskastory

As the dogs and I approach home, Dad and someone are pulling apart Shemya's doghouse. Dad waves with a hand holding a hammer then he drops the hammer and stands ready to grab a hold on the harnesses of my team. I call "Whoa" at a team of wagging tails, all obviously happy to be home and looking forward to bowls of warm food.

It astonishes me to see it is Andy Chinkov reach out strong hands to catch my dog team. He gives me a sheepish look from under a hood partly covering his guilty face. It is so like my father, the school principal, to get work from the man who smashed the doghouse.

"Hey there, Brooke Anne, I see you found the lost dog," Dad says smiling as he quickly begins to release a dog from harness. "How come Shemya is riding in the sled? That's not like him at all. Is he hurt?"

"Oh, Dad, Shemya is lucky to be alive. He tore into a bear and, and...." All my breath disappears, words stick in my throat, and I sob. I run into Dad's open arms.

"Why my sweet daughter is trembling." He gives my cheek a kiss. "That tough dog looks fine. He's jumping right off the sled. Take him with you into the house. Andy and I will take care of the dogs."

His hug calms me some and slows my tears. Shemya nudges my legs so I put an arm around him and whimper to Dad, "Lots happened. That bear was after me."

"I'm keen to hear about it." He gives me another squeeze then kind of pushes me toward the house before turning to tend the dogs.

The furnace inside is in full swing letting warmth hit my face. I slip out of my parka, insulated pants, and boots, but a chill still runs through me. I head for the couch and curl up in the warm wool blanket that Mom keeps there. She calls a hello from the kitchen.

"I have hot cocoa ready, Brooke Ann, if you're through feeding the dogs."

"Okay, Mom." I don't get up. My whole body gives in to exhaustion. I'm no longer a strong dog musher that fights the trail all the way home. Shemya curls up on the floor beside me. The same wet tongue that tasted the hide of that bear licks my hand. I rest a cheek on his head and squeeze my eyes shut, and whisper, "I love you, my hero."

"I'm glad to see Shemya is back," Mom says as she comes into the living room carrying a steaming cup. She looks surprised to see me crashed on the couch. Before she can ask why, Dad comes stomping through the door.

"I couldn't wait to hear about the bear, Brooke. I left your Uncle Earl and Andy to get the dogs fed."

Concern makes mom's dark eyes grow in wide circles. "You saw a bear? Well, you've always been tough about bears. I've never seen you get shook up from spotting a bear." She rubs a hand over my back and pushes wild strands of hair off my brow. I sit up as she hands me the mug of hot chocolate.

"Bea, she has a real tale to tell." Dad hangs his parka on a closet hook then parks himself in his favorite arm chair.

"Actually, my life was saved today by Shemya." I describe sighting the bear and tell all about how Shemya protected me. "All I could do was sit on the limb of a tree and pray Shemya wouldn't get a fatal blow from flying bear claws. Over and over he bit into the bear's fur."

"That dog has always been the best. We're mighty proud of you, Shemya." Dad's voice bellows out to deaf ears, but tired eyes open when Dad pats his back.

"Your prayer was answered, Brooke Ann. Shemya is a real blessing, a hero dog." Mom kneels beside me and softly strokes his long hair.

"Well, that is one dog who can stay indoors tonight. Andy and I will get his doghouse put back together this evening."

"I was surprised to see Andy working out there." I begin to mellow out. Hot chocolate helps me feel almost normal. That and my parents oozing with sympathy, and knowing Shemya will be with me for the night.

"Trooper Russ agreed to let him out of lock-up if I see to getting him to make restitution." A grin spreads across Dad's light brown beard, hair color no doubt due his European ancestry. "I remember when Andy pulled stunts in seventh grade and I kept him fidgeting for a good hour. I loaded him with history assignments to do in my office after school for a week."

"I hope fixing Shemya's house will cure him of drunk driving his Skidoo. "

"I'm sure your father will make an impression," Mom says as she moves toward the kitchen.

Dad gives a chuckle and heads for the door.

Mom and I place a succulent moose roast on the table with mashed potatoes, gravy, creamed corn, and hot bread right out of the oven. Uncle Earl joins us for dinner and I answer a thousand questions about the bear attack. As his Native ancestors must have done, he considers the smallest details and tries to draw conclusions about the bear's behavior.

"That bear must've needed food to survive until the thaw hits." My uncle explains that the bear may be in old age and low on body fat to help it through winter in hibernation.

"Bea, your brother has the real scoop on bears," Dad says as he passes wild-blueberry jam. "How about letting me set up a lecture hour for high school kids, Earl? Like maybe next week?"

"When they hear about Shemya and that bear, all the kids will want to hear more about bears," Mom says while Uncle Earl grins and agrees with a simple nod.

Alarm hits me before Mom passes cookies around. I'll be in hot water with my best friend if she hasn't heard my fearsome story from me first. I give Shemya a plate of food laced with leftovers. When I get the dishwasher loaded, I race to my room.

Shemya follows me up the stairs. I spring on my bed and pull my soft down comforter around me. I flip open my cell phone and dial my friend's home phone since she doesn't have a cell. When I launch the bear story, I put up with screams and hollers as shock hits Amy.

"Everything is okay now, Amy. Shemya is spending the night in my room. He's calm and has a happy shine in his eyes." I gaze at the beautiful dog's head that I swear is wearing a big smile.

Amy gives me words of true compassion and it's quite a while before I get off my phone. Shemya and I go back downstairs where a nature show is on public TV. As Uncle Earl leaves, thank him for taking care of the dogs. Then with hugs I say goodnight to Mom and Dad.

I soak in sudsy water and my thoughts drift back to the panic that overtook me today. Rubbing down with a towel drives away a chill. As I snuggle under my quilt, Shemya curls up beside my bed. Listening to him breathe peacefully begins to melt away this day of fear. My prayer is filled with thanks.

Author Notes An Alaskan adventure for kids 10 and up. Any suggestions or comments by an FS reviewer is greatly appreciated.
Many thanks to lorac1 on FanArt for use of the fine wintery river scene.


Chapter 4
Rescue On Ice --by JAMES

By Alaskastory

"Hey James, you taking your dogs out?" Walter Evans asks even though he can plainly see I'm hitching up my squirmy, barking team. "Looks like a storm might be coming."

"Make yourself useful, Walter. Hold my sled the way you'll need to at the starting gate. You are helping me at the Nationals, right?"

"I sure am. Can't wait to go to Fairbanks." Walter says with a broad smile and twinkling eyes that project mischief. The beak of a baseball cap peeks out from the fur ruff on his parka hood.

"For the races, not the partying. True?" I swat his broad back with my glove.

"Oh, I'll be rootin' for you." Walter ducks out of my reach and takes a firm grip on the sled. He's a year younger than me, but strong.

"And not for Brooke? I thought you had a crush on her."
Walter answers with a no-comment roll of his eyes. He tugs on the sled to hold back four harnessed dogs as I get them attached to the sled. "Did you hear about her running into a bear at Trapper Pete's cabin?" He sounds a little breathless.

"Yeah. Makes me feel like a jerk for picking on her the way I do sometimes."

"That's an old habit, isn't it, jerk?" A broad grin spreads over Walter's pure Athabascan face.

I ignore his insult. "Walter, hold on till I get these last dogs hooked up."
When all the dogs are harnessed, my buddy calls, "Go, man."

Luger, my leader, takes off like a true racer on the same trail Brooke took yesterday. My plan is to follow it through an expanse of spruce trees, onto Yukon River ice for a while, then up the bank into forest again toward the trapper's cabin.

Everything goes smoothly through the forest, but not at the river. When out on the ice, the runners hiss over clear, wind-swept ice, sounding like a wet log sizzling on a roaring fire. In bright light, something ahead looks not quite right.

I quickly call, "Haw, haw."

Luger turns the dogs sharply right, and I push on a boot to give the dogs help up the riverbank. From the bank, I suspect a dangerous problem developing. I halt the team and shove my goggles up. The river shows a hazard.

"Hey, an overflow." A crack in the ice allows water to run up from the depths of the river and a deep pocket of water is forming. Luckily, I have the team up on safe ground so we move cautiously by.
Back on the wooded trail, we soon reach the trapper's cabin. Curiosity gets me to halt the dogs and look around. There is a patch of trampled snow marked with a sea of bear and dog tracks. A tree branch has fallen from a bare cottonwood and there's plenty of damage around the door. No doubt a bear has been here.

The thought of Brooke being charged by a grizzly in this spot sends a chill through me. I stare at the scene until a big, cawing raven grabs attention. Black wings spread wide as the large bird lands on a torn-up flour sack. It squawks again and that brings another raven swooping in.

I yell at Luger, and we press to a wide open meadow where I get the dogs up to top speed. We circle the meadow over and over. Nine red tongues hang low as if the dogs are smiling over every mile. This training run goes so well I decide to head back toward the village.

The afternoon sun begins to dim behind thickening clouds. Shadows of trees cast long stripes across the snow, reminding me of smoked salmon strips hanging freely on racks. The dogs push hard on the trail until we're near the overflow area. I brake the team to a cautious trot with both my feet on the runners.
Silence is pierced by a distant noise. I bring us to a halt and listen hard. The sound of a snow machine is coming closer. Beyond a thick stand of trees, a swift shadow flies by.

I whistle then shout, "Hold it, hold it!"

The driver hears only the machine's howling motor. Then total silence happens. No motor.

"Go, Luger." We rush along the riverbank and in moments the overflow is in full view.

Slammed into an ice ridge is a Skidoo, lying on its side.

"Ugh, ugh!" sounds come from a man in the river. He is floundering against the current, gasping for breath and clawing at sheets of ice that break under his weight.

"Hold on!" I bolt from the sled and grab my safety rope. I loop it around the nearest spruce tree then tie it around my waist. I drop down on the edge of the ice and crawl toward the man as his movements slow in numbing cold.

It is Brooke's kind and gentle uncle. "I'll get you, Earl. I'm coming."

"Ja....Ja..," he gasps as I get close enough to flip the rope over his head.

With the sound of a gunshot ice beneath me cracks. I sprawl, stretching to distribute my weight across a sheet of ice. Earl thrashes in his heavy parka but manages to get the rope under one arm. I begin to roll back toward shore.
I didn't take time to tie the team down. Only the brake of the sled was set. The dogs stand at attention as if they know what's happening. Barking erupts as I edge toward them.

It's at least the length of three hunting rifles before I hit thicker ice. Standing up, I tug on the rope with all my strength. Earl inches his water-soaked body half way onto a sheet of thin ice. It breaks, submerging him again. The abrupt plunge jars me to my knees and bends the thin spruce tree like a twig. The rope flips off the tree.

The knot around me is secure and still holds around Earl shoulder. There is slack between us as he flounders in water. I struggle up to the sled, push the rope off me, and wrap it around the back of the sled. I release the brake and command Luger to move the sled forward. The dogs strain for traction, stabbing their paws into crusted snow. Slowly they inch up the riverbank.

Like magic, they pull Earl onto solid ice then on solid land. With the brake set, the dogs wait patiently while I help Earl to his feet. Until now, I was on autopilot. With no time to panic, my only thought was to get him out of the river. Now what?

Earl is still in critical danger. He is a man with ice coating his eyelashes, ice water saturating his parka and filling his boots. "I.....get... parka off," he stutters, shivering violently.

"Yes, then we'll get you home, Earl." In panic, I pull the soggy coat off over his head, but all his clothes are just as wet.

"Too, too... far ... Trapper Pete's?" His trembling lips are blue.

"I know where the cabin is." I grab a fur hide off the sled. "Wrap up in this and we'll get you there in a jiffy."

Author Notes An Alaskan adventure for kids 10 and up. Further chapters are being revised and will be posted soon.
Thank you lorac1 for the picture of a frozen river.
Characters:
Brook Ann Malden
Earl Solomon, her uncle
Donald Malden, her father
Bea Malden, her mother
James Samuelson
Walter Evans
Susie Ivanoff
Herman, her dad
Elsie, her mom
Andy Chinkov, destroyed dog house


Chapter 5
Preserving Life -- by JAMES

By Alaskastory

With a grip on Earl's stiff arms, I lower him onto the sled. His throbbing body hunkers down under a couple of smelly old furs. I pick up his parka that is covered with a film of ice and stack it onto the far end of the sled.

One holler at the dogs and they begin to pull at a good pace. In a few minutes, we reach the cabin that is as cold as outdoors. I help Earl get inside and he begins to strip out of his wet clothes. I find two musty blankets on the bunk that he can wrap in.

Matches lay on a ledge near the barrel stove and a box of kindling is beside it. I get flames started then go dig into a dry woodpile stacked under a tarp on the porch. With hands and arms quaking, Earl tries to stay wrapped up and sits next to the stove.

As soon as I get dry wood crackling in a hot fire, I take off my wool socks, wool sweater and a pair of long stretchy underwear. He protests by shaking his head.

"My boots and coat are enough for me," I say and help him slip into them. I give a good rub to his bright red toes.

"I was coming here," Earl explains between chattering teeth and violent shivers. He holds shaky fingers over the stove. "Brooke said that bear tore up the place, so I want to check it out for Pete."

Until then, I was numb about everything except getting the place warm and Earl's clothes hung up near the stove. Now, I look around. My foot prints make a trail in flour from a broken bag. My footprints move amid tin cups, pans, teakettle and a broken bench. On a top shelf is a can of tea and reach for it. "Looks like Mr. Grizzly left us some tea. Maybe that'll help warm you up."

"Anything hot sounds good." Earl's deep voice vibrates.

I take the teakettle out and fill it with snow. When I put it on the stove, I stoke it up with more wood. My lunch pack held two plain peanut-butter sandwiches. I plop them on the table.

"I only heard a little about that bear. I'll bet Brooke told her favorite uncle the whole story."

"She sure did." Earl smiles and some natural coffee color starts to return to his face.

While we wait for the teakettle to boil, Earl relates the whole tale about Brooke and Shemya with the bear. By the time he tells of Brooke climbing down out of a tree and throwing her arms around the deaf dog, a lump in my throat is bigger than a squirrel. All I can think of is how close she had come to death. The same dog I mocked had fought that grizzly with his very life. That great dog had saved her.

"Hey, tough boy, am I looking at tears?" Creases around Earl's ebony eyes deepen with amusement.

I wipe drops off my cheeks. "I feel a little rotten for things I said about Shemya when Brooke was heading out yesterday morning."

Confessing that to Earl comes easy. He's been there for me and Dad before. He came by our house when my mother was sick and more often after she died.

"Brooke mentioned that." Earl bites into a sandwich then reaches for the kettle to pour hot water over tea leaves in a tin cup.

"It's an old habit, I guess. Since we were in grade school, it's been that way. It's because she competes, always competes. I hated it when she could outrun me in those days."

Earl chuckles. "In Native games like the stick-pull, leg-pull and high-kick, she could beat every kid."

"Yeah, until I grew a few inches taller than her. In the last year or so I beat her at nearly everything but dog races, including the Junior Nationals."

"That's the big one, isn't it?"

"I've got a good team, but hers beat us last year with Shemya in the lead."

"Well, my niece has decided to lead him again this year. Says she owes it to Shemya. He'll be right beside Tok."

"What? She can't expect a deaf dog to lead. I want to beat her, but going against that special dog makes it hard without feeling guilt."

"Well it's her decision to run him. She won't expect any racer to ease off." Earl pours another cup of hot tea.

I add more wood to the fire and refill the kettle with snow. The tiny cabin actually feels warm. Sipping tea and polishing off a peanut-butter sandwich makes Earl say he feels strong enough to head home.

The rugged guy wants to try retrieving the snow machine. He ropes on the blankets and furs, steps out of the cabin on stocking feet, and looks like a mountain man in old cowboy movies.

A veil of new snow covers the dogs, but they shake off like they're ready to run home for a meal. The sub-zero temperature has disappeared. Warm Chinook wind sends snowflakes swirling before us as we start back on the trail.

At the river's edge, the machine is not easy to spot. Dusted in snowflakes, it blends in with willows lining the shore. The frame lays on its side with most of the belly and stirring bar visible. What a relief it is that only a portion of the tracks are submerged in the overflow.

Earl squints. His mechanical mind must be analyzing angles and possibilities for how the dogs can pull the toppled machine. As his socks sink in snow, he digs a heavy-weight rope out of the tool bag behind the driver seat. I hold onto Lugar's collar to keep the team steady while Earl knots the rope onto the machine and the back of the sled.

"Let 'em roll." Earl waves a signal for us to pull at an angled route up the slope.

I latch onto the sled and call to the dogs. The team pulls and I push the sled with my feet in snow. On its side, the machine inches along being pulled on the slanting riverbank. After a few feet, the low incline seems to cause magic. The snow machine topples upright.

I shout, "Hooray. Good plan, Earl. I never could have figured that one out."
He hastily unties the Skidoo and settles onto the seat. Repeatedly he turns the starter knob making the engine sputter and misfire. It coughs and coughs again and again until finally firing into a lively roar.

"Thanks, James," he hollers. "See you in Denaaka."

I hold the startled dogs back until he is out of sight and the roaring motor is only a murmur in the distance. The snowfall has become heavy so Earl's machine tracks make the trail home easy to follow.

Daylight fades away by the time we pass the Malden house. Lights appear in windows and burning spruce logs scent the air. Earl's machine is parked at their doorstep. He is home and with family.

Author Notes An Alaskan adventure for kids 10 and up. Suggestions and comments by FS reviewers are so helpful and greatly appreciated. Many thanks to lorac1 for River in Winter.

Characters:
Brook Ann Malden
Earl Solomon, her uncle
Donald Malden, her father
Bea Malden, her mother
James Samuelson
Fred Samuelson, his father
Walter Evans, a friend
Susie Ivanoff, a friend
Herman, her dad
Elsie, her mom


Chapter 6
A Real Hero --by BROOK ANNE

By Alaskastory

The ordinary sound of a snow machine sputtering to a stop does not interrupt my typing. A report about trade with South America through the Panama Canal is due tomorrow. My fingers flying from the keyboard when the door bangs open and Mom shrieks louder than a hollowing wolf. I dash down the stairs.

A bedraggled man enters. It is Uncle Earl. He is wrapped in a blanket riddled with holes. His frosty pants are skin-tight long johns, and his feet are in nothing more than snow-covered socks.

Mom squeals more over her brother and grabs a hold on his arm. Dad and I holler in unison, "What's happened?"

Uncle Earl's quivering voice says, "I dumped in the river then James Samuelson pulled me out."

Mom insists he get into a hot bath immediately and hurries off to Dad's closet for a change of clothes. Dad pulls off socks that cover bright red feet. I run ahead to start filling the tub with hot water and plug in an electric heater.

While my uncle is soaking in the tub, I don't think about finishing the assignment for Ms. Bloom's class. My thoughts are on James. Could it be that he did something mean causing Uncle Earl's snow machine to crash? Why else would he mention James?

Uncle Earl emerges in fur-lined slippers and bundled in a thick blanket over sweat pants. His wet, gray-streaked hair gleams under the light suspended over the kitchen table. He wearily plunks down in the chair closest to the furnace
I scoot my chair in close. "Tell us what James did, Uncle Earl."

He shocks me with a glowing report of rescue by James. It should have overwhelmed me with admiration instead of a pinch of displeasure.

"James is a true hero," my dad declares with a thoughtful pull on his beard. My cheeks flush.

"I agree, Donald. That boy showed me bravery and a good heart."

"Drink more cocoa, dear brother. You're starting to look stronger." Mom's usual, no-nonsense voice gushes with affection as she refills a tall mug. She spreads pilot bread with wild raspberry jam and hands Uncle Earl his most favorite snack.

"Ah, Bea, you are a mighty good sister." He grins and wraps stiff, calloused hands around the warm mug and inhales chocolate coated steam. It's as if frigid cold is still in his bones. I jump up and place my hands on his shoulders and rub hard to bring back some warmth.

My dad's gray eyes sparkle with a new thought. "We'll have a potlatch to celebrate. Everyone in the village will come."

Disbelief washes over me. "A potlatch for James?"

"Great idea," my uncle says and raises his cup in salute.

"Why should there be a big dinner to honor James as if he's a hero?" I hop up and give Mom a pleading look.

Mom turns from the stove and pulls a wooden spoon out of boiling fish stew. She flashes me a frown. "Now, Brooke Anne, I know he is not a favorite with you. Be kind, it won't hurt you to eat one dinner honoring him for saving your uncle." She turns to Dad. "Let's do it Saturday night."

"That sounds good, Bea. The school multi-purpose room is free." Dad, as a teacher and the school principal, can use the school anyway he wants. He reaches for the house phone. "I'll start calling and get the word out."

I dare not utter one word. My thoughts of James are not even close to hero. What I consider him is annoying, mean, or purely an enemy.

I leave the jolly scene of party-planners, throw on my parka and stomp out into the night. The night air is refreshingly free of onions and fish being boiled for supper. Heavy clouds are locking in warmer temperature and snow has stopped falling. Twilight reflecting on white ground cover reveals the path near the dog yard.

Shemya can't hear me stomp through snow but still he bounds out of his new doghouse. I kneel beside him and stroke his deaf ears. He nuzzles his head against my chest. "If anyone can be called a hero around here, it's you, Shemya."

His big tongue rewards my unheard praise by putting a dog kiss on my cheek. I cuddle him under the darkening sky.

Stillness breaks with the crunch of feet nearby. A barking chorus comes from dogs tied to their houses.

"That you, Brooke?" It's a familiar voice that I don't totally welcome hearing.

"Hello, Walter." I turn to the dogs. "Hush, hush. Be quiet," I order a few times until they settle down.

Since Walter Evans is James' best friend and dog handler at races, I tend to think of him as a spy. "What brings you around?"

"I been wondering how you're doing after that bear attack."

"Aside from nightmares, I'm okay." I stand up to be level with smiling eyes that peek from under a beaked cap. He always wears the cap straight on instead of backward like most other boys at school.

"I'll bet you do see that grizzly in your dreams. What a rough and scary thing."

"Yes, it was. But I'm fine now."

"Is this a new doghouse for Shemya?" Walter brushes snow dust off the pitched roof.

"Dad and Andy Chinkov fixed it up today." A few words with Walter begins to feel welcome.

"Andy? Why everyone knows his Skidoo rammed it and hurt Shemya. Your father is a smart guy to make him do the repairs."

"Andy insists he feels bad about hitting Shemya." A big furry body nudges my leg as if he knows I'm talking about him. My hands plunge into his fur for brisk strokes to his back.

Walter leans against the new doghouse. "How's your uncle doing? Did he get any frostbite?"

"No purple fingers or toes, but his feet were as red as a skinned salmon." Walter is easily amused. Perfect white teeth fill his whole face with a sunny smile.

"That man is indestructible. James said he had a devil of a time dragging Earl out of the frozen Yukon River. He was just splashing around and....."

"I've heard the whole story, Walter." I stopped him from prolonging praise for James.

"Yeah, I guess everyone will hear all about it at school tomorrow. James will be treated like some kind of hero."

"A hero? Why? Wouldn't anyone who happened to be there have done the same thing?"

"Yeah, anyone strong enough, fast enough, and smart enough. Your uncle was lucky it was James who came along."

"You're always rooting for James, aren't you, Walter?"

"Except when I'm rooting for you, Brooke."

"Just when is that?"

Walter's grin flashes again. "You sink great shots for the girls' basketball team."

"Thanks, Walter. I have heard you yell."

He drops to his knees to scratch behind Shemya's ears. "Is it true you're going to run Shemya in the Junior Champs?"

"Yes, I am."

"How can that work? This is a deaf dog."

"I tested him alongside Tok today. He is good at setting the pace and keeping the lines taut. Tok is good at following my commands and moves left and right quickly. I think they can work together." I stop the brag short. After all, despite his sweet talk, Walter works with James.

A light flashes from the front door. Mom calls that dinner is ready.

"I'll see you around, Brooke," Walter says. He pats Shemya's head again, pulls his parka hood snuggly over his cap, and trots away in gym shoes.

Author Notes This is a Young Adult novella that tells a dog-sledding adventure. Any suggestion in FS reviews is most appreciated! Many thanks to Lorac1 for the snow scene.


Chapter 7
Protest to Suzie -by BROOK ANNE

By Alaskastory

At the dinner table, everyone except me chatter like squirrels. I'm blank on how to change the subject to whatever does not center on the newborn hero, James. Repetitious praise of him mysteriously makes me uneasy. No way can I agree with them. Any word I say will only win me frowns and a reprimand. What I need is to escape and find ears that let me say what I think. Best friend, Amy Ivanoff, is perfect for that.

As soon as everyone consumes enough pilot bread and fish stew, I quickly clear the table and wash dishes. Mom and Uncle Earl get into a card game. Dad picks up the phone claiming all rights to it for potlatch planning so I can't use it to call Amy. I pull on boots but don't bother with a coat. Amy Ivanoff lives only one house away from ours.

I jog through a couple of inches of new snow and poke my head inside her door. "Amy, are you here?"

She appears with her thin body poured into stretch jeans and a bright yellow tee. Her beautiful, thick hair hangs in long coal-black strands.

"Walter was just here," she says without bothering to say hello. "He told me he saw you. I think he has a crush on you."

I step out of my boots and shake my head. "I doubt that. Did he tell you James rescued my uncle from an overflow?'"

"Oh, yes. Isn't it wonderful? Wow, James is one great guy." Amy swoons like a rock star fan, her skinny arms hug around her shoulders.

"Why do you say James is that great?"

"Brooke, how can you say a guy who pulls your uncle out the icy river is anything but?"

The living room has one log wall decorated with shimmering furs of beaver, wolf, ermine, and a white fox. I blow a kiss to her mom, Elsie, who is engrossed in watching TV and knitting needles at the same time. Her bright eyes are fringed with deep lines that are caused by working long hours in outdoor Native ways. Elsie's wide grin is welcoming.

The phone is pressed to Herman Ivanoff's ear as he sits in an oversized recliner. He winks at me. "Your daughter just walked in, Donald."

"Tell Donald I'll bring blueberry cake to the potlatch," Elsie calls.

I wiggle a few fingers in a friendly wave and resist an urge to yank his phone away. Amy pauses to listen to her father expound on the blessing James brought by saving the life of his best moose hunting partner. I tug on her arm so we move on to the kitchen. There I slump onto a stool at the counter.

"What potlatch is your father talking about?" Without a trace of her usual makeup, Amy's brown eyes shimmer under long lashes.

"Dad wants a potlatch to honor James. I know saving my uncle was commendable. But really, how can we honor someone as obnoxious as James?"

"Brooke, you know James is nothing but gorgeous and really cool." She opens the oven door and the scent of chocolate makes my mouth water. "Hmm, not done yet." She shuts the oven.

"How can you say he's cool?"

"Hmmm, let me see. Could it be that every girl in school glues eyes to the best hockey player, the high school president, winner of the senior essay contest, and now with a rescue...."

"Okay, Amy, I suppose now you'll be another one to root for James at the races, instead of me." My lower lip protrudes like a kid's denied ice cream.

"Uh, no, I'm rooting for you." Amy opens frozen lemonade thawing by the sink, and mixes it with water in a tall pitcher. "I'll also go to the potlatch for the village hero."

"Hero? That's going too far. Did he face down a bear like Shemya?"

"Well, that dog is a hero too. He saved your life and I'm so, so glad, Brooke." Amy's long black hair splatters across my face as she flings her bony self into me, hugging me hard.

"Trouble is, James doesn't even care that Shemya was hurt and left deaf. All he cares about is beating me at the Nationals."

She pulls away and frowns. "Honestly, Brooke, why do you always want to race those dogs?"

"It's a tradition with our people, Amy. Dog racing is in our blood."

With a graceful flounce, she almost dances back to the refrigerator. "Well, I would rather only watch dogs run than work hard at racing them." She pours lemonade in two glasses. "Tons of other things are a heck of a lot more fun."

"Like what?" I know she'll give me a long list. The theme tune on Wheel of Fortune wafts in from the TV in the living room.

"Movies, dances, shopping. I can't wait to go to the mall in Fairbanks." Hands with red and blue painted fingernails flutter before a radiant face.

"Those things are fine, but what's most important is that our people win dogsled races. You know, to beat people like James, who are not part of our culture."

"May I remind you that your very own father is not pure Athabascan, at least half English or something?"

"True, but my mother is. Besides, Dad understands why I want to race dogs. It's just different with James. He is so, so ......."

"So good at everything. Admit it, Brooke you're really glad he saved your Uncle Earl."

"Oh, of course." I sigh. "Amy, are your brownies done yet?"

She opens the oven door. "They're perfect." Carefully she slices up the chocolate into squares and puts a few on a plate. She whisks the plate out of my reach and carries it to her folks.

When she returns we munch on warm brownies and I confess they are delicious. After a while, I say, "Amy, do you think I'm crazy for being mad at James?"

"Definitely, but I'll still root for you to win."

Author Notes In preceding chapters, Brook is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya that is deaf. James saves her uncle in a snow machine accident. Each chapter is first person told by either Brook or James. Both are determined to win the Junior Champion Dog Sled Race. Thanks to Lloyd Taylor for he snowy picture.


Chapter 8
Dance to the Beat --by JAMES

By Alaskastory

The ringing phone interrupts my dad on his computer, and he impatiently says hello. Donald Malden's voice booms over the phone's speaker. "Hello, Fred. Everyone in Denaaka wants to honor your son James." He goes on and on about me pulling Earl out of the Yukon River and grossly exaggerates.

I find it hard to take. Exiting leaves my dad's thick eyebrows raised in a look of wonder. Dad is a big man with a square jaw covered by yellow whiskers. His shaver rarely goes into action except on Sundays before church. He's been that way ever since Mom died.

That thought brings me to a stop with my eyes fixed on a picture. My mother, with sunset colored hair and soft green eyes, stares at me as if a message lies between us. It is the same convincing look that forces me to tackle homework, but this time it hints at swallowing my pride. I take the photo off my dresser and say, "I'll give it my best shot, Mom."

I straighten CD's into a neater stack and put on a mellow tune. I open a math book to a trigonometry assignment, but don't grab a pencil. My mind zings from the Mt. McKinley poster over my bed to the shelf holding Dad's football trophy, a baseball with 49er signatures, a globe, and miniature cars.

One tap on my door and Dad steps in with a huge grin. "A big night is planned for you, my boy. A real potlatch, village style!"

"Oh boy, I can hardly wait."

Dad gets that I mean just the opposite and laughs aloud, until he catches his breath. "Don't worry. I'll go with you and hold your hand." I clobber him with a pillow and he chuckles his way out of my room.

The next couple of days at school I get questions and some surprising attention from different girls. Not one of the girls who wiggles or giggles for me is Brooke.

Saturday I get a hair trim next door at Mabel's kitchen table whose whole conversation centers around my bachelor dad. That night I dress up a little with a white shirt showing under a sweater. Dad and I zipper up our parkas, and tromp to the school together.

Dad pushes the school rec-room door wide open. With a chest swelling up, he says, "Everyone's waiting for you, James."

I hesitate with an urge to run the other way, but Dad's broad fingers tug on my arm. He hustles me into the school multipurpose room. People shout my name above the strains of fiddles and pounding drums. "That gives me the jitters, Dad."

"Welcome, James." Mr. Malden shouts above the noise. He crosses the tile floor and shakes my hand then Dad's. "We're mighty proud of your son, Fred."

The air fills with the smells of roasted moose and salmon. I swear every family in Denaaka is there. Musicians keep up the beat, and many people pound their feet on the dance floor.

"Looks like good eats here," Dad says as his stare settles on Mabel, who is passing out paper plates.

Earl, looking as fit as ever, joins us. "There's the boy I need to thank for saving my life."

"You've said that a hundred times already," I say and almost choke as he slaps hard on my back.

"My son did right by you, didn't he?" My dad towers over him and grasps Earl's shoulders with his big hands. "James keeps telling me it's not a big deal, but I've been waiting to hear your side of the story."

"Okay, Fred. Fill yourself a plate and grab a seat. I'll tell you the whole story," Earl says.

Food is not compatible with the bouncing bubbles in my stomach, so I leave them and make my way across the room. People give me big smiles and some say, "Good job." Others say, "Brave thing you did."

Walter is with a couple guys, who wear jeans, bright shirts, and vests. They are putting on beaded, caribou gloves.

"Walter, you leading the Bear Hunt dance?" I ask as the fiddles end a country tune.

"I requested it. You know Brooke got away from a bear. This dance is kind of for her." Walter flushes with a slight attack of shyness. "We're up next. Want to join us?"

"Hey, you're a real dancer. I'd get my hands and feet pointing wrong and stomp out the wrong beat."

"Amy's leading dances, too. Bet she's dying to get one going for you." He beams with his infectious smile.

"Oh no, I don't want that."

Drummers start the beat so Walter and two others stomp into the center of a circle. As from a culture that dates untold millennia, the drummers hold long, carved birch sticks and strike hide that is tightly stretched on full-moon hoops. The dancers hands and arms reach out searching for bears. The drums and the dancers' feet go thud, thud, thud. The story of a bear hunt begins to unfold.

Across the room Brooke is watching. Her dress is a kuspik trimmed in such deep red that her dark, long-lashed eyes look livelier than ever. The neck of her Native dress is open and the cotton fabric flows softly in a flattering way over her slender body. A fringe of white rabbit fur runs along the hem above her knees and tan legs taper to her feet. Her slippers are beaded with that same deep red, and rabbit-fur trim caresses her ankles.

She fidgets and my eyes sweep up to hers. We hold a stare.

The drums still beat thud, thud, thud.

She turns away, and so do I. A hot flash washes over me like I just did something wrong. Damn, I think, how dare her get me stirred me up like that.
A sweet voice hits me with, "Hey, James."

"Oh, Amy. Are you going to lead a dance or two tonight?" She's in a buckskin dress dangling with cowgirl fringe. Her hair is in long braids and a leather band crosses her forehead. She is definitely cute.

"Yeah, I'm dancing. You are such a hero tonight. How does it feel?"

"Embarrassing."

She giggles and three other dressed-up girls join her. They giggle together.

The musicians and dancers stop. After the applause, I grab Walter's arm. "Good dancing, Walter. Ready for a little chow?"

"I'm starved. Lead the way." His breath is pumping hard from all the wild dance steps.

Another Native dance starts and Amy and her friends are the first on the floor. A string of other people join them and the floor fills up.

When we get our fill of good food, fiddle players take over and play western tunes. People keep coming up to me with praise. I squirm but don't see a chance to walk out. At nearly midnight lights flash and that brings the potlatch to an end.

Dad and I walk under the stars to our house with little conversation. I stop in the back yard where there are rows of dog house. Barking and whining begins, but I barely notice. My mind is still back in that crowded room.

I keep imagining Brooke in that dress. I've never seen her look like she did tonight. Usually she's in a parka, boots, and snow pants. Sure, she wears regular jeans at school, but nothing like how she was dressed tonight. She looked different.

I check the doghouses for clean, unfrozen water and untangle one dog's rope wrapped around a leg.

A little guilt tells me I should have asked Brooke about the bear attack. She acted different tonight, didn't come near me. She was about the only one there who didn't congratulate me, didn't say one word to me. I saved her uncle, but no doubt she's still mad at me.

I stomp back into the house, and let the door slam. "What the heck. That's okay by me."

"You say something, son?" My Dad calls from the living room.

"No," I mumble since there is no way I'm going to share my thoughts about Brooke.

Author Notes Teenagers Brook and James run dogsleds in competition and begin to be attracted to each other. Due to heroics by her deaf dog, Shemya, Brook survived a bear attact. James rescued her uncle from drowning in an ice-covered river. Their friends Suzie and Walter want each to win the big race. Thanks to martleo for the Indian dance picture


Chapter 9
Off to Fairbanks --by BROOK ANNE

By Alaskastory

Brooke, did you have a good time tonight?" Mom asks as we wipe down tables. Everyone from the potlatch cleared out except a few of us cleaning up.

"Sure...., it was okay." If I tell my mother the whole truth, I will have to say why. I don't know why I found it far from fun. The whole evening people asked me questions about that bear attack. Each time I repeated the story Shemya coming to my rescue, my throat went dry and my heart pounded in my ears.

Thinking about the grizzly furiously charging is not all that gives me shivers. It's James. It's just that he looks so different, taller I think, and more filled out than I ever remember. Tonight a deep green shirt makes his eyes shine green, and it's tightly tucked into his jeans, fitting as if he stepped out of Hollywood.

"Brooke....Brooke."

I look up at Mom's curious frown. "What?"

"Did you hear me say we're done? Let's go home and get to bed." She yawns and hands me my jacket.

"Oh, yes, I need to check the dogs." I grab a bag of table scraps that the dogs will relish.

"Wait for me, Brooke Anne," Amy calls from across the hall.
Mom and Dad leave me to walk home with Amy. They drive in the Jeep loaded with pots and cake pans.

Amy pulls up her hood against a breeze sweeping down from the river. "How come you didn't get out on the floor and dance with us tonight, Brooke?"

"I wasn't in the mood, but you and Mary and Tianna really got going. You three were so good and inspired others to join in." The wind forces me to zipper up.

"Well, not everyone. That James just sat there feeding his gorgeous face and talking with the guys. I tried to catch his eye when the fiddles started, hoping to get him out on the floor. He barely looked my way."

"Surely he was trapped by all those men in huddle to praise him and elect him king."

"Oh, silly you, Brooke. Anyway, when the fiddlers played 'Goodnight Sweetheart', I grabbed Walter for the last dance. You know what? He's a neat dancer."

"Oh, Amy, you two make a really fine couple."

Amy giggles. "I agree Walter's an okay guy. Good news is that he's going to the races in Fairbanks too."

"Mom and I will be driving there in just two days. Mom wants a long visit with her sister, and I want time to practice the dogs on trails there."

"Plus time to go shopping without me." I promise Amy we'll shop together as soon as she gets there and then I leave her at her door.

A noisy reception of barking melts the silent night when my dogs get a whiff of the leftovers I'm toting. Tails wag with joy as I scoop a cupful into each bowl. Shemya's eyes shine in the moonlight as he nuzzles, filling me with relaxation for the first time tonight. I thank him with a good rub down. After he curls up inside his dog house, I end the night and run into the house.
I get the Panama Canal report turned in to Ms. Bloom and other homework done, before Mom and I get packed up for the long drive.

Our front door swings open and Amy pokes her head in. "Brooke, are you all packed up?"

"Oh yes, Amy." I come from my bedroom with my backpack.

"We're ready to start the long drive to Fairbanks," Mom says.

"I can tell Brooke's raring to go since she left school at noon today." Amy hangs her down coat on a hook by the door. "Since you're cutting classes tomorrow and Friday, that means spring break starts early for you."

"Brooke turned in a big load of homework. Now, she has all those dogs to get settled at my sister Maggie's place." Mom piles our coats on the sofa.

"The dogs and I need practice before three days of races start."

"I'll be there before the first race on Friday and until after the finals on Sunday." In a glamorous pose Amy stretches down her sweatshirt and twists her trim body. "How cool it will be in a mall day after day."

"We'll do a little shopping with you. Right, Mom?"

Mom nods with a big grin and rushes off to the kitchen as if she forgot something.

"I don't think James will take off school early like you." Amy fluffs fingers through her hair and begins to weave it into one long braid.

"Ha. That means I'll get more practice runs on trails than James."

Amy gives me a sidewise, critical look. "Did you ever thank him for saving your Uncle Earl?"

"I really didn't get a chance. He brushed pass me in the hall at school with so many kids hanging around him."

"Are you ever going to?"

Dad, returning from the school, bursts through the front door. "I see the dogs are all loaded on the pickup. They look snug in their kennels."

Mom hurries back. "Dinner is ready to warm up anytime in the microwave, Donald."

"Thanks, my dearest Bea." Dad squeezes Mom and gives her forehead a kiss.

"Mr. Malden, are you going to the race, too?" Amy reaches for one of our suitcases.

"I sure won't miss it. As soon as school is out on Friday, I'll start the trip with James and his father."

"Oh ho, driving with the competition." Amy raises eyebrows at me.

Her gesture makes the image of Dad riding next to James sting more than a little. I thrust the cooler up on a shoulder and head for the door.

The dogs stare from behind screens in their cage-like compartments. A few give off excited barks and whines. Shemya lies calmly with his eyes brimming with contentment. I can't resist rubbing his nose that's pressed to the screen.

Mom and I get the last few things stuffed into the truck. We give Dad a hug and Amy, too, before we drive away.

It is over a hundred fifty miles from Denaaka to Fairbanks and the first half is on gravel road. Mixed snow, ice, and gravel make up the road through a long valley into hills. Frosty bushes and frozen rivers lead the way up to endless forests of snow-filled spruce, alder, and birch trees.

"Watch the road for moose," Mom shouts above the rumble of the pickup.

That is a wake-up call to my slumped body and far-away thoughts. It shocks me to find my mind is not consumed with plans for the trail. My dreams, day and night, keep seeing strange things. Out the windshield there is a pair of beaming eyes on the cold, white landscape. They are not the mean black eyes of the bear that wanted to tear me out of the tree, nor Shemya's excited blue eyes. The eyes are an intense, grey-green stare. A whole lot like James'.
I give my head a shake and focus on the roadway. In minutes animals with tall antlers and long legs appear.

"Look, Mom, caribou. A whole herd is coming from those hills."
As we round a bend, Mom steps on the brake. "Yes, and some are wandering right into the road."

We stop and go as we move slowly forward. Animals of all sizes are in front of us and on both sides. My dogs begin a stream of barks.

I start to count full-grown and baby caribou. "There are well over a hundred in this herd."

Our noisy truck with barking dogs make the herd wary and they clear the road or dash quickly right in front of us. Slowly we manage to move beyond the herd then Mom resumes speed and we remain cautiously aware of migrating animals.
Hours go by and I fight to keep my mind from wandering. When gravel is replaced by pavement the truck stops rattling loudly. New quiet in the cab offers opportunity for conversation. No doubt, that is what Mom expects.

"Tell me your thoughts, Brooke Anne. You have had so little to say lately." Creases wrinkle across Mom's brow.

"It's the races I'm thinking about." Body heat sweeps over me so I pull off my sweatshirt. "I'm entering all eight dogs."

"You're only fifteen. According to the race rules, the lowest age for the eight-dog class is sixteen."

"They make an exception for someone who won the six-dog race last year."

"Yes. I remember the Race Marshal saying that. Well, that means you'll compete with the older teens, including James."

"Yes, he's sixteen and entered in the eight-dog race." I squirm at the thought of him standing tall in that sleek green shirt at the potlatch.

"You beat him last year in the six-dog class."

"What I want is to win the eight-dog this year."

Mom laughs. "I heard Amy poking fun at you for not giving James a pat on the back for saving dear Earl."

"She and Mary and Tianna have a big crush on him. I think all three of them want him to be the winner." I force a chuckle.

"Hmm, I see." Mom frowns out the windshield as if her thoughts go deeper than my light-hearted comment.

I reach for the radio button and find a station with blaring music. I bounce and sing along as if I'm enthralled with the lyrics.

With increased speed on clear pavement, scenery passes quickly. The climb into hill country surrounds us with snowy trees, and on a summit there are vast views of gleaming white mountain-peaks in the distance. The sun shines brightly making long tree shadows fall across the road. Short days of winter are over as spring approaches. At last the town of Fairbanks comes in sight, glowing in shades of red as the sun begins to set. We take a winding road that takes us into Aunt Maggie's farm-like yard.

Author Notes In preceding chapters, Brook is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya that is deaf. James saves her uncle in a snow machine accident.
Many thanks to Charlene S for the picture of a very snowy road.


Chapter 10
My Dogs --by JAMES

By Alaskastory

"Go, James, go!" young boys shout as metal runners on my dog sled slide through the village. Their shouts are usually for me on the Polaris. Now though, I've signed up for an eight-dog Junior National so I swear off the snow machine. The dogs need hard work to toughen up for the races.

After my last class today, I head out under a blue sky. This is our last run before we head for Fairbanks tomorrow. Rather then the old trail beside the Yukon River, I take the dogs on a bigger challenge. I holler, "Gee, gee."

Light catches the silver edges of Luger's perked-up ears as they swivel as if the order for a sharp right turn is surprises my leader. Without hesitation he heads the team into a dense forest of alders. The dogs flourish with energy and seem to fly through narrow openings. The sled bounces off tree after tree testing my sense of balance as my boots fight to stay on the runners. It's a trail stamped with moose hooves and barely wide enough for energetic dogs. Eight tails joyfully rise up as we enter into an open meadow.

Speed picks up on the flat stretch. Luger takes a quick jump, then Blackie leaps before I see a rock hidden behind a snow drift. Each dog makes over it, but the sled hits hard. My feet slip off the runners and the sled tips on its side.

I barely hang on. The dogs drag me over fresh tracks and snow scoops over my head. My prone body slows the dogs so I give a heave and manage to right the sled. My feet dig in, get me into a run, and I fight until my boots are back on the runners.

I spit out mouthfuls of snow and choke out a loud, "Whoa."

One stomp gets the brake set and brings the team to a gradual stop. I plunge the anchor hook into the snow and stagger off the sled to touch each dog.

"Hey, Adak and Kiddo you're good jumpers." Adak gives me a whine and Kiddo barks.

I run my glove through Ruby's rusty colored hair. "You look good, too, Goldie, Denver, and Billie. No growls out of you big guys."

Luger's dark eyes gleam and his ears flatten back in fear as if I'm about to scold him. I stroke him with a bare hand and give his head a good petting. "Hey, Luger, it's strange you chose to jump over the rock. At least I survived. Both you and Blackie look up to more running and tricky turns."

We get into motion again, and the sled sails smoothly through the meadow to the foot of a hill. A good set of twists and turns give my leader a challenge to pick out the best route. We weave fairly well on this part of the trail and roam for quite a distance.

Brooke's lead dog, Shemya, has no doubts on a trail. With keen instinct he avoids objects that can tip the sled and tight turns that could entangle the whole team. It still bothers me that I owe Shemya an apology. It was a mean remark that I said just to set a spark out of Brooke.

"Haw," I call, and we swing left at the base of the hill. Moving forward means we go uphill. The strong wheel dogs, Denver and Billie pull with power to get the sled started uphill. With my feet are off the runners, I run and push on the sled. The strong dogs pull at a slower pace. I'm proud that Luger keeps the lines taut so the team makes a smooth ascent to the hilltop.

On the high ridge, I slow them to a stop so they can cool off. The temperature is no colder than ten degrees and that long run builds up heat for both me and the dogs. Their tongues are hanging out, and the hard-breathing dogs lap up bites of snow.

I pull off my top jacket and reach for a bottle of water. Luger scratches a hollow in the snow, plops his belly down, and turns his ears and nose toward me.

"Just a short rest," I tell him and sit back on a fallen log.

At the top of this hill, wilderness country spreads across wide open terrain. Dad's job is what brought us to the Alaska bush. I was in the fifth grade. The first couple of years Mom claimed to be a happy school teacher, but then she got sick. Cancer ended Mom's life so painfully soon.

Quiet moments out here in wild land bring memories with a clarity that tightens my throat. I imagine Mom's smiling eyes and the soft arms that would envelope me. Dad keeps reminding me that mother's greatest wish is for me to study hard, and he also says she wants me in sports. It has a lot to do with how she watches over us from heaven.

Wisps of clouds stretch ribbons across the vast sky and begin to tint with color. The hint of a setting sun gleams in shades of gold, pink and deep red.
A bark from Luger breaks the silence. "Ho, dogs, let's take that same trail back to Denaaka."

By noon on Friday, I leave school and start packing the dogs up for travel to Fairbanks. My buddy, Walter Evans, shows up.

"Hey, James, you packing eight dogs in just six boxes on this pickup?"

Walter's boots stomp on hard packed snow between me and the Chevy. His glove slaps the plywood dog boxes that Dad and I made last summer and never got painted.

I give my best friend a quick punch on his shoulder. "Billie, and hyper-sensitive Adak, don't mind cuddling up for the drive. Neither do Ruby and Goldie."

"Oh, swing dogs. You keep them behind the leader, don't you?"

I nod and stuff another blanket into a dog box. "Most of the time, they are easy going. Don't growl much like Denver."

"I know Denver's strong body is your best wheel dog. Since it's a week before the Friday start in Fairbanks, you'll have time to whip the team into champion shape on trails there."

"When are you getting off work at the store, Walter?"

"Mercantile payday is next Wednesday. The next day I'll catch up with you."

"Hey, you'll have a buck or two to spend in Fairbanks."

"You bet. I'm going for an IPod, like the one Brooke has."

I hooted like a snow owl. "She's got one of those? I didn't know she ever did anything that didn't involve her dogs."

"Well, today is your chance to find out plenty about her." Walter wore a grin that made his sunny face a teaser.

"What do you mean? I sure won't be seeing Brooke today."

"But for hours, you'll be sitting right next to her dad. He'll love to talk about his favorite daughter."

I swallow down a silly sentence that haunts my thoughts, 'There's only one daughter he's got, only one Brooke Anne Malden'. Instead, I flip Walter's cap off into snow and say, "Who might that be, Walter?"

Walter's head goes back in a laugh. He reaches for his cap and gives it a shake.

I turn away to hide a hot flush painting my face beet red. With a tug on his arm, I command, "Give me a hand to get the dogs settled on board."

Author Notes In preceding chapters, Brook is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya that is deaf from an earlier accident. James saves her uncle from an ice breakthrough on the Yukon River. Both live in a remote village. Each chapter is first person told by either Brook or James.


Chapter 11
Mother Moose Attack --by BROOK ANNE

By Alaskastory

Headlights flash through my bedroom window, brakes squeak, and a round of barking announces a pickup is parking with a load of dogs. I grab my parka, rush from my room and down the stairs.

"Dad's here at last." I'm overjoyed to have his help in harnessing the dogs.
My smiling mom slips into her coat. She and Aunt Maggie follow me out into the night.

Dad climbs out of the truck and gives us big hugs. "Good to see you too, Maggie. Sorry to hear your husband, Norman, won't be here since he's still up on the Slope."

"That oil company will keep him another week." Aunt Maggie turns to the driver. "Hello, Fred, you and your son need to come in too. Does a hot bowl of moose stew sound good?"

"Beats the heck out of the chips we've been munching." Fred steps out, followed by James in an open jacket. Bright moonlight settles on a white turtleneck that stretches across his broad chest.

"Hello," James says with polite nods to Aunt Maggie and Mom. His gaze switches to me and lingers until a rosy heat rises in my cheeks.

I squirm like a restless pup and say, "I'm going to the barn to check out my dogs."

Dad chuckles. "Okay, sweetheart, we're heading for Maggie's table."

My dogs bed down at the far end of the barn that holds lots of hay and two horses. I snap on a low watt light bulb that gives off a dim light. Amid grunts and snorts from contented dogs, I check out their needs. I add water to Tok's dish and scoop up dog food spilled by Bingo.

Kneeling down beside Shemya, I long to ask him if he knows why I find it hard to be sociable tonight. His intelligent eyes seem to search over my face and maybe know it's not like me to seek escape. How odd that the thought of sitting at a table with James puts jitters in my stomach. Shemya's big, wet tongue licks my chin.

"I think you understand me, my clever, deaf dog."

"Shemya knows his mistress that well?"

A masculine voice startles me. I jump up and stammer, "James,.....did you eat some stew already?"

"All the while you were cuddling with that dog." His teeth gleam and eyes twinkle with so much humor that my defense fires up.

Frowning at a too handsome face, I snap, "I'm just getting more hay to settle around Snowball."

"Oh, I'll give you a hand." With strength greater than mine, James heaves a bale of hay off a stack. He digs out an arm full and adds hay to Snowball's bedding.

Determined to ignore his kind gesture, I grab hay and pad it around Sockeye then put some around Dusty. With no comment from him, I look up from dogs. He wears a quizzical expression as if he is in doubt about the object of his concentration. That is me.

For a moment, I only gawk at him until I manage to jabber, "I think the dogs' beds are padded enough."

"Brooke, on the drive down here, I read over the race regulations. I saw your age puts you in the six-dog class, but your dad told me a champion like you can take a step up."

"That's right. I signed up eight-dogs for the races." I lift a haughty chin to him.

His lips stretch in a sly smile. "I think you should stick to your age group."

His challenge makes me smile. "How about competing tomorrow? Want to hit the training trail with me?"

The pickup engine starts and we hear his dad call, "James, let's get going."

With a big grin he brushes hay from the leather sleeves of his jacket, walks to the side barn door and stops. "I'll meet you at Mushers Field tomorrow at noon."

"Make it one o'clock and I'll be there." He hesitates like I might give him a reason for changing the time. When he shrugs, I hope he doesn't guess I have no logical reason. He raises fingers in an okay sign before his wide shoulders in a black, shiny jacket disappear into the dark night.

Early the next morning, anticipation makes me jump out of bed. My bones tingle with excitement on this cloudy day. At breakfast, I discuss with Dad the trail that will take me and the team over a few, snow-bound miles to reach the official racing grounds.

With Dad's help, by noon I get all eight dogs in harness. He holds them steady until I mount the runners and release the brake. He lets go and we hit the trail. I estimate our speed climbs to about twenty-miles an hour. It's a smooth ride all the way to the official dog musher lodge.

James comes in sight. He is unloading dogs from the truck. His dad, Fred, waves at me as he harnesses an anxious dog.

I bring my team to a stop, and James shouts, "It's not one o'clock yet."
Most of my dogs bark as they look over James' team. I holler, "We're ready for a rest stop."

With the brake set and the sled tied to a post, I quiet the dogs and give each a favorite milk bone. They happily nestle down and rest on packed snow. Ears stay perked up as they closely watch the rival team get hooked up. I can't resist hoping James thinks I'm the most confident musher he's ever seen. So I sprawl out atop my sled, resting my head back like a carefree pup.

It's not long before James has his restless, eager team in a line. As he mounts the sled's runners, he flashes a smile. "It's now one o'clock, Brooke."

His head in a wool cap, trimmed with strands of his blond hair, wags a nod to his dad. James points a gloved hand forward and his dad releases a hold on the sled.

"Let them run, son. I'll see you later." I wave to Fred as he strides to his pickup truck. The sled streaks out on the marked trail at top speed.

In a rush, I untie the sled and order my team into action. We follow behind James for a long while, edging closer on a narrow part of the trail. In a wide-open patch, Shemya manages to sneak us by James' dogs and we take the lead. The next portion demands the dogs pull slightly uphill then we begin to weave onto a narrow stretch thick with trees.

Shemya makes a surprise move. His nose is lifted high in the air. With a quick jerk, he leads us off the main trail. I brake the sled and slow to an almost stop at the top of a knoll. Peering down, I see what Shemya had sensed. A mother moose with very new twin babies appear on the main trail.

James' sled and dogs come from the thick forest, around a bend and are unable to see the moose. To defend her young from danger, the mother moose stands her ground in the middle of the trail. James spots her and shouts as he stomps on the brake, but the team can't respond quickly enough. They head directly into kicking hooves.

Dogs yelp in pain and James screams at the moose. Frightened baby moose on unsteady legs dash into the thick forest. Mother moose rapidly follows her little ones.

My team makes it speedily down from the knoll and we turn back on the trail to reach James and his injured dogs.

We get stopped and I anchor the sled with a tie to a tree. I run up to James who is bent over bleeding dogs.

"How bad is it, James?

"Blackie got a kick right in his rib cage. Adak is bleeding and hurt too."

"But the others all look fine, don't they?"

"I think so. Need to get these two to a Vet." I could hear an ache in his voice. His dad drove off and is not likely to get back until much later.

"Let's get them to Aunt Maggie's. Then Dad can drive us to Gold Animal Clinic."

"That should work, Brooke. One will fit in my sled and the other in yours." He gently unfastens the harness on Blackie and carries him to my sled.

I cover the whimpering dog with the sled blanket, pet his head and soothingly tell Blackie to remain lying in the sled.

A light wind and snow flurries start. James gets Adak nestled in his sled and he hooks up with two fewer dogs. When all is set, his arm raises in a motion for me to take off.

Through a veil of snowflakes, Shemya leads us in a slower, gentler way back toward Aunt Maggie's.

Author Notes Brook trains her dogs for the North American Junior Championship Race, determined to win with her deaf dog, beloved lead-dog Shemya. One goal is to beat James, but her heart changes when two of his dogs are injured by a moose. All chapters have been edited and revised from previous posts.Many thanks to bd shutterspeed for the moose picture.


Chapter 12
SAVE THE DOGS by JAMES

By Alaskastory

Snowflakes fall in a curtain limiting our visibility. On a well-packed trail, Brooke and her team lead with a pace that is steady and as smooth as possible to limit the sleds from bouncing too much. Yet, the injured dogs do feel jabs of pain when we hit a bump here and there. Whimpers from Adak bring me tears that I hold back in a tight throat. Good thoughts flash back on times with Adak and Blackie. They both were real sock-em pups that would never wear out and loved to run. It's no wonder they quickly learned to take orders and begged to pull my sled.

Finally, heavily wooded hills flatten into fields that are plowed in the summer. In the distance I spot the barn. Brooke's dogsled heads straight for it. We catch up and pull to a stop beside her team.

"Good, there's Dad's truck," she calls. "Go ahead and load Adak and Blackie." Brooke anchors her sled and team to a gate post then she races toward the big farmhouse.

I pull my dogs over to a tractor and tie them there. Not one dog barks. It's as if they want us to keep our attention on their injured buddies. With Adak tightly wrapped in a blanket, I place her inside the kennel on the back of Donald Malden's pickup. Then I do the same with Blackie. I brush hay around them and gently rub bits of snow off their heads.

"There you go. I'm sure the vet will get you all fixed up."

They answer in stressful dog breath scented with hours-old fish scraps. Their pleading eyes look weary under drooping lids. Blackie lets out a whine that makes me almost feel his pain. I force myself away as I hear Brooke and her dad thump down the porch steps.

"Hey, James, sorry to hear your team had a run-in with a mother moose." Donald gives my back a pat like a coach offering encouragement. He and I climb into the truck, but not Brooke.

"I'll start bedding down both teams till you get back to help me, Dad." I see her through a solid vale of falling snow. She waves us on.

It's a short drive to the clinic that seems long on a slippery, slush-covered highway. Donald helps me carry the dogs into an examination room. Before he leaves me sitting in a crowded waiting room, I manage to thank him for helping Brooke bed down and feed the teams. Waiting to hear the fate of Blackie and Adak, I sweat it out with meowing cats, growling dogs, and a squawking parrot.

"James Samuelson," calls a nurse uniformed in pale green pants and shirt.
I jump up with a nod.

"Dr. Ross is ready to speak with you about your injured dogs."

I follow her to a tiny room where she closes the door, leaving me alone to look at dog and cat photos covering the four walls. A pedigree chart of different breeds illustrates tiny, fluffy dogs and big, strong workers. Growls and whimpers ring in my ears and send a chill through my bones. Finally, the door swings open.

"Hello there, James." The doctor has a pigtail hanging past his shoulders and a scruffy beard. "Both your dogs are going to recover. In time, they'll be fine."

Relief loosens my throat. "That's good news, Doc."

He instructs me on how to give both dogs a restful life with no running for a few weeks. He hands me some pills to keep Blackie calm while his ribs heal and ointment for bloody gashes stitched together on Adak's legs.

"You're lucky the moose's hooves missed their skulls and vital organs." The doctor has long, skinny fingers that delve into the misery of animal bodies. He turns back towards the sounds of creature complaints. "You can carry both dogs home now."

"Okay, fine." Not a word of thanks escapes me as he vanishes and my cell phone starts to vibrate. With a fumble I manage to hear the music of Brooke Anne's voice.

"Your dad got back from the dentist and just left to go pick you up. James, how are the dogs doing?"

"Surviving, and ready to take it easy for a while."

"Auntie Maggie insists that Blackie and Adak stay in her barn. The beds in your pickup aren't warm enough for them."

"That's great for a couple of days. I figure Dad and I'll drive back to Denaaka early since the race is over for me."

Sound from the phone is dead for a moment. "Brooke, are you there?"

"Ah, yes. When you get here, we'll talk about it." She hangs up.

Out to the waiting room, the sound of Brooke's voice rolls over me like an avalanche. I feel really ready to talk with her. This time I vow to take back every mean word I ever said to her. There were times I'd harassed her, especially that day I was a real jerk about Shemya's deafness. I didn't mean to hurt her, just bug her a little about the race. Then, that turned out to be the very day he saved her life.

The black hood on Dad's Titan pickup appears in the window. He bursts in the door and pours out questions. I give him answers about the dogs' injuries.

"That's rough news, son." He puts arms around my shoulders, squeezes, and the tears of a little kid fill my eyes.

With quick fingers I wipe my cheeks, and choke out, "I guess we might as well drive back home tomorrow."

Dad answers me with a sad bob of his head. I turn away to grab my coat and he steps to the counter to settle the bill.

A strong male attendant enters carrying big Blackie and I show him out to the truck. I'm glad it stopped snowing so the limp dog stays dry and remains in a doped-up sleep. Next he brings out wide-awake Adak, with legs bandaged up. I give her a firm petting and order her to settle down. Luckily she obeys, and we are able to get on our way.

As we drive, I give Dad more details of the moose attack, and tell him Brooke carried one dog in her sled and we followed her team all the way to her Aunt's barn.

"James, I'd say that sweet little gal, Brooke Anne, is an awesome dog musher who sure did you a big favor today."

On a snow-covered hillside a vision of her looms before me. A pretty face framed by black hair flying against a wolf ruff trickles a sensation through me. I see her in a hard-driving sled sweep over a slope and head straight to my rescue. No doubt that girl radiated into action because she was in total sympathy for my hurt dogs.

"She did a whole lot," I say, but don't tell Dad about the vision of her burning deep in my mind. When she took the lead over me, she gave me hope for my dogs.

Author Notes Both teenagers, Brook and James train dogs for the North American Junior Championship Race. In preceding chapters, Brook is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya that is deaf from an earlier accident. James saves her uncle from an ice breakthrough on the Yukon River. All chapters have been edited and revised from previous posts. Each chapter is first person told by either Brook or James.

Characters:
Brook Ann Malden
Earl Solomon, her uncle
Donald Malden, her father
Bea Malden, her mother
James Samuelson
Fred Samuelson, his father
Walter Evans, his best friend
Suzie Ivanoff, her best friend
Herman, Suzie's dad
Elsie, Suzie's mom
Maggie, Brook's aunt


Chapter 13
Brook's Best Offer by BROOK ANNE

By Alaskastory

Tires crunching on the iced-over driveway greet my anxious ears.

My mother calls up the stairs, "I'm sure Fred and James will need your help, Brooke. They're here."

I slip on a shiny new, copper-red jacket fresh from a store in the mall. Posing before the mirror, I decide not to zip it over my turtleneck tee. I scramble down to the front door.


Aunt Maggie cries out, "Tell them they are expected for roasted goose dinner."

I sniff cinnamon in the air. "Plus yummy apple cobbler, auntie dear?"

Not waiting for a reply, I dash off the porch and wave the pickup to pull up near the barn. I sprint across the snow-covered yard until my new rubber-sole, gym shoes slide to a stop in front of the barn's double-wide doors.

Fred Samuelson steps out of his pickup and grabs me with a fatherly squeeze. "Hey there, Brooke Anne. We're mighty pleased to have a warm place for these poor dogs."

I giggle like a little kid and gaze up into the towering man's gentle face. His strong arm releases me as his son appears. James wears no jacket, only a sweater with woven alpine trees stitched across the width of his chest.

"Hey, James," I mutter as if my voice were in awe of a super star.

My long-time opponent flashes me a look so intense it's as if his focus strays from suffering dogs. I wonder if my fresh-brushed hair distracts him. He nods his head but doesn't bother to speak. Turning away, he swings the pickup's back door open with the ease of an athlete.

Both bandaged-up dogs are on the back seat. Blackie's eyes are half open in a groggy stare. Adak whines and shifts to a sitting position so James fills his arms with her.

Through the side door, I lead the way into the barn and hurry to raise the grated door on a dog carrier bed. I have the crates set up with colorful blankets and food bowls.

"Brooke, thanks for these warm beds." James' greenish eyes meet mine, and all possible clever words vanish from my head.

"Ah...well...." I spin away and sink fingers into thick hair around Adak's sweet face. Her wet tongue sweeps over my hand. "In the crates they might not move enough to hurt themselves more."

Fred carries in Blackie. "These travel crates are perfect. Both these dogs can only choose to lie there and sleep."

I slide open the other dog carrier door and back away as he places Blackie's limp body inside. "My Aunt Maggie wants you both to stay for dinner."

"Hey, little lady, that will be mighty nice." Fred gives me a wink then snaps the door shut on Blackie. "Before we partake of a good meal, there's time for us to load the rest of the team into the truck. Then we'll be set to head back to Homestead B&B."

He strides toward the door, and I start to follow until James places a hand on my arm. Then he yanks his hand back as if his fingers touched red hot coals.

"Yes?" I give him a half-way smile. He watches his dad leave the barn before opening his mouth to speak, but hesitates again.

He settles himself against a stack of hay with arms folded, and his head tilts as if filled with a puzzle. "Brooke, I want you to tell me something."

His pose with broad shoulders and piercing eyes makes me remember how a dozen girls always swooned over him when he dribbled down the basketball court. I was never one of them and feel determined to not let him think I would ever be. I stiffen up. "Such as?"

"Out there on the trail, I figured your sled had passed us and was way ahead. Yet, you flew down on us from nowhere."

"I did catch sight of the mother moose." My comfort zone feels threatened. Quickly, I look around for a distracting task. Kneeling down at a faucet I fill a jug and add more water to bowls attached to both dog crates.

"Now, come on. How could you know a moose and her baby twins were on the main trail?" He kneels close beside me and reaches out to pet Adak.

"It was Shemya."

He gives me a wide stare and sidewise grin. "Did magic come from your deaf dog?"

"Yes, it did," I snap. "He can't hear anymore, but he has a magical sense of smell." I feel the same irritation as that day he insulted Shemya then roared off on his Polaris. James blinks as if he thinks I'm conjuring up some story of the supernatural.

"You think he smelled the newborn moose then took your team off the trail?"

I emphatically nod. "Just before that last bend, he darted to the right and we glided up a slope. Once up there, I looked down and saw the moose stand like a fortress against your on-coming team."

"So, Shemya turned your team away from an angry moose, then you let him lead right down to our rescue."

"You've got that right. Shemya is a most special dog."

"A fantastic dog!" His face brightens. "You're quite a trainer."

Green eyes gape at me with so much force that I scramble to my feet. I head for the door. He follows me and snaps off the light. We step out into a colorful sunset blazing across the sky. Variegated shades of red reflect in surrounding snow banks, tinting them pink. James presses a hand on the shoulder of my new shiny coppery jacket. I face him with knees going weak as if I just ran 10K behind my dogs.

"Brooke, would your folks mind if I overnight out here? I'll need to give the dogs some medicine."

Wild strands of hair that stick out around his knit cap turn gold under the burning sky. A slight cough catches me for a moment. "Oh, well....sure, you can. I mean, I planned to keep a check on them myself. I'm glad to do that if you need to return to all your other dogs."

"Dad can tend to them for a couple of days while we're still here."

"You are leaving before the races? Surely you can stay." My hands are up on my hips like when I start to give Amy advice.

"If I race just six dogs against every other sled with eight, that'll be a joke for our village."

Words that fly out of my mouth shock me. "Then you had better race eight. If you'll take my Jonsey and Libby, you'll have eight."

With a wide stare James shakes his head. "Wait a minute. If you lend me two of your dogs, you won't have a chance to win."

I shock myself again. "I'll change my division and be in the sixteen-year-old class with just six dogs."

He let loose a loud gasp, pulls his knit hat off, and runs fingers through blond curls. He looks up at the flaming sky then at far-off mountains. With a slap of his hat he trains an astounded stare at me. "Whatever makes my true competitor offer me two of her dogs?"

I return his stare, but not knowing an answer to that one, I give him a shrug. "Take it or leave it, James."

His dogs spot him and erupt in barks and howls while Fred is unhooking the sled. I head for the house leaving James to tussle with dogs.

Author Notes Both teenagers, Brook and James train dogs for the North American Junior Championship Race. In preceding chapters, Brook is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya was left deaf from an accident. James saves her uncle from an ice breakthrough on the Yukon River. All chapters have been edited and revised from any posts last year. Each chapter is first person told by either Brook or James.

Characters:
Brook Ann Malden
Earl Solomon, her uncle
Donald Malden, her father
Bea Malden, her mother
James Samuelson
Fred Samuelson, his father
Walter Evans, his best friend
Suzie Ivanoff, her best friend
Herman, Suzie's dad
Elsie, Suzie's mom
Maggie, Brook's aunt


Chapter 14
Making a Choice by JAMES

By Alaskastory

At the dinner table with Brooke's family, plus Dad, I don't focus on conversation about slices of roasted goose and butter-soaked mashed potatoes.

My gaze wonders to Brooke. Deep brown hair caresses her shoulders and falls over curves wrapped in a snow-white turtleneck. When her sparkling brown eyes meet mine, I catch her lips curving in a faint smile. An unexpected heat washes all the way through me. I turn away and snap my head toward a voice calling my name.

"James, did you hear me?" Mr. Malden's voice pierces through my fog. "Please pass the salad down this way."

"Oh, sure, Mr. Malden." I put both hands on the bowl to make sure not to drop fresh lettuce and tomatoes. That is a rare sight at a wintertime table in the village.

"I'm real sorry you've had a setback, young man. Fred says you two will be heading back home before the races start on Friday."

"My goodness, my goodness," says Maggie Peters, lifting her eyebrows. Graying hair and wrinkles make her many years older than Brooke's mother.

Mrs. Malden's youthful face fills with concern. "If you leave, you'll miss all the fun. You must stay."

"James told me he's thinking it over," Brooke says. Her direct gaze makes me know I need to tell the whole tale before she does.

"Brooke has offered me two of her dogs." I fidget like the seat of my chair holds a pad of slippery ice.

My dad's fork drops with a clatter against his plate. "Oops, great surprise. How about that?"

Mr. Malden chuckles. "Sounds like a good idea. Brooke Anne, you can race in the eight-dog next year."

"Right," says Brooke with a slight smile. "Shemya and Tok will lead our team in three days of much shorter distances. It'll be easier for them to work together in the six-dog races."

Jovial remarks follow. Brooke's attitude puts me in a quandary. I must change something before I can accept her generous offer.

It is quite a while before the meal ends with cinnamon scented apple cobbler topped with ice cream. After my fill, I pull away from the table and thank Mrs. Peter for allowing me to stay the night in the barn with the hurt dogs.

"I'll go get my sleeping bag out of the truck, Dad."

I'm barely out in refreshing cool air when Brooke appears at my side.

"James Samuelson, do you want to take Jonsey and Libby?"

I stop in growing twilight and watch the full moon wrap a silver glow around her slim frame. In a demanding stance, her bare hands are again on her hips. She looks unaware of the beauty she holds, aware of nothing but dogs.

I hesitate for a way to say what has needed to be said for far too long. "Brooke, there is something I've owed you for quite a while."
With curious eyes wide, her head tilts in waiting.

"When I buzzed by you and the dogs on my Polaris that day and you were heading for the trail, do you remember what I said?"

"I sure do. You said mean things about Shemya being deaf." She looks away at spruce trees weighted with snowfall. It's as if she can hardly stand the sight of me.

"I apologize. Believe me, I think Shemya is the greatest dog there ever was. That turned out to be the day he fought off a big bear to save your life. He's smart and so darn brave."

She turns back to me. "And today, wasn't Shemya a hero in an attack by a moose?"

I nod. "My hope is that you'll forgive me for what I yelled that day."

"Yes.... I do. But you know I owe you an apology too. I've been putting off thanking you for saving Uncle Earl. Without you rescuing him from the Yukon, he would have drowned. Thank you, James."

"I've been waiting to hear you say that." Voices stop me from grabbing her in arms that ache to squeeze her. We both turn to Dad as the front door closes. He comes off the porch.

"Get your bag yet, James?"

"Oh yeah. I will in a minute."

Brooke gives my arm a tug. "How about loading Jonsey and Libby in the truck right now?"

"Right now?"

Her big brown eyes lock on me." It would be good for those two to start mingling with your dogs as soon as possible. How about it?"

"You bet!" Relief sweeps over me. That answer will keep me in the race. Her radiant smile sends a tingle all through me. Before I budge, she dashes away, saying she'll get both dogs.

Dad just shrugs when I tell him he'll have two more dogs to take care of tonight. He unfastens one dog door to hold them both and begins to smooth out hay beds. I grab my bag and head for the barn.

The first sound I make at the door sends a stream of crying barks from Adak. She is much more anxious than I expect. It's true she has a more agitated nature than any of my other dogs, and it is obvious this strange place makes her nervous. I pet and try talking her down, then give her a dose of tranquilizer from the vet. Blackie seems indifferent and manages to rise up enough to have a drink of water before nestling again as if he's glad to sniff fresh, green hay.

Dad pokes his head in the door, wishes me a good night and says he'll pick me up early tomorrow. Brooke appears beside him and enters leading Shemya.

"Just a minute," she says. "I think there's no need for you to camp out here, James. Shemya can keep an eye on both Blackie and Adak." Shemya's classic masked face shifts from one dog to the other.

"Blackie seems to be progressing well," Dad says as he reaches in to pet him.

Brooke gives a hand signal to Shemya. "I know Shemya can calm Adak down by giving her a tongue licking or a growl." Her devoted deaf dog watches as her hand points at the lame dogs and touches their ears.

Adak flops down with full attention on Shemya. Her head bows as if taking an order issued by a proud royal malamute.

Dad rests a hand on my shoulder. "Look at that. Both of them look calm, like Shemya's in charge."

"I'll check on them later and call you if there's a problem, James. Feel free to hook up and start training your team with Libby and Jonsey tomorrow."

"Our little gal has a good point." Dad gives Brooke a hug and me a look of relief. It's obvious he wants me there to help care for the team, meaning a lot less work for him.

"Gosh, Brooke, if you're sure that'll work. I'll come by and give them the medicine tomorrow."

"Sure, it'll work. Look how Shemya is curled up facing both of them. He's ready to be on guard all night."

When Dad and I drive away, my thoughts stray from the dogs. I dwell on Brooke, her image and every word she uttered tonight.

Author Notes Both teenagers, Brooke and James, train dogs for the North American Junior Championship Race. In preceding chapters, Brooke is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya, who is left deaf from an accident. James saves her uncle from an ice breakthrough on the Yukon River. At race time, two of James dogs are injured by a moose and Brooke helps out. Competitive feelings between them begin to change. All chapters have been edited and revised from posts done last year. Each chapter is first person and told by either Brooke or James.


Chapter 15
Races Begin by BROOKE ANNE

By Alaskastory

My eyes pop open in the twilight of early morning. I awake to the music of a dog team coming to a halt and hurry to my window. James is tying down his full eight-dog team then he disappears into the barn. After a few minutes, he emerges with Shemya frisking at his side. As soon as James sets the dog team off on the trail, Shemya bounds up onto the front porch.

In a warm robe and slippers, I scurry downstairs and let my beautiful Malamute come prancing in with the plume of his tail held high. I sink my hands into his deep fur and rub behind his deaf ears. "Okay, Shemya, we'll be on the trail this morning too."

I get dressed then eat toast and cereal quickly. Shemya and I dash out to check on the injured dogs. Blackie is standing wide awake, and Adak wags her tail wildly. I'm sure James found both of his dogs mending well so he can concentrate on racing.

Before long, I harness Shemya, Tok, Snowball, Bingo, Socks, and Dusty up to the sled and take my team onto the trails they love. Both Tok and Shemya lead us with steady confidence. Only Bingo seems more jumpy than usual, so I suspect he misses not having Libby at his side. It is nearly noon when we return. I feed the dogs and settle them down for naps.

Entering the house, Mom greets me with, "Brooke, your best friend called again. Amy asked if James is here."

"Her cousin's cell phone is never out of her hands or away from her ear."

Mom laughs. "Back home she'll have to do without a cell phone again."

With Amy in town, days fill with much more than running dogs. She insists we linger at malls and never tires of looking at clothes. Her pressure is non-stop to convince me I need something new to wear to the festival dance when the races end on Sunday. We go to a movie and drink more sodas than I've had in a year. It is a life vastly different than in our little village.

Of course, Amy asks a thousand questions about James, who I rarely see while he trains his team and I train mine. Amy is thrilled to learn he and I are no longer in the same race class. She vows to root for both of us.

The first day of sprint races begins at nine A.M. on Friday morning. The start gate is crowded with families from around the nation and fans shouting.

Threatening clouds clear away and leave a sunny day. The air is crisp and the trail icy enough to require booties on every paw. Dad helps me harness and bootie up the dogs.

With my team in a line and tugging impatiently to go, Dad holds them steady. I begin petting Snowball and Dusty, rub the backs of Sockeye and Bingo and give an ear rub to Tok. For Shemya I fling a big hug around him and look into his excited blue eyes.

"Go, Brooke, go," I hear Amy shout. A long, black braid hangs dramatically from a knit hat that matches her bright pink parka. I give her a wave.

The team in front of me is off and running. I securely grasp the back of the sled as I step onto the runners. With dad holding the team back, together we ease up to the starting line and I step firmly on the brake. The signal sounds and Dad lets go with a bellowing shout. "Go, go, Brooke Anne!"

The trail is fast on snow that has crusted since storms ended days ago. Shemya, teamed up with Tok, leads us up close to a sled ahead. At a right angle, we maneuver to run side by side then edge out in front. After almost eight miles, my sled crosses the line in front of the scorekeeper's clock.

Dad meets me by grabbing onto my excited dogs. With tongues hanging out and body heat up, they are ready to run more miles. We work together to get them out of harnesses. I unhitch a wiggling Snowball and jumpy Bingo and get them bedded down in the pickup carrier. Before all the dogs and sled are loaded, the loud speaker announces, "It looks like we have a winning time today for Brooke Anne Malden's team that completed the run in twenty-three minutes, fifteen seconds."

Squealing, Amy rushes from the viewing area up to our truck and throws her arms about me. "Did you hear that, Brooke? So far, you're winning."

"What with two races to go, I know at least a couple of racers are within just seconds of me."

"Here comes the last one," Amy says. A whoop comes from the crowd as the last sled in the six-dog race shows up. It is almost ten minutes behind me.

Holding a tight leash on grouchy Sockeye, Dad says, "I see most of the mushers against you are girls."

"Yes, I met one named Beth who is from Minnesota, and Jennifer is from Calgary. They're really devoted to their dogs."

Amy gives me a sideways teasing look. "Only a couple racers are Athabascan Natives like us. You notice that, Brooke?"

My confession to Amy about what I've always visualized that sled dogs are part of our Native culture. I considered others who race are intruders. But I sure don't feel that way about Beth or Jennifer and I know James is strongly attached to his dogs. I have no doubt that sled-dogging means as much to them as it does to me.

"I've changed my thinking on that. It was dumb of me to not believe racing dogs should be fun for anyone. But I do still think dog mushing is important to Native people,"

"That makes real sense, Brooke. What's made you change your mind?"

"Well, I admit all the racers I've met here deserve to run sled dogs. They're really hard workers and love to handle dogs."

"You mean even when their ancestors survived without sled dogs?"

"Yes, Amy. I mean that." We laugh.

Dad leads Tok and Shemya to the truck. I give Tok praise for a good job and let Dad get him settled on the back of the truck. Shemya nudges against my legs as if he wants me to bed him down. He is quick to curl up in comfort and peers out his screened window, not hearing the noise of the crowd.

Amy points at racers assembling dogs for the next race. "Right there, is super guy James."

"Walter is with him, Amy. Don't you think he's looking good too?"

She smiles. "He does know how to be fun. Let's go over there, Brooke."

Amy and I stand at a good spot near the starting line. She jumps with bubbly talk mostly about James.

Once all his dogs are in harness, they yelp, jerk and lunge forward, anxious to run. Libby's legs become tangled in a line. My breath stops. She appears unruly. Patiently, James untangles her, rubs a firm hand down her back causing her to stand at attention. He calmly speaks soothingly to each dog until all eight neatly line up.

Amy says with a swoon, "Wow, look at all that confidence oozing out of him."

I agreed he moved like an athlete in TV gymnastics. James is the seventh of eighteen mushers to line up sleds one at a time. With his dad and Walter holding the team in place, James steps up on the runners. The start signal sounds off and his feet hit the snow. His strong legs fly into a dead run behind the sled. It's a fast take off.

Walter jogs up to us with his usual sunny smile. "Hey, you girls want a coke? It'll be a half hour before James gets back."

"That'll be fast for ten and a half miles," I say.

"A coke sounds real good, Walter." Amy gives her favorite dance partner her glamour girl pose. A fur ruff on the hood of her parka frames her sweet dark eyes that light up like Coca-Cola is a special treat.

I don't follow them. On this first day of races, I want to see each team take off. Soon, James and his exuberant dogs pass over the finish line, their time is under thirty-two minutes.

When all the racers are in, an announcement sends a tickle all through me. A voice announces that his team has the best time for the day. He wins the first round of the eight-dog races.

Author Notes Both teenagers, Brooke and James, train dogs for the North American Junior Championship Race. In preceding chapters, Brooke is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya, who is left deaf from an accident. James saves her uncle from an ice breakthrough on the Yukon River. At race time, two of James dogs are injured by a moose and Brooke helps out. Competitive feelings between them begin to change. All chapters have been edited and revised from posts done last year. Each chapter is first person and told by either Brooke or James.


Chapter 16
A Winner by BROOKE ANNE

By Alaskastory

Windy snow swirls over Saturday races. My team loses by fifteen seconds, but the first and second races added together still show us with a slight lead.

The final race on Sunday hits me with a blow. Under a bright blue sky and colder, clear air, Bingo starts to limp so I bring the team to a stop. His bootie on one paw is missing, and losing it causes ice to make bloody scratches. I bed him down in the basket and race on with only five dogs pulling. The stop plus reduced speed with fewer dogs cost us over a minute, making me slip to a final third place in the six-dog class.

My head is hanging low when Amy's arms fly around me and she squeals, "That's a real trophy to go back to Denaaka."

Dad and Walter, who help wrestle dogs back in the truck beds, repeatedly say third place is an honor with great pride. I feel cheered up and linger over each dog, giving them dried salmon bits to nibble. As I offer a tasty piece to Shemya, his ice blue eyes meet mine and glow with applause. My head drops on his and I whisper into deaf ears, "You led the way, my hero."

Amy gives me a pound on my shoulder. "Let's get going, Brooke. The big race is about to start."

Walter's gaze takes in Amy's catchy getup. "I'll link with you two later after James takes off."

Amy returns his smile before he runs off toward Fred Samuelson's truck. She snaps around and heaves an impatient sigh to see me still lingering over Shemya. 'Let's just take Shemya with us."

"Great idea." I put him on a leash and wonder why there is so much joy in having him walk beside me.

Amy and I mingle with a crowd of spectators. She leans close to me and says, "Imagine, this race is a long one for James. Like twelve whole miles."

"And his dogs." I give her a playful nudge.

She lifts her eyes to the clear blue sky, shrugs as if I am hopeless. "Don't you know James is more special than a sled dog? Next year he graduates and will go off to college and then.... Oh darn, that gorgeous guy will be gone."

I nod. Visions of James fill my head. I point at him. "There he is with his dad and Walter. They're lining up in the fourth position to start."

Amy lets out a squeal.

Fred and Walter keep a tight hold on the spirited dogs. Proud tails are raised, anxious feet jiggle, high-pitched yelps echo, and noses point straight ahead.

Excitement surges through me. Amy and I hold gloved hands, and between us Shemya stands at attention.

The first team takes off to screams from the crowd. Next goes the second team, and then the third. James and dogs edge up to the starting line. For a third time, the signal horn goes off and sends them lunging forward with top energy. Our yells thunder after them.

James feet fly in a run before he stands on the sled runners. In seconds he and the dogs disappear behind a thick forest of spruce trees.

Before another team takes off, Walter joins us. Again and again, we watch teams take off until all are on the trail. It seems like an eternity that we must wait for any team to return.

To help time pass, we order hot dogs inside the lodge. Walter hands Amy a can of Sprite. "This is a close one for James. In the last two races combined, his lead is no more than a minute. If his dogs hang in there, they'll..."

"Get a trophy!" Amy's bare fingers, bright with multicolored fingernails, raise in a victory sign. Walter gazes dreamily at her and begins to mention the coming dance.

I tell them I'm going out to be with Shemya. He sits on guard right where I left him with his deaf ears up and eyes targeted on the door to the lodge. He and I move through the crowd and find where Mom, Dad and Aunt Maggie are. They shower me with sweet praise for the third place win, but I'm barely aware of their excitement. My eyes glue on the trail. Amy and Walter join us just as the first dogs appear.

"It's Lugar," I gasp, certain the white chest belongs to James' lead dog.

"Hey, hey, here he comes," Walter shouts and sprints to a position where he can grab dogs after they cross the finish line.

The team dives vigorously across the finish line, each dog looking anxious to keep running. James pushes on the brake and his dad and Walter hustle to help bring the excited dogs to a stop.

Amy jumps madly about and cries, "James is the first one to come in."

"That could make him the three day champion," Dad says. "There comes another sled, but I don't see how any of them can beat his combined time."

Above shouts and whistles, a voice over the speaker announces, "James Samuelson finished in 37 minutes and 16 seconds, making a three-day total time of 1 hour 40 minutes and 51 seconds."

Once off the track, James, his dad, and Walter give the dogs big hugs. Shemya streaks away from me with his leash trailing. Amy and I follow but I make no effort to stop him from greeting each of the winning dogs, especially Jonsey and Libby.

Amy and I screech in delight and grab Walter's hands. Together we pound boots in the snow and dance in circles around James. He laughs until we stop.

Walter slaps a glove on James' back. "I'm sure you're headed for the big Yukon Quest or the Iditarod Race sooner or later."

"That thousand-mile run is my dream. How about you, Brooke?"

Amy giggles. "That's something you can tell him all about tonight at the dance."

James grins.

Just as I always do with Shemya, I throw my arms around him. Much louder than a whisper Shemya can't hear, I shout, "Congratulations, James. You are a winner!"

THE END

Author Notes Both teenagers, Brooke and James, train dogs for the North American Junior Championship Race. In preceding chapters, Brooke is saved from a bear by her lead dog Shemya, who is left deaf from an accident. James saves her uncle from an ice breakthrough on the Yukon River. At race time, two of James dogs are injured by a moose and Brooke helps out. Competitive feelings between them begin to change. All chapters have been edited and revised from posts done last year. Each chapter is first person and told by either Brooke or James. This chapter ends this novella.


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