Silent Stranger

by Darty, Peggy;

  Her eyes were glowing as she squeezed his hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief as she answered him. “Your words neither embarrass nor offend me. I am filled with joy that you feel this way because. . .” She faltered, dropped her eyes to their clasped hands for a moment. Then, as though she had gathered her courage, she lifted her hazel eyes to him and spoke in a firm voice. “Because I feel the same way. I love you, too, Joe.”

  His breath caught. A joy too sweet to believe filled his being. He had never in his life felt such happiness, such hope. He stood, lifting her hand to his chest, drawing her gently from her chair.

  “I love you,” he repeated, his hands cupping the sides of her heart-shaped face as he kissed her with all the fervor of a man deeply in love. She returned his kiss, and as their lips expressed their joy, she pulled back from him, breathlessly. The light flushed her cheeks and the radiance in her eyes told him she would be a wonderful wife, eager to accept his affections and return them. She would not be cold or impassive, as he had heard some men complain.

  “Ruth, would you—” He stopped himself. How could he propose to her without telling her everything? And if he did, he would lose her.

  Her face was tilted slightly, and she seemed to be holding her breath, waiting.

  “I don’t want to rush you,” he said, gently backing himself out of the situation. “I just want you to be certain about how you feel. We’ll talk more seriously when I return.”

  At that, he glanced over his shoulder and saw complete darkness through the window. He sighed, releasing her. “I have to go.”

  “I don’t want you to,” she said suddenly then bit her lip. “But of course you must. I hear of accidents on the trail, and there is always the danger of frostbite from exposure. Please be careful.” Her voice was low and plaintive, drawing him back to her.

  He kissed her again, quickly this time, and then he forced himself to head for the door. He knew that with each minute he spent with her, the opportunity to leave was becoming more difficult. He longed to stay with her. . .forever. But he must earn her love and their future, and that meant returning to the freezing, torturous work that lay ahead of him.

  She followed him down the stairs, crossing her arms over her chest, watching silently as he removed his boots and pulled on the heavier ones, then bundled himself back into the parka.

  “Could I give you an extra blanket?” she asked suddenly.

  “I carry one in my saddlebag,” he said. “Merry Christmas, Ruth.” He hesitated at the doorway, again hating to leave.

  “Merry Christmas, Joe.” This time it was she who leaned forward and brushed his lips with a kiss.

  The kiss warmed his lips against the freezing night that enveloped him, and the memory of the glow in her eyes, the words she had spoken—she loved him!—gave him the endurance he needed to return through the bleak winter night to the drafty cabin he shared with Ivan.

  ten

  The cold darkness of January seemed interminable. Only a few hours of daylight broke the monotony, and during those hours Ruth and Dorie tried to maintain their chores. Dorie worked long hours at the newspaper office, for the small newspaper was a major source of entertainment for the residents of Dawson.

  Ruth spent much of her time planning the best way to convert their dwindling supply of food into nutritional meals. More and more she turned to God for strength. She read her mother’s Bible often, and many days she was tempted to sink into grief. It was the memory of Joe Spencer, however, that always gave her hope and joy.

  She had not heard from him since Christmas Day, when he left the house. They had been enveloped in a glow of love that day, a glow that warmed her during the fiercely cold nights when the wind howled around the eaves of her house. Then she longed for Joe’s strong arms, and she worried that he was cold or hungry or sick. When worry burdened her heart, she prayed. Many nights, the wee hours found her on her knees by her bed, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders to warm her as she asked God to protect her beloved. She had lost both parents, and now she agonized about losing Joe.

  During the first week of February, a heavily bundled Arthur Bradley appeared at her door, hugging a sack against his chest. Although surprised to see him, Ruth found herself glad that he had come, and she quickly invited him inside, for there was only a thin sliver of daylight and it was freezing cold outside.

  “Ruth, I have more food than I need,” he said, following her up the stairs to the living area. “I wanted to share a few items with you. I’ve been worrying about you.”

  “I’m fine, Arthur,” she answered with a smile.

  He waved aside her reply as they entered the kitchen and he placed the sack on the counter. “I’m sure you are. However, with very little daylight and the weather so terribly cold, I don’t like the thought of you trying to walk to the mercantile. And if you did,” he said, shaking his head, “you wouldn’t find much to purchase.”

  She sighed. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

  He was removing his parka, his scarf, and then his gloves. “Yes, I’m afraid the lack of food is getting quite serious. However, everyone seems to be making do, although I can tell you the faces are getting thinner and thinner.”

  She shook her head, turning for the stove. “Then let’s have a cup of hot tea and be grateful for our blessings.”

  “A splendid idea,” he said, taking a seat at the table.

  When she asked about his work, he began to relate stories from the clinic. As they sat at the kitchen table sipping weak tea and discussing medicine, she felt relieved that he had come. In an odd way, it brought back conversations with her father. She had missed Arthur. When finally he lapsed into silence and looked deeply into her eyes, Ruth sensed that he still cared for her.

  She got up to refill their teacups, wanting to escape the look of sadness in his eyes.

  “Arthur, Dorie told me there is word of a missionary hospital to be established here later in the year. Is this true?” she asked, eager to divert his thoughts.

  He blinked, as though clearing his head, and nodded. “Yes, I expect there will be a hospital, although it will be small and sparsely furnished in the beginning. Still, it is much needed, and I will not feel so guilty when I leave.”

  She sat down in the chair and looked across at him. “You are leaving, then?”

  He nodded, staring at his cup. “As soon as I can. Of course, I will wait until some of the medical missionaries arrive, but I hope they will be on the first boat this spring. I hate it here, Ruth.” He sighed. “I am not cut out for this type of life.”

  “Is anyone?” She smiled sadly.

  “It doesn’t seem to have bothered you as badly as most.”

  She considered the thought and shrugged. “Perhaps it is because I know there is nothing I can do to change my circumstances during this time. I just have to try and be patient.”

  “Patient for what?” he asked, frowning. “For travel to commence again so you can go home?”

  She hesitated. For a moment, she longed to tell him about Joe, but then she knew it would only hurt him. She could no longer speak to him as a friend, for his feelings for her exceeded friendship, and she regretted that.

  Noticing her hesitation, he continued. “Are you still seeing Mr. Spencer?”

  “Yes,” she replied and smiled in spite of herself. “I care for him, Arthur. And he cares for me. I don’t know what the future holds, but I am happy for now.”

  “I see,” he said, speaking more formally. “What news did he bring of his claim last week? Mr. Greenwood says he is the only miner making money. Maybe you didn’t do so badly in choosing him,” he said with a wry grin, “although it pains me to say so.”

  She stared at him, her mind closing over the other words he had spoken. “Last week?” she repeated, still wondering if she had heard him correctly. “You saw him last week?”

  “Actually, I didn’t. Mrs. Greenwood just remarked that her husband had measured out nuggets from one of Spencer’s claims, a
nd that the nuggets were quite promising. Perhaps he has struck a bonanza after all, although I’m sure it will be months before he can work in earnest, considering the weather conditions.”

  She heard the wind rattling a loose board at the corner of the house, and at the same time, something cold crept through her heart. If Joe had been in town, why hadn’t he come to see her?

  She lifted her teacup and took a sip, oblivious to the weak taste, to whatever else Arthur was saying. Why would Joe come to town and not visit her? She tried to ignore the sting of hurt, rationalizing that he might have come and knocked; perhaps she had been in the back of the house and not heard him. So often the boards rattled and she had learned to ignore the occasional bump. If she had not been looking out the window as Arthur arrived, she might not have gone to the door.

  Arthur took out his pocket watch and sighed. “Amazing how the hours drag during the lonely darkness. I’ve spent an hour here with you, and yet it seems that only a few minutes have passed.”

  Ruth forced a smile as she put down her teacup. “I hope you aren’t working too hard,” she said, her voice sounding odd in her own ears.

  “I am, but I prefer to stay busy. Frostbite is rampant. And scurvy. Miss Mattie’s boardinghouse is full. Many of the miners have given up and come in for the duration of the winter. It was a wise decision. Some would have died, otherwise.” He stood. “Thank you for your hospitality. You have brightened my day.”

  “Thank you for coming, Arthur.” She glanced at the items on the kitchen counter that he had brought to her.

  “You were kind to bring food. Dorie will be appreciative, too. Have you met her?”

  He nodded, looking pleased. “I am so relieved that she is living with you, Ruth. She seems like a nice woman, and I don’t think you need to be here alone,” he said, his eyes trailing over the kitchen.

  “She’s an answer to prayer. It has proven to be a most satisfactory arrangement for both of us,” she said, following him back through the living room. She hugged her arms around her, almost hating to see him go. She thought of the night he had kissed her and the anger she had felt. All that was in the past now. He was still concerned for her, despite her rebuking him, concerned enough to bring food.

  Why hadn’t Joe done that?

  She followed him down to the front door, bracing herself for the icy blast of cold that would hit her once the door was opened.

  “Good-bye, Arthur. Take care,” she said, watching him as he huddled into his parka and drew the woolen scarf about his chin.

  “You, too,” he said, his words muffled by the scarf.

  “Good-bye,” she said, closing the door. The cold quickly penetrated her woolen dress, following her as she hurried back upstairs. She wondered why people didn’t drop dead in the streets. To live in Dawson, one had to be a survivor; lack of knowledge could take a life in minutes. Most people knew exactly how long it would take for exposed skin to freeze. They also knew it was committing suicide to try and challenge the elements. As she hurried back to the warmth of the kitchen, she thought about what the past year had brought to her.

  Never a patient person, she had learned patience, and she had learned to trust God. She had no choice. It was comforting to know that God was watching over her. Even today. He had sent Arthur with food when she had prayed yesterday for knowledge of how to best stretch the meager items left in her pantry.

  She opened the sack and examined the tinned goods. . .and the small pouch of coffee.

  “Oh, Arthur,” she sighed, lifting the pouch and relishing the smell of coffee beans. It had been weeks since she and Dorie had tasted coffee. Now they were in for a treat.

  Joe, she thought miserably, why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you bring me coffee and food?

  Closing her eyes and pressing the leather pouch against her cheek, she tried to fight off the tears that welled in her eyes.

  “You came,” she spoke into the silence of the kitchen. “I know you came to my door and I didn’t hear you. And the door was locked. Oh, Joe, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you yell to me? You must have known I was here.”

  Only the silence of the kitchen answered back.

  ❧

  “Oh, Ruth! Fresh coffee! I think I must have died and gone to heaven,” Dorie exclaimed the next morning as she sipped the steaming coffee while both women luxuriated in the smell and taste of it.

  They were sitting at the table dawdling over a piece of sourdough bread, one piece each, without the butter or jam that had been their fare weeks before.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Ruth asked, smiling across at Dorie.

  As usual, Dorie’s hair was a bit mussed and her plain face was thinner than before, but Ruth knew that her own face was thinner, as well. “I’m so grateful you are living with me, Dorie,” she said, smiling at her friend.

  “I’m the grateful one. Perish the thought of trying to survive in a boardinghouse filled with men. Isn’t it amazing how everyone is opening their tiny cabins to take in a boarder in order to make an extra dollar?”

  Ruth nodded. Her father had provided well for her, and for the first time she could truly appreciate what she had taken for granted most of her life.

  “Speaking of boarders, have you met Jack London?” Dorie asked, her eyes bright.

  Ruth thought back to the man who had come to her door with a note from Joe. “As a matter of fact, I have. Do you know him?”

  “He dropped in at the newspaper office yesterday. He’s a writer, you know. He left us a very good article he had written about life here in the territory. He’s quite talented.”

  “Is he staying in town now?” she asked, thinking of Joe.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ll be seeing him again today or tomorrow. We’ll have a small payment for him for his article.”

  “Dorie, would you ask him about Joe? His cabin is not far from Joe and Ivan’s place.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Dorie said, smiling at Ruth. “You’ve missed him, haven’t you?”

  Ruth nodded, averting her eyes. She was still haunted by the words Arthur had spoken. The Greenwoods were gossips. No doubt Mrs. Greenwood was confused about when the nuggets had been brought in to be assayed. Taking a deep breath, she looked back at Dorie. “I’m anxious to hear from him, but with the weather conditions, I don’t expect that to happen anytime soon.”

  Dorie nodded, falling silent. Suddenly it occurred to Ruth what Dorie must be thinking. If so many other miners managed to get to Dawson, why couldn’t Joe?

  “Well, I must get busy,” Dorie said, getting up from the table. “I’m spending the morning in my room. With the wind so brutal, I thought I would go through my box of clippings from Skagway. I never did do that article on survival. On Christmas Day, when I took the clippings over to the Fair-hopes for my visit with them, we got sidetracked discussing London—they were there last year, you know. I confessed that I long to go some day, and the first thing I knew we were into a lengthy discussion of Europe. Well, in any case, this is the best time to write my article on survival. It was brutal in Skagway last winter. Many people died, but the important thing to remember is how many survived. That’s what I want to cover in my article.”

  Ruth nodded. “Good idea. I’ll try not to drop a dish to break your concentration.”

  They laughed and Dorie hurried out. Ruth smiled after her, thinking how she always moved at a rush. If ever there was a reason to be in no hurry now, the lifestyle in Dawson provided one.

  An hour later, Ruth was kneading a fresh batch of sourdough when Dorie appeared in the kitchen door, an expression of horror on her face.

  “Dorie, what is it?” Ruth asked, immediately sensing that something was terribly wrong.

  For a moment, Dorie said nothing. She merely stared at Ruth. Then she looked down at the box of clippings she was holding, and Ruth realized that her stricken look was somehow connected to something she had read.

  Reaching for a cup towel, Ruth wiped her hands and poured two cups of te
a. “I can see that whatever is troubling you will require some tea and conversation.”

  Dorie walked slowly to the kitchen table and sat down, carefully placing the box on the table. As Ruth joined her, she glanced over the neatly clipped articles, wondering what Dorie had seen in those clippings that had upset her so badly.

  “Ruth, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Dorie said, looking distressed.

  “Tell me what?”

  Dorie reached into the small pile of clippings and extracted one. Carefully, she laid it and a “Wanted” poster on the table, and what Ruth saw brought a gasp to her throat. She was looking into Joe’s face. While he was heavily bearded, there was no mistaking the eyes or the hair or anything else about him. Except the name. Joe Whitworth.

  “I. . .felt that I had seen him before when we met on Christmas Day,” Dorie said slowly, her tone of voice heavy with regret. “What I didn’t realize was that I had not actually seen him, only this. . . .”

  Ruth was staring at the article, her heart beating wildly, her fingers trembling on the handle of the cup. It read:

  Joe Whitworth was arrested this morning and charged with the shooting of Austin Hankins after an argument erupted in the Dollarhide Saloon. . . .

  The tears that glazed Ruth’s eyes made the print swim before her, so she stopped reading and looked at the picture of the other man, Austin Hankins. He had the kind of face one would not forget, an ugly face with long, hooked nose and narrow-set, angry eyes. She put a hand to her forehead, unable to read more, think more, feel more. One thought, however, was uppermost in her mind; and in the coming weeks, it never left her. It was something her father had said shortly before his death.

  “Ruth, we don’t really know Joe Spencer. . . .”

  eleven

  Ruth had not touched the food Arthur had brought or the soup Dorie had prepared the evening before, when Ruth had been unable to cook. Sick at heart, Ruth had gone to bed, trying to sort through her muddled thoughts. She so wanted to defend Joe because she had loved him, but now she had to face the fact that her father had spoken the truth: She did not know him, not really. And if she did not know the real man, how could she love the man he pretended to be? She couldn’t, she told herself. Yet, that did nothing to erase the terrible ache that filled her heart.