by Janet Dailey
Straightening, she reached in her pocket and took out the lace handkerchief that held her gold. She laid it in the bottom of the rocker and carefully untied it. Her hands were steady as she painstakingly transferred the grains of gold caught in the bottom creases to the small pile in her handkerchief. When it was once again securely knotted, she held the precious bundle tightly against her breastbone. Tears filled her eyes as she laughed and cried at the same time. She had wanted gold. Now she had it.
A hand clamped onto her shoulder. In panic, Glory grabbed for the shovel propped against the rocker and swung it at the thief who would steal her gold. “It’s mine!” she cried.
The man grabbed hold of the wooden handle before the shovel struck him. “Glory, for God’s sake, it’s me!”
“Deacon.” The shovel suddenly felt heavy, and she let him take it from her hands and set it aside. “I thought—” It was obvious what she thought and she laughed in relief. “I’m glad it’s you. Where have you been?”
“Looking for you. I ran into Matty and she told me where to find you.” He crouched down beside her, sitting on his heels, and brushed the grains of sand from his trouser legs. “You don’t have to worry about meeting the paperhanger. He’s somewhere out here in this insanity.”
“There’s gold, Deacon. Gold right here in this sand. Do you realize how many times we’ve walked along this beach? And it’s been right here under our feet all this time.”
“Do you have any idea what you look like?”
Glory started to brush at the granules of sand that coated her wrapper, but there was too much. The action drew attention to the soiled strips of cloth wrapped around her hands and the dirty, frayed lace trim of her nightgown that extended beyond the velvet cuffs of her wrapper. Her unbound hair lay about her back and shoulders in a grimy, windblown tangle.
“I am a mess,” she conceded.
“A mess.” He mocked her understatement and lifted one of her hands, drawing a wince from Glory as his grip put pressure on a broken blister. “Look at your hands. Your fingers are all red and scratched. Your nails are chipped and broken, and no doubt these rags are covering blisters. Your face is wind-burned. I could go on …”
“My hands will heal. A bath will take care of the dirt. And this will buy all the new clothes I need.” Defiantly she held up the knotted handkerchief containing her gold.
“How much do you have there?” He snatched it from her hand.
She made no attempt to grab it back from him, and instead, watched anxiously as he held it in his palm, testing its weight.
“Fifty dollars, probably less.” He tossed it onto her lap. “Is that all you’ve gotten?”
“So far.” Her gold find was a thing to celebrate, but Deacon was ridiculing it.
“How long have you been at this?”
“Since a little before noon.”
“You’ve labored for more than ten hours for fifty dollars.” He shook his head in disgust. “Glory, you make more than that a night lying on your back.”
She wouldn’t look at him. Suddenly Deacon—who had never treated her roughly before—grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, then jerked her around to face the crowded beach.
“If it’s gold you want, Glory, there it is—in the pockets of those fools out there digging in the sand like a bunch of crazy clams! Do you know what they’re going to do with their gold? They’re going to spend it. They’re going to have the wildest time they’ve ever had in their lives—drinking, gambling, and whoring! And when that gold’s gone, they’re going to come out here and dig some more, and do it all again! I’ve never met a rich prospector yet, no matter how big his strike. Maybe there’s one out of a thousand who doesn’t die broke, but the rest do.”
He swung her around, his fingers digging into her aching shoulder muscles. Glory fixed her gaze on his black tie, unable to meet the piercing glare of his hard blue eyes.
“One way or another I’m going to have the Palace open for business when they hit town to celebrate—if I have to hang the damned paper myself. I’m going to make sure they have a place to spend their gold. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of work. Are you going to help me?”
She was conscious of the gold-weighted kerchief in her hand; it was the fulfillment of her dream. “You don’t understand, Deacon,” she insisted. “It’s my gold.”
Abruptly he released her and pivoted away. She fought back the tears of frustration and resentment as she watched him leave. She looked down at the lace handkerchief in her hand and curled her fingers more tightly around it.
CHAPTER XLVI
After a few hours of fitful sleep, wrapped in a blanket on the sand, Glory awakened so stiff and sore that any movement was torture. But the gold waited. All up and down the beach, there was activity, some of the men moiling through the twilight hours of midnight. She wakened Matty. Someone along the beach was boiling coffee and frying bacon. Glory could smell it, but she settled for some stale water and a chunk of sourdough bread left over from last night’s meal, and shook her head at the strip of blubber that Matty offered to share with her.
As soon as she had washed down the last of the dry bread with a swallow of water, Glory started to work. Her muscles protested each time she lifted the shovel to scoop sand into the rocker or grabbed the rocker’s wooden side to shake it. She finally traded places with Matty and started hauling water for the rocker. For a time that was easier, but eventually the bucket full of water seemed to get heavier and heavier.
The bucket’s wire handle cut painfully into her blistered palm despite the rag bandage tied around it. As Glory tried to switch the bucket to the other hand, she accidentally stepped on a trailing piece of her nightgown’s torn hem. Her legs tangled and she fell, spilling the water.
Frustrated, tired, and sore, she knelt there. She felt gritty all over. Her clothes were so stained and impregnated with sand that they’d never come clean again, even if the rips could be mended. The sea water had ruined her leather shoes. Her hair was so tangled she knew she’d break half a dozen combs trying to get the snarls out of it.
Matty dropped the shovel and hurried over to her. “Me help.” She slipped her hands under Glory’s arms.
“I can’t do it.”
She didn’t think she had the strength to stand. All she wanted to do was collapse on the sand and cry. Yet Matty had worked as long and as hard as she had, and never once complained. Driven by guilt, Glory struggled to her feet, aided by Matty’s supporting hands. When Matty reached down to pick up the overturned bucket, Glory stopped her.
“Leave it. Let’s take out what gold we’ve gotten so far,” she said and forced her leaden legs to carry her to the rocker.
Yesterday, she had cleaned out the gold in the riffles after nearly every shovelful of sand had been washed through. Today she had done as the miners around her were doing, letting the gold accumulate in the creases. The beach sand held no nuggets, only fine “flour” gold, as it was called. Carefully, she scraped it from the wooden riffles and added it to the gold dust in her handkerchief.
She stared at the tiny mound of yellow flakes in dejection. “It’s no use. All this work and we’ve probably got only eighty dollars. Deacon was right, Matty.” She looked at the surrounding strip of beach jammed with men panning, sluicing, and rocking for gold. “The gold in Nome is in the pockets of these men. That’s what we should be mining instead of this sand.” She stood up, cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “Hey! Would anybody like to buy a rocker and a shovel? Mine’s for sale!”
Heads turned in her direction. Soon a dozen would-be miners were swarming around her, mostly townspeople without the proper tools, or the knowledge or skill to build rockers or sluice boxes out of the driftwood on the beach. Glory auctioned off everything—the rocker, the shovel, the rusty bucket, the vial of mercury, and even the blanket—getting twice what she’d initially paid for them … in gold dust.
As the buyers moved in to carry away their purchases, Glory linke
d her arm with Matty’s. “Let’s go to the Palace. Deacon should be there. Then I want a bath and a hot meal.”
“Hey! Wait a minute.” A shaggy-bearded man ran up to her.
“Sorry, mister. You’re too late. Everything’s been sold.” She kept walking.
“Marisha, wait.”
She halted at the sound of her given name. No one knew it except—She turned and stared at the unkempt prospector. A dirty and faded slouch hat covered hair that had grown long and curled about the collar of his plaid shirt and dirty jacket; and suspenders held up the baggy trousers, crudely patched at the knees. The full beard and mustache hid most of his face, making his age almost impossible to determine, but there was something familiar about his eyes.
“It is you,” he declared. “I knew there couldn’t be two women in Alaska with hair like that.”
“Justin,” she ventured tentatively. Only the eyes and the voice were recognizable.
He rubbed his heavy beard as if becoming conscious of his changed appearance. “I guess I’m not a cheechako any more. I look like a woolly old sourdough now, don’t I? You live through a couple winters in the interior, and it’ll do this to you. You get to where you don’t even look at what it is you’re eating to stay alive.”
“Yes.” She’d heard some of the stories of hardship told by sourdoughs—so-called because of the homemade starter they used as yeast to make their bread and hooch. Men who were old in experience but not necessarily mature.
Glory continued to gaze at him, conscious of the irony of the meeting. She’d always wondered whether Justin would recognize her. Yet the way she looked now—dressed in these soiled, shapeless clothes, her hair tousled, her face bare of makeup—she probably looked like dowdy Marisha Blackwood. If anything, she looked worse than when he’d last seen her. This wasn’t the way she’d imagined their meeting at all.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” Justin shook his head in amazement. “I only arrived myself a couple days ago. Did you get my letter?”
“Your letter? No, I … I haven’t received anything—except that note you left me when you took off for the Klondike.”
His glance wavered briefly. “I just couldn’t take you with me. The way it turned out, that first winter was bad. It wasn’t a place for a woman. I was worried you’d come on your own instead of staying in Skagway.”
“I thought you’d probably forgotten all about me.”
“No.” He smiled, the heavy beard and mustache parting to show his teeth. “I guess it’s obvious I never made that big strike. When I heard they’d found gold here, I wrote to tell you I was going to Nome to try my luck. Course you never got that letter.”
“No.” And she wouldn’t have, even if she’d been in Skagway, because he’d addressed it to someone who no longer existed.
“Hey, Glory! You gonna work this bit of sand?” The shout came from a grizzled prospector standing with his partners on the strip of beach that Glory had claimed.
“No. You’re welcome to it,” she yelled back, then noticed the puzzled frown on Justin’s face.
“What’d he call you?”
“Glory That’s my name now. I changed it to Glory St. Clair. I took the last name from you. It seemed only fair, since you took things that belonged to me.” She watched the look of shock and disbelief spread across his face.
“You’re Glory St. Clair?” His glance swept her snarled hair, her grimy, tattered clothes, and bandaged hands.
She had to smile. “In a couple of hours I will be—after I’ve had a bath and a change of clothes.” Suddenly, she didn’t want to continue the conversation, not while she looked like this. “Why don’t we meet tonight?”
“Sure.” He was still too stunned to take it all in. “Where will I find you?”
“Ask anyone in town. They’ll tell you where I am.” She smiled as she started to move away from him, now anxious to leave. “Come on, Matty.”
“I’ll … see you later,” Justin said, appearing confused and uncertain about everything, in view of her startling revelation.
“Him a friend?” Matty asked, as they plodded through the sand toward town.
“Yes. I knew Justin a long time ago. Or at least it seems a long time ago.” She wished she knew what he’d said in that letter he’d written her.
“Better you see him. Me not like old man,” Matty declared in an obvious reference to Gabe Blackwood.
Glory made no comment, keeping silent about her reasons for seeing Gabe. She guessed that Matty sensed his prejudicial dislike of her or anyone of native extraction, but she didn’t attempt to explain his attitude. There were too many other things on her mind just now.
They stopped first at the Palace. From the outside, the building looked complete, even to the gold-painted sign that proclaimed its name in a flourishing scroll. But inside, many finishing touches remained undone. The walls were still in their rough state. The mirrors, paintings, and sconces weren’t hung, but the recently arrived gambling tables and chairs were set up in the gaming area, and the mock parlor held the upholstered settees and chairs.
No workmen were about. The place was silent. Glory was about to decide Deacon wasn’t there after all. Then she heard the clink of glass coming from the carved bar they’d imported from San Francisco.
“Deacon?” she called hesitantly.
He straightened from behind the counter, coatless, the cuffs of his white shirt rolled back to bare his forearms. His fingers were looped through the handles of three beer mugs. He did not smile when he saw her. Glory halted, unsure of her welcome.
“I see you finally came to your senses,” he observed dryly and turned to set the beer mugs on the bar’s mirrored back shelf. “You’re just in time to lend a hand unpacking these glasses. I can use your help. Matty’s too.”
“I can’t right now. Neither can Matty. I’m going to need her,” Glory said quickly. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d still want me as a partner.”
“Your money’s in this place, too.”
“Before you commit yourself, there’s something you should know. I ran into an old friend on the beach. We’re going to be getting together tonight. I need Matty to help me get cleaned up so I can look halfway presentable.”
“And that’s why you can’t help me get ready to open,” Deacon guessed. “Obviously this ‘old friend’ is a man.”
“Yes.” She didn’t want to lose Deacon’s friendship. Neither did she want to lie to him. Even though she didn’t know how the evening with Justin was going to turn out, Deacon had to know Justin was someone special to her, and she’d rather he knew that from the beginning.
There was a moment when he hesitated. “I have no private claim on you, Glory.” He shrugged, surprising her with the casualness of the gesture. “When you’re finished with Matty, have her move my things into one of the rooms upstairs here.”
She felt a twinge of disappointment that he would relinquish her to another man so easily. Which was crazy in a way, considering that he’d never objected in the least to her profession. But Justin wasn’t a customer.
“I will.” She hesitated. “Deacon, I—”
He interrupted her. “You don’t have to make any explanations to me. Go meet your friend or do whatever it is you’re going to do. The sooner that’s handled, the sooner you can get back here and lend me a hand. I want to be open for business by tomorrow.”
“Sure.” There was nothing else for her to say, although Glory wished there was something that might make her feel better about this. Trying to shake off a sense of guilt, she turned and left, accompanied by Matty.
Back at her quarters in the Double Eagle, Glory managed to procure the use of a bathtub. While Matty hauled water from the Snake River, the source of Nome’s drinking water, and heated it over a fire behind the saloon, Glory combed her snarled hair, her scalp aching from the constant tugging at the roots. When the tub was filled with water, she stripped off her clothes and ordered Matty to burn them. She soaped and scrubbed un
til her body felt raw.
Afterwards, Matty rubbed her with perfumed oils and brushed her hair dry, then helped her dress, tightly lacing Glory into her corset and fastening the red satin gown with the scandalous décolletage that Glory had been saving to wear for the opening of the Palace. Despite all the creams and balms she’d applied, nothing could be done for her sore, unsightly hands, so she hid them with a pair of long gloves that extended above the elbow. A layer of powder toned down the redness of her sun- and wind-burned face.
Ready at last, she had Matty collect Deacon’s things and take them to the Palace, then sat down to wait for Justin. A hundred times, it seemed, she checked her reflection in the mirror, looking for some flaw in her appearance that could be corrected. She was anxious to make a good impression on Justin and erase his former image of her. Glory was certain she hadn’t been this nervous since the first night she’d gone to work for Miss Rosie.
As she reached for the whiskey bottle to fill one of the two glasses on the tray, someone cleared his throat behind her. She pivoted toward the sound. Justin stood a step inside the partitioned room, fingering the hat he held in his hands. Glory stared at him. This was the Justin she remembered. The beard and mustache were gone, exposing his familiar features that now looked oddly pale. The long, shaggy locks of his dark hair had been shorn, returning its natural curl. His shirt, trousers, and jacket were all new.
Justin stared at her like a man transfixed. His lips moved twice before anything came out. “They … said you were in here. I would have knocked, but that’s hard to do on canvas walls.”
She smiled, his reaction filling her with confidence. “Come in, Justin. Would you like something to drink?”
“Yeah, I could use a drink.” He walked over to her and took the glass of whiskey she poured for him, his gaze never leaving her.
“We should drink to something.” She raised her glass and waited for him to make the toast, but he seemed incapable of speech. “Here’s to meeting again in Nome. There’s no place like it.” She sipped at her whiskey, but he made no move to follow suit. “Is something wrong?”
