The trading post sat hunched against the wind like an old man who'd forgotten how to stand straight. Trapper Tom pushed through the door and let it slam behind him. Snow blew in sideways before the latch caught and the wind gave up trying to follow him inside. He stamped his boots on the rough plank floor, loosening the crust of ice that had built up on the soles during the last three miles. The stomping sent dry flakes skittering across the boards toward the potbellied stove in the corner, where they vanished with a soft hiss.

The place smelled the way every trading post in the territory smelled. Woodsmoke baked into the logs so deep you couldn't tell where the wall ended and the smoke began. Wet wool drying near the stove. Tobacco from three different pipes going at once.