CHAPTER SIX

 

Superintendent Sam Steele shifted to one side in his desk chair and worried a pencil between his fingers, seemingly intent on the papers before him.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Finnegan sat down in a chair across the desk, balanced his hat on his knee and frowned as a sense of foreboding crept through him.

Steele spun the pencil another rotation, then raised his eyes. "How's your arm mending?"

Finnegan flexed the fingers that protruded from the sling around his neck. "Better than it was two weeks ago. It aches when it rains and most times in-between, but it's healing, I suppose. Did you ask me here to talk about me arm?"

"No," Steele said firmly. "I did not." He pulled forward the documents he'd been studying. "You made a report on a preliminary investigation you did some months ago at the request of a bar owner in Eldorado. He told you a gambler named Frank Bentz was missing, according to people who knew him."

Finnegan nodded. "I found nothing solid as evidence they were right. As I said in the report, I did find a cabin, belongings tossed about, like somebody left in a hurry."

"And you noted you saw a pile of rocks that could have been a grave."

"There was no body, not as near as I could tell. Wolves had been digging at the rocks, but beyond that, nothing."

Steele rose from his chair and walked to the window. "I'd like you and Inspector McLeod to return to Eldorado and investigate this further."

"Has a body been found?" Finnegan questioned, remembering the cold chill that had crept up his back as he'd knelt beside the pile of stones at the deserted cabin.

Steele shook his head. "No body. No sign of him at all."

"Well, sir, why are you pursuing it as a murder investigation?"

Steele turned. "Because yesterday afternoon his wife walked into my office and announced that her husband had been murdered by the whore that was traveling with him."

Finnegan blinked the shock from his expression as his thoughts flew to Jenny, to her past and the lover she didn't talk about. She'd made no mention of how long she'd been at Lucille's or if she'd traveled in the company of a man. Instantly, he pushed the thought away and then the guilt that followed. Jenny couldn’t have had a part in this. There were hundreds of prostitutes in the Yukon and tens of couples just like Frank Bentz and the woman his wife accused him of.

So, the elusive and infamous Frank Bentz had a wife. One willing to travel all the way to the Yukon to look for him. Was she sincere in her concern, or did gold and money figure into this? After all, what kind of life must a woman like that lead, waiting for a man who makes his living on chance and other's misfortunes, counting her days by the drips and bits of money he might have sent home? Did she have some other motive fueling her concern? Gold? Revenge? Or did she just want to make sure he was dead?

"Is she still here in town?"

Steele nodded to the wintry sky beyond the window glass. "She's staying at the Nugget Hotel. I've told her to expect you."

* * *

 

If Frank Bentz had kept on the move, he had good reason, Finnegan surmised, as he stared into Harriet Bentz’ pinched face.

"Would you like another pastry, Constable Finnegan?"

She lifted the delicate china plate and poked it at him as if refusing could be grounds for a stern tongue lashing he was sure she was capable of doling out.

“No thank you.”

She pursed her lips and frowned slightly before deliberately setting the plate back on the table, disapproval in every move. Pausing over the task, she carefully rearranged her narrow face into a proper mask of disappointment.

"When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Bentz?" He wanted to get this information and get out of this woman’s presence.

She folded her hands demurely in her lap. "About a year ago. He kissed me good-bye in the doorway of our little house in Seattle and promised to come back to me a rich man." She lifted a hand and delicately wiped at the corner of her eye. Despite the demure facade she was so aptly culturing, Finnegan sensed a deep insincerity about her that permeated everything she said and did.

"Hmmm." Finnegan scrawled left-handed, nearly unreadable, notes on a paper propped against his knee.

"So you knew he was coming to the Yukon?"

"Oh yes. Frankie told me everything and he shared with me his desire to become a gold field gambler."

"Gold field gambler," Finnegan repeated in a mumble.

"Those are his words. Frankie was so clever with words."

"Yes ma'am. Now, why did you tell Commander Steele that you believed your husband had been murdered?"

She widened her eyes and pushed her bottom lip out into a half-hearted pout that rankled Finnegan like the squeal of chalk against a chalkboard. "Because Frankie would have come back to me no matter what." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "There've been rumors he was seen in the company of a whore. But I can forgive him that. Men like my Frankie have strong desires and in my absence-" She leaned back, a delicate blush staining her cheeks.

He was in the company of a consummate con artist, Finnegan surmised. Maybe even better at it than gambling, whoring Frankie. And the feeling that he was being played like an upright piano made him struggle to remain civil.

"Have you considered that your husband might have just . . . intentionally disappeared?"

True horror filled her face. Her lips quivered with just the right amount of emotion and she touched a lace handkerchief to her eye. "How could you be so cruel, Constable, as to suggest that my husband would . . . leave me? No, I know that something terrible has befallen my Frankie or else he'd have come home to me as soon as he could."

Finnegan leaned back in the chair and studied the woman before him. What was it about her that made the hair on his neck stand on end? Was it the excessive posturing and preening that seemed to occupy so much of her time? Or was it the air of insincerity that circled around her? Pausing, he sorted through his perceptions, trying to separate his personal views from his policeman's instincts.

"I have to pursue all angles, Mrs. Bentz," he said finally.

Her expression hardened and her narrow eyes glittered with anger. "I can assure you, Constable Finnegan, that my Frankie did not wander off with some harlot. My Frankie is dead. I can sense the absence of his spirit in my soul. And I expect you to do your job, to find out who did it and bring Frankie's body back to me so I can bury him properly." She sobbed with a loud gulping sound and pressed the handkerchief to her face. "I'm afraid I can't continue, Constable."

Finnegan rose and walked to the door of her hotel room. Pausing for one last assessment, he glanced back over his shoulder. She sat where he'd left her, covering her face with the handkerchief, her shoulders shaking. Quietly, he slipped out the door and felt cleansed when he stepped out into the cold morning sun. Glancing down at the sparse notes in his hand, he wondered how he could put into his report the unfounded suspicions circling in his mind.

 

* * *

 

A swirl of dust rose from the plank floor, swirled briefly, then settled on the floor again. Jenny leaned on her makeshift broom and put a hand to her aching back. Thorough cleaning would have to wait until summer when the dirt could be sluiced out the door with a bucket of hot water. She glanced out the window at the gray day and wondered if Christmas had passed her by.

She sat down in a chair she'd patched with some nails she found in a rusty can and a piece of firewood as a hammer. Back at Lucille's, if it was indeed Christmas, there'd be eggnog, made with fresh eggs from Loni's carefully guarded hens. Mistletoe would dangle from the crystal chandeliers and strains of carols would drift through the house when Maria played the pedal organ. A warm fire would burn in every room and a buffet would be laid for the guests on Christmas Eve.

Tears burned her eyes as the first tendrils of regret worked their way into her thoughts. She wiped them away with the heel of her hand and a shake of her head. No, she wouldn't look back. There, she'd be changing bedpans and mopping floors, answering to the beck and call of everyone. Here, despite sparse circumstances, she was in her own home, answerable to no one save the life growing within her. She glanced around the room, noting the cobwebs that hung from the windows and the rags stuffed into the broken window panes. Someone had once built this cabin with love and care, as was evidenced by the skill of construction that had allowed the house to withstand winter winds and heavy snow. She'd make it a home again. Somehow.

The baby stirred, its tiny feet moving beneath her skin. She ran a hand across her swollen stomach and the baby moved in response. She wanted this baby like she'd wanted little else in life. From the moment she found she carried a child, she'd known she couldn't rid herself of it. Even though Frank insisted, demanded, even, that she drink a potion to end its brief life. When she'd refused, there'd been a fight. He'd struck her, knocked her to her knees. And there on her knees she'd defied him still.

Frank had succumbed to her wishes too easily. She saw that now and should have realized that his quick and complete reversal of position meant nothing but ill for her. She'd known what he was all along, known his appetite for money and women and his dream of becoming rich in the gold fields. And yet she'd abandoned her logic and followed him to the Yukon where his dreams fizzled and his desperation grew. And when his scheming backfired, he'd demanded more abandonment of her morals, more than she was willing to do. Her refusal led to violence as he vented his frustration on her. And so she'd killed him. Before he killed her. Before he killed the baby she bore.

A shudder passed through her as the image of Frank's surprised expression quavered before her eyes--eyes wide, mouth open, bright, red blood spreading across his shirt, as red as the room in which they'd conceived their child. She closed her eyes, but the image grew more vivid and the horror returned.

A ruckus outside burst the bubble of reminiscence. Feet scraped on the porch. She glanced up at the strip of hide fastened to the wall bearing five scratch marks. Five days had passed since the last Mounted Police mail carrier passed through. It was too early for another run. She stood and moved away from the window to the pallet she'd spread on the floor. Reaching underneath, she pulled out her revolver and checked the chamber. It was loaded.

"Who's there?" she called, pointing the gun toward the center of the door.

No answer. Only more scraping of feet and a thump as something heavy was set on the porch.

She moved forward a few steps, her hands quivering from the weight of the gun. "I said, who's there?"

"Mike Finnegan," came the familiar voice.

Blowing out a sigh, she hurried to the door and swung it open wide. Finnegan stood on the porch with a canvas bag at his side. Covering the bottom half of his face was a scraggly, homemade beard, constructed out of shredded white cloth. Beyond, Inspector McLeod examined the dog team's harnesses, shaking his head as he cast a wry glance in Finnegan's direction.

For an instant, Jenny contemplated leaping into Finnegan's arms, but she quickly quelled that ridiculous impulse when the image of her knocking him backwards into the snow filled her mind's eye. She hadn't known loneliness could be so complete.

"This is a surprise," was the response she settled for instead. "What's that on your face?"

Finnegan grinned at her with a twinkle in his eyes and his arm securely bound in a sling. "Sure an' I'm Santa Claus. Don't you recognize the red suit and the beard, lass?

She laughed, surprised at how good it made her feel. "Come inside," she said, standing to the side and motioning her hand toward Inspector McLeod. Once they were all in the cabin, Finnegan pinned the bag between his feet and hauled out a package wrapped in cheerful paper. "Merry Christmas."

Emotion clogged Jenny's throat as she took the package. She couldn't remember the last time someone had given her a present. Especially one wrapped and tied with a ribbon. "Is today Christmas?"

His expression softened. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow is Christmas."

She glanced over her shoulder to the hearth where a wrapped packet of pemmican and steaming fish stew waited. Poor fare for a holiday celebration, especially with company. She swung her gaze back to Finnegan, but not before he'd read her mind. He reached into the bag a second time and hauled out two freshly killed rabbits.

"And what Christmas dinner would be complete without rabbit to roast."

Her mouth watered so at the mention of the delicacy, she nearly drooled. "Where on earth did you get it?"

"Duncan there shot and killed them on the trail."

"How can I thank you for your kindness?" she said to the dark-haired Scotsman just closing the door.

He waved a gloved hand at her. "No thanks necessary. I was in the right place at the right time."

"You're both too kind." She settled her gaze back on Finnegan and an odd stirring in her chest heated her cheeks.

"Open your package." He stared at the gift in her hands, his enthusiasm evident.

Curiosity piqued, she sat down in her chair and pulled off ribbon and paper, careful to preserve both. A dress lay folded in layers of paper, a soft pink dress with tiny lace around a collar. And nestled next to it was a tiny gown, edged in matching lace and fancy stitchery.

Tears, before controllable, now flowed down her cheeks. She's never received a gift more heartfelt. Frank had bought her gowns and lacy underwear, but more for his own pleasure at peeling them off her than any attempt to make her happy.

"Ah, now I've made you cry." Finnegan squatted at her side, his silly beard yanked down underneath his chin. "Should I take it back? Did I get the wrong size? I’ll return it." He reached for the box.

She turned to answer 'no' and saw that his eyes twinkled with mirth. "No. They're perfect."

Finnegan stood, grunting as his knees popped loudly. "Then, there's no time for crying when there's eating to be done."

"I'll be going along now," Duncan said with his hand on the door latch.

Jenny glanced between the two men. "You're not staying?"

"His wife threatened to skin off that thick Scottish hide if he missed their first Christmas together," Finnegan answered. "There'll be a mail carrier by day after tomorrow. I'll ride back to Dawson with him."

"You came here just for me?"

His smile softened from teasing to tender. "Aye. Just to have Christmas with you."

She glanced up at Inspector McLeod, but his face held no disapproval.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Finnegan glanced at Duncan, then back down at her. "What do you mean, lass?"

"I'm a whore. You're choosing to spend two days here alone with me. You're a policeman." She shrugged, some of the joy subsiding as saying the plain facts made them even more unsavory.

He smiled at her. "I was here longer than two days before, just you and me."

"That was different. Your arm was broken."

He waggled his fingers at her from his sling. "My arm's still broken. And you're still expecting. I doubt either of us is a threat to the other and our reputations, such as they are, are safe. No one's going to give us a care, lass."

She glanced up at Duncan, expecting some admonition from him as Finnegan's superior. But Duncan only winked, mirth lurking in his dark eyes.

"Merry Christmas to the three of you." With that, he slipped out the door.

 

* * *

 

Jenny had almost forgotten what it was like to be sated. She leaned back in the chair and stared across the remains of supper at Finnegan. Elbows on the table and fingers templed beneath his chin, he watched her with a hint of a sly smile playing about his lips.

"That was good," she said and his smile widened into a grin.

"The way you were going after that rabbit, I thought maybe I should hide me fingers in me sling."

A furious blush heated her cheeks as his soft laughter wound around her. "I couldn't resist teasing you just a bit."

"The rabbit was very good."

"Rabbit is my specialty." His face sobered. "But I owe you more than rabbits and dresses."

"You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my life. Sure an without you, I'd have drowned."

"And without you, I'd never have made it here to my cabin. No one else would have bothered with me."

"Then, I'd say we're either even or eternally in each other’s debt."

Something in his eyes quelled the flippant answer that rose to her lips. And set internal alarm bells to clanging.

She rose abruptly, jarring the already unstable table into a nervous dance that rattled the tin cups and plates. Finnegan grabbed for his coffee cup while she swept up her own dishes and headed for the hearth. "I'll see to these in the morning," she said, placing them on the stones by the fire. "I think I'll go to bed now."

Behind her, she heard the scrape of a chair as Finnegan rose and the metal clink as he gathered up the remaining dishes and utensils. His arm brushed past her as he leaned down and placed the dishes next to hers on the hearth.

"I think I will, too," he said softly.

For the first time in years, a flutter of true desire rose within her, beating gossamer wings against her insides. She swallowed and concentrated on not looking at him, chiding herself for the foolishness running through her head. She'd long ago packed away real emotion where love and lovemaking was concerned, quickly learning to separate her body from her mind when in a man's arms, to give him the part of her he lusted after and keep the rest for herself. Except for Frank. She'd foolishly broken that rule for Frank. And lived to regret it.

He moved away toward the bedroll propped in the corner, leaned down and unrolled the blankets with his one good hand.

"Do you want some help?" she asked, slanting him a glance.

"No, I'll get them arranged someway," he answered, an edge of irritation in his voice. Mike Finnegan was a man unaccustomed to needing anyone's help. And a man unlikely to ask for it unless dire circumstance dictated. She felt much the same herself. Reliance on other people had never brought anything but unhappiness and sorrow to her life.

She turned toward her own pile of tumbled blankets in the opposite corner. His eyes followed her, his gaze warming her back as she stifled a grunt, dropped to her knees, then lay down. The hardness of the floor bit into her already aching back and she turned onto her side facing him, allowing the weight of her child to rest on a bunched up blanket.

Finnegan struggled out of his coat, releasing his arm from the sling and wincing softly as the fabric slid over the still-sore limb. Then he crawled into his own blankets and turned on his left side to tuck his right arm securely against his chest.

They lay facing each other across the firelight-lit room, encroaching shadows hiding their faces. Wind sighed against the side of the cabin and the fireplace popped an ember onto the stone hearth. Things unspoken seemed to quiver on the air and Jenny wondered, as the baby moved low in her abdomen, why Finnegan had come back. Did he feel such an overwhelming sense of responsibility? Or was it better defined as guilt at leaving her here alone? Did she dare hope it was more?

No, she told herself with a mental shake. She wouldn’t allow such thoughts even as idle musings. Not even for a man as kind and gentle as Finnegan. She'd not involve another man in her life. She had a home now and soon a baby. Her life was complete and she needed nothing more. Outside the window's one unbroken pane, two stars twinkled in a still, clear sky, reminding her this was Christmas Eve. She closed her eyes and sank back into her memories. Grandma's voice rose sweet and quivering as she read the Christmas story from a thumb-worn Bible. Jenny could almost smell the orange Grandma would have given her and taste the gingersnap cookies they'd have worked on for two days.

Sharp tears of regret burned her eyes. Grandma wanted so much more for her than the life she'd chosen. She smiled to herself, amazed that after all these years and all the sins she'd committed, Grandma's teachings could still haunt her conscience. The odd, bent little woman who'd opened her heart and her home to two orphaned little girls had more in common with the beasts of the forest than folks in town. And yet, she'd raised them with a quick wit and a firm hand. Sarah had taken to that raising, adapting quickly to life among the civilized and the righteous. But Jenny had gone in the other direction, absorbing Grandma's appetite for the odd and flamboyant, leaving her wanting more from life than a husband and babies.

Jenny smiled at the irony. For all her elaborate, gilded dreams, she was spending Christmas in a lonely cabin, pregnant and with nothing to her name save a rickety table and chairs and a few borrowed blankets. But, as Grandma would have reminded, she had her baby, a tiny soul eternally linked to hers.

‘Most folks are lucky if they get one thing they want in life,’ Grandma would have said. ‘Be smart enough to recognize it when it comes along.’

She glanced toward the corner where Finnegan’s breathing had evened out into peaceful slumber. Could she possibly have two things?

 

***~~~***