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ISBN 0-525-94559-8

The third in the Liam Campbell series (Dutton, October 2000) is set in a gold mine in interior Alaska. The idea for this story came from an experience my father had flying back from Bear River. He landed at what appeared to be a deserted airstrip for a pit stop and a very hairy, very dirty, very intense man with a pump-action shotgun stepped out of the bushes and told Dad he was on private property.

Dad knew right away it was a gold claim, and that there is just no reasoning with gold miners, who have to be some of the most paranoid people in the world (and in Alaska, that’s saying something). He said later it was the fastest piss he ever took. And you thought claim jumping was something that went out with the Gold Rush.

About the Dedication

for Dawn
the perfect niece

Sarah’s daughter, Kathy’s niece, I’ve known her since her mother brought her home and let me hold her for the first time. We took to each other instantly. One of the sweetest compliments I’ve ever had was when she told her mom, “I want to be like Auntie Dana.”

Audio Excerpt

Hear an audio excerpt from this book at Odeo.com.

Book Excerpt

September 1, Newenham

A seven-foot Jayco popup camper perched unsteadily in the back of a Ford F250 truck is not the best of all possible beds for a six-foot-two-inch man. Even sleeping corner to corner, Liam’s feet still stuck over the edge, there was no toilet, no shower and no place to hang his clothes, in particular his uniform which, to uphold the dignity of the Alaska State Troopers, maintain the authority of the judicial system and invoke the might and majesty of the law, should at least begin the day unwrinkled . On the other hand, when the seven-foot Jayco popup camper on top of the Ford F250 was parked in the driveway of Wyanet Chouinard, the prospect improved. He had free access to Wy’s kitchen, Wy’s laundry room, and Wy’s bathroom. He had free access to Wy, when Tim wasn’t home, as the door to Wy’s bathroom was six feet down the hall from Wy’s bedroom. Even if the bed in that bedroom was smaller than the one in the Jayco popup, Wy was in that bed, and he didn’t really give a damn if his knees stuck out over one end of it and his head and shoulders the other.

Of course, Tim was home now, Wy’s son having returned from fish camp the day before to start school the day after Labor Day, so nights in Wy’s bed, comfortable or not, would be severely curtailed. She’d made that clear last night. “No hanky-panky with the boy in the house.”

“Is it hanky-panky if we’re married?”

“We aren’t married.”

“Then let’s get married.”

“Not yet,” was all she would say. “Not yet.”

He rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling fourteen inches from his nose, thinking of her less than fifty feet away, waking up in her bed. She slept in t-shirts, no panties. Handy, as he woke up with a hardon pretty much every morning. He’d certainly put it to good use during the last month.

Not this morning. He cursed his way out of bed, stamped his legs into sweats, and let himself out of the camper. He stretched and examined the southeastern horizon, where most of Newenham’s weather came from. Partly cloudy, looked like. He lowered his eyes and stood for a moment regarding the Ford F250. At least it was a boy truck.

“A boy truck?” Wy had said.

“As opposed to a girl truck,” Liam said.

“And a girl truck is–?”

“A smaller truck. Like a Ford Ranger, or a Dakota Sport.”

She looked from the big brown truck to the little gray truck parked next to it. “Like my truck, do you mean? My truck’s a girl truck?”

“No, your truck’s an old man’s truck.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s rusty and all the bumpers are dented and it needs a ring job and a front-end alignment and you have to hold the door on the canopy open with a Bungee cord and add a quart of oil with every second or third gas tank, but it still runs. That makes it an old man’s truck. Or better, an old fart’s truck. An Alaskan Old Fart’s truck.”

“Ah. So big trucks are boy trucks and little trucks are girl trucks, except for little trucks that need paint jobs, which are old men’s trucks.”

“Yes,” he said. “Except for any truck of any size painted banana yellow.”

“Oh.”

“Or lipstick red.”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“Then it’s a girl truck.”

“Right.”