CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

Candlelight softened the raw yellow of the newly stripped logs and the soft warble of a scratchy, graphophone recording filled the small room.

“Duncan, it’s wonderful,” Sam flung her arms around Duncan’s neck. “Where did you get it?”

“I ordered it from Sears Roebuck before Christmas. I'm afraid it didn’t arrive until now.”

“You and Finnegan brought this all the way back from Skagway?” She pecked Duncan on his cheek and danced back over to the wide, black horn projecting a Brahms symphony.

Jenny turned to Finnegan, standing on a rug by the door, snow melting off his shaggy coat. “Was the weather very bad?” The question was inane she knew. Obviously the weather had been bad, but her real question to him was asked in the tone of her voice and his answering wink. He was all right, his patrol safely completed one more time.

“Finnegan, get that dripping coat out of here,” Sam admonished as she adjusted the angle of the horn.

He opened the door and stepped outside. Jenny followed him into the January cold. Duncan’s cabin had once been on the edge of burgeoning Dawson City. Since then a street had been cut in nearby and oil-lit street lamps installed. Now, that light served to illuminate the gentle snowfall, casting a ghostly blue over the landscape. Ribbons of color arced across the night sky, bowing in submission to some unseen hand and rivaling the stars.

“No, the weather wasn’t so bad,” he answered, draping his coat over a rocking chair. “Some snow and wind. We brought back quite a bit of mail.” He turned toward her, his face barely visible in the dim light and yet she felt his concern for her reaching her in some unspoken manner. “How have you been?”

How simple the question and how complex the true meaning of the words. Even as he asked it, she knew he’d already satisfied himself she was fine physically and had moved onto making her intimately aware of her every action by the silent communication passing between them.

Jenny walked to the porch railing and brushed away the small rounding of snow accumulated there just to have something to do with her hands. “I'm fine and the baby’s fine, too.” She didn’t want him to read in her eyes the fact Frank had threatened her. And she knew that Finnegan’s finely tuned instincts would pick up on her distress the moment their gazes met.

“How are you getting on living over the barn?”

She smiled and looked up at him despite her own cautions not to meet his eyes. “It’s wonderful having my own place again.”

He reached into the pocket of his serge jacket and withdrew a small, velvet bag. Into the palm of her hand he poured a ring of twisted gold, two tiny threads intertwining into a large, sturdier strand. “I bought this in Skagway. Don’t you think it’s time we let everyone else in on the secret and set a date?”

The warmth and acceptance she’d anticipated at the public announcement of their union was lessened by the shadow of Frank’s words, but she pushed away the disappointment lest Finnegan see evidence of it in her eyes.

She looked up into Finnegan’s face and saw that he loved her as she’d always wished to be loved. He held no reservations about her, no illusions about her past, no doubts about their future. The importance of Frank and his threats lessened.

He kissed her and as she turned to go inside, he caught her elbow. “Jenny, wait.”

A cold chill of premonition ran up her spine.

“There’s something you should know.” He moved away from her and leaned back against the porch railing distancing himself, she sensed, for something unpleasant.

“What is it?”

He crossed his ankles and looked down at his boots. “I’ve been arrested for murder.”

“The old charges from Ireland?”

He nodded, arms crossed over his chest. The air left her lungs and her world seemed to fall away in great, cold chunks.

“How did they find you?”

He set his jaw and shook his head. “I led them right to me with a well-intentioned letter.” He related the contents of his letter of confession. “I had hoped that my time in the Mounted Police would count for something, that they would understand I’m no longer that man. I wanted the matter cleared up and forgotten. Apparently this is how they want it done.”

“What happens now?”

“I’ve been released into Duncan’s custody. The rest is up to the circuit judge when he comes to hear the case.”

“You mean there’s going to be a trial? They’re going to try you for a murder you’re not even sure you committed fifteen years ago?”

“There’s no time limit on murder trials, Jenny. And Sheriff Darby himself has come to see justice done.”

In the space of seconds, her dreams had been give life, then dashed into pieces.

“What do you think will happen?”

Finnegan shrugged, his expression set and resigned, wearing that mask of noncommittal that served him so well in his career. “I don’t know. Darby seems set on making a point, that no transgression goes unpunished in his county.”

She’d gone from thinking herself a murderer to now facing Finnegan being found one. How bizarre the twists and turns life took.

He pushed away from the railing and reached for the door.

She stopped him from opening it with a hand on his. “Maybe we shouldn’t. Not until we know how this will turn out.”

“I don’t intend to wait for you a minute longer than I have to. Let Sheriff Darby and the circuit judge dispense justice as they see fit.” He hooked an arm around her waist and drew her close. “I intend to announce my intentions to make an honest woman of you.”

As they stepped through the door together, Sam turned from bending over the fireplace, a poker in her hand. A slow smile spread across her face as she anticipated their news, probably from the silly grins on their faces, Jenny mused.

“Jenny has consented to become my wife,” Finnegan managed before Sam launched herself at them, arms flung wide.

“When’s the wedding?” Lizzy chimed, rising from her chair and dumping her sewing unceremoniously onto the floor.

“We haven’t decided,” Jenny threw Finnegan a questioning look.

“We’ll have a double wedding,” Lizzy exclaimed, her eyes shining. “We’re getting married next month, just before the miners begin to pour into town. That’s not too soon, is it? It’ll just give us time to make your dress. And we’ll just double everything else.”

Jenny glanced over Lizzy’s head at Finnegan. Next month she could be his wife--for her a dream once so distant it had seemed an impossibility. Or he could be on a ship bound for an Irish prison. He watched her, waiting.

“What do men know about weddings, anyway?” Lizzy asked with a playful glance at Finnegan.

“Next month sounds fine.” As Jenny spoke the words of agreement, a chill of uncertainty stole her joy.

 

* * *

 

Sam stood back and fluffed out the skirt of light blue silk. “It turned out well, don’t you think? Even if we did have to hurry.” The layers of fabric settled in a soft pool around the foot of the dress form.

Jenny looked up at the clock from where she sat cross-legged on the rug, putting in the last stitches of her rolled hem. “Court convenes in an hour.”

“And the weddings convene tomorrow morning at nine. Finnegan’s told you to keep your mind on that.”

“Finnegan’s mind is on the wedding night and, besides, he doesn’t understand what it’s like to feel so helpless.”

“Oh, he understands all right. He’s just like Duncan. They think if they ignore the problem it’ll just work itself out. And besides, who cares if he’s thinking of the wedding or the wedding night? He’s thinking about you. That’s what’s important.” Sam raised her eyebrows and smiled but Jenny couldn't join in on the humor.

“He should be thinking about the trial.”

Sam picked up a needle, threaded it and flopped onto the floor beside Jenny. “He’s put all that into Sam Steele’s hands. Capable hands, I might add.”

Jenny watched the mantle clock tick off the minutes of her life, the delicate, dark hands moving with jaunty deliberation. Twenty-four hours from now, when the clock face read ten o’clock in the morning, what would her life be like? Would she be promising to love and cherish the man beside her or would she be saying good-bye?

The bell on the door of their shop jangled and the door closed with a solid click. Jenny unfolded her legs, untangled her dress and rose. “I’ll see who it is.”

She stepped out of the back room and froze. Frank stood in the center of the shop, twisting a bowler hat in his hands as he looked around, amazement on his face. Her heart plunged. She’d completely forgotten about Frank and his threats.

Glancing over her shoulder to the back room where Sam was hidden from view, she quickly crossed the rug-strewn floor, took Frank’s arm and guided him to a sunny corner by the front glass before she spoke.

“I don’t have your money, Frank, but I’m trying to put it together. We’ve only just opened three weeks ago. I need more time.”

There was no mocking arrogance in his expression when she finally met his eyes and the surprised registered slowly.

“I didn’t come for the money.”

Years rolled back and for the breadth of a moment she saw again the man she’d once fallen in love with. “What do you want, then?”

He glanced down at the hat in his hands, worried it another turn, then looked up. “I came to say good-bye.”

Thunderstruck, Jenny could only stare and disbelieve. “Good-bye?”

He smiled then, a slow soft smile completely foreign to any of the facial expressions in Frank Bentz’s carefully cultured collection. “Harriet’s pregnant.”

Harriet, the practiced seductress of Finnegan’s description was carrying a child? Frank’s child? And Frank was pleased? What miracle could have wrought such changes.

“I can’t imagine that,” she replied before she thought.

“Neither could I.” He widened his smile. “And neither could she until we found out. We’re going back to Seattle and try and make a life there. Once upon a time, I was a decent clothier, before the gambling bug bit.” He nodded to the interior of the shop. “I once owned a shop much like this, catering to men’s clothes of course. Thought I might give it another try.”

“Well, Frank, I’m amazed.”

His expression sobered. “About the baby.”

“Our son?” She couldn't resist the jibe.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket, extracted a sealed envelope and handed it to her. “This is legally drawn up by a solicitor. It gives my permission for Finnegan to adopt him once the two of you are married.”

She took the smooth envelope from his hands and noticed that his fingers quivered ever so slightly. “Do you want to see him?”

“No.” His answer was sharp and immediate, accompanied by a frown. Then his face relaxed. “No, it think it’s better I don’t.” He studied her face for a moment longer. Was he remembering their few but memorable good times together?

“I'm sorry, Jenny, for anything I might have done to hurt you.” He held up a hand when she started to answer. “I know that doesn’t even begin to make up for what I’ve done, but I wanted to say it anyway. Nothing can make up for what I’ve put you through and I won’t make any excuses for my behavior, recent or past. I'm a new man, Jenny. I hope that you will always serve as my example as how one should live their life.”

With those words, he plopped the hat on his head, turned on his heel and was gone into the morning sun leaving behind only the tinkling of the bell as the door closed behind him.

 

* * *

 

“This court will come to order,” Constable Harper announced. “This is the district court of the Yukon Territory, circuit court judge Albert Metz, presiding.”

The jammed courtroom clamored to its feet with much scraping and sliding of chairs. White hair frizzed out at all angles, Judge Metz stepped behind the desk and waved the crowd to sit with a thin, bony hand. “Sit down, sit down, all of you.”

Jenny’s stomach tightened another knot as the irritation in the judge’s voice. Apparently, he been on the circuit for some time and was tired, irritable and due to retire when he returned to Ottawa. This, in essence, was his last case.

At the table in front, Finnegan sat ramrod straight, his scarlet jacket impeccable, staring ahead. At his side Sam Steele sat seemingly relaxed. Beside them at the other table, Sheriff Darby slouched in his chair, an arrogant smile riding his lips.

“Now, what have we here?” Judge Metz said out loud, dragging the stack of papers toward him and pinching a set of gold-rimmed glasses onto his narrow nose. “Ah, alleged murder. Good God, this case is fifteen years old. Sheriff Darby, did it take you this long to catch your man? And I see you netted a Mountie for your trouble.” The judge peered over his glasses and between two strands of white hair.

“Aye, that I did, your honor. Constable Mike Finnegan here did commit a murder in the Cock and Bull pub fifteen years ago stabbing one Red O’Leery.” Darby delivered the information like a carnival barker, his voice rising and plunging for emphasis. Judge Metz was unimpressed.

“I’m too damned tired and cold to listen to theatrics, Sheriff. Limit your comments to the facts or I’ll decide the case myself while you sit outside.”

“Of course, your honor.” Darby’s face blanched.

“Constable Harper, swear in Constable Finnegan.”

“Your honor, I believe it is my place to call the witness,” Darby said.

“Whose damn courtroom is this, Sheriff?”

“Yours, your honor.”

“Remember that, Sheriff.”

Finnegan walked to the front of the room, placed his hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth.

“Now I see this happened fifteen years ago. Long before you were a member of the Northwest Mounted Police. Is that right, Constable?” the judge asked.

“Yes, your honor,” Finnegan answered.

“How old were you, son?” the judge asked, peering over his glasses.

“I was fifteen that year.”

The judge studied the papers before him and Jenny recognized Steele’s looping hand.

“You want to tell me your side of this?”

Finnegan quickly related the sketchy details of the alley attack.

“It says here you were living on the streets at the time. Where were your parents?”

“Both were dead by that time, your honor.”

“Please drop the ‘your honor’. By the end of my circuit, even the words make my head hurt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, at this point both parents are dead and you’re a street urchin, by all measures.”

“Yes.”

“So, I’m intrigued as to how you wound up in the Northwest Mounted Police.”

Finnegan related the events from his flight from Ireland on the first available ship to his sordid and winding path to the Force. One cheek propped on his hand, the judge listened without comment until Finnegan had finished.

“If I didn’t have Sam Steele’s signature here, I’d swear that was a lie,” the judge said leaning back in his chair. “Sheriff, what’s your story.”

“Your honor, you’ve not conducted this trial as it should be done,” Darby blustered. “I should have presented my accusations first.”

“I beg your pardon, Sheriff, for my ignorance. Please, present your side.”

Yanking his pants a little higher on his ample hips and quite a flare of the melodramatic, Darby etched a sordid and manipulative scheme to dispatch the long dead Red O’Leery. When he was finished, the judge regarded him with a cold, expressionless stare . . . then burst into laughter. “That’s the biggest load of blarney I’ve ever heard, Sheriff. Has it taken you all these fifteen years to work that many conspiracies into your theory? Dear God man, you’ve implicated everyone but the Queen.”

The judge leaned forward and affixed his glasses more firmly on his nose. “Here’s my decision.”

Jenny’s heart slammed against her ribs and she twisted her hands into the skirt of her dress. Through the folds of fabric she felt Duncan’s warm hand give hers a squeeze.

“While Mr. O’Leery’s death is a tragedy, I see from your description, Sheriff, that Mr. O’Leery was a frequent visitor to this pub and participated on more than one occasion in getting the young Mike Finnegan roaring drunk for the mere purpose of amusement for the rowdy crowd. Mr. O’Leery was no stranger to this lifestyle and should have known the chances he was taking frequenting this sort of establishment. Therefore, as far as I’m concerned, Mr. O’Leery bears a good deal of the guilt in his own death and Constable Finnegan merely defended himself. I find Constable Mike Finnegan not guilty.”

The tiny courtroom erupted in cheers and scrambling chairs. Somehow through the ensuing melee, Finnegan pulled her into the safety of his arms. Her cheek pressed against the rough serge of his tunic, she watched the swirl of humanity around them and said a soft prayer of thanks.

 

* * *

 

The woodstove settled into the deep night with comforting pops and groans, its glass-fronted door emitting soft light to shadow the lines and planes of her husband’s bare back. Satisfied and happy, Jenny feigned sleep in their tousled bed so she could watch him undetected.

Finnegan sat on the side of the bed, silently staring off into the encroaching night, his thoughts in some far away male place she could only pretend to understand, she supposed. He’d claimed her as wife with compassion and sweetness, and a passion deep and enduring. Now, she wondered what he thought. Was he lingering in the glow of satisfaction as she, or was he critiquing his performance? She smiled beneath the quilt she peeped over and marveled at the wonderful differences between man and woman.

He rose, his hips bare and narrow, and reached for his pants abandoned on the floor. A shawl of freckles lay across his shoulders and here and there a scar marked the broad expanse of his back. She watched with unabashed admiration as he stepped into the blue uniform pants, their broad yellow strip glowing in the dim light, and half fastened them, slinging the garment low across his hips.

Floor boards creaking, he walked barefooted toward the tiny dresser drawer where baby Michael had been kind enough to sleep through their lovemaking. He sat down in the rocking chair and leaned forward to peer into the makeshift bed, his elbows propped on his knees. He remained so for so long, Jenny began to wonder if he was having second thoughts about taking on a family.

As if in response to her thoughts, he leaned forward and lifted a now stirring Michael into his arms, murmuring something softly as he cradled the baby. He leaned back, setting the chair to swaying, and continued his one-sided conversation, spoken in soft tones, heavy with the Irish accent he’d almost lost.

She could catch bits and pieces of the story, some exaggerated bit of nonsense, not unlike others he’d whispered to Michael at odd times when he thought he was unobserved. But now they’d settled into a rhythm together. Michael’s soft coo said he was awake and curious, his attention captured by Finnegan’s tone, if not his words.

The coos turned to frets and she heard the soft sway of the chair stop and the boards creak under Finnegan’s steps. The quilt and its accompanying blanket of warmth slid down her body and let in the night chill.

“Let’s see if Mama has anything for you,” he said, laying the baby next to her bare breast.

As the baby began to nurse, she opened her eyes and stared into Finnegan’s. He slid into the bed beside her, careful not to disturb the baby. “There’s a line forming for your attentions, Mrs. Finnegan,” he said, propping his jaw in his palm and undisguisedly watching the baby at her breast.

“Mrs. Finnegan. Now that’s an odd sounding name.”

He smiled but his brows dipped into a slight frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve always heard you called by your last name instead of your first. I’m not so sure about being Finnegan.”

“Well, what would you like to be called?”

She smiled. “The what doesn’t matter so much. I’d like for you to call me often, though.”

He leaned forward and answered her remark with a kiss. “My wife makes wisecracks.”

She glanced down at the baby. “Do you think we can build the cabin back some day?”

He pulled back to look her full in the face. “I thought that would be the last place you ever wanted to go again.”

“Not at all. Michael was born there. And if Frank hadn’t burned it down, I might have lived a lonely spinster’s life right there in the bend of the river--without you. So, it’s sort of a monument to man’s foolishness, don’t you think?”

Finnegan smiled slowly. “You just want it built back because it’s yours, right?”

“A girl has to plan for a rainy day, doesn’t she?”

He leaned forward, his mustache tickling her cheeks. “There’ll be no more rainy days in the Finnegan household. Right, Finnegan?”

 

###

 

I hope you enjoyed Finnegan’s Gold. For more information about my other books and me, visit my website: www.kathrynimbriani.com.

 

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Kathryn Imbriani

 

 

About Kathryn

 

Kathryn Imbriani's writing career started more than 20 years ago when she developed alternate plot lines and fresh dialogue for Walt Disney classics Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. In her own mind, that is, and in self defense when her children played the movies over and over and over . . . Since that time she's written eleven novels, books on gardening and sewing and articles on a wide variety of topics that she enjoys immensely. Just as long as there are no singing dwarfs involved. She lives in Raleigh, NC with her husband, dogs, birds and spoiled squirrels.