Golden Dawn

by Hake, Cathy Marie

Meredith turned and watched as the fabric of his shirt went taut over muscles in his arms and shoulders. He fought the stubborn soil, and Bess strained, but inch by inch, foot by foot, they made progress.

  Carrying a washtub filled with sand, Tucker staggered past Meredith.

  “Let me help!”

  “Open the door. It blew shut.”

  Meredith dashed ahead and yanked open the door to their cabin. Each evening, the men had dragged stones into the cabin and cobbled a section of the floor. As dawn broke today, they’d dragged out what little furniture she and Tucker owned and carried in logs split in half. Those puncheons now formed a real floor, but instead of staying steady like planks would have, the puncheons rocked and tilted.

  Grunting, Tucker dumped the sand onto the floor. He cast a look at the door. “Sis, Rafferty’s a fine man.”

  She blushed. “That’s my assessment, too.”

  “But I don’t care how nice he is. You made a promise to me, and I expect you to keep it.”

  “I haven’t said a word to him.”

  Tucker hefted the empty bucket. “Don’t. Some things stay in the family. It’s no one else’s business.”

  She hitched her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter to me, Tucker. It’s important to you, so I’ll stay quiet.”

  “Good.” He stared at her, looking as though he expected her to say more.

  “I’ll work the sand into the floor.” Meredith dragged her instep across a ribbon of sand and watched it filter through the cracks. “I’m starting to notice a difference. The sand’s keeping the logs from rolling and tilting so much.”

  Tucker heaved a sigh. He knew her well enough to see that she’d changed the subject. But she’d told him she’d stay quiet, so he went on to the new topic. “Even when I get the puncheons stabilized, the floor’ll be rough, Sis. You’re liable to get splinters in your feet.”

  “Nonsense. You men used files and rasps to smooth the surface, and the sand will take care of most of the tiny stickers. I’ll braid a nice, warm rug to go between our beds, and we’ll be snug as can be.”

  “We don’t have cloth for that.”

  She flashed her twin a smile. “Anything worth having is worth waiting for.”

  Tucker snorted and tromped back outside to fetch more sand.

  After building a fire and setting the huge wash kettle over it, Meredith hung the quilts out to air. The laundry she’d planned to do days ago desperately needed to be done. In the past, she’d hung her unmentionables in the cabin by the fire to dry. Fearing Ian would take a notion to help her brother with the floor, Meredith decided she’d better hang her small clothes on a line between the quilts. With Tucker’s shirts on one side and britches on the other, no one would be able to spy her garments.

  As Meredith rinsed the whites, Tucker began to whistle softly. “Rock of Ages, cleft for me. . .” The hymn’s lyrics ran through her mind.

  “Let me hide myself in thee,” Ian sang. Or at least, that’s what Meredith thought he was trying to do. Not even two of those words were sung in the same key.

  “Sis, forget the laundry.” Tucker hauled more sand. “Hurry up and make lunch so he’ll stop singing.”

  Ian had his back to them and continued to plow as he caterwauled, “Let the water and the blood, from Thy wounded side which flowed. . .”

  Tucker winced. “Sounds like blood’s flowing, all right. Just not the sacred variety.”

  “Be of sin the double cure. . .”

  “I never would have guessed it, but Abrams is right,” Tucker muttered. “Some afflictions deserve a stiff belt of whiskey.”

  Meredith giggled. “I don’t think whiskey can cure that.”

  “It wouldn’t be for him—it would be for everyone who has to listen.”

  Straightening up, Meredith wrung out a petticoat. “Bess doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “Dumb mule doesn’t know any better. I mean it, Sis. Take pity on me and make lunch. It’ll stop him from—”

  “Singing?” she filled in.

  “I refuse to lie and call that singing.”

  “Are you sick or just dying?” Abrams shouted across the river.

  Ian halted mid-row. “Someone’s sick?”

  “You gotta be. Ain’t never heard sounds like that come outta someone unless they was sufferin’ real bad.”

  “He’s going to say something about spirits,” Meredith whispered to her brother.

  “Couple of stiff swigs of whiskey would fix your throat. I’m telling you, Wily needs to deliver spirits to us. They’re medicinal.”

  “Nothing’s wrong with my throat.” Ian stretched his back.

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” Tucker set down the bucket of sand.

  “Had a gelding break a leg once.” Abrams continued to swish water and silt in his mining pan. “Sounded just like you. I put him outta his misery.”

  “I guess I should be thankful you’re holding a pan instead of your rifle.” Ian’s voice held an entertained lilt.

  Meredith couldn’t help wondering, How can he have such a deep, true speaking voice yet sing so dreadfully?

  Tucker rested his hands on his hips. “Do you whistle or hum any better than you sing?”

  “Nope.” Ian grinned like the Cheshire cat from Alice’s Ad-ventures in Wonderland. “I’m so tone deaf, I got out of having to suffer through music lessons. I take heart in the verse that says, ‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.’ ”

  “It’s noise, all right,” Tucker said.

  “Sounds like someone’s slaughtering you.” Abrams dumped out the last of his pan. He’d gotten nothing for his efforts. “Take pity on the rest of us. Call it Christian charity.”

  Ian’s grin widened. “In Luke 19, Christ said if men were silenced, even the rocks would cry out His praise. I take it you’d rather hear the rocks?”

  “No one means to insult you,” Meredith said.

  “Speak for yourself.” Abrams scooped up another pan full of silt. “Maybe if the rocks cried, they’d be tears of gold.”

  “For that, I’d keep my silence.” Ian nickered to Bess and flicked the reins. As his plow split the stubborn earth, he disappeared behind the smokehouse.

  “Do you still want lunch right away?”

  Tucker looked at the little droplets of mud her dripping petticoat created on the ground between them. “Nah. Go on ahead and finish whatever you need to.”

  After lunch, Meredith shoved her hands in her apron pockets. “Ian, the wash pot is empty now.”

  “Good. I’ve gotten to the point that I wouldn’t have to put pegs on the walls to hang my clothes. They’re all about to stand up on their own. Since we’re using your wood and soap this time, next time we’ll use mine.”

  “Meredith!” Abrams bellowed from his side of the river. “I gotta little laundry. Some mending, too. What’s your asking price?”

  Unladylike as shouting was, she walked toward the river-bank and modulated her voice. “How much mending?”

  “Some buttons. A few rips, and my socks need darning.”

  “How many rips and buttons, and do you still have the buttons?”

  Mr. Abrams looked like a sulky toddler who’d been caught tugging on the dog’s tail. “You can’t expect a man to remember where stupid little buttons roll off to.”

  “I don’t have many spare buttons.”

  “I’ll pay you a pinch of gold dust for it all.”

  Meredith laughed. “You’d pay that much for one splash of whiskey in town.”

  “It’s going to take all my gold to buy vittles for next year.”

  “Provender is expensive.” She nodded. “Tucker was saying the very same thing. It’s going to take all we have to supply us for the next year, too.”

  “You’re putting in a garden. That’ll cut your costs. Two pinches, and that’s as much as I’ll offer.”

  “You have months’ worth of grime in those clothes, so it’s going to take me half of forever to wash and mend them. Four.”

&nbs
p; “Four!” Abrams roared.

  “Or. . .” She paused.

  “Or?”

  “You come help put the roof on Ian’s cabin and allow us free transit across your claim whenever we go to town.”

  “Do I look like a carpenter to you?” He spread out his arms, and water sloshed from his gold pan onto his sleeve and back into the river.

  “You’re a man of many talents, I’m sure.” She smiled. “And though I don’t wish to be rude, you are a man in sore need of a woman’s assistance. Your clothes are in tatters.”

  Ian wandered over and stood beside her. “You don’t have do pay the man to help me, Meredith. ’Tisn’t right.”

  “I’d do his laundry anyway, Ian.”

  He shot her a sideways glance. “Self-preservation?”

  “Precisely.”

  Ian grinned. “Abrams—let’s make this deal better for every-one involved.”

  Abrams brightened. “You do have some whiskey, after all!”

  “No, no.” Ian folded his arms across his chest. “What I have in mind is a far better proposition.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ better than a coupla long swigs of Who-Hit-John.”

  Ian ignored Abrams’s grumble. “You’ll provide the logs to make a pontoon bridge across the river, and—”

  “A bridge? I’m a miner, not a carpenter. I need to spend my time prospecting.”

  “Just listen. The river’s about twenty feet from here to there. One of those spruces on your claim will more than do the trick. Just a medium one.”

  “How do you reckon that?”

  “I’ll help you cut the lower portion into four pontoons, and we’ll split the rest of the trunk in half lengthwise to lie over them.”

  “Why bother splitting it?”

  “For Meredith.” He cupped his hand on her shoulder. Big as his hand was, he didn’t rest the weight there. Warmth radiated from him, though.

  It wasn’t just physical warmth. A sense of his kindness washed over her. She’d never once said a word to Tucker about how she was stranded on this side of the river. Ian understood the issue and created a solution.

  Speaking in a man-to-man tone, he continued to address Abrams. “We need to make sure Meredith will have secure footing when she crosses. Splitting the log and placing the puncheons side by side ought to make the bridge wide enough. In fact, due to her full skirts, a rail might be smart.”

  “No. No rail. A rope is good enough.” Abrams’s face grew dark. “But what do I get out of this?”

  “You”—Ian stretched out the word as though he were preparing to crown a king—“may use Bess to go into Goose Chase and back on the day of your choosing next week. With your back paining you as much as it does, I know it would help for a sturdy mule like Bess to haul your supplies.”

  “That’s very generous of you.” Meredith smiled at Ian. “Bess is a fine mule.”

  “Aye, she is. And by next week, I’ll have finished plowing and dragging timber.”

  “Compared to the time it would take you to do your laundry, mend your clothes, and make several trips to Goose Chase to bring back supplies,” Tucker said as he scooped up more sand, “one day of roofing and a few hours to make a bridge is nothing.”

  As Ian withdrew his hand, Meredith fought the urge to lean toward him to prolong the contact. Instead, she concentrated on the old man across the river. “My brother is right. That trade is heavily in your favor, Mr. Abrams.”

  “I dunno.” Abrams combed his fingers through his grungy beard.

  “Well, don’t worry about it.” Ian turned to Meredith. Mirth crinkled the corners of his oh-so-blue eyes. “I’m sure whoever is across the river from my claim will be more than happy—”

  “Hang on a minute. A man deserves a minute to think through a deal.” Abrams bobbed his head. “Yup. I’ll do it. But if Wily gets het up about you blocking the river so he can’t take that sorry excuse for a boat any farther, you gotta deal with him.”

  “Wily won’t mind,” Tucker said. “He never goes any farther upriver than Clemment’s.”

  Mr. Abrams let out a cackle. “He’ll take it as a favor. Nobody wants to deal with that crazy old coot!”

  “It’s not a problem. With a pontoon bridge, we can let one end float downstream and pull it back in place after Wily’s boat goes through,” Ian reasoned.

  “The real problem will be Abrams.” The corners of Tucker’s mouth tightened. “The minute that bridge is built, he’ll come tromping over every time he smells coffee or food.”

  “What if we make a deal where we won’t cross onto his claim, and he won’t come over here, unless we’ve gotten per-mission?” Meredith shrugged. “It’s good manners.”

  Tucker snorted. “Abrams wouldn’t know good manners if they bit him.”

  “How would the two of you feel about telling him he’s invited to Sunday supper each week—provided he worship with us first?” Ian hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “The rest of the week, we’ll have the bridge float along our side of the river. I’ll link it from the midpoint of my claim so you won’t feel it’s impinging on your panning, and Abrams won’t worry about whether it diverts any gold that would flow his way.”

  “What are you all yammerin’ about over there?” Abrams scowled.

  “My brother and Ian are making sure everything will work out fairly.” Meredith gestured toward the river. “They’re con-cerned that the bridge might block the flow to your bank and affect how much gold you wind up with.”

  “Then there ain’t gonna be no bridge!”

  “We worked it all out,” Ian declared. “The bridge will normally float parallel to our shore. Whenever we need to cross, we’ll pulley it into place.”

  “Humph.”

  “But we’ll worship every Sunday, and you’re invited to join us.” Seeing the horror on the old man’s face, Meredith hurriedly tacked on, “And of course you’d be welcome to stay for Sunday supper.”

  “I ain’t makin’ no promises.”

  “Take your time. You can decide from week to week.” Tucker wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “But you know what a fine cook Sis is.”

  “Aye, that she is!” Ian turned to her. “Why don’t you go ahead and see to our neighbor’s laundry? It’s silly for me to wash my clothes when I still have plowing to finish.”

  “I am looking forward to having a garden.”

  Ian smiled at her. “Good. I’m thinking ’tis a shame, though, that I didn’t bring any flower seeds. Ma always likes to plant a patch.”

  “Soon we’ll have flowers all about us. Alaska is harsh, but wildflowers abound.”

  “I should have known.” Ian studied her for a long moment. “The fairest of all are brought about by God’s hand.”

  Meredith felt her face grow warm. Men in the region dropped by and tried to flatter her in hopes of getting a meal or a cheaper rate on mending. In the thirteen months since she’d been in Alaska, never once had a man complimented her without having an ulterior motive. Ian walked away before she could form a response.

  Seven

  I shouldn’t have said anything. Not so soon. I’ve barely met the lass. Ian tied twine to an arrow and shot it over onto Abrams’s property. I embarrassed her. She’s too kind to say so, but her blush made it clear as day.

  “I’ll send a rope over now.” Tucker attached rope to the twine. “It’s best if Abrams ties the rope on his side first. I aim to yank hard when I secure it on this side. That way, if he didn’t do a decent job, nothing is lost when it gives way.” Tucker paused a second. “I can’t help thinking, though, it might be a blessing if his laundry took a dunking before Sis has to wash it.”

  Ian looked up at the clouds and started whistling. He turned and walked off.

  “Ian!” Tucker shouted at him. “You can’t whistle any better than you sing!”

  “Want me to start humming instead?”

  “Spare me the agony.”

  Ian considered humming just for fun, but he ha
d to harness Bess to the plow. Bess didn’t like his music any better than Tucker did, so Ian decided garnering her cooperation was more important than needling Tucker.

  Plowing the virgin soil took great effort. Even the best plow would be tested by the plot, and Ian ruefully fought to keep control over the rudimentary one he’d designed. The soil looked rich, though. Each foot would mean another cabbage. Each yard would support a trellis of climbing beans. As the crops grew, he’d be able to spend time with Meredith. Perhaps then, if he were patient, he’d reap more than just vegetables. If God willed it, Ian hoped to cultivate Meredith’s affection, too.

  “Just how much more do you plan to do?” Tucker leaned against the smokehouse and scanned the garden.

  “May as well do a few extra rows. I was thinking that when you go to town, you could see if they have any of the seeds from Sitka.”

  “What does Sitka have to do with seeds?”

  “The Russians settled here first. I read that the czar ordered each settlement had to have a garden. Since America bought the land, the government decided the Russians had a good notion. Sitka sends out seeds for free. I’m thinking Meredith might like some parsley and mustard. Rhubarb, too.”

  “Rhubarb!” Tucker moaned. “I don’t remember the last time I had rhubarb pie. Maybe you ought to plow twice as much.”

  Ian opened his mouth to reply, but the plow caught on a stone and veered to the side. “Looks like you’re out of luck. The soil’s shallow and rocky here.”

  “What about another row farther back?”

  “Sure, and why not? We may as well coax as much as we can from the land. How’s Meredith’s new floor?”

  “Done.” Tucker looked at his cabin. “Nothing shifts when I walk across it. I’ll lead Bess over to the back of the plot. You bring the plow.”

  A moment later, Ian set down the plow. “We’ve got a good six feet here. I can get at least three more rows in. Maybe four.”

  “With the size root cellars we both have, you’d better make it four. I figure we’ll finish off your cabin tomorrow; then I’ll go to Goose Chase. If there’s anything you need, write it down. I’ll try to get it for you.”

  “I’ll think on it. Ho, there, Bess. All right, girl. Let’s go.” He clicked his tongue, and his mule started pulling the plow. That row was difficult. The next fought him even more. Halfway across, Bess stopped dead in her tracks.