September's Dream

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  "This is my wife, Nell, and our little boy, Will."

  Shading his eyes, Jase smiled up at the thin, almost frail-looking girl and the little boy. "Jack talks about you all the time. Glad you made it safely."

  "They were on the same boat as you, Jase."

  "That so?" They must have kept to themselves. He hadn’t seen them among the passengers.

  "Come up and see us, Jase."

  He nodded. "If I’m in the area. Good luck, Ma’am."

  As the wagon moved away, Jase shook his head. That plain little girl was all Jack had talked about for months. She just didn’t look like the type who could make it in this harsh land. But then, hadn’t his mother fooled everyone? The cool, cultured Englishwoman and the uneducated trapper. Until her death, she had loved her man and his land fiercely.

  Love. It was a mystery to Jase. His parents had married late in life, but they loved each other like two carefree children. He’d be twenty-six on his next birthday, and he’d never met a woman who made him want to exchange his freedom for her favors.

  He turned and saw the slender figure of the girl from the boat. The hem of her dress dripped water into her shoes. She had a shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders. Her pale, silvery hair, piled on top of her head, dripped little tendrils about her face and neck, sending little rivulets of water down her cheeks and chin. She lifted a hand to stem the flow and glanced toward him. Standing there in the dusty trail, she seemed even smaller than she had on the boat. Jase wondered idly where her luggage was. His lips thinned. Maybe a girl like that traveled light.

  He turned and headed toward the town. He’d stop at Mueller’s Store and pick up some supplies. Jacob Mueller knew everything that went on in the town. It wouldn’t hurt to catch up on the latest news. In his line, he needed all the information he could get.

  * * *

  September wandered aimlessly among the tents, trying to determine her best course of action. Seeing a sign over a wooden building reading, "Miner’s Gear and General Store," she hurried inside.

  Two men, deep in conversation at the rear of the building, looked up as she entered. September felt her mouth go dry. One of the men was the stranger who had practically ordered her to go below the night Deke had . . . She stared pointedly at her muddy shoes as heat flooded her cheeks.

  A short bewhiskered man stepped forward. Though he had a young man’s face, his hair and beard were prematurely gray. "Yes, Miss? I’m Jacob Mueller. Can I help you?"

  Drawing the shawl tightly about her to cover her mud spattered dress, she said, "I’ve come in search of my father. I thought you might know him."

  Behind Mueller, the man from the boat took a step closer. Aware of his interest, September averted her gaze.

  "I’ve seen a lot of men pass through this town, Miss. Don’t know that I’d remember most of them though, unless there’s something remarkable about them. Got a tintype or a photograph of him?"

  Cursing Deke Kenyon, September shook her head. "No photograph. But I can describe him. He’s tall, maybe a little taller than you. As tall as your friend, I believe. And broad-shouldered." Her eyes came alive, dancing with the light of remembrance. "He used to carry me on his shoulders without any effort, and I’d reach clear up to the ceiling. And his hair is red and brown, mostly red, and when he doesn’t shave, his beard is red, too. His eyes are blue—bluer than the sky, and they crinkle at the corners when he laughs. He speaks with a bit of an Irish brogue, and his name is Patrick Malloy."

  She finished with a rush and the man gave her a bleak smile. "I’m sorry, Miss. He sounds like a fine-looking man, but you’ve just described hundreds of men who’ve come through this town looking for gold." Seeing the way her smile crumbled, he urged, "Is there any special mark? A scar, maybe, or birthmark?"

  She thought a moment, then brightened. "Oh, yes. He has a little strawberry birthmark on his shoulder just like this." Without hesitation she dropped her shawl and pulled aside the high neck of her prim black gown to display the distinctive mark on her pale shoulder. "Ma said it’s been in the Malloy family for generations."

  The stranger coughed, and Mr. Mueller discreetly swallowed back his chuckle. Realizing what she had done, September hastily gathered her dress and shawl about her. Her throat and cheeks flamed.

  "I’m afraid a little mark on a man’s shoulder isn’t distinctive enough to set him apart from the hundreds that pass through here, Miss."

  "I see." Avoiding his eyes, she stared at the floor.

  Sensing her desperation, Jacob Mueller added, "I’ll pass the word around the town that Patrick Malloy’s daughter is searching for him."

  "Thank you." She continued to stand, scuffing a shoe over the toe of the other shoe.

  "Is there anything else?"

  She paused, then plunged on. "Yes. I’m also looking for Deke Kenyon. Do you know him?"

  He thought a moment. "Nope. Never heard of him."

  "Kenyon Mines? You’ve heard of them?"

  "Kenyon Mines." He shook his head. "Can’t say I have."

  Another lie. But then, she shouldn’t be surprised. Lying came easily to a man like Deke, or whatever his name was.

  September gathered her courage for one more question. "How much does it cost to outfit someone for a trip to the gold fields?"

  He rubbed his chin whiskers. "Couple hundred dollars, if you want to do it right."

  Her heart sank. "Thank you, Mr. Mueller."

  "Would you care to buy anything while you’re here?"

  She gazed longingly at the tins of fish, the jars of canned peaches. She shook her head. "No. But thank you."

  Jase Conroy watched as she regally lifted the filthy hem of her gown and strode from the store. Although there had been a sense of bleak desperation in her eyes, her voice, her bearing, seemed almost noble.

  With a sigh Jacob Mueller turned away from the counter and found his friend staring thoughtfully at the closed door.

  * * *

  September threaded her way through the makeshift dwellings until she came to a two-story wooden building. If she couldn’t locate her father in Skagway, she would need lodging until she could earn enough to get to the gold fields. She knew in her heart that’s where she would find Patrick Malloy.

  The rough lettering of the sign read "Whelan House." September slicked back her tangled hair, smoothed down her skirts, then walked inside. A bell over the door jangled. A moment later a tall, raw boned woman, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, opened a door and entered from the back of the house. She was wearing a plaid woolen shirt and men’s britches held up over her enormous bosom with suspenders. On her feet were heavy work boots.

  Her gaze slid slowly over September, noting the mud caked on her shoes and the hem of her dress. She had seen so many of them. Some of them eager. All of them desperate.

  "You need a room?"

  September nodded.

  "For how long?"

  "I don’t know."

  The head came up sharply. "It’s a dollar a day."

  September ran a tongue over lips gone suddenly dry. "I don’t have any money."

  "Then stop wasting my time." The woman turned.

  "Wait."

  The woman paused without turning around.

  "I can work for my keep. I’m a good worker. I’m strong and honest."

  The woman turned back to study the slender figure. "Can you cook?" Blackbird eyes appraised her.

  "Yes. I’m a good cook."

  The dark eyes narrowed. "I’ll be the judge of that." She walked closer. "Where’s your stuff?"

  "My stuff?"

  "Belongings."

  "Oh." September glanced at the toe of her shoe. "I don’t have any."

  "Um humm. Robbed?"

  September nodded.

  "Happens a lot. Most of the time, folks just earn enough to get on the next boat back home. That what you’re planning?"

  September’s chin lifted. "No. I’m going to the gold fields."

  The woman thre
w back her head and laughed. "I’ve heard that before, too. That’s what they all say. All right. You can work here in exchange for a spot on the floor of the kitchen. I have to save the beds for paying customers. You’ll do up dishes, scrub the floors, and help with the laundry."

  "Thank you."

  "That takes care of a place to sleep. Now, if you want to eat, there’s more."

  September gripped her hands nervously.

  "Besides my roomers, I cook for a grub tent at the far side of town."

  "Grub tent?"

  "Lots of people in Skagway have a place to sleep but no way to cook food. So I run a grub tent. People on the move can stop and grab hot food. You’ll help me cook it here, then haul it across town every afternoon, serve it up, then bring back the pots for the next day’s meal."

  "How do I haul it?"

  "I got a wagon. Think you can handle it?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes. I’ll be fine."

  "Good. Let’s get started."

  "Now?"

  The woman paused. Her tone was sharp. "You thinking of stopping for tea?"

  "No. Now is fine." September had hoped to find a few minutes’ rest before starting to work. But, she told herself, she had already managed to find a place to sleep and plenty to eat. The day was looking brighter.

  "What’s your name, girl?"

  "September Malloy."

  "I’m Aggie Whelan. I own this place, and I intend to own a whole lot more before they plant me. When I yell jump, you ask how high. Understand?"

  September nodded.

  "Good. Come on. I got stew cooking. I’ll show you where to start."

  * * *

  As the last light faded from the western sky and darkness spread a cloak over the landscape, September hauled the heavy pots into the kitchen of the Whelan House. Behind her, the empty pushcart mocked her. She had thought she would be driving across the town in a fine horse-drawn rig. But the wagon Aggie mentioned was nothing but a rough wooden barrow that had to be pushed by hand. September struggled over the ruts in the dirt road made by hundreds of wagon wheels. Choking on dust, she pushed the cart to the far side of town, where she unloaded steaming pots, served the food to hungry drifters, then loaded the empty pots for the trek back.

  Rolling up her sleeves, she began to scrub. The steam of the kitchen was a relief after the evening chill.

  "Good. You’re back. I was beginning to think you’d run out on me."

  September continued to scrub. She knew the man working in the grub tent with her had reported back to Aggie. This shrewd woman left nothing to chance.

  "When you’re through there, take these buckets out back and fill them. Put the kettles on now so they’re boiling by morning." She dropped a blanket on the table. "And here’s your bed. The far corner’s probably the best place to sleep. That way no one will trip over you in the dark."

  "Aggie?"

  The older woman turned.

  September lifted a soapy hand to push the hair from her eyes. "I know I’m earning my bed and my food. Will there be anything left over?"

  The woman thought a moment. "If you work as hard as you did today, I’ll give you two dollars at the end of each week and we’ll call it even."

  Two dollars a week. At this rate she’d never earn enough to buy gear and join a pack train. She needed to find more work. And more hours in the day. September nodded. "Thanks, Aggie. Good night."

  As she hauled water by the light of the moon, September thought about her father. No matter how far he’d gone, she’d find him. Some way, she’d find him.

  Slipping out of her muddy clothes, she dropped them into a bucket and began scrubbing. Wringing them out, she draped them over the back porch railing, then proceeded to scrub her hair and her body until she felt clean again.

  Wrapping herself in the blanket, she huddled in the corner of the kitchen. She was exhausted beyond belief. But despite her weariness, a rage was growing in her, blocking out sleep.

  If she had to, she would comb every inch of this wilderness until she found two men. One, her father, out of a sense of love and loyalty. The other, Deke Kenyon, out of a sense of outrage and a need for revenge. Of the two emotions, at this moment hate was by far the stronger. She clenched her fists and rolled to her side. Oh, she would make Deke Kenyon live to regret all his sweet lies.

  Chapter Six

  "Get moving, girl. It’s practically light outside."

  September rolled from her blanket and groped her way in the near-darkness to the porch, where she pulled on her only dress.

  The days and nights which followed were a blur of aching muscles, impossibly hard physical labor, and exhausted sleep which ended all too soon. Each morning, September had to call on a well of energy which she hadn’t known she possessed. But though the work was draining, like all work it soon became routine. And her young body responded to the demands.

  She was clean, well fed, and she had a roof over her head each night. But this wasn’t her ultimate goal. Undaunted by the stories she heard about the horrible ice fields, her plan to earn enough to find her father continued to grow in her heart.

  The first opportunity presented itself in the grub tent.

  The miner was young, probably no more than thirty. But the long months in the Yukon had taken their toll. His teeth were rotting. He walked with a slight stoop. His fingers seemed permanently gnarled from the pickax he wielded and the frigid climate of the ice fields. A length of rope held his jacket closed against the cold.

  As she ladled steaming stew into a tin bowl, the miner asked September, "Can you sew, girlie?"

  She looked up, nodding. "But I don’t have a needle or thread."

  "I’ll give you the money for them. You can pick them up at Mueller’s Store tonight. And there’s a dollar in it if you’ll sew some buttons on this jacket by tomorrow."

  A dollar. For a few minute’s work. She nodded eagerly and held out her hand for the coins. "It’s a deal."

  Another miner spoke up. "This is my only shirt. It’s in tatters. I’ll pay you a dollar to mend the holes."

  She studied the filthy rag the man was wearing. "Two dollars and it’ll be clean as well."

  He considered the offer. Finally he agreed, pulling it off and slipping his arms into a worn jacket. "All right. But I want it back tomorrow."

  "You’ll have it."

  Three dollars. Plus the two Aggie promised her. As she pushed the cart over the ruts toward the boarding house, September’s mind began to calculate. There were probably plenty of people in this town who needed sewing done. She would have to find a way to locate them. But how?

  As she passed Rawlins’ Saloon, the tinny sounds of a piano filtered on the night air. With a sigh of impatience, September maneuvered around a rock, then dropped the handles of the cart for a moment’s rest. Two men shoved their way through the swinging doors, and September caught sight of a woman in a bright red gown. The sound of her singing drifted from the room, and September smiled at the familiar refrain. At the smattering of applause, September lifted the handles and started on her way.

  As she rounded the side of the building, she heard a coarse woman’s voice.

  ". . . damned dress is falling apart. When I hit my high note I felt the back seam give way. I had to back off the stage so the men wouldn’t see my corset."

  September froze. She swallowed back her nervousness, then pushed the barrow closer to the darkened figures.

  Her trembling voice sounded even lower in the darkness. "I’m a very good seamstress. I’d be happy to mend your gown."

  "Who the hell’s that?"

  September moved into the circle of light. "My name’s September. I’m a good seamstress. Would you like me to mend your gown?"

  The buxom woman, with yellow hair and two round smudges of rouge on her cheeks, studied the slender girl in the filthy black dress.

  "Sure, kid. Why not? How much?"

  September took a deep breath. Boldly she said, "Two dollars for minor repairs. Three dollars
for big jobs."

  "Three dollars? Stay right there, kid."

  The woman disappeared inside the door. A minute later she returned with her arms piled high with dresses. To her companion she said, "Snake said for three bucks apiece we can have a whole new wardrobe. Be sure to check all the seams, kid."

  Snake? September decided not to ask too many questions, or the woman might change her mind. "When do you need these?"

  The woman shrugged. "Bring me the purple one tomorrow. Take your time with the rest. But not too long," she cautioned.

  September piled the dresses in the cart and hurried on to Mueller’s Store, where she bought a needle and several spools of thread, along with some sturdy wooden buttons.

  "Will there be anything else?"

  The coins in her pocket gave September courage. Walking between rows of shelves piled high with grain, bolts of fabric, canned goods, and dried food, she wondered what it would be like to be able to choose anything she wanted. That’s what she’d do when she found her father and they cashed in the gold he’d mined.

  "I have a job now, Mr. Mueller. Would you be willing to trust me to have an account here?"

  Jacob Mueller had dealt with a lot of people since setting up his store in Skagway. He prided himself on being able to tell which ones would honor a debt and which ones would try to dodge. He made his decision quickly.

  "More than happy to oblige, Miss Malloy."

  September was pleased that he remembered her name. And even more pleased that he trusted her.

  "Fine," she said, indicating some jars of home canning. "I’ll take these with me, if you can help me load them onto my wagon."

  If Jacob Mueller was surprised at the crude pushcart she indicated, he didn’t let on. "Thank you, Miss Malloy. I’m happy to be of service."

  With a smile softening her features, September lifted the handles and pushed her treasures toward the boardinghouse.

  As she did each night, September scrubbed the pots and hauled water in the big kettles to the kitchen stove. When her chores were finished, she washed her clothes and strung them along the back porch. This time she added the miner’s shirt to the washload before taking her sponge bath. Toweling her hair dry, she wrapped herself in the rough blanket and curled into the corner of the steamy kitchen. She needed to retire quickly. Her days were about to begin even earlier than before. There was money to be made. And September had no time to waste.