[Dalyia]

Steadying himself,Nate spotted a figure standing in the snow. It was
wrapped in a brown, hooded parka with black fur trim.And smoking in
short, impatient puffs. Using it as a guide, Nate picked his way over the
ripply ice with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Ignatious Burke.”
The voice was raspy and female, and came to him on a puff of vapor.
He slipped, managed to right himself, and with his heart banging
against his ribs, made the snowy bank.
“Anastasia Hopp.” She stuck out a mittened hand, somehow gripped
his with it and pumped righteously. “Little green around the gills yet.
Jerk, you play with our new chief on the way from the city?”
“No, ma’am. Had a little weather though.”
“Always do. Good-looking, aren’t you? Even sickly. Here, have a pull.”
She yanked a silver flask out of her pocket, pushed it at him.
“Ah—”
“Go ahead. You’re not on duty yet. Little brandy’ll settle you down.”
Deciding it couldn’t make things worse, he uncapped the flask, took
a slow sip and felt it punch straight to his quivering belly. “Thanks.”
“We’ll get you settled in The Lodge, give you a chance to catch
your breath.” She led the way along a tromped-down path. “Show
you around town later, when your head’s clear. Long way from Baltimore.”
“Yeah, it is.”
It looked like a movie set to him. The green and white trees, the river,
the snow, buildings made of split logs, smoke pumping out of chimneys
and pipes. It was all in a dreamy blur that made him realize he was as
exhausted as he was sick. He hadn’t been able to sleep on any of the
flights and calculated it had been nearly twenty-four hours since he’d
last been horizontal.
“Good, clear day,” she said. “Mountains put on a show. Kind of picture
brings the tourists in.”
It was postcard perfect, and just a little overwhelming. He felt like
he’d walked into that movie—or someone else’s dream.
“Glad to see you geared up good.” She measured him as she spoke.

“Lot of Lower

48ers show up in fancy overcoats and showroom boots,

and freeze their asses off.”
He’d ordered everything he was wearing, right down to the thermal
underwear, along with most of the contents of his suitcase from Eddie
Bauer online—after receiving an e-mail list of suggestions from Mayor
Hopp. “You were pretty specific about what I’d need.”
She nodded. “Specific, too, about what we need. Don’t disappoint
me, Ignatious.”
“Nate. I don’t intend to, Mayor Hopp.”
“Just Hopp. That’s what they call me.”
She stepped up on a long wooden porch. “This is The Lodge. Hotel,
bar, diner, social club. You got a room here, part of your salary. You decide
you want to live elsewhere, that’s on you. Place belongs to Charlene
Hidel. She serves a good meal, keeps the place clean. She’ll take care of
you. She’ll also try to get into your pants.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a good-looking man, and Charlene’s got a weakness. She’s
too old for you, but she won’t think so.You decide you don’t either, that’s
up to you.”
Then she smiled, and he saw that under her hood she had a face
ruddy as an apple and shaped the same way. Her eyes were nut brown
and lively, her mouth long and thin and quirked at the corners.
“We got us a surplus of men, like most of Alaska. That doesn’t mean
the local female population won’t come sniffing. You’re fresh meat and a
lot of them are going to want a taste. You do what you please on your
free time, Ignatious. Just don’t go banging the girls on town time.”
“I’ll write that down.”
Her laugh was like a foghorn—two quick blasts.To punctuate it, she
slapped him on the arm. “You might do.”
She yanked open the door and led him into blessed warmth.
He smelled wood smoke and coffee, something frying with onions
and a woman’s come-get-me perfume.
It was a wide room informally sectioned into a diner with two- and
four-tops, five booths, and a bar with stools lined up with their red seats
worn in the center from years of asses settling down.
There was a wide opening to the right, and through it he could see
a pool table and what looked like foosball, and the starry lights of a
jukebox.
On the right, another opening showed what looked like a lobby. He
saw a section of counter, and cubbyholes filled with keys, a few envelopes
or message sheets.
A log fire burned briskly, and the front windows were angled to catch
the spectacular mountain view.
There was one enormously pregnant waitress with her hair done in a
long, glossy black braid. Her face was so arresting, so serenely beautiful,
he actually blinked. She looked to him like the Native Alaskan version
of the Madonna with her soft, dark eyes and golden skin.
She was topping off coffee for two men in a booth. A boy of about
four sat at a table coloring in a book. A man in a tweed jacket sat at the
bar, smoking, and reading a tattered copy of

Ulysses.


At a far table a man with a brown beard that spilled onto the chest of
his faded buffalo-check flannel shirt appeared to be holding an angry
conversation with himself.
Heads turned in their direction, and greetings were called out to
Hopp as she tossed her hood back to reveal a springy mop of silver hair.
Gazes locked onto Nate that ranged from curiosity and speculation to
open hostility from the beard.
“This here’s Ignatious Burke, our new chief of police.” Hopp announced
this as she yanked down the zipper of her parka. “We got Dex
Trilby and Hans Finkle there in the booth, and that’s Bing Karlovski
over there with the scowl on what you can see of his face. Rose Itu is
waiting tables. How’s that baby today, Rose?”
“Restless.Welcome, Chief Burke.”
“Thanks.”
“This is The Professor.” Hopp tapped Tweed Jacket on the shoulder
as she crossed to the bar. “Anything different in that book since the last
time you read it?”
“Always something.” He tipped down a pair of metal-framed reading
glasses to get a better view of Nate. “Long trip.”
“It was,” Nate agreed.
“Not over yet.” Shoving his glasses back into place, The Professor
went back to his book.
“And this handsome devil is Jesse, Rose’s boy.”
The boy kept his head bent over his coloring book, but lifted his gaze
so his big, dark eyes peered out under a thick fringe of black bangs. He
reached out, tugged Hopp’s parka so that she bent down to hear his
whisper.
“Don’t you worry.We’ll get him one.”
The door behind the bar swung open and a big, black truck in a big,
white apron came out. “Big Mike,” Hopp announced. “He’s the cook.
Was a Navy man until one of our local girls caught his eye when she was
down in Kodiak.”
“Snared me like a trout,” Big Mike said with a grin. “Welcome to
Lunacy.”
“Thanks.”
“We’re going to want something good and hot for our new chief of
police.”
“Fish chowder’s good today,” Big Mike told her. “Ought to do the
trick. Unless you’d rather bite into some red meat, chief.”
It took Nate a moment to identify himself as

chief. A moment

when he felt every eye in the room focused on him. “Chowder’s fine.
Sounds good.”
“We’ll have it right up for you then.” He swung back into the kitchen,
and Nate could hear his bone-deep baritone croon out on “Baby, It’s
Cold Outside.”
Stage set, postcard, he thought. Or a play. Anyway you sliced it, he
felt like some sort of dusty prop.
Hopp held up a finger to hold Nate in place before marching into the
lobby. He watched her scoot around the counter and snag a key from
one of the cubbies.
As she did, the door behind the counter swung open.And the bombshell
walked out.
She was blonde—as Nate thought suited bombshells best—with the
wavy mass of sunlight hair spilling down to brush very impressive
breasts that were showcased by the low scoop of her snug, blue sweater.
It took him a minute to get to the face as the sweater was tucked into
jeans so tight they must have bruised several internal organs.
Not that he was complaining.
The face boasted bright blue eyes with an innocence in direct contrast
with the plump, red lips. She was a little generous on the paint, and
put him in mind of a Barbie doll.