Teddy cocked his head to one side and then tossed the pan into the sink. “Well, I see nothing funny about this. Our breakfast is either burned or splattered across the floor.”
Miranda shook off her mirth and got to her feet, no thanks to Teddy offering any help. “My mother always said, ‘When bad times come we can either laugh at them or cry.’ ”
“That makes no sense. Was your mother quite all right in the head?”
Miranda picked up the pan. “I assure you, my mother was quite sane. She was also very content with life because she tried never to let problems overwhelm her. I wish I could be more like her.”
“I’m not entirely certain that would be to your benefit.”
Miranda smiled and began wiping up the oatmeal. “Well, I know for certain that it would greatly benefit us both to stop taking things so seriously. Who knows, Mr. Davenport. You might actually have some fun.”
As Teddy added wood to the fireplace and prepared to retire for the night, he thought of Miranda’s words and shook his head. His mother had always been one for having fun. As a young boy, Teddy had enjoyed her zest for living. Where his father would have been content to sit in his solarium cultivating a new type of rose, Eugenia Davenport was one for cultivating life.
It had been his mother who had taught Teddy to ride and hunt, his mother who had taken him to the museum and opera. She had spent hours teaching him about art and the pleasure that could be had in a single painting.
His mother had loved people with a great passion, and her enthusiasm was contagious. Teddy remembered as a boy being allowed to join his mother for luncheons and afternoon teas. The food was always an adventure of flavors served on the finest china. And it was his mother’s laughter that rang out most clearly in his memory—laughter not so very much different than that of Miranda Colton.
The flames greedily consumed the dried logs, crackling and popping. Teddy’s memories intertwined with the present. His mother and Miranda Colton were very much alike. They both had a flair for living that seemed to overwhelm their environment. Teddy was more like his father. He enjoyed the quietness and solitude of introspection. He preferred a good book or time spent with his plants, to conversation and revelry.
He thought of his father succumbing to an ailment the doctors were never quite sure how to diagnose. Cancer seemed the most likely culprit, but there was nothing that could have been done on any account. His father simply wasted away, day after day. His dreams of travel to North America dying with him.
“I won’t disappoint you, Father,” Teddy whispered, staring into the fire as if he could see the image of Albert Davenport in the flames. “I’ll stay the course.”
He heard Miranda sigh in her sleep and felt a foreign sensation creep up his spine. She was a lovely woman—gentle and spirited and lovely—in spite of the lack of amenities with which to care for herself.
Eugenia Davenport had also been a lovely woman—and she had broken his father’s heart. Teddy squared his shoulders and firmed his resolve. He wouldn’t fall victim to the same temptations as his father. He wouldn’t allow a woman to put an end to his dreams.
—[CHAPTER FOUR]—
“PLEASE UNDERSTAND,” Miranda began. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but I’m most desperate to get to Dawson City. Is there no way we can get a message to your native friends?”
Teddy looked up, distraught to have been drawn once again from his work. “Do explain to me, Miss Colton, how we might send this message.”
Miranda crossed her arms. He noted the determined look in her eye. She was a pretty young woman, probably at least five years his junior. Her eyes are most appealing, he thought, noticing the way she watched him with unyielding interest. He remembered his determination from the night before and shook off his thoughts of admiration.
“Please understand me, Mr. Davenport. I realize the situation is difficult, but might we simply hike out? You could leave your things here until your friends could bring the sleds. I’m completely well now, and I know you might not believe this, but I’m fully capable of hiking long distances.”
“Leave my things here?” he said, hardly concerning himself with anything else she’d said. The very thought of it was absurd. The woman simply didn’t have any understanding of his work or its importance—just like his mother, who couldn’t understand when Teddy took up his father’s torch, determined to pick up where his father left off. “I can’t just leave my things here.”
“And I can’t just stay here all winter. I want to know what happened to my friends. I need to know whether they made it or not. Your plants will still be here in the weeks to come.”
“And if your friends are in Dawson, they will still be there as well,” Teddy countered. “There’s no chance they could make their way out if they’ve not already taken their leave. At least it’s highly improbable. Certainly, there are ways, as in any situation. Dog sled teams can be hired and such. Walking out is possible, but very dangerous and highly unlikely unless, of course, your friends are native to the area and quite used to the harsh elem—”
“Oh, you are impossible!” Miranda stomped her foot and moved to her corner of the cabin.
Teddy looked at her in surprise. He’d merely tried to explain the situation. There was no call for her to get so angry. He waited, thinking she might begin again. When she remained silent, he breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she’d leave him alone now and let him work. He picked up a piece of charcoal and began to sketch the outline of a dried subalpine buttercup.
Ranunculus eschscholtzii, he wrote in small charcoal lettering. Petals—five, colored a brilliant yellow. He went to work sketching the petals of the flower.
“Why can’t you try to understand my position?”
Bother! She is back . Teddy looked up, hoping his expression betrayed his frustration. Slowly he took off the gold-framed spectacles he used for his closeup work. “Miss Colton, I have a feeling you will endeavor to explain it, so I might as well hear you out.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned his head against his hand.
Miranda took the chair opposite him and folded her hands as if he might be about to serve tea. Teddy was more frustrated at the interruptions than angry. After all, she did cook a nice meal and her mannerisms were not at all unpleasant—except for this incessant nagging. He hated to continue conjuring up the likeness of his mother, but Miranda’s attitude was very much like hers. They were both very likable, but not entirely thoughtful.
“My friends most likely believe me dead. Imagine their pain and suffering. It’s inhumane to sit here and let them assume the worst. What if they’ve written to my mother and father?
“I’m not without regard for the work you’re doing here, Mr. Davenport. In fact, I highly respect it. I love books, and I well imagine that your book will be quite fascinating and accurate. I’ll probably be determined to purchase a copy— not only because of having known you, but also because of the topic. Even so, you must understand my position.”
Her expression bore evidence to the pain in her heart. Teddy lost himself for a moment in her huge brown eyes. Her eyes were just about the same light nutty color as the cone of the Canadian spruce. If he’d saved a specimen he could show her. He looked around the room for a moment, and then realized she’d fallen silent.
Looking back to her, Teddy offered an apologetic smile. “I say, please continue.”
“Why should I? You don’t care. All you can think about is your own need.”
“Until recently, that was my main concentration, I must admit. However, with your arrival, I found my plans very much altered. You cannot, with any reasonable truth, suggest otherwise.”
Miranda leaned forward, causing Teddy to pull back ever so slightly. The young woman made him nervous. He’d never been around many women other than his mother or servants. This woman had the ability to rattle his thoughts and leave him struggling for words.
“I wasn’t suggesting that your life hadn’t been altered by my arrival. I am ve
ry sorry you were delayed. But I’m even sorrier that you continue our delay.” She got to her feet and put her hands on her hips. “Look, if you haven’t any desire to take me to Dawson, then perhaps I’ll set out on my own. I have the things Nellie left me and I’ll just follow the river. It can’t be that hard.”
Teddy actually smiled at this. She no doubt assumed he’d find such a suggestion threatening. “You cannot be serious. The temperature is forty below, and the river is some distance from here. The creek will do you little good because it branches off in several directions—none of which lead to Dawson, which I might add is a good three days journey from here. Not to mention we are enjoying only about four hours of daylight, and most of that is spent under heavy clouds and snow.”
“I don’t care. My friends and family mean too much to me.”
She turned to go to her bed. Teddy watched as she began pulling together the things Nellie had given her. She laced on the thick elk-skin boots Nellie had crafted while tending to Miranda. Next, she pulled on a fur-lined cloak, also crafted by the old Indian woman. Somewhat amused by her show of independence, Teddy secured his glasses on his nose and began to study the petals of the buttercup in more detail.
Maybe her persistence at gathering her meager belongings would wear Miss Colton out and leave her willing to forego her adventure. Not that he truly believed she’d step foot outside the door.
Teddy lost himself in thoughts of his drawing and the work at hand. There was no sense in worrying over his guest. She would settle herself down and realize the sensibility in waiting until help came their way. Perhaps she’d even put on a pot of tea. It wasn’t until he heard the door to the cabin open and felt the cold rush of arctic air that Teddy realized he’d underestimated Miranda Colton.
Miranda slammed the door to the cabin, hoping it jarred Mr. Davenport’s teeth right out of his head. The man was insufferable. He kept his nose buried in his notes and drawings from morning light until dark. Even then, he would often take up a lantern and work until the allotted supply of oil was gone.
Stepping off the small porch, Miranda felt an alarming sense of folly when her booted feet sunk into snow that came up over her knees. And this was in the area that Teddy had managed to clear away prior to the last big snow. How deep must it be in other areas?
Miranda pulled her fur hat down, trying desperately to ward off the frigid temperatures. Her eyes were crusting with ice as she blinked against the painfully cold air.
“Oh, God,” she murmured as she pushed out across the once shoveled path. “I need your help. I have to get to Dawson. I have to know if Grace is safe.” The frigid temperatures slowed her steps. She was so poorly prepared. Even without Teddy there to tell her so, Miranda knew she would be dead before she ever reached Dawson.
“What do I do, God?” she whispered, burying her face into the fur lining of her cloak. She was grateful Nellie had left her such a fine gift. She only wished the fur extended to cover her entire body.
A twig snapped and Miranda froze in her steps at the sound, her heart racing. Could it be wolves? She’d heard horror stories of wolves that attacked humans and fed off their bones while the person was still alive. Swallowing hard, she turned and strained to see into the darkening woods. If she were to be attacked, she would meet her assailant head on.
She let out a long breath when Teddy’s bundled figure emerged from the shadows. “Why are you following me?”
“Because someone has to,” he replied. “Stop this nonsense and come back to the cabin. You’re lost already. At this rate you’ll end up in Whitehorse before you ever see Dawson. Now come along. Much longer out here and we’ll both pay the price.”
Miranda knew it was hopeless to argue. Her lungs already hurt from the frigid air. “Very well, Mr. Davenport. As it appears I have no other choice, I will do as you suggest.”
“This truly wasn’t necessary,” he said as they made their way back. “You may believe me to be heartless and completely void of understanding, but I know very well that your need is great.”
“You certainly don’t act like it,” she said, struggling to keep up. Stubbing her toe against a buried rock or branch, Miranda cried out and would have fallen face first in the snow, if not for Teddy.
Steadying her with one hand, he reached out and took her bundled things with the other. “I say, we’ll both be ready for a spot of tea when we get back inside.”
Miranda felt completely humiliated. It had been purely childish and even selfish to take this action.
Once back in the cabin, Miranda warmed her hands by the fire. Her gloves had helped to keep the cold at bay, but her fingers were numb, as were her toes.
“I fail to see what you thought that would prove.”
Miranda looked up to see Teddy watching her most intently. “I thought it would prove my willingness to risk my life in order to ease the concern of my friends.”
“But if you had died on the way it would have proven nothing—especially if your friends think you already dead. You see, the logical thing—”
“Oh, please don’t give me your analytical review of the matter,” Miranda said, closing her eyes in exasperation. “My heart has no understanding of it and it is my heart that urges me to find my friends. Can’t you see that?” She opened her eyes and looked at him. His expression seemed to suggest that he could not comprehend her meaning.
“Oh, just forget about it. I don’t expect you to understand.” She turned back to the stove.
“I am not without concern for your emotions,” Teddy countered. “But I am a man of logic, and that logic tells me that we dare not attempt the wilderness on our own. I’ve stayed alive up here by listening to the advice of those who know better. You’d do well to follow my example.”
Miranda knew the truth in his words, but she didn’t want to admit it. A tear trailed down her cheek as she realized she might well be stranded until spring. She turned away so that Teddy wouldn’t see her cry. No sense in bothering him with her sorrow.
“I’m sure you know best, Mr. Davenport,” she finally said. “I’ll try my best to understand.”
“Perhaps you should take some of your own advice and not take this situation so seriously.”
Miranda realized he was using her words against her. She turned, hands on her hips. “Mr. Davenport, laughing over spilled oatmeal is one thing, but my dear sweet mother may very well be inconsolable over the loss of her only daughter. My friends may be suffering guilt and pain over their belief that they’ve played a part in my death. I cannot help but take this situation seriously.”
Teddy gave a halfhearted smile, causing him to look youthful and vulnerable. Miranda almost felt sorry for him. His gentle spirit was no match for her temper. Calming a bit, Miranda drew a deep breath. “I know there is nothing to be done. I will try to be useful, instead of antagonistic.”
After arranging her meager belongings under the bed, Miranda stretched out atop the bed and tried not to think of home. She tried her best to put aside thoughts of how sad Christmas must have been for her parents. She tried not to worry over whether or not Grace had given birth. I might as well be stranded on the moon for all the good it does me. Never mind that we are less than one hundred miles from Dawson. Never mind that it’s already January of a new year and I have no idea where any of my friends and family are.
She thought for a moment of Crispin Thibault. Both he and Mr. Davenport bore themselves with a sort of European flair—that flavor of aristocracy that Americans always seemed so desperate to emulate. But where Mr. Davenport was driven and passionate about his work, Crispin had been a free spirit—simply living to experience life. He hardly cared where they went or when they might arrive. Crispin was the kind of man who would be just as content to get in the boat and let the river take him where it would. Mr. Davenport, on the other hand, would go no place unless it merited him to do so. They were completely opposite—and in more ways than one, for Miranda knew that Mr. Davenport was a godly man. He prayed a
nd read Scriptures to her every day. He also talked of God on occasion, but for the most part dedicated himself to his work.
“I am taking the liberty to reheat the leftover portion of our luncheon stew,” Teddy said, jarring Miranda from her thoughts.
Miranda shook her head and sat up. The man had a penchant for destroying meals. “I’ll heat it,” she said getting to her feet. Reluctantly, Miranda crossed the room and took the pot from Teddy’s hands.
“I’m happy to help.”
Miranda looked at him and forced herself to smile. He was trying to make up for his attitude and lack of interest in her situation. “I suppose you could slice the bread.”
“I believe I can handle that,” he said, heading to the counter.
Miranda worked in silence for several moments. Teddy Davenport was such an unusual man. She found herself wishing she knew more about him. “Tell me about your homeland, Mr. Davenport.”
“It’s certainly different from this place,” he answered. “We would never have to endure cold like this. In fact, it rarely snowed.”
“What part of England are you from?”
“Well, actually, my parents owned two estates. One was very close to London. My mother’s people were from the area, and she loved the city. London, of course, is quite fascinating. There are many fine places to go—museums, shops, and such.”
“But you didn’t care for it as much as the other place?” Miranda questioned, feeling certain her guess was true.
Teddy smiled. “You are very astute. My favorite place was by far and away the estate of my father’s people. It was in Cornwall, not far from the coast. It was quite lovely there year round. We had magnificent gardens and my father was good to train me in every area of horticulture.”
“Do you still live there? I mean, when you aren’t in Canada.” She was amazed that he had shared so much information with her.
“I do,” Teddy admitted. He took the bread to the table.
Rivers of Gold Page 4
