“Arthur,” Mrs. Greenwood spoke up, “do you miss Victoria? I hear it’s such a beautiful city with the lovely gardens and all.”
Sadness gripped his features for a moment as he nodded. “Yes, I do. And I miss Katherine terribly.”
“Arthur, may I tell you what helped me when I lost my wife?” Doc asked gently.
The man looked up, his expression bleak. “Please do.”
“My pastor recommended that I read the epistles of Paul in the New Testament. Paul was a man who survived shipwrecks, beatings, imprisonment, and starvation. In fact, he suffered numerous adversities and yet he was able to maintain an inner peace throughout his tribulations. Knowing that a man had suffered through so much and kept his faith helped me to hang on to mine. By reading those epistles, I found a peace that I thought was impossible. There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t long for Mary Ruth, but I have been able to start over and I, too, have found peace.”
Arthur stared at Doc for a moment then nodded. “I appreciate your telling me that. Perhaps I will make that effort, as well.”
Silence fell, and for a moment even Mrs. Greenwood seemed at a loss for words.
“Which route did you travel getting here?” Doc asked, moving to another subject. “I’m always curious about the various routes people use because it’s such a treacherous journey.”
“Yes, it is,” Arthur agreed. “We took a steamer from Victoria, and actually the trip was quite pleasant. When weather and sea permitted, we stood on deck admiring the scenery. Everything went extremely well until someone on the boat got sick, and then an epidemic of typhoid spread. Fortunately, there was another doctor traveling as far as Lake Bennet. We were able to save some, but we lost many others. We had only been here three days when Katherine came down with typhoid.” He dropped his eyes to his lap.“I did not have the facilities or the proper medicine for her. I will regret this trip until my dying day.”
Ruth stared at him, moved by his words. She was suddenly filled with compassion for him, and she made a silent vow to be nicer to him. He was not interested in courting her, she decided; he was merely lonely.
Ruth was thinking about what he had said as she looked at him. He seemed so frail for this kind of lifestyle, and she couldn’t help wondering why he had wanted to come to this wild frontier. She did not ask him that; instead, she thought of Victoria and how she had always longed to visit the gardens there.
“Do you consider returning to Victoria?” she asked gently.
He nodded. “Yes, I do. I have decided to give myself another year here, and then if I still am not happy, I will return.”
Mrs. Greenwood cleared her throat. “Then we must see that you are happy,” she said with unnecessary emphasis as she glanced boldly at Ruth. “We need your services here. Dr. Wright can’t possibly handle all the people if the exodus continues as they say it will.”
“I agree we need his help,” Doc said. “However, I think our exodus will soon shut down for the winter. Already the Yukon is starting to freeze over, and Chilkoot and White Pass will be too treacherous in the dead of winter.”
“So many people are talking about the scarcity of food.” Mr. Greenwood entered the conversation at last. “Nell, do we have enough?”
Everyone stopped chewing and looked at Mrs. Greenwood. “I believe so. What about you people?” She glanced from Doc and Ruth to Arthur.
“I’m afraid I haven’t planned very well,” Arthur admitted. “Nevertheless, if I continue to be paid in sacks of flour and sugar,” a wry grin touched his mouth, “I should fare well.”
Doc chuckled. “I imagine we’ll soon prefer to be paid in food rather than money.”
The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, and after Mrs. Green-wood’s bread pudding, Ruth noticed her father had begun to yawn. Everyone had finished the meal and was getting up from the table. She began to help Mrs. Greenwood clear the dishes as the men wandered into the small living room.
“Mrs. Greenwood, exactly when did you come to Dawson?” she asked conversationally, regretting the anger she had felt toward her earlier.
Mrs. Greenwood tilted her head back thoughtfully. “We came in ’97, got a head start on getting our cabin built here. Clarence had heard about the strike, of course, and being an assayer, he knew he had a good future here.” Her plump face held a wide grin as she spoke.
Ruth nodded. “I’m sure he does.” Ruth had heard, through her father, that Mr. Greenwood, as an assayer, was getting rich from collecting remnants of gold dust that gathered on his velvet cloth, not to mention the particles he swept up from the board floor.
“Dear, you must join our sewing circle,” Mrs. Greenwood was saying as she scraped the leftover food into a large pail for their dogs.
Ruth had opened her mouth to offer a reply, but she never got the chance. The woman plunged into a discourse on one of the women who was a member of the circle, relating some outrageous gossip.
Ruth glanced toward the living area where the men were seated. She had a chance to look Arthur Bradley over more carefully, since he sat with his back to her. She had to admire the courage required of him to continue on here after losing his wife. He was in a noble profession, like her father, and she admired that, just as she admired the man. Maybe in time she could think of him in a more romantic way. It would certainly make sense for the two of them.
Mrs. Greenwood droned on as Ruth turned back to dry a dish. Suddenly, Ruth’s thoughts moved in another direction, and she found herself recalling a handsome bronze face, piercing blue eyes, and golden hair. Joe Spencer. She sighed heavily. It was difficult to believe that she would chose a poor miner over a prosperous doctor whose background seemed more compatible with her own.
Thinking of Joe, she reminded herself that he might not be poor; or if he were low on funds now, he could strike a bonanza like a few men had already done in this area. But then, what did it matter? Money was not the measure of a man.
Her eyes drifted back to the men talking pleasantly in the living room. Even Arthur Bradley was laughing softly. She thought of Joe again, recalling the sheen of tears in his blue eyes. What had made him sad? she wondered. And when would she see him again?
She forced her thoughts back to Mrs. Greenwood’s prattle, and as they finished in the kitchen, she was relieved to hear her father say he was overdue for his Sunday afternoon nap.
As they prepared to leave, Arthur approached her, looking unsure of himself. “I told your father I’d like to come for a visit sometime to see how his clinic is set up.”
She nodded. “Feel free to do that.” She realized this was the moment she should have invited him for a meal, but she chose not to do that. Before she could consider Arthur as a suitor, she had to get Joe Spencer out of her head.
❧
One day had begun to flow into another as Joe worked beside Ivan digging through the hard earth, hoping to hit a streak of gold. At night, they built a fire and kept it going. By morning, the fire had served to thaw the ground five to six inches deep so they could start to shovel their way down, making a shaft. They dug fervently until they reached frozen ground again. The following night they built another fire; the next day they dug.
It was a monotonous process of grueling work. Sometimes Joe’s back ached so miserably he could hardly sleep. Still, he had spotted some flecks of gold in the black gravel, and now he was filled with hope. This fueled his determination to keep going until they were twenty feet down and four feet wide. This would be their shaft. At this point, they would no longer use a shovel but rather a windlass for getting the dirt out. They took turns in the shaft, shoveling out the rocks and frozen dirt that had melted from the fire. Ivan had made a pigtail hook on the end of the rope attached to the bucket that hauled up the dirt. One man loaded the bucket while the other operated the windlass at the top of the shaft, hauling the bucket to the surface.
Both Ivan and Joe kept their eyes strained for the sight of gold, so much so that they often dreamed about it at night;
but through it all, he never stopped thinking of Ruth Wright.
❧
The first snow of the season had come, and Ruth stared out at the swirling snowflakes beyond her window, drawing her shawl tighter around her. She and her father were comfortable and warm in their house, and for that she was grateful. Looking out on the inhabitants of Dawson Creek, huddling into their coats and rushing toward their destination, she wondered just how low the temperature would drop. Already the men wore their fur caps, twill parkas, and heavy mackinaws. Most had shaved their beards. Miners had been warned that in winter their beards would freeze to their face.
The snow did not last, however, and to everyone’s surprise the sun burst forth, thawing out the snow, making it possible for the boat that had been docked for a week to depart.
“Ruth,” her father entered the room, “check our pantry again.”
She turned and glanced at her father as he sank into the chair, looking weary although it was only ten in the morning. He had already seen three patients, however, and she wondered if he were hungry.
“Do you want an early lunch?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m not hungry. I’m just concerned about the food supply. Yesterday, I saw a notice on the board by the trading company that troubled me.”
Ruth looked at him curiously. “What is it?”
“Today’s boat will probably be the last one until spring. The notice warned those who did not have a supply of food to last the winter to leave Dawson.” His hazel eyes were troubled as he looked across at Ruth. “There is a general fear of starvation, so we must be careful.”
Ruth nodded then wondered why her father was so generous to his patients if he had concerns about their food. She had watched thin men and women haul tinned goods from their clinic by the armload. Still, she was not worried. She knew her father was doing the Christian thing by giving hungry people food.
She had examined their pantry just this morning as she was planning the day’s meals. The shelves were still fully stocked, although there were some obvious spaces where tinned goods had once been, the results of her father’s generosity. It didn’t matter. She would be a smart cook, and her father had a promise from one of the merchants that there was a supply of food tucked in a back room for the doctors and merchants.
She smiled at him, aware that he needed her reassurance. “We will be fine, Father. There’s plenty of food in our pantry, and I have learned how to economize.”
He sighed with relief. “I’m glad to hear that.” He ran a hand across his forehead. “Ruth, I think I’ll lie down for a few minutes. Keep an eye on the clinic, please.”
“Of course,” she said. Her eyes followed him with concern. He seemed to be moving slowly today, and she knew he worried too much about her and about his patients.
After he had gone to his room, she went to the kitchen to stir the hash simmering in the iron skillet. She loved the smell of onions and potatoes that filled her kitchen. Since this was one of her father’s favorite meals, perhaps it would boost his energy.
She went to the window and glanced out. There was no one approaching their door. Still, she should go downstairs and wait in the clinic while her father rested. They kept medicine in the supply cabinet and her father worried about theft.
Halfway down the stairs, she thought she heard her father call her name. She hesitated, her hand on the banister. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a loud groan. Lifting her skirts, she flew back up the stairs.
“Father?” she called out as she entered the quiet living room. Hurrying on to his bedroom, her eyes flew to his bed and her breath caught. “Father!”
His legs were extended from the bed onto the floor, while his upper torso remained slumped against the bed. It looked as though he had made an attempt to get up then given up.
“Father? What is it?” She rushed to the bed.
When she looked into his face, fear slammed into her. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. For a split second she froze, unable to move. She had watched men die in her role as nurse, but she refused to believe what her knowledge suggested to her now. Seizing his limp hand, she began to rub it earnestly, calling his name all the while. He did not respond, did not move. And now his eyes were glazed. She put a hand to his neck, seeking the pulse point, finding none.
A cry escaped her as she flew into the living room, grabbing her cloak from its hook. Down the stairs and out the door she went, not bothering to lock the door, disobeying her father’s cardinal rule. All she could think of was reaching Arthur Bradley’s office two blocks down the street.
The people she passed along the way were a blur; someone called to her. She ran wildly, oblivious to the cold penetrating her dress and shawl, to the harsh wind biting her face. She was too numb with fear to feel anything other than the need to get help.
Her breath jerked in her throat, sending gasps of cold air down to pierce her lungs. She burst into the door marked Dr. Bradley and found him examining a patient. At her abrupt entrance, Arthur Bradley removed the stethoscope from the man’s chest and stared at her.
“What is it?” he asked, taking in her windblown hair, her white face.
“Father!” Her voice was a whimper, but he understood and grabbed his coat.
“What about me, Doctor?” The patient called after him.
Ignoring him, Arthur grabbed his black bag and ran out the door with Ruth. She tried to explain what had happened as they ran the distance, but her voice was breaking in sobs.
“Don’t try to talk,” Arthur said as they raced along the boardwalks, attracting stares as they hurried up the hill to Ruth’s house.
Her legs were weakening, more from her emotion than exhaustion. Arthur glanced at her. “Slow down. I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”
She lagged back, her chest aching from the hard run, her cheeks oddly cold. She pressed her fingers against her cheeks and felt the moisture. She blinked, aware for the first time that she was crying, and now the cold air struck her wet cheeks, chilling her more. In the distance, she could hear the boat’s whistle, signaling its departure; and she recalled her father’s last warning about this being the last day to leave town.
What’s wrong with me? she thought wildly. Why have I stopped thinking of Father’s condition? Of Arthur racing on ahead? Why am I standing on the boardwalk staring back at the boat dock?
Someone touched her arm. She whirled. It was Mrs. Green-wood. “Dear, is something wrong? You’re obviously upset, and you’re out without your coat.”
Ruth swallowed, giving way to the sobs that wracked her body. “It’s Father,” she said. “I must get home.”
Breaking free of Mrs. Greenwood, she took a breath and forced herself to hurry on. A second burst of energy propelled her, and she tried to think about what must be done. Her father had gone into a coma for some reason; that was it. Dr. Bradley—Arthur—would know what to do. He would give him some kind of medicine, an injection; he would do something to save the man who was the center of her world. And she would be eternally grateful to Arthur. She would accept his invitations, even try to return his interest if only he would save her father.
Those were the thoughts flying through her brain as she reached the house, climbed to the front porch on shaky knees, then stumbled through the front door.
The house was quiet, quieter than she had ever heard it. A different kind of quiet.
Then Arthur was coming down the stairs, his black bag in his hand. Her eyes dropped to the bag then returned to his face. She saw it then, the look of pity, of. . .sympathy.
“No,” she said, sinking into the nearest chair. “He’s going to be all right.” Her words were muffled behind her palms as she cupped her face in her hands, giving way to sobs again. “It can’t be,” she cried. But she had known the truth before she left the house, and now Arthur confirmed her worst fears.
“I’m sorry.” His voice sounded distant in her ringing ears. “It appears to have been a heart attack. He’
s. . .gone.”
“Please, God. . . ,” she pleaded, burying her face deeper in her hands, unwilling to accept it, unwilling to believe it. She had already given up her mother, wasn’t that enough? Why her father? Why now? He was too young. “No,” she said brokenly, shaking her head wildly. She felt an arm around her shoulder, and she heard his voice again.
“I’m so sorry.”
The door was opening, and she could hear Mrs. Green-wood’s voice, but she refused to look at her or to listen to Arthur.
“I’m going to give you an injection, Ruth.” His voice was weaker now as another arm embraced her, a heavier arm. “You’re going into shock.” The words made no sense to her, just as nothing else did.
Her sleeve was being pushed up, and the woman beside her was speaking gently. Something pricked her arm, but she scarcely felt it. The woman continued to talk, and the man said something as well, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She slumped against the arms that held her as her senses hurried toward the comforting darkness that enveloped her.
five
Joe and Ivan were getting low on food and supplies, and both were in need of a new pair of rubber overshoes. Long since out of kerosene for their lantern, they had to dig by candlelight. Joe jumped at the excuse to go into Dawson, for it had been two months since he had been to town. Ivan, preferring solitude, was happy to leave this task to Joe.
Bundled into a heavy parka, Joe spent an extra minute petting Kenai, who seemed to be taking the cold well, and promised him a thick bone on his return.
Eight hours later, his felt hat lowered on his forehead to protect him against the wind and huddled into his parka, he rode into Dawson.
The little town of Dawson was a welcome sight to him after weeks out in the bush. He turned his horse in at the hitching rail before Miss Mattie’s Roadhouse. As he swung down from the horse, a blast of wind whipped across his face, and he quickened his steps, hoping there was a spare cot.
Silent Stranger Page 5
