"Which was?"

Kate shrugged. "Nothing major. Dina thought the cabins ought to be put to some use is all."

"So they rented them out to drifters? What the hell were two lone women, one of them getting close to feeble, doing inviting weirdos to move in up the goddamn hill from them?"

"They were careful," Kate said. "Yeah, okay, obviously not careful enough this year. But they'd been doing it for years without incident."

"They have somebody up there every winter?"

"Almost. One or two every year. They booted them out come breakup and the first paying customer."

"They stay booted?"

"Pretty much. Dina told me one time that she was giving them breathing space, a chance to find their feet. See if they liked the Park enough to stay. She said ninety percent of them didn't, and they never saw them again." She smiled.

"What?"

"They let Mac Devlin stay up there the winter his cabin burned."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope."

Jim smiled, too.

"Well, I better get back to it," Kate said.

Jim looked around. "You've done a lot. Looks almost back to normal." He noticed a little pile on the small table next to Dina's chair. "What's this?"

Kate looked. "Oh, that. I'm getting some pictures together for Dina's potlatch. They don't have much in the way of people pictures."

"When is it?"

"Saturday. At the school gym."

"Bernie'll be annoyed."

"The Roadhouse is too small. Ruthe and Dina have been here too long and have too many friends."

"I suppose." He hesitated. "Did you think about waiting?"

"For what?"

"Ruthe."

Kate paused. "Yeah," she said, "I thought about it. But ... I don't know. Ruthe was—she is a 'fish or cut bait' kind of person. She'd say, Get it done."

"Not the sentimental type."

"No," Kate said, smiling a little. "Dina was the idealist. Ruthe is always the pragmatist. The art of the practical, that's Ruthe's specialty."

"Yeah," he said, giving the copy of National Geographic he held a reminiscent smile. The cover featured a story entitled "Gates of the Arctic National Park." "I remember that about her."

There was a moment of electric silence.

For no reason at all, the hair stood straight up on the back of his neck. He looked across the table to find her eyes fixed on him, narrowed and hostile. The look pulled him to his feet, ready for fight or flight. "Kate?"

It was purely involuntary, a knee-jerk reaction. She didn't stop to think about it; she just picked up the little tin lockbox and let fly. Its arc was swift and her aim was true. The box caught him just above the left eyebrow and burst open. A paper blizzard fluttered out and down.

"Ouch!" Jim slapped a hand to his eye and rocked back a step. "That hurt! Damn it, Kate!"

"Is there a woman left in this Park you haven't slept with!" She grabbed a coffee mug and let fly with that, too.

The mug missed, which was a good thing, since he never saw it coming. He heard it slam into the sink and shatter, though. Warm fluid was running down the side of his face and obscuring his vision. He took a stumbling step forward, trying to preempt future missiles. He nearly fell over the coffee table, which movement, fortuitously for him, caused her to miss his head with the big red Webster's Unabridged. It hit his right shoulder instead.