Leni smiled down at the eight-year-old. “Hey, Mop.”

“Axle was home yesterday. I almost shot him with my arrow,” she said with a grin. “Boy, was he piss-a-rood.”

Leni bit back a smile.

“You got new pictures to show me?”

“Sure. I’ll bring ’em next time we come up.” Leni leaned back against the burnt log wall. Moppet tucked in close beside her.

At the front of the bar, a bell clanged.

The conversations around the bar quieted but didn’t silence. Town meetings might be an accepted custom off the grid, but you could never really shut up a room full of Alaskans.

Tom Walker moved into place behind the bar, smiled. “Hey, neighbors. Thank you for coming. I see a lot of old friends in this room and plenty of new faces. To our new neighbors, hello and welcome. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Tom Walker. My father, Eckhart Walker, came to Alaska before most of you were born. He panned for gold but found his real wealth in land, here in Kaneq. He and my mom homesteaded one hundred and sixty acres and staked their claim.”

“Here we go,” Dad said sourly, downing his drink. “Now we’re gonna hear all about his buddy the governor, and how they went crab fishing when they were kids. Good God…”

“Three generations of my family have lived on the same land. This place is not just where we live, it’s who we are. But times are changing. You know what I’m talking about. New faces attest to the changes. Alaska is the last frontier. People are hungry to see our state before it changes even more.”

“So what?” someone yelled.

“Tourists are flooding the banks of the Kenai River during king season, they’re navigating our waters, they’re packing the marine ferry system and coming to our dock in droves. Cruise ships are going to start bringing thousands of people up here, not just hundreds. I know Ted’s charter business has doubled in the last two years and you can’t get a seat at the diner in the summer. Word is that the foot ferry between us and Seldovia and Homer could be filled every day.”

“We came up here to get away from all that,” Dad shouted.

“Why are you telling us all this, Tommy?” Large Marge called out from the corner.

“Glad you asked, Marge,” Mr. Walker said. “I’ve finally decided to spend some money on the Moose, fix the old girl up. It’s about time we had a bar that didn’t blacken our palms and the seat of our pants.”

Someone whooped out in agreement.

Dad got to his feet. “You think we need a citified bar, that we need to welcome the idiots who come up here in sandals, with cameras hanging around their necks?”

People turned to look at Dad.

“I don’t think a little paint and some ice behind the bar will hurt us,” Mr. Walker said evenly.

The crowd laughed.

“We came here to get away from the Outside and that screwed-up world. I say we say no to Mr. Big Shot improving this saloon. Let cheechakos go to the Salty Dawg to drink.”

“I’m not building a bridge to the mainland, for God’s sake,” Mr. Walker said. “My dad built this town, don’t forget. I was working at the saloon when you were trying out for Little League in the Outside. It’s all mine.” He paused. “All of it. Did you forget that? And now that I think of it, I better fix up the old boardinghouse, too. People need somewhere to sleep. Hell, I’ll call it the Geneva. She’d like that.”

He was needling Dad; Leni saw it in Mr. Walker’s eyes. The animosity between the two men was ever-present. Oh, they tried to walk a wide berth around each other, but it was always there. Only now Mr. Walker wasn’t moving aside.

“Do you frigging believe this?” Dad turned to Mad Earl. “What’s next? A casino? A Ferris wheel?”

Mad Earl frowned, got to his feet. “Hold on a sec, here, Tom—”

“It’s just ten rooms, Earl,” Mr. Walker said. “It welcomed guests a hundred years ago when Russian fur traders and missionaries walked these streets. My mother made the stained-glass windows in the lobby. The inn is a part of our history and now she’s all boarded up like a widow in black. I’ll make her shine again.” He paused, looked right at Dad. “No one can stop me from improving this town.”

“Just ’cause you’re rich, you don’t get to shove us all around,” Dad yelled.

“Ernt,” Thelma said. “I think you’re making too much of this.”

Ernt shot Thelma a sharp look. “We don’t want a bunch of tourists climbing up our asses. We say no to this. No, g-damn it—”

Mr. Walker reached up to the bell above the bar, clanged it. “Drinks are on the house,” he said with a smile.

There was an immediate uproar: people clapping and whooping and bellying up to the bar.

“Don’t let him buy you with a few free drinks,” Dad shouted. “This idea of his is bad. If we wanted to live in a city, we’d be somewhere else, damn it. And what if he doesn’t stop there?”

No one was listening. Even Mad Earl was moving toward the bar for his free drink.

“You never did know when to shut up, Ernt,” Large Marge said, sidling up to him. She was wearing a knee-length, hand-beaded suede coat over flannel pajama pants tucked into mukluks. “Does anyone make you get a business license to fix boat engines down at the dock? No. We don’t. If Tom wants to turn this place into Barbie’s Dream House, none of us will tell him otherwise. That’s why we’re here. To do whatever we want. Not to do what you want us to.”

“I’ve taken shit from men like him all of my life.”

“Yeah. Well. Maybe that’s more about you than him,” Large Marge said.

“Shut your fat mouth,” Dad snapped. “Come on, Leni.” He grabbed Mama by the bicep and pulled her through the crowd.

“Allbright!”

Leni heard Mr. Walker’s big voice behind them.

Almost to the door, Dad stopped, turned. He yanked Mama close in beside him. She stumbled, almost fell.

Mr. Walker moved toward Dad, and people came with him, stood close, drinks in hand. Mr. Walker looked casual until you saw his eyes and the way his mouth tightened when he looked at Mama. He was pissed.

“Come on, Allbright. Don’t run off. Be neighborly,” Mr. Walker said. “There’s money to be made, man, and change is natural. Unavoidable.”