At the Rainbow's End (5 page)

Constable French noted her glances at the men. “Sorry lot, aren't they? I don't know why you folks down in the States continue to believe in El Dorado. California, Colorado, Alaska, now here. The gold isn't waiting to be scooped up.”

“Dreamers are an odd lot,” she said as he held open a door to the Pioneer.

“Like you?”

She paused in the foyer. Without looking around to enjoy the lush interior, she gazed up at him. Quietly she said with pride, “Like me, Constable.”

Unsure of how to respond, he gestured for her to walk through the arch at the far side of stairs leading up to the second story. She hesitated, then stepped through. A great number of tables were scattered about the huge room. A stage stood higher than her head at one side of the chamber.

A low wall separated part of the saloon. Constable French explained that government regulations required gambling areas to be separate from the place where liquor was served. The owners of these businesses wanted to offer every sport to their patrons. They followed Canadian laws to keep their customers returning with a steady flow of gold dust.

He drew out a chair for her at a shadowed table. “I don't think we can expect too much service at this time of day. I'll go and order for us. Wine?”

“They have wine here?” she asked, surprised such a civilized amenity was available in this outpost.

“Everything can be had in Dawson now. Not like it was over the winter, when there wasn't enough food. The merchants here don't intend to let those unprofitable shortages happen again.” He placed his hat on the table and walked toward the bar.

Samantha gazed about the nearly silent room. It was ornately beautiful. Photographs surrounding a huge moose-head covered one wall. A painting of the Yukon flowing at a queer angle into the distance was the centerpiece of another wall, reflected in the wall of mirrors behind the bar with its brass accents. Although rumors circulated that Dawson would have electricity before the end of the year, they depended on kerosene now.

With Constable French across from her, Samantha sipped her wine as he continued to tell her tales of “early” Dawson—less than two years ago. She found it difficult to believe that in 1896 the city had consisted of one cabin, a sawmill, and tents scattered on the flats by the river.

“Right over there on that stage last winter, two of the dance hall girls auctioned themselves off to the highest bidder.”

Choking on her half-swallowed wine, Samantha regarded him with shock. When she could speak past her scratched throat, she scoffed, “You must be kidding!”

“No,” he said, laughing, “Mabel LaRose started it over at the Monte Carlo. She got five thousand dollars in gold dust for offering to share the cabin of the miner who paid the most. Only for the winter. It started a trend. Susie and Daphne made a bit more, because the men heard of the first auction and didn't want to miss out on the next.”

“That's illegal!”

“It's not slavery. More of a. short term contract for services.” When she blushed, his smile broadened. “Not for you, I realize, but everyone involved was satisfied with the arrangement.”

Putting her glass on the table, she said, “It may not be against the law, but it is definitely immoral. How could those girls go to live with a man they barely knew?”

“Is it really so different from your agreeing to marry Houseman, without ever meeting him?” She started to protest, and he held up his hands to silence her. “Hush, Miss Perry. I know what you intend to say, but I definitely didn't mean that as an insult. Just a simple question.”

She stood and tightened her shawl around her shoulders. “Constable, I think I would like to leave.”

With a quick gulp, he drained his mug. He was not surprised when she did not put her fingers on his proffered arm. Her rage burned so brightly he imagined a glow was visible around her.

During the short walk back to the laundry, she refused to answer any questions. She wanted to pretend this afternoon had never happened. He had brought up the subject to needle her. All of the conversation had been geared to lead to the point where he could ridicule her and try to defame Joel.

At the door to the laundry, she paused to mumble, “Good day, Constable.”

He refused to allow her to leave with her fury. Pretty, vivacious Samantha Perry filled his fantasies. He drew her to him, one arm around her reluctant form. In his arms, she was as soft as he had dreamed. His hand cupped her chin.

When he saw the open shock in her eyes, he did not kiss her as he had planned. He felt a surge of frustration.

She clung to her foolishness, loving a man who would not leave his sluice long enough to claim her. Slowly, he released her. He watched her storm toward the laundry. Then he kicked a rock, sailing it cross the road to crash loudly against a pile of rubbish. Stamping away toward Dawson, he knew he would be back again to visit this fascinating woman.

Samantha peered through one of the large cracks in the unchinked wall. She did not want him to think she was spying on him as he left.

She was afraid to admit it, but Constable French was correct. She
had
obligated herself to a man she did not know. Now, she was becoming entangled with another man who could be no more than a friend.

Sinking to the bench in the steamy room, she sighed. What was she going to do? She longed for Joel to come and take her to their claim, where they could work for their common dreams, side by side. Once he arrived to take her out to the Bonanza, everything would be perfect.

She did not realize this would be the last day she believed that.

Chapter Three

Samantha brushed her hair back with soapy hands. If only the washwater were not so hot. Everything was hot here, although they were so close to the Arctic. She had been warned that would change soon, and wondered if the coming cold could be as horrible as this muscle-sapping heat. Someone had mentioned the temperature had hit 110 degrees yesterday. From the way her clothes clung to her sweaty skin, she feared that would happen again today.

“Miss Perry? Are you Miss Perry?”

“Yes.” She answered the eager voice without turning. With the ladle, she scooped out the last shirt. If it once had been white, she did not know how to restore it to that freshness. The best she had managed was a filmy gray.

Footsteps sounded on the boards as the man walked around to stand in front of her. He repeated, “Miss Perry?”

“I told you I was Samantha Perry,” she snapped dropping the laundry into a basket. “What do you want? Mrs. Kellogg takes orders inside.”

“I am Mr. Houseman.”

Shocked, she looked up. This was not the way she had imagined the first meeting with her future husband. Instead of gentle smiles and soft words, she had spat at him like an irritated cat. When her eyes met his uneasy, brown ones, she saw a shy smile form in them. It flowed along his narrow face to settle on lips nearly hidden in his unruly, thick blond beard.

She knew she should say something. Anything. Her mind was too numb to create a thought of any kind. She continued to stare, noting his dusty denims and well-patched shirt. A wide-brimmed, floppy hat sat on his head, nearly settling on his gold-rimmed glasses.

“You sure are pretty,” he murmured. “Even prettier than in your picture.” He glanced upward, flushed guiltily, and quickly took off his hat. He rolled the brim in his hands. “I have been looking all over Dawson for you.”

“I did not have enough money to pay for a room in the hotel,” she hurriedly explained. “I would have left you a message, if I could have. Since the
Merwyn
docked, I've been here. Mrs. Kellogg offered me a room and meals in exchange for work.”

“About the room, Miss Perry, I—”

“Find her?” interrupted Mrs. Kellogg in a friendly voice. The hard-faced woman smiled, showing a rare public sample of her kindness.

He lifted his hat to tip it in her direction. “Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Kellogg.”

Samantha lowered the paddle into the limp bubbles in the vat. Wiping her hands on the stained apron, over her dark skirt, she wondered why he was so different from what she imagined. Not that Mr. Houseman did not look like his picture.
Better
, she thought with a touch of girlish excitement, because the photograph had not showcased the strength which strained the seams of his worn clothes. She had, though, expected the man who wrote her such luscious emotional letters would be more verbose.

Then she asked herself how she could fault him. She, herself, barely said two words. If he was afflicted with the same curse of shyness she suffered, it would be a long and uncomfortable journey to his claim. With her hands still hidden in her apron, she smiled and stepped around the tub to stand near, but not too near, the man she had promised to marry.

Mrs. Kellogg continued to be in charge of the situation. “Run inside, Samantha, and pack your things. Your Mr. Houseman won't want to wait long. You have quite a trek ahead of you. Coffee, Mr. Houseman?”

“No—no, thank you. As soon as Miss Perry is ready, we will leave.”

“Are you catching the stage to Grand Forks?”

He shuffled his feet, as if ashamed to admit the truth. “No, ma'am. I've picked up her things at the warehouse. As soon as she's packed, we'll be walking out to the claim. It isn't that far. Not more than twelve miles.”

The older woman frowned. Taking Samantha by the arm, she called over her shoulder that they would be only a few minutes. Inside the washhouse, she said nothing until they stood in the cramped bedroom. She watched as the bride-to-be stuffed her things haphazardly in her bag.

“Samantha, child, are you sure you want to go?” She scowled fiercely, but her anger was not directed at the young woman. “Are you positive you want to leave with a man too miserly to buy two tickets on the Grand Forks stage?”

She recognized the name of the smaller settlement on the Bonanza river. Joel had written of it several times. That was where he went to trade for the things needed on the claim. Trips to Dawson were made only when absolutely necessary.

“I promised,” she said quietly.

“That doesn't matter. You promised only to come to Dawson to see if you wanted to marry this man. You didn't sign away your life.” She grabbed the younger woman by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Samantha, he didn't even reserve the room at the hotel, as he promised. Mr. Houseman isn't your only admirer. Constable French has been calling almost daily for the past week.”

“I know.” Samantha thought of her other offer. Mrs. Kellogg did not know about Mr. Penn, the first mate of the
Merwyn
. He would be happy to pay for her passage from this city. She knew, though, that the cost of that favor might be far higher than he said when she left the steamboat.

About to put her laundered coat in the satchel, she paused. Constable French was another matter. She could not keep from liking him. His charm washed over her in a gentle cascade each time he interrupted her workday with his irreverent humor. She liked him. But she loved the Joel Houseman she had met through the few letters she treasured.

“The constable is a dear friend. Please let him know Mr. Houseman came for me, and I didn't have time to tell him farewell.”

“You're going, then?”

“Of course.” There was no doubt in her voice.

“Then take care, child.” Mrs. Kellogg flung her reddened arms around her. “If you ever need sanctuary, you are welcome here.”

“Thank you.”

With her bag in her hand, she walked out of the place which had been her home for nearly two weeks. Her eyes went directly to the impatient man pacing from the tub to a pile of kindling on the opposite side of the grassless yard.

He was undeniably handsome. His yellow hair had been lightened by the harsh, northern sun. It brushed his collar and blended in with the darker strands of his beard. She discovered his clothes were not colorless, just covered with dirt. A warmth spread through her. Joel needed her as much as he had told her by mail he wanted her. The thought strengthened her.

She was about to call to him when she heard hoofbeats in front of the shack. Constable French spoke her name, she saw Joel's eyes narrow in rage as they settled on the Mountie.

Constable French's greeting died half uttered. His glance went from the satchel in Samantha's hands to the man standing in the center of the clearing. Recovering his aplomb, he said with fake good will, “Good afternoon, Houseman.”

“Constable,” Houseman said tersely, with a slight nod in the man's direction. “Miss Perry, are you ready?”

“Yes.” She crossed the yard to stand by her fiancé. A weak smile twisted her lips into an uncomfortable angle. “Good-bye, Constable.”

Although he clearly wanted to say something else, he said only, “Good-bye, Miss Perry. Have a pleasant journey out to the Bonanza. I don't want to keep you. The stage should be leaving any minute.”

The man next to her did not contradict Constable French's assumption. He merely nodded and took Samantha's bag. Motioning for her to follow, he led her to a dappled horse tied to a tree and added her small case to her larger two bags on its back. With the reins in his hand, he started down the street.

Samantha hesitated for a second, looking back at her newfound friends. Mrs. Kellogg stood in the shadow of the kind Constable French. Wanting to rush back to them, she hurried to catch up with Joel. She had promised. She could hear her father telling her over and over before he died of pneumonia in her twelfth winter that a Perry never broke a promise.

Although two weeks had made her comfortable with other facets of the rough life of the city, she could not disregard the lustful leers of the men. She stepped closer to Joel. When she bumped into him, he glanced at her oddly. He did not speak. She moved away, unsure what to make of his strange expression.

At the Klondike, he did not take the bridge which led to Lousetown. Instead he turned along a less traveled road which ran south and east along the shore.