Gold Rush Baby

by Dorothy Clark

  She didn’t believe him for a second. Still… “Yes, it’s been a while since you left her. How long ago was it?”

  The scowl reappeared. “I misremember.”

  She nodded, shifted Goldie and inched backward under cover of the movement. “I have wondered ever since you left her with me, what is her name?”

  Anger darkened his face. “I ain’t here to answer questions, I’m here t’ get my kid an’ the gold.” He took a step toward her. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give ’em to me.”

  She heard footsteps, the rustle of leaves behind her on the road. A friend, or his cohort? She dared not turn and look. She lifted her chin and shook her head. “Not unless you tell me her name, and describe her cradle.”

  “Is this man giving you trouble, Miss Goddard?”

  Robert Harris!

  She turned and nodded to her neighbors from across the way. “He is trying to claim Goldie is his but will not answer my questions about her.”

  “Gracious, another scapegrace after that baby’s gold!” Evelyn Harris poked her husband’s arm. “Do something, Robert!”

  “He’s running for the woods, Pa!” Matthew Harris pointed.

  Viola whirled, saw a flash of blue disappear among the trees.

  “You want me to chase after him, Pa? I bet I could run him down.”

  Robert Harris shook his head, placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Not in your Sunday clothes, Matt.” He glanced at her. “Do you want me to send Matt after the sheriff, Miss Goddard? I doubt it will do much good. Judging from the direction he ran, I’m sure the sluggard intends to lose himself in the horde of stampeders climbing the Chilkoot.”

  “No doubt. I’m sure he will be gone up the trail before Sheriff Parker could find him.” Viola took a deep breath to control her trembling and gave them a grateful smile. “Thank you for stopping to help me. I was…concerned.”

  “You’re welcome, though it’s only the right thing to do. That fellow was pretty bold, but I doubt he’ll return. You’re safe now. Come along, son.” Robert Harris took hold of his wife’s elbow and started across the road.

  Viola took another breath, hurried into her cabin and threw the lock on the door. Hattie would just have to knock to be let in. She crossed to the rocker and collapsed onto the seat, shaking and sobbing and holding Goldie as tight as she dared.

  Thomas stared down at the wound just below his left shoulder. “So what do you think, Jacob?”

  “It’s healing well, Thomas. I’m going to remove these stitches today. But you must continue to be careful and limit the use of your arm. It wouldn’t take much to tear this wound open again, at least on the surface. And that could present complications.”

  “I’ll be careful.” He watched the doctor swab the stitches, snip one and pull it out.

  “I guess you’ll be glad to get home to your hut?”

  “Yes.” He concentrated on the snip and pull of another stitch to block out the thought of leaving and not seeing Viola about town.

  Teena Crow looked at him and smiled. “My people’s hearts will be happy when you return, Thomas.”

  “At least a few of them.” He grinned, watched her applying some sort of herbal mixture to a stampeder’s burned arm. She looked back up at him, her dark eyes solemn.

  “My people who come to hear about your God at Treasure Creek Church come because of the way you have led them. It is true they are few. But they are like the seeds of a plant that scatter on the wind. So they will be among my people. New plants will grow where the seeds land. You will gather those plants and tend them, that they also may grow to know your God.” She went back to treating her patient.

  Thomas stared at her bent head with the long, black braids hanging over her shoulders. Her words made him sound more like a pastor than a missionary.

  “We whites could use a few of those seeds scattered among us, too. Right, Thomas? No matter how God-centered Mack Tanner and the rest of us try to keep Treasure Creek, men like the one who tried to claim Goldie and her gold yesterday crop up. If—”

  “Someone tried to claim Goldie?” Thomas’s heart slammed against his ribs. He stared at the scissors, felt as if they had pierced his heart. “Is…everyone…all right?”

  “Don’t tense up like that. Yes, everyone is fine.” Jacob shot him a look, went back to work on the stitches. “The way I heard it, the man was waiting at her cabin when Viola went home after church. Good thing Robert Harris happened along. He chased the fellow off. Seems like Viola could use some protection. You can’t count on coincidence saving her every time one of those thugs come around.

  “There, I’m finished. You can put your shirt on now.”

  “What? Oh, right. Thanks, Jacob.” Thank You, Lord, for protecting Viola. He slipped his arms into the dangling sleeves of his shirt, pulled the fabric up over his shoulders and buttoned it, his hands shaking at the thought of what could have happened. Was it the kidnapper’s partner? His stomach knotted.

  “Do I have to come back?”

  “Not unless there’s some change to the wound. But if it gets red or swollen or painful, come to see me immediately.”

  He nodded, stepped aside so the next man in line could take his place, dropped his payment in the bowl on the table by the scales and left the clinic.

  The clamor of the waterfront rose above the murmur of voices from the throng of people crowding the board walkway. He frowned, stared out at the boat disgorging men in a steady stream. How many of them would learn about the baby and her gold and become a danger to Viola? Every fiber of his being ached to go see her, to see with his own eyes that she was safe. But it was none of his business.

  He scowled, wove his way through the press of people and crossed the road to Tanner’s store. A few supplies and he would be on his way home. But he couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm for the idea. He glanced again at the harbor, looked up at the darkening sky. A storm was brewing. And late summer storms in this area usually rolled in fast. Most likely, he wouldn’t make it to his hut before it hit. He would wait and go tomorrow. He picked up his pace, strode by Tanner’s General Store and headed for the sheriff’s office. Ed would know if she were in danger.

  “Bye-bye, Goldie. We’re going to keep you nice and safe.” Frankie tickled Goldie under the chin and walked to the door. “I know the exact right pistol for you, Viola. I’ll have Mack order you one. Might be they’ll have one over in Skaguay. If not, it’ll be some time before it gets here. I’ll let you know when. And then we’ll start shooting lessons. Once word gets around about it, it ought to put a stop to them potwallopers coming around trying to claim Goldie.” She opened the door, stopped it with her booted foot when the wind caught it. “Looks like a storm’s breaking. I’m going to have to run for it.”

  “You can stay.” Viola braced the door against another gust of wind, peeked out to see Frankie sprinting down the road toward her cabin, leaned against the door and locked it. White light flickered through the room. Thunder rumbled.

  Hattie walked over to look out the window. “Peers like this might be a nasty one. It’s comin’ on dark, right quick. I’ll light the lamps.”

  Lightning sizzled through the air with a loud snap. Thunder crashed. Goldie let out a squall. “Shh, baby girl, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.” I’ll keep us both safe, once I have that gun. “Shh, shh…” Viola kissed Goldie’s silky, dark hair and cuddled her close, humming to soothe her. She walked to the rocker, back in its customary place in the living room, and settled herself, pushed against the floor with her feet. The rockers creaked against the wide puncheons, the chair whispered forward and back in an ageless motion of comfort. Goldie stuck her thumb in her mouth, her eyelids drifted closed. Rain tapped against the windows, drummed on the roof.

  Hattie came into the room shielding a burning spill with her cupped hand, raised the chimney on the oil lamp on the mantle, lit and adjusted the wick, then turned and lit the lamp on the stand besid
e the settle. “You nervous ’bout learnin’ how to shoot a gun?”

  “A little.” Viola rested her hand over Goldie’s ear to deaden the sound of the storm.

  “You figure a gun is gonna keep you and Goldie safe?”

  She looked up at Hattie. She knew her well enough by now to know she was heading somewhere with her questions. “It will certainly help to do so, once I learn how to shoot it.” Please God, let it be soon.

  “Mmm.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “Some. Air’s coolin’ down, gonna get dampish. You want me to light the fire?”

  She nodded, watched Hattie touch the burning end of the spill to the tinder beneath the logs piled on the hearth. Flames flickered, grew, set greedy tongues licking at the wood. “Won’t you feel safer once I know how to use a pistol?”

  Hattie shook her head, the gray wisps of hair sticking out from the bun on the back of her head fluttering. “I figure there’s nothin’ makes a woman as safe as a good, strong man takin’ care of her.”

  So that was it. Thomas. Viola took a breath and lifted her chin. It was time to stop this nonsense once and for all. “That may be, Hattie. But there is no ‘good, strong man’ to take care of us in this household. Nor will there ever be. A pistol will have do.”

  Hattie nodded slowly, plunked down in her favorite chair and picked up her knitting. “Mayhap you’re right, Viola. Then again, you could be wrong. None of us knows what the good Lord has in store for us.” She looked over at her, firelight deepening the wrinkles of her aged face, a look of knowing brightening her faded blue eyes. “It ain’t over yet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Viola stepped onto the wide stoop at Tanner’s General Store and gave a polite nod to the man who lunged in front of another to open the door for her.

  The dim interior buzzed with voices. Customers roamed in front of the shelves that climbed the walls, crowded past one another in the spaces between crates and barrels and tables laden with wares, formed a line at the counter to pay for their purchases. The store always put her in mind of an anthill. From morning to night it teemed with activity. She cast a sympathetic look at Danny Whitehorse and Clem Whitmore patiently answering questions while tallying orders, and stepped to the side to clear the way for those entering behind her.

  A man, standing at a nearby table holding wool mittens, lined buck mitts, moccasins and heavy, woolen sweaters, looked up. His eyes widened. He gave a low whistle of appreciation, nudged the man beside him and nodded his head in her direction. She turned her back to them, edged by a group of men examining the shovels and picks leaning against the wall, and headed for the shelves that held fabrics and sewing materials. There had been no suitable cording for the hotel drapes the last time she was in, but a supply boat from Skaguay had arrived this morning and—

  Her skirt snagged. She leaned down, tugged it free of the jagged sliver on a crate and straightened.

  Dolph!

  Her heart lurched. She stared at the back of the hefty, heavy-shouldered man ahead, who was talking with some stampeders, dropped her gaze to his broad, scarred hands. Her stomach churned. She’d know those hands anywhere. She cast a wild glance around the store, didn’t see Karl or any other men who worked for Dengler, looked back at Dolph. Had he come for her? How had he found her? Her pulse throbbed, roared in her ears. If he turned—

  She forced her frozen body to move, hid herself behind two men looking at a stack of granite buckets, and turned toward the door.

  “Better get two of ’em.” The taller man grabbed the bails of the two top buckets and yanked. The stack toppled over with a resounding clang. Heads swivelled their way. The men bent to pick up the buckets.

  Viola jerked her face from Dolph’s direction, stepped over a rolling bucket and walked to the door, feeling as if a target were pinned to her. Had he seen her? Recognized her? She didn’t dare look to see if he was coming after her.

  The door was pulled open. She nodded to the man holding it for her and stepped out onto the stoop, forcing herself to walk when everything in her was screaming run!

  For the first time since coming to Treasure Creek, she was grateful for the mob of stampeders that crowded the waterfront and swarmed in and out of the businesses along the boardwalk.

  She stepped into the middle of the milling throng waiting to enter Tanner’s, wove her way through them to the corner, then slipped in with those walking up the dirt road. Every step was agony. Had Dolph seen her? Was Karl or Dengler somewhere hidden in the crowd, following? When she reached the hotel, she mingled with those going up the stone walk, felt a rush of relief when the door closed behind them. She would stay until she was sure—Goldie! And Hattie. If Dengler’s men learned where she lived…

  Bile burned in her stomach, pushed upward to her throat. She rushed down the hallway and out the back door, fear driving her. She ran to the back of the schoolhouse, heard Matthew Powers reciting multiplication tables as she ducked beneath the window. So ordinary a thing. And her life was falling apart—or would soon end.

  Don’t try to run away again, Viola. The next time it won’t be a beating.

  She shuddered, pressed back against the building and peeked around the corner toward the road, spotted neither Dolph nor Karl. She snatched up her hems and raced across the open schoolyard to the copse of trees that spilled off the mountain to tower over the clustered cabins. Heedless of broken branches and the prickly needles of the firs, she ran a weaving path through the massive trunks and low-hanging limbs, then broke cover and darted to her cabin.

  Her strength gave out when she reached the woodpile by her back door. Her quaking legs folded. She collapsed in a heap on the ground, the tightness clamped around her chest and throat, squeezing the air from her. She tugged at the high collar of her shirtwaist, tried to breathe, felt the darkness coming and was helpless to stop it. The sunlight faded…

  She opened her eyes, blinked, stared at bark, wood chips and soil. What— Memory flooded back. She shuddered, pushed herself off the ground and leaned against the woodpile. How long had she been unconscious? She looked down at the dirt and bits of dried leaves clinging to her clothes, the bloody scratch on the back of her hand. What was she going to tell Hattie? How could she explain— Goldie. What if Dengler and Dolph and Karl had come while she was unconscious?

  She surged to her feet, braced herself against the stacked wood and took a slow breath. She had to be prepared…. Memories streamed. She closed her eyes. Let them be all right, Lord. Please let Goldie and Hattie be all right! But if— Help me face what I must. She tried the door. It was locked. A good sign? She fisted her hand and knocked. Please, Lord. She knocked again, louder. Snagged her lower lip with her teeth to hold back a sob when slow footsteps approached.

  “You got business in this house, you can come to the front door and show yerself!”

  They were all right! Thank You, Lord. Tears stung her eyes. “Hattie, it’s me!”

  “Viola?” The metal bar snicked free of the socket. The door opened. She pushed inside, sagged against the wall. “Viola, what— Gracious!” Hattie gaped up at her. “What happened to you?”

  “I felt ill, so I cut through the back lots to come home. I—I fell.” All true. As far as it went.

  “Well, don’t stand there, go and sit before you fall down.” Hattie stepped back, squinted up at her. “You look awful! Where’s your snood?”

  She lifted her hand, felt the curls dangling free. “It must have caught on a branch. Lock the door!”

  Hattie nodded, flipped the small bar into place. “Must be a branch got your hand, too. You’re bleedin’. Set down and I’ll clean—”

  “No. I’ll do it, later. I want to see Goldie.” She started for the living room.

  “She’s nappin’.” Hattie’s gaze sharpened. “Remember, you put her down before you left for Tanners. It ain’t been that long.”

  It seemed like forever. Another shudder shook her, she couldn’t seem to control them. “Is the front d
oor locked?”

  “Just like when you left. What’s wrong, Viola? And don’t say nothin’, cause I—”

  “No questions, Hattie! I—I have a headache.” She rubbed her throbbing temples, felt the grit clinging to her skin. “I’m going to wash, then lie down with a cold cloth.” She grabbed the quilted pad she’d made, lifted the iron teakettle off the stove and started for the small bathing room. “Don’t let anyone in, Hattie.” She turned back, looked at her. “No customers, not anyone! Do you understand?”

  Hattie stared up at her, shook her head. “Not a whit, Viola. But I’ll do like you say. Any fool can see there’s somethin’ serious wrong.”

  Thomas lowered his Bible and looked around the room that formed his home. No matter how much he prayed and asked God’s help, he couldn’t seem to concentrate since he’d come back. The cramped quarters of his hut seemed to close in on him. There was no comfort. No warmth or beauty. No comparison to Viola’s cabin. He scowled and pushed the memory aside. It might be true, but it wasn’t the reason for his dissatisfaction. It was the unrelenting sense of something left undone that stole his peace.

  It isn’t over yet.

  He thrust his fingers through his hair as if he could pull the words out of his head. They haunted him. No matter how many times he asked God to erase them, there they were, burrowed in like a tic on a dog and sucking off his strength and energy, his enthusiasm for any other task.

  He placed his Bible on the pallet where he slept and shoved out of his chair, the only one he owned, bumped his head on the bark ceiling. He couldn’t even stand up straight, except right in the center of the room. He checked the fire in the small steel stove, grabbed his jacket out of the crate that held his clothes and ducked through the canvas door.

  The weather didn’t help his mood. His choices were limited to cramped and stuffy, or wet and windy. At least outside he could move without bumping into something. He pulled his collar up to protect his neck from the cold, misty rain, strode across the small rocky ledge, into the surrounding trees and followed his path to the Chilkoot. He could see fires, small as fireflies, flickering in the distance both above and below him in the areas where stampeders normally camped. This section of the trail, except for his small ledge and another larger but unstable ledge clinging to the mountain farther down on the other side, was too steep for camping. He’d chosen the site for that reason. It both protected him from thieves and gave him the privacy he craved. But not tonight. Tonight he wanted company other than his own. The sound of something more than the rustle of the needles on the wind-tossed branches of the firs.