Silent Stranger

by Darty, Peggy;

  He looked up, appearing surprised by the question. “I. . . don’t think so.”

  “How is your back?” she asked, sipping her tea for the first time.

  He shrugged. “It still aches when I abuse it.” He grinned. “But the liniment helped a lot.”

  “Good.” Her eyes locked with his for a moment as silence fell. Then she remembered her stew. “I was about to have an early lunch. Could I offer you a bowl of stew?”

  He hesitated, glanced at the stove, then shook his head. “I had breakfast at Miss Mattie’s.”

  “Then my cooking can’t compare to hers, I’m afraid.”

  “Sure it does,” he answered quickly, too quickly, and they both smiled. “I just don’t want to impose,” he added softly, smiling at her.

  She shook her head. “You aren’t. To be honest, I get tired of eating alone.”

  “Oh.” She saw the question in his eyes, but then he glanced toward the pot of stew. “In that case, I would be honored to join you.” He placed his teacup on the table. “May I wash up?”

  She indicated the pan of water on the basin. “Sure.”

  Ruth stood and began to assemble the bowls and spoons, feeling something awaken in her heart again. She had felt completely numb ever since she walked into the room and found her father on the bed, breathing his last breath. In fact, she had begun to wonder if her heart, like the frozen ground, would ever thaw again. Now, as she busily dipped the stew into bowls and heard his movements in the background, she felt the cold begin to break inside her. She felt a nudge of warmth, a ray of hope.

  When they sat down at the table, she offered grace. Then, as she unfolded her napkin and glanced at him, she found herself recalling the prayer service, the look in his eyes when the service ended. She knew he had been touched, and now she felt as though she should return to that moment. Perhaps that was the reason God had placed him in her life.

  “When are you leaving?” she asked, already hating the thought.

  “Today,” he responded, looking across at her. “I wish I could stay longer. In fact,” he lowered his eyes to his spoon as he dipped into the stew, “if I had known about. . .” He looked up at her. “I would have come into Dawson for your father’s funeral if I had known.”

  “Thank you,” she said, touched by his kindness. “Pastor Sprayberry conducted a graveside service reading Father’s favorite verses. After Mother’s death, Father told me not to be sad for him when his time came. He thought the end of one’s life should be a celebration—”

  “A celebration?” Joe Spencer was obviously taken aback.

  “Yes, he believed that we should be thankful for a person’s life, then celebrate his passing to a better world.”

  He chewed for a moment, staring at her, obviously thinking about what she had said. “That makes a lot of sense. It’s too bad more people don’t have that kind of attitude.”

  She lifted a shoulder in a weak shrug. “Well, of course there’s the grief in a loved one’s passing. . .but I know he’s with Mother.” She looked at Joe and this time there was no stopping the tears that formed in her eyes. “They were so devoted to one another. They must be very happy to be reunited.”

  His eyes widened as he put down his soup spoon and tilted his head, studying her thoughtfully. “That must be very comforting to you.”

  “Yes, it’s comforting,” she agreed, “but it’s a truth that I feel very deeply. I know they’re together in heaven.”

  He dropped his eyes to his napkin, saying nothing in response.

  She leaned forward in her chair, curious to know his thoughts. “How do you feel about those things? Or is that too personal?”

  When he looked back at her, a gentle smile crossed his lips, lighting his blue eyes. “You’ve been very open with me. It would be selfish on my part not to share my thoughts with you.”

  She blinked, surprised by his statement. She was just beginning to realize what a tender, caring person he was. She was hungry to know more about him, to know everything.

  “I don’t usually talk about this,” he said, “but somehow I feel comfortable talking with you. I’ve already told you my father died soon after he returned from war, that I was a baby.”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of what you said about reading his diary. I think that must have been so special.”

  He nodded. “It was. But then when my mother died. . .” He broke off, frowning.

  She studied the way the skin between his brows puckered with the frown, and she saw the blue eyes dim with the memory. She could feel his sadness, as real as her own, and at that moment, she knew they shared a bond that was special.

  “What happened when your mother died?” she prompted.

  “I suppose each of us reacted differently. My older brothers seemed to go on with their lives, even though they missed her as I did. But somehow. . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know, somehow my life just wasn’t the same anymore. I grew restless, tired of Richmond. I wasn’t willing to work as a clerk in a store as my brothers were doing. You see, we lost everything in the war. Our plantation was confiscated by the government, all our horses and cattle. Mother took in work as a seamstress soon after I was born. Her father supported us as best he could, but we struggled. Always. I wanted to make a different life for myself. I didn’t want to struggle the way others did.”

  He drained his teacup and Ruth got up to refill it.

  “Thank you.” He smiled at her.

  “I had an uncle who had gone out west right after the war,” he continued. “Over the years, his letters fired my imagination. I left the South and I can’t say that I’ve really missed it.”

  She nodded. “So how long did you work in California?”

  He picked up the cup and sipped his tea. “I worked my way from Virginia to California,” he answered with a smile. “That took a while. Then soon after I got to the ranch where my uncle worked, he died.”

  “Really?” She sighed. “Your life has been pretty difficult, hasn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mean to sound tragic. I never knew my uncle, really. What about you? Did you leave family in Seattle?”

  She blinked, trying to follow the quick change of thoughts. “Just an uncle and aunt, and half a dozen cousins.”

  “Do you plan to return?” he asked, watching her closely.

  She nodded. “Probably. I’m not certain I’ll go back to Seattle, however.” Like Joe, she wasn’t ready to face the memories that would accompany her when she went to the large lonely house they had left behind. She had written to ask her uncle to look into selling it. She knew she was going to need the funds.

  “I see,” he said, pushing his bowl back.

  She heard the note of reserve in his tone and wondered what had brought about his change of mood. The fact that she would probably return to the States?

  “What are your plans?” she asked quickly.

  He leaned back in the chair and looked at her, saying nothing for a moment. “My plans are to work my claim for as long as it takes. I believe the gold is there,” he said. “And I’m determined not to stop digging until I find it.”

  His words saddened Ruth, for now she saw in his face the same kind of fierce emotion that seemed to drive so many people here in Dawson, even the merchants.

  “Ah, you want to be rich like everyone else who has come here?” she asked.

  His expression changed, and she sounded more harsh than she had intended. Still, she had spoken her thoughts honestly.

  “Why else would anyone come here?” he asked, an edge to his tone.

  She studied him for a moment, wondering if he thought that was the only reason she and her father had come. She was about to set him straight when he suddenly came to his feet.

  “I appreciate your hospitality. The stew was delicious. And I enjoyed the company,” he said. This time, however, his smile was more reserved.

  “Thank you,” she said, standing. “And thank you for stopping by.”

  Silenc
e stretched between them, and for a moment, she thought he might say something. The moment passed, however, as he turned for the door. “Take care of yourself,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “You, too,” she said, clasping her fingers before her as she followed him through the living room and down the front steps. She watched as he retrieved his coat and hat from the hall tree. “What kind of living conditions do you have at the mine site?” she asked curiously.

  “A very small, rather crude cabin,” he drawled, buttoning his coat. “I imagine it will shrink even more as the winter progresses. I share it with Ivan,” he added, planting his hat firmly on his head and looking her over once more.

  “Well. . .” She crossed her arms, wondering what was left to say. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  She watched his expression change once again. The reserve seemed to be slipping, and now his eyes held an emptiness as he glanced at her one last time.

  “Good-bye,” he finally said, his voice gentle and soft.

  “Good-bye,” she replied, staring after him as he turned and walked out the door.

  For a long time, she stood in the door, oblivious to the cold, watching as he mounted the horse and rode off. Then something her father had said returned to haunt her. We don’t really know him, Ruth.

  She realized how true that was. Each time she felt as though she was on the brink of knowing him well, perhaps on a deeper level than most other people, something happened. She was unsure if she said something that stopped his flow of words, or if he had the ability to shut out painful memories, to stop himself just short of letting anyone see his soul.

  When he was out of sight, she closed the door and locked it. Then she pressed her back to the door and stared into space. Her feelings for him were as strong as before, but this time she sensed something more: He was a very complicated man. There were layers to this man that would have to be uncovered before she could allow herself to really care for him.

  Shivering, she headed back up the stairs thinking how uncomplicated Arthur Bradley was in comparison. While their conversations were never very exciting, and certainly she did not feel physically attracted to him as she did with Joe, there was something very comforting about being with Arthur. Was it because of his medical background? Was the comfort she found with him due to the familiarity of being in a clinic, hearing the talk she had heard all of her life? Or was it because she knew he cared for her, and she found security in knowing that?

  She sighed as she reached the kitchen and stared at Joe’s empty bowl and cup. He was, after all, just another money-hungry miner. He had no real mission in life, as she and her father had or even as Arthur had. While Arthur had never gotten around to reading the Bible, as her father had suggested, he was a good man.

  She picked up Joe’s dishes and took them to the basin, forcing herself to wash them quickly this time, rather than hold the cup as a silly souvenir like she had done before. Joe’s visit had served to frustrate and confuse her in one way; in another way, the mystique surrounding him seemed to underscore the logic of returning Arthur’s affections.

  ❧

  Joe rode back to camp, regretting his visit to Ruth. He was glad he’d had the good manners to pay his respects, but he should have left it at that. He should never have stayed for lunch and an hour of conversation. The lady at the boardinghouse had been right. She did have plans with Bradley; otherwise, why was she hedging about returning to Seattle? Probably waiting on a marriage proposal, he told himself bitterly.

  He tried to tell himself other things as well: that she was merely pretending that she and her father hadn’t been drawn here by the money they would make, that she had regarded him with a certain disdain when he was honest about his reason for being here. He bunched his shoulders together, tugged his hat lower on his forehead as a blast of cold wind hit him. While sitting in the cozy kitchen with her, a wonderful contentment had settled over him. He had felt a sense of home, of caring for someone again. Yes, for an hour, he had felt a frightening pull toward Ruth Wright. He had even been on the brink of telling her many things about himself. He was grateful he had come to his senses in the nick of time. Confiding in her would have been a mistake.

  He was not interested in her, he told himself. She was less appealing since she had lost weight. Still, she rode with him, in his thoughts, in his memory; and she was to remain there until he saw her again.

  ❧

  Ruth had accepted the Greenwoods’ invitation to join them for Thanksgiving dinner, although the food was less abundant this time, and everyone knew why. The main topic of conversation in Dawson was the fear of running out of food before a boat could bring in more supplies in the spring. Nevertheless, the Greenwoods managed a nice meal, and she had been grateful. She had brought along a loaf of bread and a rice pudding, which Arthur complimented profusely.

  “Didn’t I see that blond stranger enter your house this week?” Mrs. Greenwood asked bluntly, startling all of them.

  Ruth chewed her food, taking her time in replying. “Yes, he stopped in to pay his respects,” she answered coolly.

  “Well, it might pay to be leery of him,” Mr. Greenwood spoke up. “There’s something funny going on with that claim.”

  Ruth looked up quickly. “Why do you say that?”

  “The claim belongs to someone else.”

  Ruth looked at him, wondering why he had spoken in a sinister tone, as though there was something suspicious about Joe. “He has a partner. I’m sure the claim is filed under that man’s name,” she said, sounding more defensive than she intended. She realized that all three were staring at her, and she guessed they wondered how she happened to know. “He mentioned having a partner to my father and me on the first day he came to the clinic,” she added slowly, “with an injured back.”

  There, that should shut them up, she thought, glancing down the table to Mr. Greenwood who was as thin and gaunt as his wife was plump.

  “Well, I just wondered,” said Mr. Greenwood with a light shrug.

  “Ruth,” Arthur picked up the conversation tactfully, “we’ll probably be seeing a number of patients tomorrow who have overindulged in Thanksgiving dinners.”

  She smiled at him, grateful for the kind way he seemed to understand when she needed a change of subject.

  “What with the shortage of food, you may not have many patients,” Mrs. Greenwood added, coming in from the kitchen with a platter of jam cake.

  Ruth smiled then, for she had not had jam cake since she left Seattle, and she was grateful for the Greenwoods’ kindness. The least she could do was overlook their tendency to mind other people’s business. They were probably unaware of how prevalent their habit was. The day passed pleasantly then, and Arthur even offered to accompany her to the cemetery, where she paid her respects to her father and tried not to cry over the Thanksgivings past. When he walked her home, he seemed to sense her need to be alone then, and he did not linger for an invitation to come inside.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said at the door.

  She nodded. “Arthur, thank you for being so kind.”

  He smiled at her with tenderness filling his green eyes. “It’s easy to be kind to you, Ruth. I long to help you in any way I can.”

  “I know that,” she answered quickly. “Thank you.”

  After she had gone inside and locked the door, she felt a lingering worry over what to do about Arthur. She could see that he was growing very fond of her, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about him. As she had said, she was grateful for his kindness, and she appreciated all he was doing for her. Unfortunately, she could not dredge up any romantic notions toward him. Nor did she imagine that she ever would. Still, she had to be realistic, she told herself, lifting her skirts to climb the stairs. Eager to get her corset off, for she was unaccustomed to wearing one these days, she told herself that her father would be pleased that she was seeing Arthur and working in the clinic with him.

  On the othe
r hand, she just could not visualize a future with him, even though it might be the most sensible thing she could do. Perhaps she was a foolish romantic. . .or perhaps she would have been better off if she had never met Joe Spencer.

  ❧

  As winter set in across Dawson, Ruth spent more time helping Arthur in the clinic. Colds, pneumonia, and influenza were common, and then an outbreak of measles brought on another swell of patients. Ruth walked home in late afternoon exhausted, and as she looked around the town, she saw the sad effects of people struggling to stay warm and fed. Prices had begun to soar, from lots for building sites to groceries and hardware. The supplies on board the last boat were drastically short of food and heavy in liquor, which added to the problems of the town. More fights broke out in the saloons, more crime was present. She no longer ventured out beyond the hours of daylight.

  “Ruth, I want to speak seriously to you.” Arthur had detained her one evening in December as she tugged on her warm gloves and tightened the chin strings of her cloak.

  “What is it?” she asked, studying his somber expression.

  “I’m very concerned for your welfare,” he said, his green eyes mirroring his concern.

  “I feel responsible for you, Ruth. And I know your father would have wanted me to take care of you. In view of that—”

  “Arthur,” Ruth put up a hand, “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. You needn’t trouble yourself. You have enough to worry about with all the patients you’re seeing now.”

  Arthur shoved his hands into his pants pockets and studied the thin rag rug. “I’m not saying this well. I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t capable. You’re the most responsible woman I’ve ever known.” Slowly, his eyes rose to meet hers. “Perhaps I have the cart before the horse, so to speak. I’m the one who needs you.”

  Ruth paused at the door, her hand on the knob. She turned and looked at him, realizing that the question she had been expecting for weeks was on the tip of his tongue, and she was not prepared to answer it.