CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

Baby Michael stared at the adult face hovering above him with the focused concentration only an infant could summon, a fist shoved into his mouth, his wailing forgotten.

Surgeon Witchell smiled, one hand disentangling Michael’s chubby fingers from his stethoscope tubing while the other held the diaphragm to Michael’s splotched chest. “It’s not the pox,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I suspect it’s a mild form of measles. His fever’s down and he should be fine in a few days, granted the fever doesn’t worsen.” He ran a finger down Michael’s bare chest and the baby squirmed and squealed with delight. “Gave your mama a scare did you, fellow?”

Finnegan met Jenny’s eyes across the table where Michael lay and saw the relief he felt mirrored there. “Do you suppose there’ll be any lasting effects?” Finnegan asked, again seeing the same question in Jenny’s eyes.

“I doubt it,” the surgeon said, leaning forward to tickle the baby again, his trained eyes carefully assessing the baby’s reactions to his touch. “He looks fine to me.

A swift knock on the door drew Finnegan’s attention. Duncan opened the door a crack, shielding the opening with his body. “What’s the verdict, doc?”

“It’s not smallpox.”

Duncan stepped into the room, the expected grin absent. “If all’s well, then, could I see you a minute, Finnegan?”

Finnegan snared his coat off a nail by the door and stepped outside into the snow-brightened morning sun. Hands shoved into his pockets, Duncan’s expression was unusually glum. “Steele wants to see the both of us in his office right away.”

Finnegan cast a glance toward Jenny, barely visible through the crack in the door. She held Michael to her shoulder, his tiny dark head pressed against her cheek. Everything in Finnegan strained toward that scene, longed to be part of the love and gratitude there. But duty had to come first.

“Do you know what he wants?” Finnegan asked, swinging his gaze back to Duncan’s face.

Duncan shook his head slowly. “He didn’t say, but from the look on his face, I’d say it wasn’t good news.”

They walked the short distance to Fort Herchner in silence, crunching through the new snowfall side by side. A dozen possibilities spun through Finnegan’s thoughts, but nothing seemed more prominent that another. Perhaps Frank Bentz had surfaced. Perhaps Harriet had been up to more mischief. Or perhaps Hawkins had brought information to the fort.

“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Steele said as soon as he opened his office door. Uncharacteristically out of uniform without his scarlet jacket, Steele stepped to the side to allow them to enter. His wide, blue suspenders glared dark against the pristine white of his shirt.

Duncan and Finnegan sat in two unyielding, straight-backed chairs aligned to face Steele’s desk. Their commander walked around the mahogany piece and sank into his own chair with a sigh. “Of all the duties I have carried forth as an office in the Mounted Police, this is my least favorite.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk and laced his fingers together. “I’ve received some disturbing information, Constable Finnegan, on your activities prior to your joining the North West Mounted Police.”

Finnegan’s heart sank, leaving a huge, hollow spot in his chest and a warped sense of relief. “I would imagine that to be a warrant for my arrest, sir.”

“It is indeed.” Steele picked up a folded document and then flopped it back onto the desk without looking at it. “And I understand that its appearance now has something to do with a letter you wrote almost a year ago.”

Finnegan closed his eyes and swore softly. Last winter, victim of cabin fever and an overly sensitive conscience, he’d been consumed with regrets for his actions and overwhelmed with the desire to, once and for all, have a clean slate. So, he’d written a letter to the sheriff of his county in Ireland, explaining the situation of his accusal so many years ago and asking for a solution. When spring released him from his prison of self doubt, he’d forgotten he’d ever written the letter. Until now.

“I wish that you had discussed this with me before writing that letter, constable.”

“So do I, sir. Am I to be arrested?”

“No. In light of your position as a Northwest Mounted Policeman, I was able to convince Sheriff Darby that you were a poor risk for escape and he has agreed to turn the matter over to a circuit judge and abide by his decision. I received the papers from Ireland in today’s mail. The judge will be here in three weeks to conduct your trial. Until that time I am placing you under the supervision of Inspector McLeod. He will see to it that you are at that trial. Am I right, Inspector?” Steele glared across the desk at Duncan.

“Aye, sir. He’ll be there, all right.”

“Constable, would you like to tell me your side of the story?”

Finnegan related the events from the now dim past, describing the actions of a young man filled with frustration and anger, a young man so unknown to him now that he could have been describing a stranger.

Steele leaned back in his chair and listened, crossing his arms over his chest, his face noncommittal. Finnegan kept his explanation factual and short and when he’d finished, Steele continued to stare up at the open beamed ceiling in contemplation.

“Given your exemplary record, constable, I wouldn’t expect the judge to be harsh, but I’d be prepared for anything.”

Not much comfort in those words, Finnegan thought as the possibilities rolled past in his imagination.

“We’ll speak again before the trial. You’re dismissed for now.”

* * *

 

“And me thinking you were a virginal youth when you enlisted all those years ago.”

Finnegan threw Duncan a slanted glance as they retraced their steps down the snowy street and smiled. “You didn’t know I was a fiery-tempered Irishman with a past, now did you?”

“No, I’d have kept a closer watch on my daughters had I known you were a scalawag.”

“There’s not much scalawag left in me these days.”

“You’ve put ten good years in the Mounted Police. I can’t imagine the judge’ll hold you responsible for something that happened twenty ago and with dubious evidence to boot.”

“Murder is murder and must be atoned for. So says the Queen and God.”

“I can’t speak for the Queen, but I'm not sure even God can sort out the guilt in a bar fight.” Duncan draped an arm across his shoulders. “How about some coffee?”

Rosita’s Cafe was an oasis of good food and freshly starched tablecloths amid the mud and confusion that was Dawson City. Sitting there at one of her finely set tables, life seemed oddly a-tilt and deeply uncertain, perhaps more so than at any other time in his life. Finnegan turned his coffee cup, absently aligning the bottom with the red and white plaid pattern of the tablecloth.

“I asked Jenny to marry me,” he said, his eyes on the coffee cup and how the bottom rim matched a stripe of red.

“I suspected as much wasn’t far off,” Duncan replied. He swallowed his coffee and set his cup down. “And did the lass say yes?”

Finnegan smiled. “She did. We didn’t tell anyone. We both wanted the issue of Frank Bentz resolved first. Now, I guess this is one more thing to overcome.”

“Does she know about any of this?”

Finnegan nodded. “She knows it all. I told her everything before I’d let her give me an answer.

Duncan nodded to the hovering waitress who refilled his cup. “And the lass said yes anyway? You must have done something right, lad.”

Finnegan laughed. “Yes, I suppose I must have.”

“What are you going to do about the question of Mr. Bentz’s immortality?”

Finnegan turned his cup a rotation. “I'm convinced he’s alive. From the shirt Harriet showed us and what Jenny’s told me, I don’t believe her shot was fatal. Bentz’s waiting out there somewhere for the right opportunity to return and claim what he believes to be his.”

“Jenny and the baby?”

Finnegan shook his head. “The gold.”

“Gold? What gold?” Duncan frowned and leaned forward.

“Jenny took a bag of gold Frank had stolen. He knows she’s got it and so does Harriet. I know for a fact that Harriet’s turned the cabin upside down looking for it.”

“How much gold are we talking about?”

“I didn’t ask. But it can’t be too much. I’ve seen the bag and there’s only a couple hundred dollars left.”

“Why would he risk exposure for so small an amount?”

Finnegan raised his eyes to meet Duncan’s gaze. “Because he sees it as his, just as he sees Jenny and Michael as his. Amount doesn’t come into consideration. Only possession.”

 

* * *

 

Bright bolts of cloth were unloaded from the wagon parked in front of the newly painted storefront. The door to the store opened and she stepped out. Her clothes were stylish and modest, tailored to her slim figure. She was excited, beaming a smile at the men unloading the supplies while nervous hand motions accentuated her words. If he listened carefully, he could even catch a word or two, Frank Bentz realized, and he strained to pick her voice out of the din on the street.

Throaty and mellow, deeper than most women’s voices, Jenny’s low tone and soft speech never failed to deeply stir him. But with that pleasure had always come a wisp of dissatisfaction, an uneasiness he’d never experienced with any other woman. She was confident in a way that was unnerving, sure of herself and what she wanted. Even in his worst rages, even when she cowered from his temper, there was in him a mutinous lingering doubt that he’d completely conquered her. And the possibility he hadn’t drove him crazy.

He returned his thoughts and senses to her, to the picture she presented standing there in the morning sun, obviously having very nicely picked up the pieces of her life after his ‘death’. With the aid of his gold, he thought with a tightening in his gut.

He pushed away from the post against which he’d leaned and angled his way across the muddy, rutted street, to a spot down the sidewalk from her shop where he took up his surveillance again. From here he could hear her voice plainly, the highs and lows of her speech sliding across his thoughts, teasing to life passionate memories of her, of them.

Did she still believe him dead? Surely, she did. He had no reason to think she was suspicious of his disappearance, no reason at all not to assume she believed herself a murderess. And yet she had the nerve to open a shop on Main Street, to pass herself off as a business woman, an upstanding member of the community when he knew what she really was. The knowledge that she’d pulled off her charade further galled him.

A slight, dark-haired woman stepped from the shop to Jenny’s side. Together they were light and dark, one complimenting the other in form and color. This new woman also spoke with authority, bobbing her head in answer to questions from the deliverymen. Whatever their venture, they were apparently in it together, he gleaned from snatches of their conversation. Women tended to band together that way, he’d learned from hard experience, and could present a formidable front when challenged. If he wanted to catch Jenny alone, he’d have to somehow draw off her partner. The two women disappeared inside the shop, leaving only the plodding trips of the deliverymen to entertain Frank.

And then Fate favored him. The dark-haired woman appeared again, her reticule in her hand, a short cloak about her shoulders. She was leaving and presenting him with the chance he needed.

Frank pushed away from the post he leaned against, his interest caught and held. Should he wait, bide his time and savor the knowledge that he could step back into Jenny’s life and put an end to her well-laid plans with a word? Or should he appear to her now, deliver his intentions and watch her squirm at the end of his string? Both possibilities were intriguing.

But the prospect of finding Jenny alone, of seeing her surprise turn to horror was too tempting to pass up. He strode down the sidewalk, relishing his deceit, and stopped at the glass-paneled door. Inside, Jenny leaned over a crate of supplies. She straightened and held up a length of ribbon to admire, taking advantage of a patch of morning sun, and he remembered, with a painful twinge of conscience, how much he had once loved her.

She was delightfully unaware that he watched her, her movements and the slow smile that spread across her face unguarded and natural, without suspicion or wariness. Standing there, hidden from her view by the dirty glass and the scrolling gold letters, a small corner of his conscience regretted that he was about to strip her of her blissful ignorance. And yet a larger part wanted to snatch away that mantle of confidence he saw she wore. Was there another man? Was that small smile merely the result of momentary pleasure from the articles she held in her hand or did it go deeper? Was she loved and safe in that love? The thought angered him, giving him the courage that had faltered for a moment.

The bell above the door jingled, marking his entrance sooner than he’d have liked. She turned and froze.

“Hello, Jenny.”

“Frank.” She whispered the word as if he were a ghost and saying his name might truly conjure him from the dead.

“Aren’t you going to say ‘Frank, you’re not dead’?”

She quickly roped in her surprise and traded it for wariness. “That’s obvious, isn’t it? How did you pull this off?”

He moved toward her, expecting her to cringe backwards, but she stood her ground. No sign of surrender crossed her expression. “You’re a bad shot. Got me clean through the shoulder, that’s a fact. Painful but not fatal.”

“You me bury you?”

He shrugged. “All a part of the charade.”

“And you had the presence of mind to think all this up after I shot you?”

“Nothing like being dragged across a hard, snowy yard to quicken ones mind.”

She let the ribbons slide from her hands, but still, there was no sign of fear on her face. “I wouldn’t have thought even your mind, Frank, so well conditioned as to invent such a ruse on such short notice.”

“One must never miss an opportunity, my dear.”

“What do you want from me?” She met his eyes with an unwavering, green-eyed stare, going straight to the heart of the matter, a habit in her he’d often found unsettling.

“I want what’s mine. My gold. Our baby. You.”

“You don’t want me, Frank. And you never wanted Michael. And as for the gold,” she held out her hands, palms up, “I just sank the last speck in the lease on this place.”

The gold had never been the issue, Frank acknowledged to himself, but making her give it back was. And suddenly punishing her seemed overwhelmingly important.

“I could have you arrested for attempted murder, say you tried to kill me for the money.”

“And how would you explain that it took you four months to decide I attempted to kill you, Frank? And that the gold was stolen in the first place?”

Her response caught him off guard and at a momentary loss for words and strategy. A change of tactics was called for.

“I see you’re not making your living on your back and have taken up shopkeeping instead. Do you think this is good use of your best skills, Jenny? Can you feed my child on what you’ll make here?” He moved away from her, strolling through the piled boxes and crates.

When he turned, she stared at his with her arms crossed over her chest. “What do you want, Frank? Or did you come here just to insult me?”

What did he want now that she wasn’t cowering in fear before him? Did he want her back? Want the responsibility of a woman and a baby? Oh, he wanted her all right, wanted her in his bed, always submissive to his wishes whether sexual or otherwise. And when that was over, he wanted the freedom to move onto another woman, another conquest and leave no tracks.

No tracks.

He’d left behind a child and he had no idea if it was a son or a daughter. Until this moment, he hadn’t cared. Even now, the fact was merely fodder for conversation. He felt nothing for the seed he’d planted except a remembered satisfaction in the act that had created it.

“I want you to pay me back for the gold you stole.”

“I don’t have it, I told you.”

“Then get it.”

“Or what?”

“Or else one night your lover won’t come home. I burned the cabin, you know.”

She blanched and the earth dropped out from under his feet. So there was someone, someone who’d put that soft color in her cheeks and the life back in her eyes. He’d casually thrown the comment at her, expecting her to deny the fact. Upon her denial, he’d been prepared to back that up with a threat to the baby, a sure way to secure her cooperation. But as he watched the roses disappear from her cheeks and the defiance from her eyes, a strange sense of loss and jealousy welled up inside him, threatening to rob him of his satisfaction.

“So, there is someone.” He hadn’t meant to say the words out loud, only allow them one brief trip through his thoughts. But now that he’d said them, he met her eyes with a steady gaze and awaited her answer.

She tipped her chin up slightly, an unconscious act of defiance that moved him more than she could know. “Yes, there is.”

He forced a sneer, surprised at the slash of jealousy that cut through him. “Does he leave money on the bedside table?” The gibe sounded childish and desperate even to his ears. One look at her face said she did, too. Unruffled, she continued to study him.

“I'm sorry that you’ve made yourself such a hard bed, Frank, but you knew what you were doing. You have a wife, I understand. She came all the way to the Yukon to look for you. Why don’t you take what’s left of that marriage and try to make something for yourself.”

The words, more mature than any he could have conjured, fell like blows from a stout stick across his back. Used to having the upper hand, he knew felt out of control. Foolish. Belittled. And all by the woman he’d once thought he controlled.

There was a serenity about her now that was unnerving. He sensed no greed or shrewdness, no cruel ambition. She seemed simply at peace.

“Remember what I said,” he repeated as he moved toward the door, “every cent. And soon.”

“I'm not afraid of you any longer, Frank,” she said as he opened the door, ignoring the irritatingly joyous tinkle of the bell.

He was halfway out the door, and glad of it when her voice stopped him in his tracks. “I knew it was you who burned my house. But you did me a favor, you know.”

He stopped, one hand on the door.

“Don’t you want to know if you have a son or a daughter?”

No, he didn’t want to know. Without knowing the sex, he could put no face to the bit of life he’d helped create and therefore no images would haunt his conscience. “Sure,” he said and cursed himself for a coward. “What?”

She remained silent, watching him for a moment, pity in her eyes. “You have a son, Frank, a healthy baby son.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve come to see to his prosecution meself.”

Sam Steele looked up from the folded papers and wished he’d gone on that hunting trip after all.

“Sheriff Darby, I thought that you and I had reached an agreement about this months ago.”

“Aye, that we did, Superintendent, but then I got to thinkin’ that ‘twould be a pity if the bastard got off after all these years.”

Steele leaned back in his chair with a grunt. The little man before him reminded him of a rat terrier his mother had once owned--all mouth and little sense. And the similarity didn’t stop there. Each one seemed to take special pride in torturing whatever was judged to be the enemy of the moment. “I’ve released Constable Finnegan into the custody of Inspector McLeod. He’s led an exemplary life these last ten years and has a spotless record since joining the Mounted Police. I predict that the resolution of this case is hardly worth your traveling halfway around the globe to oversee.”

“He’s a murderer, Superintendent, allegedly, of course. And hardly trustworthy.”

“Sheriff, Constable Finnegan has been dispensing law and order without benefit of judge or court for ten years on the Canadian frontier. His trustworthiness is not in question.”

“Were his trustworthiness not in question, there’d be no need for those papers, now would there?” Sheriff Darby pushed back a ragged bowler hat and smiled, his eyes glittering with triumph.

“The circuit court judge is due here in two weeks. He’s agreed to hear the case then.”

“That’ll give me ample time to prepare me case, then.”

Steele slowly shook his head. “The evidence is ten years old, Sheriff. What more information could you gather here?”

Darby paused dramatically, drew himself up slightly and stepped to the window where he planted his fists on his hips. “Much can be seen about a man by the company he keeps.”

Warning bells clanged in Steele’s head and a pain began as an annoying prick between his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Mike Finnegan always had a way with women, even as a young man, and I’ve information that says he hasn’t changed that habit.”

Steele rubbed the ache between his eyes. “Get to the point.”

“I left Ireland the day I got your letter. Finnegan left quite a trail across Canada and into the United States. Did you know he frequented a brothel in Seattle called the Velvet Rose?”

“I’m not responsible for the morality of my men before they enlisted, Darby, only for what they do afterwards.”

“Would you have signed up Constable Finnegan had you known of his background?”

“No.”

Darby smiled. “And so he’s duped the both of us because he’s keepin’ the company of a whore right under your nose, Superintendent.”

Darby seemed so pleased with his tidbit of information, Steele longed to wipe the smirk off his face with a right hook. “Miss Hanson’s former occupation is none of my concern. She nor Constable Finnegan have given me reason to believe that their friendship is anything other than honorable.”

“Honorable. Is that the term they’re usin’ for it now?”

“Until the behavior of one of my men infringes on the reputation of the Force as a whole, I stay out of their business. I suggest you do the same, Sheriff Darby.”

“You don’t spend as many years routing out the rubbish as I have, Superintendent, and not come to know that there’s some that never change their spots.”

“And I suppose you consider Constable Finnegan one of those?”

Darby shrugged. “Seems to me he’s sniffing after skirts as bad now as then. Sure an he brought some of his other sins with ‘em.”

A full fledged headache now claiming his thoughts, Steele hauled himself to his feet and leaned both hands on his desk top. “Do what you must, Sheriff, to prepare your case. But remember this, Constable Finnegan is a member of the Northwest Mounted Police. We take care of our own.”

 

***~~~***