At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  “Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Everyone will be watching, Ben. They believe in you, and they’ll follow your lead.”

  He rested his forehead against hers. The world had changed again, and they would have to change with it. For now, all they could do was breathe.

  Then someone shouted.

  Liza leaned out the window. “Maybe they found someone.”

  Ben nodded listlessly.

  The questioning voices outside grew louder, then a woman yelled again.

  Ben moved towards the door. “I’d better go see what’s happening.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Liza pulled on her coat, and they ran outside with the crowd.

  A group of men was walking towards them from the far end of the town, right down the middle of the street.

  “I thought the rest of the rescue party came back from the mine when you did,” Liza said.

  He peered down the street. “They did.”

  “Then who . . . ?”

  He grabbed her hand. “Liza . . .” Then he began to run, pulling her along with him. “It’s them!”

  Someone cheered, and people emerged from buildings, crowding both sides of Dominion Avenue as seventeen coal-smeared men stumbled towards them like apparitions. Two carried a third man on a stretcher. For a moment, no one said a word. It was almost as if they were afraid to speak, to disrupt the miracle unfolding before them.

  Liza’s heart was beating out of her chest. “Where are they coming from? How did they get here?”

  Like a wave, the families descended upon the exhausted miners, weeping and laughing and wrapping themselves in one another’s arms. Ben went to each man, shaking his hand, checking that he was okay. Then Liza heard Ben laugh out loud and saw him pull one of the miners into a hug.

  “Eb!” she cried, running over and throwing her arms around them both.

  “Thought I’d seen the last of you, old man,” Ben mumbled into Thompson’s coat.

  “I’m hard to kill,” Thompson said.

  “Thank God for that,” Liza said, smiling through her tears.

  Ben

  FORTY-FOUR

  “How on earth did you get out?” Ben asked Thompson.

  They were sitting in the hotel’s saloon, each with a soothing whisky in hand.

  “We mined our way out,” Thompson said simply. “When it started, I was in a tunnel farther back. I was just standing there when a gust of warm air like I’ve never felt before lifted me like I was paper and smashed me against the far wall. Happened to Dan McKenzie, too, and he cut his head pretty bad. The others came with their lanterns, and it took a minute for us to see straight after that, but then we all headed towards the entrance.”

  “But it was gone,” Ben said.

  He nodded. “Dan and a couple others went up to the air shafts, but they’d been sealed off as well.” He took a slow sip, remembering. “So things weren’t looking good.”

  Ben listened in awe, imagining the scene as Thompson told him how they’d tried and failed to dig out the entrance until someone suggested the impossibly simple solution that they mine their way out.

  “The coal seam is vertical,” he explained. “It was slow going, and hot as Hades, but that was our only way. About thirty-five feet straight up. Then all of a sudden, Dan’s pick cut through, and we all breathed fresh air again.” He grinned. “Nothing ever tasted that good, I’ll tell you.”

  “You were in there thirteen hours,” Ben reminded him. “You shouldn’t have made it.”

  Thompson raised his eyebrows. “Well, from what we saw after we climbed out and looked down on the town, you shouldn’t have made it.”

  But they had. They all had. As incredible as it seemed, Thompson, Liza, and Ben had walked away with no more than a few bumps and scratches.

  It was enough to make a man think long and hard about what could have happened and what he could have lost. As the sun rose, glowing eerily through the dust that hung in the air around the altered profile of Turtle Mountain, it came to him how much he had been shaped by the land, from the flat stretches of prairies to the peaks of the world. Liza, too. He went to her then and led her to a quiet place on the hill outside the outpost.

  “Here,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out an envelope. “It’s from Superintendent Steele.”

  “The Superintendent?” She raised a brow. “You want me to read it?”

  “Out loud,” he said, hoping his smile wouldn’t give him away, “if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay, but this is . . .”

  “Please?”

  “ ‘Constable Ben Turner,

  “ ‘I am in receipt of your letter and am pleased to provide you with my response.

  “ ‘Firstly, congratulations on your exemplary—for the most part—years serving the North-West Mounted Police and your commitment to continue with the Force for another five years. It has been my pleasure to watch you mature from an eager, albeit inexperienced, young man to a Mountie who has earned the respect of a great number of people, including the large and often unruly population of the now world-famous Dawson City. You also served the Mounties extraordinarily well during your time spent at the Chilkoot Pass, dealing with extremes and inconveniences few men have ever imagined. Despite all this, you were always professional and served the people well.’

  “This is a wonderful letter of commendation from him.” Liza looked up. “I didn’t know you had committed to five more years, but I’m glad of it.”

  “Thank you. Keep reading, please.”

  “ ‘Now on to your second point. As you are aware, your request mandates that I should do some investigative work into the person you indicated, and though I am already quite well acquainted with her I did complete the necessary requirements. During her stay in Dawson City, Miss Elizabeth Peterson—’ ”

  She frowned. “Why am I in this letter?”

  “Maybe you should keep reading.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “ ‘Miss Elizabeth Peterson was a fine, upstanding member of our population.’

  “Oh! Well, that’s nice of him.”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay, okay.

  “ ‘. . . a fine, upstanding member of our population with honest and exemplary business practices, and who generously and selflessly contributed when it came to those in need—and in that I include her daring rescue of a certain Constable during a terrible fire. I’m certain we both remember that quite clearly. Miss Elizabeth Peterson has an excellent character and no past criminal record.’

  “Criminal record?” she cried.

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re almost there.”

  She exhaled, clearly disturbed by seeing her name included in a sentence along with the words criminal record.

  “ ‘Constable Turner, I also commend you on your ability to maintain an adequate amount of savings in your bank account. As you know, that is the final requirement in order for me to fulfil your request.

  “ ‘So, as all of the above are acceptable to me as your Commanding Officer, I am now pleased to accept your petition and grant your request.’ ”

  Ben watched as Liza stole a glance at the bottom of the letter, and her cheeks suddenly reddened. Ben knelt before her.

  “What does it say, Liza?” he asked.

  She read the final words, tears spilling down her face.

  “ ‘I wish you and Miss Peterson—should she decide to accept your proposal—a lifetime of wedded bliss. On behalf of the North-West Mounted Police, please accept my congratulations to you both.

  “ ‘Superintendent Sam Steele

  “ ‘North-West Mounted Police.’ ”

  He wiped a tear from her cheek, then took a breath.

  “When I was just starting out with the Mounties, I told a whole roomful of men that not too many things in this world scared me,” he said. “But you do, Liza. You scare me and thrill me,” he said, hoping he could get t
hrough this without breaking down, “and you make me a better man. You are my own personal Yukon. The only thing I’m afraid of in this whole world is that I’ll lose you again.”

  He opened the small box in his hands and revealed a gold ring.

  Her hand was pressed to her lips, her eyes streaming.

  “I’ve never stopped loving you.” He lifted the ring a little higher. “Liza Peterson, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

  “Yes, Ben,” she cried. “Yes.”

  She held out her hand, and he slipped the ring over her finger, then he got to his feet and took her in his arms.

  “Good thing you passed the Superintendent’s evaluation,” he murmured against her lips.

  Liza

  FORTY-FIVE

  “You’ve done enough,” Liza said, her thumb touching the inside of her finger, brushing her thumb over the now-familiar gold ring. She knew she was being selfish, but she hated to see him leave. “Stay with me, Ben.”

  At their feet, Keitl gave a little bark.

  “Keitl agrees with me,” Liza said.

  Ben gave her an adorable sideways look that reminded her: this is my job, and she knew he was right. Frank was being evacuated, and Ben had ridden with her to Blairmore that morning, since she was to billet with a family there while the Mounties and other volunteers cleared the rubble and ensured—as well as they could, anyway—that the mountain was stable.

  “Hey, mister!” a young voice called, and they turned to see a little boy run from the house. “Are you a real Mountie? My dad says you’re a Mountie.”

  “I am,” Ben replied.

  “I like your coat. And your hat,” he told Ben. “Dad says Mounties are the law. Maybe I could be a Mountie someday.”

  “Are you brave?” Liza asked, walking towards him. “You have to be very brave to be a Mountie, you know.”

  The boy scowled. “Well, sure I am. I ain’t scared of nothing!”

  “Are you smart?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at his mother, who was standing in the doorway. “Yeah, I am. I can read almost as good as my sister.”

  Liza squatted beside him. “If you are a Mountie, you have to give up everything just to take care of other people. That’s what makes Mounties into heroes.”

  The boy’s eyes swept over Ben, taking in everything from his Stetson to his black leather boots. “You don’t look like you gave up everything, mister. You look like you have everything.”

  She glanced up with a smile, and Ben was already looking at her, his eyes shining with trust. Her heart swelled, filled with the knowledge of how hard he’d worked to give that vital gift to her. How she loved this man, this courageous hero who had knelt before her, offering her everything he had.

  “You’re right about that,” he said, taking Liza’s hands in his own and raising the left one to his lips. “I can’t think of one thing I don’t have.”

  “Nor can I,” she said, lost in his eyes.

  She knew they had a lot of work ahead of them. The slide had stolen everything she owned: her clothes, her home, her store . . . everything. And yet it was true: everything she needed stood right in front of her, tall and strong and promising to love her for the rest of her life.

  Liza could still remember the uncertainty she’d felt when she’d stepped out of the security of her childhood home, suitcase in hand, unprepared for the journey ahead. Now here she stood with not one thing left in her name, and she could hardly wait to step into the unknown. Because after all the danger, all the heartbreak and loss, she finally had the only piece of gold that would ever really matter.

  A Note to Readers

  Every time I begin working on a new book about a moment in Canadian history, I am embarrassed by the fact that when I was younger I thought history was boring, because through the years of cumulative research I’ve done for all my books I don’t believe I have been bored even once. Every time I dig up a new fact I am drawn in, and the most difficult part for me is not including every single bit of it in the finished book.

  My stories are inspired by important chapters in Canadian history that I believe may be in danger of being forgotten. And I have found so many. How could I ever have thought Canadian history was dull when our past is filled with things like the Halifax Explosion, the Acadian Expulsion, German U-boats landing on our coastline during World War II, the Klondike Gold Rush, and the Frank Slide? Can you imagine the real people behind these stories? Because that’s what I do. I put myself into those situations with my characters, and I learn the history well enough that I don’t just see what happened. I feel it.

  I had wanted to write something about the early Mounties for a while, but I hadn’t started to really dig into their history until after Promises to Keep had been put to bed. Back in 2015, when I had the great honour of touring Canada for the first time with the wonderful Susanna Kearsley, I happened to see a banner outside the Royal BC Museum in Victoria advertising an upcoming exhibit about the Klondike Gold Rush. And guess who I discovered kept the peace and did so much more during that time? Mounties. It was perfect.

  So I started to dig. My local library is always the first to know what I am about to work on for my next novel because I usually start off with armloads of non-fiction books, but I do love the internet. When I am intrigued by something not fully explained in a book, or explained in some way that I don’t connect to it, I go online and I surf like mad. I search out the usual websites for particular subjects or places or people, but then I go deeper, finding historians whose passion it is to delve into these things. Sometimes I’m able to locate historical reenactment groups, and those people are gems, emphatic and dedicated to every single piece of information, and I can count on them to ensure I get every aspect right. When it came to the Mounties, I was writing about a part of history that continues today, and I wanted to make sure I dug deep. Well, I found treasure this time.

  I have a theory that works with my books as well as it does in my personal life, and that is that if something is meant to happen it won’t be impossibly difficult to get it done. Things tend to fall into place if I’m on the right track. And the most wonderful thing happened to me at the beginning of this book. It was voting day in Nova Scotia, and I’d gone in to cast my vote at our local polling station. One of the ladies behind the desk recognized me from when she was the librarian at my daughters’ elementary school, and we started chatting. After she asked what I was working on, she told me she had an RCMP contact for me who was very interested in Mountie history. So thank you, Elizabeth Sullivan, for introducing me to . . .

  Assistant Commissioner of the RCMP, Commanding Officer Brian Brennan! Brian has been outstanding in his support for this book, starting with his loaning me a Mountie boot box full of journals, photos, articles, and more from the 1800s and early 1900s. What a treasure trove! Included in there was the handwritten diary of Constable R. Brackett from 1923 to 1928 at the RCMP Great Slave Lake subdistrict in the Northwest Territories. I decided to transcribe his diary as a means of learning more, and I thoroughly enjoyed the process. Based on the number of days in which Constable Brackett recalled nothing but the weather and his personal budget, I can see how lonely that life would have been, but then there were moments of excitement and a quiet kind of levity, which I can imagine would be much needed out there in the middle of nowhere. Here are some examples:

  OCT 6 1926

  Snowed and blowed hard all night and still snowing & blowing like . . . I didn’t say it. About four or five inches fell and drifts some places four & five ft high. The only way out is still floating. We put skids under her and had her tied nice to the bank, and today the water has come up high enough to float her. So we still have to put her in winter quarters . . . But she looks pretty setting there like a duck tied to the bank.

  He finishes some of his entries with adorable little jokes:

  Give me a sentence with the word fiddle

  If de bed ain’t long enough my fiddle stick out.


  But according to The Klondike Nugget, things could get more exciting. Especially in the Yukon. In January 1899, it was reported:

  COURT NEWS

  Robert Russell got 18 months on the woodpile and really deserved more. When he was broke and sick he was nursed back to health in the police hospital and afterwards given employment in the officers’ mess room. He responded by stealing everything in sight after but four days. The woodpile at temperatures of 50 below may work reformation.

  In addition to the journals, Assistant Commissioner Brian Brennan welcomed me to his office a few times, giving me guided tours down the RCMP Headquarters’ hallway of Mountie history and mementos, including the only known gold ring made from an NWMP shoulder title—made in Dawson City, of all places—and classic artwork by Arnold Friberg. Now I know where Dudley Do-Right got his famous cleft chin! When I mentioned to him about my characters needing Christmas gifts for one another, he invited me to see his collection of Mountie button pins, cap badges, and shoulder titles. When Sergeant Thompson mentions in the story that Ben had received a new set of buttons, that is based on fact. The uniform buttons were occasionally replaced—the men sewed the new ones on themselves—and sometimes they took the old ones to jewellers to make them into “sweetheart pins” or hatpins. This helped me imagine the future Mrs. Turner’s sweetheart pin from Christmas 1899!

  Speaking of the name Turner . . . One day, when I was already deep into creating the story, I got caught up in watching videos about the Klondike Gold Rush and I came across a TED Talk by award-winning author Chris Turner called “Why Canadian History Isn’t as Boring as You Think It Is.” I was rapt. Every word thrilled me—here was a man speaking my own thoughts, and his words were both exciting and inspiring. At the time that I saw the video I was working on finding the right name for Ben, and Chris’s talk felt so familiar to me that I thought his surname suited Ben perfectly.