Gold Rush Baby

by Dorothy Clark

  He gripped her fingers, wrenched his hand around. Her wrist twisted and she fell forward on top of him. She rolled to her side and tugged at his hand. “Thomas, stop! You’re hurting me!”

  “Louise?”

  “I’m not, Louise. I’m Viola.” She gave his hand a quick, hard slap.

  He blinked, stared down at her sprawled across his waist. “Viola? What—”

  “Let go of my wrist, Thomas. You’re hurting me.”

  His gaze shifted. His hand jerked open.

  She pushed up off him, winced and rubbed her wrist. Tremors chased through her. She leaned against the bed, afraid her legs would give way if she moved.

  He gave a quick shake of his head, scrubbed the nape of his neck. “What was—” Awareness came into his eyes. A scowl darkened his face. “I was dreaming again, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this time I’ve hurt you.” Anger chased the remaining confusion from his eyes.

  “Not on purpose.” She leaned down and lifted the tangled, dangling blankets back onto the bed out of her way, spread them over his legs. “I need to check your bandage.” She pulled the low-burning lamp close and turned up the wick.

  “Let me see your wrist.” He caught hold of her arm, slowly turned it until her wrist and palm were facing up. “Push up your sleeve.”

  She drew breath to protest, glanced at the set of his jaw and obeyed.

  “It’s swelling.” The muscle along that strong, square jaw twitched. He slid his hand down to hers. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  She stared down at his hand cradling hers, the gentleness of his touch bringing a lump to her throat. “You said you had to help someone, and you thought the bandage was a person holding you back. You kept pulling at it and saying ‘let go of my arm.’ I tried to stop you.” She took a breath to control her trembling. She was trembling. And it wasn’t fear. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s not going to happen again. I am leaving this house tomorrow.”

  A sick feeling hit the pit of her stomach. “That’s ridiculous!” She jerked her hand from his grasp. “Your wound is not healed. You cannot manage on your own.” Fear for him pushed unguarded words out in a torrent. “What happened was my own fault. I knew you dreamed about your wife and baby, and if I had stayed here in the rocker I could have—”

  “You know about Louise and Susan?”

  She froze, which was foolish, why should she feel guilty? “Yes.” She untied the bandage at his waist that held his arm immobile, and straightened out the part he had wrinkled. “You speak about them when you dream. I—I think perhaps Goldie upsets you.”

  His gaze caught hers, held it. “Why do you say that? What did I say?”

  “Nothing really. It’s only—when she cried, you called out, ‘I’m coming, Susie baby!’ and fought me to get free and go to her. It was the same before. You were trying to reach your wife and child.” She retied the bandage, tucked in the ends. “I know your wife and child died, Thomas. And I’m so sorry for your loss. It must be very painful for you to be around Goldie.”

  His face drew taut. “I’d like to deny that, but it’s true. Goldie makes me remember. And then my guilt rears up, and…I guess that’s what’s making me dream.” He stared off into the distance. “If I’d only known… But I had no idea how primitive my living conditions would be as a missionary, or what a toll they would take on Louise’s health. And then, when she and the baby caught pneumonia…” He sucked in air, ran his hand through his hair. “There was no doctor. And the hut was so cold and damp from the storms…. I built the fire as high as I dared. Did all I knew to doctor them, but it was no use.”

  Tears stung her eyes. Her heart hurt for him. She knew what it was to carry guilt. She looked into his eyes, searched for something to say to comfort him. “You did your best for them, Thomas. You bear no fault for their deaths. The other day, Hattie told me the Bible says there is both good and evil in this world, and because of that bad things happen to us. That we’re not always to blame. You’re a missionary. Surely you must believe that.” She looked away, unwilling to let him see her doubt.

  “Yes, I do. I just—I guess it’s different when it’s myself.”

  She nodded, looked back at him. “I can understand that. But doesn’t the Bible say God is no respecter of persons?”

  His gaze locked on her, the clouded look of pain in his eyes giving way to one of contemplation. “Yes…it does.”

  She straightened out the still-rumpled blankets, gladdened that she had perhaps helped him a little. “Your pillows are dislodged. Let me help you sit up and I’ll fix them.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll do it. I don’t want you hurting your wrist more.”

  “But—”

  “If all that thrashing about didn’t bust my wound open, pushing myself up and shoving around a few pillows won’t hurt.” He rolled to his right side, pushed up onto his elbow and then his hand.

  She reached behind him and snatched the pillows before he could turn toward them, began to fluff and replace them, ignoring the growing ache in her wrist. She’d had much worse. “Viola—”

  “I told you I was as stubborn as you.” She had the strongest urge to smooth the frown from his forehead. She pummeled the last pillow instead. “There. All done. You can lie back now.”

  He lowered himself against the pillows and rolled onto his back.

  He no longer needed her help. Her throat tightened. She brushed her palms against her robe, forced a smile. “If there is nothing more…” She reached to turn down the wick in the lamp, stared at her shaking hands that manifested the trembling in her body. Just wait until you go all weak-kneed and trembly when you’re around your special man. Just wait until you fall in love! Her breath caught. It couldn’t be…

  “There is one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “If you don’t mind telling me. When you were talking with Hattie the other day…what were you blaming yourself for?”

  His voice was as soft as the dimmed light. She shrugged away the warmth that touched her heart. Fought her way back to her senses. “For Goldie being kidnapped and you being shot.”

  Surprise swept over his face. “How could that possibly be your fault?”

  “I took a nap.” The guilt washed over her again. “If I had stayed awake, perhaps the kidnapper would never have tried to take Goldie. Perhaps he would only have tried to claim her, as the others have.”

  “And perhaps you would have been hurt—or worse.” His voice was tight, gruff. “You’re not to blame for Goldie being kidnapped or my being shot, that kidnapper is…was.”

  “That’s what Hattie said.”

  His gaze slid over her face, he gave a small nod, as if he saw something written there. “What else did Hattie say?”

  “That God turns the bad to good for His children. And she thought God had made things turn out for the best.”

  “And what was your reply to that?”

  There was something probing, questioning in his eyes. She let out her breath and squared her shoulders. He might as well know about her lack of faith. “I told her I didn’t understand how she could say that when you were lying wounded and helpless in this bed.”

  Something flickered deep in those green depths. “Did she answer that?”

  “Yes. She said, ‘it isn’t over yet’.”

  Thomas’s thoughts tumbled through his head the way he’d seen stones tumble willy-nilly down the Chilkoot Trail. The difference was, a tumbling stone had no direction—he knew his destination. The turmoil was because his heart had become divided between his calling to minister to the Tlingit Indians and his growing feelings for Viola. His spirit and his flesh were warring. And the image of Viola standing beside his bed, clad in her blue robe, with her dark red curls tumbling across her shoulders, looking at him with such warmth and concern in her violet-blue eyes, was not helping matters. It undermined his determination to do what he knew he must.
It was definitely time to leave.

  It isn’t over yet. Hattie’s words brought him up short. Sent his thoughts roiling again. He scowled into the darkness. It had to be over. Nothing good could come of his staying here. He had a vow to keep. And a ministry to uphold.

  And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called, according to His purpose. He stirred, slipped his hand beneath his head and stared up at the ceiling. He was sure that was the scripture verse Hattie had been referring to when she spoke with Viola. Why wouldn’t it leave his mind? No matter which direction his jumbled thoughts traveled, when they reached their limit it was there waiting, clinging to his consciousness like a burr to a dog’s coat. Why? He already knew his calling and purpose.

  It isn’t over yet. He muttered Hattie’s pronouncement into the silence, felt again the shock of the words, followed by a hushed stillness, as if something inside him was waiting. Was he supposed to stay here? Was he supposed to learn something from this torment of temptation? Grow stronger in his faith perhaps? Was that the good that was to come out of his being shot? Or was there something he was to do for Viola? Or Hattie? Or… He gave a growl of frustration. “What do You want of me, Lord? Should I go? Or should I stay? Have You placed me here for a purpose? Or am I here only as the result of an evil circumstance? Show me what to do.”

  He turned onto his side, pushed to a sitting position and slid his legs over the side of the bed, then gripped the bedpost and stood to his feet. A frisson of satisfaction ran through him. He snatched his shirt off the back of the chair, spread it out on the bed, then lifted the back hem and ducked his head inside. It took some maneuvering, but he got the shirt on and the button fastened.

  The next test was his pants. He snatched them off the hook, leaned against the bed and pulled them on over his long drawers. After a few fumbled attempts he got his belt buckled. His boots, however, defeated him. He would have to wear them untied. Still, he could do it! He wouldn’t want to wrestle a bear, but most of his strength had returned. And he could manage one-handed. Even so…

  His elation died. Until his wound healed, he would not be able to return to his hut and his work with the Tlingits. Where would he live? Mavis Goodge. He would take the next empty room at her boardinghouse. God grant that it be tomorrow.

  He took a couple of turns about the small room, exalting in the returned strength in his legs, stopped by the chair, gripped the back and lowered himself to the seat, then stood again and faced his last challenge, getting back into bed. He took off his clothes, gripped the bedpost and sat on the edge of the mattress, pushed back as far as he was able, lifted his legs and rolled onto his back on the pillows. The resulting pain in his shoulder was no match for the satisfaction that filled him. He pulled the covers over him, turned his head and stared at the lamp Viola had turned down before she left the room. How small the flame was against the surrounding darkness. But how bright its glow.

  Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path. How apt was the scripture. “Thank You, Lord, for Your word. And for showing me the way I should go.” He smiled, closed his eyes and settled himself comfortably under the covers.

  Viola strained to hear any sound, was rewarded by nothing but silence. The faint sounds from Thomas’s room had stopped. What had he been doing? Was he really going to leave tomorrow? The sick feeling worsened. She took a deep breath and pressed her hand against her stomach. Perhaps a cup of tea would make her feel better and help her sleep.

  She glided by Goldie’s cradle, slipped out of her bedroom and tiptoed across the living room, past Hattie, snoring on the settle, and into the kitchen. The slight warmth from the stove felt good. She fitted the coil-handled lifter into the slot and raised the front cook plate. Red coals winked up at her through the round hole. She added a couple of small chunks of wood from the woodbox, replaced the cook plate and adjusted the draft. A quick peek showed the iron teakettle was dry. She filled it from the reservoir, placed it on the stove and walked to the window. Light rimmed the clouds, glazed the mountains with gold and cast spidery shadows of tree limbs on her sun-kissed yard. She was accustomed to the unending daylight now, but she missed the black nights of Seattle, the starry skies when it was not raining. But that was all she missed.

  She shuddered, turned her thoughts from the past, though the present was as disturbing—in a different way.

  She didn’t want him to go.

  She wrapped her arms about herself and faced that truth. It was so foreign to all she had known. Bewildering. Why was she no longer frightened of Thomas? When had her fear of him turned into concern for him? Or was it more than concern? Just wait until you go all weak-kneed and trembly when you’re around your special man. Just wait until you fall in love.

  How could that be? She knew what men were beneath their social facades. But he was so different, so thoughtful and caring, he made her feel…safe.

  The word whispered through her like the soft, warm sighing of the water heating on the stove. Tears flooded her eyes, overflowed down her cheeks. She clasped her hands over her mouth and leaned against the wall, shaking with the sobs she wouldn’t release. It had been so long. So very long since she had felt safe.

  Chapter Ten

  Viola brushed her hair back from her face, secured the mass of curls into a bun, tied the snood in place over them and stared at her reflection. Shadows clouded the eyes looking back at her. And her mouth looked…pinched. Well, she couldn’t help it. How could Dr. Calloway have agreed to Thomas moving into Mavis Goodge’s boardinghouse? Was she the only one that cared about Thomas’s wound being reinjured? She hadn’t nursed him this far along, only to have him rip his shoulder open again.

  The sick feeling in her stomach intensified. What if he started dreaming and she wasn’t there to stop him from pulling at his bandage? Tears shimmered in the shadowed eyes, her lower lip quivered. Oh, what was wrong with her? She was being foolish. Thomas Stone was a strong man, well able to care for himself. And with him gone, she could get back to mending and sewing for her customers full time. Making the drapes and curtains for the new hotel had been put off by all that had happened, and the place would be opening soon—construction was almost finished. Thomas’s departure was for the best. Still, she had to get out of this house, get hold of herself. Thankfully, measuring the hotel windows had given her a perfect reason to offer Hattie for her escape.

  She spun away from the mirror, slipped on the fitted, worsted jacket that matched her long, blue skirt over her white, cotton shirtwaist and buttoned it as she walked into the living room. “I’m ready to go, Hattie. All I need is my sewing tape.” She glanced toward the other bedroom. “Is Thomas—”

  “He’s gone. Said he’d been inside so long, he wanted to see was the mountains still there.”

  She nodded, stepped into Thomas’s—Hattie’s—bedroom, snatched her measure out of her sewing basket and hurried out again. She would move the rocker and her sewing things out of the bedroom when she returned.

  “You all right, Viola? You look a mite…pinched.”

  “I’m fine. A little tired perhaps.” She turned away from Hattie’s sharp gaze.

  “Guess it’ll be a blessin’ havin’ Thomas move down to Mavis’s place. You won’t have the care of him wearin’ on you no more.”

  Oh, Hattie, please don’t. She nodded, dropped the measure in her purse, drew the drawstrings tight and looked down at Goldie. The baby was swaying to and fro on her hands and knees and chattering to herself. “One of these days she is going to crawl.”

  “And surprise herself in the doin’ of it.” Hattie chuckled, then looked up at her and frowned. “Whyn’t you take that snood off and let them pretty, eye-catchin’ red curls of yours show?”

  “You know I like to keep my hair neat and controlled.” And hidden. She tugged the hem of her jacket down into place. “Are you sure you will be all right here, alone with Goldie? I don’t want to overburden you—”

  “
Fiddlesticks! Goldie’s no trouble.”

  “All right, then. Well…” She kissed the baby, then turned and walked to the door while she still had the courage to leave. “Come lock the door behind me, Hattie. And should someone come, don’t unlock the door unless you know who it is. Any new customers can return later.”

  Hattie put down her knitting and rose. “We’ll be safe, Viola. Don’t you worry none. Frankie did a good job puttin’ those locks in. And they’re good and strong.”

  “Yes.” Viola leaned down and planted a kiss on Hattie’s wrinkled cheek. “I won’t be long.” She turned and made herself step outside. But she couldn’t walk away until she heard the snick of the small metal bar on the door frame dropping into the socket on the door and knew the lock was in place. She took a deep breath and turned toward the road. “Thomas!”

  “Finding it hard to leave Goldie and Hattie home alone?”

  There it was—that caring tone in his voice, that look in his eyes that was her undoing. She swallowed hard, nodded, placed her hand in his proffered one and stepped down off the stoop, marveling at how safe and right her hand felt in his. How had she gone from fearing his hands to loving his touch?

  “I checked the locks before I left. They’re strong.”

  “Yes.” She looked down at the small cloth bag she’d given him to carry his shaving equipment. The top was stuffed into his belt, leaving his hand free. Her own felt naked, now that he had released it.

  “I couldn’t leave without thanking you, again, for all you have done. For sheltering me and caring for me. I am very grateful.”

  Tears threatened. She ducked back under her shield of cool politeness. “It was little enough, since I am the one responsible for your being shot.” She squared her shoulders and started down the road to town. He fell into step beside her.

  “I thought we settled on the fact that it was the kidnapper at fault, not you.”

  Don’t think of that night. “I’m the one who took the nap.”

  He nodded, looked off toward the mountains. “It’s hard to let go of guilt, isn’t it? Even if it’s self-inflicted and undeserved.”