In the Shadow of Denali

by Tracie Peterson

  “And you’ll be able to do as I instruct? You were very angry yesterday. And with good reason, but I need to know that you’ll answer to me and heed my instruction.” John hated pressing the issue, but it had to be voiced. There wouldn’t be room for grudges. They needed trust. And a lot of it. “Will you be able to trust me?”

  For a moment Allan said nothing, but then he gave a curt nod. “I will do whatever is required of me. You have my word.”

  Cassidy sat outside enjoying a few idle hours. Despite their complicated schedule, the work was well in hand. Mr. Bradley had agreed to let Thomas continue helping Cassidy’s father and Allan, much to Mrs. Johnson’s relief. Cassidy had to admit that Thomas’s absence had made things in the kitchen run much smoother. Poor Thomas.

  She flipped through a magazine that had been left behind by one of the guests and soaked in the sun’s warmth after a few chilly days of rain. The magazine featured advertisements for cosmetics and modern time-saving appliances—efforts to entice old-fashioned women to throw off their shackles of nineteenth-century thinking, Cassidy mused. Inside the back was an ad for “The Eden—The Supreme Achievement in Electric Washing Machines.” A smiling woman stood beside her new washing machine, looking for all the world as if this were the only place in the world she wanted to be. Further perusal revealed ads for various other appliances, foods, and clothing.

  A giggle escaped her as Cassidy read about the latest in undergarments, designed to free women from the damaging effects of corsets. The new formless styles required wrapping one’s chest to make it as flat as possible. Camisoles and step-ins were the rage, the latter being a one-piece article of clothing that took the place of bloomers and chemises. Silk was the fashionable material of the day for everything from undergarments to outer wear. Macy’s advertisement showed dresses with hems that nearly touched the floor, all in the straight, formless style that the modern woman was supposedly delighted to wear.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Cassidy snapped the magazine shut at the sound of Allan’s voice. She felt her cheeks grow hot. What was he doing here? “Nothing really.” She pushed the magazine aside. “I was just amused by some of the advertisements.” At least that much was true without explaining exactly what had caught her attention.

  Allan glanced down at the magazine. “So are you going to bob your hair?”

  Cassidy’s gaze went to the cover and the model whose hair was clipped to a length just above her collar. She shook her head. “Not me. I can’t imagine how much work that would be. It’s a lot easier to brush mine out and braid it without worrying about putting in pin curls or slicking it up with whatever it is they use to plaster it into place.”

  “I’m glad. I’d hate to see you cut it.”

  She didn’t like being the focus of his attention, especially after yesterday. He’d been so angry. Of course, if her father had died on the mountain and she didn’t have answers, she’d probably be angry too. But it made her wary of Allan, since she didn’t know him.

  The silence stretched.

  “You lived in Seattle before coming here, didn’t you?” Best to offer an olive branch if possible.

  “I did.” He took the chair beside her. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason in particular. I just remember Dad saying something about that.”

  Allan frowned. “I see.”

  Cassidy heard the tone of his voice change. “So you still blame my father for your father’s death?”

  The question surprised her almost as much as it obviously surprised Allan. What had gotten into her? She hadn’t meant to be confrontational—in fact, she thought she’d been trying to be neutral—but it was too late to take back the words now.

  “No. But I don’t know what I think.” He looked out across the lawn. “It’s hard to figure out what one should think or feel when the information given is in conflict.”

  “My father is a good man. I’m not just saying that because I’m his daughter. You can ask anyone who has known him for any length of time. He was devastated when your father was lost. He thinks he hid it well, and in truth he probably did better than most men, but I could see how much it ate at him.”

  She paused only a moment to let the words sink in. “I once overheard him discuss that climb with Superintendent Karstens. Dad told him that he kept going over and over all the details of the climb, trying to figure out if he’d somehow been neglectful or blind to the dangers. Mr. Karstens told him he could second-guess himself until the end of his days and it wouldn’t change anything. Dad said he’d give just about anything if he could go back in time and do things different. Mr. Karstens asked him what he’d do differently and Dad said, ‘Whatever it would take to bring Henry Brennan out alive.’”

  For several long minutes neither one said a word. Cassidy hoped Allan would believe her father’s sincerity. Her father would have traded places with Brennan, even knowing it would have left her orphaned. That was just how Dad was—how he would always be. The needs of others were more important than his own.

  “My father’s business partner, Frank Irving, said your father was cavalier in his attitude about the risks and that the weather had been threatening before they even made the summit climb.”

  Cassidy felt a surge of anger. “My father would never put people in danger. It would serve no purpose. And if he were as cavalier as your Mr. Irving suggests, why would he risk his own life? Perhaps Mr. Irving is the one who was negligent. After all, as I recall, he was on the rope between your father and mine. If it was such an easy thing to keep track of your father in the storm, then why didn’t Mr. Irving realize he was gone?”

  “You think I haven’t asked myself those questions?” Allan fixed her with a look that betrayed his frustration. “I have looked for answers ever since learning of what happened. I owe it to my father to learn the truth and I can’t rest until I do.”

  “And what if you never get those answers?” Cassidy forced herself to hold his gaze. “What if there aren’t any?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Is it truly so important to blame someone for what happened? It won’t bring your father back.”

  “No, but it might make someone account for what happened.”

  “How?” She shook her head. “People come up here and get hurt or die all the time. Your father knew the risk of climbing the mountain before he went. He knew that my father couldn’t guarantee his safety—that he had no control over the weather or ice fields or any other part of the mountain. He accepted that—so why can’t you?” She got to her feet, afraid that if she didn’t leave, she might say something she’d regret. “I hope you find peace of mind. I truly do. But it’s been my experience that such peace only comes through God.”

  A turmoil of emotions rocked her insides as she walked away. Why did it matter so much that he came to terms with this? Was it just because her father was the object of his doubt? Or was it something entirely different?

  She cared about Allan—just as she did everyone who worked at the Curry Hotel, but perhaps she cared too much. She found herself thinking about him—looking for him at various times. At first she thought it was simply out of concern for her father, but now . . . now she wasn’t at all certain that was all there was to it.

  Shaking her head, Cassidy did her best to put the matter behind her. There was no way for her to make matters right between Allan and her father—they were going to have to settle this between them. So why did she feel so cold?

  A wave of loneliness washed over her. Dad was dealing with this incredible loss all over again and was shutting her out. And then there was Allan.

  She barely knew the man. But that look in his eyes when they’d met told her that he understood pain and heartache. Maybe even a touch of loneliness. Like her.

  There seemed to be a connection. But what if she had just imagined it? Had longed for it? She shook her head. Losing her heart to Allan, a man who would accuse her father like that, would do nothing b
ut complicate the matter further.

  7

  John laid his copious notes on Bradley’s desk. “Here are all the details for the nature walk we plan to take the presidential party on Saturday evening.”

  Another day had flown past with details, planning, meetings, and of course the constant guests to attend to in the hotel.

  The manager studied the page. “This looks outstanding, John. Thank you.” He scribbled something on the paper. “How is Brennan working out?”

  “Fine, sir. He’s a hard worker.”

  “Did you know that he’s part owner of an outdoor equipment company?”

  “Yes, sir. I did.” Would there come a time when Allan would share with the manager about John’s failings? Of course it wasn’t like Bradley didn’t know about the death of Allan’s father.

  “A very enterprising young man. He even mentioned the possibility of speaking to the railroad about selling some of his gear here in Curry.”

  John nodded, a knot forming in his throat. “If you don’t need anything else, I’d better get moving. We are taking a group fishing this afternoon.”

  “Well, I hope they catch the big one.”

  “Thank you.” John headed out the side door of the office. The biggest problem he seemed to have right now was not the full schedule, not the training of his apprentice, and not even the fact that Thomas had a tendency to bumble up even the simplest of tasks.

  Right now, he battled himself.

  With Allan’s appearance in Curry, the confrontation up at the park, and their conversation in the basement yesterday—John couldn’t get past the one glaring issue.

  He couldn’t forgive himself.

  The circumstances around the death of Henry Brennan haunted him. He thought he’d put the situation behind him. But all of Allan’s questions brought it back to the forefront of his mind.

  Had there been anything else he could have done to save Henry?

  And now, Henry’s son was here. Flesh and blood. Seeking answers.

  While John knew what Allan sought could only be found in God, he still felt responsible. Even more than that.

  He felt guilty.

  For failing Henry.

  And for failing Henry’s family.

  Taking the stairs down to the basement, John prayed for wisdom. Cassidy had noticed he wasn’t himself and had questioned him. No sense in worrying anyone else with his problems.

  Boom!

  The stairs shook. John rounded the corner into the section gang dining room. “Hello! Everyone all right?”

  “Mr. Ivanoff—help! Over here!” Thomas’s voice came from the laundry on the other side of the basement.

  A cloud of white smoke billowed out of the door.

  John raced over. “What’s happened?”

  “One of the pipes burst. I had just brought a load down from the train and fell. I thought it was my own clumsiness, but when I looked up, the ladies were on the floor.”

  It hit him. This wasn’t smoke. It was steam. John looked at the south wall where Thomas pointed. Mrs. McGovern and two maids lay crumpled in the corner. Hissing came from the burst pipe.

  “Thomas, you’ve got to get help. Everyone you can.”

  Allan collided with Thomas as the young man raced up the stairs. “Whoa, what’s your hurry?”

  “Mr. Ivanoff said to get everyone I could to help. A pipe burst in the laundry.”

  Allan nodded. “I’ll go down. You grab everyone you find.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He’d felt a jolt as he’d stood on the train platform. But since the train was leaving, he didn’t give much thought to it.

  The whole laundry was steam powered. That meant if a pipe burst, then boiling hot steam was flooding that area. The initial pressure would be abated, but the pumps would keep sending it until they could shut it off.

  At the base of the stairs, Allan slipped. The floor was already wet from the water vapor and mist from the cooled steam, and the humid air almost choked him. As he reached the laundry, sweat poured down his face.

  He found John carrying Mrs. McGovern out of the room. “Any more?”

  “There’s at least two more maids huddled in the southwest corner.”

  Taking a closer look at Mrs. McGovern, he noticed that her face was very red. Had she been burned by the steam? Allan didn’t have time to think about the condition of the others. He plunged into the simmering room and went down to his hands and knees. He’d be more apt to find them that way.

  Steam filled the room in a great white fog. Allan reached out and found hands grabbing for him.

  “It’s so hot! Help us, please!”

  Allan latched on to an arm and pulled. A young maid’s head hit his shoulder.

  “Please help Marie. She’s not talking anymore.”

  He carried the maid out and passed John on the way. “There’s another maid unconscious in that corner. Her name’s Marie.”

  The steam filled the basement of the hotel quickly. Allan set down the young girl as thunderous footsteps were heard on the stairs. “The floor’s slippery. Be careful!” He only hoped they’d heed his warning.

  He followed more men back into the laundry as John carried the other maid out.

  John shoved her into Thomas’s arms. “Get her out of here.” He ripped off his jacket and vest and threw them down the hallway.

  The suffocating heat had to be taking its effect on his boss. But Allan followed his lead and ran once more back to the laundry. Several men were turning the giant valve to shut off the steam supply. John stood in front of the busted pipe with towels to keep the steam at bay. Allan grabbed more towels and went to help. The heat was almost unbearable. But if John could sacrifice himself to help the men, then so could he.

  It took several minutes, but the room began to clear. Every man was soaked from head to toe. Two maintenance workers came in with large wrenches and clamps.

  Mr. Bradley slipped as he came around the corner, and he grabbed on to the doorjamb. “Oh, thank goodness, you got it stopped!” The manager looked around the room at each man. “Thank you all.”

  The men all nodded, each gasping for air. “It took too many of us to get that wheel turned. Too hot and too slick,” one of the men said. “That needs to be fixed. Coulda been a disaster.”

  “Do we know what happened?” Mr. Bradley asked.

  “No, not exactly,” the same man replied. “Must have been a weakness in the pipe. We’ll get it repaired right away.”

  “It’s a tragedy to be sure. Do we know how badly the women were hurt?”

  “Not yet,” John replied. “We just managed to get the last one to safety.”

  Allan breathed heavily, his hands on his hips. “It was John and Thomas who rescued the women, sir.”

  Mr. Bradley went over and shook John’s hand.

  Allan left the room and walked slowly to the dining room. Chaos ensued as everyone started cleaning up. Water was everywhere.

  But his thoughts kept going back to John. He’d risked his own life over and over again to save someone else. Even blocking the boiling steam so the other men could shut it off. How many men would put themselves in harm’s way like that?

  But then an even more troubling question seared his heart—if Allan hadn’t had an example to follow, would he have done the same?

  The individual crystal dishes filled with luscious chocolate mousse sat in the large icebox chilling. Cassidy couldn’t be prouder. They were her best yet.

  “They turned out lovely. The texture is simply divine.” Mrs. Johnson licked her lips. A sure sign of her satisfaction and pleasure.

  Cassidy bounced on the balls of her feet. She kept her hands clasped in front of her to keep from hugging the older woman for the praise. “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “I pity the men and women who’ve never tasted a mousse like this.”

  Wow. Three compliments in a row. She wasn’t sure she was that deserving.

  “All right. Well, we seem to be ahead o
f schedule.” The head cook checked her watch and then wiped her hands on her apron. “Let’s try a single batch of soufflé for the staff to enjoy. And if it turns out properly, we can do them together for the dinner guests.”

  What a challenge! Mrs. Johnson’s lemon soufflés were famous. Cassidy had longed to make them since she’d arrived. And how incredible would it be to serve them to the wealthy crowd at dinner?

  They gathered the ingredients together and set it all out on Cassidy’s station. The older woman gave the eggs to Cassidy. “Separate them.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” This was a job she could do in her sleep. Well, almost. Cassidy giggled to herself.

  “What on earth has struck you as funny this time?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.” She worked very hard to look serious but feared she looked more like a fish.

  Mrs. Johnson smiled and shook her head. “No one could ever accuse you of being melancholy, that’s for sure.” She grabbed a whisk and a clean bowl, and went right back to business. “Wipe the bowl down with a drop of vinegar. Only a drop, mind you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s time to whip the egg whites. Now one of the most important things is to make sure you do not overbeat them. They need to hold a stiff peak but not be dry.”

  The recipe really wasn’t that difficult. Whipping the yolks with sugar and lemon zest, gradually adding hot cream, and cooking until it was pudding-like. Then folding the fluffy egg whites with lemon into the mixture. In no time, Cassidy felt she’d have it down to a perfectly timed routine.

  As she gently set the tray in the oven, she said a little prayer.

  Mrs. Johnson wiped her hands on a towel and headed toward her desk in the opposite corner. “Let me know when they’re done. I need to check the list for the night cook and then must speak to Mr. Bradley. I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Yes, Cook.” Cassidy stared at the oven with her hand on her watch. Mrs. Johnson said it was a precise amount of time. But what if she messed it up in some way?