CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

“Constable, please. I do have other customers.” Marge Grady stood with hands braced on her counter and glared at him over gold, wire-framed glasses.

Finnegan stared down at the three tiny dresses spread out on the scarred wooden counter top. A decision was impossible. “Tell me again what’s different about them.”

A collective groan went up behind him as waiting customers grumbled. He glanced over his shoulder at a pretty young woman with a baby in her arms. She smiled shyly at him. “Which would you choose?” he asked her.

“Well, how old is your baby, Constable?”

He could almost feel the group lean closer to hear his answer. “He’s not mine, but he’s about two weeks old.”

Marge Grady pinned him with a gray-browed stare. “Is this for the McLeod baby?”

“Yes,” he lied, shamelessly diving through the opening offered.

Marge turned, barely able to maneuver her wide hips behind the counter, and pulled down a stack of tiny garments. “Baby’s don’t need fluff and nonsense at this age. All they need is something to keep them warm.” She flopped a stack of tiny shirts on the counter.

Finnegan raised his eyes to hers. “I wanted this to be something special.”

“That McLeod baby’s got enough clothes for two.”

Marge leaned closer. “And didn’t I sell you something back in November? A baby’s layette and a woman’s pink dress?”

Just who was the trained interrogator here? Finnegan wondered, resisting the urge to squirm under scrutiny.“Yes, Mrs. Grady you did.”

She watched him a moment longer, hoping for a confession, he supposed. “Let me know when you’ve made up your mind, Constable.” She waddled off to wait on another customer, abandoning the inquisition.

Finnegan picked up one of the garments and poked his finger inside a tiny sleeve, marveling at the miracle that was babies. He threw a glance toward Mrs. Grady and found her glaring at him over her glasses. Two other women stared as well, sweet smiles of understanding on their faces. Finnegan quickly dropped the garment and turned his attention back to making a decision.

A tiny bell over the door at the far end of the store tinkled and the door closed with a click.

“May I help you?” Mrs. Grady called, the door hidden from view by aisles of merchandise.

“Yes, I’d like to see some clothes for a baby,” came a familiar voice.

Dear God, it was Jenny. Finnegan stepped back from the counter, pivoted and sauntered down an aisle stacked tall with boxes and merchandise. He feigned an interest in boots and rounded the end of the aisle to position himself where he could see her and remain hidden.

“I’ll be right with you, dear.” Mrs. Grady’s scissors snipped through a length of fabric which she folded and handed to one of the two women.

The woman placed two coins in Mrs. Grady’s hand and the pair turned to leave, throwing Finnegan a curious glance and a smile as they did. He supposed he did look ridiculous perusing a display of patented medicines and peeping around a corner, all while in his uniform.

“Oh. These are exactly what I was looking for,” Jenny said from behind the aisle. “Is someone else purchasing these?”

“There was a gentleman in here earlier, but I believe he left.” The sarcasm in Mrs. Grady’s voice would escape Jenny, but he knew the old gossip wouldn't miss the scent trail of this tidbit, not with the fine nose for gossip she sported.

“I’ll take these and some of these. You can weigh gold dust, can’t you?”

Finnegan’s heart plunged and vague suspicions grew into real doubts. She could have gotten gold dust anywhere, he told himself, maybe saved from her days in Lucille’s. His stomach did an odd flip-flop at the thought and he quickly pushed away that line of thinking.

Scales clinked metallically as Mrs. Grady dragged them out from under the counter.

“Oh my, you have quite a bit there.”

“We have a claim up near Eldorado. My husband was on the way to sell this, but I told him I had some shopping to do.”

She’d smoothly lied to the gray-haired shopkeeper and he wondered if she could have just as easily deceived him.

“I certainly wouldn’t walk around with all that on me. Isn’t safe in a place like Dawson City. That’ll be ten dollars, dear.”

The scales rattled softly. “Could I wrap that for you?”

Finnegan peeped an eye around the corner in time to see Jenny stuff the leather bag into the bodice of her dress. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder and shifted little Michael to her other arm. Paper rustled.

“Thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?" said Mrs. Grady.

“Thank you,” Jenny replied and walked to the front of the store. Finnegan stayed hidden until the bell above the door announced her gone.

“You can come out now, Constable.”

Chagrined, Finnegan stepped around the end of the display.

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that this is all part of your job?” Mrs. Grady asked, watching his reaction over the rim of her glasses.

“That I am.” He answered, a dozen explanations spinning around inside his head.

“Humph,” she replied as she replaced the scale. “Do you want these?” She held out the remaining baby clothes.

“No, Mrs. Grady. I want you to make up a layette for me, all the things a baby might need. I’ll be by later to pay for it.”

She braced her beefy hands on the counter and leaned forward. “My husband and I came to Dawson City two years ago when there was nothing but miners and mud. Now we have a real town here and I don’t want to see it sink back into the puddle of iniquity I found it in. I intend to see that morals are enforced here, Constable, and I would hate to think that one of the Mounted Police is engaged in something . . . shady.”

“There’s nothing shady going on here, Mrs. Grady. The clothes are for my brother’s wife in Edmonton. Their baby’s about the same age as the McLeod baby. I intend to send them out with the next mail run. As for the lady just in here, I’m suspicious of anyone carrying a large quantity of gold dust.”

She eyed him warily. “I’ll have your package ready tomorrow, Constable Finnegan.”

* * *

 

“Jenny, please don’t go. There’s plenty of room here.”

Jenny glanced down at the satchel at her feet, anything to keep from looking at Sam's stricken face. “This is your home, Sam. Not mine. It’s time Michael and I found our own place.”

“You don’t want to raise a baby in a hotel. If you stay here, we can help each other.”

Jenny smiled and put her arms around Sam. “I know your offer’s sincere, but I need to find my own place, start over. Can you understand that?”

Sam pulled back. “Yes, I can. But I’ll worry about you and little Michael in that dingy place. What businessman with half a brain would name their establishment the End of The Road Hotel. Sounds more like a funeral parlor.”

Jenny laughed. “Aside from the name, it’s decently clean and affordable. When I can, I’ll move to something better or maybe rebuild my cabin when summer comes. It’ll do until then.”

The two women stepped apart, tears flowing down their cheeks. Duncan glanced at Finnegan who shrugged his shoulders and picked up Jenny’s satchel.

“You’ll come for Sundays.” Sam trailed behind them to the door. “Promise.”

“I promise.” Jenny paused for a moment, then closed the door on Sam’s tearful face. Her own pasted on smile quickly faded.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Finnegan asked as he helped her down the steps and across the icy walkway. Clutching the baby, she stepped over dirty snow drifts until they reached the long, plank sidewalk of Main Street.

“A rooming house would have been cheaper,” he offered as they reached the dilapidated front of the End of the Road.

“There are no rooms available anywhere in Dawson City. Apparently, everyone else had the same idea.” She grasped the brass door handle. “We’ll be all right here. It’s dry and warm and I’ve already made arrangements to work in the kitchen for part of my board.”

“What about the baby while you’re working?”

She shrugged. “He can go with me.”

They entered the musty lobby, scented like old tobacco and wood smoke. The clerk looked up over tiny, gold-rimmed glasses, his face long and slim and disapproving “Mrs. Hanson. We were beginning to wonder if you were going to make the dinner hour tonight.”

He slid a narrow key across the counter and Jenny picked it up.

Something in his voice rankled Finnegan, even though the words were benign enough. She must have led him to believe she was a widow. A smart ploy in a place like this.

“Yes, Mr. Clark. I'll be right down as soon as dinner is finished.”

“May I help you, Constable?”

“I’m going to take Mrs. Hanson’s bags upstairs.”

The clerk hesitated as if considering stopping him.

“I trust there’s no problem with that?” Finnegan asked, unreasonably irritated at the man behind the counter.

“No, Constable. None indeed.”

They climbed the stairs, the thread-worn carpet beneath their feet long since faded to oblivion from a red and gold pattern.

“I know it’s not the best place in town, but the price was right,” she said, as if to reassure herself rather than him. She unlocked the door and cold air swept out. The hearth was dark, ashes strewn across the stones. The bed was shoved against a wall, a faded, dingy bedspread covering it. In some ways, it was worse than her cabin.

“It’ll do fine, Mike,” she said, answering his unasked question, her back to him as she stacked wood on the hearth.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but you were thinking it.” She straightened and turned to face him. “I’ve been in worse places than this. Compared to some, this would seem like a palace.”

He stepped forward and her expression grew wary. “Why do you settle for less than you should have, Jenny?”

She studied his face for a moment, her expression soft and open. “Because I learned early that the smart mouse is better off than the bold rat.”

“You’re not a mouse. You’re a smart, beautiful woman who could have all the world if she wanted it.”

“And how would I go about getting those things? Marry money? Sell myself again to the highest bidder? Rob a bank? Strike gold?”

He didn’t have an answer, at least not one he could voice.

She stepped toward him. “You owe me nothing, Mike. You’ve been a good friend and a gentleman. Your conscience, where I’m concerned, should be clear.” She pushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead, just for the excuse to touch him. “I’ve never borne any false ideas about what I’ve done or what I am. And I know that the road to change will be hard and long. But this is the choice I’ve made, just as I made the choice to leave home all those years ago. No one forced me to go; I went willingly.”

He caught her hand and pressed the tips of her fingers to his lips. “I don’t want to be a gentleman with you, Jenny.”

She looked up at him. “But you are.”

“Not out of respect, although God knows I wish it was.”

“Don’t say anymore.”

“I’ve done terrible things in my life.”

“So have I.”

He stepped closer. “I’ve wanted you in ways . . . . I’m no different than any other man who’s ever looked at you.”

Her heart pounding, Jenny struggled to keep control of the conversation careening toward disaster. “Did you expect to be?”

“I expected better of myself, yes.”

Jenny laughed. “Dear, sweet Finnegan.” She caressed his brow and he took off the broad Stetson.

“I’m neither dear nor sweet tonight, Jenny.” He lowered his face toward hers.

She should back away, she knew, stop this before they both regretted the next few minutes. But his eyes held her where she stood. Deep blue in intensity, bright with want, his eyes said things he could not. And yet she sensed something deeper, something she dared not even dream he felt.

Tossing his hat on the bed, he hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her against him. Casting aside any claims of gentlemanly behavior, he slipped his hand lower and snugged her hips against his, reassuring her that all he’d just said was absolutely true. His mouth closed over hers, imitating no semblance of decency.

One hand tangled in her hair sent hairpins flying to the far corners of the room. Her hair tumbled loose, the strands catching and remaining on the stubble of his beard.

So this was intimacy, she realized with earth-jolting realization. The planes and bulges of his body fitted against hers. The faint scent and taste of the coffee he’d had at Duncan’s house. The slight trembling of his hands as he held her, evidence of the intensity of his desire. The rough scrape of his beard against her skin. The roughness of his lips, chapped from winter's wind. All the tiny defining things he now shared with only her.

Terrified, she sprang away from him just as an insistent hammering came at her door.

“Mrs. Hanson, I must insist that you attend to your duties in the kitchen. That was our arrangement. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Clark it was and I’ll be right down.”

“See that you do.”

Twisting her hair up on her head and hunting down her errant hairpins, Jenny finally straightened and raised her eyes to Finnegan’s.

“I wanted to make love to you.”

The honesty in his voice and on his face sent shivers up her spine.

“And I would have except that the baby’s only . . . .” He let the words drift off and blinked, apparently having only just realized the fact of her physical state. “Jesus,” he breathed.

“It’s all right, Mike.” She slid in the last pin and stepped toward him.

He leaned over and retrieved his hat from the bed. “I guess that settles the issue of whether or not I’ve treated you like a gentleman.”

“Mike-“

“God help women if we gentlemen treat them all this way.” He seated the Stetson on his head and paused at the door. “I’ll see you Sunday at Duncan’s. Right?”

“I did promise.”

He opened the door, stepped through and shut it behind him. Jenny stared at the chipped wooden panels for several seconds, still tasting him on her lips. “I never said I wanted a gentleman.”

 

* * *

 

Potted palms seemed oddly out of place in the glistening lobby of the Merrimack Hotel. Gleaming floors of marble welcomed the well-to-do and polished brass rails edged the clerk’s counter. Finnegan stepped up to the registration desk and stared at his reflection in the wide mirror behind.

“May I help you, sir?” the desk clerk asked, looking as if he’d choke in his stiff, white collar and sleeve garters.

“Mrs. Harriet Bentz’ room number, please.”

The clerk glared at him a moment before turning around to the assortment of pigeonholes stacked one atop the other. “Mrs. Bentz is in room 204, Constable.”

“Thank you,” Finnegan replied and mounted the steps.

How different from the hovel Jenny was in, he thought as he strode soundlessly down the carpeted hallway. Stopping in front of room 204, he rapped sharply on the polished door.

“Come in,” a feminine voice sang.

Finnegan twisted the glass doorknob and the heavy door swung open. He swept off his Stetson and stepped inside.

“Constable Finnegan. You received my note.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was delivered this morning.”

She uncurled herself from a round back upholstered chair, making full use of an exposed ankle while delicately slipping her foot into her abandoned shoes. She stood, brushed down the wrinkles in her dress and glided toward him, oozing seduction.

“I thought we might have a little chat,” she said, stopping much too close. “And a little dinner, perhaps.” She moved to the bell pull in the corner and gave it a yank. “I found life in my cabin, while refreshing, soon became boring.”

“I can’t stay for long,” Finnegan said as she glided back toward him. “I have sentry duty tonight.”

“Ah, what a pity. What I have to tell you might have taken all night long,” she cooed, her meaning clear.

“Why don’t you tell me what you called me here for.” Finnegan sat down in one of the fireplace chairs, placing his hat on his knee.

“I have reason to believe that a whore of your acquaintance, Jenny Hanson, is the trollop who was living with my husband.”

The implication in her words rankled, but he let the anger slide off him. “How did you come by this information?”

Harriet skimmed to the dresser and lifted a gold locket from the small china plate there. She walked across the room and held it out to Finnegan.

‘My dearest Jenny. Frank,” the back read.

Heart hammering, Finnegan swallowed and struggled to keep his voice even. “Where did you find this?”

“Underneath a loose rock in the hearth. And . . . it was covered with gold dust.”

He thought of Jenny, paying for the baby’s clothes with gold dust, of her tale to Mrs. Grady that she and her husband had mined it. Cold, unavoidable truth crawled through him.

“Is this all you found?”

“All? What more proof do you want, Constable?” She sashayed around in front of him. “I have heard you’ve been seen in her company. Perhaps I should take this information to Superintendent Steele himself.”

Finnegan looked up into her leering face. “Miss Hanson is a casual acquaintance of mine and I know how to do my job.”

“I’ll bet that’s not all you know how to do.”

Before he could protest, she perched on his lap, crushing his Stetson, and ran a finger underneath his chin. She looped an arm around his neck and nuzzled his ear. “A gentleman like yourself would never be seen in a house of ill repute, Constable, but surely you have appetites that need satisfaction. Perhaps we could work out a discreet arrangement? Once here in my room. Another time in a room of your choice. I assure you, I’m quite skilled in the arts of love.” That said, she reached down and cupped him through his uniform pants.

Finnegan stood, dumping her unceremoniously to the floor. “I’ll see that Superintendent Steele is made aware of your concerns, Mrs. Bentz.”

Harriet scrambled up from the floor. He expected her to come up swinging. Instead, she adjusted her dress, smoothed her hair and stepped in his direction as if that sort of rejection was an every day thing.

“You’re a smart man, Constable, and in need of a woman. A man’s words might say one thing, but his body says another.”

Finnegan bent to sweep his crushed hat up off the floor. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him, deeply and open mouthed, thrusting and tangling her tongue with his. He set her away, ashamed that his breaths came quicker.

She smiled slyly. “Women have the advantage over men. They can keep their passions to themselves. Everyone can read a poor man’s most private intentions.”

“I’ll keep you informed,” he said, slipping the locket into his pocket and headed for the door. She followed him. Lightning quick, her hand shot out and snatched the locket from his coat. “Now I can’t let you go off with my evidence, Constable.”

A knock came at the door and Finnegan gratefully swung it open.

“You rang, ma’am?” a young man asked attired in a faultless black suit and white shirt.

“I’d like to order supper,” she said.

“For how many?” he asked, looking between the two of them. “Only one,” Finnegan answered and stepped out the door.

She slammed the door behind him and the young waiter jumped backwards to avoid being smashed in the nose. Her peals of laughter echoed down the hall. The waiter shrugged and headed back toward the kitchen.

A couple strolled down the broad hall, arm in arm. Finnegan quickly turned his back and pretended to straighten his hat, suddenly embarrassed to be caught in the company of Harriet Bentz, the irony of the situation not lost on him. The woman threw him a curious glance and whispered something to her companion. They continued on their way and disappeared down the steps before Finnegan followed.

Finnegan stepped out into the cold night air, grateful for the chill that ran through him. He headed for Fort Herchner, disturbed still that Harriet Bentz’ madness had appealed to a part of him over which he had little control. As he walked, he pushed aside the embarrassing exchange and tried to concentrate on what she’d said.

The locket could be a ruse, something to put him onto Jenny’s trail, to raise his suspicions as to her involvement in Frank’s disappearance. Or, it could be true. But if the locket was indeed found along with evidence of gold dust, what did that prove? That’s she’d once lived with the man? Certainly not that she’d killed him. According to the mounting evidence, scores of people wanted Frank Bentz dead. Jenny would be only one of many.

Finnegan kicked at the lump of snow and watched it careen into the recently scraped street and scatter. The thought of any other man touching Jenny raised his temper, despite lectures to himself that past was past and he had as many sins as she. And yet, the anger remained. She was his, the devil on his shoulder whispered, as surely as if he’d taken her to wife with vows and flowers. And yet he hadn't. Nor had he declared this love to Jenny.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and stopped at the sentry station just inside the gates of the fort.

"Things quiet?" he asked young constable Harper.

Bleary eyes from lack of sleep, the young man nodded. "Nothing but snow and an occasional wandering dog. Are you on at midnight?"

Finnegan nodded. "I'll go and get my heavy clothes and be right back."

Leaving Harper, he trudged across the muddy, churned interior of the fort and eased into the sleeping barracks. Rows of bunks lined both walls and soft snores disturbed the quiet. Finnegan sat down on his lower bunk, cringing as the bed protested beneath his weight. He pulled off his boots and added a layer of socks. Then, with one boot in his hand he paused.

He'd lived this way for better than ten years. Everything he owned could be picked up and loaded onto the back of a horse in minutes. His home was wherever Ottawa sent him. Before now, simplicity had been a welcome respite and responsibility didn't extend beyond tomorrow's orders. But now he wanted more.

He laced up his boots and hauled his heavy fur coat out of the foot locker at the end of his bunk. Then, picking up his rifle, he headed back across the parade ground to the tiny shack at the entrance of the fort.

"I'll be glad for a warm fire," Harper said as Finnegan checked the cylinder of his revolver. "How long have you been in the Force, Constable?"

"Ten years and some," Finnegan answered, locking the cylinder in place.

"Don't you get tired of sentry duty?"

Finnegan knew the real question on young Harper's mind was why he was still a constable after all these years. "Especially in the winter," Finnegan replied.

"Well, I'll see you at breakfast, then."

Finnegan nodded and the young man hurried away, eager for his bed and a fire. Pulling on beaver skin gloves, the thick pelt soft against his skin, Finnegan picked up his rifle and began a slow stroll around the circumference of the fort.

"Ben," he said with a nod to Constable Ben Matthews, standing a lonely, cold vigilance over thousands of dollars in gold stored in one small room awaiting shipment out of the Yukon.

"Finnegan," he replied, blowing hot air on his cold hands.

"Have you been here long?"

Ben grinned. "Relief's coming any time now. I got a pillow and a warm blanket waiting for me."

"Sleep well, then."

Finnegan moved to the back of the command buildings, checking with a glance the windows of Steele's quarters where the Superintendent of the Yukon peacefully slept. His boots crunching in the snow, Finnegan completed his round and emerged from behind the cluster of buildings back onto the wide parade ground.

Standing guard was almost a ceremonial responsibility now at Fort Herchner, except for watching the gold storehouse. In the early years of Fort McLeod and Fort Walsh, vigilance was a necessity as the Mounted Police fought off whiskey traders in the Cypress Hills and on the wide, high prairies. Then, a man's mind was occupied with staying alive and determining what waited beyond the next coulee, leaving little time to mull over ones shortcomings.

Somewhere along the trail to the Yukon, that had changed. In the early days, men of the Force were forbidden to marry, although as soon as that rule was set in ink, several men challenged it and won. Still, Ottawa frowned on its men taking on the responsibility of wife and family and taming western Canada, yet several had done so and done so successfully without impeding either their career or the structure of the force. Duncan was a perfect example, happily wed and commanding his own detachment of men.

Finnegan eased his tired body into a chair inside the guardhouse and tipped it back on two legs. Placing his rifle across his knees, he crossed his arms and set his mind to wait out the night. But peaceful preoccupation didn't last long. Thoughts of Jenny came calling, stirring up self doubts and banked dissatisfaction.

Who was he to administer justice or offer himself as a husband and father? He'd left behind a string of mistakes and even now, struggled to keep his beasts in control. Every day required concentration to stay on the straight path, even though the task had grown easier as years passed. Still, the temptation to drown his sorrows lurked in the shadows, waiting to spring.

The fire had nearly gone out in the small wood stove in the corner. Finnegan propped his rifle against the wall and opened the door with a squeak. He tossed in a stick or two of wood and shut the door. Shadows danced against the wall and the metal fire box groaned and ticked.

Hands shoved into his pockets, he moved to the window that looked across open ground just beyond the fort gates. Most of the men who'd enlisted with him were either out of the Force or else promoted to Inspector. Advancement had never held the charm for him it did for some. An increase in rank meant an increase in responsibility and his life was fine the way it was. Until now.

Now a gnawing discontent crawled through him, routing out his well established safeguards and upsetting the perfect balance he'd worked so hard to get and keep. He did his job and did it well. All his waking hours were devoted to just that. There was no time for anything else; no time for reflection or regret. To pause and study ones shortcomings, or lack of them, meant taking out and examining the very things that made one a man. And sometimes those things did not bear close examination.

Jenny made him want to examine what had shaped him into the man he was. She made him want the answer he'd never sought for his wasted years and his appetite for alcohol and self-destruction. Again, the green-eyed innocent returned to haunt him; the frightened face of the too-young woman peeping at him over tumbled bed clothes.

He hunched his shoulders to ease a nagging ache and wished for morning and his bed. Too many ghosts floated loose in his consciousness with only himself for company. Too many half-remembered embarrassments and bitter regrets came back asking to be taken out and reexamined and explained.

Regrettably, his thoughts returned to Jenny and he knew at that moment that she had forever changed him. From now forward, she would be his constant companion, whether he chose that union or not. Was this how Duncan had felt about Sam on those nights he'd paced through the barracks, a silent bare-footed ghost wreathed in pipe smoke? Had she haunted his every thought as Jenny now haunted his? Duncan's only salvation had been to marry his tormentor. Was he doomed to the same fate?

 

***~~~***