I stomp my shoes—specialty winter runners my mom gave me for Christmas—on the thinned doormat that reads Dogs Welcome, Humans Tolerated, and push inside.

Warmth and the smell of freshly brewed coffee envelop me as I allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The only light in the room is a pot light shining over the bar where a burly man in a camo baseball cap and a heavy gray sweater is hunched over a spread newspaper, staring at me.

“Hi,” I say through a slightly ragged voice, still catching my breath. I’m out of shape, having only run a dozen times since leaving Toronto last December.

The man’s appraising gaze skitters over me, all the way down to my shoes, as an AM radio broadcaster’s voice chatters in the background, filling the otherwise empty, quiet room with news of this weekend’s weather forecast. “You need somethin’?” Unlike Roy, this guy sounds like he might be from here, his voice carrying that folksy lilt. Like Roy, though, he isn’t showing any hint of friendliness.

My stomach quivers with unease at the possibility that Jonah and I have found ourselves surrounded by assholes. “Yeah. I was out for a run and I saw the sign for small-engine repair?” I throw a thumb in the air, pointing out to the road. “Anyway, I was wondering if you fix snowmobiles. Sorry, snow machines. Still getting used to saying that,” I mutter, more to myself. “We just moved in down the road and the ones that came with the place sound like they’re about to die.” When he frowns, I clarify, “Did you know Phil Gorman?”

“Oh, right. I heard he sold.” His thumb drags over his short, brown beard. I’d put him in his midthirties. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” I dare ask, unsure whether I want to hear his answer.

Suddenly, his face splits into a wide grin, one that softens his hard features and makes him look five years younger. “The four bear bells. You’re not from around here, are you?”

I can’t help but laugh, even as my chilled cheeks heat from embarrassment and my hand instinctively reaches to cover the bell secured to the opposite hand’s wrist. I also have one on each shoe and one attached to the bear spray chest holster. “I’m actually from Toronto. But I will have you know that a born-and-bred Alaska Native gave me these for Christmas and made me promise I’d never go running without them.”

“And you should definitely use at least one of them. Especially when the bears come out of hibernation next month.” He pulls himself off the counter—he’s barrel-chested and only a few inches taller than I am—and comes around the bar to offer a hand that’s rough, the nail cuticles stained dark. The hands of a mechanic. He’s clearly the one doing the engine repair promised on that sign out front. “I’m Toby McGivney.” His entire demeanor has shifted, much to my relief.

“Calla.” My focus drifts over the interior again, from the woodstove in the corner to the small tables, all covered in mismatched vinyl table cloths, to the kitschy signs and stuffed fish and countless photos of people and their fish secured to the walls with thumbtacks. If I had to guess, everything in here was salvaged from a basement or a garage sale or a thrift shop. Maybe even the dump.

There’s a bulletin board on the wall near the door. It’s littered with flyers and scraps of paper in every color, with phone numbers scrawled on the bottom, ready to be torn off and called. A good place to advertise a new charter plane company in town, perhaps. Tucked between a container of napkins and a bottle of ketchup is a small stack of laminated menus. I guess they serve food here, too. “So, do you own this place?”

He lifts his baseball cap to reveal unkempt sable-brown hair before resettling it on his head. “Yeah. Well, my family does. We live on the other side of this.” He points to the wall and, I assume, the other half of the log building. “How do you like it in Trapper’s Crossing so far?”

“It’s really …” I stall on my choice of words to describe the town. “So, what do you do around here for fun?”

“Leave?” he offers with a grin. “Nah, I’m kidding. There’s a ton to do around here for the right kind of person. Mainly outdoors stuff. A lot of fishing, hiking … The hunting’s not great, though.”

“That’s too bad.” I struggle to keep the sarcasm from my voice, and can’t help but note his choice of words—the right kind of person. Has Toby already figured out that I’m all wrong for Trapper’s Crossing?

He chuckles, an easy, warm sound. “Summer is busy as hell.” Reaching for a full pot of coffee, he asks, “Want one? On the house.”

“I’m good. Thanks, though.” Above the coffee machine is a gilt-framed picture of Toby and another guy in camo hunting jackets, standing side by side over a moose carcass. Identical smiles plaster their faces. Cousins or brothers is my guess.

“Something stronger?” Toby offers mildly as he tops up his own mug, jutting his chin toward the five beer taps jutting out of the counter.

I laugh. “No, and do me a favor, if I ever jog here so I can drink, it means Alaska has finally gotten to me. Please put me out of my misery. Rope a steak to my neck and tie me to a tree for the bears.”

His eyes widen with momentary surprise. “Uh … So, what brought you here?”

“An airstrip.” His heavy brow furrows and I laugh. “My boyfriend’s a pilot and he wanted his own airstrip. And I needed to be within easy-ish driving distance to Anchorage.” I shrug. “He fell in love with Phil’s place and suckered me into it. It’s been an adventure ever since.”

“Right.” Toby nods, adding quietly, “of course.”

“Sara called!” comes a loud male voice from somewhere unseen. “Did you hear Jax got trampled by a moose?” A moment later, a round man with a long, bushy white beard and wearing mustard-colored overalls pushes through a two-way swinging, saloon-style door. He stops abruptly when he sees me—and the horrified look that must be splayed across my face. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya, dear. Jax is a sled dog.

“Oh.” I’m not sure if that makes me feel any better.

“Yeah. He crossed paths with a mama and her baby during the Iditarod. Turned nasty fast.”

“Dad, this is Calla. She moved into Phil’s place. Calla, this is my dad, Teddy.”

“Toby and Teddy. I think I can remember that.”

“He plays Santa at the town’s Christmas dinner every year. You’ll never guess why.”

Teddy gives Toby a playful slap upside the head before coming around to offer his hand. “Phil told me he was sellin’ to a nice young couple. You’re from Canada, right?”

I smile. “I am.”

“From what I’ve heard, your husband’s one heck of a pilot.”

I don’t correct him on the husband label as my chest surges with pride. I already knew Jonah was one of the best around—my father said as much. But to hear complete strangers say it feels somehow more authentic. “He is. He flew for Alaska Wild for ten years and now we’re starting a charter business here.” It still sounds surreal. Me, part owner of a charter plane company?

“Alaska Wild.” Teddy strokes his beard in thought. Beneath the mass of wiry white hair, his cheeks are a rosy red, with tiny capillary lines marring his skin. “That went under, didn’t it?”