He told her. How was yours?

She fetched the boot remnant that was still sitting on the deck.

He studied it, turning it over in his hands. Suulutaq buys gear for their employees, right?

Outside gear. Parkas, jackets, bibs, overalls.

And boots?

And boots.

Boots like this one?

Almost exactly like this one, I‘d say.

He grunted, and set the boot aside.

Bed? she said.

God, yes, he said, and followed her up the stairs. They stripped off their clothes and tumbled down together and were instantly asleep.

The next morning Kate woke up, sat up, and said, Who else hasn‘t shown up for work at Suulutaq in the past month?

Jim opened one sleepy blue eye and considered. Good question. You‘re back on the clock.

She threw back the covers and swung a leg over the edge of the bed. A long arm snaked out and grabbed her before she got both feet on the floor. Where do you think you‘re going?

She let herself fall back onto the mattress. I think I‘m staying right here. He pulled her beneath him. Good decision.

That it was.

After checking in with Maggie at the post and turning a blind eye to the accumulating pile of pink call slips she had left in the exact center of his desk, Jim went to Old Sam‘s house. This was a log cabin on the very edge of the Kanuyaq River, about five hundred feet north of Ekaterina Shugak‘s old house, now occupied by Martha Barnes and her large brood of children, six or eight of which he could hear whooping and hollering in a game of cowboys and Indians. Sounded like the Indians were winning.

Old Sam‘s cabin was very much lost in the tall grass, and the forget-me-nots, columbine, and moss campion that were running riot over the sod roof provided a much-needed homing beacon. A path led to a weathered but sound wooden walkway that led in turn to the cabin door, and from there down to a small dock. At the end of the dock there was a bench made from lengths of alder woven together in a sturdy frame that had achieved the patina of old pewter. On that bench sat Old Sam, coffee mug in hand and feet crossed on an overturned galvanized steel bucket. He‘d heard Jim‘s footsteps on the dock. Go on in, get yourself a mug up if you want.

Jim had to duck to get in the door. Inside, there was a counter with a sink and a pump handle, an oil stove for cooking, a wood stove for heat, a beat-up brown leather Barcalounger and shelves made of two-by-twelves fixed to every inch of available wall space. Jim, perforce, paused to look at some of the books on the shelves. Old Sam‘s taste in reading was catholic, he‘d give him that. He had everything ever written by Robert Ruark, including three different editions of Use

Enoug h Gun. Wilbur Smith and Peter Capstick were well represented, and Zane Grey and Louis L‘Amour very much in evidence. Jim pulled down a book with a leopardprint cover that revealed itself to be a much-thumbed copy of TheTruth About