“You don’t have to.”
Her breath hitched as she tried to think of something to say.
McKenzie continued walking. “I know you love it here. Whenever we’ve talked you’ve been most vocal about your love of the wilderness. While I can appreciate your reasons for leaving, perhaps you should reconsider.” He waved his free arm at a restaurant with another line of folks waiting outside. “It wouldn’t take much to set yourself up in business, and you’d reap plenty of money to make it worth your while. I’d be glad to help in any way.”
Clara suddenly realized he’d taken her on a tour of all the businesses in town that were owned and operated by women. A fond smile briefly crossed her face at his subtle attempt to dissuade her from leaving the Alaska District. She’d had similar thoughts over the first few weeks when her presence at the Glass cabin had been tenuous. McKenzie was right; it would be easy enough to set up in business here. She’d have to cancel her upgraded berth on the City of Topeka as well as write her father for more money, but it could be done. Callie had said that Clara cooked like a dream—opening a restaurant wouldn’t be unwarranted with her skills.
She imagined a line of rough men waiting to be fed, hiring others to serve them while she cooked in the back. And then she remembered Callie at the table in the cabin, focused intently on her food as she complimented Clara between bites. Pain shot through her heart.
If Clara remained in town, she’d have opportunity to see Callie every fortnight or so. Even if she didn’t see Callie, she’d know approximately when Callie would come to town to do business. The thought of slaving away her days over a stove, mind fully occupied with thoughts of Callie—wondering if Callie would inadvertently show up at the restaurant or whether Clara had the strength of will to not chase after her—opened a trap door beneath Clara.
She stumbled against McKenzie. “No,” she whispered. His arm went around her waist, holding her up as she regained her equilibrium. When her voice was stronger, she repeated herself. “No. I can’t stay here. I can’t afford to run into Callie, not after…not after…”
“Not after what?”
Clara looked into McKenzie’s puzzled eyes. “Not after what I’ve done.” And she explained everything.
Chapter Twenty
Clara sat on the edge of her bed, gloves in hand. Her luggage waited by the door. She marveled at the vagaries of time—two days had passed, two days of mourning and fond remembrances, three nights of sleepless nightmares. The time had passed with such speed, and yet each minute had crawled out into hours. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The Pacific Coast Steamship porter was scheduled to arrive in ten minutes to retrieve her property. She’d already decided to follow him on foot, to experience Skagway one final time before she boarded the City of Topeka. In a week, she’d be back in Seattle. What she planned to do then hardly bore thinking upon.
The tears didn’t threaten this time. She’d cried so many of them that they’d left her a desiccated husk. At this point she’d become numb, disinterested in the world. McKenzie had visited each day, escorting her on daily constitutionals and filling her head with various rumors about the township as he subtly encouraged her to remain as a businesswoman. None of it mattered to Clara, to the thick wad of cotton batting that had filled her heart and mind. She’d let him natter on, nodding where appropriate and urging him to continue with polite questions. The longer he talked the less speech was required of her. She simply couldn’t dredge up the energy to hold up her end of their conversations.
Instead, she mulled over a number of things that she regretted about this venture. Not being able to meet Jasper, the man who’d asked her here and that had meant so much to Callie, was one of them. From what she gathered from both Callie and McKenzie, Jasper Glass had been a singular man. Clara had imagined a life with Callie while Jasper found someone else to marry, the four of them becoming a family of sorts. It would have been a wonderful life.
Her inability to conceive of staying here without Callie was another regret. Perhaps if she hadn’t fallen so hard for Callie, she’d have been able to convince herself to follow McKenzie’s suggestions, stay in town and start her own business. But her mental imagery failed to show her a vision that didn’t include crushing sorrow whenever Callie came into view. Who on earth could live like that?
The biggest regret in Clara’s heart was that she hadn’t had the courage to see Callie one last time. Clara had no photos, no drawings of Callie. Had Clara been thinking clearly, she’d have considered taking the picture Callie owned of her and Jasper. In time Callie’s face would disappear from Clara’s memory. It was a natural inclination—she couldn’t picture her best friend Emma Whitman in her mind after only a month’s absence. Soon, Clara wouldn’t remember the exact hue of Callie’s golden hair, the distinct pattern of freckles across her upturned nose, or the haunted expression of Callie’s eyes. It would all turn to smoke. Just like me. I’ll be smoke, drifting in the wind, with no substance.
A hurried knock at the door shocked her from her melancholic musings. Now time chose to speed up, to truncate the remaining minutes of her folly? She noted that time hadn’t distorted the other direction, that the porter was actually early for this appointment. When she opened the door surprise yanked her from the melancholy cotton.
Daryl McKenzie stood there, brown eyes wide. He held his hat in one hand, his white hair askew on his head. Before she could speak, he blurted his news. “Jamie Perkins left town about an hour ago with a dozen men. He’s heading for the cabin.”
“A dozen men?” Clara’s hand covered the sudden beating of her heart. Callie!
“Yes. I’m gathering some fellahs together to go after, but I thought you should know.”
“But—But I’m leaving!” Clara hated the shrill hysteria ringing in her voice. “The porter will be here any minute!”
McKenzie’s face crumpled and he wiped at his beard. “Damn, pardon my language. I didn’t realize…” He tugged at his beard. “For some reason, I thought you weren’t going until tomorrow. I thought you’d want to know what was happening.”
“Daryl?” someone called from downstairs.
“I’ll be right there!” he shouted back. He took Clara’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “You have a safe trip. I’ll write a letter as soon as this is done. It might be a few days before it arrives in Seattle, but I’ll send it via the steamship company.” He shook his head, his craggy face regretful for telling her of Callie’s danger. “I’m so sorry! Had I realized…” He trailed off at his apparent stupidity.
“Daryl! Come on! We gotta meet Roman at the saloon across the street.”
Torn, he glanced over his shoulder and back at Clara. He hastily leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and then clattered away.
Clara followed him to the landing and stared down into the hotel foyer as he ran down the steps. Two unruly men waited there, rifles in hand. One of them was Malcolm Hansen, the butcher.
Hansen pointed out the door as McKenzie reached them. “Roman said he had three more t’ the saloon.”
“Let’s go get them. That should be plenty enough to show Perkins we mean business.” McKenzie led them out of the hotel, bowling over a young man wearing a suit.
The young man paused as the excited trio passed before approaching the desk. “I’m looking for Miss Stapleton’s room. I’m to deliver her belongings to the City of Topeka.”
It was time. She’d put Callie in mortal danger by leading Billy Quinn to the cabin. Jamie Perkins had set out to attack Callie and would probably kill her. McKenzie had rounded up a few hearty souls to stop the bloodshed. And yet it was time for Clara to exit the stage, like a pretty actress in her final scene, to a steamship headed south.
Once again, time slowed to a crawl as she considered her choices. She could forfeit her cabin on the steamship, stay and do her best to deal with the repercussions of her actions. She had enough money to cover two full months at the hotel. That allowed plenty of opportunity for her
to contact her father for another ticket to Seattle. It would gall her no end to succumb to such an unconscionable action, but her father’s wealth was a resource that had been tapped through most her youth. Callie was in danger. The last thing Clara could do was board a steamship and bury her head in the sand, not knowing the outcome of the confrontation.
She leaned over the banister. “Excuse me!”
Both the hotelier and the porter looked up.
“I’m canceling my cabin aboard the steamship. My apologies for the lateness of it all. No need to come upstairs.” She turned to the jovial desk clerk. “I’ll be extending my stay for a week, perhaps longer. I’ll know more this afternoon.”
“Of course.” The hotel clerk opened his register to make the adjustments while the porter tipped his hat and left.
Clara whirled around and dashed to her room. She didn’t have much time to prepare.
* * *
Callie sat back on her haunches as she wiped sweat from her brow with her forearm. She squatted in Clara’s garden, pulling recalcitrant greenery that shouldn’t be present in the neat rows of vegetables. Weeding’s harder than it looks. She remembered all those times she’d watched Clara blithely maintain the small plot of land. Callie had never realized the truly strenuous nature of the task.
The bitter regret that had been her constant companion for the last three days reared up. She wished she’d thanked Clara for all that she’d done around the homestead. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a cobweb anywhere in the cabin, Callie’s clothes smelled fresh and clean, and everything just seemed neater and brighter. Clara had toiled long and hard to make the cabin a home. One we’ll never share. Rather than dwell on what couldn’t be changed, Callie scanned the yard, forcing her thoughts to other things.
She’d begun to wonder whether or not Perkins would show. Years of acquaintance had indicated he’d never been blessed with an overabundance of patience. He’d either become more mature over the years or else his plans for her didn’t include invading her territory. Or he’s out there right now, watching me. Her eyes studied the woods behind the cabin. She’d had the sensation of being watched for a day or more, but had attributed it to her justifiable concern. That feeling was stronger now. A steamship whistle echoed across the yard, its volume loud in the unnatural quiet. Alarm grew in Callie’s chest as she craned her neck to take in as much of the view as she could. I don’t hear the birds.
A shot rang out when she turned. She felt the wind of it as it passed through where her head had just been and plowed through a stalk of corn with a zipping sound.
At the same time, a man gave a piteous scream to her left, his agony interspersed with the sound of chains. Billy Quinn staggered over the rise, a bear trap clenching one arm as he tried to shake it off. Like all the bear traps, this one was pegged to the ground. When he ran out of slack on the dangling chain, it pulled him back, and he stumbled and cried out louder.
Without thought, except to silence him, Callie pulled her pistol and shot him in the head, silencing him forever. She burst from the garden, firing shots in random directions as she ran for the porch. She’d celebrate Quinn’s demise later; right now she needed to stay alive.
Despite her cover fire, multiple rifles and pistols went off all around her. Fire streaked across her left upper arm and head as two bullets grazed her. The rest missed as she dived for cover and crouched behind the wood she’d stacked on the porch to provide a protective barrier. Near Jasper’s grave, another man screamed. Callie grinned. They might have had plenty of time to surround her, but she’d had the same to leave a few surprises. She had to give Clara credit; that had been a wonderful idea to set out those traps. Callie had also placed every weapon she owned on the porch. Now she picked up her rifle and peeked over the edge of her log barrier.
The men had closed in after the first shot. She had no idea how many there were, but even one was too many. From her vantage point, she saw two huddled by the shed. Another crouched on the southern decline that led down to the point between the two inlets that flanked her land. He was the one who fired at her, and she ducked back as chunks of wood showered her head.
The graze on her head bled like a bitch, but she wiped blood from her eyes and ignored it. Instead she closed her eyes, carefully remembering where each of her immediate enemies was located. When she had their placement firmly fixed in her mind, she popped over the logs and fired.
The man in the grass was first, her shot entering his neck at the junction between his shoulder and head. The idiot hadn’t even moved, apparently believing a woman couldn’t shoot for shit. Joke’s on him.
Her next four shots were at the shed. As much as she worried about the packhorse neighing in protest inside, she couldn’t afford the sentimentality. She could only hope he’d survive the rain of bullets flying everywhere. She pegged the first man in the thigh, knocking him down. His partner jumped back, and used the shed as cover. Callie estimated his placement and fired through the thinner walls of the shed. She saw the soles of his boots when he collapsed, and hunkered down to avoid retaliation.
“Is that the best you can do, Jamie?” she called during a break in the gunfire. “Ain’t any of you boys been hunting before? Christ on the cross, I cain’t believe none of you can shoot.” She checked her rifle, and topped off the rounds.
“I can shoot well enough, Callie Glass. Just you wait and see.”
She scuttled toward Perkins’s voice on her right. It sounded like he was near Billy Quinn’s corpse. On the opposite side of the yard she heard the pathetic moaning of another bear trap victim. “I been waiting for days. Didn’t you get my invitation?”
“I hear it’s fashionable to be late to parties.” There was a pause. “Why don’t you come on out? I promise not to shoot you. At least not at first.”
A chill ran through her at the assurance in his voice. “I can’t make the same promise.”
“I guarantee you won’t shoot me, Callie Glass. Not before I plow that field between your legs a dozen times.” Rough laughter seemed to come from everywhere. “And my men have some ideas of their own. I invited them to this party, and they need their entertainment.”
Though she doubted Perkins was unprotected, she popped up long enough to fire in his direction.
A volley of rounds assailed her, digging wood chips from the front wall of the cabin and the porch. She saw a flash of gunfire and shot blindly in that direction, hearing at least one grunt of pain. Before she ducked back down, a round hit her left upper arm, the force of it knocking her onto her ass.
Dazed, scared, and a little pissed that she’d been hit, she gasped as she peered at the wound. Blood dripped from it, mixing with the crimson stain from the graze. There was so much of it. The sight of it made her feel faint. The pain was excruciating at the point of entry, accompanied by a sharp ache that radiated down to her fingertips and across her shoulder and chest. At least it’s not a gusher. Whether by luck or divine intervention, the round hadn’t pierced the artery in her arm. She tore her shirt sleeve off, unable to keep from crying out at the stab of pain she caused, and used the cloth to tie up the injury.
“That sounded pretty promising, boys!” Perkins called out. He received a round of hearty agreement.
Idiots. Didn’t they know that every time they spoke or laughed aloud that she could figure out their location? They might have the advantage in numbers, but this was her territory. She knew it like the back of her hand.
Thanking God that the shot hadn’t injured her shooting arm, she crossed to the other side of the porch, knowing they wouldn’t expect an attack there. She glanced back once to confirm that the porch post would partially block Perkins’s view of her, and raised up.
Two men were crouched over and running toward her position. Their astonishment was almost comical as she opened fire, dropping them both. Agony exploded in her right shoulder. She fell back with a cry, her rifle falling from now useless fingers. Either Perkins had gotten a lucky shot or there was anoth
er shooter in his vicinity that hadn’t been hindered by the cabin.
As if to punctuate that supposition, a scream heralded the discovery of another bear trap, this one from behind the cabin. That was the third one. She panted against the pain, but a vicious smile stretched across her face. That meant they were flanking the cabin now.
She grabbed up Jasper’s still fully loaded rifle, ignored the torment as the tortured muscles of her left arm complained, and scooted into the cabin. She slammed the door and used a shim of wood to wedge it closed.
Keeping low, she worked her way to the rear of the cabin, in search of something to stanch the bleeding from her shoulder; each movement sent excruciating tendrils of anguish throughout her body. She used her knife, and sliced off a fair length of the sheet from her bed. She felt nauseous and weak. Probably from the blood loss. As she wrapped the linen over her shoulder and under her arm, she vaguely realized that despite all the running and tumbling about her ribs didn’t hurt near as much. She chuckled. Well, there’s a blessing in disguise, eh?
“Turtle’s in her shell, boys!”
Perkins’s hated voice was enough to return her to her task. Blood loss or not, she’d be damned if she’d let him win. Maybe they’d both die here today, but Perkins wasn’t going to survive the afternoon. Once she’d bandaged herself, she peered out of a crack in the shutter. The last two she’d shot at were still down, as were the two by the shed. By her estimation, at least half her shots had hit home, whether they inflicted mortal injuries or wounded her enemies. And she’d only suffered four hits.
Only. She slumped against the wall beneath the window.
The scream and rattle of a fourth bear trap was loud on the other side of the cabin. Apparently one of the men had intended to bust through the window.
Callie chuckled. “You have an evil mind, Clara Stapleton of Boston, Massachusetts. A brilliant, evil mind.” Tears spilled over her cheeks, tears of both pain and happiness. After three days of second-guessing, she finally knew she’d done the right thing by sending Clara away. She hadn’t saved Jasper but she’d been able to protect Clara. That was a decent enough memorial for a woman’s life, and one she was pleased to attribute to herself. “It beats a cup of laudanum, doesn’t it, Jasper?”
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