“I wouldn’t fight it if I were you,” Ben said.
Somers ignored him and tried to wriggle out of his grip, so Ben pulled up on his arm. When Somers cried out, the fighting stopped, and Sam got up with a groan, pressing a cloth against his bloody nose.
“Bastard cheated,” Somers muttered through gritted teeth. Sweat glistened on his face. “Should be my pot.”
“Looked like a fair hand to me,” Ben said. “Can’t beat a royal flush. That’s just the way it goes.”
“Ain’t right he gets to leave like that. I’m outta money. I need to win it back.”
“That’s your problem. Sounds like you should have quit a while ago.” Ben released his arm, and Somers rubbed his shoulder.
“You don’t understand,” Somers told him. “I gotta have that money.”
“Maybe get a job,” Ben suggested wryly. “Go on home now. I don’t want any more trouble tonight.”
Ben stood at the door watching Somers slouch outside then turn up his collar against the solid onslaught of rain, his boots slopping through the mud. The storm had picked up since Ben had arrived, and from the looks of it, he thought it might even be strong enough to shut down the parties on the steamships, at least for a while. Maybe the rain would cool Somers’s temper, he mused, but then again, the constant wet was getting to all of them.
Liza
TWENTY-FIVE
Liza heaved a box of umbrellas on top of a crate, out of the path of the growing puddles underfoot. Her uneven floor had surrendered to all the rain they’d had recently, and she was nervous about the fact that the Yukon River was still rising. Having swallowed every drop of the spring thaw, the water had licked higher and higher, devouring the crumbling banks until it had spilled over the sides. Now that water was making its way to Dawson City.
Liza stared anxiously at her inventory. How on earth was she supposed to outrace the river? Even if she could get all her stock back into crates, where could she put it all? Even if she could find a space, how was she going to get it all there?
Just then the door burst open, and Mr. Somers strode in, dripping wet and looking far less composed than he had the last time she’d seen him. It struck her that since he seemed to know so much, maybe he could help her with moving her things somewhere.
“Good evening, Mr. Somers,” she said. “Nice weather for ducks, isn’t it?”
“Do you have the rent?” he asked brusquely.
“I do indeed.”
She reached into her drawer for the envelope she’d set aside for him. She’d felt like celebrating two days ago when she’d finally made enough profit to afford her rent. As of today, she even had a little left over.
Mr. Somers held out his hand. “I need it right away.”
“Of course. Here you go. Mr. Somers, I was wondering if you had any advice . . .” she trailed off as she watched him count the money. His hands were shaking badly.
“I assure you, it’s all there,” she said, taken aback that he was checking. He’d always been so genial, so informal about their arrangement, before now.
“What about the interest?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You are two weeks late with your rent, Miss Peterson. There is a penalty for that.”
She felt her face grow hot. He had never mentioned interest payments before. “Mr. Somers, we agreed that I would pay you the balance of my rent at the end of two weeks and I would pay you monthly after that.”
“You misunderstood me. Interest rates are high in Dawson, and property space is at a premium. Our interest rate is fifty-five percent, which means I will require an extra two hundred and twenty dollars immediately.”
Her stomach dropped. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Give me whatever you do have.”
“Mr. Somers!”
He put out his hand again. What could she do? She put some—though not all—of her profit in his palm, making sure he didn’t see what she kept.
Muttering to himself, he counted the rest of the bills, then slammed the counter. “It’s not enough!”
Before she could respond, he’d stomped across the floor and begun scanning her shelves. Sweat dribbled from his brow as he rifled through her things, making a mess of her orderly rows of items. Was he in some kind of trouble? Whatever it was, he was making Liza nervous.
“You gotta be hiding something worthwhile in here,” he said.
When he swept his arms across a shelf, smashing a row of jam jars to the floor, she rushed forward and grabbed his arm.
“Mr. Somers, stop!” she said, but he shoved her back, intent on his search.
Liza backed away towards the door—this was an entirely different man from the one she’d met on the boardwalk. “Mr. Somers, I must ask you to leave now,” she said, in the firmest voice she could muster.
He stormed over to her. “I’m not going anywhere without your rent.”
“I paid what we agreed upon. There was no talk of interest, no talk of penalties, and I have paid—”
“What’s this?” His hand went to her waist and closed around her father’s watch before she could move away. With a snap of his wrist, he jerked it off its chain.
She lunged for the watch, trying to twist it from his grip. “That’s mine!”
“Let go!”
“Never!” She would absolutely not give up this fight. She couldn’t. The very thought set her blood boiling, and she dug her nails into his arm. “I would rather live in the street than give you this.”
He winced but didn’t let go of the watch. “Miss Peterson, be reasonable,” he said. “I’ll take this, then you won’t have to worry about rent until next month.”
“No! You cannot have this!” she shouted, and slapped him hard across the face before she knew what she was doing.
He staggered back, his cheek a seething red, then lurched forward. Before she could get out of the way, his fist smashed into the side of her head and she dropped to the floor, pinpricks of light spinning in her head. He hit me! she thought incredulously, touching her face. Through a woozy fog she saw him coming at her again, and she turned, starting to crawl away, but he caught her and heaved her to her feet.
“Stop!” she screamed, trying to push him away, but his arm wrapped around her waist like an iron bar, and he dragged her to the door and threw her outside. She splashed down in the middle of the flooded street, and her head hit the ground hard.
“Live in the street, then!” he yelled, rushing towards her. “Good riddance!”
“Give me my watch!”
She rose unsteadily to her feet, but he slipped his boot behind her knees and shoved her down. She landed flat on her back and clawed for air as the wind was knocked out of her. When she opened her eyes, Somers was standing over her, and she raised her hands over her head, afraid he might strike her again. Then she felt his fingers grip hers. To her horror, she realized he was trying to wrench her mother’s ring off her hand.
“Please! Stop!”
She yanked her fist back, but he dropped on top of her, shouting and grasping for the ring.
“Get off! Help! Somebody help!”
“Give it—”
Then the weight of Mr. Somers was gone, his cries drowned out by a writhing, noisy mass of wet fur. Is that a bear? she thought, panicking. She was dragging herself backwards through the mud and slop when a flash of red caught her attention. Thank God! She almost wept with relief at the sight of two Mounties splashing through the downpour towards the struggle.
“Keitl!” she heard. “Keitl! Get off!”
“Get him off me!” Somers wailed.
“Keitl!”
She recognized that voice: Constable Turner. That meant the beast bathed in mud, she realized with relief, must be Blue. But this dog, growling and snapping at the terrified Max Somers, was not the sweet, tiny puppy Liza had once held against her heart. At the moment, the dog stood almost shoulder-deep in the muddy water, her head hovering low, practically vibrating
with the strength of her snarl. No, this wasn’t Blue. This was Keitl, and she was a force to be reckoned with.
Constable Turner crouched beside Somers, rainwater streaming off the brim of his Stetson. “You again?” He glanced over at Liza, then back at Somers. “I see you’ve moved on from starting barroom brawls to beating up women. Classy.”
“Miss Peterson?” said another voice. “What are you doing out here?”
She recognized the other Mountie’s beard as he came to her side. “Sergeant Thompson?”
“You all right?” he asked.
Liza was shaking so hard she felt frozen in place. “I . . . I can’t . . . move,” she managed.
“It’s all right,” he said, kneeling. “Catch your breath. You’ve had a good scare.”
Across from them, Turner had flipped Somers face down in the muck and snapped handcuffs over his wrists. “You’re under arrest,” he said, yanking Somers to his feet.
“She owes me!” Somers bellowed. “And that dog should be shot.”
“I should have locked you up a week ago at the Monte Carlo.” Turner shoved him against the wall and poked a commanding finger in his face. “Stay here.”
“I got him,” Thompson said, moving away.
With Keitl at his side, Turner sloshed towards Liza. “Are you all right, Miss Peterson?”
But Liza barely heard him. Her mind was spinning with terrible thoughts. What would happen to her now? What would she do? Where would she go?
She winced when Turner pressed his fingers gently against her temple. “It’s bruised,” he said. “Miss Peterson?”
“I . . .” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, I’m ruined!”
“She’s a liar!” Somers yelled, struggling against the cuffs. “I never—”
“Shut your bone box,” Thompson grumbled.
“No! No, I didn’t mean that,” Liza quickly corrected herself. Constable Turner’s pale blue eyes were taking in every word, and she let them be her anchor. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . he’s—” The words began pouring out. “He’s my landlord, and I didn’t know about the interest, and I didn’t have it, so he threw me out, but I need this place, and he took my father’s watch, and I—”
Thompson glared at Somers. “You got her father’s watch, you pigeon-livered numbskull?”
Somers jerked his chin towards the middle of the road, and Thompson went out and scooped the watch from the mud.
“Nice timepiece,” he said, wiping it clean with his thumbs before handing it to Liza.
She clutched the little treasure to her chest. “Thank you.”
“Happy to help,” he said, then he spoke to Turner. “I’ll take our friend to the post, get the paperwork started. Come see me when you’re done here.”
“I will.” Turner got to his feet, then held out a hand to Liza. “Do you feel well enough to stand?”
“A little dizzy,” she replied. The weight of the mud and water on her skirt pulled her off balance and she floundered, but Turner was there to steady her.
“I can take you to the hospital,” he offered, “get that cheek looked at properly, if you’d like.”
She touched her face and grimaced again. “I’ll be all right. I can’t leave the shop.”
“You might have a black eye.”
“There isn’t much a doctor can do about that.”
“True enough. You wanna tell me what happened?” he asked. “Maybe out of the rain?”
Inside the shop, she dropped into the only chair. “Sorry about the mess,” she said.
Keitl positioned herself at Liza’s feet, but when she licked Liza’s fingers, she pulled her hand away. The last thing Liza needed at this point was to get emotional over a dog.
“Keitl,” Turner said, and she returned to his side. His gaze swept over the smashed jars, the brooms, and other items tossed aside. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
It didn’t take long to relay the story, and by the time she was done her hands had almost stopped shaking.
“He won’t bother you again.”
This was where Liza was uncertain. “But that’s a problem,” she admitted, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake by taking him into her confidence. “Without Mr. Somers I don’t have a landlord.” She held her arms towards the shelves. “What if he makes me leave? How will I get another building? I can’t afford to start all over again.”
“I actually don’t think that’s a problem,” Turner said. “The thing is, Mr. Somers—if that’s his real name—doesn’t own this shop.”
That stopped her. “What?”
“This place has been empty awhile, but it’s not his.”
“But how do you know that?”
“Because the owner doesn’t live in Dawson. I think he’s gone back to Charleston or someplace.” Turner took off his hat, scratched behind his ear. “It was leased, but . . . well, I saw the man who leased this place a while back.”
Liza was confused. Somers had never mentioned a partner. “Where did you see him?”
“The morgue.”
“The morgue?” she echoed, then the pieces began to fall into place. No contract, he’d said. Of course there was no contract—he was a swindler! She should have listened to that voice of warning in her head. She would next time, she vowed. If there was a next time.
She looked up at Turner. “Where should I go?”
“I would suggest you just stay here, but things being what they are, well, what are your plans for the evacuation?”
“Evacuation? Because of the flood?”
He nodded, then gestured to her things. “I’m guessing this can’t be left here.”
“No, this is my livelihood. I cannot afford to lose any of it. I’ve already lost far too much.”
His fingers rubbed his jawline thoughtfully, and she wondered if he was going to simply shake his head and tell her that it couldn’t be done. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. There were thousands of people in this town who needed help, and most of them didn’t have a storeful of stuff to move.
“I will be back for you by noon tomorrow,” Turner finally said. “Will that give you enough time to pack everything up?”
Relief washed over her. “I will make sure it’s done.”
“Get some sleep tonight, all right?” He put his hat back on and moved towards the door, Keitl at his heels. “Oh, and not that I think anything might happen, but you’ll feel better if you lock the door behind me.”
She didn’t have to be told twice. As soon as he was outside, she secured the lock and slumped against the door, bathed in a fresh, sticky sweat. She could have been killed today, and nobody would have known she was gone. Other than maybe Constable Turner, she thought, and wasn’t that ironic? She kept remembering how she’d lashed out at him, blamed him cruelly, though none of her tragedies had been his fault. And yet he hadn’t let her chase him away. He’d come back. And this time he’d saved her life.
She wasn’t surprised to discover that he was as good as his word. The next day at noon he returned with a wagon, two horses, and two more pairs of arms to help.
“Good afternoon, Miss Peterson,” he said, regarding her with concern. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ll be all right.” She’d glanced in the mirror that morning to see the bruise on her face had bloomed. It was ugly, but it could have been much worse, she reminded herself.
“A good day for a move, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. The water in the road reached past the horses’ knees, and the mud sucked at their legs. “Even Fort Herchmer, our outpost, is underwater. This morning Inspector Harper had to use a canoe to get to the officers’ quarters.”
She started to smile, but the movement sent a sharp pain to her temple.
He peered past her shoulder. “All ready to go?”
“I am. How can I help?”
“You don’t have to do a thing.”
She watched gratefully as the three men set up boards from her doorway t
o the wagon bed, then one by one carried her things out. When everything was loaded, the struggling horses tried to drag the wagon forward, but the wheels were stuck under the weight of all her crates. One of the men went to the horses’ heads and grabbed their bridles while Constable Turner moved to the back of the wagon with the other man.
“On three!” Turner yelled.
When the wagon finally broke free and lurched forward, all three men went with it, falling face first into the muck as the horses sloshed past. Pain shot to Liza’s eye as she stifled a laugh, but it felt good to find something funny after so much loss, and when the men scrambled to their feet, looking like clay figures under all the mud, they were laughing, too, their eyes and teeth shining white through the mess. Eventually the wagon rolled out, and Turner returned for Liza, attempting and failing to wipe all the mud from his face before he walked back through her door.
“Ready?”
“Yes, thank you.” She turned to grab her coat. “Oh no.”
“What is it?”
“I packed my rubber boots in one of those boxes.”
They both studied her short black leather boots. “Well, there’s an easy solution, but it’s up to you.” He took off his coat, revealing a relatively clean grey shirt beneath, then held out his arms. “Miss Peterson, you and I are about to get better acquainted.”
She eyed the brown water flowing down the street behind him. “Okay,” she said, since there was no other choice, and she took his heavy coat.
He lifted her, cradling her against his chest. “If you wrap your arms around my neck, it’ll make it easier to balance.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she did as he suggested. “I hope I’m not too heavy.”
“Miss Peterson, compared to everything else I lug around this town, I could happily carry you all day long.”
They were closer than they ever had been before, and Liza found herself studying him. For the first time, she noticed a faded scar running from under his left eye to the bottom of his ear. She obviously wasn’t the only one with hardship in her past. But as strong and commanding as Constable Turner was, his lips looked very soft from this angle. When he returned her gaze, she looked down, but she had a terrible feeling he’d read her mind. She adjusted her hands behind his neck and it struck her that this very scenario felt oddly familiar, as if his arms, wrapped securely around her, had been there before. Bewildered by the sensation, she blinked away the impossible idea and kept quiet as he carried her through the water.
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