🌟 ANNOUNCING 🌟 The Gold Miner's Daughter INTERNATIONAL BOOK TOUR

The night before Christmas in Chicken, Alaska, 1959, looked much like any other brutal winter evening—except for the decorations Gene had strung around his general store and the small spruce tree standing sentinel in the corner. As the unofficial mayor of this frozen outpost, Gene knew how to mark the occasion even when your entire town numbered exactly twelve souls.

He refilled Miss Gail Richner's cup as she settled near the wood stove, the eldest, wealthiest, and finest shot in Chicken. Across from her, Wyatt Peoples—the newest addition to their dozen—had graciously taken the coldest seat by the window, where a three-inch band of frost and ice held back the forty-five-below darkness.

Boyd Harrison, the local mechanic, occupied one of the hand-carved chairs he'd made for Gene. A Louisiana refugee who'd discovered Alaska through Uncle Sam's all-black Army regiment while building the Alcan Highway during the war, Boyd was Gene's oldest friend in Chicken, arriving in the late '40s and never looking back.

The table wasn't set for a feast but for penny-ante five-card draw. Gene rolled up his sleeves against the wood stove's heat, though his heavy boots stayed laced tight—a pan of water on the floor would freeze solid in minutes.

"Wyatt, how are you holding up alone at the Barnes mine?" Gene asked, dealing the cards.

The young Texan shivered at the thought. "Mayor, I can see why so many miners went crazy over the winter. I've got that stack of books you loaned me and my Robert Service poetry to memorize when I'm not chopping wood. It takes most of a day just to warm the place back up when I return."

"You done banked that cabin with snow, didn't ya?" Boyd's thick Louisiana drawl cut through.

"Yes sir, plum up to the eaves. Still, those newspapers in the walls aren't much armor against this kind of cold."

"Deal them cards so I can win the rest of your change," Miss Gail interrupted.

"We have all night, ma'am. Don't clean us out too soon."

"I always give it back so we can start again. Now deal."

Gail was Chicken's resident mystery. She'd arrived from Dawson not long after Dottie built the saloon next door, and every July Fourth she entertained with shooting demonstrations that would make Annie Oakley jealous. Her artwork—a haunting mixture of Southwest and Far North scenes painted on antique saw blades and gold pans—only deepened the speculation. And that jewelry collection she crafted from local gold nuggets? Nobody knew where she'd learned such craftsmanship.

"Ma'am, you've cleaned me out slicker than any riverboat gambler from New Orleans to Dawson City ever did," Wyatt said.

Boyd laughed, "And not one of them give it back."

Wyatt Peoples was Gene's other puzzle. The big, strong young man with the baritone voice had shown up mid-season hunting for work and taken up with Tim Crockett and family up on Poker Creek. He'd earned a reputation for honest work, staying sober, and avoiding trouble. Gene had expected him to hightail it south when winter came. Instead, he'd stayed on as caretaker at the Barnes mine, where the year before three men had quit, unable to handle the isolation.

Gene wondered what held him. Miss Gail said it was Amy Crockett. Judging by how Wyatt's face turned crimson whenever she came near, it seemed a safe bet.

Boyd studied his cards and tossed in a nickel. "You hear them Russians yappin' on your HAM radio?" Boyd dropped two cards.

Gene dealt him two. "Yes sir. Can't understand a word. Every now and again I get on there and tell them a commie joke—"

"Stop jabbering," Gail cut in. "I see Boyd's nickel and raise three cents. One card." She laid down one card.

Gene flipped her one, trying to read her face. Impossible. Gail randomly smiled, frowned, and maintained an expression that could mean anything or nothing.

"Three for me." Wyatt dropped his pennies in the pot and peeked at his new cards. Wyatt, in his habitual jeans and snap-button shirt—part of his Texan background he couldn't shake—studied his cards. His brown Stetson hung on a peg nearby. He'd been a soldier and a cop in his past but didn't speak much about either. Right now, though, his face gave everything away, and Gene folded.

"Mr. Gene, them little green men scare you out this hand?" Boyd grinned.

"One of these days you'll be working on equipment late and see one of those unidentified flying objects yourself. Then you won't be so quick to tease."

"Give him a break. These northern skies have plenty of secrets and give me endless inspiration for paintings. I bet another five cents." Gail pushed her coins forward.

Wyatt eyed his dwindling stack, took a sip of nog, and matched the bet. "I'll see you."

Gail smiled and spread her cards—aces and eights, spades and clubs. "Dead man's hand."

Wyatt looked tickled as a kid at Christmas and laid down three threes, collecting the pot. Gene suspected Gail was keeping the young man in the game.

Then came the sound.

WHOMP.

Something heavy had crashed to the ground outside.

"Your aliens crash into the ground, Mr. Mayor?"

"Most likely Santa crash-landed," Gail said.

The four of them stared through the condensation-blurred window into the darkness. Only the distorted form of the moon was visible through the frost.

Wyatt snatched his Stetson, pulled on his sheepskin-lined parka, flipped the collar up around his ears, and slipped on his mittens before yanking the door latch.

The heavy wooden door squealed as ice scraped across the floor. Cold pushed in like a sea swell, turning to fog. By the time Wyatt stepped out, Boyd was dressed and right behind him.

The sky spread like a giant black opal, throwing sheets of green, red, and purple aurora across the heavens. No sign of what made the noise. They stood perfectly still, listening, their boots silent on the frozen ground.

The aurora whispered like light rain on a calm lake. Wyatt shook his head to clear it and searched for signs of what caused the commotion. In this cold, ice on rivers or tree trunks could shatter with the crack of a gunshot, but that sound had been different—heavier, with weight behind it.

The air smelled of smoke. With no wind, it settled around the store and drifted slowly downhill toward the river.

"Look there, Mr. Boyd."

Wyatt pointed to the eave of Dottie's Saloon. The pitched metal roof gleamed in the moonlight, completely bare. All the snow had slid off and landed in a massive pile below.

"Looky there—I see smoke from the stack."

Wyatt saw it too. No one had been inside Dottie's since she'd left in August. Sure, buildings were left unlocked in the bush so anyone could find emergency shelter, but with lights and warmth at Gene's store just next door, why would anyone choose the unheated saloon?

"It would seem crazy to try warming up a place that big. It was never insulated at all."

"That be sure enough true."

They walked around to the other side in time to see more snow break loose and slide off with a crash, sending up a cloud of fine powder.

"Whoa!" Wyatt stepped back. Boyd moved away from the pile too.

"Everyone alright?" Gail called from Gene's door.

"Yes ma'am. We're fine."

Boyd pointed. "You see that?"

The snow was frozen so hard you could walk on it, and there were clear signs of footprints leading to the front door. The door was closed, but when Wyatt opened it, warm air pushed out of the darkness.

"Go to Gene's and get us a flashlight."

Boyd took off at a jog. "Hello? Anyone here?" Wyatt called into the shadows.

No answer. Not a sound except the hiss of dying embers in the barrel stove.

Gene and Gail returned with Boyd, bundled in caribou parkas with wolf fur ruffs. Gene handed Wyatt a flashlight—it wouldn't last long in this cold.

Inside, Wyatt swept the beam around. He spotted snow crystals glinting in the light, forming a trail directly to the woodpile behind the stove near the end of the bar.

No further tracks. Whoever had been here had arrived before all the snow slid off.

Wyatt checked the kitchen, Dottie's room, the storeroom, then back to the bar.

"Hey, Red Face, what's on the bar?" Gail asked.

Wyatt turned the light on the bar top Boyd had built for Dottie.

Four Christmas-wrapped packages sat in a neat row.

Each had a tag attached to a bow:

For Miss Gail, the Annie Oakley of Chicken


For Mr. Boyd, Mechanical Genius of the Frozen North


For The Red Faced Poet


For Mayor Gene

All four were signed: From Santa Claus

They carried the packages back to Gene's store in stunned silence.

"I don't have gifts for you all, let alone know which of you did this," Wyatt said.

"It wasn't me. I planned to cook dinner and invite you all to my place tonight," Gail said.

"Miss Gail, it weren't me. I had Mayor Gene write an IOU to fix any broken thing or whittle you something from diamond willow over the winter."

"Yeah, I've got mine right here," Gene said, fetching the candy bags and notes he'd prepared. "Was waiting for the game to end."

The writing on the tags was in block letters, unfamiliar to all of them.

"I'm not Dick Tracy, but I'm not at all convinced Santa Claus left these," Wyatt said slowly.

The others agreed. They decided to wait and open the gifts at Gail's place on Christmas Day.

Boyd walked home while Wyatt escorted Gail to her cabin before returning to the caretaker's cabin at the Barnes mine to warm it back up.

In the morning, after stoking and banking his fire, Wyatt stepped outside. The thermometer read forty-four below. At 8 a.m., sunrise was still three hours away, sunset only six hours after that.

On his walk, Wyatt caught sight of something in the snow—runner marks with dog tracks following the river, headed west.

His pulse quickened.

In the moonlight, he followed the trail until it turned upslope toward Boundary, where an old gold rush prospector and dog sled freighter lived. The man owned the only dog team for miles and kept cabins along the Taylor Highway. Gene had mentioned he'd hauled freight between Dawson and Chicken during the rush but didn't get out much anymore.

By the time Wyatt made his return journey, daylight was strong enough to track clearly. He followed the marks down to the river below Chicken and found the trail leading to and from Dottie's. There were spots where dogs had huddled together for warmth and a hole in the snow where the musher had driven his anchor to keep them from running off. From there, the trail led up to the closed-for-winter highway, then turned toward Boundary.

Gene and Boyd were already at Gail's when Wyatt arrived. He kept his discovery to himself.

Miss Gail unwrapped a small bottle of perfume. Boyd's package contained a fine whittling knife and a small bottle of apricot brandy. Gene found a set of barbecue tools in his box.

Wyatt wasn't sure what to expect. He opened his package to find what he thought was a red shirt. It turned out to be one-piece long underwear—and soon his face matched the color of the long johns.

It was apparent to all that someone who knew them well had sent these gifts, but exactly who and why remained a mystery.

Wyatt had a good guess who'd delivered them and how—their secret Santa was better known as Action Jackson, and his sleigh was pulled by dogs instead of reindeer.

But who had sent Jackson on his midnight run? And why had they chosen these particular gifts for them in Chicken?

Food was eaten, thanks were given, and Wyatt decided those questions could wait until spring, when walking wasn't quite so cold. Dottie knew a lot more than she ever let on. Wyatt suspected she might know the guilty party.

Some mysteries, he figured, were worth savoring.

Merry Christmas!