Brides of Alaska (40 page)

“I didn't even know you were looking for a partner,” Rita said, trying not to sound too disappointed that her father hadn't confided in her.

“I guess I just started showing my age. The mornings got to be such a chore that all I wanted to do was stay in bed. I gave serious thought to getting rid of the dogs altogether, but I kept hoping you'd come home and fulfill your dream. So I hung on,” August replied and added, “I suppose after you're gone, I'll sell out to Mark and let him take it all.”

Rita fought back a sadness that threatened to materialize into tears. If her father was getting rid of the dogs, he must feel that his life was coming to an end. The dogs were everything to him, and Rita knew that August wouldn't part with them otherwise.

“Look,” August said, noting Rita's sudden quietness, “God will take care of me, just as He always has. You'd do well to remember that and give it a little thought for yourself. You know I don't like to preach at you, but things haven't changed. I still worry about you, and I worry about your soul.”

Rita hurried to embrace her father. “Don't worry about me, Daddy. I'm strong and quite capable of taking care of myself. You do what you have to, but don't worry about me.”

Rita couldn't bring herself to admonish him for his reminder that she was still walking outside of God's truth. She was informed more often than not, by her mother, that she was the only one of the Eriksson children not to have made a decision for the Lord. It seemed to hang on Beth like a grievous weight.

Maybe that was why Rita clung stubbornly to her own nature. She refused to allow herself to think on the matter any further. God was only a tiny part of her worries. Mark Williams was quite another matter.

R
ita couldn't believe how quickly the summer passed. Before she knew it, the first heavy frost was upon the land, leaving an icy signature on the once-green valleys. The air was noticeably colder, and every morning Rita saw subtle changes that pointed clearly to the inevitability of winter.

The idea of snow and ice excited Rita. There was a quickening in her step and an energy unleashed that she'd not known existed. Daily, she ran the dogs and watched each one with careful interest, trying as she did to remember the things Mark and her father had told her to look for.

“Some dogs are just along for the ride,” August had said, and Rita could see that this was true by watching the tuglines that connected the dogs to the gangline. She weeded out three dogs from the twenty-two simply because they refused to pull their own weight.

Others seemed prone to problems, sporting everything from simple injuries to the inability to keep up. They were hard workers but just not cut out for long distances. Rita had no choice but to eliminate them.

Rita spent much of her time in Mark's company, listening while he told her things that could well make a difference out on the trail. She remembered her father's caution to always carry dry kindling for long runs, as well as extra food and boots.

Days were long and arduous, usually starting by five in the morning and not ending until nine and sometimes ten at night. There was always the necessity of seeing to the dogs. Feeding, grooming, doctoring, running—all of these activities took precedence over nearly everything else. Then there was the work with the race sleds, harnesses, and assorted items that Rita would need to take with her when she raced the Iditarod. The work seemed never-ending and, as the student, Rita was frequently overwhelmed.

As autumn moved toward winter, Rita found herself actually enjoying the work and the company. It worried her, because often she found herself concentrating too much on what Mark was doing, whether it had anything to do with her training or not.

It was on one particular Saturday when Rita learned that Mark wouldn't be joining them that she actually found herself asking her father why.

“Mark has to fill in for one of the patrolmen,” August replied to his daughter's question. He had come to notice that Rita was far more accepting of Mark's participation in her training. Maybe Rita was changing.

“So then,” Rita said with a smile, “it'll be just you and me today?”

“You, me, and your mother,” August replied without a thought.

“But Mom's not out here with us,” Rita commented. Her mother had never been one to take a great deal of interest in the kennel.

“I'm sure she's got enough to keep her busy in the house,” August said, untangling a long length of rope. “She always has run a tight ship. Even when she owned that roadhouse near Northway. Her boarders never lacked for anything. I can vouch for that.”

“I'm sure that's true,” Rita answered and sought to change the subject. “When do you think we'll get our first snow?”

“I'm not sure,” August said, glancing up at the gray sky. “It doesn't feel like it just yet, but soon. Probably in another couple of weeks.”

“I can hardly wait,” Rita said wistfully. She longed to run the dogs on snow again and get the feel of handling the team behind a basket.

“You're doing good work,” August said, offering the praise Rita craved. “I just know you'll be more than ready when March gets here.”

“Dad, do you think I should run any of the shorter races first?” Rita took the rope from her father and hung it on a nearby nail.

“Rules say you have to have written proof of at least one sanctioned race of two hundred miles or more,” August replied.

“Which races should I participate in?” Rita asked.

“You could warm up with some of the shorter sprint races. As far as a race of some distance, Mark thinks the Copper Basin 300 is your best bet. It's run in January and it's close to home. The terrain will be similar to that which the dogs are already used to and yet offer them the feeling of competition and crowds,” August answered thoughtfully.

Rita remained silent while considering her father's words.

“It would give you a good chance to get to know some of the other racers and dogs,” August continued. “And you might even make a name for yourself before the Iditarod.”

“That could be bad though,” Rita replied. “It could put a lot of pressure on me to perform. Say I did really well in one race or another, then I'd be expected to achieve an even better performance in the Iditarod.”

“That is a possibility,” August said. “But, it could also be a challenge, and I know how competitive you can be.”

“You sound like that's a fault and not an asset,” Rita said with a frown. “There's nothing wrong with healthy competition.”

“Healthy competition, no,” August agreed. “However, competition can often lead to dangerous rivalry. Many mistakes are made by the person who thinks nothing of the rules and only of the achievement.”

Rita shrugged off her father's concerns as she always had done in the past. It was impossible for him to understand her sense of competition. After all, he'd been an only son with a single sister to round out the family. He knew nothing of being the youngest of ten. When you were the baby of a huge family you always found yourself striving to make a place for yourself, Rita reasoned. Her father simply misunderstood her need.

“You know,” August began, “I may sound a little old-fashioned, but I'd like for you to make your own sled.”

Rita shook her head adamantly. “I wouldn't be any good at that. You know I've never had the touch for creating things that you have.”

“But it's the only way to get a real feel for your equipment. Once you've been a part of creating the sled, it truly becomes a part of you. When it starts to run rough, you know instinctively what's wrong. When a piece breaks, you know from having created it just what's required to repair it,” August answered.

“I guess that makes sense,” Rita admitted. “But I don't know anything about it. You'll have a great deal to teach me.”

“You're a quick student,” August said with a laugh. “I tell you what, Monday we'll get started with the details.”

“August,” Beth called from the back door. “Gerald's on the telephone. He wants to talk to you.”

“I'm coming,” August answered and turned to Rita. “You keep on sorting out these ropes and harnesses.” Rita nodded and watched as her father headed toward the house.

She felt a twinge of disappointment in having to share her father with her oldest brother. She scarcely knew Gerald, even though he settled in Tok. Gerald and Phillip were her mother's sons from her first marriage. Rita had heard many times the story of how her mother and father met.

Her mother was a war widow, having lost her Canadian husband in World War II. Beth Hogan was running a roadhouse and trying to raise her children all alone when August had appeared to work on the Alcan Highway. Gerald and Phillip had appealed to August's heart, as had their mother, and, in no time at all, they became a family.

After that, many children came to bless the home of August and Beth Eriksson, but Rita saw it more as a curse. She hated being the youngest and felt completely insignificant to her family.

Plopping down on the ground, Rita tried to ignore the anger she felt. Many people presumed that because she was the baby of the family, she surely would have enjoyed the most attention. However, nothing could have been farther from the truth.

“I've scarcely seen you,” Beth commented, causing Rita to jump.

“I've been busy,” Rita offered, refusing to look her mother in the eye.

“Yes, your father has told me,” Beth replied. “He also tells me that you still seem very unhappy.”

Rita's dark eyes flashed a warning as her head snapped up to meet her mother's face. “I'm just busy,” she stated firmly. “This is hard work, you know.” Rita knew the words sounded sarcastic, but she didn't care.

“You needn't take that tone with me, Rita,” Beth said, standing her ground. “I won't cower beneath your anger and you can't wile your way around the issues with me. That's why you avoid me.”

“I don't avoid you,” Rita answered, tossing the harness aside and getting to her feet. “I avoid your preaching. You can't have a regular conversation with me. You never just want to know how I am or what I've been doing. You just want to pass judgment on me because I ruined your track record at church!”

Beth was noticeably hurt by the harsh words Rita hurled. “I'm sorry you feel that way, Rita. I do care about the things you're doing. I care very much.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You care only because no matter what I do, it'll be wrong in your eyes,” Rita said, trying to show nothing but the anger she felt inside. “I can't live up to your standards, Mother, so why not just give up?”

“I can't give up,” Beth replied and pulled her sweater closer to ward off the cold. “It isn't my standards I want you to live up to. God's standards are the only ones that count.”

“Yes, and you and God are like this,” Rita said and intertwined her first two fingers.

“Don't take that tone with me,” Beth snapped. Her anger was piqued—a typical reaction whenever she spoke with her youngest daughter about God. Why, out of ten children, was this one the most difficult? “I cherish my relationship with God,” Beth continued. “He is the only constant in our lives. He is the only one that can offer us hope and eternal salvation. I only want you to come to understand His love for you.”

“I've heard it all before, Mom,” Rita answered impatiently. “I don't need your religion. I grew up all my life listening to preaching—yours, the pastor's, even Dad's. I've had enough preaching to last me a lifetime. Why can't you understand that I don't need a crutch like you do? I make my own way, and when I know what I want … I go after it.”

“And what do you want, Rita?” Beth asked her daughter honestly.

“I want to live my life without restraints. I want to experience everything and anything. I don't want to be hemmed in by a list of do's and don'ts. Besides,” Rita continued, “I don't see where your relationship with God has helped you in your relationship with me.”

Beth swallowed hard to keep from snapping a retort. It was true. She struggled to have a decent relationship with her youngest daughter. There was always so much hostility to get through that Beth usually gave up long before Rita wore down.

“You are absolutely right. Our relationship lacks for much,” Beth answered softly. “But, I'm always hopeful. You may have grown up and left home, but I will continue to endeavor to help you see the truth and God's love for you.”

“It's always God's love, isn't it?” Rita questioned. “Never your love or our relationship. You use God like a shelter you can hide in whenever things get too tough. Learn to deal with me, one on one, Mom. I don't need this constant triangle. Then again,” Rita said, turning to leave, “don't bother to deal with me at all.”

Beth stood fixed to her spot as Rita walked off toward the creek. She was no longer shocked by her daughter's attitude and words. After all the years she'd sought to find a way to reach Rita, Beth had nearly given up trying. How could one child hold so much anger and hate inside and never give a clue as to where it came from or how it could be dealt with?

Walking slowly back to the house, Beth found herself whispering a prayer for Rita. It was really her only recourse, Beth decided. Rita had made it quite clear that she didn't want to talk about it, so Beth would leave her to God.

“Where's Rita?” August asked as he met Beth at the door.

“We had words,” Beth admitted. “She stormed off to the creek and I'm here licking my wounds.”

August enfolded Beth in his arms. “Don't lose hope, Bethany,” he encouraged. “God has had worse cases to deal with.”

Beth smiled. “She takes after her father where stubbornness is concerned.”

“Ah, so you do remember,” August replied with a grin. It had been Beth's honest determination that had led him back to God so many years earlier. “I guess I was just about as tough a nut as God ever had to crack. I remember feeling so angry that I couldn't join the army and fight in World War II. I blamed God for my misfortune of having no wife and no children. Now, I have ten beautiful children and a gorgeous wife, but only after I came back to Him first. Rita will come to understand the truth one day. We just have to hold on to that.”