At the Rainbow's End (6 page)

When they had put the busy sections of the city behind them, Joel stopped and pulled a piece of netting from a pocket of his denims. He held it out to her and said, “This may keep away some of the skeeters. Mrs. Mulroney, who owns the hotel in Grand Forks, says this helps her.”

She stared at the piece of gauze, nearly as fine as cheesecloth. With a chuckle, he took it from her and wound it around her head. It covered her face, allowing her to see fairly well. Anything which would halt the marauding swarms of mosquitoes was welcome.

For a long minute, he did not move away from her, but made no attempt to touch her. He stared into her face, nearly obscured by the veiling, he started to say something, then halted himself. Then he walked away calling over his shoulder, “Come on. I want to put a few miles behind us before we have to stop for the night.”

Confused, Samantha wondered if she had done something wrong. The man of her fantasies would not be this taciturn. His delightful humor had made her laugh aloud as she read his letters again and again.

She decided again that he must be shy. She herself was certainly far more timid than usual. A shiver of fear went through her. Maybe Joel was disappointed in
her
. The idea of asking him daunted her. She walked on in a silence as ominous as the forest around them.

That quiet did not last long. They came upon the first claim shortly after the buildings of Dawson faded in the distance. Her eyes took in every detail of the hideously filthy clearing. A primitive cabin leaned at an angle which seemed impossible. Supplies littered the ground. Men worked at the edge of the river. They did not look up as the travelers passed. Intent on surveying the water passing through their sluices, sorting through the mud and gravel for the sparkle which could signal wealth, the sourdoughs cared only for their obsessions.

This scene was repeated over and over with eerie similarity as they walked upstream. Every five hundred feet another claim had been staked, with a ramshackle hut, myriad piles of supplies and of garbage, and the prerequisite trough to rechannel the river water. The men seemed the same, though they wore everything from sensible denims to three-piece wool suits more suited to bankers than prospectors.

As the afternoon passed, Samantha's legs grew leaden. They had to pick their way around scattered equipment, following a nearly invisible path among the few trees remaining after the onslaught of prospectors.

The river remained their guide as they walked along the Klondike until they reached the intersection of Bonanza Creek. Nothing changed when they followed the creek. The claims came with the same regularity.

Silent, the man led the horse. She thought of trying to break the uncomfortable quiet, but as time passed it became too difficult. Concentrating instead on walking, she pushed her discomfort to the back of her mind and stumbled on in his wake.

When the sun dipped toward the horizon, he turned inland from the river and into the woods. When they were at least a quarter mile from the river he finally stopped.

“Tired?”

She almost laughed at his question, but saw he meant it seriously. He was not showing any strain from their rough journey. She guessed his time of working on the river had strengthened him. She doubted she would ever gain such stamina.

“Very,” she replied.

“Sit down. We will stop here. We have come nearly seven miles. After supper, you can rest a while. Tomorrow we will arrive at the cabin early enough so I can do some work.”

He built a fire in a pit which he dug out of the thin layer of thawed earth and lined with stones. When she was about to remove the netting from around her hat, he cautioned her to leave it in place. Within minutes he had water boiling in a small pot over the fire and was warming some biscuits and sidemeat in another pan.

Samantha gratefully accepted the cup of steaming liquid and the plate of unappetizing food. She raised the mosquito netting up over her hat to take a sip of coffee, wondering if she would ever become acccustomed to the long hours of sunlight. They would rest in this twilight before continuing on the silent trip southeast along Bonanza Creek. In the distance, she could hear men talking to each other as they worked in the creek, frantically searching for elusive gold.

“This is good,” she said to break the silence.

“Thank you.” He could not hide his pleasure at her compliment. “I'm not a very competent cook, but I have learned to like my own cooking. Perhaps you will make us a good dinner tomorrow night. We will arrive at the claim in plenty of time for preparations.”

She lowered her eyes. She could not imagine continuing on. Her legs ached from her long hours at the laundry tub today, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. She slapped away a mosquito and batted at another whining near her ear.

“You'll get used to them,” he said as he noted her motion.

“Really?”

He smiled for the first time since they had met in the yard by Mrs. Kellogg's house. “Maybe not. I can't get used to them myself. They seem far more determined and vicious than the ones we had back in Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania?” she asked in sudden confusion. “I thought you were from Virginia.”

“It doesn't matter.” He poured the last of his coffee on the ground. “Do you want to sleep?”

Disconcerted by his strange words, she nodded. He pulled a blanket from his pack and spread it on the ground. When he motioned for her to lie down, she felt uneasy. She had promised to marry Joel Houseman, but they had not paused at a pastor's house. Only now did she think of how they would be living together on their small claim. Again unsure of how to approach him and relieve the distress in her heart, she said nothing.

She did not sleep immediately, although she closed her eyes. The unnatural twilight and the constant whir of mosquitoes kept her awake. Cold sifted up from the ground, which was permanently frozen, only inches below her. Wind moved the treetops.

When she felt Mr. Houseman move close to her, she stiffened. When she realized that he intended to stay awake and keep guard on their supplies, she allowed herself to relax.

She felt his eyes on her. Her senses honed by her time in Dawson, she could tell he regarded her possessively. She wondered why he had not even taken her hand. Mr. Munroe had greeted Gwen with unbridled enthusiasm. Joel acted like a polite stranger.

As she drifted away into a fatigued sleep, she smiled. They were strangers. If she gave them time to find the love they had professed in their letters, her dreams might come to life.

A gentle voice called near Samantha's ear, “Miss Perry? Miss Perry, it's time for us to start.”

She turned to look up into Joel's face, smiling to see him so close. He leaned over her, one hand on either side of her shoulders. She traced the fine lines of his face with her eyes, delighting in the face she had looked at so often in the precious photograph.

When she saw his lips descending to cover hers, she shivered with anticipation, eager for an expression of the love she had longed for during the long and difficult voyage to this frontier. She lifted her arms to place them around his shoulders.

With a strangled moan, he moved away, stood, and turned his back on her. A muted oath drifted to her. She slowly rose, rearranged her clothes into a semblance of freshness, and walked to where he stood.

“Mr. Houseman, good morning.” She knew her words were inane, but she did not know what else to say to this puzzling man.

“Good morning?” He said, laughing, “You're the lady I expected you to be. Shall we go? I know we've had no breakfast, but there's more food and an escape from these flying bloodsuckers on the claim.”

“Yes, of course.” She folded the blanket and handed it to him. While he tied it on the back of the horse, she wondered if he truly had intended to kiss her. She had been sure he would, but now he acted as if nothing had happened. When he looked at her, she lowered her eyes and moved to stand beside him. She had no idea how to handle this baffling situation.

They renewed their journey with the same silent determination to put miles behind them, but that changed quickly. The miners they were passing now were not strangers to Joel and greeted them, coming out of their cabins at broadening daylight to return to work. Although each man appraised her closely, no one said anything to her other than a brief good morning. Making no effort to introduce her to the others, her companion hurried on. She wondered if it was the yearning to return to his work that made him increase the pace.

An aura of nervousness billowed out around him, made obvious by the whiteness of his knuckles gripping the reins and the straight, grim line of his mouth below his mustache.

They walked down a hill into a valley which must have once been beautiful. Like the rest of the countryside around the rivers flowing into the Klondike, the land had been stripped of everything lovely. In the distance, she could see an unbroken line of claims, announced by sluices and plumes of smoke from cookstoves. She felt a pang at the loss of what had been here.

Shaking her head to dislodge these gloomy thoughts, she asked herself why she cared about such things. They were not here to admire the scenery. They were here to realize their dreams of finding gold and discovering a life together.

She had to cling to trees as the slope dropped away steeply. Joel could not assist her. All of his attention was needed to help the overloaded horse down the hillside. She remained far behind them, but the gentle, consoling words he spoke to his steed gave her some solace. Her future husband was a kind man.

At the base of the hill, he waited for her to draw even with him, then nodded to show he was pleased she had managed the slope without mishap.

Soon they entered a clearing exactly like many they had seen on their journey. Samantha hid her dismay when he reached for the pack on the horse. This must be home. She tried not to show her disappointment as she saw the barely chinked log walls of the hut, topped by a roof of canvas to prevent moisture from dripping inside. A second cabin was attached to the first. It had the luxury of a window, fashioned in the peculiar style found in Dawson, of empty bottles held together with hardened mud, light could filter through it into the small house.

When the door swung open she could not hide her surprise. A man walked out to cross the muddy yard. He was taller than Joel, and his dark hair shone in the sun as brightly as her own. His eyes were the deepest blue she had ever seen. Little of the rest of his face could be seen behind a beard as thick as Joel's.

He paused in mid-step when he saw her, standing by her escort. He smiled the same way Joel had at his first sight of her, easing lines ingrained by hard work and the rough climate.

“This is Miss Perry?” He sounded delighted.

Her fiancé nodded with obvious reluctance. He put his hand on her arm, startling her. It was the first time he had touched her. “Miss Perry, this is my partner Joel Gilchrist.”

“How do you do, Mr. Gilchrist?” She offered her hand politely, thinking it odd that both men shared the same given name. Never in any of the letters had there been the mention of a partner. Perhaps this was a new arrangement to ease the workload. “Do you live nearby?”

“I live here.” His dark eyebrows formed a line across his forehead as he regarded the other man steadily. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing,” Joel Houseman answered, too quickly.

The taller man frowned. “Nothing? You brought her all the way out here without telling her the truth? I thought you were going to tell her before she left Dawson.”

Samantha demanded, “What truth?” The men ignored her.

With his hands creating a flurry to match his hasty explanation, Mr. Houseman did not try to soften his words. A heated blush climbed her cheeks as she heard him tell his partner how he had been smitten with her from the second he saw her working at the laundry tub. Embarrassment became fright as Gilchrist stepped forward threateningly. Then she realized his rage was directed at the man beside her.

“Charmed, were you? Did you marry her? Did you forget our agreement, along with what you were supposed to tell her?”

“Calm down,” said the blond man, still holding her arm. “We didn't stand before the preacher. I don't cheat my own partner. I'm just speaking the facts. She is powerfully pretty, and I wouldn't have a difficult time taking her to wife.”

“We decided how it would be, remember?” the darkly handsome man said in a steely, quiet tone which did not disguise his rage.

Peeling her fiancé's hand off her arm, Samantha stepped away from both men. “I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Gilchrist. There is no reason to argue. Mr. Houseman proposed to me and paid for my passage here. I promised to marry him.”

“You promised to marry Joel Houseman, right?”

She did not back away from his daunting blue stare. If she was going to have to suffer this man's presence, she would not allow him to cow her on their first meeting. Without a sign of her internal turmoil, she said, “That's correct, Mr. Gilchrist.”

“Not
Kevin
Houseman.”

“Who?” She turned to the man who had brought her here from Dawson.

A scarlet as bright as the gaudy decorations of the Dawson hotel splashed across his face. He swallowed several times. “Miss Perry, I am Kevin Houseman.”

“Then who is Joel Houseman?”

Instantly, she knew the answer. Her gloved hands clasped over her mouth; she tried to deny the truth she could see on the men's faces. Joel Gilchrist—Kevin Houseman.

She felt arms around her shoulders when she swayed. Trying to shrug them off, she nearly fell to the ground, her knees too wobbly to support her. Her ears rang with the effort to breathe, as she was helped into the cabin. A bench was pulled away from a table, which took up most of the room. A glass was pressed into her hands. When she did not raise it to her lips, it was taken and placed against her mouth.