Gold Rush Baby (Alaskan Brides)

by Dorothy Clark

  He studied her for a moment, then moved to the table, glanced down at the swag, looked back at her and shook his head. “You’ll have to show me what to do.”

  Her mouth went dry. But not her hands. She nodded, wiped her moist palms down her long skirt and walked back to the table. He moved toward one end. She would have preferred he leave the room, but she couldn’t tell him so. She eyed the swag, would have to stand at the center of the length of the table to pick it up properly. And that was much, much too close to him.

  She swallowed, stepped into position, measured the distance from the ends of the swag with her eye and gathered the depth of the fabric into her hands. He stepped toward her. His chest almost touched her shoulder as he reached out his left hand, slid it beneath hers and cupped the fabric. His warm breath feathered across her cheek. She jerked to the side, slid along the table out of his way. He leaned forward, slipped his right hand beneath hers and took hold of the fabric, lifted it and walked to the second window.

  She closed her eyes, caught her breath then hurried back over to the bench. “Both sides are longer than the other swag. Bring them in toward the center, please. Yes, that’s good.” Please, Lord, let him go now. “Thank you, Thomas, I can manage now. I’ve only to put the runner on the collections table and I’m through.”

  He nodded, stepped back to the table. “I’ll just hold these out of your way.” He picked up the purple glass bowl Teena had brought in and the hurricane globe candle holder, stepped a little toward one end of the table.

  There was nothing to do but finish her job. She walked to the table, took the runner out of the package, folded the paper and tossed it over onto the bench. She edged to the center of the table, conscious of him standing so close she could hear him breathing, and spread the runner out, matching the amount of fabric that hung off the table at both ends.

  He held the bowl out to her. She tried to take it from him without touching his hand, but somehow their fingers met. She set the bowl on the table before she dropped it, moved it to the center. “You can put the candle right there.” She indicated the place she meant and hurried to the bench to pick up the paper. Finally she could leave. She turned toward the door.

  “Thank you for your hard work, Viola. You’ve made this room much nicer. It’s very welcoming, and…I guess you would call it elegant.”

  She nodded, forced a smile. “I enjoy doing things for the church.” She reached for the door handle.

  “I understand you’re going to make pads, like the one on the bench, for the pews.”

  “Yes. I hope to have them finished in time for Frankie and Ed’s wedding day.” Her words brought her dream rushing into her head and heart. Her pulse throbbed.

  “That promises to be quite a day.” He smiled and stepped close. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Her nerves drew taut. She brushed a curl back off her forehead. “Yes, of course I can.”

  He nodded and grinned—a crinkling of the corners of his green eyes, and a slow, crooked slanting of his mouth that made her knees go weak all over again.

  “Mack Tanner checked yesterday. The carpet for this room will be here on Wednesday’s supply boat. And the bell he’s ordered for the church will be here in time to ring out the celebration for the bride and groom.”

  “Oh, Thomas, that’s wonderful!” Her tension eased in her pleasure for her friend. “Frankie will be so excited. When will you tell her?”

  He shook his head. “Not me. Mack’s going to make the announcement on Sunday.” His gaze caught and held hers. “How is Goldie doing? Has she got that tooth yet?”

  That warm caring was back in his eyes and voice. She took a breath and nodded. “Two actually. She seems to like to get her teeth in pairs.” She twisted the handle and pulled open the door. “Good night, Thomas.”

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

  She pulled the door closed. It opened again before she reached the bottom of the steps. “Good night, Viola. Tell Hattie I said hello.”

  She nodded and hurried down the road, conscious of him standing on the stoop and watching her every step of the way.

  “You can’t run away forever, Viola. I’ll get past your fear and make you love me.” Thomas whispered the vow into the soft, night air, jumped off the stoop, jammed his hands in his pants pockets and headed straight for the woods. He needed a walk. A long walk. To feel her trembling when his arms were around her and not pull her close and taste the sweetness of those soft, full lips had taken every bit of inner moral strength he had. And then when she had run to the other side of the room and turned and looked at him…

  He shook his head. He’d misread that look. Had almost ruined it then. His love for her had caused him to see a responsive love in her, one that wasn’t there…yet. When he’d started for her, her look had changed to one of fear, almost panic. Was it because of her past? Because of what—

  He fisted his hands. Longed for Dengler or Dolph or Karl or those men who had abused the young, innocent Viola to pummel, to punish for every moment of hurt or fear or degradation she had suffered at their hands. Hatred, rage against those men who had touched her boiled up, darkened his vision. His long-legged strides drove him forward past the clustered cabins, beyond Dunkle’s farm, to the woods. He shoved a branch aside, stepped onto the Tlingit path and broke into a run, a bone-jarring, lung-challenging run that would leave him exhausted and drained.

  His boots thudded against the soft earth. His straining lungs dragged in oxygen, and his heart pounded. Trees flashed by, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t run hard enough or fast enough or far enough to outrun the truth.

  He had to forgive those men. He had to forgive them. Not for their sakes. For his. If he didn’t forgive, his rage would turn to bitterness and that would destroy him and any chance he had to build a life of love with Viola. If he didn’t forgive them, there would be no peace for him in these woods or anywhere.

  He slowed to a jog, staggered to a towering tree and drove his fists against the rough bark of the unyielding trunk until he hadn’t strength enough left to lift his arms. And still, it wasn’t enough. He slid down the trunk to his knees, pressed his face against his wounded, bleeding, fisted hands and sobbed out his fury, his frustration and rebellion against what he must do.

  When the paroxysm had passed, he turned and leaned back against the trunk, rested his forearms on top of his bent knees and stared up at the purple sky above the branches. “All right, Lord, all right. I yield. I don’t want to, but I choose to obey. I choose to forgive those men…all of them.”

  He felt it then, God’s presence washing over him, drenching him, sluicing away the anger and bitterness, leaving him clean and at peace.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Viola added a little more milk to the batter and stirred. “Is this right?”

  Hattie peered into the bowl, nodded. “Yep. Not so thick it sits in a lump, and not so thin it runs all over the griddle when you spoon it on. Now, get some water on your fingers and shake it off over the griddle.”

  “Why?” She dipped the tips of her fingers and shook them over the griddle. Drops of water sizzled and bounced across the hot, iron surface before disappearing.

  “See that water dancin’? Means the griddle’s hot enough. Spread a mite of grease on it…. Yep, that’s good. Now git your batter on there.”

  She spooned out batter, watched it spread to a little pool and stop, repeated the process over the long griddle surface. Grease sizzled around the edges of the small mounds of batter. She smiled down at Goldie sitting on the floor chewing on the wooden dog’s ear. “Are you watching me learning to cook, sweetie? I’ll have some good pancakes for you to eat soon.”

  “Not ’less you get to flippin’ them over. They’re fixin’ to burn.”

  “Already?” She dropped the spoon into the bowl and grabbed the turner.

  “Slide it under, then flip them fast.”

 
; “Like this?” She did as instructed, laughed when the pancake flipped over perfectly and went on to the next. “How did you know they were ready to be turned?”

  Hattie pointed a knobby finger at the one yet to be turned. “They’re ready when them little bubbles ’round the edges start poppin’.”

  “Oh. And now?”

  Hattie grinned. “Now you just know. Or else you lift them up and peek.” She tilted her head, frowned. “Someone’s knockin’. I’ll go. You’d best push that bacon over to the side where it’s not so hot.”

  “Hattie.” Panic pounced. She grabbed one of the thick pads she had made for Hattie and pushed the sizzling bacon over to the edge of the stove. Grease popped. “Ouch!” She wiped the grease off the back of her hand onto her apron, then lifted a pancake and peeked at the underside. Perfectly browned. She grabbed a plate off the table, piled the pancakes onto it and set it on the warming shelf. A bit more grease on the griddle, more batter… A smile curved her lips. Cooking wasn’t so hard once—

  She froze. Was that— She stepped sideways toward the door to the living room, tipped her head and listened. It was.

  Her heart jolted. Batter slid off the spoon onto the top of the stove, spit and hissed. Footsteps came close. Hattie’s—and heavy male ones.

  Her hair! She hadn’t put it up yet. And she couldn’t get to her room without going by them. Oh, Hattie— She grabbed at the curly mass with her free hand, tossed it back over her shoulders. The food. She jerked back to her place. The batter bubbles were popping. She dropped the spoon, grabbed the turner and flipped them, scooped up the batter that had fallen on the stove and flipped it onto the griddle, rubbed off the bit that remained with a corner of her apron just in time.

  Hattie came through the door, all smiles. “Look who was at the door, Viola.”

  She didn’t have to look. Her heart had already told her. She arranged her features in a cool, controlled mask and glanced over at Thomas. His wavy, sandy hair was darker than normal, slicked back by water or some sort of pomade. There was a smile warming his green eyes, tilting the corners of his mouth. Her pounding pulse started dancing like the water she’d spattered on the hot griddle.

  “Good morning, Viola. I came to pick up my shirt.” He cleared his throat, looked away, then back. His brown shirt lifted with his deep breath. “I’m sorry I’m so early. I’m a sunrise person, and I’ve lived alone in that hut on the trail so long, I forget others don’t start their day as early as I do.”

  “You gonna let them pancakes burn?”

  “What? Oh.” She looked down at the griddle, flipped the pancakes and held the turner out. She could go do her hair. “You finish, Hattie. I’ll go get Thomas his—”

  Hattie shook her head, waved away the turner. “No need to do that now. You got plenty of time. I asked Thomas to share breakfast with us.” She rubbed at her shoulder. “You keep at the cookin’. My bones are achin’ some this morning. I’ll just set another plate at the table, then plunk myself down in a chair and rest them a spell.”

  “But—”

  “Smells like them pancakes is done. Bacon needs turnin’, too.”

  She clamped her jaw, spun back around to the stove, wanting to cry or scream. She wasn’t quite sure which.

  “Could I help?”

  She snatched the pancake platter off the warming shelf, flipped a pancake onto it and glared up at him. “If you don’t want to eat burned food.” Flip. “This is the first time I’ve ever cooked.” Flip. She slammed the platter back onto the warming shelf, dropped more grease onto the griddle, spooned on batter, decided she didn’t want to cry or scream. She wanted to scold Hattie. And she would. Later.

  “Here’s the eggs.”

  Eggs? A blue crockery bowl was set on the reservoir close to her hand.

  “An’ here’s a plate so you can lift the bacon.”

  Hattie’s knobby, arthritic hand came into view holding out a plate. Viola stared at it like it was a snake about to strike.

  “Why don’t I handle the bacon and eggs?”

  His voice, so warm, so deep, so…unnerving. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, back to the crying or screaming decision.

  “Could you hand me that fork so I can lift this bacon, please?”

  She opened her eyes, picked up the long-handled, two-tined cooking fork and held it out. Gasped, shot her gaze to his face. “What happened to your hands?”

  “I had an argument with a tree.” His gaze took command of hers, held it prisoner. “Scraped my knuckles up.” His eyes darkened to a smoky gray-green.

  She stepped back, feeling crowded, unable to breathe. “I think the bacon’s burning.” She made a little stab in the air with the fork.

  “I like burned bacon.” He stepped close, closed his hand over hers on the handle.

  She jerked away, the fork clattered to the stove. “I— I’ll be right back. I still have some of Teena’s herbal salve. It will help your hands.” She rushed from the room.

  He stared after her, his heart sick. “She’s afraid of me.”

  “No, she’s not.” Hattie rose, picked up the fork and handed it to him. “She’s afraid of the way you make her feel.” Her wise old eyes looked up into his. “Viola’s experienced only one kind of man, Thomas. And she learned early how to protect her heart from their mean and selfish ways. But you don’t fit what she’s always known, and she’s learnin’ there ain’t any way of protectin’ herself from love. She don’t rightly know what it is she’s feelin’, because she’s never experienced the sharin’, the givin’ and receivin’ kind of love. You just keep doin’ what your doin’. She’ll come around.” She blinked her eyes, gestured toward the stove. “Now save what you can of that bacon whilst I get to work on these eggs.”

  “Gracious!”

  “Oh!” Viola drew the needle through the velvet, dropped the cushion to the floor and ran to open the door be fore the pounding woke Goldie. “Wha—”

  “Ya gotta come, Miz Goddard…Miz Marsh! Ya gotta come! The church bell’s here!” Matthew Harris jumped up and down, pointed down the road. “They’re fixin’ to hang it right now! Miz Tanner sent me to get you. I gotta get Ma!” He dashed off across the road.

  Viola spun about. Hattie was on her feet, excitement brightening her faded-blue eyes, a grin deepening the wrinkles on her face. “The bell’s here, Hattie. Get your wrap and—”

  The wisps of gray hair escaping Hattie’s bun fluttered with the vehement shake of her head. “You go, Viola. I’ll stay here with Goldie and come along when she wakes.”

  “No, Hattie. This is too important an event for either one of us to miss.” She whirled toward her bedroom door. “I’ll wake Goldie and get her changed and ready to go. You get your wrap and grab a toy for her that I can take along. Hurry!”

  “My! Everybody in town is here.” Hattie looked over the crowd. “Sounds like the waterfront.”

  Viola listened to the hum of voices, the excited yells of children—the exclamations that rose over the pounding of hammers and clang of metal that punctuated the clamor—and nodded. She stopped, glanced around. “Maybe we should try and cut through the back lots to the school and see—”

  “Viola… Hattie… Over here!”

  She looked toward the voices, saw Evelyn Harris, Margie Sanders, Lucy Johnson and Mavis Goodge waving and wove a path through the spectators to them.

  “Exciting, isn’t it?”

  She nodded in answer to Margie and looked across the road. There was a wagon backed up to the church entrance, the bell sitting at the back of the bed. Men were bent over it, attaching a rope from a block and tackle to the short, thick piece of wood the bell was fastened to.

  “The bell will complete our church.” Evelyn Harris beamed a smile at them all. “What a blessing we have Mack Tanner as founder of our town. He’s so generous. That bell had to cost him a good deal of money.”

  “Ain’t no more generous than Thomas givin’ half o’ them gold nuggets he found to buy the stained glass
windows. Or the rest o’ us donatin’ what we can to help.” Hattie peered up at the taller woman. “Not takin’ anythin’ away from Mack Tanner. Just sayin’ the difference is, he gives out of his plenty, most of the rest of us give out of our just makin’ it by.”

  A flush climbed Evelyn’s neck and spread across her cheeks. “You’re right, Hattie.” She leaned down, gave Hattie a quick hug. “Thank you for reminding me of that. I…” She looked at the rest of the group and laughed. “Well you all know I’m too easily impressed by wealth.”

  “We know.”

  Viola joined in the laughter at Mavis’s droll reply.

  “Haul away!”

  She snapped her gaze back across the road. Two men pulled down on a rope that rose to feed through another block and tackle, fastened to the center of a crossbeam that spanned the distance between two thick upright posts at the front corners of a platform that straddled the peak of the roof. Ed Parker and Duncan MacDougal stood on the platform looking down at the bell. The sight of them at the edge of the roof made her stomach queasy. She looked back at the bell.

  The rope tightened, the block and tackle creaked and the bell lifted from the wagon bed, hung swinging from the rope.

  A cheer rose from the crowd, was quickly stifled as the bell began its slow ascent.

  “Why isn’t it ringing, Pa?”

  “They’ve got the clapper wrapped. It protects it while its being shipped.”

  She glanced at the young boy who had asked the question and smiled. “I wondered, too.”

  He gave her a shy smile and leaned against his father’s legs.

  Thomas walked up to the wagon and spoke to the driver, who nodded then drove away. Thomas moved over to stand with Mack Tanner, lifted his head to watch the bell continue its climb. Her heart warmed, fluttered. How handsome he was, with the sun gilding his sandy hair and his strong, weather-tanned features.

  He straightened, turned his head and scanned the crowd, met her gaze.