The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World

by Shaylin Gandhi

  She only regretted not making the decision earlier.

  Temperance crossed herself, twice. “Lord, be with me.”

  Hot white sunlight followed her through the courthouse door, polishing the pinewood floorboards to a high sheen. The smell of warm dust and fresh paint wafted on the air. Behind the counter, the clerk looked up. The barest flicker of an eyelid betrayed him.

  He knows me.

  Temperance searched her memory. With his wavy brown hair and distinctive gold-rimmed spectacles, he should’ve been easy to remember. Still, she came up blank.

  Cold gray eyes blinked. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here about an inheritance. The owner of the Scarlet Blossom passed away, and I’d like to know who the saloon’ll go to.”

  Color crept into the clerk’s cheeks—at mention of the Blossom? “The estate will be distributed according to the terms of the owner’s will.”

  “She left everything to me. But the will was…destroyed.”

  He set down his fountain pen. “She died intestate?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  His mouth twisted. “I expect you wouldn’t, in your line of work.”

  Temperance stiffened. “I’m a dancehall girl.”

  “And I’m the King of England.”

  “England has a queen.”

  “Precisely.”

  She stood stock still while sweat trickled into all her corset’s most uncomfortable places. Ignoring the unsettling sensation, she delved deep, trying to recall this man. Though he’d already returned to his ledger, his features held a faint challenge, as if daring her to remember.

  When he pushed his spectacles up, a memory jarred loose.

  “Alex Randolph,” she said.

  He flushed scarlet.

  “I remember you.” And she did. He’d come to her one night—drunk, in the throes of heartbreak after the typhoid had claimed his sweetheart—and used his fifteen minutes sobbing in her arms. That grief, so raw and honest and beautiful, had compelled her to grant him five more minutes for free.

  A spear of compassion lanced through her. “I prayed for your poor, sweet Mary, just like you asked.”

  Alex raised wary eyes. “You did?”

  She wanted to embrace him, to tell him he needn’t feel any shame over his tender-hearted sorrow. Instead, she reached for his hand. “I kept her in my prayers for a month. And I prayed for you, too, Alex. For you to find peace. I truly hope you did.”

  He tugged his hand away, but his eyes thawed. “Well. If your Madam died intestate, the estate passes to the next of kin by the degree of consanguinity—”

  “Irene had no kin.”

  “No aunts or uncles? Nieces or nephews?”

  Temperance worried at her lower lip. In truth, she had no idea. Irene had been American, but as for a life before the Klondike, Madam had never spoken of it. “If so, they’d be on the Outside, somewhere in America. I wouldn’t even know where to look.”

  Alex jotted a quick note in the ledger. “Look. I’ll set a court date in two weeks. If the will named you beneficiary, you’ll need to testify to that effect. You’ll also need to advertise in the newspaper, announcing the court’s administration of the estate, so that anyone who feels they have a claim can attend.”

  A tentative wisp of hope budded. “So…there’s a chance I could keep the saloon?”

  “A very small chance. If no one else makes a claim, and if you prove you were named in the will. The judge might rule your declaration unsubstantiated, though, in which case the estate is considered bona vacantia and passes to the Crown.”

  Breaking into a grin, Temperance leaned over the counter and kissed Alex’s cheek. “There’s a chance. That’s really all I heard.”

  He pulled away, flustered, scouring his face with the back of his hand.

  “Two weeks.” Her face stretched until the smile nearly cleaved her in two. “I’ll be here.”

  20. Annie.

  In the churchyard, Annie cast a doubtful eye, taking in the manicured shrubbery and marching headboards. “This is plumb stupid.”

  “We’re just collecting information.” Sophia sighed, tugging at her dress for the hundredth time.

  “Leave that alone, will you? It ain’t meant to keep you busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking convention.”

  Sophia grumbled. “But it’s uncomfortable.”

  Midday sun flooded beneath the brim of Annie’s bonnet, toasting her cheeks and making her squint. “You’d think you grew up in a nunnery. What kinda woman doesn’t know how to wear a corset?”

  “The kind who enjoys having a free hand to avenge her dead Madam with?”

  A snort bubbled out, but Annie clapped a hand to her mouth. Laughing might ease her tangled grief, sure, but she couldn’t do it at Irene’s expense. Not until she’d torn the Reverend apart and brought the whole damn world down around his ears.

  That would be funny.

  “Also, the kind who’s overly fond of breathing,” Sophia added.

  “Oh, quit your bellyaching. You need all the help you can get.”

  Sophia’s eyebrows lowered.

  “What? Ain’t my fault it’d take two of your skinny asses to equal my luscious one.” She waggled her back end in Sophia’s direction.

  Sophia tossed a curtain of blue-black hair over one shoulder, indignant. Annie stared right back. If the ice queen expected an apology, she could hold her breath all damn day.

  Then, unexpectedly, the showdown ended. Sophia…laughed. The melodic sound kindled a chuckle in Annie’s throat, then another, until the two of them stood guffawing in the sunshine like a couple of batty old ladies.

  “No wonder your marriage didn’t work out,” Sophia said.

  “Hey.” Annie lapsed into giggles. “That didn’t have nothing to do with me. There ain’t nobody alive who ever accused Samuel of being a decent husband.”

  “Why? Was he mean?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Sophia’s brows crept up. “Oh. Stupid, then?”

  “Naw. Supposed to be a Marshal someday.”

  “Well, what, then? Ugly?”

  Annie sighed while memories rose like smoke. She could still trace the sweep of Samuel’s nose, the sculpted planes of his face. Not to mention the eyes nobody else on this green Earth could claim. “Handsomer than the devil, just about. And just as easy to hate.”

  Sophia’s jaw slackened. All around, birds twittered as people drifted into church.

  A thought struck Annie then—one that had been building ever since she’d punched the new girl in the face.

  Holy buckets. The ice queen and I are friends.

  If Sophia’s expression was any indicator, she thought so, too. She waited, expectant, as if wanting nothing more than to know what had been so godawful about Samuel St. Clair.

  Annie blew out a breath. “If you gotta know, he was tighter than a wet boot.”

  Understanding illuminated Sophia’s face. “Cheap?”

  “Greedy, more like. Never loved me half as much as he loved them silver dollars.”

  “Oh.” Sophia’s voice grew faint. “There’s nothing worse than that.”

  Annie turned, busying herself with hitching her horse to the fence. “Thing was, Samuel only ever wanted what didn’t want him. Chased me for months before I gave in. But the minute we was married, he went as scarce as hen’s teeth. Always off making money. And when he was around, it was just him trying to change me. Talk real pretty, he’d say. Dress real respectable. Don’t drink so much.”

  “Eww,” Sophia said.

  “Damn right. It was always change this, change that. Until one day I up and left.” Shading her eyes, Annie noted the influx of people had slowed to a trickle. Services would begin soon.

  Sophia nodded. A softness shone in her face—one that hadn’t showed when she’d first come down the Yukon. “Do you think he’ll try to find you?”

  Just like that, the memories fled, leaving space behind f
or an old dread to rise. “Oh, I know he will. He ain’t the kind to stand losing. He’ll drag me back to that big old house of his and make me act real proper, like a Marshal’s wife ought to.” She shuddered. Why even give shape to that dark fear?

  “You want me to shoot him when he shows up?”

  Annie chuckled. “Sure thing. One brown eye, one blue. Can’t miss him.”

  Sophia nodded.

  “And now I need a damn drink.”

  “What? Now?”

  Annie shrugged. “It’s after noon, ain’t it?” After a quick glance around the empty churchyard, she hitched up her skirts and plucked the flask from her thigh holster.

  “Um. Barely,” Sophia said.

  Liquor burned a bright trail down Annie’s throat. “What? You got guns and fancy judo moves, I got whiskey. Don’t say I never did my part.”

  ***

  As they ducked into the log church, Sophia whispered, “I’m an acrobat.”

  Cool silence slid over Annie’s skin, but heated guilt snuck into her cheeks—all those years, Pa had pushed her toward the house of God, and here she was finally, with him cold in the ground. “Hmm?”

  “It’s not judo. I’m not a martial artist. Just a sharpshooting acrobat who used to ride horses.”

  Annie surveyed the church. Dusty miners thronged the wooden pews while a massive iron stove crouched by the wall. At the far end, serene white sunlight flooded an empty pulpit. “I don’t care if you’re the damn Pope. Let’s just get this over with. If we keep back here, might be he won’t see us. Especially with my hair covered. Shoulda got you a bonnet, too.”

  Sophia tugged at her bodice. “I already put on a corset for that brute. And petticoats. That’s enough.”

  “Why you got such a hankering for men’s clothing?”

  “I can’t believe you wear these every day and can still ask that question.”

  Annie countered with a grin. Truth was, as uncomfortable as corsets might be, no amount of trousers and linen shirts would ever conceal her curves. Not that she’d try to hide the very thing that made life so enjoyable. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Maybe. But at least I’m comfortable. Most of the time.”

  Annie opened her mouth, but the rectory door swung open, stalling her response. Her gut twisted as she glanced up the aisle. “Remember. Madam Hyacinth said not to make a scene.”

  But when the Reverend stepped into the pulpit, burning anger ignited in Sophia’s black eyes, anyway. Annie grabbed for an elbow. Too late—her hand found nothing but empty air.

  Christ, Temperance is gonna kill me. “Hey. New girl! What in Sam hell’re you doing?”

  Sophia marched up the aisle, her head lowered like a charging bull. “Making a scene.”

  21. Sophia.

  The moment Sophia glimpsed the Reverend, cold anger swallowed her whole. She surrendered to it, letting her boots eat the distance to the pulpit.

  Gray stood before the massive windows. Bright light spilled around his silhouette, obscuring his expression. When she passed into his shadow, his face snapped into focus, his smile nearly blinding.

  Confusion slammed into her. Why in holy hell did the Reverend Gray look so delighted to see her?

  Her steps faltered. Someone grabbed her arm. Sophia glanced down to find Henry in the closest pew. One massive, bandaged hand wrapped around her wrist, squeezing hard enough to grind her bones together.

  She clenched her jaw to keep from crying out. Henry didn’t deserve the satisfaction of a flinch, so she offered a smile, instead. “How’s your finger?”

  He rewarded her with a ferocious scowl. “Sit down.”

  She tried to pull away, but his grip didn’t slacken.

  “Now,” Henry hissed. Inside his coat, he cradled a sawed-off shotgun, its barrel angled toward her heart. “Or I shoot you and your friend.”

  Fear clawed at her, but she banished it with a dramatic sigh. “This again?”

  “Sit.”

  In the pulpit, Reverend Gray observed the exchange with unrestrained joy. With his glowing cheeks and glimmering black cassock, he looked like he’d just wandered out of an Italian fresco somewhere.

  God, she hated him.

  Beneath her skirts, the Colts burned against her thighs. But when she glanced at Henry’s gun, wrath deserted her, draining out through her feet and into the dusty floorboards.

  “Holy hell,” she muttered, and sat down.

  Wary, Annie followed suit, sinking into a pew across the aisle. Henry flashed her a warning glance, too.

  “Don’t give her that look,” Sophia said. “Just point that thing at me. I’m the one your boss hates so much, anyway.”

  Henry looked at her askance. With his flushed cheeks and meaty face, he resembled an uncooked slab of beef—one with dull blue eyes, devoid of any spark. “’Cept you’re the one he won’t let me hurt.”

  Even idiotic Henry could probably sense the sudden confusion pouring off her. Gray…protecting her? Why?

  Up front, the Reverend lifted his arms. “I must declare this a good morning, my friends, for today, the Lord has blessed us richly. In our midst, we have two new lambs.”

  Sophia tensed. Don’t you dare…

  “I shan’t name them, for fear of infringing on their privacy, but among us sit two lovely ladies currently residing at the Scarlet Blossom.”

  Sophia’s cheeks warmed as feverish murmurs arose. Men twisted in their seats, leaning around each other to catch a glimpse. Gray might not have given their names, but aside from a couple of miner’s wives, she and Annie were the only women in the room.

  “Fairies,” someone whispered, a few rows back. “In church. Why bother?”

  Several miners sniggered in response.

  Sophia pointed her burning face forward. She harbored no shame—honest work earned honest pay, the way she saw it—but the murmurs wormed beneath her skin, all the same.

  Gray placed a solemn hand over his heart, knitting his brows into that trademark angelic expression. “Please welcome them with open arms.”

  Between the heated whispers, the merciless corset and the unforgiving pew, Sophia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she forced herself straight.

  Just sit here and suffer. It’ll only be the most awful two hours of your life.

  Except when the Reverend Gray preached, as it turned out, he wasn’t awful at all.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—endless, dry Bible verses, maybe, or some good, stiff, fire-and-brimstone reprimands.

  The Reverend delivered neither. Without abandoning the infuriating formality of his speech, he wove stories of everyday, working men who’d found riches through the benevolent grace of God. He preached in compassionate tones, ones that might have winnowed their way into her heart, if she’d had one.

  I understand you, he seemed to say, despite his spotless cassock and freshly shaven cheeks. I am one of you.

  The grimy miners leaned forward, eager to forget their aching, battered bodies and the insatiable cold that lurked outside.

  A twinge of guilt needled her. She forgot, sometimes, that for every Klondike King who tossed money around at the Blossom, nine other men fought to eat. The Rush had brought too many hopefuls to the Yukon, and too few stakes existed to support them all.

  The Reverend understood that. He spun hope into a palpable force, conjuring it like a rising tide until the air grew ripe with longing.

  When his narrative changed, the shift felt natural.

  “Plant your seed with God.” Gray looked around, as if speaking to each man alone. “As you would any other. Remember, from a single head of wheat, one may sow an entire field. From a single apple, one may grow an orchard. And a single gold nugget, planted in the fertile ground of God’s church, may reap untold riches. So, my friends—plant the seed. Allow Him to tend it, and receive His bounty.”

  His eyes shone with molten compassion. “Give only what you might easily spare, and ask yourself, a y
ear hence, will you remember the day you earned God’s generous provision? Will you remember the tithe that brought you gold of your own? Will you remember the day you became a Klondike King?”

  Murmurs rose in the crowd, even as Sophia scoffed.

  “I remember, sir!”

  Beside Annie, a young man jumped to his feet. The congregation fell silent.

  Sophia leaned forward. The young man, wearing a stylish brocade waistcoat, exuded a sense of wealth she could almost touch. Even so, his youthful face betrayed him as a cheechako—one of the endless newcomers who’d flooded up through Chilkoot.

  Reverend Gray beamed an indulgent smile. “Your name, child?”

  “George, sir.”

  George. As common as rain, that name might belong to anyone. Still, a frown tickled to life.

  “Pray tell us your story, George.”

  A faint glow stole into the boy’s cheeks. “Well, sir, I gave my tithe a year ago, in this very church. Not three days later, I staked a claim on Mayhem Creek that everyone said was worthless. Wouldn’t you know, but it now produces two thousand dollars a day.”

  Catcalls peppered the air. Even Sophia’s heart leapt. If she’d had that kind of money, maybe Adrian would’ve stayed…

  The moment the thought crystallized, she caught herself. Taking hold of the wish, she crushed it into pieces. Pulverized it into nothingness.

  “Now I’ve got more than I ever dreamed of,” George continued. “I’m even thinking about selling off, living the retired life. All thanks to you, sir.” He concluded with a crooked, charming grin, then sat down.

  The Reverend pitched his voice over the growing din. “Plant your seed!” He held up the collection bucket as miners burst to their feet. Excitement flooded the church, hollers bouncing off the stacked-log walls.

  Amid the bustle, Gray sought her gaze…and winked.

  Disgusted, she ached to leap up and shout. Of course somebody struck it rich, you imbeciles! It’s simple chance.

  But the hope in their faces kept her stiff in the pew. Who was she to take that away? And who would listen to her—especially against a man with that infernal angel’s face?