THE ART OF LOVE
Copyright © 2014 by A.B. Michaels
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-0-9915089-1-4
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Red Trumpet Press
P. O. Box 171162
Boise, ID 83716
www.redtrumpetpress.com
Design by Tara Mayberry
www.TeaberryCreative.com
For my late grandfather R.T.,
whose memories of life in the Klondike
made it sound like great fun, even though,
having researched it, I know better.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Contrary to popular belief, writing is in no way a solitary pursuit. From the time an idea pops into your mind, it invariably goes through a lot of other minds before it ends up on the page.
Thanks to Susan, my very best brainstormer, plotter, and idea bouncer-offer: you are a master gardener of ideas…
…and to my editor, Rachel, a true artist who can take a lump of literary clay and sculpt it into something well worth reading. I am in awe.
Thanks to Christy, Heidi, Tara, and Donna, who lend their technical expertise in so many ways and with such grace…
…and to my friends and colleagues at the Idaho Writer’s Guild, who foster a nurturing atmosphere of “we’re all in this together,” which we are.
Last but never least, a special thanks to Mike, who would much rather watch basketball than read romance, but who loves and supports me anyway. I couldn’t ask for more than that.
HISTORICAL NOTE
Although The Art of Love is a work of fiction and the protagonists are drawn from my imagination, a number of the secondary characters, such as the Klondike King C.J. Berry and the artist William Keith, are historical figures. Descriptions of landmarks such as San Francisco’s Cliff House Restaurant, the Sutro Baths, and the Palace Hotel are as accurate as I could make them, based on the research and the requirements of the story.
A.B. Michaels
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS v
HISTORICAL NOTE vii
PART ONE 1
CHAPTER ONE 3
CHAPTER TWO 13
CHAPTER THREE 25
CHAPTER FOUR 35
CHAPTER FIVE 43
CHAPTER SIX 55
CHAPTER SEVEN 61
PART TWO 65
CHAPTER EIGHT 67
CHAPTER NINE 77
CHAPTER TEN 85
CHAPTER ELEVEN 93
CHAPTER TWELVE 101
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 109
CHAPTER FOURTEEN 119
CHAPTER FIFTEEN 125
PART THREE 133
CHAPTER SIXTEEN 135
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 141
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 147
CHAPTER NINETEEN 153
CHAPTER TWENTY 161
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 171
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 177
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 189
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 197
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 205
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 213
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 223
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 229
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 239
CHAPTER THIRTY 245
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 255
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 259
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 269
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 275
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 283
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 291
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 301
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 313
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 321
CHAPTER FORTY 327
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 341
EPILOGUE 347
PART ONE
The Self-Made Man
CHAPTER ONE
May 1896
The Klondike
“Finally,” August Wolff muttered as he heard the first groan of ice breaking along the Fortymile’s frozen riverbed. The sun had worked hard that day. Now, in the late afternoon, the sharp blue of the sky had given way to a muddy dusk and the cold had once again seeped through his worn leather gloves and flannel shirt. But change was coming and he welcomed it.
He walked by Shorty Calhoun’s stake; the old prospector was half-heartedly sifting through his tailing pile.
“Won’t be long now,” Gus remarked.
“Yessir,” Shorty said. “Cain’t come too soon for these old bones.” The old man grinned, his remaining teeth yellowed by the tobacco chew he habitually stored in the pouch of his cheek. He spat on the ground. “How’s your take? Hit pay dirt?”
Gus gave his standard reply to the daily question. “Not yet. You’ll be the first to know.”
Shorty completed the verbal ritual. “Same goes.” He turned to the rucksack lying next to him. “Listen now, I made somethin’ for the young’un.” He pulled out a burlap bag and handed it to Gus. “Her first birthday and all.”
“Thank you kindly,” Gus said, taking the bag. He hefted it. “Feels heavy.”
“Just some painted blocks is all.” Shorty went back to his sifting. “You best get back to your pretty little family. They’ll be waitin’ on you.”
Gus nodded and continued on toward the camp, slinging the bag over one shoulder and his shovel over the other. Shorty was like so many miners he’d met over the past few years: kept to himself most of the time, but had a soft spot a mile wide. Gus had invited the old man to dinner a time or two, but Mattie’d felt uncomfortable around him, so he’d stopped. Maybe she’d change her tune about Shorty once she saw the gift he’d made for little Annabelle.
He trudged up the final hill to the main section of Forty Mile, the mining town where he, Mattie, and Annabelle lived. With the beginning of the spring thaw, the streets, if you could call them that, had turned to a grayish-brown, murky slush. Raised wooden sidewalks fronted the trading posts and saloons, but you were on your own when you crossed to the other side. Mattie complained almost daily about her perpetually dirty hems; back in Seattle she’d been a seamstress, so it made sense she’d worry about such things. Still, the town wasn’t so bad. Porter Wilson had sold Gus his claim on a little crick upriver and opened a restaurant just last fall. Hell, there was even an opera house, though the season only ran from June through August.
Gus stopped in Fannie Beringer’s general store to pick up the porcelain doll with blonde ringlets he’d put a deposit on the week before. “You’re in luck,” Fannie had told him. “Just got this in from Billy Fortuna. His little gal told him to sell it so he could get a new pickax. Ain’t that sweet?” Gus pulled out his pouch and measured out the gold dust he needed to pay the balance. Fannie threw in some scraps of leftover cloth along with the doll. “On the house,” she said. “Little something for the poppet.” Fannie knew Mattie could sew a set of clothes for the doll that would keep little Annabelle occupied for hours. At least Gus hoped that would happen.
A few blocks later he turned up the street someone had jokingly named “Nob Hill.” Along the road were several log houses—really no more than shacks, truth be told. Gus was lucky to have gotten one the year before; still, Maggie hadn’t been impressed. He remembered the look she’d given him when she first saw it. “Flour sacks for curtains?” She hadn’t been smiling.
He could hear Annabelle’s cries three houses away. His little blonde girl was
as pretty as her mama; the only things she seemed to have inherited from him were her dark eyes and the tiny cleft in her chin. Unfortunately, her nature seemed to mirror Mattie’s as well. Gus was big and he was strong. The roughness of life in the Yukon gold fields suited him fine. Mattie, and now Annabelle, well, they were a different story altogether. But they would adjust. Eventually.
He set his shovel and packages outside the door, pausing to crack the thin layer of ice that had formed on the basin of water left out for him to use. He picked up the sliver of lye soap next to the basin and lathered up as best he could, splashing water along the back of his neck and up his arms before grabbing the towel left on a nearby hook. A woman’s touch, he thought with satisfaction as he dried off, a reminder that despite the surroundings, they were all civilized human beings. He’d needed the prompt more than once.
“Is there a little Annabelly in here?” he announced as he entered the small front room that served as both kitchen and parlor. Annabelle stopped fussing as soon as she heard his deep voice.
“Dada!” she cried, waving her hands in the age-old sign language of children that said Pick me up! Gus put down the two presents he’d brought in and scooped his sweet-smelling baby daughter into his arms. He bussed her neck loudly, causing Annie to squeal with delight. He leaned over to kiss Mattie hello as well; she gave him her cheek and turned abruptly, wiping her hands quickly with the towel she had tucked into her apron.
“Sit yourself down for supper,” she said.
Gus sighed and sat down with Annabelle on his lap. After two years of marriage, he could sense Mattie’s shifting moods even when she tried to hide them. Unlike him, she wasn’t good at keeping her emotions locked up. She was easy to read, and generally Gus liked that about her; it took a lot of time-wasting guesswork out of their relationship. The problem was, when it was bad, you couldn’t dance around it for very long. But maybe, on account of it being Annabelle’s birthday, she’d keep it to herself for a little while—at least long enough to enjoy the party. “So, did you invite Marybeth and the kids over to celebrate?”
“No, it’s just us,” Mattie said. She put a bowl of rabbit stew in front of him, along with a plate of sourdough bread. Wiping her hands again, she sat down across from him, then jumped up to get him a glass of water. She sat down again, but was up once more, gesturing to him to give her the baby. Annabelle strained to go back into Gus’s arms, but Mattie held her tight.
“Aren’t you gonna join me?” Gus asked.
“No. Annie and I already ate.” She handed Annabelle a wooden duck and walked back and forth, bouncing the baby slightly to keep her distracted.
Gus began to eat his dinner. The stew wasn’t particularly good, but it was filling, and that was the main thing. He tore off a piece of bread, closed his eyes, and savored the taste; there was nothing in the world like sourdough. A moment later he opened his eyes; his wife was still pacing.
“You’re as jumpy as a frog, Mattie. What’s eatin’ you?”
Mattie took a moment before answering. “Annabelle and I have got to go,” she finally said.
The stew settled like a lump in the bottom of his stomach. “What do you mean, ‘gotta go’? Where to?”
“Seattle,” she said. She sat down and bounced Annabelle on her lap a little too forcefully.
“Here, give her to me,” Gus said, taking the baby. He took the time to marshal his thoughts. “I told you we had one or two more years here before this plays out,” he said.
“Yeah, I know, but it’s not working, Gus. It’s not the life I thought it would be. I don’t know. It’s just…”
It was Gus’s turn to stand. “Just what, Mattie? Just too cold? Just too hard?” He walked around the small confines of the cabin, using his protective instinct with Annabelle to keep his temper in check. He told himself, Mattie’s only nineteen; she was just a girl when we got married. It didn’t help much. “You knew what you were getting into. I told you what it would be like before we left. You said—”
“I know what I said,” Mattie snapped. “And I tried. I truly did. But having a baby out here was too hard, and knowing your ways, I’d be having another one before too long. Annabelle coughs all the time. I think she’s got the croup. And there’s nothing but ice to play with.”
“Now there’s where you’re wrong,” Gus said. Taking a small blue-checkered quilt from Annabelle’s crib, he spread it on the floor and placed his daughter on it. He got Shorty’s sack and knelt in front of the baby. “Happy birthday little Annabelly,” he crooned, showing her Shorty’s sack. “See what Uncle Shorty made for you.” He reached into the bag and drew out a small block, painted with letters and numbers, parts of a tree and parts of a house on each of the six sides. He drew out the others, twelve in all. Annabelle immediately picked one up and put it in her mouth. She then flung it away and picked up another, happy for the moment with her new toy. “You see?” Gus said to Mattie, hating the wheedling tone he could sense in his voice.
“Annabelle’s going to walk any day now, Gus. Just look at this place.” Mattie gestured around the small room. “Where is she gonna go once winter hits and it’s too cold to step outside for more than a minute before freezing to death? What if one of us leaves the door open and she wanders out? And why wouldn’t she? There’s nothing to do here!”
Annabelle had tired of throwing blocks and began to crawl off her blanket. The wooden floor was cold and wet in spots where Gus’s boots had tread. He put Annabelle back on the quilt, reached for the present he had brought, and handed it to her. “See what Daddy brought you,” he said softly. He helped her unwrap the package to reveal the blonde-haired doll. It was dressed in a faded blue gingham dress and its eyes, which had once opened and shut, stared permanently straight ahead. He sat back down to watch his daughter.
Mattie let out a sob. “Where did you get that?” she demanded.
Gus frowned. “Fannie sold it to me. Why?”
“That’s little Janey Fortuna’s doll, isn’t it?”
“Well…”
Mattie stood. “It is! Jesu, Gus! Billy’s so down on his luck he has to sell his own daughter’s most favorite thing in all the world? What is it with you miners? You get the gold fever and you’re willing to do most anything, sacrifice most anything, even your families, to strike it rich. And how many of you have done that, huh? The Fortunas up on Preacher Crick? Bob and Marybeth on Butte? The Millfords up on Deadwood? At least they’re hanging it up, finally. Heading back down. What about Shorty? You going to keep on going ’til you look like that old man? How long will it be before Annabelle has to sell her doll to the next miner with more brawn than brains? Tell me!” Mattie ran out of steam and sat down again, taking deep breaths to get herself under control.
Had Gus really thought he liked Mattie’s openness? It felt like she’d taken a knife and sliced right down to the center of him. “I guess the idea of being rich someday doesn’t have the appeal it once did,” he said.
Mattie shook her head. Her tone was weary. “I think I could have stuck it out, but it’s no place for little ones.” She looked at Gus, tears pooling. “You know I’m right.”
Hell and damnation, she was right. Despite her assurances when they’d married, he’d feared she probably wouldn’t cotton to life in the north. Why would she? She was young and pretty and deserved someone a lot better than him. But he’d traded on his strength and appeal, and the promise of riches down the road. Her ma had died and she had no family, so she’d bought in. But babies, they made a difference. And she was right about that too; given his appetites in that area, he wouldn’t be able to keep more from coming. They sat together in silence for several minutes, the only sound Annabelle’s cooing and chirping as she continued to examine her new acquisition. She put the porcelain doll’s arm in her mouth and Mattie gently reached down and took it out.
“You said the Milfords are heading down?” Gus asked. “When?”
“They’ve got passage for the beginning of June, soon a
s the river thaws.”
Gus nodded. “Yukon should be broken up by then. They going to Seattle?”
“Yes. They said I could stay with them until I found work.”
“What? You told them you were going before you talked to me?” His tone was sharper than he intended, but hell, this was nobody else’s damn business.
“I told them we were thinking about having me go ahead of you,” Mattie said, wrapping her arms around her middle as if to protect herself. “That’s all.”
“Well, since you’ve made your mind up already, I guess that’s it,” Gus said gruffly. “I’ll see about getting you passage with them.”
“And you’ll follow like I said, right?”
“I don’t know, this might be the strike,” Gus countered, knowing full well it wasn’t panning out any more than the others had. “Tell you what, I’ll work the tailings ’til the end of summer, and then come Outside to meet you. And we’ll take it from there. Is that all right?”
Mattie smiled and took Gus’s hand across the table. “Yes, that’s all right. You’ll see. Somehow we can make it work.”
Gus felt her hand and thought maybe it could work out for them. Somehow. He reached for her, but she gently pulled back.
“I just finished my monthlies,” she said with a hint of apology. “I don’t want to take a chance on any more babies, Gus. I just can’t.” She got up and busied herself with Annabelle. “Come on, little birthday girl. Mama made you a sugar cake. Mama’s big girl is one today.”
Gus stood looking at his wife and daughter, the full meaning of what she’d told him finally beginning to sink in. The family he’d wanted so much and thought he’d created was going away, and if he wanted them, he’d have to give up a dream he’d had for a very, very long time. It didn’t seem right and it didn’t seem fair. But right now there was nothing he could do about it.
CHAPTER TWO
“Your little women are going to be just fine,” the portly Josiah Millford reassured Gus on the deck of the stern-wheeler Portus B. Weare. “Faith and I will take good care of them just like they was our own.” Gus had noticed the less-than-fatherly looks Josiah sometimes sent Mattie’s way, but he trusted Faith to keep her husband in line, and Mattie to set Josiah straight if Faith didn’t. Despite the older man’s roving eye, Gus knew the couple would look after Mattie and Annabelle until they reached Seattle. Given the circumstances, it was the best Gus could hope for.
The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove Page 1
