CHAPTER NINE

 

A howling storm tore at Harriet's clothes with icy fingers, flinging her scarf across her face with the force of a whip.

"Ma'am, we oughta turn back. This 'uns gonna be bad," Billy Mitchell shouted from behind her. Ahead, the bouncing tails of the dog team was all that was visible through the swirling snow.

"There is it," she said as the cabin struggled into view. Deserted and dilapidated, the porch hung at an odd angle, threatening to pull away from the rest of the house.

"The real snow ain't got started yet. Ifen we were to turn back now, we might make it back to town before the hard blow starts," he added, his own trepidation obvious.

She ignored his cautions and climbed out of the sled without assistance. All seemed quiet. Eerily so, she thought as she stepped up on the groaning porch boards. The door hung open and a collection of sticks and spruce needles made a small mound just beyond the reach of the wind. She skidded the debris out of the way with the door and stepped inside.

The musky odor of a long dead fire soured the air. Soft gray dust covered everything, save the swirling patterns made by a sneaky breath of wind and the mouse tracks that criss-crossed the floor. Discarded clothes lay scattered about. Underneath the dust on the floor, the dark mark of blood was unmistakable. Harriet knelt and spread her hand across the width. So much blood.

She followed the dark trail to the porch and half way across before it was lost in the quickly thickening snowfall.

"You thinkin' somebody killed Mr. Frank, Mrs. Bentz?"

"Yes, Billy. That's exactly what I think." She narrowed her eyes at him. Billy Mitchell wasn't the brightest star in the sky but he was the only person who knew the area and was greedy enough to agree to come with her, for the right price of course, in the face of an approaching storm.

"Well, ifen that's the case, there's a pile of rocks just over there always looked mighty suspicious to me."

Harriet stood and followed his pointing finger toward the tree line. There, just visible in the thickening snow, was the gray surface of wind-swept granite.

"You've been here before?"

"Yes, ma'am, lots of times. Running my trap line."

She trudged through the snow, Billy on her heels, and knelt by the rocks. With gloved hands, she began to rake away the leaves, snow and dirt.

"Wolves been digging here," Billy muttered. "Might not like what you find," he finished with an unsure voice.

Her hands numb and her feet freezing, Harriet had all but given up when she uncovered what looked to be a scrap of material. She rolled a rock out of the way, brushed aside the dirt and gasped. A human face--or what was left of it--lay frozen and dirty. From the looks of it, he'd taken a gun blast a point blank range. Extensive damage made it unrecognizable. Steeling herself, she leaned closer. Was it Frank? Some instinct said no, else she’d feel an odd twist of loss in her heart, wouldn’t she? Shouldn’t she?

She moved another rock, revealing more of the mangled face. The hair was a dark shade of brown, but not nearly dark enough to be Frank’s. She rocked back on her heels. If this wasn’t Frank buried here where he should rightfully be, by all accounts, then where was he? And where was the gold he’d promised?

Billy had backed away until he now stood nearly halfway to the sled, looking as though he might decide to forget the hundred dollars she'd offered him and go back to town without her.

"Don't you leave me, Billy. I'll hunt you down and cut off parts of you you can't replace,” she called over her shoulder.

"No ma'am. That thought never entered my mind."

The clothes on the corpse were plain, devoid of any distinguishing markings. She poked further but found nothing. A gust of wind buffeted her, nearly knocking her over into the snow. She'd found what she came after. Frank had been here, all right. Those were his clothes hanging forgotten and dusty in the cabin. Something bloody had lain on the floor then been dragged across the porch. Somebody was buried in this shallow grave.

She returned to the cabin and searched the two rooms. When that yielded nothing, she ripped up floor boards with a pry bar she'd brought and wiggled the hearth stones, hoping for a loose one. By the time evening arrived, Harriet had exhausted every idea and every suspicion leaving her only one assumption. If Frank's gold was still around, Jenny Hanson had it.

 

* * *

 

"Ooh. There he is! There he is! Don't let him get away."

Finnegan threw Jenny a chastising glance as she danced from foot to foot behind him. "Be quiet or I'll not catch a thing," he whispered and watched the hole in the ice. The surface of the water stirred in swirls and a fish nibbled at the surface.

"Just a little closer," Finnegan said softly, intent on the fishing line and the frozen bait just below the surface. The line went taut and Finnegan set the hook with a yank, then reeled in the fish, retrieving the line hand over gloved hand.

"You caught him!" Jenny slapped his shoulder and laughed, her voice echoing back from the thick forest.

"You'd think you'd never seen a fish before," he said as he dragged it onto land and removed the hook from its mouth. "And a nice one it is, too."

"He's large enough to roast. No fish soup for him." She glanced over her shoulder to the cabin a short distance away. "I should check on the baby."

"Go ahead. I'll clean supper before I come in." Hooking a thumb in the fish's mouth, he strode toward the back of the house, bundled in his heavy fur coat.

Jenny waded through the snow, grateful for a few moments alone outside. Finnegan had left for Skagway two days after the birth and only then did she realize the true meaning of loneliness. Colicky and fretful, little Michael had cried nearly all of every day and night for two weeks now. Never had she been so glad to see anyone as she had been to see Finnegan drive his team into her yard this afternoon. Any other pair of adult hands would have done nicely, but his nicer than most, she thought with a secret smile.

She stepped up on the porch and heard the baby fretting from where she'd left him in the center of her bed. Contemplating turning around and marching straight back down to the river's edge for a second or two, she lifted the door latch and went inside with a sigh.

Nothing seemed to appease him. Not walking or back rubs or feeding. On and on through the long, dark night he cried, tensing his body, his face red with the effort. At first she'd been terrified and had convinced herself he was deathly ill and she'd have to walk all the way to Dawson for help. But after the first wave of panic passed, she remembered Grandma helping neighboring families with fussy babies. Only time and love would help, she'd said, and a pinch or two of catnip. Which Jenny didn't have.

She picked him up, his body stiff and unyielding as she put him to her shoulder for their nightly ritual of walking the floor and crying.

"What's all this howling in here?" Finnegan asked as he came through the door, stamping his feet. He walked to the hearth and laid the large fish on the stones there."Colic," Jenny said over the din as little Michael reached the apex of his performance and his volume.

Finnegan shed his coat, draped it over a chair, rolled up his sleeves and held out his arms. "Give him to me."

"You're cold from the outdoors and your hands are fishy."

Finnegan motioned with his outstretched arms and Jenny handed over the baby and his yowling.

"You're testing your mama's patience," he said as he expertly braced the baby's neck and put him onto his shoulder.

Michael wailed another minute or two, then subsided into snubs as Finnegan walked to the window and looked out at the night, murmuring softly, a broad hand against the tiny back.

Jenny sat down on her bed and sighed, the silence ringing loud and grateful around her. "What on earth did you do?"

"Don't know. I used to do this with Maureen's babies. I never knew just what I did. But, whatever it was, it worked."

"Maybe you could stay around for, say, the next six months or so."

He turned and smiled. "I'll not be a kept man, Miss Hanson."

"You'd not be kept at all, Constable Finnegan. You'd work for your keep."

He raised his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling. "And what would be my duties?"

Warming to the game, she followed his lead, curious about this sudden playful turn of nature. "Your namesake there would be duty enough, I'd think."

"He's no trouble at all. His mama feeds him well and all else he asks is clean pants and an occasional back rub. Surely you can think of other duties I might do?"

Where on earth was he going with this and why? She studied his eyes for a hint to the point of this banter but all she saw was a glint of mischief.

"Now that you've mentioned it, I could use a back rub now and again, too."

"And I’d be glad to oblige." He watched her for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the baby, now fast asleep on his shoulder. "But as much as I'd love to be your nanny, I have to be back in Dawson day after tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Come back with me, Jenny."

She shook her head, his suggestion more appealing than he should know. "No, this is my home. I'll manage." She hoped her heard more conviction in her words that she did.

Finnegan laid the baby on the bed beside her, covering him with a blanket before he straightened and met her eyes. "You've proven yourself, Jenny. Done what you set out to do. This will always be yours if you decide to return someday. Come with me now to Dawson where there's a doctor and help with the little one here."

"And what would you have me do to earn my keep in Dawson City? Whore at the local saloon? Or let everyone wonder if I am?"

He met her eyes, riveting her with his gaze. “I wasn’t suggesting whoring as an occupation. You chose that path, Jenny, and now you've chosen differently. You can't spend the rest of your life hiding from what you were.”

She shivered under his directness. “I don’t have any shame for what I did to feed myself, Constable. It’s everybody else who seems to have a problem with it. I made my mistake in leaving home in the first place. Since then, I’ve acted in self defense.”

She wished she could call back the words the moment they left her lips. Her blood turned cold and the room spun. She tried to keep her expression noncommittal as she stared into Finnegan’s eyes.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Then why do you insist on living in seclusion? Some day little Michael there will want children to play with, a school to attend.”

She gazed down at the milky-faced baby now sound asleep. “Because by living alone I can make my own destiny. I’ll worry about the rest when the time comes.”

“I’ll buy the cabin from you. You can take the money and buy a house closer to town.”

She shook her head. “And have everybody know his mother’s a whore?"

“I thought you said you didn’t care about that.”

“I don’t care for me. I do care for him. How long before some group of self-righteous matrons shows up on your doorstep, constable, and demands that you run me out of town? What would you do then?”

He shifted his weight to his other hip. “I guess I’d have to run you out of town,” he said with a smirk.

“Well, I’ll save you the trouble of all that. I’ll stay in my cabin.”

“In a town like Dawson City, nearly everybody’s got a sin, secret or public. I doubt that by the time he’s five or six anybody would remember how you and he came to be.”

“People’s memories are long and cruel.”

“Not everyone’s.”

"And where would I live? Would you fit Michael into your footlocker in the barracks?"

"And have you sleep in my bed?"

No answer sprang to her lips shocked as she was at his reply.

"You could stay with the McLeods,” he continued. “Sam’s baby’s due any day. Duncan and I are gone for weeks at the time on patrol. You’d be company for each other.”

“What about their other daughters?”

“They’re visiting their aunt in Edmonton and won’t be back until spring.”

She shook her head. “That would be too much like charity. Somebody help the poor, unemployed whore.” The whine of self-pity in her words shocked even her. Dear God, that had sounded awful. Apparently Finnegan thought so too, because his eyes were snapping with fury. She turned to walk away from him, to put distance between them. Just his standing next to her addled her thoughts.

His hand clamped around her elbow and yanked her to face him. "You're smarter than that, Jenny, and it makes me furious to hear you belittle yourself."

"Then don't listen."

His grip on her arm softened. His arm slid around her waist and drew her close. Her breasts, sensitive and engorged, ached against the hardness of his chest. She thought for a moment he would kiss her, but his other hand cupped the back of her head and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “What did he do to you, Jenny?”

She paused in her answer, listening to the rhythm of his body, wanting to tell and hesitating to trust. “More than I’ll ever tell you.”

The thump of his heart was comforting beneath her ear. She shoved aside intruding thoughts of tomorrow and next week and concentrated instead on all the places his body touched hers, tucked the memory away to take out and remember on long, lonely nights.

He released her suddenly and walked to the fireplace where their supper lay oozing blood onto the hearth stones. He squatted down, speared the fish with a stick and propped it above the embers to cook. "I fight a battle everyday with my past sins," he said softly. "Some days I win; some days the past does. But I never stop trying. I can't go back and undo the things I've done. Neither can you."

 

* * *

 

The acrid scent of smoke worked its way into Finnegan’s troubled sleep. He sniffed and cracked open an eye. The fire had burned out long ago, reduced now to a pile of glowing embers. No backdraft teased flames to life or scattered ashes across the floor.

He sat up and looked around the shadowy room. Something was wrong. Rising, he padded to Jenny’s bed and looked down where she peacefully slept, the baby tucked in her arms. He smiled and longed to stroke their heads for reassurance. But she got precious little sleep as it was. Better not to awaken her.

A soft crackling caught his attention. Steady and growing in volume, the sound came from above, not the fireplace. Finnegan glanced at the window. The outside was softly illuminated in quivering light.

Dear God. “Jenny. Wake up.” He shook her shoulder. “The cabin’s on fire!”

“What?” She struggled to her elbows even as Finnegan snatched up the baby and grabbed her wrist.

“We have to get out.” He yanked her to her feet. “Get your clothes on quickly.”

He shrugged into his coat with one arm, his thoughts reeling. There was no chance of putting out the fire. Jenny was dressed and hauling her satchel from under the bed as Finnegan grabbed extra blankets, his rifle and Jenny’s revolver from the mantel. He flung open the door and the crackling sound grew deafening.

Tongues of flame licked from the porch roof, showering the floor with hungry sparks from where it had already burned through the boards overhead.

“Jenny!”

“I’m coming.”

He handed her the baby and guided her toward the steps with a hand to her back.

“I have to move the sled,” he shouted over the roar of the fire.

She nodded. He threw the things into his sled and wrestled it away from the house. Jenny hurried toward him, her arms full. He took her satchel and more blankets from her arms as she looked back over her shoulder at the leaping flames.

“Come on.” Finnegan took the baby from her and pulled her across the yard, half dragging her toward the sled and team waiting yards away.

“My house. I have to go back inside.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, tightening his grip on her wrist.

“Yes, I do. She wrenched free and ran toward the cabin, now engulfed in flames.

“Damn it.” Finnegan muttered, looking for someplace safe to lay the baby so he could go after her. “Jenny, come back here!”

She paid him no heed and disappeared into the smoke now rolling out the front door. Afraid to leave the baby alone with the dogs, he started after her, clutching Michael in his arms.

He’d gone halfway across the yard, when she emerged from the house, coughing and stumbling, her face blackened. He rushed to meet her and caught her arm to steady her.

“That was a damned stupid thing to do.”

“I had to go back after my money,” she said between coughs.

“Money wouldn’t have done you much good if that roof had caved in on you.” At that moment, as if he’d ordered it, the cabin collapsed, sending a cloud of smoke and thousands of sparks to abrupt deaths in the snow.

Jenny turned to him, tears cutting paths through the soot on her face. “It’s all gone. Everything.”

He looked over her head to the pile of burning, smoking logs, now bearing little semblance to the home it once had been. Suspicions began to form. The house had burned far too quickly. Mixed with the smoke and soot filling the air was the faint odor of lamp oil. He glanced down at Jenny, clutching a leather drawstring bag to her chest, sobbing as she watched the last wall collapse. Again, Harriet Bentz’ accusations rose to hiss doubts into his ear.

He put an arm around Jenny’s shoulder and pulled her close, comforting her sobs with a hand tangled in her hair. “Well, this answers the question of whether or not you’ll come to Dawson City with me.”

 

***~~~***