by Jamie Carie
“I can do that.” My voice sounded stronger than I felt.
It didn’t take long to get to the bottom of the pile. Jonah’s pack was the last one. Compassion filled Buck’s eyes as he passed it into my arms.
Jonah, my brother. I clutched his pack to my chest, feeling it ache like a wound that wouldn’t heal. His face was the first image I saw in the morning, taking a moment for me to remember that I didn’t have to rush to his side to discover if it would be a good day where his smile was light, his mind clear, or a dark day where he accused me of plotting to leave him and heard whispered voices of torture. His face was the last image I saw before succumbing to sleep; guilt, remorse, regret—a new blanket that covered me each night.
His pack was as heavy as stone. I opened it, upended it, let the life of my brother pour onto the floor around me. There were his pants, so narrow at the waist but still requiring the rope belt he’d had to keep them up. His best shirt, a bright blue and his favorite. I remembered when I had bought it for him and how his pleased smile made my heart surge with love for him. I held the shirt up to my face and inhaled, closing my eyes and seeing him at his best. I knelt and looked down, my hand skimming the pile of the remains of his short life.
My hand met with a hard edge. I picked it up, unwrapped the large bundle, and gasped. There, among the threadbare clothes and the old razor and strop, was the stolen food.
Buck walked over. His eyes widened as he knelt beside me, took the bag of flour, and turned it over and over in his hands. “I can’t believe it. He didn’t even eat it. Was he trying to starve us? Starve you?”
I looked up into Buck’s wide eyes and shook my head. “He never knew anything but fear. He grew skinny shoring up against it. I think he died trying to save himself from it.”
“God have mercy.” We were both silent for a long moment, remembering Jonah, wondering what might have been if he’d been stronger, if he’d been sane.
“What is that?” Buck gestured toward a silken bundle.
I lifted the small, wrapped object. It was tied with a blue ribbon, the bow giving way easily as I pulled it apart. “I don’t . . .” I struggled for breath as the cloth fell away, revealing a photograph. I gazed up at Buck, my lips compressed and quivering.
“It’s you.”
“Yes.”
“He loved you.”
“The best he could. Yes.”
The photograph had yellowed with age; the young woman staring back at me was thin and pale, strained, and in her eyes, I saw fear. I folded it up and eased it back in its silken ribbons, as if it were made of spiderwebs . . . or snowflakes. He’d been as fragile and yet as intricately designed as a snowflake.
My brother had melted in the heat of life, and there was nothing I could have done about it.
Buck grasped my hand. “Forgive yourself, Ellen. You did the best you could, more than most folks would have. Let him go.”
I looked up into his sure eyes. Did he speak the truth? Had I really done the best I could have by Jonah? I could have found a way to keep him alive . . . I should have found a way. “But I failed.”
“God did not give you this burden. It was placed on you by your parents—first by your father leaving and then by your mother making you promise to give up your life and future for your brother. That wasn’t God, Ellen.”
“But God expects us to give up our lives for each other.”
“Yes, He does say to lay down our lives for each other. But in His time and way. In seasons. When we obey Him and trust Him to help carry our burdens, it brings life; it doesn’t rob it.”
I looked down at my hands. I hadn’t leaned on God for help or strength. I’d tried to carry the burden of Jonah by myself. If I’d had more faith and trusted God, would things have turned out differently? Grief stabbed at me anew, and for the first time I realized how important it was, how life changing it could be, to trust and obey God.
“Come on.” Buck hauled me up and then turned back to packing the empty sled with his supplies.
I bit down on my lower lip as I watched his movements, so familiar from the trail, swift, determined, economical. “When are you leaving?”
“Within the hour.” He faced me and pulled out a leather pouch from his coat pocket. “Take this. You’ll be stuck here until spring thaw, and I want you to find a decent place to stay.”
The fact that he could give me his money but not his heart tore through me like a lance, making me feel no better than a charity case to him. Besides, I would never be able to repay him. “No, I’ll be fine. Jonah and I had enough to get us through one winter.”
Buck stared hard at me, as if trying to see if I was telling the truth.
“Really. I—I will get a job.” I paused. It took every ounce of courage I possessed to ask, but I had to know. “Buck, did you mean it when you promised to be back for Christmas?”
His face held tension and pain. It was as if he were torn in half, having to leave me and yet unable to stay. Sorrow filled his eyes, but compassion was there too—and longing? “Yes, Ellen. I will be back for Christmas.”
Joy shot through me. I didn’t deserve it, I knew, but I could still hope. “Be careful, okay?” I held out the bundled photograph. “Would you?” I looked up into his eyes and bared my soul to him, risking rejection again. “Would you like to have it?”
Buck considered the photograph for a long moment and then reached for it. With deliberate care he placed it in his coat pocket, where it would lay close to his heart.
I allowed the hope that he would take it out often and remember me reach my eyes.
And then I turned to go.
Chapter Eight
The cold was like an attack—a plaintive, gusting blow against my body. The wind took my breath, and my nose swelled red and pulsing, cheeks stinging from the sharp ice particles in the air as I trudged up Front Street looking for a hotel. Warmth, fire, food, shelter. Comforts that meant so little until they were so far from being gained.
The street was crowded with people wandering up and down the bazaarlike marketplace where stampeders hawked their goods—mostly the one-ton outfit required to enter into Canada. Others shopped and argued prices over a shovel, a pickax, or a prized broom. Some folks looked like they knew where they were going and what they were about, but many others appeared lost and wandering. I identified with the latter group as anxiety gnawed at my stomach. I needed a plan.
The first, most important task was finding a place to stay. I had a little over two hundred dollars in my pocket, and it needed to last until I could find a job, if a job could be found.
I could pray for help and guidance.
The thought surprised me. God hadn’t looked down and noticed me or answered my prayers when I’d called out to Him over the years. I’d given up and stopped praying a long time ago. But what if God was there? What if I’d been praying for the wrong solution? What if God had been answering me all along, and I’d just refused to listen? What if He’d had a plan for Jonah and, yes, me, and I’d not been able to accept anything other than what my own two eyes could see and what my ears had heard? What if I’d never really exercised even a mustard seed’s worth of faith? I stopped, prickles of truth bright on my skin.
What if God really did love me and care?
I looked up and saw that I was standing in front of the Regina Hotel. Well, it was somewhere to start. I might not have the courage to pray just yet, but God was talking to me, and I intended to try my best to listen. Maybe this was the place.
I stepped inside and stopped short. My goodness, it was a handsome place! My gaze took in the plush blue and cream rugs scattered over the high-polished wood floor where seating groups were arranged for the comfort of the guests. The wallpaper was gold and ivory and practically glittered it was so fine. I walked over to the clerk at the desk and cleared my throat.
“Yes, ma’am. How may I help you?” He was a middle-aged fellow with a long mustache and assessing eyes.
“How much for a room, sir?”
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br /> “One hundred and fifty dollars a week.”
I gasped. Our last house back in California had cost a hundred dollars for a whole month. The man’s mouth dipped down as he noted my reaction.
“Are all the hotels in Dawson so expensive?”
“Most are. You might try the boardinghouses.” He turned away as if no longer willing to waste time on me.
I gathered up my pack and slung it onto my shoulder and turned to go.
It was as the man said. After venturing into three more hotels, I had the sinking realization that if I didn’t find a job, and soon, I would be in real trouble. Everything in Dawson was at least quadruple the price of what it was back in the States. Maybe I should have taken Buck’s money.
I pressed my lips together into a tight line as another realization burned through my mind with searing clarity—a stubborn hardness resided in my heart and it was robbing me of . . . I wasn’t exactly sure the full picture of it, but it was huge. I took a deep breath, looking around at the people rushing past me on the busy street. They seemed so sure of themselves while I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
I spent the next three hours looking for a job. There was the Chinese laundry, the dentist office, a drug emporium, a dry goods store, and a bank. I didn’t rule out anything. The men were only too willing to talk to me, but the answer at each place was the same: “We regret that we don’t need any help.”
Desperation and hopelessness weighed heavy on my shoulders as I entered the Big Bear—a restaurant and boardinghouse. It wasn’t fair! Here I was doing my best to hear God, and it looked as if He wasn’t answering again. I took a deep breath and blew the air out of ballooning cheeks, not that anyone noticed. The dining room was packed with noisy, laughing, talking men crowded around every table, shoveling in heaping spoonfuls of what looked to be stew into their bearded faces.
A harried, plain-faced serving girl stopped next to me long enough to ask, “You be needing a table? There ain’t any for just one, but I can squeeze you in with those other ladies.” She pointed to a table of four fashionably dressed women.
“Oh no. I’m looking for the owner. Is he terribly busy right now?” The noon rush was probably not the best time to bother him.
“Mrs. Larkin owns this here place.” She pointed to a low bench by the door. “Just sit there a minute, and I’ll see if I can fetch her. Your name, ma’am?”
“Ellen Pierce.”
She nodded and scurried off, her skirt flapping behind her like a sail in the wind. Maybe I would have some luck here. It looked as if they could use the help.
A full twenty minutes later a woman with an enormous bosom and triple chins hurried toward me with a frown in her eyes. I stood and smiled as pleasantly as possible considering my heart was pounding like a trapped rabbit. She looked me up and down, the frown spreading to her down-turned mouth.
“What can I do for you, miss?” Her voice was a sharp staccato.
I clasped my hands tight together in front of my stomach. “I was hoping you might need some help, Mrs. Larkin. I am looking for a job.”
Her gaze roved over my face as her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need the kind of trouble you would attract.”
“Trouble? Oh no, ma’am. I’m a very good worker. And a good cook too.”
The woman gave a short, fast shake of her head, and my heart plummeted. “I don’t need any help, I said. Now go on.”
My hand rose toward her as desperation jerked at my stomach. “I’ll work for room and board.”
Mrs. Larkin took a firm grasp on my forearm, the vein in her forehead growing larger and blue. She jerked me toward the door and pushed me out, slamming the door in my face without another word.
I stumbled onto the walkway, arms out for balance, but it didn’t help. I crashed onto my side with a groan as my shoulder hit the hard-packed snowdrift. Tears stung my eyes. I slowly sat up and blinked against the cold, bright outdoors.
I guess You’re not going to answer my prayers now either.
I wanted to stay there and give in to the feeling of hopelessness and have a good cry, but I couldn’t. I took a deep breath and struggled to stand, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my shoulder, and turned toward Front Street. I didn’t really see where I was going or notice that the crowd was thicker and livelier. I barely noticed the grand hotels, hastily thrown up shacklike shops, saloons, and hundreds of tents. I just wandered, aimless and numb.
“Ellen? Ellen is that you?”
I turned to see Kate leaning from the half-open door of the—I glanced at the big sign above her head—Monte Carlo Saloon and Dance Hall. She waved me over, laughing. “Come inside and get warmed up. You look frozen through!”
The fact that I should continue searching for a job and a place to stay battled with the very real grumbling of my stomach and the frozen tingling in my feet and face. “I shouldn’t go in a place like that.”
“Oh, posh! This is Dawson, Ellen. None of that kind of propriety stands to reason out here. Now come inside before you turn into an icicle. I’ll get you some breakfast.” Her smile was dazzling.
“Well, just for a few minutes to warm up.” I looked around and saw that, indeed, no one seemed to care in the least that I was stepping into a saloon.
Kate led me over to a round table and pulled out a chair. “Just sit a spell while I round up something hot for you to eat.”
I nodded, taking in the patrons and the décor. A long bar occupied one end with a smoky, wavy mirror hanging on the wall behind it. The room was well lit from the many windows and several chandeliers burning, even though it was early in the day. The walls had flocked velvet green and purple wall coverings on them, and the floor was high-polished wood planks.
More than a dozen people sat at the tables around me. Four men were playing cards at the table I faced. A young man plucked a cheerful song from the piano, and two young women, expensively dressed and perfectly coifed, hugged the end of the bar, chatting with each other. It didn’t seem as bad as I imagined it would be. It actually seemed pretty nice.
Sighing at my assessment, I slumped back in the chair and worked off my mittens. My goodness, how the cold had taken grip of my hands!
“Here you go, dear.” Kate set a plate of eggs, bacon, and a biscuit in front of me along with a steaming cup of coffee. My mouth watered as the smells drifted to my nose. “So, have you found a place to stay?” Kate sat across from me and folded her elegant hands on top of the table.
I paused, shook my head, and took a bite of bacon. “Everything is so expensive. I didn’t realize the costs here were so much greater. My couple of hundred dollars is not going to last long.”
“Yes, not many realize that when they finally land here. You’ll need to find a job quick.” She raised her brows in silent question.
“Don’t even consider it.” My tone lowered to a hushed hiss. “I’ll never be a prostitute.”
“Of course not,” Kate snapped back. “If you hadn’t rushed off . . . if you would have let me explain, you might be surprised by my offer.”
I eyed her with raised brows and dove into my eggs. I’d heard eggs were two dollars each, and I wasn’t about to let them grow cold.
Kate motioned a hand around the room. “The Monte Carlo is one of my dancing halls. A dancing hall is a respectable place, Ellen. The women I employ”—she gestured with her head toward the two women at the end of the bar—“get paid to dance with the men, a waltz or a square dance, that’s all, nothing more.”
I glanced at the young women in question. One was blonde, plump, and pretty. The other was dark with big slanting eyes and striking facial features.
“They charge a dollar a dance, which they split with the house at the end of each night. On a busy night those girls have made over two hundred dollars.”
I sputtered, choking on my coffee. That was more money than Jonah or I had been able to make in a month.
Kate clicked her fingernails on the table and leaned in. “As pretty as you are,
you would make a fortune. There’s more ways to strike it rich out here than slopping around in icy streambeds and panning for gold, you know.” She sat back and smiled, her perfect pink lips pressed together in satisfaction.
“Kate, I appreciate the offer, but I couldn’t. I don’t know anything about men, normal men anyway. I just couldn’t.”
She looked down at her hands. “I understand, Ellen, more than you know.” She looked up at me with eyes that had gone from smug to vulnerable.
I put down my fork. “How did you end up being a . . . a prostitute?”
Kate shrugged a slim shoulder. “It didn’t start out that way. I came here near the beginning of the rush, with my husband.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did he die?”
“Don’t be sorry. He was a meal ticket out of small-town life. A traveling salesman. He died on the rapids, and I can’t honestly say I missed him. I arrived in Dawson with five dollars to my name, a one-ton outfit, and my husband’s wares. That was a bit of luck, I’ll tell you.” She grinned. “I thought him a fool to bring brooms to this frozen tundra to sell, but no one had thought of that. I made my grubstake on wooden handles and straw.” Her laugh tinkled through the room. “But I didn’t buy a claim, no.” She lifted a hand. “I bought my first saloon. It wasn’t long before women started coming in, and I saw an opportunity. The men here are lonely, Ellen, and they were getting rich fast with nothing to spend it on. I found the need and supplied it with dance-hall girls.”
“Not prostitutes?”
“Not at first. After a time I noticed some of the girls were making their own deals with men after their shift here. It was a dirty business, like the fallen birds on Paradise Alley. I knew I could do better so I built a fancy brothel, hired the prettiest women I could find, and charged through the roof for their services. A year later I owned several businesses with the gold dust flowing like a fast-moving stream right into my pockets.”
“But what about you? Did you . . . ?”
“I didn’t need to. I was busy running the places and didn’t need the money.”
