At the Rainbow's End

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  She moved to the stove to pour the water back in the pot. It was not too dirty to use in the laundry tub. Every bit she could save kept her from carrying the heavy buckets from the spring on the far side of the hill. The water in the stream was too befouled by garbage and the residue of prospecting to be used in the house.

  “Why do you taunt me all the time?” she asked softly. She wiped her hands on her dirty apron to hide their trembling.

  “That was a compliment.”

  “It didn’t sound like it.”

  He shrugged as he rose. Flexing his fingers, he winced as the pain erupted across his thumb again. “Your problem, Sam, is that you live too much in your dreams.”

  “I could say the same to you!”

  “And you’d probably be right.” He smiled. “Back to work. See you at supper.”

  “Don’t be late!” she shouted after his receding shadow. A laugh floated back to her on the light breeze. Instead of being angered by his flippant behavior, she smiled. Despite herself, she was growing to like these men—in different ways, for they were very different.

  She anticipated the evening meal with delight. It would not be silent as their suppers had been. While they enjoyed her freshly cooked meal, she would use words as a weapon against the self-assured Mr. Joel Gilchrist. It would be fun to see him react each time she tripped him up on a well-calculated phrase.

  Chapter Six

  Samantha stretched to place the last of the clean dishes on the shelf over the food cupboard. Biting back a moan, she put her hand against the base of her back. The hours of bending over the laundry tub and the regular sessions of chopping wood left her aching deep in her bones. Although she had done much of the heavy labor at her brother’s house, there had been the luxury of a hand pump in the kitchen.

  It was worth it. She turned to survey the glistening house, pleased by the change she had made during the months she had been in the Yukon. Her tasks here would help make the time pass more quickly.

  There were monetary rewards, as well. In a small tin can in the loft, she had her cache of gold. Without scales, she could not tell the exact amount of her new wealth, but it grew each day. She now washed clothes for the men living on about four claims. Every week more prospectors stopped at Fifteen Above asking for her services.

  She never had to worry about improprieties, although she sensed they wished they could hire her for more than washing their shirts. They always treated her politely and called her “Miss Perry, Ma’am.” Sorry about their loneliness, she sometimes listened to stories of the women waiting for them in the United States. Silent, she wondered how many of those women would remain true to these prospectors, thousands of miles away.

  Signing with fatigue, she looked at Kevin. He was working at fixing some piece of equipment. Still unfamiliar with the tools they used in their daily work, she could not give it a name. His intensity matched his singleminded desire to wrest the gold from the land. A soft smile tilted her lips as she watched him push his gold-rimmed glasses up on his nose.

  Hearing a sound from the rear of the narrow room, she walked into the section called the addition. Since she had forced the men to keep their equipment in some semblance of order, this part of the room had been used more often. Pegs and tilting shelves were covered by tools. Foodstuffs clung to the walls, bags of flour and beans worth hundreds of dollars in Dawson. Although Joel and Kevin had not starved the previous winter, they had come close. They had no intention of repeating that deprivation this year.

  Stumbling on an uneven board, she caught her hand on the edge of the mantle. She knew now this fireplace was useless. The men had bought the stove in Grand Forks and partially built the chimney, but had halted to return to the river when the ice broke. They would not have time to complete it before winter made such work impossible. Again she heard a strange noise, and peered about the room. The dim light from the single lantern on the table did not light the corners.

  “Joel?”

  He stood, his silhouette blending with the shadows. When he walked toward her, his ebony twin loomed up to creep along the walls and ceiling to overwhelm her. He paused in front of her, hands hidden behind his back. Softly he asked, “All done with the dishes?”

  Her eyes rose to his bewhiskered face, which concealed so much of what he felt. A smile sparkled through his mustache, and fire returned to her voice. “I think I work hard enough in this partnership that you don’t have the right to check up on me.”

  “Hush, woman!” he ordered as his smile disappeared. “You’re jumping to conclusions again. Why do you always expect the worst from me?”

  She moved away from his powerful presence and sat on the first rung of the wobbly ladder. It was easier to think clearly when she was not blanketed by his shadow. “Because I usually get exactly that.”

  “Touché.” He dropped down to the floor by her, long legs stretched out. Part of her skirt spread out over his arm. “I think that one drew blood. Having you around forces me to keep my wits about me.”

  “At least you think I’m good for something.”

  “I didn’t realize you thought I considered you worthless.”

  She laughed. Looking down into his face was a novel sensation. He was so tall she seldom had had a chance to examine his face from this angle. Joel Gilchrist did not resemble the other men she had met at Fifteen Above. His features were more finely sculptured and aristocratic, making him very imposing when rage froze his face into solid lines of unbending determination. Suddenly, she itched to trace the lean length of his nose to the thick, black brush covering his upper lip.

  Using humor to cover the unwanted desires swirling through her, she said, “I guess you do consider me worthwhile. What else would you call a free slave?”

  “What else, indeed?” His hand moved along the ladder. It slid past her hip, caressing her lightly, before continuing as high as he could reach. Ever so slowly, he lowered his hand. Again it brushed her, creating an electric shock all through her.

  Her gasp of shocked delight betrayed her, and she closed her eyes to escape his knowing smile. She wished his touch did not have this effect on her. Once he learned he could daunt her this way, he would use it to control her. She had vowed never to be anyone’s docile Samantha again. This was her life, and she would live it as she, and she alone, pleased.

  A daring thought spun through her mind. If Joel enticed her so strongly with a single touch, she might be able to do the same to him. Then she would be the one in charge of the strange relationship. She glanced at his piercing eyes and away. Touching him to see if she had guessed correctly was not a risk she wanted to take lightly …

  Noticing an item nearly hidden near his leg, she asked, “What’s that?”

  With a flourish, he drew out a violin. “This, as you see, is a musical instrument, but many have called it an instrument of torture in my hands.”

  “Play something.” When he raised an irreverent eyebrow, her mouth quirked. “Please?”

  “You may make us civilized again, Sam, with your impeccable manners.”

  She grinned, arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees, her boot heels caught in the first rung to help balance her. “Good habits are sometimes as difficult to break as bad ones. I doubt you brought this violin out simply to flaunt it.”

  “I did have a plan.”

  “And you want me to beg you to play.”

  He looked at her with a fervor which frightened her. “I can’t imagine you begging anyone for anything, Sam.”

  His softly spoken words stirred something inside her. Wanting to stroke the sturdy lines of his face, she reached toward him. Pulling back her hand, clutching the rebellious fingers in her other hand, she asked with ill-concealed desperation, “Will you stop being silly and play?”

  Although he wanted to continue simply admiring her and find a way to convince her to give into the urge to touch him that she could not hide, Joel smiled. After adjusting the knobs at the far end of the violin’s neck, he tested the str
ings of the violin. When he began to play, the clarity of its notes floated like crystal raindrops in the rough little room. Samantha regarded him in openmouthed wonder. He smiled, knowing she had expected a rollicking “Turkey in the Straw” or a popular gold rush tune. Instead he played a Strauss waltz.

  Fascinated, she watched his lean hands fly along the instrument with easy assurance.

  Kevin came to stand in the lopsided arch they had cut into the wall when they built this room.

  Closing her eyes, Samantha was transported far from the rough hills of the Yukon. She imagined a world she had never known—a world which existed in distant cities, where women in silk dresses swirled across the floors of mirrored and gilded ballrooms in the arms of men in perfectly tailored tuxedoes. While Joel played, she was in that world, savoring the soft colors and listening to the melodies which washed away the coarseness of her life here.

  Regretfully she opened her eyes as the last note sighed into silence. “That is so beautiful,” she murmured.

  “I remembered you wrote that you love music.” He held out the violin. “Do you play?”

  With a laugh, she shook her head. “My musical talent is limited to singing, hopefully with others loud enough to drown out my mistakes.”

  “Sing for us, Samantha,” came a soft request from the doorway.

  “Kevin, I don’t sing that well.”

  Joel put the violin beneath his chin, asking, “Do you know this?” He began to play. Within a few notes she recognized the popular tune he was playing.

  She began to sing, hands clasped around one knee, of love found and too quickly lost. When Joel sang harmony to complement her and the melody from the violin, she realized that she suddenly felt welcome in this place. Her eyes met his as they traveled the maze of verses.

  Kevin applauded when the song came to an end, and she stepped down from the ladder and curtsied low in his direction. Then she did the same to Joel, who tipped an imaginary hat in her direction. Soon they all joined in rare, delightful laughter.

  Urging Joel to play more, she went to the stove to make coffee. Humming to the next song, she cut three slices from a pie she had made of precious, dried apples and began to sway to the tempo of the waltz.

  She did not realize what she was doing until Kevin stepped in front of her and held out his hands. Curtsying again, she placed hers on his palm and lifted her skirts. Hand on her waist, he drew her back into the addition and whirled her with easy grace through the waltz. They laughed when they bumped into the few pieces of furniture crowding the small room. Joel now sat on the bed, to free extra space, his long legs crossed beneath him.

  She smiled at Kevin. Although she was growing accustomed to surprises from these men, she would not have expected him to dance this well. He did not have innate grace, like Joel.

  Joel smiled as his eyes met hers, and Kevin swirled her with sudden vehemence. Gasping, she broke the sapphire gaze holding her eyes.

  “You dance as lovely as you do everything else,” murmured the blond man, turning her to the tempo of the music. He pressed her closer to him.

  “Kevin!” she whispered, uncomfortable. The flickering lamplight created strange shadows, making his smile alternate between friendly and diabolical. He stroked her back in a simple, circular motion, bringing her closer to him. Through the fabric of her workskirt, she could feel the hard muscles of his legs moving against her in tempo with the music. His chest caressed hers, making her aware of the fine layers of silk between her skin and the coarse cotton of his thin shirt.

  “Relax,” he whispered. “It’s simply a dance. Let me enjoy holding you.”

  Samantha relented. If she persisted, it might cause a scene which would ruin the pleasant evening. She concentrated on the music. With her mind on the melody, she could put aside her distress with Kevin’s sudden forwardness.

  With a flourish, Joel finished the song and accepted their enthusiastic applause. When Samantha placed the pie and coffee on the table, he grabbed her hand and drew her down next to him. He smiled at her surprise. From her first night on the claim, she had shared Kevin’s bench.

  Her astonishment grew as his arm slid around her waist. Although she knew she should tell him to desist, she liked the sensation of his work-hardened arm against her. He did not pause in conversation while his fingers caressed her side slowly, sensually, urging her closer. She fought the desire to feel the length of his body against her.

  Nervously listening to the men talk, sipping coffee, she wondered why she yearned for the caress of this man. When he drew his arm from her to use both hands to emphasize a point to Kevin, she suddenly felt bereft. His touch ignited a hunger which no food could satisfy.

  When he put his hand over hers in her lap, she flinched. His fingers rested on her leg. Kevin noticed her reaction and asked, “What is wrong, Samantha?”

  “Nothing,” she said with hasty guilt. Perhaps nothing was wrong. Or perhaps everything was. “I must ask you to excuse me. I have a busy day tomorrow. It’s the day Liberty brings in the wash from Sixteen Above. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She stood, wondering if Joel would release her hand. His face mirrored his disappointment, but he did not hold her captive.

  “Good night,” he said softly. “Sleep well.”

  “I will.” She included Kevin in her smile. “After this lovely evening of dancing and music, I certainly will.”

  With hurried steps, she crossed the small room and scurried up her ladder. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the sanctuary of her room. Here she did not have to watch her every word and action. Yet even in this place which was hers alone, she could not escape the truth. Today she had become sure of two terrible facts.

  She liked one of the partners of Fifteen Above. She desired the other.

  More than ever, she was sure she must leave the Bonanza before she gave into temptation and chose one of the men, as they had planned. Sighing, she fell into a restless sleep, to haunted dreams.

  No new solutions came to Samantha during the night. She must leave the claim. That thought taunted her while she dressed and brushed her hair into a bun at the back of her neck. It rang through her head as she prepared a hasty breakfast for the men. As usual, they had been at the sluice for several hours before she woke.

  Liberty’s arrival kept her from having to sit down to eat with Joel and Kevin. His light banter soothed her dark thoughts. She gave him the pile of cleaned clothes and accepted payment and his dirt-encrusted shirts. She dropped the sweat-hardened, filthy clothes on the floor, already sorry she had agreed to this. Although the money would help her do what she must, she was beginning to feel she had spent all her life cleaning shirts for prospectors.

  She listened intently while Liberty shared news from beyond Bonanza Creek. In Grand Forks last week one of his partners had luxuriated in the chance to read a newspaper less than a month old. Another newspaper syndicate had sent a reporter north to cover the growing excitement of the gold rush. The man from the Chicago Record worked out of Dawson, but had come into Grand Forks to gather information for an article to titillate his readers. None of this interested her as much as what was happening outside the Yukon.

  Sometimes she had a hard time remembering that there actually was a world beyond this one of freshly cut stumps and disgusting laundry. She wondered if her past was a dream, if her present was a nightmare. The two did not seem connected in any way.

  When Joel emerged from the cabin, he greeted Liberty enthusiastically, inviting the huge man to visit the repaired sluice and see a new method he and Kevin had developed for searching for gold. Liberty agreed excitedly. Any help would be welcomed in the frustrating work they did each day.

  Joel paused before they left to say, “That was a good breakfast.”

  “It’s the same I fix you every day,” she answered, surprise mixing with pleasure at his unexpected compliment.

  “Then maybe I should have told you before how much I appreciate your cooking.” He smiled, h
is blue eyes rivaling the sun-washed sky.

  He could not resist stroking her arm, and she could not step away to avoid it. Ignoring Liberty, who watched the exchange with candid amusement, Joel smiled as he felt her slim arm. It amazed him how she could appear so delicate, yet work so strenuously.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She paid no attention to what she was saying aloud. A silent message passed between them, much stronger than words.

  How tempted she was to cling to him and savor the touch of his body all along hers! Others who had tried to hold her had always brought stomach churning distaste. She did not think it would be the same with Joel, and longed to know.

  Samantha watched as he walked away with Liberty. The change had come so suddenly between them that she was not sure how it had happened. Yesterday they were snapping at each other, today she wanted to be deep in his arms, listening to the power of his heartbeat.

  With a sigh, she returned to work. The change in Joel might be fleeting as the notes flying from his violin. She could not waste her time dreaming. She had work to do.…

  Picking up her bucket, Samantha grasped her skirt and headed up the steep hill toward the spring. Over and over, she had told herself how lucky she was that she did not have to carry filled pails up the slope. She could slide down with relative ease, worrying only about spilling the water.

  The narrow trunks of pines and birches spread out across the hillside. She was always pleased to see trees unbroken by haphazard axes. This far from the river, few had been chopped down for constructing rustic cabins. All the boards for the sluices and furniture had come from the sawmill of Joe Ladue, the man who founded Dawson. He decided to provide services to prospectors instead of standing in cold water himself.

  Dipping the pail into the icy puddle around the spring, Samantha noted how few birds sounded in the trees. She missed the homey sound of a robin’s song and a jay’s scold more than anything else she had left behind her. The most familiar noise here was the everpresent whine of insects.