Alaskan Bride

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  She heard him whisper back. “It sure does, Cal. Bully for you.”

  Outside, the men blundered closer as they discussed what to do next and whether there were any more traps. She had nowhere else to go. If she didn’t get help she’d bleed to death anyway. Either that, or her wounds would become infected like Jasper’s had. Better to go out there and meet her maker on her own terms.

  She staggered to her feet, leaning on the cold stove as she headed toward the door. “I’ll be there in a minute, Jasper.” Though unable to raise her left arm above her waist, she fumbled her pistol into it. A kick dislodged the shim at the door. “I’m coming out!”

  Heart pounding, she threw open the door.

  * * *

  Clara heard the distant, chilling sounds of gunfire over the horse hooves. She rode behind McKenzie, clutching at his abdomen as she jounced along. Her fanny had gone numb long ago, and she had doubts she’d be able walk by the time they arrived. All such mundane thoughts fled as she listened to the intermittent fusillade ahead.

  Seven other horses followed, each with a determined man on its back. One of them was the doctor that had cared for Callie in town. Clara had hoped that his presence wasn’t necessary, but the sound of martial fury ahead didn’t bode well for that supposition.

  McKenzie pulled up well short of the homestead. The others followed suit.

  “What are you doing?” Clara demanded as he slid off the horse. “We’re not there yet.”

  His face was grim. “If they’re still shooting, she’s still alive. We need to come upon them unawares or we’ll never take ’em. They outman us two to one.”

  Clara hated the truth of his words, but knew he was right. He helped her down. As expected, her legs didn’t work properly. She clutched the horse’s saddle as she acclimated herself to her own two feet once more. She’d changed into her trousers and coat before leaving the hotel. The pistol Callie had purchased for her hung fully loaded at her hip. Once Clara regained the use of her legs, she pulled her rifle from where McKenzie had lashed it to the saddle and joined the others.

  The gunfire had quieted, but suddenly a man screamed. The sound of it echoed through the trees, a haunting wail of anguish.

  “What the hell was that?” one of McKenzie’s friends asked, his face pale.

  Clara’s thoughts were quicksilver. She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep the laughter down. The other men gave her looks of uncertainty and uneasiness. They’d argued against her presence on this venture and now wondered if she’d fallen sway to the hysterics to which all women were prone. “Bear traps,” she finally whispered. “Callie must have set the bear traps around the yard.”

  Grudging respect flickered across many craggy faces.

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  McKenzie interrupted their murmurs of admiration. “All right, here’s what we’re gonna do.” He split the men into three groups, two to flank the homestead and one to approach via the main track.

  As they broke away from each other, Clara added in a loud whisper, “And watch out for bear traps! She has eight, and we don’t know how many have been sprung.”

  A couple of the men looked a little green, but everyone acknowledged her warning as they disappeared into the woods.

  McKenzie and Clara stood alone. “You ready?” he asked.

  Clara hefted her rifle. “Sure as shooting.”

  With a rueful grin at her pun and a shake of his head, McKenzie led the way down the track.

  The road itself was clear of traps. McKenzie kept a slow, steady pace until a single shot came from ahead. Terror in her throat, Clara rushed forward, half running and half hobbling as her thigh muscles complained about the exertion. It took her less than two minutes to reach the edge of the yard. McKenzie caught her before she could burst from cover and dragged her to one side, using a thick pole pine as cover while they observed the yard.

  Callie was on the ground at Perkins’s feet, her golden hair splayed in the dirt. With blood-crusted hair and stained, torn shirt, she seemed covered with improvised bandages. A body lay nearby, no longer pumping blood from the wound in its skull. Four men stood hale and hardy in a semi-circle around the front of the cabin, and a fourth sat a few feet away, holding his gut wound.

  She’s still alive!

  Callie struggled to sit up, one arm tight against her stomach.

  Perkins hit her with his fist and knocked her back to the ground. “You know, you don’t look like much, but just seeing you like this has got me harder than a diamond.” He laughed as she writhed at his feet, spitting blood. He began to unfasten his pants. “I told you this would happen. Get ready for the party, you unnatural bitch.”

  Clara’s heart squeezed as she realized what Perkins planned to do. The sick feeling she’d experienced at the hands of Billy Quinn flashed through her so swiftly that she was never sure later that the sensation had ever been there. It fled from the icy fury that swept through her soul. She marched forward, rifle at her shoulder, easily evading McKenzie’s hand as he reached out to grab her.

  She pulled the trigger, and dropped one of the three remaining men with cool detachment. Startled at the interruption, everyone aimed weapons at her. McKenzie must have revealed himself behind her because Perkins’s two flunkies wavered.

  Perkins laughed. “Welcome to the party, Miss Stapleton! My boys will have some fun with you next.” He waved carelessly at his men. “Shoot the old man.”

  Clara aimed at Perkins. “I’d think again if I were you, gentlemen. We didn’t come alone.”

  “Ain’t that right?” Hansen called from the eastern edge of the yard, near Jasper’s gravestone. “Fancy seeing you here, Jamie. What’s that you got between your legs? I can barely see it.”

  The attackers spun to see Hansen and two others come into view, weapons ready.

  Perkins snarled at the insult, buttoning his fly with choppy movements. Before anyone realized his intentions, he pulled a large knife and grabbed Callie’s hair. He hauled her semi-conscious form into a sitting position.

  Clara, McKenzie, and his men all prepared to fire. “Best let her go, Jamie.”

  Perkins brought the blade to Callie’s throat. “I ain’t gonna live through this, and neither is she.” He pulled back to plunge the blade into her throat.

  But Callie had pulled her own knife while she squirmed in pain on the ground. Now she thrust her blade into Perkins’s unprotected midriff at the same time that Clara pulled the trigger of her rifle.

  Perkins barely had time to register his evisceration before the bullet in his brain put a stop to all thoughts. His knife fell from limp fingers and he collapsed to the ground.

  Clara’s rifle also hit the ground as she abandoned it. She ran forward, pistol slapping at her thigh as Callie slumped back, her hand dripping with blood that wasn’t hers. Clara fell to her knees at Callie’s side, her hands roaming Callie’s body as she searched out all the injuries.

  “Thought…I told you…to go.”

  “Shush.” Clara knew her tears gave lie to her attempt at sternness. “Save your strength. The doctor will patch you right up.”

  Callie smiled, the blood from her mouth giving her a garish look. “Before I go—”

  “You’re not going anywhere, do you understand me!” Clara wiped at her tears. “And neither am I!”

  The doctor arrived at their side. Between his pushing and McKenzie’s hands at her shoulders, Clara was forced away. She willed Callie to survive.

  Callie’s gaze wandered, confused. Was it blood loss or something more serious? Clara didn’t know. What she did understand were the words that Callie mouthed to her over the doctor’s shoulder.

  “I love you.”

  Unable to be strong any longer, Clara burst into tears.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the garden, Callie carefully wiped sweat from her brow with her one good hand. She’d planted her behind in Clara’s garden, pulling at the recalcitrant greenery
that had invaded the neat rows of vegetables. It was about the only thing she could do that didn’t earn the ire of Clara and the doctor who’d been back twice in the last week to check on her.

  Her right arm was in a sling, forearm lying idle against her abdomen and getting in the way more often than not. She’d been forbidden to use it and, truth be told, it hurt too damned much to do anything anyway. The bullet that had entered her shoulder had broken the big bone, the one the doctor called a “scapula.” She’d be in this sling for five weeks or more while it healed. They had to wait and see if she’d regain full motion of the arm. All things considered, she’d been lucky that it had been the most serious of the wounds she’d suffered.

  She still had difficulty raising her left arm above her shoulder, and found it quite painful to carry much. She could pull weeds, feed herself and pee, but that was about the extent of her abilities. Fortunately, the damage had been to soft tissue only. It itched like mad where the doc had stitched it up. Once the stitches were out she’d be able to work on it more—the doctor thought she’d make a full recovery there.

  After the firefight, McKenzie, Hansen and the men they’d brought along had loaded up the bodies and paraded them, along with the wounded, through Skagway. Most went to the coffin-maker. Of the dozen men that had attacked the homestead, only two had left the property completely unscathed. The bear traps had wounded three, and a fourth had survived the initial onslaught with a mere gunshot. The fifth, the man in her yard with the gut wound, had died on his way back. Word had spread quickly that most of them had been killed by Callie herself, giving her one hell of a reputation. She was of the opinion that the greatest improvement in her life was Jamie Perkins’s death. That fact alone had eliminated the greatest physical threat to her and Clara.

  Callie focused on the garden patch. She’d gotten all the weeds that had showed their heads. Until tomorrow anyway. She gave the yard a speculative scan, searching for something—anything—to do. Maybe I can fire up the smoke shed.

  With half the use of one arm, she struggled to get to her feet and retrieve the bowl of weeds. She wavered as she regained equilibrium. Maybe the smoke shed could wait. She balanced the bowl in the crook of her sling as she let herself out of the garden, firmly latching the rudimentary fence. She thought of all the little things that could be done to improve the homestead. A new garden fence for one. Clara had done a good job, but Callie didn’t expect this one to last much longer against the hungry deer and hare. There’d already been evidence of burrowing, and plants along the fence line had suffered the telltale nibbles of thieves. Then there was the henhouse Clara wanted to build. She was a big baker, and eggs never lasted long.

  As Callie tossed the weeds to one side of the yard, she glanced at the area that Jasper had cleared months ago for his wedding cabin. Maybe I should work on that. It’d give us a little more room. Clara’s spoken about inviting her friend and brother up here. She eyed the location speculatively. Here would be the main entry, there the kitchen. Maybe a formal dining room and parlor could be added. The task would probably take a couple of years, but they had plenty of time.

  Callie heard Clara enter the yard from the main track with the horse and sledge and laid aside her daydream.

  Clara tied the horse off at the porch. With a brilliant smile she embraced Callie. “How was your morning?”

  “Boring as all get out,” Callie groused, crooking her lips in a tiny smile. “I swear I’m gonna go crazy sitting around here on my butt all summer.”

  “You will not.” Clara punctuated her words with a deep kiss. When they broke apart, both breathless, she said, “I’ll keep you busy.”

  Callie cleared her throat. “I got no complaint.”

  Clara laughed. “I doubted you would. Come on, help me bring this into the house.” She sorted through the items for things that were light enough for Callie. “What were you doing over there?”

  As they unloaded the sledge, Callie told Clara about Jasper’s intention to build a cabin in which the newlyweds could reside. “I’m thinking we might not be able to get started this season.” She shrugged a shoulder as a reminder of her limitations. “But we should consider doing the same.”

  “Really? A cabin for me?”

  Callie nuzzled Clara’s delectable neck. “For both of us.” She welcomed Clara’s arms, her skin singing with the human contact.

  * * *

  Clara gently awoke, her eyes drifting open in the darkness. She luxuriated in the heavy warmth of multiple blankets and furs, and felt the chill January air on her exposed cheek. Her stomach grumbled and her insistent bladder marred the sleepy cloud of contentment.

  The cold months of winter had brought nights that seemed to last forever, the sun setting as early as three thirty in the afternoon and not returning until well after eight o’clock in the morning. Her daily routine had slowly evolved with the longer nights; she retired to bed not long after dinner, slept until the wee hours, and then arose for a brief spate of activity around the house before taking a nap until the sun deigned to show its pallor face. It seemed an odd way to live, but she’d quickly eased into the cycle.

  She continued to ignore her bodily complaints, rolling toward the radiant heat beside her. She snuggled closer to Callie, enjoying the half-awake sensation of skin against skin as Callie groggily turned toward her.

  Clara drifted in and out of consciousness, listening to the steady thump of Callie’s heart. Eventually her bladder became insistent, and drew her fully from sleep. With a regretful sigh, she gently extricated herself from Callie’s arms and eased out of bed. The air was icy against her bare skin, and she hastened into her flannel gown and a heavy robe, putting her sock feet into her slippers at the foot of the bed.

  After heeding the call of nature with the honey pot under the bed, she carefully opened the stove, stirred the banked coals back to life and added more wood. She tossed in a couple of chunks of coal for good measure. Then she lit three candles rather than wake Callie with the brighter light of a lantern. Rummaging under the counter, she pulled out potatoes to fry for an early morning snack.

  As she peeled potatoes, she saw Emma’s envelope lying on the other side of the table. Letters from her flighty friend were rare enough to make them special, but this one was even more so. Clara’s brother had finally succumbed to Emma’s charms—he’d proposed marriage last month. They’d be wed next April and on a train to the west coast soon after. Clara’s dream was coming true; Bradford had graduated law school and wanted to start a practice here in the Alaska District. Clara could hardly wait to see them. Her ambition to see Bradford and Emma living on the homestead wouldn’t reach fruition—he’d need to reside in town for business—but the specifics didn’t matter. They’d be mere hours away, not thousands of miles.

  She sliced the peeled potatoes, humming under her breath, and remembered the excitement she’d first felt…when was it? Early spring last year? That breathless discussion with Emma as she had revealed her intention of becoming a mail-order bride. Clara glanced fondly at the tousled blond hair peeking from under the covers. Things rarely went the way they were planned, but Clara wouldn’t trade her life here for anything or anyone else.

  She carefully placed the fry pan over the heat and added a dollop of lard to it. When she added the potatoes a few minutes later, they hissed and sizzled.

  Callie pulled the covers down far enough to look at Clara, and yawned mightily. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t bother to look.” Clara smiled as Callie grumbled and rubbed sleep sand from her eyes, hair askew. After checking the potatoes, she sat on the edge of the bed.

  Callie pulled her down and they nestled together, the smell of potato filling the air. Clara caressed Callie’s left arm, fingers sliding over the ugly mottled scar of the gunshot wound. Her lover had regained full use of that arm, but not the other. Callie toiled every day to strengthen both arms but she’d never have the full range of movement that she’d enjoyed befor
e the firefight in the yard. The lack hadn’t crippled her however. She still went out every day on the trapline. The problem came when she attempted to lift anything over her head.

  Callie stared into Clara’s eyes. “I love you, you know.”

  Clara smiled. “I believe I’ve heard that once or twice before.” Her grin widened as Callie curled her lips in mock disgruntlement, her blue eyes sparkling with humor.

  “If you don’t watch it, I’ll tickle you.” Callie’s fingers made a swift journey to Clara’s ribs, causing Clara to jump.

  Tensing at the feigned attack, Clara laughed. She brought her elbow in to pin Callie’s hand. “I love you too, silly.”

  “Who’s silly?” The offending fingers applied a brief amount of pressure. “You’re the silly one here, Miss Stapleton.”

  Clara squirmed. “Silly for love. Guilty as charged.”

  The answer must have been the correct one. Callie left off trying to tickle her, and instead pulled her close for a kiss. Long, sumptuous moments later, Callie broke it off, and leaned her forehead against Clara’s.

  Clara basked in the adoration she felt both in her heart and that issued from the woman in her arms. This was where she’d always been destined to be, right here with Callie Glass.

  “Clara?”

  Her heart pounded at the sound of Callie’s husky voice, her blood hot with the memory of the ecstasy of many winter nights just like this one. “Yes?” she asked, her voice breathless.

  “I think the potatoes are burning.”

  Clara’s eyes flew open.

  Bella Books, Inc.