“Why, of course. You’ve shown real courage and stamina by coming here and then by treating all the sick people.”
Ruth dropped her head, aware that she no longer had that purpose.
“Now what did I say wrong?” Dorie inquired, leaning forward.
Ruth began to tell her what had happened with Arthur Bradley and then Mrs. Greenwood.
“And you’ve let a narrow-minded person like that ruin your day?”
Ruth sighed. “The Greenwoods have been good to me.” She went on to tell about the Sunday dinners and the fact that Mrs. Greenwood had come to the house when her father died, had held her in her arms as though she were her daughter.
“I’m already feeling guilty for what I said to her.” Ruth frowned into her teacup, wishing she had not lost her temper.
“Well, a person can’t go around poking their nose in other people’s business and expect to be complimented for it. I’m sure you’ll have a chance to make amends, if that’s what you want. Tell me more about this Joe Spencer. You probably don’t know it, but your eyes light up when you mention his name. I’d say you’re smitten,” she said, teasing her.
Ruth got up and went to the stove for the teakettle, needing the action to cover her sudden nervousness at Dorie’s frank observation.
“He’s a nice man. Mrs. Greenwood wants to insinuate that I should be wary of him, but I know she’s trying to shove me into Arthur Bradley’s arms.”
“Hmmph. I would have difficulty dealing with someone who wanted to choose a man for me. If I wanted a man, I would choose one myself, which I did once.” She sighed. “It didn’t work out, which is one reason I jumped at the opportunity to come up here.”
Ruth refilled Dorie’s teacup and glanced at her new friend. For a moment, an expression of sadness crossed Dorie’s face, and Ruth couldn’t help wondering what went wrong with the man she had chosen, but she didn’t ask. She knew, in time, if Dorie wanted to tell her, she would.
“I want you to know I’m so happy to have you living here,” Ruth said to her. “Just being able to talk out my frustrations means a lot. You’ve made me feel a lot better.”
“Good! Try not to worry over things that cannot be helped. My theory is just do your best and let God do the rest.”
Ruth’s smile widened. “That’s a wonderful theory. I’ll try to practice it more.”
“Well,” Dorie came to her feet, “now that I’ve enjoyed your good tea, I’m going to my room to do some writing while I’m still fired up about Kate Carmack.”
“And I’ll put something on the stove for lunch. Are you very hungry?”
“No, I’m not accustomed to eating a lot. So just yell whenever you want me to come help.”
“Thanks,” Ruth said, quietly thanking God for sending Dorie to her.
❧
Two days later, a handsome man dressed in parka and jeans appeared at her door. He had brown hair, deep thoughtful eyes, and an engaging smile. “Are you Miss Wright?” he asked politely.
“Yes, I am,” she replied, studying him curiously.
“Hi, I’m Jack London,” he said. “I have a little cabin near Joe and Ivan. When Joe heard I was coming into town for supplies, he asked me to drop this off to you.”
He handed her a sheet of paper, folded into a neat square, with her name on it.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the note. She looked back at the man, who was regarding her with curious yet friendly eyes.
“How is Joe?” she asked.
“He’s working very hard, but generally he seems to be okay.” He smiled briefly. “Well, I must go. It was nice meeting you.”
“You, too,” she replied then stepped back inside. She hurried up to her bedroom and sat down to read the note, written in bold yet neat handwriting.
Dear Ruth,
I wanted to thank you for a wonderful evening. Also, I want you to know how much I appreciate the invitation to Christmas dinner. I will look very forward to sharing that special day with you as I battle the cold and the drudgery that is my life here. I have not looked forward to Christmas very much for several years. This year is different. I can hardly wait to see you again and enjoy the pleasure of your company.
Until then, take very good care of yourself.
Your friend,
Joe
She smiled, traced a finger over the paper, and tried to imagine him sitting down in the small cabin he had described to her, thoughtfully writing out the letter. She sighed, pressing the letter against her heart.
Thank you, God, she silently prayed. How could Mrs. Greenwood or anyone doubt the sincerity of this wonderful man?
Singing a Christmas carol, she got up and went to her room, wondering what she would wear when he came to see her.
nine
As the Christmas season approached, some of the merchants made noble attempts to honor the birth of Christ. Wreaths and candles dominated the shop windows and a few of the log homes. However, it was common knowledge to all that there would be no bountiful feasts on anyone’s table on Christmas Day, for now even the merchants were worrying about what they would eat. Many of the staples on which people depended were completely gone from the shelves, except for the few hidden away for the merchants and their families. Most people would gladly have paid the asking price of a dollar per orange back in the fall, but now there were no oranges or fruit of any kind, except for the dried variety.
Ruth tried to keep her spirits up, despite the absence of so many things. She had spent many hours with her needle and thread, making little white angels from used white petticoats, using buttons for eyes and making hair from yarn. Noticing the angels, one of the merchants had begged her to make more to sell in shops, but Ruth was out of yarn and buttons, and couldn’t make more without cutting up clothes, and she didn’t want to do that. The red silk petticoat she had brought to Dawson had seemed absurdly out of place once she arrived. Now, however, it was about to serve a purpose. Working adeptly with scissors, needle, and thread, she cut and shaped it into a tablecloth for the holidays while thinking of the meal she would prepare for Joe Spencer. During the drab season, the reminder that he was eating Christmas dinner with her kept her going when she might have been moping like so many others.
Lucky, her father’s devoted patient, had brought a small spruce tree to her for a Christmas present; and in return, she had gone through her father’s medicine cabinet, selecting liniments and cough syrups for Lucky.
She had sewn a few ornaments for the tree and strung popcorn and holly for decorations. She removed one branch, already decorated, from the back side of the tree and took it to the cemetery. There, she thrust it into the hard-packed snow as a tribute to her father for the happy Christmases they had shared.
Two days before Christmas, she braved the subzero weather by bundling up in her warmest clothes, wearing three pair of socks, and her sturdiest rubber boots to make a trek through the snow to the mercantile.
She was half-frozen by the time she arrived. Opening the door and expecting to be warmed by the potbellied stove inside, she was surprised to see the clerks bundled up in coats and mittens and the patrons huddling as close as possible to the stove. Although the store was warmer than outside, it was a startling contrast to the once-cozy, warm store of two weeks before.
As she approached the clerk, he greeted her and offered an apology. “We are having to ration our wood,” he said, nodding toward the stove. “I apologize. Why don’t you warm yourself while I get your items for you, Miss Wright?”
“Thank you.” Shivering from the cold, she glanced at the stove, grateful for the supply of wood her father had accumulated. She removed her mittens and with stiff fingers opened her string purse and removed the list.
The clerk hurried off with the list. Ruth felt as though her legs had become wooden posts as she edged toward the stove where everyone huddled.
“Miss Wright,” a familiar voice called to her.
She turned to see Arthur Bradley. Noting the
Miss Wright, she appreciated the fact that he was being more formal now that she had broken her friendship with him.
“Hello,” she said, trying to move her cold lips into a smile.
“I’m sorry to see you out in the cold,” he said, looking concerned. He had lost more weight and was now pitifully thin. His cheeks were gaunt and there were dark circles under his eyes.
“I needed the fresh air. Are you well?” she asked, looking him over with concern.
“Not very, but I will manage.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked worriedly, for she did care about him as a friend, after all.
He shrugged. “Just a bout of influenza that I was able to conquer. I have worried about you,” he added, his pale green eyes staring into her face.
“I have taken in a boarder,” she said on a more cheerful note. “A nice lady named Dorie Farmer. She is a correspondent for the San Francisco Examiner.”
He did not react with the relief she would have expected, and then she realized why. He wanted to be the one she turned to for help. He didn’t want her to survive on her own without him.
“I hope the arrangement is working out,” he said, his voice as doubtful as Mrs. Greenwood’s had been.
Remembering their argument, Ruth lifted her chin and took on a more firm stance. “The arrangement is working out just fine, thank you.”
“Here are the items you needed, Miss Wright.”
To her relief, the clerk had returned with two large bundles, heavily wrapped. “We are out of coffee, sugar, and salt.” He pointed to the list. “I’m sorry.”
She turned to the clerk, hovering nearby, looking distressed. “But. . .” her voice trailed as she glanced at the men knotted around the stove. Her father had said the merchants would retain a stash of items for themselves and the doctors.
But her father was dead and she was no longer a nurse, she reminded herself.
“Maybe I can help you.” Arthur lowered his voice.
Pride surged back as she looked from the clerk to Arthur. “Thank you, but I can manage just fine. I have enough in my pantry to make do.” She turned and followed the clerk to the counter, opening her string purse to pay for her purchases. To her surprise, it took almost all of the money she had.
After she had paid, Arthur trailed her to the door, opening it for her. “Won’t you join me at the Greenwoods’ home for Christmas dinner?” he asked suddenly.
“I have made plans for Christmas,” she answered as they stepped out onto the snow-covered boards. When she looked at him, she saw the pain on his face. She felt desperately sorry to have hurt him and wished she could make amends.“Arthur, I want you to understand that I am no longer upset with you. I have forgotten our. . .differences.”
“Then what is it?” he asked miserably.
She hesitated for a moment as she pulled her scarf over her head and about her face, tucking it into her collar. She decided she might as well be honest with him. “I have met someone,” she answered.
His pale brows arched suddenly. “Are you talking about that drifter?”
“I don’t know to whom you are referring, but I can assure you I haven’t taken up with a drifter, Arthur.”
He frowned, obviously trying to remember a name. Then his eyes snapped as though something had dawned on him. “The miner, Spencer, whom no one knows anything about.”
She sighed. “I see you and Mrs. Greenwood have been talking. Well, I can assure you that Mr. Spencer is a gentleman. Furthermore, Dorie will be joining us, so it isn’t as though we will be unchaperoned. Merry Christmas, Arthur.”
She turned and left him staring after her on the snowy boards in front of the mercantile. As she hurried home, gripping her packages tightly against her chest for warmth, anger churned through her, warming her and quickening her steps. By the time she reached the porch steps, gripping the post as she raked the caked snow from her boots, her temper was boiling.
She was sick and tired of Arthur and the Greenwoods trying to run her life. They seemed determined to conspire in an arranged marriage between Arthur and her, which made her more determined than ever to avoid them. Furthermore, she thought with a smile, it made Joe Spencer even more appealing.
❧
On Christmas Day, she and Dorie were in the kitchen early. While she, too, had been forced to ration her wood, the kitchen was warm and cozy. Dorie had volunteered to make a berry pie from some huckleberries she had been hoarding in a leather pouch since early fall.
“I kept these against starvation on Chilkoot Pass then forgot about them until I unpacked my belongings. I will make us a berry pie.”
“Can you stretch the sugar?” Ruth teased.
“That I can do,” Dorie laughed as they worked side by side, putting together the meal.
Lucky had brought a duck to Ruth in late fall, and she had wrapped it in a thickness of cheesecloth and buried it in the snow to freeze it. Two days ago, she had retrieved it, thawed it on the stove, and last night she had put it in to bake.
“We may be the only people in Dawson who are having meat for our meal,” Dorie said, suddenly looking sad. “Some of my friends at the Nugget were complaining that their Christmas meal would be drastically different this year. Unless one is a hunter willing to brave the elements, there is no meat left in Dawson, I hear.”
Ruth nodded. “God has been good to us.”
“And you certainly know how to conserve your food supply. I’ve been amazed at the way you do that.”
Ruth laughed as she placed the bread on its baking pan. “I had a very comfortable upbringing in Seattle, and yet my mother came from a family with nine children. She was always very practical in the kitchen, and I learned many tricks from her.”
Dorie smiled. “I’ve watched you pick up half a leftover biscuit and dump it in that tin.” She nodded toward the large tin that was a familiar object in Ruth’s kitchen.
“And now I have enough corn bread and biscuit to put together my dressing for today,” Ruth said, feeling a bit of satisfaction at how she was managing her supplies.
“So I see,” Dorie laughed. “And what time is our guest arriving?”
Automatically, Ruth’s eyes drifted toward the kitchen window. “I should think any time now.”
Then she glanced down at her dress. Beneath the muslin apron, she wore her green woolen dress, and she had styled her hair in a softer chignon today. Deep waves on the sides of her face softened her eyes, and she knew the happiness along with the heat of the oven would color her lips and cheeks.
Almost as soon as Dorie had posed the question of their guest, she heard the neigh of a horse.
She clapped her hands together, dusting off the loose flour. Picking up a cup towel, she wiped her fingers as she walked to the window and peered out.
Joe had arrived and was steering his horse toward the hitching post. He was carrying a bundle of something in a tote sack in his arms, while one gloved hand gripped the reins. Balancing the load, he dismounted his horse. Both man and horse were covered with snow. He wore a heavy parka with hood, and his face was red with cold. Before he could look up and catch her gawking, she quickly stepped back from the window.
“He’s here,” she said and beamed across at Dorie.
“So I gathered,” Dorie chuckled. “Look, you’ve done everything other than bake the bread. Why don’t you let me finish up the meal while you visit with him in the living room?”
Ruth hesitated then quickly consented. “If you don’t mind,” she said, hurrying from the kitchen.
She left the door open to admit more heat into the living room. Removing her apron and laying it over the back of a chair, she began to punch up the goose down feathers on the sofa. She moved to the bookcase, straightening a few toppled books and wiping a fleck of dust away. Then she turned back to her tree, staring at it for a moment with pride.
In spite of her meager circumstances, she had managed to obtain a cheerful mood both in her home and within herself. She had spent a few ho
urs crying over the fact that her father would not be sharing Christmas with them, but then she had counted her blessings of Dorie and Joe, which always lifted her spirits.
As soon as she heard his knock on the door, she rushed down the stairs into the cold hall and quickly opened the door.
He looked taller and leaner than ever, and this time he had grown a blond-brown beard, neatly trimmed. The blue eyes looked even larger in his bronze face, and she realized that he had indeed lost weight. Her eyes ran down his lean body and she saw, from the horsehair mat, that he had done his best to remove the snow from his shoes.
“Hello.” She smiled at him.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, still holding the mysterious bundle. “I’ve brought along some firewood that I thought you might use.”
“Wonderful,” she said with delight, for wood was a major problem for everyone in Dawson. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. Why don’t you just put it down here in the hall by the coat tree?”
He entered the hall, placing the sack on the floor with a thud. Then carefully he began to remove his snow-dusted parka. From the pocket he retrieved a small package, and Ruth hoped it was not a gift for she had nothing for him. He turned to face her, looking more handsome than ever in his white dress shirt and dark trousers.
“Was it rough traveling over the road?”
“Not too bad,” he replied, his eyes barely leaving hers. “This is for you,” he said, extending the small brown-wrapped package to her.
She swallowed, feeling embarrassed. “I. . .I have nothing for you.”
He had closed the door, but still the frigid air that had rushed in surrounded them.
“I beg to differ. You have given me one of the best gifts I’ve ever received—the joy of your company on Christmas Day.”
Her eyes locked with his for a moment, and she finally admitted to herself what she had secretly known all along. She was in love with Joe Spencer.
The bump of something overhead shook her back to her senses. “Please come upstairs,” she said, smiling into his deep blue eyes.
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