LITMIR.BIZ

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housed his copter gear and other flight accessories. It also held a minikitchen, small bathroom and bedroom, and an office that doubled as the lad’s living space.

      Atka walked into the kitchen area and began opening cabinets.

      Frank followed close behind. “The place is well stocked, Atka. I didn’t know when you’d be back, and with the snow arriving... I thought it best to take care of that.”

      Atka nodded. “You were right. I appreciate it.” He looked out the window, watched Xander performing a check on the helicopter. “How’s he doing?”

      Frank shrugged. “Hard to tell. He was always quiet, but has become more so since his mother died. Much like you.” Atka said nothing. “I know you loved her, friend, but it is time for both of you to start living again. It is what she would want.”

      Atka released a sigh. “I know. What about money? Is the account—”

      “Atka, there’s enough money in that account to last until he’s an old man. Please stop worrying about Xander and blaming yourself for what happened. You couldn’t have saved his mother. No one could have. The cancer spread too quickly.”

      “His father dying when he was just a toddler, and now his mom gone? I worry about him.” Atka turned from the boy who looked so much like the woman he thought he’d marry—the woman who was snatched away almost as quickly as he’d found her. The last promise he’d made to Mary was that he’d take care of her son. It was a promise he intended to keep. He walked over to a wooden slab that held several keys. “Maybe moving him to Anchorage will help.”

      “Good luck with that. He loves this land as much as his mother and grandparents ever did. Being here keeps him close to her.”

      “But going to college would open up a whole new world, one that would allow him to both honor his mother’s memory and forge his own life.”

      Frank walked up and put a hand on Atka’s shoulder. “Give him time. Perhaps his mind will change. He is not the only one who needs to move ahead and forge a life. Burying yourself in work is not the answer.”

      Atka looked at Frank with glistening eyes. “Yes, but it helps the pain.”

      * * *

      Later that evening, Atka sat in a wooden rocking chair made by his apaaq’s hand, covered by a deerskin that had been lovingly tanned and softened by his emaaq. His body was warm, his belly was full and the angst that had earlier creased his brow was gone. His grandparents had never understood the need for modern contraptions—or, per his emaaq, distractions—such as TVs, radios or the like. They vaguely knew of video games, though only through conversations with their many grandchildren. When he’d purchased cell phones for both of them, the devices had gathered more dust than talk time.

      So they sat chatting in the cozy, quiet living room of a rambling three-bedroom home, their intermittent conversation, spoken in the Yupik language, punctuated only by crackling logs in the fireplace and varied sounds of wildlife just outside their door.

      His grandmother eyed him over her cup of tea. He braced himself for the question he knew would come before evening’s end.

      “Children soon come?”

      “Emaaq, you already have more great-grandchildren than can be counted on fingers and toes!”

      “Yes, but not from our guardian angel.”

      Atka smiled at the use of his name’s meaning. As the youngest of ten grandchildren, he’d often wondered why this magnificent woman before him, the one who’d named him, had believed him to be the clan’s protector, preserver and champion. Yet words like these had often been used to describe him.

      “To have a child, I need a wife, right?”

      “Don’t ask silly questions,” she retorted, her tone brusque but eyes twinkling.

      “You’re the one who asked about children when I’m not even married. With business booming, I have no time for a social life. Women take time, and work, right, Apaaq?”

      Atka’s grandfather thoughtfully removed his pipe, and blew a perfect circle of smoke into the air. “A closed mouth always provides a correct answer.”

      He smiled, replaced his pipe and stared into the fire.

      “Apaaq! I remember you telling me that marriage was around a point of land and not to take a shortcut to get there.” Silence. Another blue circle of smoke floated toward the ceiling. “Help me out!”

      “In this, you need no help. Your road to matrimony is too long already.” Emaaq’s voice was low yet firm. “We are old. Mary is gone. I know you loved her, sweet boy, but it has been three years since she journeyed to the Great Spirit. The time is long past for you to find your ukurraq, begin a family and continue the traditions you were taught in more than a few qasgi meetings. Will you deny me the joy of holding your precious panik before your apaaq and I fly to the sky land so that she will know me upon my return?”

      “He,” the grandfather corrected, sure that Atka’s first would be a son.

      “No pressure, right?” Atka rose from the rocking chair, went over to sit cross-legged in front of his grandmother and took her hand in his. “Emaaq, I could never deny you anything. When I marry, I want the woman to be smart, kind, loving and beautiful...just like you. To find someone so special will not be an easy task.”

      “Perhaps. But I will ask the spirit guides to help you.” Just then, the shrill sound of a feathered creature calling for his mate sounded through the window. His grandmother chuckled lightly. “Children soon come.”

      “All right, Emaaq.” After a bit more conversation he kissed his grandparents and retired to a room he’d slept in since childhood. Early tomorrow, he’d walk with his apaaq to the sacred space where his great-grandfather and others were buried, perform aviukaryaraq—an offering to them and the land—and hunt. Then he’d fly to Dillingham for a casual walk-through of his fisheries at Bristol Bay and a couple nights of solitude in his one-room cabin. Smiling, he drifted off to sleep, knowing that the chance of his meeting a suitable woman or wife at either location was slim to none. So his thoughts on dear emaaq conspiring with the spirits to bring him a wife could be summed up in four words.

      Good luck with that.

       Chapter 2

      Teresa snuggled farther down in her newly purchased sheepskin coat, the sexiest one she could find at the store the hotel concierge had recommended. The black wool pantsuit, turtleneck, high-heeled boots and faux-fur coat had gotten her through the flight and the interview with politician Paul Campbell. For her meeting at his campaign office, she’d dressed to impress. For the rest of her itinerary she planned to heed her boss’s advice to layer to stay warm.

      During the ride back to the hotel, she scanned her notes from the morning’s interview. All in all, she thought it had gone fairly well, especially given the fact that she’d immediately sized up her interviewee as an arrogant know-it-all, clearly prepared to do and say whatever it took to get into office. Two minutes in and he’d played the flirt card. Within five, she’d been informed the victory he considered a fait accompli was only one of three steps to the US presidency. It was one thing to be confident. Thanks to her brothers, even a shred of cockiness was tolerable, sexy even. But privileged arrogance was a turnoff. Like Paul, she’d grown up in the lap of luxury. Unlike him, she still had compassion for those less fortunate and a perspective ever mindful that her lifestyle was a blessing and not her just due. She casually eyed the passing scenery as their meeting replayed in her mind.

      * * *

      “Ms. Drake!” His blue eyes had twinkled with open admiration as he approached her with outstretched hands. “A pleasure to meet you.”

      “Likewise.” She extended her hand. “Please

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