He had no strength left with which to argue the matter. Time enough for that tonight, when he would be stronger. He closed his eyes and waited for the knife-like pain to subside. Felt the darkness slip over him….
“Here is the quilt from my bed, Hattie. The coverlet is fine for me.” Viola rushed from her bedroom into the living room, the quilt overflowing her arms. “If we double it, you should be nice and warm here on the settle.”
Hattie stopped tucking the sheet around the thick, feather tick that padded the seat of the long, wood settle, faced Viola and fisted her hands on her ample hips. “Stop fussin’, Viola! I been takin’ care of myself for close to seventy years, and I reckon I can do so now. This mattress we’ve fixed up here on the settle will make as fine a bed as any I’ve e’er slept on. Now, go on with fixin’ up that bed for Mr. Stone, and leave me get my work done.”
“You are a pure gem, Hattie!” Viola hugged the short, round woman, then dropped to her knees beside Goldie, who was lying on her back on the braided rag rug, waving a rattle and cooing. “And so are you, little Miss Goldie.” She grabbed the baby’s free hand, kissed the tiny palm and then kissed her way up the pudgy little arm to her round, rosy cheek. The baby squealed, laughed and kicked her feet.
A knock on the door stopped the play. “That must be Mr. Carson to pick up his mending.” Viola rose and shook out her long skirt, brushed back a curl that had escaped her snood, and went to answer the door. “Oh, Mr. Foster. I was not expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I know I’m early, Miss Goddard, but I got a chance to join up with three other men going up to Dawson today. Heard tell there’s been some new sites opened up, where the gold is just laying on the ground waiting for someone to scoop it up. I aim to be that someone.” The wiry little man grinned. “I’m hoping I don’t have to go without those shirts you was mending for me. That blue one is my lucky shirt.”
Viola nodded and stepped back to let him come inside. “Your lucky shirt is ready. As are the rest. I’ll get them for you.”
She walked to the large wardrobe where she kept her sewing work, and pulled out the shirts tied up in a neat package. “Here you are, Mr. Foster. I hope your blue shirt works for you.”
“It will.” The man took the package, glanced up at her. “Having you sew it up will make it doubly lucky, Miss Goddard. Tell you what— When I strike it rich I’ll give you half!”
Viola stiffened. She wiped the smile from her face and cooled her voice by several degrees. “Fair payment for the mending is all I want, Mr. Foster.”
He nodded, looked down. “I reckon I know that by now, Miss Goddard. My payment is in the scale.” He made a little bow. “Good day to you. And to you, Hattie Marsh.” He walked away whistling.
“And to you, John Foster! You old fool.” Hattie’s voice was rough with hurt. “Go on and join the others who risk their lives o’er and o’er, just cause some miner gets drunk and starts spinnin’ tall tales about gold just waitin’ to be claimed.” The elderly woman snapped the quilt through the air, folded it and jammed one side down between the mattress and the back of the settle. “Old fools ne’er learn! But at least that one doesn’t have a wife to leave behind, lonely and grievin’ when he don’t come back.”
“Oh, Hattie.” Viola rushed over and put her arm around the plump woman’s shoulders. “Your husband never meant to leave you.”
“I know. None of them do. That’s why they’re old fools! And him no better than the worst of them. Sellin’ all we had to outfit hisself for minin’ gold. Then dyin’ up there. And me left with no one to care about me, nothin’ in my pocket and nowhere to go. It was a blessin’ when you took me in and gave me a home, Viola Goddard. A true blessin’.” Hattie patted her hand and smiled up at her. “You’re my family now. You and little Goldie. Now, go put the dust from the scales in your poke, and get back to work on that bed. No tellin’ when Dr. Calloway will be bringin’ your patient.”
Chapter Three
Pulsing pain pulled him out of the darkness. Thomas tried to move his left arm, gritted his teeth at the sudden stabbing anguish in his chest. He gathered his strength against it, opened his eyes and stared up at the rough board and beam ceiling. A soft cocoon of warmth held him. A hint of roses, coming from the bedding, encouraged him to breathe deeply, to capture more of a distant memory of his mother sitting on the lawn, doing needle-point while he played at her feet.
The dusky light of a midnight sun cast an ambient glow over the room, softening the edges of the rocks on the chimney climbing the opposite wall to the ceiling. He slewed his gaze left, toward the window that ceded entrance to the purple and gold twilight. Curtains softened the hard lines of the frame. Where was he? He frowned, willing the fuzziness away.
A rustle of fabric, soft footfalls interrupted his effort, cleared his head. He didn’t have to look their way, didn’t want to look their way. He knew who was there.
Viola Goddard stepped into his line of vision, glanced down at him. The connection he’d felt the first time their gazes met burgeoned. “You’re awake, Mr. Stone. Would you like some water?”
What he would like was to be in his hut. But judging from the pain and the weakness in his body, that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. “Please. My mouth…dry…”
She turned away.
He closed his eyes, summoned physical strength for the effort to lift his head and drink the water, and inner strength to resist the pull of his emotions toward this woman caring for him. He’d never felt so helpless. For an ungracious moment, he wished the kidnapper was miserable. There was a clink of glass, a small gurgle.
“I shall have to give you the water from a spoon.”
He opened his eyes, stared up at her.
“Doctor’s orders. You’re not to move.”
He couldn’t stop the frown.
She didn’t comment, merely held a napkin against his chin and offered the spoon. He fought back the urge to turn away and parted his lips. She parted her own and leaned forward. The spoon touched his mouth, water moistened his tongue. He felt the soothing coolness trickle toward his parched throat and swallowed, tried to keep his attention focused on the sensation. It was an abysmal failure. When half the glass was gone, he gave up the fight. He’d had enough. Not of the water, but of the sight of Viola Goddard leaning over him, her violet-blue eyes warm with sympathy. He closed his eyes, heard the soft rustle of her dress as she straightened and moved away, the soft clink of the glass as she set it down. Help me, Lord. Help me to fight this sense of connection, and feel nothing but gratitude for this woman. You know I made a vow to never—
“Mr. Stone, please open your mouth once more. The doctor instructed me to give you a dose of this medicine as soon as you awoke. It will ease your pain.”
He considered feigning slumber, but the agony in his chest and shoulder overruled the idea. He opened his eyes, took the medicine and closed them again. There were soft footfalls, the creak of caning in a chair and the whisper of rockers against the floor. He tried to will away the image of Viola Goddard’s beautiful eyes, fringed with dark-brown lashes so long and thick they looked like velvet, her full, rose-colored lips and the wisps of dark red curls brushing against her forehead. He failed, and slipped into oblivion, wondering if her porcelain skin was as soft and smooth to the touch as it appeared.
Viola smiled and lay her sewing aside. Goldie had rolled over again, and one shoulder and pudgy little arm were uncovered. She rose from the rocker and stood a moment, looking at the adorable baby face, the tiny button nose and the small rosebud mouth moving in and out in little sucking motions. Tears welled in her eyes. She leaned down and moved Goldie back to the center of the cradle and tucked the covers around her, blinked the tears away and brushed the back of her finger over the baby’s silky, brown hair, her warm, rosy cheek. She blinked again, straightened and turned away, shaken by the strength of the love that filled her.
What if she had lost her? What if the kidnapper had harmed her? No. She would not
dwell on that. She shuddered, wrapped her arms about herself and waited for the trembling to pass. It would. And every day the memory would become more dim, the trembling would lessen, and someday she would be able to look at Goldie and not think of what could have happened. Or remember that it would have been her fault.
The thought set her stomach churning. How would she ever have explained to Goldie’s father? She looked out the window, studied the shadows of trees clouding her yard. Where was Goldie’s father? Would he ever return? The selfish part of her hoped not. The unselfish part prayed he would. Girls needed fathers to shelter and protect them.
As she would have been sheltered, had her father and mother not died in that carriage accident. If her father had lived, she never would have been forced out onto the streets of Seattle by foreclosure on their home. And Richard Dengler would never have found her sitting on that park bench crying.
Oh, how innocent and trusting she had been! Believing Dengler when he told her she reminded him of his dear dead daughter. And that he was lonely and it would please him if she would allow him to provide for her, that she could stay in his dead daughter’s bedroom until she found work by which she could support herself. How shocked she’d been when he presented her with a bill for her room and board and made her that oh, so magnanimous offer to allow her to work off her debt in his house of ill repute, knowing full well she had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to for help and no skill with which to make a living.
Her chest tightened. Sickness washed over her—the same sickness she felt that day she succumbed to the circumstances and agreed to work for him. The day she sold her innocence and youth to pay for her keep.
She clenched her hands into fists, forced air into her constricted lungs. One thing was certain. If Goldie stayed in her care, she would make provisions for her. She would never leave the child without means. But neither would she ever marry. Never! The very thought of a man’s hands on her again revolted her.
Viola whirled from the window, fighting the memories pushing to the surface, took a slow, deep breath to ease the churning and knotting in her stomach, the tightness now inching up her neck into her face. Her gaze lit on Thomas and the knotting and the tightness increased. Had she gone mad, having the man in her home? He was weak and helpless now, but what about when his strength returned and he still needed care because of his disabled arm? He was strong. Very strong.
She shivered, rubbed her elbow where his hand had gripped her. When he was stronger, she would give his care over to Hattie. He had saved Goldie, and in gratitude and thankfulness, she would shelter and nurse him. But she would not be a victim of a man’s wants again. Not ever again.
She walked back to the rocker, pulled a blanket up over her shoulders and leaned her head back and closed her eyes, fighting for breath. Almighty God, cleanse my mind of all the bad memories, I pray. Take them from me and cause me to forget….
“Got the oatmeal fixed, Viola. I’ll sit here with your patient, whilst you eat.”
Viola took the empty bottle from Goldie’s mouth and set it aside. “I’m not hungry, Hattie. I’ll stay with him.” I owe him that much. She dabbed a drop of the sweetened goat’s milk from Goldie’s little mouth and handed her a wooden dog to play with.
The elderly woman frowned and stepped to the bed. “Handsome one, ain’t he? Even if he does look like death is just a-waitin’ to claim him.” She chuckled. “Guess I don’t blame you for wantin’ to stay with him.”
If you only knew the truth. “Do you realize he might wake and hear you?”
Hattie turned from the bed, the wrinkles in her face deepened by a wide grin. “Which part don’t you want him to hear? The part about his bein’ handsome and death waitin’ to claim him…or the part about you not wantin’ to leave him?”
“All of it.” It came out sharper than she intended.
Hattie’s grin died. “Wouldn’t hurt you none to take an interest in someone, Viola. It ain’t right, a beautiful young woman like you being satisfied to do nothin’ but work and spend her time with an old woman and a baby.”
“I’m not.” Viola summoned a cheeky grin, offered it as penance for her sharp tone. “I go to church, too.”
“Hmmph.” Hattie stepped in front of her and held out her arms. “Leastways, let me take this one and feed her some of the oatmeal. Lest you want her growin’ up to be a slender slip of a thing like you.” She lifted Goldie, propped her on her round hip, grabbed the bottle and headed for the door. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put some flesh on them bones, you know. Men like somethin’ they can get ahold of.” The parting comment floated over her round shoulders as she walked away.
“Which is exactly what I do not want!” Viola pressed her lips closed on her vehement whisper and lifted her hands to rub her fingertips across her gritty, tired eyes. Since moving in with her, Hattie had become aware of her lack of social life and was beginning to probe as to the reason. And the woman was not satisfied with her casual answers. She was pushing harder.
She rose and crossed to look out the window, absently rubbing at the scar on the outside edge of her left hand. The one where Dengler had cut her with his knife the last time she had run away. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take Hattie in. But she couldn’t simply ignore the woman’s homeless state when her husband had died. Please help me, Lord. Please give me the right words to say to satisfy Hattie’s curiosity. You know I can’t tell her the truth of my past, nor can I lie to—
“How’s our patient doing?”
She gasped and spun toward the doorway.
“Sorry, Viola, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dr. Calloway smiled. “I knocked, but the door was open, so I came on in. I thought you must have heard me at the door.”
“No. I—I was thinking.” And remembering. She forced a smile. “Come in, Doctor.” She stepped back to allow him ample space to pass her in the narrow room. “I’m afraid Mr. Stone is still sleeping.”
“I’m…awake….”
She jerked her head toward the bed, looked into those penetrating green eyes. How long had he been awake? Had he heard Hattie’s comments? And her whispered retort? What if she had prayed aloud? Her body went rigid. She looked away. “I’m going outside for some fresh air while you examine your patient, Doctor. I shall return shortly. If you need anything meanwhile, Hattie is in the kitchen.” She turned and walked out the door.
The doctor stared after her a moment, then looked down. “That is one beautiful woman. But I guess you’ve probably noticed.”
“A man would have to be…blind not to.” Thomas frowned. What had caused that flash of fear he had seen in Viola Goddard’s eyes before she turned away?
Jacob grinned, set his bag on the end of the bed and lifted the edge of the covers. “Feeling a little grumpy, are we?” He pulled his watch from his vest pocket.
“Grumpy?” Maybe he had imagined the fear. He gave a snort, winced. “I’m feeling downright surly. And…uncomfortable.” The doctor’s fingers closed around his wrist.
“The pain is bad?”
“Beyond bad. But it’s the weakness that aggravates me.” Thomas scowled up at Jacob. “And your betrayal. I told you I did not…want to come here.”
“Ah! That is a problem.” The doctor chuckled.
Thomas turned the scowl into a glare. “It’s not funny, Jacob. And I promise I will take that smile off your face…as soon as I can stand.” He sagged into the mattress, all strength gone out of him from the long speech.
The doctor tucked his watch away and pulled his stethoscope from his bag. “All right, Thomas, you shall have your chance to do so when you recover. But that recovery depends on good care. And that is what you will receive from Viola.” He put the earpieces in place and leaned down, listened, then straightened. “I want you to drink a lot of water, Thomas. You need to get your fluids built back up. And above all, no movement! Now, tell me about the pain.” He put the stethoscope away and began to check the bandages.
“Hey, Viola.”
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Viola dragged her thoughts from the past, spotted Frankie Tucker, hammer in hand, gazing at her from behind the picket fence she was building around the churchyard. An undertone of melancholy in the woman’s usually hearty voice made her abandon her walk and cross the road. She recognized loneliness when she heard it. “Hello, Frankie.” She smiled, placed her hand on top of one of the pickets. “You’ve done a good job. The fence really dresses up the churchyard.”
“It’ll be finished today. Except for the painting. Burns was going to do it, but he and his dog left for the gold fields. I just have to fancy up these end posts—round the tops off a mite. Mack didn’t want no gate. Says he’s not trying to keep folks out, just lead them in and corral them once they get here.” Frankie smiled, then frowned and ran her work-roughened hand over the taller square post at the edge of the stone walk. “Should of been finished with this job last week. Been kinda slow without Lucy and Margie helping me much. But Lucy is helping to keep Caleb’s books now. And they’ve both been busy…setting up their new homes and all.”
So that was the cause of the unhappiness in Frankie’s eyes. She should have guessed. Even in the short time she had been in Treasure Creek, she’d learned how close the Tucker sisters were. And how adamantly opposed to marriage the three of them were until Lucy had fallen in love and married. It must have been a shock for Frankie. Especially when Margie followed their younger sister’s example a few weeks later. She nodded, tried for the right tone of sympathetic understanding. It wasn’t easy. She was as opposed to marriage as Frankie, though for very different reasons. “It must be difficult to get used to both of your sisters being married in such a short time.”
Frankie snorted, jammed her hammer back into her leather belt, bent over and grabbed a tool from a bucket at her feet. “Never thought I’d see the day a Tucker girl would marry.” She slammed the tool against one corner of the post and shoved down on it, repeated the movement over and over. A blade bit off thin little bits of wood that made a small pile on the ground. “Pa must be spinning in his grave.” The shavings grew longer, wider, curled. The corner now sloped from the center of the post to the outer edge. “He raised us to be able to take care of ourselves, not need some man to do for us!”
Gold Rush Baby Page 3
