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Northern Lights by Nora Roberts
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(Hardcover)
- Pub. Date: October 2004
- 576pp
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Product Details
- Pub. Date: October 2004
- Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)
- Format: Hardcover, 576pp
- ISBN-13: 9780399152054
- ISBN: 0399152059
Synopsis
The colorful, compelling novel about two lonely souls who find love-and redemption-in Lunacy, Alaska.
Romantic Mystery - Patricia (Trisha) Moore
Northern Lights is yet another feather in the cap of Nora Roberts. Ms. Roberts leads us. by means of her main character, Ignatious ("Nate") Burke, through the dark twists of fate that have landed Burke in the middle of an Alaskan winter to take on the job of Chief of Police for aptly named Lunacy, Alaska.. To do his job well, Burke must overcome his debilitating depression, the result of a shoot-out during a police action in his old home town of Baltimore, which cost him his partner and months of rehabilitation from his own wounds.
She has once again assembled a cast of characters that runs the gamut from a man of God to a godless individual, one of whom is guilty of murder, but hiding behind the façade of anyone's next-door-neighbor. Of course, we have the a romantic pairing of Nate with Meg, a free-spirited girl of the north, who takes it upon herself to help Nate find his way back, while enjoying the fruits of her labor, so to speak. The love scenes are tastefully, albeit erotically, done, which puts this story in the mature audience category.
The Alaskan scenery and the incredible aurora borealis are meticulously described by Ms. Roberts, which leaves you as breathless as Nate must have been experiencing it in person.
I dare you to unequivocally decide who the killer is before the end of the book. Now, no peeking at the end first.
More Reviews and RecommendationsBiography
One of the most prolific and popular writers in the world, Nora Roberts (who also writes as her edgier alter-ego J. D. Robb) publishes multiple books a year. Not that it’s enough for her fans, who tear through her unconventional romances. With her trademark mix of fantasy, mystery, and romance, Roberts has created her own genre -- and romance fans are grateful for it!
More About the AuthorCustomer Reviews
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- Ratings: 81Reviews: 58
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Perfect Headline.by janetinspokane
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July 15, 2009: This is an amazing, adventurous book. It has keept me wanting more right up to the end. WoW! What a GREAT book!
Northern LIghts Nora Robertsby book_crazy17
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June 13, 2009: This book is very good. When i started the first page drew me into the story, and once you start this book you cant put it down. Once you do put it down you feel as though you were just there, and you feel like you personally know all the characters, you also feel as though you experianced everything first hand. I would recomend this book to anyone who is a Nora Roberts Fan..
Fact File
Name:
Nora Roberts
Also Known As:
J. D. Robb; Sarah Hardesty; Jill March; Eleanor Marie Robertson (birth name)
Current Home:
Keedysville, Maryland
Date of Birth:
1950
Place of Birth:
Silver Spring, Maryland
Awards:
Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame, 1986; Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, 1991; Romance Writers of America Centennial Award, 1997; Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion Award (seven times); Quill Award for Blue Smoke, 2006
Biography
Not only has Nora Roberts written more bestsellers than anyone else in the world (according to Publishers Weekly), she’s also created a hybrid genre of her own: the futuristic detective romance. And that’s on top of mastering every subgenre in the romance pie: the family saga, the historical, the suspense novel. But this most prolific and versatile of authors might never have tapped into her native talent if it hadn't been for one fateful snowstorm.
As her fans well know, in 1979 a blizzard trapped Roberts at home for a week with two bored little kids and a dwindling supply of chocolate. To maintain her sanity, Roberts started scribbling a story -- a romance novel like the Harlequin paperbacks she'd recently begun reading. The resulting manuscript was rejected by Harlequin, but that didn't matter to Roberts. She was hooked on writing. Several rejected manuscripts later, her first book was accepted for publication by Silhouette.
For several years, Roberts wrote category romances for Silhouette -- short books written to the publisher's specifications for length, subject matter and style, and marketed as part of a series of similar books. Roberts has said she never found the form restrictive. "If you write in category, you write knowing there's a framework, there are reader expectations," she explained. "If this doesn't suit you, you shouldn't write it. I don't believe for one moment you can write well what you wouldn't read for pleasure."
Roberts never violated the reader's expectations, but she did show a gift for bringing something fresh to the romance formula. Her first book, Irish Thoroughbred (1981), had as its heroine a strong-willed horse groom, in contrast to the fluttering young nurses and secretaries who populated most romances at the time. But Roberts's books didn't make significant waves until 1985, when she published Playing the Odds, which introduced the MacGregor clan. It was the first bestseller of many.
Roberts soon made a name for herself as a writer of spellbinding multigenerational sagas, creating families like the Scottish MacGregors, the Irish Donovans and the Ukrainian Stanislaskis. She also began working on romantic suspense novels, in which the love story unfolds beneath a looming threat of violence or disaster. She grew so prolific that she outstripped her publishers' ability to print and market Nora Roberts books, so she created an alter ego, J.D. Robb. Under the pseudonym, she began writing romantic detective novels set in the future. By then, millions of readers had discovered what Publishers Weekly called her "immeasurable diversity and talent."
Although the style and substance of her books has grown, Roberts remains loyal to the genre that launched her career. As she says, "The romance novel at its core celebrates that rush of emotions you have when you are falling in love, and it's a lovely thing to relive those feelings through a book."
Good to Know
Roberts still lives in the same Maryland house she occupied when she first started writing -- though her carpenter husband has built on some additions. She and her husband also own Turn the Page Bookstore Café in Boonsboro, Maryland. When Roberts isn't busy writing, she likes to drop by the store, which specializes in Civil War titles as well as autographed copies of her own books.
Roberts sued fellow writer Janet Dailey in 1997, accusing her of plagiarizing numerous passages of her work over a period of years. Dailey paid a settlement and publicly apologized, blaming stress and a psychological disorder for her misconduct.
Feature Interview
Excerpted from the March/April 2002 issue of Book magazine.One afternoon when Nora Roberts was four, her two oldest brothers broke into a violent argument while they were baby-sitting her. "I peeked out of the bedroom, and they're beating the hell out of each other," Roberts says. Then her mother walked in, with a grocery bag in each hand. "One bag goes here, one bag goes there, she steps right in the middle of these two six-foot guys and she goes, boom, bam. Two backhands. And both of them go, 'Maaaaaawwwmm.' I thought right then, There's the power. She's the power."
Elly, as her family still calls her, the youngest of five and the only girl, was a quick study. "She bossed her brothers around," says her mother, Eleanor; today, "her brothers have got her on a throne." Roberts reigns over more than her family, which now includes her husband and two sons. Since her writing debut in 1981, she has helped lead American romance away from its clichés of simpering heroines and heroic rapists toward more complex characters and contemporary, multifaceted plots. Of course, sex -- passionate, tender, delayed, avoided, forced, in castles, in fields, in treetops -- continues to be a central hook. And often, the prose remains purple; Roberts herself has a propensity for phrases like "she rocked them both toward madness." But the genre with which her name is synonymous is one -- the only one -- that always puts women at the center of the universe.
***
Two Mercedes -- a Kompressor convertible and an M-Class SUV -- and a Chrysler PT Cruiser are parked outside the rural Keedysville, Maryland, home Roberts shares with her husband. Inside, several gauzy photographs of nude models hang above the bed in the ground-floor master bedroom, and a rendition of the Casablanca movie poster -- with the couple painted in as Ilsa and Rick -- is prominent above the fireplace. Three ebullient dogs and one gnarled old mutt track in dirt and litter the house with deer bones that they've found outside.
Since moving here twenty-nine years ago, Roberts has divorced her first husband, raised their two sons (Dan, now twenty-nine, lives with his wife down the lane; Jason, twenty-six, is just over an hour away) and remarried. She has also added on a few rooms and an indoor pool; a few years ago, she bought twenty adjoining acres so she could continue to shoo deer out of the garden in her underwear without worrying about neighbors. She and her husband own a tiny bookshop in nearby Boonsboro, but Roberts spends most of her time in an upstairs office where she types, smokes and drinks diet colas eight hours a day, five days a week. It's a routine that's produced an average of seven books a year since 1981, many of them bestsellers.
Roberts knows that her work is commercial fiction and doesn't lose any sleep waiting for National Book Award nominations. The high-art literary tradition isn't what's gotten her to where she is; what has is her "real talent for storytelling," as author Jennifer Crusie (Fast Women; Welcome to Temptation) says, and a commensurate skill with plot and pacing. Readers are pulled into her story lines (which often bounce from one continent to the next) and her well-drawn characters. Fans especially admire Roberts' tough, independent heroines. "When they fit with your own circumstances," says Elizabeth Mayfield, a database administrator from Norwalk, Connecticut, "you think, Gee, there's hope for me." Roberts, however, contends that she's not writing to provide role models for anyone. "I'm gonna tell a good, entertaining story," she says. "I'm not looking to change the world."
Roberts was born Eleanor Marie Robertson, and she grew up in Silver Spring, Maryland, about an hour from where she lives now. Her father worked as a projectionist at the local movie theater and as a stagehand until 1964, when he started a lighting company -- which is where most of the Robertson family still works. Her mother ran the family. "Mom was a very strict disciplinarian," says Roberts' brother Buzz, who is now the president of his dad's company, "but as long as you followed the rules and were polite, you didn't have a problem." He says Nora had it a little easier than her brothers. "Us boys, we knew we were low men on the totem pole. Mom was tickled pink when she had Nora."
"Her daddy worked two jobs all his life, and during the Depression, I took in roomers," says Eleanor Robertson, who at eighty-five still lives in Silver Spring and is now secretary-treasurer of the company her husband started (Bernie Robertson died in 2000). "She knows how hard we worked to give them an education and a nice home." Roberts went to Catholic schools as a child and credits much of her success to the nuns who taught her -- the discipline and guilt in her formative years did her a lot of good.
In her sophomore year of high school, Roberts transferred to public school, where she met Ronald Aufdem-Brinke; she married him at seventeen, in 1968, right after graduation. The young couple moved to Keedysville and had a small house built in the woods. While Aufdem-Brinke worked at his father's sheet-metal business and later the Robertson lighting company, Roberts took care of their two children and the house. "Oh God, I had craft addictions," Roberts says, taking a drag on a cigarette. (She runs through a pack of Winstons at a pace that doesn't quite catch up to chain-smoking but runs several steps beyond casual.) "You name it, I made it. I macraméd two hammocks once. I did ceramics, I sewed the kids' clothes. I even put flies into overalls -- that is sick. I was a sick woman. I baked bread once a week. I canned jellies and made my own spaghetti sauce using my own tomatoes."
Sometime during the next decade (she calls the period her "Earth Mother" years), Roberts started to read Harlequin novels -- the short books were easy for her to finish while the kids were napping. During a blizzard in 1979, trapped inside with little more than her three- and six-year-old sons and a game of Candy Land, Roberts sat down with a pencil and wrote a manuscript of her own, a romance that she's since described as "very bad." In the next year and a half, while her kids were napping or at T-ball practice, she wrote at least six manuscripts in longhand. She submitted some of them to Harlequin, which at the time was using mainly British writers. Roberts didn't hear back, but her enthusiasm wasn't subdued. "I became a writing junkie," she says. Although she was rejected several times, she continued to write -- but started filing her manuscripts in a back drawer rather than submitting them.
Roberts then heard that a new romance publisher, Silhouette, was looking specifically for American writers, so she sent in her work. In 1980 she got a call from Nancy Jackson, a Silhouette editor, saying she had plucked one of Roberts' manuscripts -- Irish Thoroughbred, a slender love story about an Irish stable hand and her boss -- out of the slush pile. Jackson told Roberts she wanted to publish it. Eleanor Aufdem-Brinke changed her name to Nora Roberts because she says she assumed all romance authors used a nom de plume. The book "didn't make waves when it first came out," says Isabel Swift, her current editor, but it sold well in reprint. Roberts was hooked on the process, though, and published five more books the following year, eight the following and ten the year after that.
Roberts hit it big in 1985 when she wrote the first of her MacGregor family series, Playing the Odds. The book, which focuses on a matchmaking Scottish patriarch and his brood, became an immediate bestseller. Romance readers began associating the name Nora Roberts with multigenerational sagas: In addition to the MacGregors, she has written about the Donovans, a modern family of Irish magicians; the Calhouns, a family of pigheaded sisters in Maine; and the Stanislaskis, tempestuous Ukrainian immigrants.
***
From the beginning, Roberts' heroines were not content to wear aprons or take dictation. In Irish Thoroughbred, though Roberts' heroine was young (early twenties) and virginal (well, she was a virgin), she was a horse groomer with an independent streak. Roberts wasn't alone in giving her female characters more authority in the workforce; other American romance authors -- like Jayne Ann Krentz, Sandra Brown and Elizabeth Lowell -- were doing the same. "I think one of the great things the American writer has brought to the romance novel," Krentz says, "is a modern interpretation of women's roles and women's values." Author Janet Evanovich adds, "The genre reflects the increased power and opportunity afforded today's women. We see more variety in the genre in terms of heroine age and occupation. And today's heroine is stronger, more self-reliant. Of course, Nora was always ahead of the pack. Her heroines were always strong."
Rebecca Sullivan, a heroine in Roberts' latest romantic suspense, Three Fates, is a quintessential Nora Roberts lead: She runs the family business (giving boat tours off the western coast of Ireland) and engineers the search for the family's lost treasure. Rebecca's a smart, capable lady with a sense of humor. In the course of the story, she falls in love with a computer expert who eventually marries her -- the book ends in Ireland with the assumption that the husband will help her with the business. "I'm not interested in telling stories about weak women," Roberts says. "Or if they're weak, I want to show how they grow and how they become strong. I'm not writing about Cinderella sitting waiting for her prince to come and take her away. She'll get out of it herself. The prince is a bonus, a completion, another element -- but it's not the answer to all of her problems."
***
Perched on a stool next to her kitchen counter, Roberts doesn't look like a purveyor of dreams. She could be any of a million women, taking a break from a million jobs, looking toward the end of a million days. Right now, her husband is outside, working in the yard before heading to town. Later on, he'll pick up groceries, and Nora will cook dinner; favorites are pasta with red sauce or Cajun chicken. Around 7:30, the two will retire for the evening, probably settling down for a while in front of the television -- it's Thursday, so they'll probably tune in for some of Friends or ER. And that's a typical end to a typical day for the world's most popular romance author. "I always wonder if they asked Agatha Christie if she was homicidal," Roberts says with a laugh. "I don't have a romantic lifestyle."
Still, she says, it's romance books she turns to when she wants to escape reality, so maybe the queen of the realm is, finally, one of its true citizens as well. Roberts, after all, spends her days holed up in her office, writing, researching and investigating the backgrounds for her books. She loves it, she says, but it's work. And when she's done, she's done. "When I read for pleasure," she says, "give me a story."
If today's romance is escapism, millions of its readers would argue that it is also girl-power between pastel covers: adventures that belong to characters who are at their strongest -- and sexiest -- because they are women. So Roberts essentially shrugs off the contempt reserved for romance novels as sexist and ignorant. Still, she recognizes that the genre carries a lot of baggage -- even she finds herself sneaking reads when she's out in public. A lot of the embarrassment, she says, has to do with the way the books look. "It's mostly hard for me when she's falling out of her dress, and he has his mouth on her tit," Roberts says, describing what she calls "nursing mother" covers. She taps her lighter against the counter and rolls her eyes. "To sit on an airplane and read that?"
From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
The exotic scenery isn't the only source of drama in Lunacy, Alaska (pop. 506), when newly appointed sheriff Nate Jacobs falls for local bush pilot Meg Galloway. An appealing love story unfolds as the two emotionally wounded characters attempt to work out their individual issues -- Nate struggles to adjust to small-town life (think Northern Exposure), while Meg fights the urge to follow her usual pattern of dumping guys after 30 days. Battling their romance for top billing is an engrossing murder mystery -- the discovery of Meg's father, found frozen in a cave after his apparent murder 15 years ago. Three friends went up the mountain, and only two came down...and someone doesn't want either Nate or Meg to dig any further. As Nate investigates the history of this community of free spirits, it's a toss-up whether he or Meg will live long enough to put down their own roots. Ginger Curwen
From the Publisher
The colorful, compelling novel about two lonely souls who find love-and redemption-in Lunacy, Alaska.
Romantic Mystery - Patricia (Trisha) Moore
Northern Lights is yet another feather in the cap of Nora Roberts. Ms. Roberts leads us. by means of her main character, Ignatious ("Nate") Burke, through the dark twists of fate that have landed Burke in the middle of an Alaskan winter to take on the job of Chief of Police for aptly named Lunacy, Alaska.. To do his job well, Burke must overcome his debilitating depression, the result of a shoot-out during a police action in his old home town of Baltimore, which cost him his partner and months of rehabilitation from his own wounds.
She has once again assembled a cast of characters that runs the gamut from a man of God to a godless individual, one of whom is guilty of murder, but hiding behind the façade of anyone's next-door-neighbor. Of course, we have the a romantic pairing of Nate with Meg, a free-spirited girl of the north, who takes it upon herself to help Nate find his way back, while enjoying the fruits of her labor, so to speak. The love scenes are tastefully, albeit erotically, done, which puts this story in the mature audience category.
The Alaskan scenery and the incredible aurora borealis are meticulously described by Ms. Roberts, which leaves you as breathless as Nate must have been experiencing it in person.
I dare you to unequivocally decide who the killer is before the end of the book. Now, no peeking at the end first.
The Washington Post - Pamela Regis
Roberts is among the best popular novelists currently at work, and this novel displays her considerable talent. The setting is economically but beautifully evoked, the spare style balancing the breathtaking grandeur of Alaska. Pace, dialogue and scenes are cunningly shaped, and the the police procedural skillfully dovetails with the romance. Wit abounds.
Publishers Weekly
Roberts shines again with a nuanced tale of the Alaskan wilderness and the appealing eccentrics who cluster there. Former Baltimore cop Nate Burke accepts the unlikely post of police chief of Lunacy, Alaska (pop. 506), to stave off the depression caused by divorce and the traumatic death of his partner, for which he holds himself partly responsible. His early days in the close-knit town are quiet except for minor disturbances and a dalliance with a feisty bush pilot, Meg Galloway. Then Meg's father, who disappeared 16 years before, is found frozen in a remote mountain cave, an ice ax in his chest. The discovery that Pat Galloway was murdered most likely by a local shakes up the town and drives his murderer to commit a second, cover-up killing. Though state authorities dismiss that death as suicide, Nate pursues it as a crime a decision that puts him at odds with many outspoken Lunatics, as the townspeople call themselves. With quiet inexorability he fields the flak, uncovers long-forgotten events and finds a tough but loving balance with the fiercely independent Meg. Though billed as romantic suspense, the novel forsakes artificial genre conventions in favor of a wry, affectionate look at community bonds, generational wounds and soul-testing landscapes. The result is a richly textured novel that captures the intimacy of smalltown police work, the prickliness of the pioneer spirit and the paradox of a setting at once intimate and expansive, welcoming and hostile, indisputably American and yet profoundly exotic to those in the Lower 48. Agent, Amy Berkower at Writers House. (Oct. 12) Forecast: Roberts keeps her lock on bestseller lists with her uncanny ability to balance high-quality work and high-frequency publication. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
The amazingly prolific Roberts (Key of Valor) continues to entertain and entice readers with good old-fashioned storytelling. Set in the quirky Alaskan hamlet of Lunacy, her latest revolves around Nate Burke, a retired Baltimore cop who has taken the job of police chief to escape the haunting memories of his partner's death. Readers are gradually introduced to an interesting cast of secondary characters, including a young pilot named Meg who has lived in Alaska all her life and embraced the solitude and independence of her job. When Nate learns that a couple of college students are missing, he teams up with Meg to search for them, and in the process they discover the frozen body of Meg's father, who had disappeared years before. Roberts does a nice job of combining a multitude of engaging secondary characters with just the right touches of humor and suspense to sustain the reader's interest throughout this rather lengthy novel; longtime fans won't be a bit disappointed. Absolutely essential for all public libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 6/1/04.]-Margaret Hanes, Sterling Heights P.L., MI Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Jack London, move over. The Queen of Romance has you in her sights. Amazingly, Roberts (a.k.a. J.D. Robb, p. 601) doesn't miss in this wild and woolly tale of love and murder in Alaska. Nate Burke, the new chief of police in the little town of Lunacy, had a few qualms about living in the moose-infested end of nowhere, but there's something about the place-a man can breathe, if he doesn't mind having icicles for a mustache. The locals? They call themselves the Lunatics, of course: back-to-nature survivalists, native Inuit, former hippies, and oddballs of every stripe. A newcomer like Nate gets a lot of attention, but does he ever wish that Charlene, hip-swinging, heavily made-up, middle-aged mantrap, would leave him alone. Peach, the motherly town gossip, warned him about the brassy boardinghouse owner in no uncertain terms. Nate's got a lot on his mind: between the death of his partner at the Baltimore PD, who left a grieving widow and three kids, and a divorce Nate didn't want, he's emotionally numb. Just so happens that Charlene's daughter is a knockout: beautiful, athletic, black-haired Meg has ice-blue eyes that can undress a man in a flash. She's a bush pilot, lives alone and likes it, takes her pleasure where she finds it-and rolling around with Nate is a very pleasurable experience indeed. But she's hiding her own heartbreak: her ne'er-do-well, adventurous father disappeared 16 years ago during a dangerous climb. And when Patrick Galloway's frozen corpse is found in an ice cave with an ax through the chest-and it's clear that the long-ago killer is still on the loose-all hell breaks loose in Lunacy. Original characterization, brisk pace, and a great feel for the grandeur of thesetting-not to mention a fabulously tough young heroine who puts her vapid chick-lit sisters to shame-add up to a wonderful read. Romance will never die as long as the megaselling Roberts keeps writing it. First printing of 750,000; literary Guild/Doubleday Book Club main selection; author tour. Agent: Amy Berkower/Writers House. Agent: Amy Berkower/Writer's House
Loading...Product Details
- Pub. Date: October 2004
- Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)
- Format: Hardcover, 576pp
- ISBN-13: 9780399152054
- ISBN: 0399152059
Read a Sample Chapter
Northern Lights
By Nora Roberts
Putnam Adult
ISBN: 0-399-15205-9Chapter One
EN ROUTE TO LUNACY - December 28, 2004Strapped into the quivering soup can laughingly called a plane, bouncing his way on the pummeling air through the stingy window of light that was winter, through the gaps and breaks in snow-sheathed mountains toward a town called Lunacy, Ignatious Burke had an epiphany.
He wasn't nearly as prepared to die as he'd believed.
It was a hell of a thing to realize when his fate hung precariously in the hands of a stranger who was buried in a canary yellow parka and whose face was nearly concealed by a battered leather bush hat perched on top of a purple watch cap.
The stranger had seemed competent enough in Anchorage, and had given Nate's hand a hearty slap before wagging a thumb at the soup can with propellers.
Then he'd told Nate to "just call me Jerk." That's when the initial unease had set in.
What kind of an idiot got into a flying tin can piloted by a guy named Jerk?
But flying was the only sure way to reach Lunacy this late in the year. Or so Mayor Hopp had informed him when he'd conferred with her over his travel arrangements.
The plane dipped hard to the right, and as Nate's stomach followed, he wondered just how Mayor Hopp defined sure.
He'd thought he hadn't given a good damn one way or the other. Live or die, what did it matter in the big scheme? When he'd boarded the big jet at Baltimore-Washington, he'd resigned himself that he was heading to the end of his life in any case.
The department shrink had warned him about making major decisions when he was suffering from depression, but he'd applied for the position as chief of police in Lunacy for no reason other than that the name seemed apt.
And he'd accepted the position with a who-gives-a-shit shrug.
Even now, reeling with nausea, shivering with his epiphany, Nate realized it wasn't so much death that worried him, but the method. He just didn't want to end the whole deal by smashing into a mountain in the fucking gloom.
At least if he'd stayed in Baltimore, had danced more affably with the shrink and his captain, he could've gone down in the line of duty. That wouldn't have been so bad.
But no, he'd tossed in his badge, hadn't just burned his bridges but had incinerated them. And now he was going to end up a bloody smear somewhere in the Alaska Range.
"Gonna get a little rough through here," Jerk said with a drawn-out Texas drawl.
Nate swallowed bile. "And it's been so smooth up to now."
Jerk grinned, winked. "This ain't nothing. Ought to try it fighting a headwind."
"No, thanks. How much longer?"
"Not much."
The plane bucked and shuddered. Nate gave up and closed his eyes. He prayed he wouldn't add to the indignity of his death by puking on his boots first.
He was never going up in a plane again. If he lived, he'd drive out of Alaska. Or walk. Or crawl. But he was never going into the air again.
The plane gave a kind of jerking leap that had Nate's eyes popping open. And he saw through the windscreen the triumphant victory of the sun, a wondrous sort of lessening of gloom that turned the sky pearly so that the world below was defined in long ripples of white and blue, sudden rises, shimmering swarms of icy lakes and what had to be miles of snow-draped trees.
Just east, the sky was all but blotted out by the mass the locals called Denali, or just The Mountain. Even his sketchy research had told him only Outsiders referred to it as McKinley.
His only coherent thought as they shuddered along was that nothing real should be that massive. As the sun beamed God fingers through the heavy sky around it, the shadows began to drip and spread, blue over white, and its icy face glinted.
Something shifted inside him so that, for a moment, he forgot the roiling of his belly, the constant buzzing roar of the engine, even the chill that had hung in the plane like fog.
"Big bastard, ain't he?"
"Yeah." Nate let out a breath. "Big bastard."
They eased west, but he never lost sight of the mountain. He could see now that what he'd taken as an icy road was a winding, frozen river. And near its bank, the spread of man with its houses and buildings and cars and trucks.
It looked to him like the inside of a snow globe that had yet to be shaken, with everything still and white and waiting.
Something clunked under the floor. "What was that?"
"Landing gear. That's Lunacy."
The plane roared into a descent that had Nate gripping his seat, bracing his feet. "What? We're landing? Where? Where?"
"On the river. Frozen solid this time of year. No worries."
"But-"
"Going in on the skis."
"Skis?" Nate abruptly remembered he hated winter sports. "Wouldn't skates make more sense?"
Jerk let out a wild laugh as the plane zeroed in on the ribbon of ice. "Wouldn't that be some shit? Skate plane. Hot damn."
The plane bumped, skidded, slid along with Nate's belly. Then glided gracefully to a stop. Jerk cut the engines, and in the sudden silence Nate could hear his own heart tattooing in his ears.
"They can't pay you enough," Nate managed. "They can't possibly pay you enough."
"Hell." He slapped Nate on the arm. "Ain't about the pay. Welcome to Lunacy, chief."
"You're damn right."
He decided against kissing the ground. Not only would he look ridiculous, but he'd probably freeze to it. Instead, he swung his weak legs out into the unspeakable cold and prayed they'd hold him up until he could get somewhere warm, still and sane.
His main problem was crossing the ice without breaking his leg, or his neck.
"Don't worry about your stuff, chief," Jerk called out. "I'll haul it for you."
"Thanks."
Steadying himself, Nate spotted a figure standing in the snow. It was wrapped in a brown, hooded parka with black fur trim. And smoking in short, impatient puffs. Using it as a guide, Nate picked his way over the ripply ice with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Ignatious Burke."
The voice was raspy and female, and came to him on a puff of vapor. He slipped, managed to right himself, and with his heart banging against his ribs, made the snowy bank.
"Anastasia Hopp." She stuck out a mittened hand, somehow gripped his with it and pumped righteously. "Little green around the gills yet. Jerk, you play with our new chief on the way from the city?"
"No, ma'am. Had a little weather though."
"Always do. Good-looking, aren't you? Even sickly. Here, have a pull."
She yanked a silver flask out of her pocket, pushed it at him.
"Ah-"
"Go ahead. You're not on duty yet. Little brandy'll settle you down."
Deciding it couldn't make things worse, he uncapped the flask, took a slow sip and felt it punch straight to his quivering belly. "Thanks."
"We'll get you settled in The Lodge, give you a chance to catch your breath." She led the way along a tromped-down path. "Show you around town later, when your head's clear. Long way from Baltimore."
"Yeah, it is."
It looked like a movie set to him. The green and white trees, the river, the snow, buildings made of split logs, smoke pumping out of chimneys and pipes. It was all in a dreamy blur that made him realize he was as exhausted as he was sick. He hadn't been able to sleep on any of the flights and calculated it had been nearly twenty-four hours since he'd last been horizontal.
"Good, clear day," she said. "Mountains put on a show. Kind of picture brings the tourists in."
It was postcard perfect, and just a little overwhelming. He felt like he'd walked into that movie-or someone else's dream.
"Glad to see you geared up good." She measured him as she spoke. "Lot of Lower 48ers show up in fancy overcoats and showroom boots, and freeze their asses off."
He'd ordered everything he was wearing, right down to the thermal underwear, along with most of the contents of his suitcase from Eddie Bauer online-after receiving an e-mail list of suggestions from Mayor Hopp. "You were pretty specific about what I'd need."
She nodded. "Specific, too, about what we need. Don't disappoint me, Ignatious."
"Nate. I don't intend to, Mayor Hopp."
"Just Hopp. That's what they call me."
She stepped up on a long wooden porch. "This is The Lodge. Hotel, bar, diner, social club. You got a room here, part of your salary. You decide you want to live elsewhere, that's on you. Place belongs to Charlene Hidel. She serves a good meal, keeps the place clean. She'll take care of you. She'll also try to get into your pants."
"Excuse me?"
"You're a good-looking man, and Charlene's got a weakness. She's too old for you, but she won't think so. You decide you don't either, that's up to you."
Then she smiled, and he saw that under her hood she had a face ruddy as an apple and shaped the same way. Her eyes were nut brown and lively, her mouth long and thin and quirked at the corners.
"We got us a surplus of men, like most of Alaska. That doesn't mean the local female population won't come sniffing. You're fresh meat and a lot of them are going to want a taste. You do what you please on your free time, Ignatious. Just don't go banging the girls on town time."
"I'll write that down."
Her laugh was like a foghorn-two quick blasts. To punctuate it, she slapped him on the arm. "You might do."
She yanked open the door and led him into blessed warmth.
He smelled wood smoke and coffee, something frying with onions and a woman's come-get-me perfume.
It was a wide room informally sectioned into a diner with two- and four-tops, five booths, and a bar with stools lined up with their red seats worn in the center from years of asses settling down.
There was a wide opening to the right, and through it he could see a pool table and what looked like foosball, and the starry lights of a jukebox.
On the right, another opening showed what looked like a lobby. He saw a section of counter, and cubbyholes filled with keys, a few envelopes or message sheets.
A log fire burned briskly, and the front windows were angled to catch the spectacular mountain view.
There was one enormously pregnant waitress with her hair done in a long, glossy black braid. Her face was so arresting, so serenely beautiful, he actually blinked. She looked to him like the Native Alaskan version of the Madonna with her soft, dark eyes and golden skin.
She was topping off coffee for two men in a booth. A boy of about four sat at a table coloring in a book. A man in a tweed jacket sat at the bar, smoking, and reading a tattered copy of Ulysses.
At a far table a man with a brown beard that spilled onto the chest of his faded buffalo-check flannel shirt appeared to be holding an angry conversation with himself.
Heads turned in their direction, and greetings were called out to Hopp as she tossed her hood back to reveal a springy mop of silver hair. Gazes locked onto Nate that ranged from curiosity and speculation to open hostility from the beard.
"This here's Ignatious Burke, our new chief of police." Hopp announced this as she yanked down the zipper of her parka. "We got Dex Trilby and Hans Finkle there in the booth, and that's Bing Karlovski over there with the scowl on what you can see of his face. Rose Itu is waiting tables. How's that baby today, Rose?"
"Restless. Welcome, Chief Burke."
"Thanks."
"This is The Professor." Hopp tapped Tweed Jacket on the shoulder as she crossed to the bar. "Anything different in that book since the last time you read it?"
"Always something." He tipped down a pair of metal-framed reading glasses to get a better view of Nate. "Long trip."
"It was," Nate agreed.
"Not over yet." Shoving his glasses back into place, The Professor went back to his book.
"And this handsome devil is Jesse, Rose's boy."
The boy kept his head bent over his coloring book, but lifted his gaze so his big, dark eyes peered out under a thick fringe of black bangs. He reached out, tugged Hopp's parka so that she bent down to hear his whisper.
"Don't you worry. We'll get him one."
The door behind the bar swung open and a big, black truck in a big, white apron came out. "Big Mike," Hopp announced. "He's the cook. Was a Navy man until one of our local girls caught his eye when she was down in Kodiak."
"Snared me like a trout," Big Mike said with a grin. "Welcome to Lunacy."
"Thanks."
"We're going to want something good and hot for our new chief of police."
"Fish chowder's good today," Big Mike told her. "Ought to do the trick. Unless you'd rather bite into some red meat, chief."
It took Nate a moment to identify himself as chief. A moment when he felt every eye in the room focused on him. "Chowder's fine. Sounds good."
"We'll have it right up for you then." He swung back into the kitchen, and Nate could hear his bone-deep baritone croon out on "Baby, It's Cold Outside."
Stage set, postcard, he thought. Or a play. Anyway you sliced it, he felt like some sort of dusty prop.
Hopp held up a finger to hold Nate in place before marching into the lobby. He watched her scoot around the counter and snag a key from one of the cubbies.
As she did, the door behind the counter swung open. And the bombshell walked out.
She was blonde-as Nate thought suited bombshells best-with the wavy mass of sunlight hair spilling down to brush very impressive breasts that were showcased by the low scoop of her snug, blue sweater. It took him a minute to get to the face as the sweater was tucked into jeans so tight they must have bruised several internal organs.
Not that he was complaining.
The face boasted bright blue eyes with an innocence in direct contrast with the plump, red lips. She was a little generous on the paint, and put him in mind of a Barbie doll.
Man-killer Barbie.
Despite the restriction of the outfit, everything that could jiggle did so as she strolled around the counter on skinny, backless heels, wiggled her way into the diner. And posed languidly against the bar.
"Well, hello, handsome."
Her voice was a throaty purr-she must've practiced it-designed to drain the blood out of a man's head and send his IQ plummeting to that of a green turnip.
"Charlene, you behave." Hopp rattled the key. "This boy's tired and half sick. He doesn't have the reserves to deal with you right now. Chief Burke, Charlene Hidel. This is her place. Town budget's paying your room and board here as part of your pay, so don't feel obliged to offer anything out in trade."
"Hopp, you're so bad." But Charlene smiled like a stroked kitten as she said it. "Why don't I just take you up, Chief Burke, get you all settled in? Then we'll bring you something hot to eat."
"I'll take him up." Deliberately Hopp closed her fist around the key, letting the big black room number tag dangle. "Jerk's bringing in his gear. Wouldn't hurt to have Rose bring him the chowder Mike's dishing up for him though. Come on, Ignatious. You can socialize when you're not so ready to drop."
Continues...
Excerpted from Northern Lights by Nora Roberts Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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