Where was the mother? Peter clapped his hands loudly, but the baby ignored him. Nelson came out of the woods that edged the garden, buttoning his pants. The gardener was always peeing in the woods. For some reason Peter found this faintly gross, but he supposed he should be happy Nelson wasn't peeing on the herbs. Urine was supposed to be a good nitrogen fertilizer or something, but Peter had explained fairly early on that he kept a no-pee garden, since they actually ate the food they were growing. Nelson had just listened with a wooden face. Lots of men in Alaska peed in the woods. Sebastian did it – something in the

nature of a brown bear marking his turf, Peter had always thought. Nelson was a hard worker, and kept an excellent garden, so Peter wasn't going to hold this outdoor urination against him.

When Nelson looked up Peter pointed to the moose, and Nelson picked up a rock and threw it at the calf. It hit him in the hindquarter, and the baby yelped and bayed, ran off along the edge of the woods. Peter could hear the mother's anxious bellow, the baby's cries. He spread his hands in a what was that? sort of gesture, but Nelson ignored him, turned away and went into the garden shed.

There were a lot of men in Alaska who were there because no place else would have them. Nelson was a good example, reading negative on the social skills chart. But Peter put up with him because he needed the help. There was nothing a good cook needed more than a lush and fertile kitchen garden. Nelson also didn't seem to mind doing all the shit jobs around the hotel. He took care of the landscaping, drove the guests to and from the airport, hauled supplies and fixed the boats and cranky outboard motors, and unclogged the temperamental plumbing.

The handyman before Nelson, Charlie – now he had been a drinker, a big drinker, and he had nearly burned down the hotel dropping a lit cigarette onto the rug by his bed. That's when Peter had built the tiny cottage at the back of the garden, so the various handymen wouldn't actually have to live inside the hotel. The one before Charlie was called Big D. Big D, also a big drinker though his initial stood for Dave, had driven a van full of guests off the road on the way to the airport. He was legally drunk at the time, blowing 0.22 on the Breathalyzer. Peter still, to this day, wondered how six adult men had managed to get into a van with an obviously drunk driver, and not a single one of them had taken his keys or even just gotten back out of the van and come into the hotel and told someone, like Peter. No, they just sat there like sheep being driven to the slaughterhouse. It had been a miracle no one was seriously injured, but Peter's liability insurance had more than doubled after that.

When Peter went back inside, Casper was leaning over the counter, talking to Travis, who had been off duty for two hours. He was back behind the reception desk, though, like he needed to keep a large, wooden barrier between Casper and himself.

«So sleep in the boat, kid. All I'm gonna do is throw a few lines in the water, hope the fish don't bite, then I'll read my book for awhile. Or I'll just sit there, let the boat rock me to sleep, let the sun shine, not think about anything. That's what you do when you go fishing.» Travis chewed on his bottom lip. «Yeah, okay.»

«Casper, would you like a cooler of soda and a lunch basket? How about an Italian sub?» «Peter, thanks. That would be great. Yeah, I love your subs.»

«I'll get the cooler.» Travis disappeared into the kitchen, and Casper watched him, a faint frown between his eyes. Peter started picking up the newspapers and letters on the front desk. «So, you think he's adjusting well, Casper? He's only been home four months. That's not very much time.»

«No, it's not. Early days.» Casper shrugged. «Doesn't seem like he's been sleeping like he needs to. I'm gonna try and talk to him. Make sure everything is working itself out.»

«Casper, anything you say to me will be held in confidence. Travis will always have a home here, for as long as he wants one. He never has to worry about that.»

Casper nodded and fitted his nylon fishing cap over his bald head. «Tell him I'm down at the boat dock, Peter.»

In the kitchen, Peter pulled out a couple of long, soft loaves of Italian bread and sliced them lengthwise. He poured olive oil over the bread, then started slicing tomatoes. Travis brought a cooler in, filled the bottom with ice. «Nothing's going on,» he announced. «I mean, like, if you were wondering about me and Casper.» «Okay.» «I mean, it's nothing like…»

Peter turned around. «Travis, you don't have to report to me. You're a grown man. But I'm always happy to listen if you want to talk.»

Travis ran both hands through his hair, rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. «I don't know what I'm doing.»

«You're going fishing with a friend. Men do it all the time. It doesn't have to be a big deal.»

«I thought you might have some rule about fraternization. You know, like with guests.» Jacob stuck his head in the kitchen door. «Hey. Am I interrupting?»

Peter smiled at him. «Come on in. Travis, I think you should use your best judgment.»

When Travis left the kitchen, Jacob leaned against the food prep island for a moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, then he reached out for Peter, reached for his shirt and tugged him close, and Peter thought that his hands were so young and eager and beautiful he couldn't have resisted him. Jacob's cheeks were flushed with color, eyes dark, like the velvet night sky in the Alaskan wilderness, all the light from starshine.

«Peter, I know you're busy.» Jacob's arms were around his waist now, and he was trembling. Trembling and erect. Peter pulled him close, buried his face in Jacob's dark hair. It still had that fresh scent from his shampoo, like cool mint and strawberries. «Listen, I have to leave tonight. Remember? Can I… Do you have a little more time for me?»

Peter looked down into his face, traced his wide forehead, still clear and unlined, his sharp cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, ended with his fingers over Jacob's mouth, a mouth he had kissed just hours before. Jacob smiled up at him.

«Yes, Jacob. I have time for you. It's…» His tongue stuttered on the words, felt suddenly awkward and formal. «It is my great pleasure.»

Upstairs in his bedroom Peter let Jacob tug the shirttails out of his cords, unzip and slide them down with an eagerness that caused Peter to laugh a little, remembering what it felt like to be twenty-six. Jacob pushed him back into the armchair next to his bed, knelt

between his thighs and reached for his cock. He tugged the boxers down over Peter's hips, then slid those long fingers up Peter's thighs to cup his balls.

«Oh, God, Peter, you're so gorgeous. Lean back a little. Let me get in here.» His fingers tangled in Peter's pubic hair, gave it a little tug. «So this is what a natural blond looks like. Awesome.»

Peter laughed, then moaned at the sensation of Jacob's mouth on his cock, velvet soft, wet and hot. Jacob wrapped his tongue around the head in a slick little dance, and Peter gasped out loud, reached for Jacob's silky hair. «Oh, Jacob. The way you touch me, I don't know…»

Jacob slipped the head of Peter's cock out of his mouth, and his warm breath across his skin gave Peter a lightning jab of lust down into his belly. Jacob wrapped his fingers around him and squeezed gently. «Peter, I want you to come in my mouth. I want to taste you, and I promise I'm not just saying that.» His voice was wheedling, and he grinned up at Peter from between his legs. «I mean, I'm not just saying that to make you hot.»

«But you are getting me hot, aren't you?» His cock was enormous, iron-hard, straining toward Jacob's smiling mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this turned on, his body waking up to sensation like a bear shaking off his winter's nap. Peter reached out, touched his face, and Jacob lowered his head, took Peter's cock in his mouth again. The delicate curve of his neck, and Jacob's fingers stroking him, stroking the base of his cock, stroking his balls, and something opened in Peter's chest, opened and tipped over, and he wondered if he might be falling in love. That would be good, to be in love again, to experience it all again, like the first time, all the excitement and tragedy and warmth and drama of being in love. And then he couldn't think anymore. His thoughts scattered like a flock of dark birds wheeling into a pale sky, sensation like bright lights behind his eyes, cello music, and he spilled into Jacob's mouth. His semen pumped out of him like yearning, or desire, and Jacob's hands clutched his hips, held them together as one.