Silent Stranger
Peggy Darty
Copyright
© 1999 by Barbour Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
one
Ruth Wright stepped from the general store onto the narrow boardwalk of Dawson in the Northwest Territories. Dawson had sprung up at the junction of the Yukon and Klondike Rivers soon after gold was discovered on Bonanza Creek, and the word had spread like wildfire across Canada, Alaska, and the United States since July 1897. Over the last year, people had poured into the territory—Ruth and her father included—and now the settlement had become a rowdy little town. Today Dawson was buzzing with excitement over the weekly arrival of a boat from “outside,” for with the boat came mail, food, mining supplies, and news from all over the world.
Tucking a strand of auburn hair under her bonnet, she drew herself up to her five feet, seven inches and turned her slender body toward the wharf for she, too, was interested in the boat’s arrival.
“Good afternoon, Ruth.” Mrs. Greenwood stopped her. She was short, heavyset in middle age, and rumored to be the town gossip. “Who’s at the clinic today?”
“It’s been a quiet day, Mrs. Greenwood. Just a few routine calls. No major ailments.” She took a secret delight in suppressing information from Mrs. Greenwood.
“Well, you and the doc better get ready! With all the new folks arriving, there’ll be brawls in the street tonight.”
Ruth glanced at her. “Maybe not.”
Despite Mrs. Greenwood’s negative opinion about the passengers, she joined Ruth in walking toward the dock, where the Bella was nudging its way into the shoreline. People eagerly gathered up and down the shore watching.
“As usual, the men outnumber the women,” Mrs. Green-wood said with a heavy sigh.
Ruth did not reply as she studied the strangers meandering tentatively down the gangplank. Watching, she tried to guess the professions of those arriving. It was easy to spot the miners—denim trousers, flannel shirts, felt hats. Then there were the men who had come to open shops; on their arms were women dressed in the fashion of the day.
“Hmmph,” Mrs. Greenwood snorted. “They’ll find out their city garb won’t work here,” she said as she and Ruth both stared at the fashionably high, stiff collars, narrow corseted waists, and wide bouffant skirts. “Look! Some of them are even wearing those disgraceful skirts!”
In cities, the fashion now was toward shorter skirts that showed the ankles.
“At least the knickers underneath will keep them warm,” Ruth laughed, glad for her own. “Those were all the fad when I left Seattle.”
“I call them bloomers,” Mrs. Greenwood said under her breath. “I’m glad to see that not all of them are trying to be fashionmongers,” she commented grudgingly. Mrs. Green-wood had gained ten pounds since Ruth had known her, and she couldn’t help wonder if some of her criticism was due to her own dissatisfaction with herself.
“Reckon they’ll be shedding those corsets soon enough,” Mrs. Greenwood stated with pride. Automatically Ruth touched her waist, thinking how most of the women in Dawson had shed their corsets by mutual agreement, choosing comfort over fashion. It was difficult enough to keep the clothes clean and presentable, with having to deal with the mud of the streets and the occasional misfired stream of tobacco juice.
Ruth’s eyes skimmed the crowd, recalling how she must have looked on the day she and her father arrived in June: she had worn her best silk dress with brush braid and interlined with buckram, which made the skirt swing wide when she walked.
An amused grin slipped over her full lips. She had worn the dress only once since her arrival nearly two months ago. At that time only those with money—like Ruth and her father, Dr. Wright, affectionately called Doc—could afford to arrive in Dawson City by boat. Many of the other inhabitants had come over the most difficult route, yet the cheapest. They had booked passage, one way or another, by steamer to Skagway, then struggled over the seven hundred miles to the Klondike by White Pass or Chilkoot Pass, each a challenge for human survival.
Somehow they had arrived, frostbitten, heavily bearded, and practically threadbare. They brought very little, having to shed their belongings piece by piece to lighten their load on the tortuous pass. When finally they stumbled in from the Klondike, thin as rails, many were in need of her father’s medical attention. There was one other doctor in town, a fortyish widower by the name of Arthur Bradley, but Doc Wright’s clinic was the busier one.
“Looks like the same kind of people,” Mrs. Greenwood sighed.
As Ruth watched the boat’s passengers disperse among the crowd, her eyes lingered on one young man in particular. He was tall with broad shoulders and long legs, and he wore the clothes of a laborer or a miner—denim trousers, red woolen shirt with long sleeves, and a black felt hat. She glimpsed thick, golden hair beneath the hat as he turned to speak with a huge, burly man beside him whose clothes were ragged and whose felt hat was smashed low on his forehead.
They had exited the gangplank and were now lost in the crowd.
“You heading home now?” Mrs. Greenwood asked as they turned back toward Front Street.
“Yes, actually I should have gone back sooner.”
“And Mr. Greenwood will be wondering what’s happened to me,” she said, quickening her short steps. “I have to tell him about the boat.”
Mrs. Greenwood was always on a mission for news. Her husband was one of the town assayers, and when Mrs. Greenwood ran low on conversation, he could pick up the slack. He knew the extent of everyone’s wealth, particularly if their wealth came from gold dust or nuggets measured at his hands. He also knew which men were losing their shirts or had already busted and gone home. As it happened, the Greenwoods were Ruth’s neighbors, which added to her discomfort. Her father merely seemed amused by the two.
As they parted company and Mrs. Greenwood turned down a side street to her husband’s office, Ruth shifted the brown-papered bundle of supplies in her arms and hurried toward home. As she retraced her steps, she looked around her, wondering how the new arrivals aboard the Bella would regard Dawson. This was a town of white tents—most of them dirty by now—some hastily thrown up log dwellings, a few crude saloons, and a couple of hotels in various stages of development. Where there had once been a rough wilderness, the stampede for gold had brought thousands of people pouring into the territory. The screech of saws cutting across wood filled her ears as men worked day and night to construct dwellings. Every day brought a new adventure. It was the most exciting period of Ruth’s twenty-one years.
Ruth had reached the end of the block and was now facing their two-story log house, the only two-story house in Dawson. The first floor of the house was used for the clinic; the upstairs provided two bedrooms, a living room–dining room combination, and a kitchen. Her father had spared no expense when he commissioned the hasty building of the house before their arrival. He had paid dearly for the indoor toilet and well-insulated plumbing, but Ruth was eternally grateful. She couldn’t bear to think of traipsing to the outhouses she saw behind most buildings. Her father felt by combining office and home, the luxury was warranted.
She noted there were no horses at the hitching rail, which could or could not indicate patients within the clinic. She climbed the porch steps of the simple log house and caught her breath. It had been a long
walk and she was tired. Pausing at the horsehair mat, she scraped the mud from her rubber boots and opened the door.
Crossing the hall, she peered into the large front room of the clinic. The clinic was basically an office and a waiting room. An overstuffed sofa and table were balanced by several straight-backed chairs. Her father got up from behind his cluttered desk at the opposite end of the room and came to meet her.
“Has Dr. Bradley stolen your patients?” she looked around, teasing her father. “You must have cut off the wrong toe and Mrs. Greenwood got wind of it!”
Her father laughed, enjoying his daughter’s humor. “Dr. Bradley is welcome to some of the load,” he said, chuckling. “Here, let me help.” He scooped the packages from her arms.
“The Bella just arrived,” she said, removing her cape and placing it on the coat tree.
“I pray there was a generous amount of food for the merchants to stock their shelves,” Doc was saying.
Ruth nodded as she looked at the tall man before her. Kind hazel eyes reflected the charm of his youth, but that youth had vanished with the death of Mary Ruth Wright three years ago and with the long work-filled days that had been so much a part of his life. Thick brows and dark lashes matched the darkness of his hair, although more gray than black now covered his head. His dark coat, superbly tailored, no longer concealed the paunch at his waist, but Ruth’s smile merely widened. Her father enjoyed eating, and she loved cooking.
“Seriously, did anyone come by?” she asked, glancing around the clinic and noting that her father had already tidied things up. Her eyes lifted to the wooden bookcase that held numerous medical books and journals. One or two were askew, as though he had consulted them at some point during the day.
“Ned Joiner from the blacksmith shop. He got careless with the hammer and smashed his thumb. No permanent damage. All in all, I’d say it’s been a rather dull day.”
“Then I’m glad. You work too hard.”
He was staring at her thoughtfully now. “Ruth, I couldn’t manage without you. I hope you realize that.”
“I do realize it. Besides, you don’t take care of yourself very well. You need me to boss you around,” she teased.
He chuckled. “Then I’ll allow you to do that. But first, I’ll take this package up to the kitchen for you.”
“No, thank you.” she wrestled the package from him. “You stretch out in the chair and put your feet up.”
Strangely, he obeyed, tilting his head curiously at her as he took his seat.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked frankly.
He smiled. “It’s just that you remind me so much of your beautiful mother—the auburn hair, the heart-shaped face, the way you move and talk and think.”
“Thank you,” she replied, touched by the compliment. Her mother was the kindest person she had ever known and, like her father, Ruth had been devastated by her death.
“But I have your eyes,” she reminded him, and they both laughed. “Well, I must start supper.”
She climbed the steps to their apartment on the second floor. Entering the living room, her eyes moved over the simple wooden furniture they had purchased from local carpenters. It was a far cry from the fine pieces they had left behind, but in Dawson City, everyone had to start all over again.
She hurried to the kitchen, depositing her goods on the cabinet. The kitchen always gave her a sense of contentment, perhaps because in Seattle the kitchen had been the center of their family life. Her mother loved to cook and had dispensed with kitchen help, even though most families of their status hired cooks and maids. The only concession her mother made was hiring a cleaning lady for their large home. The kitchen belonged to Ruth and her mother. Unable to conceive another child after Ruth, her mother had tried to make up for their small family by constantly entertaining.
The sound of horse hooves outside brought her to the window. She parted the muslin curtain and peered down. Her eyes widened. To her surprise, the man she had spotted on the gangplank of the Bella was slowly getting down from a brown sorrel with a well-tended harness. Yes, it was him—and now she could see that he was even taller as her eyes scanned the long legs that stretched to brown cowhide boots. His red shirt strained against well-toned muscles as he hitched his horse at the log rail. Then suddenly his eyes moved upward to the window where she stood gawking.
Ruth stepped back, realizing she shouldn’t be so judgmental of Mrs. Greenwood, for at the moment she was burning with curiosity. She heard his knock, and then her father’s steps crossed the hall to the front door. She walked to the open door and stood listening.
“I’m Doc Wright.” Her father’s voice floated up to her.
“I’m Joe Spencer,” he said, speaking slowly. “I hurt my back down at the dock just now. Thought I should get it checked.”
“Then come in and let’s have a look.”
Ruth could hear them crossing the hall, and then the clinic door closed. She supposed if her father needed her, he would call for her. She stopped at the counter, picking up a narrow black satin ribbon. Suddenly conscious of the wispy strands of auburn hair dangling at her collar, she gripped the ribbon with her teeth and swept her hair back from her face, securing it at the nape of her neck with the ribbon.
Her curiosity about the man downstairs lingered as she rolled up the long sleeves of her blouse. He was a southerner; she could tell from his accent.
She rinsed her hands in the wash pan, wondering if he had seriously injured his back; from the way he moved, she would guess it was a strain. She dried her hands on a cup towel then turned to check the dough she had left rising near the stove. As she pressed her thumb into the fat dough and made a fingerprint, she reached for the rolling pin. Scrambled eggs with biscuits and a tin of molasses settled the question of supper. How could she manage an invitation to the stranger? Or was he married? Her heart sank. Probably.
The door opened again, and she heard her father speaking. “Just apply that liniment and don’t lift anything heavy. If you want to stop in tomorrow, I’ll have a larger bottle. Some of my medical supplies should have come in on the boat. Say, want to come up and have a cup of coffee?”
There was a moment’s hesitation while she grabbed the teakettle.
“If it’s no bother.”
“No bother at all. We drink a lot of coffee here,” he was saying as the men climbed the stairs.
Ruth had poured hot water from the teakettle into the tin coffeepot and now had it back on the stove. She was spooning coffee grounds into the pot as their footsteps entered the living room. “Have a seat,” her father was saying. “You need to bend your knees and ease yourself slowly onto the sofa. Protect that back.” Doc poked his head around the door. “Could we—”
“I’m making coffee,” she said, smiling at him.
“Thank you.” he grinned then turned back to the living room.
“How long have you been here, Doc?” The smooth voice of the stranger drifted to her.
“My daughter and I came up from Seattle in June. I’d spent my life there. After the Panic in ’93, the country was in a depression. It seemed the Pacific Northwest was especially slow to recover. Many of my patients couldn’t even pay their medical bills, but I wouldn’t turn them away. They were people I’d known for years.”
Listening from the kitchen, Ruth nodded, thinking about how tenderhearted her father had always been. She checked to be sure the water was boiling then grabbed tall mugs from the cupboard.
“When the Portland steamed into Seattle last year—July l7 it was—with news of the Klondike gold strike, Seattle went crazy. Salespeople bolted over the counters; firemen and policemen threw down their uniforms; even the mayor resigned. I heard that one preacher walked out on his congregation!”
Both men laughed at that, and from the kitchen Ruth listened, enjoying the sound of Joe Spencer’s laughter. Every-thing about this stranger fascinated her.
“San Francisco was much the same way,” Joe replied.
“I think everyone was hungry for change,” Doc continued. “The idea of gold and adventure appealed to all of us. I heard the Yukon was desperate for doctors, so my daughter and I left as soon as we could have our place built. But then, after all I’d heard about the Klondike and its thriving towns, Ruth and I were pretty disappointed when we got here. From the boat this place just looked like one big swamp sprawled along a riverbank.” He chuckled.
“I reckon the first settlers here had a real vision about what the town could become,” Joe said. “It seems to be thriving now.”
“Yes, it is,” Doc agreed. “And you’re right, Joe Ladue had a real vision when he put up a warehouse and a sawmill. He knew what he was doing, that’s for sure. My biggest gripe with Dawson, I guess, is those who try to get rich on the settlers.”
“Yes, sir. I’d heard men complain about how the merchants had tripled the prices on everything. When I went into the mercantile this afternoon, I almost dropped the sack of secondhand nails when the clerk priced them at eight dollars a pound.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Doc replied, his voice filled with contempt.
“As a matter of fact, sir, you have the best price in town for services rendered.”
“Thank you. That’s a nice thing to say. I just came to help, that’s all.”
“The people here are fortunate you made that decision, Dr. Wright.”
“Just call me Doc. Everyone does.”
“Do you dabble in mining at all, Doc?”
Her father hesitated. As Ruth pulled the coffeepot from the burner, she wondered if her father would admit that he owned a claim. A half-starved miner had collapsed on their doorstep while waiting for the next boat out. In payment for services, he had given Doc the claim, which appeared useless and had nearly killed him.
“I don’t have time to think about mining.” Doc sidestepped the question. “I’m not inclined to hire someone to build a shaft down into the earth or wade through the frozen streams in winter. And I certainly don’t want to do that.”
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