Callie looked toward Jasper’s gravesite, the stone barely visible through the scrub. “You’d have liked her,” she whispered.
A gust of a breeze caressed her forehead. She smiled and put on her hat. It wouldn’t hurt to let Clara stay a little longer. She’d traveled so long and so far; certainly Callie could allow her some time to enjoy the wilderness she’d professed her excitement to see.
And it wouldn’t hurt to have someone at home when she returned after a long day on the trapline either.
* * *
Callie walked Jasper’s trapline in a daze. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out when she’d gone from the firm opinion of sending Clara Stapleton on her way this morning to this seemingly ineffectual haze of uncertainty. Is this what men feel when women run roughshod over them? She had the strange suspicion that it was, and the idea that Clara could bat her beautiful hazel eyes and cause Callie to throw common sense to the winds galled her. As the day passed, she mulled over her options and decided that come Hell or high water Miss Clara Stapleton would be sent away on the morrow.
She spent most the day tramping through the bush, clearing and resetting traps and bolstering her self-confidence. As she sat on the edge of a creek to eat a fine lunch of leftover cornbread and venison, she again vowed to put her foot down upon her return home. Like it or not, Clara was going back to Skagway in the morning. What she did when she got there was up to her. The creek bubbled and chuckled over the rocks, laughing at Callie. Both pleased with and annoyed by her decision—and uncertain why she’d feel irritated over the matter—Callie filled her water skin and continued onward.
Not long after her midday meal, Callie reached the apex of the trapline. Jasper’s line headed due north from the cabin and reached the edge of the property closest to Skagway before arcing east and back toward home. Her eyes narrowed when she reached the next trap. It was both sprung and empty.
She crouched over the wire snare, and brushed her fingers over a patch of still-warm blood. Whatever had been caught was gone now, but there was too much blood for it to have disappeared. If it had been killed and eaten by a predator, there’d be bones and fur. She scanned the ground. There were tracks a’plenty but none were animals. A chill washed through her. Men in boots, more than one, and they weren’t heading toward town.
She clutched her rifle, thankful that she’d left the sledge a quarter mile back near the main track to the cabin. It would have made an awful racket as it moved, and right this minute she needed stealth. A handful of marmots dangled from her belt, swaying with her movements as she tracked something much more dangerous than a bear or wolf.
It didn’t take long to find them. She heard and smelled the men long before they came into sight. The scent of cooking meat over a fire of heavy smoke directed her downwind. She discovered them in a tiny meadow near another of Jasper’s traps. It too had been raided.
There were four men, two of whom were known to her. Jamie Perkins sat on a log, laughing at another’s jest. Beside him was one of his sycophants, Billy Quinn. Spits of rabbit grilled over the fire they’d gathered around. The rabbits from Jasper’s traps. The traps on her property.
Growling, Callie stepped into view, rifle at her shoulder aimed at Perkins. “You’re trespassing on my land. Get out.”
Perkins hardly batted an eye as he smiled. “As I live and breathe, it’s Callie Glass. Your land? Are you sure?” Before she could answer, he turned to the others. “Did anyone know this was her land?”
Quinn smiled, revealing a large gap between his teeth. “I didn’t think women could own property. Did you?”
The fellow next to him wasn’t as complacent with a loaded rifle pointed in his direction. Rather than answer and possibly get ventilated for his efforts, he shrugged.
“Pack up and shove off.” Callie stepped forward, her sights on Perkins’s head. “I’ve got no problem with shooting you, Jamie Perkins. Nor you, Billy.” She glanced at the other two men who appeared more inclined to follow orders. They were probably newcomes who’d been swayed by Perkins’s reputation and attitude. Neither seemed to be as tightly woven into Perkins’s little gang of malcontents quite yet.
Quinn held out his hands as he stood. “Now Callie, it was a simple mistake. We didn’t realize this land was taken. Right, fellahs?”
The others nodded and Perkins’s chuckled. “That’s right. No offense meant, Miss Glass.” He tipped an imaginary hat to her, a lewd wink revealing his manners to be a parody. “Though it must get mighty lonely out here by yourself. I’d think you’d find a little masculine company…welcome.”
Despite their uncertain danger, the two strangers sniggered with Quinn. Callie felt the heat on her cheeks, and knew that once again her slight stature undermined her initial threat. If she let them keep insulting her, the two strangers would come to the same conclusion as Perkins and Quinn, and she’d be in a world of hurt, outnumbered four to one.
Callie dropped the barrel of the rifle and fired. Dirt and rock kicked up at Perkins’s feet. He jumped back with a shout. The others leapt up and backed away, no longer laughing. She reaimed at their ringleader’s head. “I ain’t repeating myself.”
He gave her a look of sheer loathing and spit on the roasting meat. “You will regret your treatment of me, Callie Glass. I guarantee it.”
She cocked the rifle, resettled it on her shoulder and rested a finger on the trigger. Her threat clear and no longer doubted, the men grabbed up their gear and stepped back. She kicked out the fire and followed, ignoring Quinn’s whining complaints and Perkins’s continued innuendo. As soon as they reached the edge of her property, she stopped, and kept the gun up until they disappeared back toward town.
Long minutes passed as she waited—frozen with rifle ready—for them to double back. Eventually the silence after their passage faded to be replaced by birdsong and insects. Still she waited, standing there for a good half hour more before lowering her rifle. Only then did she allow the shakes to take control of her as her knees turned to rubber. She stumbled to a fallen tree and sat down.
It wasn’t unusual to find stragglers wandering the woods this close to town, people who didn’t know where the property lines began and ended. But Perkins knew better. He’d had it out for her since she’d knocked him on his butt her first year with Jasper. He’d made some sort of snide remark, something he’d never have said to a woman of means or to the relation of a man whose good graces he wanted, and she’d popped him in the nose, knocking him into the mud on Main Street. Apparently he’d decided that with Jasper dead and buried, she was fair game.
Good thing I didn’t bring Clara to town today. Who knew what Perkins would have done if he’d made it to the homestead while she was away. She might have come back to find all her earthly possessions going up in a blaze of smoke. Or he could have been lying in wait to ambush her on the main track. If she was dead and the homestead gone, he could go to the assayer and claim it for himself.
When her heart no longer pounded in her ears, she returned to the remains of their impromptu campfire. She confirmed it was completely out, pouring part of her water skin on the coals. The traps in the immediate vicinity would have to be abandoned for some time. No self-respecting critter would brave the recent smell of ash. She looked at the sky to determine the time, a number of rude words in reference to Perkins’s paternity and sexual interests crossing her mind. If she hauled ass, she could run the rest of the traps and reach home before nightfall.
As she continued on task, her mind worried away at the encounter. She reimagined it, making different choices in her head to counteract her fear. There were so many things she could have said or done to drive Perkins away. The best one would have been putting a bullet between his eyes. Billy Quinn was a chick’shit; if Callie had shot Perkins, Billy would run like a rabbit, taking his two new friends with him. And then you’d end up on trial for murder.
Being hanged would be less pleasant than drinking Jasper’s laudanum, sure, but she’d stil
l be with him in the end, wouldn’t she? If the Christians were right, then probably not. Being a murderer, she’d go to Hell. As if I’m not in Hell now.
She pushed away the thought. There was nothing to be done for it now and she had work to do. She let herself fall into her normal thought patterns out in the bush, ignoring her troubles as she listened to the land and its creatures, allowing nature to spread its balm across her spirit. Most days lately the nearer she came to home the more her equanimity faded, replaced by the dread of returning to a cold and empty cabin, devoid of companionship.
That didn’t happen today. The sky grew darker as the sun lowered in the sky, and Callie’s pace picked up as she neared the cabin. Despite her worry about Perkins’s trespass and obscene threats, she whistled a jaunty tune that lifted her heart.
* * *
Clara fanned herself on one of the stools outside. The sun hovered in the sky, promising her that it was much earlier than it truly was. One thing she hadn’t taken into consideration was the amount of daylight available in the northern wilds. Her small watch said it neared six in the evening, yet the sun was nowhere near setting. Longer days certainly meant the ability to get more work done, but she steered clear of that idea. She’d already been quite productive today and she was exhausted.
After Callie had left, Clara had boiled up more water and washed the clothes. She’d brought a bar of soap in her luggage though she’d originally planned to use it for bathing. She had several more bars in the supplies so its use wasn’t a sacrifice. Laundry had taken the rest of the morning. She’d draped the blankets and furs from the beds over the windowsills to get a healthy dose of fresh air and sunlight. The mattresses would need a good beating and airing too, but she didn’t have the tools or the ability for that chore yet. She’d need a sturdy rack of some sort in the yard to hang the mattresses and some sort of paddle with which to beat them.
McKenzie himself had arrived with her goods. He and a worker from the Pacific Freight Company had unloaded her staples into the cabin while she heated up coffee and fried more venison. She’d served them both supper, handing the worker a five-cent tip as she thanked him. McKenzie had refused money with a tip of his hat and a chuckle at her domestic industry. He’d conveyed his greetings to Callie when she returned.
The rest of Clara’s day had been spent reorganizing the few cabinets available and putting away the food and house wares. As promised, an apple pie cooled on the table and a savory stew bubbled on the stove in the Dutch oven her mother had insisted Clara bring along.
Clara examined her surroundings, taking in the yard and outbuildings. The trees whispered to her as she fanned herself, and the sun caressed her skin with its warmth. She closed her eyes and listened to the laundry flap on the clothesline she’d strung up between the two sheds. Perhaps she could convince Callie to put up a more permanent drying rack in the yard. One of the sheds smelled of blood and meat from the carcasses collected on the traplines. Clara didn’t want their clothing to smell of rot. And a root cellar! A root cellar would come in mighty handy over the long term.
Provided there is a long term. She pushed the discouraging thought away. She’d spent the day making herself indispensable by cleaning the cabin, cooking a fine meal and adding to their joint supplies. Her hope was that Callie would see the benefits of Clara’s presence and that Clara would be allowed to stay. The two of them could live quite well on what Callie procured on the trapline, and if they needed more income Clara could offer baked goods or mending in town. I could help with the trapping too if she’ll teach me.
Her heart fluttered in her chest. Callie didn’t seem the gregarious type, aloof and intent on brooding over every little thing. Clara thought Callie’s remoteness was due to Jasper’s death. There was a fair chance that Callie saw Clara’s presence as an intrusion. If Clara couldn’t break through Callie’s grief and despair, and show by example that she could be an asset, chances were good she’d be sent packing regardless of her contributions to the household. What would she do then?
She didn’t want to return home. She’d observed the countryside as the steamer ship had brought her here, reveling in the mountains, the greenery of the forests, the clean cool air. The Alaska District was breathtaking, full of so much more beauty than Boston and its environs. This land now resonated in Clara’s heart. She’d become enamored with it before she’d set foot on the beach at Skagway. Even if she couldn’t convince Callie to take her in on a permanent basis, she couldn’t leave. If there was a way to fall in love with a place, Clara had discovered it.
But what could she do? Clara had never been interested in mining or setting up a claim. After her first full day in the wilderness, she doubted she’d be interested in the hubbub of Skagway or Dawson City farther north. There’d been enough of that on the east coast. She wanted adventure, but also a home. She desired to live outdoors rather than cooped up in a city, but tramping through the wilderness without someplace to settle didn’t seem right. If Callie didn’t want her around, she’d have to stake her own claim somewhere, homestead in the wilderness like Callie had. Women were allowed to have claims; it was simply a matter of finding land that hadn’t been earmarked for someone else. With everyone heading north there should be plenty of acreage around here.
Maybe she could ask Callie to teach her to trap. Certainly with the number of people traipsing through the neighborhood toward Dawson City and the rich goldfields beyond there’d be plenty of call for more fur and meat. As she pondered her future, the thoughts of husband, hearth and children faded. Her heart swelled with a sense of freedom, her mind with adventure. In Boston she was a spinster. Here in the Alaska District, she’d be one of many strong women making a life independent of the menfolk, standing on her own two feet, a true New Woman like the ones she’d read about in books. If she got lonely, she could send Emma an invitation. The idea of her and her best friend together in this majestic beauty made her smile. If Callie can make a life out here without a man, why can’t I?
Despite the pleasure of a life with Emma at her side, the thought of staying at the Glass cabin with Callie overshadowed the reverie. Though they’d only just met, Clara found Callie intriguing, just as she had the masculine women on the ship or the occasional one she’d seen in Boston. While Clara had been vaguely terrified of those strong women on the Queen, she found that Callie’s vulnerability, her grief for her brother’s death made her more approachable. In a word, Callie was fascinating.
Warmed by the sun, content with the day’s activities and her future plans, Clara indulged in a new daydream—she and Callie Glass with a life together as they ran traplines, made trips to town and puttered about the homestead. They’d build a bigger cabin, put in a root cellar and maybe a yearly garden and grow old with each other, never needing vindication from anyone on how they lived their lives. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
* * *
Callie returned home to discover that the hard ground in front of the porch had been swept clean of debris. From this angle the porch looked to have been neatened too, but she couldn’t put her finger on what had changed. She continued past toward the storage shed, frowning in thought as she tried to figure out the difference. Clara bustled around inside the cabin, but Callie didn’t announce her presence. She studied the crudely hung rope stretched between the two sheds currently festooned with what appeared to be her drawers and socks. A mishmash of hot embarrassment and self-conscious gratitude forced her to look away and focus on the job at hand. I can imagine what Jamie Perkins would have said if he’d arrived here to see my union suits dangling in the wind. The knowledge that Clara had touched her underthings forced the warm blush across her cheeks. She mindfully ignored the sight of her unmentionables airing in the sun. It was too late to do anything about them now. Instead she unloaded her catch into the shed, skinning the carcasses as she went. Marmots, beavers and hares went past her knife in a flurry of disregard, the job slower than usual as her attention wavered toward the sounds from the cabin.
Clara remained oblivious to Callie’s return and didn’t make an appearance. It was a disappointment. Uncertain why she even cared, Callie turned her back on the cabin to focus on her task.
From the corner of her eye she saw that another clothesline had been tied between two trees at the edge of the clearing. This one held the bedsheets. She’d already seen her bedding draped outside a cabin window upon her arrival. Good Lord, has she been cleaning all day? That behavior didn’t strike her as something done by a woman who planned to leave. She scowled as she worked, slicing fur from meat, hanging carcasses from the ceiling of the shed and laying the furs out on the floor. Last night Clara had said that she wouldn’t stay so why had she invested all this time and energy into straightening things up? Gratitude for a night or two out of the cold only went so far in Callie’s books.
Despite the vague discontent, Callie finished her work. She secured the shed against predators and muscled the sledge onto its side. Since the clothesline took up the sledge’s usual spot on the side of the shed, she set the thing up against the shed door, doubly securing it against incursion. She pulled the cover from the rain barrel there and used a ladle to sluice her head, dipping out more water to wash the blood from her hands.
With nothing else to distract her from the inevitable, she crossed the yard toward the cabin. Clara’s humming grew louder as she neared. The sound of music both soothed and irritated Callie. Though it was nice to hear another person at the homestead after a long day on the trapline, the knowledge that it was a stranger—one who Callie hadn’t wanted around to begin with—triggered her annoyance. She had enough disruption with Jamie Perkins and his malcontents from town trespassing on her property; she didn’t need or want another complication in her life. Caring for herself was hard enough. That Clara Stapleton was a complication was not in question no matter how Callie looked at the situation.
Alaskan Bride Page 8
