© 2017 by Peterson Ink, Inc., and Kimberley Woodhouse
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3104-8
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
Kimberley Woodhouse is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.
This book is lovingly dedicated in memory and honor of:
Cassidy Faith Hale
(March 14, 2000—September 16, 2015)
So young. So vibrant. So fun.
I wish I’d had more time with you. More hugs. More laughter.
The past few months without you have been so very hard as we’ve walked with your family through this journey. But even through the heartache, there is joy.
Joy in the memories.
Joy in the knowledge of where you are—No more tears. No more pain.
Joy in the anticipation of seeing you again—and praising our Lord forever.
Joy in the lives touched and changed on this earth by you—because you dared to shine your light.
You’ve inspired us all.
Your light—His light—is still shining.
I’m gonna let it shine . . .
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
A Note from the Authors
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
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12
13
14
15
16
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Dear Reader
About the Authors
Also by Tracie Peterson and Kimberley Woodhouse
Back Ads
Back Cover
A Note from the Authors
We are overjoyed that you have chosen to join us for yet another journey into our great country’s history. Again—as with our other collaborations—we’d like to reiterate that while this novel is rich with historical detail about Curry, Alaska, its incredible Curry Hotel, the Alaska Railroad, Talkeetna, Denali (Mount McKinley), and the people who lived and breathed this little bit of history—please remember that this is a work of fiction. While many real people are used in the story, their personalities and dialogue are from our imaginations. Please see the Dear Reader letter at the conclusion of the book to find out more details about the amazing research for this series and the author liberties that were taken.
We (Kimberley and Tracie) are passionate about Alaska. Kim’s family lived there for many years and Tracie has spent oodles of time in that great state as well. On our last book tour together, our readers told us over and over how excited they were for another Alaska book. So here it is.
Curry, Alaska, and the grand Curry Hotel were very real indeed, although now the only way to see it is through the lens of historical photographs. At mile 248 on the Alaska Railroad today there are interpretive signs and a few lost remnants of Curry. The historic Curry Lookout is the only remaining piece still standing of this fascinating part of Alaska’s history.
To give you a glimpse into this time and setting, we’d like to share an excerpt from the Preface of a book written by one of the team that was the very first to summit the tallest mountain in North America, Denali, back in 1913. Hudson Stuck’s passion for Alaska, its peoples, its lands, and its mountains is commendable to this day. And one hundred years after the publication of his book, we would see the author’s wish and desire come to fruition as the Great Mountain was rightly given back his true name: Denali.
From The Ascent of Denali by Hudson Stuck (Scribner, 1914):
Forefront in this book, because forefront in the author’s heart and desire, must stand a plea for the restoration to the greatest mountain in North America of its immemorial native name. If there be any prestige or authority in such matter from the accomplishment of a first complete ascent, “if there be any virtue, if there be any praise,” the author values it chiefly as it may give weight to this plea.
It is now little more than seventeen years ago that a prospector penetrated from the south into the neighborhood of this mountain, guessed its height with remarkable accuracy at twenty thousand feet, and, ignorant of any name that it already bore, placed upon it the name of the Republican candidate for President of the United States at the approaching election—William McKinley . . .
. . . The author would add, perhaps quite unnecessarily, yet lest any should mistake, a final personal note. He is no professed explorer or climber or “scientist,” but a missionary, and of these matters an amateur only. The vivid recollection of a back bent down with burdens and lungs at the limit of their function makes him hesitate to describe this enterprise as recreation. It was the most laborious undertaking with which he was ever connected; yet it was done for the pleasure of doing it, and the pleasure far outweighed the pain. But he is concerned much more with men than mountains, and would say, since “out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh,” that his especial and growing concern, these ten years past, is with the native people of Alaska, a gentle and kindly race, now threatened with a wanton and senseless extermination, and sadly in need of generous champions if that threat is to be averted.
And so, dear friends, we take you back a century to the dawn of a new era for Alaska. A new national park, the first successful attempt to climb Denali, the people who loved the land, the pioneers who blazed the trails, the railroad that connected it all, and the incredible Curry Hotel in the remote Alaska Territory.
We give you: In the Shadow of Denali.
Kim and Tracie
Prologue
1917
Henry Brennan—the insufferable man—should’ve been dead.
But he wasn’t.
Frank Irving cursed his luck. His partner was still very much alive.
It was all the fault of that too-good, overzealous guide.
It wouldn’t be so bad if Frank hadn’t been the one to hire John Ivanoff. But he had.
How was he to know the man was a native Alaskan who’d climbed around Mount McKinley so many times he had private nicknames for certain parts? He’d thought John sounded so normal, and Ivanoff was Russian.
He’d certainly seemed perfect on paper. Solid reputation as a guide—which Henry required—but no actual full-ascent experience, so he could be blamed for any fatal acci
dent—which Frank required.
“Gentlemen, we need to take advantage of this good weather,” the guide called from outside the tent. “Be ready to leave in ten minutes.”
Fighting the urge to lose his breakfast, a sign of the altitude sickness he and Henry both shared, Frank began to shove everything into his pack. John Ivanoff was nothing but a tyrant.
Who knew the man would end up being such a conscientious guide, especially after he agreed to shorten the preparation schedule from six months to eight weeks? Such a man should be easy to buy, especially because John dreamed of opening his own mountaineering guided tour business. But no! He was another of those churchy Bible-thumpers like Henry. It made Frank twitch.
The side walls of the tent shifted with another gust of frigid mountain wind. Frank and Henry had made a fortune the past twenty years selling these very same tents to all the gold-rush-fever idiots who stopped in their Seattle store before heading to Alaska. It had been Frank’s idea to make a killing off of all the crazies who thought dashing off to the frozen north to dig for gold would be their pot at the end of the rainbow. But he hadn’t planned to stay in a tent himself. Ever. Especially not at the top of a mountain. And definitely not for this many weeks.
But desperate times called for desperate measures. And he was desperate.
Desperate to call the profits his own.
Not just half. All.
That’s why he’d cooked up this harebrained plan to climb Mount McKinley. He was tired of sharing with his partner. And they’d signed an agreement when they started the company. So if he eliminated Henry . . .
It’d all be his.
So here he was. On the side of this stupid mountain. They’d trained for months on lesser mountains and talked of all the equipment they would try out and then advertise to sell.
Henry had been thrilled. The do-gooder. Always an outdoorsman, he didn’t want to give up his own exploring for a job in the office at the factory.
So the opportunity was born. New national park. Big, treacherous mountain.
It was remote. And bound to be a place where a tragic mishap could occur and nothing could be done about it.
It all seemed so easy.
But then John Ivanoff happened. The man was everywhere, constantly watching. And—unfortunately—prepared for any possible scenario.
It should not have taken this long to find a way to get rid of Henry, but Frank couldn’t do it when the native haulers were with them—too many witnesses—and he definitely couldn’t finagle it with all the sled dogs around. They’d find the body for sure. So he’d waited.
As the helpers, sleds, and dogs stayed behind, the paths got steeper and the air got thinner. And his patience thinned right along with it. But he’d come this far. He might as well finish the climb. Perhaps it would even be good for business to make it to the top and then have tragedy befall them. He’d have the acclaim of the press for his success and the sympathy of the public for his loss.
Frank swept the tent flap aside, stepped into the frigid wind, and grimaced.
John coiled a rope, a sappy smile on his face. “We have to cross Cassidy Lane today. It’s dangerous, but one of my favorite places on Denali.”
The native name for Mount McKinley rolled off John’s tongue with ease and some sort of weird reverence. Frank found it annoying. Since the President of the United States had signed something called the Mount McKinley Park Bill, that’s what the mountain should be called. Not that Frank cared two nickels about the name. But, as Henry pointed out, it meant he and Frank could claim to be the first climbers to reach the peak in Mount McKinley National Park. Some team back in 1913 had a documented ascent, but that was before the new national park bill had been signed into effect. Not that it mattered. Frank only cared about the opportunity this afforded to be rid of his partner. He was tired of this wretched mountain.
“Cassidy Lane?” Henry poked his head out of the second tent he’d shared with the guide, since Frank hated to share and was adamant that he wanted privacy. “Named for your daughter?” He emerged with his pack, a knitted cap in hand and a fur hat dangling over one arm.
“Sure is.” John kept winding the rope like it was as natural to him as breathing. “It’s a dangerous, narrow path along a cliff. I almost fell off it once.”
Frank’s heart rate perked up. This was promising. “How long ago?”
“Many years.” John’s face sobered. “The weather changed on us instantly. What had been a calm, bright day like this one suddenly turned fierce.”
Another gust of wind almost lifted Frank off his feet. This was calm?
“I didn’t think I was going to make it.” John reached the end of the rope, the loops perfectly matched. “But I kept thinking of my Cassidy, recalling every memory from the time she was born up to then, until I made it home.”
Henry put down his pack, then pulled on the black knitted cap over his graying hair. Just the night before he’d told Frank they needed to experiment with different materials to find or create something that would be better at holding in body heat. Especially at these temperatures. He’d even tried to convince Frank that one tent would be better than two—less to carry, and they could share body heat. But Frank would have none of it. It was just one more reason he hated his partner. The man always came up with the most marvelous ideas and of course was given all the credit.
“When I told Cassidy—much later, of course—she made light of it and said that if I ever got here again, I would just have to take another trip down Cassidy Lane and I’d be sure to make it home.”
“Instead of Memory Lane? How delightful.” Henry slapped the guide’s shoulder, the same sentimental smile on his face as the one John had worn a minute ago.
Frank wanted to lose the contents of his stomach right then and there. This time, however, it had nothing to do with altitude sickness. Fatherhood made saps of even the strongest men. Henry had been all but worthless since his brats had come along. Rushing home to be with his family instead of shouldering his fair share. Talking to customers about his son or one of the girls. How many did they have? Two? Three? Didn’t matter. Because Henry’s repellent brood wouldn’t inherit any part of The Brennan/Irving Company. The business contract Henry and Frank signed when they first opened stipulated that should one partner die, the other partner inherited full control.
Which was why this plan worked.
He’d make a show of supporting the grieving family—with everything but actual money. Martha Brennan was a comely enough woman. She’d remarry, move away, and The Brennan/Irving Company would become The Irving Company.
No more sharing profits. No more running each and every idea by Henry. No more of the honesty-at-all-times practice. No more faking he actually liked these people.
Stupid Henry. Didn’t he know how much money they could make now that they’d established a reputation for selling the best ropes, tents, and climbing attire in the Pacific Northwest? Now was the time to cut quality and boost profits.
Henry gave John another hearty pat on the back, then donned the fur hat and tied it. “What say you, expert guide? We still a go for the summit today?”
John nodded, glancing upward. “Yes, but as you can see, the clouds are draping him today. Once we reach the top, you’ll have a beautiful view of the clouds below.”
It bugged Frank that John called the mountain “he” and “him” all the time, but to be fair, everything about John Ivanoff, Henry Brennan, and this blasted mountain made Frank furious.
“Any danger of storms?”
“There’s always that danger here. I don’t see any immediate threat, but remember, storms roll in fast.” John threw the heavy rope over his shoulder. “If you two are ready to go, I think we should head up. I’ve already done my tests on the ropes and ice climbs for today.”
“We’re already at 18,500 feet.” Frank huffed for breath. “There’s less than two thousand feet to reach the summit.”
John nodded. “Two thousand feet th
at will take us at least six hours.”
“Both ways?” Frank felt all the energy leave him. Would it never end?
Chuckling, John shook his head. “Well, we could always let gravity work with us on the trip down—if you’d like to go faster.”
Henry pulled on his pack with what appeared little effort. “Well, I say let’s go. I’m anxious to finish this climb, and I must say that sleeping in a warm bed in front of a roaring fire sounds awfully good after four long weeks trudging and climbing in the ice and snow. I’d like to have full feeling back in my hands and feet.” He shook his head and patted his partner’s back. “But that’s why we’re doing it, right? To experience the thrill for our customers?”
Reminding himself to play along, Frank tried to sound excited and supportive. “Lots and lots of customers. Yes. That’s the plan. If the government would just get the road built into this area, we could bring more customers than we could ever imagine. All with John as our guide. We just won’t tell the customers about not feeling their fingers and toes.” He laughed too loud for his own ears.
“Of course.” John’s smile looked a little uneasy.
“Lead on, then.” Frank ducked his head and adjusted his thick gloves over a thinner pair. No use giving away that John’s dream of being their business partner for guided tours was as doomed as Henry’s of a warm bed.
Henry carried a long walking stick—one carved with their names and the date—that they planned to drive into the snow at the top later that day. His eagerness shone in his eyes as he nodded to John. “I’m ready. Let’s go!”
By two in the afternoon, their weary troop reached the southern peak of Mount McKinley. Even as the wind tried to knock him off his feet and the air was too thin for a decent breath, Frank couldn’t help feeling a little euphoric. “We did it, boys . . . We’re the first ones . . . to climb Mount . . . McKinley in the new . . . Mount McKinley National Park.” His sentences were punctured by the many breaths he had to take.
Henry handed John the wooden pole. “The honor . . . should go . . . to you.”
No it shouldn’t!
But the guide grinned and plunged the marker into the snow. “Success!”
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