ALASKAN BRIDES 01: Yukon Wedding

by Allie Pleiter

  “Nothing truer than that!” Lucy laughed along with her.

  “Now, we need to get you outfitted with some new trinkets. Do you own a handkerchief?”

  Lucy produced a dusty bandana from her pocket.

  “Oh my, we do have work to do.” Lana went and pulled several white linen hankies from her bureau drawer. “Here are a few of mine. I’ll order some hankies from Skaguay and we’ll set about teaching you to embroider your initials on your own next week. Then you could think about putting Caleb’s initials on a set for him as a gift.”

  Lucy’s eyes shot wide in shock, and for the first time Lana noticed that Lucy’s broad, dusty hat brim hid some very lovely eyes indeed.

  Lana looked like the cat that swallowed the canary for days. She told story after story about how well things were going in the classroom, and Mack had even stolen in every once in a while just to watch her teach. When the new schoolhouse was ready, Mack found he couldn’t imagine anyone else in there at the front desk other than Lana. She had a gift for teaching, plain and simple. She had a gift for organizing, too. He’d had to eat every one of his words about the load of home and school being too much for her. He’d come to realize he’d never really seen Lana for the strong woman she was. She was not the fragile flower he’d known in Seattle, nor was she the beaten-down widow he’d seen this winter. Lana was becoming another woman, a vivacious woman of strength and innovation…and an inner beauty that exceeded her stunning outer shell. He’d always found her attractive, but not especially alluring—mostly because he’d classified her as too shallow for his tastes.

  He’d been wrong. There was much, much more to Lana. Life was changing the rules on him, poking holes in his carefully devised plans with fiendish efficiency, so that his precious sense of control seemed to be waning with every sunrise. It was an unnerving dichotomy: the weaker he felt, the more in control Lana seemed. Every impulse to share anything with her met an equally strong impulse to keep any shred of his inner turmoil from her view. He was her husband after all, the head of the household and charged with the protection of his family. She was becoming too precious to him to let any admissions of doubt and fear cloud her sense of security.

  The nightly walks they now took together had become equally precious. He could pray over his worries with her beside him, but still not have to burden her with them. Mack found he enjoyed her company more every day. He could not only pray with her walking beside him, Mack found he prayed best with her walking beside him. Her un complicated presence—the soft hum she gave when tucking Georgie in, the way she swayed against him when they walked, the occasional glance she would give him—seemed to infuse his prayers with a sense of gratitude and praise he’d lost since the avalanche. Mack wasn’t sure how he could welcome this and dread this at the same time; the war of the opposing emotions mostly rendered him speechless. He was forever grateful Lana didn’t seem to mind his long gaps of silence.

  Tonight, however, he could practically watch a question teeter on the tip of her control. He’d grown to know her well enough to see when she was trying to hold something in, or fearful of what she wanted to say, and it was so tonight. Lana was trying very hard not to ask him a burning question. Despite his comfort with silence, Mack was surprised to find it felt generous, not invasive, to pull it out of her. As if breaking the silence were like giving her a gift. “It’s fine, you know,” he said, amused at the smile he felt tugging up the corners of his mouth.

  “What’s fine?” Did she actually think he couldn’t see the struggle on her face? How had he missed how transparent her thoughts were, back before times were so hard?

  “It’s fine to ask me whatever it is you want to ask.”

  She flushed, looking away and busying herself with a bonnet string that didn’t really need adjusting. “I know you like your quiet when you walk.”

  “Tonight your thoughts are louder than my prayers.” Mack slipped his hand beside hers on the carriage handle. “You look like you’d burst if we went two more blocks in silence.”

  “Was it really that bad?”

  “Yes.” There wasn’t a hint of annoyance in his answer. Affection tickled the corners of his chest. “So—” he shrugged his shoulders “—ask away.”

  “What do you pray when you walk through town?”

  It wasn’t at all what he was expecting. Trivial questions, household purchases, town business, those sorts of questions he’d been ready for. Questions didn’t come much larger than this. “Why?”

  She took her time in answering. “It seems to come so easy to you. Big, formal prayers in church or tiny, friendly prayers over breakfast—they just pour out of you like they’re not work at all. I don’t know how you do it like that.”

  He’d noticed his Bible moved on several occasions, seen her listen intently over grace, watched her watching him in the pulpit Sunday mornings. He’d suspected God was, as his father put it, “shaking her soul loose” these days, but he wouldn’t dare to approach her on the subject. He chose his words carefully, aware of the tender ground he now trod. “Prayers do feel like work at first, I suppose. Thinking you have to be formal and upright and all. But I’ve always felt God loves honest prayers best. The ones you blurt out at your worst moments, or your best moments, because you trust Him with whatever’s inside you.” Mack sighed, thinking that a cumbersome answer compared to the one his father would have supplied. “If that makes any sense.”

  He watched her turn the concept over in her mind, inspecting it. “It does make sense. Only it’s not what I’ve ever heard in church. Well, in church in Seattle. Hymns and blaring organs and fine speeches were more like it.”

  “There’s a place for those. I’ve been in some cathedrals that take your breath away, and I think they show the part of God that’s awesome and mighty. He is those things, and some days we need that. Most days, though, I need God a little closer.” Mack gestured at the orange sun hanging just above the blue-gray of the water. “Nature’s good at showing me the God beside me. I think that’s why I like it so much up here.”

  Lana slipped one hand into the crook of his elbow. They now pushed the carriage together, with one of each of their hands working in tandem. It felt entirely too wonderful. “Do you work it out ahead of time?” she asked. “Like your sermons?”

  The thought of rehearsing his prayers made Mack laugh softly. “Maybe I should. God might appreciate it. But I don’t. Mostly, I just tell Him what’s on my mind, ask His guidance on things.”

  She rested her head against his shoulder and something slipped loose in his heart. “I think I’ve mostly howled complaints at God lately. He must be tired of it by now.” So she had prayed. A burst of gratification filled him to hear that, even if she did think it was only complaints flung heavenward. “I suspect God would rather have your honest complaints than false praises any day,” he said softly, eager to encourage her. “My Pa always taught me that telling God how awful things are was the first step to making it better. Telling God your biggest problems shows you trust Him to be even bigger. At least that’s what I think.”

  She tried that thought on for size, too, and evidently it fit, for she tucked herself in just a bit closer to him. A pair of hawks cried out overhead, their silhouettes circling each other in the darkening sky. “I never thought of it that way.” She sighed. “Evidently, God must think I find Him enormous.”

  He had helped to set something right between her and God. The finest task a husband could accomplish. Mack made no effort to hide the broad smile he felt creep up from the darker corner of his chest. “He is.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mack sat at his makeshift desk in the back of the church, frowning. He was trying to solve two problems at once: the infuriating problem of how to stretch three weeks’ worth of provision stocks into six weeks’ worth of store inventory, and the slightly more satisfying problem of how to get more hymnals for the growing church congregation. It seemed they’d have to start another church expansion nearly befor
e they finished this one. A happy problem indeed.

  He was making headway at neither of his tasks, and had begun pondering whether hymn lyrics would simply be written on Lana’s chalkboard when Thomas Stone pushed open the church door. As the missionary to the Chilkoot Trail’s many lost souls, Thomas would often visit the church when he came into town. Mack and Thomas had struck up an instant partnership, being of such like-minded goals for the region. In fact, Mack had long thought—and continued to think—that Thomas was God’s choice for filling the pulpit at Treasure Creek Church. Despite his training as a preacher and having one of the strongest faiths Mack had ever seen, Stone had refused each of the times Mack shared that vision—rather like Ed. Rather like Lana. Stone lived in a crude hut on the Chilkoot Trail. If a silver star persuaded Ed, perhaps he could build Stone a real house next to the church? Mack shook his head at the thought—Lana was gaining too much influence on his tactics. Or maybe just enough. Mack put down his pencil and grinned at his own folly as Stone came straight up to the desk, gave Mack the most absurd look, and promptly emptied his pockets.

  Six gold nuggets tumbled into Mack’s papers in a shower of thuds Mack felt in the back of his throat.

  Never, in all his scheming, did he anticipate Stone to be the one to find the decoy treasure. Mack had always believed God had a sense of humor—or at least irony—and this only proved the point. He didn’t even know Stone was out looking for the gold—he didn’t seem the type to chase after such things.

  “I hadn’t even gone looking for it,” Stone pronounced, as if he’d heard Mack’s thoughts. Stumped for a reply, Mack only shrugged his shoulders. “I went looking for a place to hide some provisions to take up to the trail tomorrow, and remembered the old Indian food hideaway behind the falls. Only when I reached my hand in to clear out the leaves, I felt these.”

  “Incredible,” Mack finally choked out, still shocked. Stone found the nuggets. Nothing could have been further from his plans.

  “It’s nothing short of a miracle, Mack. I can’t see this as anything short of a message from God. Everyone’s hunting for this, I didn’t even believe it existed, and yet I found it. Without trying.” The missionary’s eyes were alive with energy. “There isn’t a clearer message of God’s provision for those prospectors out there. You don’t have to go out and risk your life for resources—God sends in His own good time.”

  As fond as Mack was of a good object lesson for a sermon, he didn’t quite follow Stone’s line of thinking. Nor did he think gold-hungry stampeders would see it as evidence to give up their quest for riches and await God’s generous provision. Quite the opposite, they’d more likely see it as evidence of the untold riches still lurking out there for the man lucky enough to stumble upon it. The only real evidence he saw in the turn of events was that God very clearly wanted Thomas to stay in Treasure Creek. Wasn’t the role of preacher the best way to make that happen? Had God just provided Stone all he needed to come down off the trail and settle into the community? Stone had told him over and over how much he loved this congregation, how it fed him to meet the challenges of his trail ministry. Now, perhaps, God was allowing him to settle into the flock he loved. The more he thought about it, the more Mack could see God’s hand clearly. God was paving the way for Stone to take this pulpit.

  “I can’t use even half of this.” Stone gathered the nuggets into two piles. He wasn’t exaggerating—a single man could live as much as a year on three of those, large as they were. Stone’s crude hut proved the man wasn’t much for worldly possessions. “See this pile? I want to give it to the church. I want to give this church what it needs.”

  It needs a pastor, Mack thought. Finally, it sounded like Stone was coming to the same conclusion.

  “Treasure Creek church should have the finest stained glass windows this side of Skaguay. I know you’ve talked about wanting them. I want this gold to pay for them.”

  Not exactly the response he was looking for, but Stone’s love for Treasure Creek Christian Church was obvious. “That’s highly generous of you, Thomas, but have you ever thought that maybe God’s finally provided you the chance to build yourself a home? In town?”

  Thomas blinked as if the idea had never occurred to him. “On the contrary, God’s provided me for another year on the trail. Maybe two, if I’m frugal. I’d been praying for encouragement, Mack, and those prayers have been answered. Think of how many basic needs I can meet for those men up there. Even with only the half I’m keeping, it’s more than enough. And to tell those men that I didn’t go looking for it, but that God provided it…can you think of a more powerful example to them?”

  Mack’s father would talk about the itinerant preachers that wandered through his home state—ones who would often come tired and hungry to their dinner table, but as his father put it, “on fire with the Holy Spirit.” Thomas Stone’s eyes shone with that same inner fire. Even as Stone went on about the needs of the men up on the trail, Mack could envision that fire igniting the faithful of Treasure Creek, a place so alive with faith that it would catch those men before they even wandered up the trail. The man was so gifted. Why did God think Stone was better used up on the trail, patching up tragedies, than down here preventing them?

  Mack pointed to the slanted desk that served as the church’s makeshift pulpit. “You could do wonders here, Thomas. Build a church home for those men. Off the trail. Help them build real lives for themselves, not just patching up troubles out on the trail. Don’t you think it’s time to build a home for yourself, instead of shivering in that hut of yours?”

  It happened again. That shadow passed over Stone’s eyes any time Mack talked of building a home. Thomas had only offered snippets of his past, bits and pieces given away in moments of unguarded conversation, but Mack was familiar enough with grief to see its scars. He knew only that Stone had lost a wife and baby, not how or when. Not that any of those details mattered in a loss so great. It was almost as if Stone was afraid to start again, afraid to put down roots for fear of losing even more. He was all too familiar with that particular dread. “Think about it, man. Maybe you’ve done your time up on the trail and God has new places for you to serve.”

  Stone just shook his head. “No. My place is up there. Now more than ever.” The conviction in his eyes brooked no arguments. “But when I come down, I want to see the Sunday morning sunrise through Alaska’s best church windows.”

  Mack tried to envision the warmth in Lana’s eyes when she talked to Ed Parker. “Stone,” Mack said with sincerity—more sincerity than he’d shown anyone he could remember—“I need you.”

  Thomas looked at him and there was a split second where Mack thought he could see some struggle in the man’s eyes. As if the invitation Mack offered had some allure, but that he was denying himself such comforts. It made Mack wonder if the faith-filled man somehow thought he didn’t deserve such a life. Such a contrast from the greedy consumption of stampeders he strove to serve. “Maybe,” Thomas replied, pointing out to the mountain gleaming through the clear glass of the church’s small window panes, “but they need me more.”

  Lana sat at the head of a table and wondered. How had things escalated to the point where she sat in a room full of Treasure Creek’s women, holding the Gold Rush equivalent of a “beauty school”? She’d loved being known for her feminine wiles back in Seattle, to be known as the head-turning beauty with a string of suitors in tow. This felt entirely different and altogether absurd. Still, the now awakened teacher inside her took satisfaction from these women. They craved the skills she could give them. They craved all the trinkets she could give them, too. She’d handed out a dozen bows, hairpins and hankies in the last hour alone. Some of them had been in survival mode for so long they’d not given a thought to their own pampering for months. Today, she’d simply braided one woman’s hair and wound it in a knot, and the room gasped at the transformation. Who knew Dinah Swanson had such a refined chin and such a lovely neck?

  Would that Lucy Tucker�
��s hair had such transforming powers. No matter how she tried to wrangle the short hair into a set of combs, Lucy’s wiry locks refused any constraint whatsoever. Lana was growing frustrated, but Lucy seemed to take it in stride.

  “I told you this nest has a mind of its own,” Lucy lamented, tugging the comb free for the third time. “It’ll never twist into anything like yours. Or Dinah’s.” She pointed to Mrs. Swanson, who was still posing for her flock of admirers. “You could wrestle it six ways ’til Sunday and get nowhere.”

  “Nonsense,” Lana disputed, refusing to admit defeat. “It’s just not long enough yet. We’ve got a while before the festival, and I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve.”

  Abby Swanson, Dinah’s young daughter, walked over to Lana, wide-eyed with admiration. “Are you a princess?”

  Lana remembered the time Mack’s temper had boiled over after one of her whining tirades early in their journey. He had called her “a spoiled princess,” and it was the truth. “No, honey—” Lana ran a hand over the girl’s golden curls “—I’m Mrs. Tanner.” Something happened as the words left her lips. As if the pleasure Lana had in announcing that title had come by surprise. Her mind leapt back to the time when “Mrs. Tanner” sounded like a prison sentence, the death knell for all her dreams of a future. Yet the words had just come out of her mouth with no bitterness, no resentment. No, in fact, they held pride. Instead of feeling shackled by the title Mrs. Mack Tanner, Lana realized she was, in truth, honored by it. As if she’d settled into the place she was supposed to be. The place God intended? The foreign nature of that thought, and the sheer power of it, nearly stole her breath.

  “The mayor’s wife, dear,” Mrs. Swanson said to her daughter.

  Lana felt something untangle inside, felt the woman’s words settle peacefully into her chest. The mayor’s wife. Yes, she did like being the mayor’s wife, but it wasn’t from some sense of social status or accomplishment. It went much deeper than that. For the first time since coming to what she’d called “this God-forsaken place,” Lana could feel Mack’s vision for Treasure Creek take root in her own soul. Not a pipe dream or a money scheme, but the calling Mack so often talked about. Building lives. Crafting futures that mattered, weaving together a community. She felt it calling to her in that way Mack said God called to him.