Florence’s heart was in her throat. Would he hate her now? “Jodie,” she replied soberly, “I’m in the race with the grays. I—I just had to do it!”
“Good!” seizing her hand, he gripped it until it hurt. “I hoped you’d enter. It’s a tough grind all that way and back, so I didn’t want to urge you. But you—you’ll make it, and you’ll win.”
“No, Jodie,” her voice was deep and low, “I’ll only win if I see you can’t.”
“That,” he swallowed hard, “that’s sporting of you, but you—you can’t do that. You go in to win. Forget me. Forget everything. Go after those gray wolves and make them do their best, start to finish. And here—here’s luck to the best man!
“All right, Ginger,” his voice dropped. “Mush along you!” He trotted away behind his team.
“And this,” Florence murmured, “this is the North. No wonder they call it ‘God’s country.’”
“You go to sleep, girl,” Tom Kennedy said to her at nine that night. “I’ll stay up till morning. You never can tell what’s going to happen in the wee small hours.
“God made a mistake,” his keen gray eyes took her in—squirrel skin cap, bright orange mackinaw, corduroy knickers and all, “you should have been a boy.”
“A girl can do what any boy can, if she’s strong and keeps herself fit,” she flashed back at him.
“No girl’s ever run in the great race before,” he reminded her.