Northern Lights

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