“Where?”
“Around. Walking the road. You live around here?”
“For a while,” Amy Raye told him.
She didn’t take kindly to men approaching her. She preferred it the other way around.
She slid the drink in front of the man. “I don’t take drinks from strangers,” she said.
“Name’s Malcolm,” he said, extending his hand.
She didn’t take his hand. “You’re still a stranger,” she said.
“Well, now, how do you suggest we change that?”
“You drink the whiskey. I’ll continue to drink my beer.”
“Where you from?” he asked. He picked up the whiskey and drank down at least half of it.
“Montana.”
“What’s a girl like you doing in Alaska?”
“I have an uncle who owns some cabins. I’m helping him out.”
“How long are you staying for?”
“Just long enough for my brother to get here.”
“You two driving back to Montana together?”
“We’re going to do some hiking first, but then, yeah, we’ll head back together.”
“You ever been to Alaska before?”
“First time.”
“Do you like it?”
“I like it all right.” Amy Raye finished her soup. Finished her beer.
“Can I buy you another one?” the man asked her.
“Like I said. I don’t take drinks from strangers.”
Amy Raye ordered another beer. The woman continued to play the guitar and sing. The man sitting next to Amy Raye finished the whiskey, and she noticed his hands, the large turquoise ring on the middle finger, the brown spots from the sun. He had to be in his late forties or fifties.
“You have a boyfriend?” he asked her.
“We just broke up,” Amy Raye said.
“A boy from Montana?”
“He’s going to school in Bozeman. I live in Helena.”
The man looked surprised. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Your mom tell you not to take drinks from strangers?”
“No, my dad did. Do you live around here?” she asked.
“I’ve got a place a few miles from town I come up to in the summers. I live in Wasilla the rest of the year. You like the music?” he asked.
“I do.” Amy Raye pretended to be a little shy all of a sudden.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
At least a dozen people were dancing. The music had livened up, moving into straight country. Amy Raye let the man lead her onto the dance floor. Again she searched the bar and the rest of the room for the man who looked like Farrell. He wasn’t there. The other two backpackers were now sitting at a table.
“How did you get here?” the man asked her as they danced.
“I walked.”
The man tilted his head back and laughed. “No, how did you get to McCarthy?”
“I flew into Anchorage. My uncle picked me up.”
“What’s your uncle’s name?” The man spun Amy Raye around, positioned his hand on her lower back.
“Chase Miller,” Amy Raye said.
“Can’t say I know him.”
As they continued to dance, the man took more chances. His hands grazed Amy Raye’s hips. He pressed his long fingers against her back pockets. His breath was on her neck. “My friends call me Mac,” he told her.
“Hi, Mac,” Amy Raye said, smiling up at him like a bashful girl.
But when the slow dance started, she said she should be getting home. The man whose friends called him Mac said he’d walk her out.
She let him pay for her last beer, and having forgotten about her groceries, she left the saloon with the man. Saddle, who had been lying on the porch, was already standing and wagging his tail.
“I can give you a ride back to your uncle’s, if you like,” the man offered.
He and Amy Raye had already begun walking the half mile to the bridge, with Saddle trotting beside them.
“I don’t mind walking,” Amy Raye said.
“You’re a beautiful girl,” he said.
As they were nearing the bridge, Amy Raye said, “I want to show you something.”
She told Saddle to stay, and then she reached for the man’s hand.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked her.
They stepped through tall weeds and walked toward an abandoned cabin hidden in the evergreens along the river. She’d found the building while exploring the river’s banks. Sometimes campers made use of it, but most of the campers set up their tents along the banks on the parking side of the bridge.
At the back of the cabin, Amy Raye turned to the man, playfully pressed herself against him. “You think I’m beautiful?” she asked.
He slid his hand around the nape of her neck, combed his fingers into her hair, some of her strands getting snagged on his ring. Amy Raye reached for his belt, loosened the buckle.