Northern Lights

heart roll over in his chest. "I don't know if I'm perfect for you, Nate, but you sure as hell are for me."
    He took the hand that wore the ring and kissed it. "If and when we splat, we'll do it together. Let's go make moose burgers."

 
     
     
    THIRTY
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    "WHAT ARE THESE?"
    Meg looked at the ring of keys in Nate's hand, deliberately furrowed her brow. "Those would be keys."
    "Why do you need so many keys?"
    "Because there are so many locks? Is this a quiz?"
    He jingled them in his palm while she continued to give him a sunny, innocent smile. "Meg, you don't even lock your doors half the time. What are all these keys about?"
    "Well . . . There are times a person needs to get into a place, and hey, that place is locked. Then she would need a key."
    "And this place that, hey, is locked, wouldn't be the property of that person. Would that be correct?"
    "Technically. But no man is an island, and it takes a village, and so on. We're all one in the zen universe."
    "So these would be zen keys?"
    "Exactly. Give them back."
    "I don't think so." He closed his fist around them. "You see, even in the zen universe I'd hate to arrest my wife for unlawful entry."
    "I'm not your wife yet, buddy. Did you have a search warrant for those?"
    "They were in plain sight. No warrant necessary."
    "Gestapo."
    "Delinquent." He cupped her chin in his free hand and kissed her. Opening the rear hatch of his four-wheel, he called the dogs. "Come on, boys. Let's go for a ride."
    She refused to leave the dogs alone at the house now.They went with her, to Jacob's, or on a day when jobs made that inconvenient, to the run at The Lodge.
    He gave the still-healing Bull a little help on the jump.
    "Fly safe," he said to Meg.
    "Yeah, yeah."
    With her hands jammed in her pockets, she headed down to the plane, then turned and walked backward. "I can get more keys, you know. I have my ways."
    "You sure do," Nate murmured.
    He waited, as was his habit, for her to take off. He liked to watch her glide from water to air and to stand while the stillness erupted with her engines. While he did, he let himself think of nothing but her, of them, of the life they were building.
    She was already working in what he'd discovered—after the snow had melted—was a pair of flower beds flanking her porch. She talked of columbine and trollius and of the wolf urine she sprinkled around to protect them from moose.
    Her delphiniums, she promised, would reach near ten feet in the long days of summer.
    Imagine that, he thought. Imagine Meg Galloway, bush pilot, bear killer, illegal-entry addict, tending a garden. She claimed her dahlias were as big as hubcaps.
    He wanted to see them. Wanted to sit on the porch with her on some endless summer night with the sun ruling the sky and her flowers spread out in front of the house.
    Simple, he thought. Their life could be made up of thousands of simple moments. And still never be ordinary.
    Her plane rose up, and up, a little red bird in a vast, blue sky. And he smiled, felt the quick lift in his heart when she dipped her wings, right then left, in salute.
    When there was stillness again, he climbed in the car with the dogs. And thought of other things.
    Maybe it was foolish to pin so much on an earring, a small piece of silver, and an unsubstantiated claim that Galloway had possessed an undisclosed amount of cash.
    But he'd seen that earring before, and he'd remember. Sooner or later, he'd remember. And money was no stranger to murder.
    He let it sift through his head as he drove into town. Galloway had possessed ready cash and a beautiful woman. Tried-and-true motives for murder. And in a place like this, women were rare commodities.
    The parade committee had already started hanging the bunting for May Day. It wasn't the red, white and blue usual for small-town parades. Why would it be usual in Lunacy? Instead banners and bunting were a rainbow of blues, yellows, greens.
    He saw an eagle perched on a swag of it, as if granting his approval.
    Along the main street, people were sprucing up their homes and businesses for spring. Pots and hanging baskets of pansies and curly kale—both of which he'd learned didn't mind a chill—were already set out. Porches and shutters sported fresh coats of paint. Motorcycles and scooters replaced snowmobiles.
    Kids started to ride bikes to school, and he saw more Doc Martens and Timberlands than bunny boots.
    And still the mountains that ringed the shimmers of spring, that