Silent Stranger

by Darty, Peggy;

At the end of the first stanza, she glanced at Joe. Quickly, her eyes flew back to the front of the tent where Grant Sprayberry stood. She didn’t want to make Joe self-conscious by having him know she had seen him in a vulnerable moment. But there was no mistaking it; he had tears in his eyes.

  ❧

  Joe swallowed hard, lowered his eyes, and hoped that Ruth had not seen the emotion that seemed to be flooding through him. What was wrong with him? First, the woman beside him had turned his head since he first met her. Being near her left him feeling as though he wanted to stand at her side for. . . well, for a long time. Now, he was reacting to the message, to the hymns, to the simple words the man had spoken. Well, he couldn’t react, he couldn’t feel anything. Not now; most of all, not now.

  He concentrated on his hands, on the long fingers laced together before him. He thought of the mining claim, how rich he would be. He even forced himself to remember the cute little gal he had met in Skagway, although he couldn’t even remember her name.

  “We are so glad you could come.” The soft voice beside him pulled his thoughts back to the moment. He turned and looked at her. She had tilted her head back to look at him, and her hazel eyes sparkled in a way that made his heart beat faster.

  He cleared his throat, trying to summon back the manners his mother had taught him growing up. “Thank you for inviting me,” he responded.

  He looked over her head and saw that people were leaving now; it was his chance to get out, and he was eager to do that. He could feel her eyes lingering on his face for another few seconds, but he didn’t look back at her. He pretended an interest in the people who had attended the service, but in truth, it didn’t matter.

  “Glad you could join us.” Doc extended his hand for a shake.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I was late.” He glanced quickly at Ruth then turned back to her father. “My partner wants to leave Dawson this evening, so I had to pack.”

  “When will you be returning?” Doc asked.

  Joe shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  Did her shoulders slump slightly at his reply, or had he imagined it?

  “Go easy with your back,” Doc said, stepping into the aisle.

  To his relief, Joe saw that the pastor was engaged in conversation with an elderly woman at the front bench. He was terrified that they might drag him up and introduce him to the preacher, and then everyone might start asking about his salvation. He had been embarrassed like that once when he was seven, and he had never forgotten it.

  They moved with the crowd, out of the tent, into the lingering daylight of an August day. He looked up at the sky as he placed his broad-brimmed hat back on his head. Only another hour, two if they were lucky, of daylight. He had to say good-bye and leave.

  “Well, thanks again,” he said to Ruth, trying to sound more formal with her.

  “You’re welcome. Take care,” she said, extending her hand.

  He was surprised by that gesture, surprised even more by the softness of her hand in his, and how much he liked the feel of her slim fingers. Then she had withdrawn her hand and was stepping back from him.

  “Good-bye,” he said, touching the brim of his hat as he looked from Ruth to Doc Wright. Then he turned and walked toward his horse. It was a sorrel, not particularly handsome, just serviceable, but with a good heart, like his dog Kenai, who waited for him at the boardinghouse.

  “Good-bye,” her voice called out, but he tried not to hear her.

  And all the way back to the boardinghouse, he tried to shut out the murmurings of his conscience and the pain in his heart.

  ❧

  Ruth and her father sat at the kitchen table having a bedtime snack. A patient had been waiting on their doorstep once they arrived back at the clinic. Tom Haroldson, a sixteen-year-old boy, had taken a fall and sprained his ankle while helping his father unload a wagon of supplies. Doc had bound the ankle carefully while Ruth handed him gauze, and now they had closed up the clinic and were free to relax.

  “You’re a good cook,” her father said, taking one last bite of the huckleberry cobbler she had whipped up when they returned from church.

  “Thanks.”

  Ruth had been filled with energy that she needed to vent, and after the clinic, the kitchen was the most appropriate spot to vent her energy, or frustration, whichever it happened to be. She was feeling a bit of both as she toyed with the dessert on her plate and thought about Joe Spencer. She gave up trying to finish the cobbler and laid her fork across the plate.

  “Father,” she looked up, “when you first met Mother, how did you feel about her?”

  His eyes widened at her sudden question, but as usual he took their conversation in stride and always answered her patiently. She was grateful for that.

  She watched him thoughtfully as he leaned back in the chair, and his hazel eyes drifted into space, seeing something that she could not. After a while, he spoke in a soft, gentle voice, one that held the tenderness of a deep love.

  “I met her at the home of a friend in Seattle. You’ve heard the story. But how did I feel?” He heaved a deep sigh. “I thought she had the sweetest spirit of any woman I had ever encountered. I sensed this as we began to talk, and I knew I had never met anyone like her.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he looked directly at Ruth. “She was pretty, of course, and she could have taken her pick of men.” A slow, pleased smile crinkled his face. “Thank God, she chose me.”

  “I know why,” Ruth said softly, placing her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together to cup her chin. “I would have chosen you if I had been Mother.”

  Doc’s smile widened even more, and for a moment, he said nothing; he merely stared at her. Then he glanced down at the cobbler and took another bite. “Does this question have anything to do with Joe Spencer?” He glanced back at her. “I saw the look in your eyes, Ruth; in fact, I’ve been watching you all evening.”

  She reached for her fork, dragging it over the brown crust of the cobbler. “He seems like a nice man, and there aren’t many of those around,” she said, trying to sound casual.

  Doc nodded. “That’s true. And he’s a gentleman; I like that. But we know very little about him, even though he spent an hour here today, had lunch with us, and joined us at prayer meeting. Still. . .” His voice trailed and now he seemed to be avoiding her eyes.

  Ruth didn’t like the look of concern on his face or the guarded tone of his voice.

  “We haven’t had a chance to get to know him,” she pointed out. “We’ve just met him.”

  “True,” he said, lifting his eyes to her face again. “So you must give yourself time to get to know him before you let your heart sweep you away.”

  “Fa-ther!” She lifted an eyebrow and pretended to be dismayed by his words. “Surely you don’t think I’m foolish enough to fall for a man I don’t know!”

  He studied her face for a moment, then the worried lines along his brow softened as the smile touched his face again. “Sorry. A father has to be protective,” he said, winking at her.

  “Even when his daughter is twenty-one years of age? Please give me credit for not having made a bad choice yet.”

  They laughed together; but even as she spoke the words, the anxious tone of her voice was apparent to her own ears. She supposed her father heard it as well.

  ❧

  Joe surveyed the area that had been home to Ivan the previous winter. Situated on higher ground, the area was walled in by spruce and birch trees on three sides, with a view of the broad valley below. Salmonberry and huckleberry bushes grew in abundance on the ridges.

  Glancing back to the creek below, his eyes moved over the scarred stumps of spruce trees, long since cut down for firewood. There, at the edge of the bank, a spruce stump had been axed clean and carved in the wood in jagged print was the name Ivan Bertoff. This marked his claim; and to Joe’s utter surprise, nobody had bothered it. It was the habit of most claims to have a description attached
to the name, but since Ivan could not write, he had done well to print his name, which was the extent of his education.

  Leaning back, swatting at a pestering mosquito, Joe recalled how he had harbored doubts about the stake even being here when Ivan first told him about his claim. But Ivan had told him the truth about everything. He had even described the tiny log hut he had built as a home for the past winter; now Joe would help Ivan expand it into a decent cabin for the two of them.

  Joe ran a hand across his forehead as a troublesome thought took root: How badly would he and Ivan get on one another’s nerves during the long cold winter that stretched ahead?

  With that question in mind, he turned and looked across at Ivan stretched out on the ground, taking a nap. Ivan was a large man, weighing at least two hundred fifty pounds, and he stood six feet, five or maybe six inches. At fifty years of age, only a fringe of black hair rimmed his large shiny head; however, the black hair grew in abundance on his handlebar mustache. He had shed his flannel shirt, and now the stained undershirt strained across his wide chest and protruding stomach above brown corduroy trousers that had seen better days. He snored loudly, oblivious to the occasional mosquito or gnat nipping at his face.

  Joe sighed and sat down on a flat rock to assess his situation. He had met Ivan in a saloon in Skagway. Ivan was a loner, friendly to no one; but if not for Joe, he would have bled to death in an alley behind the Last Dollar Saloon. Joe had found him, face down, a deep cut in the center of his back, his pockets emptied. Ivan had come to Skagway for supplies to keep from paying the high prices in Dawson and had nearly paid for it with his life. With assistance, Joe had dragged him to his tent, summoned help, and eventually saved his life. He had hoped, by this act, to make restitution for the life he had taken in Skagway.

  Joe swatted at a mosquito and turned his gaze back to the stake, which Ivan swore marked an abundance of gold. Ivan claimed to have found color in the streams, panned it, and followed its source to this property. As for the claim itself, they would build a shaft and work the claim together, splitting the profits. The small amount of money Ivan had after last winter was stolen from him that night in the alley. Joe had won his trust by saving his life, and in return, Ivan was willing to make him a partner in what he was certain was a real bonanza.

  After Ivan had produced a tiny piece of gold tucked deep in his boot, Joe had studied it thoughtfully.

  “Bite it,” Ivan instructed. “Then you know.”

  Joe looked from Ivan back to the wrinkled piece of metal. He had heard that gold would bend between the teeth if it were real. Amused, he had washed the nugget, placed it between his teeth, and gently bitten down. The nugget bent.

  Ivan laughed, pleased to have proven his word. Operating on instinct, Joe had agreed. After all, he needed to stay on the move; and despite his efforts at mining in Skagway, he had lost money. He believed Ivan, for Ivan had no reason to mention the claim if it were not true. He could simply have healed at Joe’s tent then said good-bye. Instead, he had wanted to show his gratitude; furthermore, he had noticed that Joe had a little money.

  “Ahh. . .” Ivan struggled to a sitting position and looked across at him.

  “Have a good nap?” Joe asked with a grin.

  Ivan gave a wag of his bald head and turned to stare at their efforts so far. Fortunately, there was still enough timber around for adding on to his cabin. They had spent hours chopping down the spruce trees and cutting the trees into logs for the ends and sides of the cabin. The hut Joe had spotted when they first arrived was developed into a liveable cabin.

  “You sleep?” Ivan squinted at him as he lifted a hammy hand to swat at a mosquito.

  Joe shook his head. “No, but I’m ready to work again.”

  Joe drove himself relentlessly and he knew it. The past few days had been even worse, for in the back of his mind, he kept seeing Ruth Wright’s face, and he kept hearing the voice of the pastor at the prayer service.

  Sighing, he came to his feet. He could work as hard as Ivan, who was as strong as a moose, and he would. The month of September had come, and the days were already beginning to grow shorter, colder.

  In the days that followed, Joe and Ivan worked side by side, from early until late, until exhaustion finally forced them to relinquish the task. They proved to be quite compatible, for neither had much to say, and the comfortable silence that enveloped them eased the strain of working and living together twenty-four hours a day.

  Their work was simple yet complex, since they worked with only two sharp axes and two saws. They had no nails or spikes with which to build the cabin. Therefore, they had to notch the logs. Diligently, they worked, flattening three-inch strips across the bottom and top of each spruce log to ensure the fit of the logs when stacked upon one another. They filled the cracks with a thick layer of moss with the hope of shutting out the black flies and mosquitoes that nagged them now and the icy winds and snows that would torment in winter.

  When the cabin was finished, Joe suggested they improve upon Ivan’s small plank table. They built another one then made long boxes for their sleeping rolls. When Joe finally crawled into the sleeping roll, his back ached almost unbearably, even though he had applied Doc’s liniment. Still, he did not think of his back or of his work; instead, his thoughts turned toward Ruth Wright, and the pain seemed to ease as he closed his eyes and the vision of her lovely face filled his memory.

  four

  “Ruth, I wanted to ask you something.” Mrs. Greenwood had caught up as Ruth and Doc were leaving the tent after the Sunday service.

  Reminding herself that the sermon had been on loving one’s neighbor, Ruth turned sweetly to face Mrs. Greenwood.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Greenwood. And how are you today?” Ruth smiled at the plump woman whose black silk dress stretched tautly across the bodice, threatening to pop the buttons.

  “I am well, thank you. I want to invite you and your father to join Mr. Greenwood and me for lunch. I’m inviting Dr. Bradley as well,” she added, beaming with satisfaction. It amazed Ruth that Mrs. Greenwood seemed to think she was doing everyone a favor with her efforts at matchmaking.

  Behind the smile, Ruth gritted her teeth. What was she going to do about Mrs. Greenwood’s self-appointed mission to play cupid between Ruth and Dr. Bradley, their competition? Of course, he wasn’t really competition, because it took both doctors to tend to the patients in and around Dawson City.

  “I. . .think we’ll be busy, won’t we, Father?” She turned, looking for her father. To her disappointment, he was engaged in conversation with Arthur Bradley.

  “I’ll just ask,” Mrs. Greenwood said. Whirling, she rushed upon the two men, surprising them with the invitation before either could provide an excuse.

  Ruth was uncomfortable with the situation. Dr. Bradley had been attempting to court her for the past month, but she had managed to avoid him. He stood about five feet, ten inches, was slight of build, with a long face, thin brown hair, and pale green eyes. He was a pleasant Canadian from Victoria, who had lost his wife to typhoid fever soon after their arrival in Dawson City last July. He had been too grieved to notice anyone until recently, but now she felt his eyes upon her and she didn’t know how to respond. She was certain she could never be romantically interested in him.

  “We’ve been invited out for lunch, Ruth,” her father called to her, unable to escape the Greenwoods.

  “Did you decide not to rest?” Ruth asked, holding her smile in place. “When we left home, you said you needed to get back and lie down, that you’re exhausted from the week.”

  Doc hesitated, obviously caught in the dilemma.

  “Then you’ll be glad to know the meal is already prepared and waiting on the stove,” Mrs. Greenwood shot back at her then turned to Dr. Bradley. “We’ll excuse you busy people soon after you eat,” she said, fairly beaming at him.

  Ruth’s eyes lingered on Mrs. Greenwood’s round face. Her protruding blue eyes were fixed on Dr. Bradley as though she conside
red him to be the catch of the century.

  Dr. Bradley, obviously embarrassed, nodded and thanked her profusely for her luncheon invitation while casting a quick glance toward Ruth.

  Ruth was thoroughly embarrassed by Mrs. Greenwood’s obvious attempts to pair up Ruth and the most eligible bachelor in Dawson City. It took every ounce of willpower to hold her temper. She lived up to the reputation of a redhead having a temper, and she was engaged in a mental tug-of-war between minding the pastor’s sermon or minding her own will. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. It felt as though her smile had tightened to a grimace of pain. Saying nothing more, she merely looked at her father with an expression that spoke volumes.

  “What else could I do?” he muttered under his breath as he tucked her hand in his arm and they made their way to the Greenwood home.

  ❧

  Mrs. Greenwood had seated Ruth opposite Dr. Bradley, with her father at her side, while the Greenwoods occupied opposite ends of the table. Ruth touched the lace tablecloth, appreciating the luxury here in Dawson City. Her eyes moved on to the huge serving platter where a moose roast was surrounded with carrots and potatoes. She was grateful that someone else was willing to go to the trouble of a nice meal for her, and she turned her eyes back to Mrs. Greenwood, determined to be a bit nicer.

  “This is very kind of you, Mrs. Greenwood,” she said, smiling at the plump woman whose round cheeks were reddened from the heat of the kitchen.

  “My pleasure. Mr. Greenwood, will you say grace?”

  Everyone bowed their head while thanks were offered for the meal. Then, upon conclusion of the prayer, Ruth unfolded her napkin and laid it across the lap of her gray taffeta dress.

  “Dr. Bradley, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk,” Doc said, opening the conversation.

  “We stay much too busy, don’t we? And I’d like everyone to call me Arthur,” he said as his eyes slid to Ruth.