“Let him be.

It wasnt as if she hadnt thought of it herself. “I cant.

“What about your job?

“He wants me to quit.

“Rebecca. You love being a legal secretary, and you love your boss.

“Yes, Rebecca said mournfully, thinking of the bright, bustling office on the seventh floor of 710 K Street. “I do.

“He cant ask you to do that.

“Hes my husband, Rebecca said. She tried to smile. “Forsaking all others, and all that. You know.

Nina, who had never been married, didnt know, but she was that good and rare friend who listened without judging and so she sipped her coffee and smiled. “You know whats wrong with Mark?

“What?

“Hes too good in the sack, Nina said, and grinned.

Rebecca rose to Ninas obvious expectations and made an elaborate show of bristling. “And you would know thishow?

Nina toasted her. “Only by reputation, girlfriend. Only by reputation.

They laughed and changed the subject.

And now here Rebecca was, five months later, waking up in a one-room shack deep in a canyon somewhere in the Wood River Mountains, part of the southwestern curve of the Alaska Range. The mine sat on a creek in a deep, narrow crevice formed between three mountains four, five and six thousand feet in height. The sun could have been up till midnight but Rebecca couldnt swear to it; the only time the mining camp got direct sunlight was between the hours of ten and two. It might as well be December. There was even snow packed into various hollows on the north-facing slopes of the peaks.

It had not been a fun summer. Not only was there no electricity, there was no running water, and the plumbing consisted of a teetery outhouse with bear hair stuck to the outside where the local grizzlies had come to scratch. With the advent of salmon up Nenevok Creek, the bears had come for more than scratching their backs. And if there werent bears, there were moose, mama moose with babies and attitude. One day a porcupine had wandered into the outhouse and frightened her outside. Mark had come running at the sound of her shrieks and roared with laughter at the sight of her hobbling around with her pants down around her ankles.

Mark had bought her a.357, which nearly knocked her flat the first time shed shot it, and she wore it faithfully whenever she stepped out the door, but guns made her nervous and she preferred to remain inside, beading and knitting by the soft glow of the kerosene lamp. Mark had gotten a little tight-lipped when she had run out of kerosene for the second time, but that nice woman pilot with Nushagak Air Taxi had dropped off two five-gallon cans on a trip from Newenham to the fishing lodge at Outuchiwenet Mountain. The three Danish fly fishermen on board had taken one look at Rebecca and tried to persuade the pilot to leave them there, too. They spoke little English, but Rebecca, starved for conversation in any language, had been reluctant to let them go.