by L. A. Witt
The Mountie who’d helped me into the room sat in another chair.
“Thanks for the help.” My throat was raw from the cold. “I thought I was seeing things when I saw your flag.”
“No, you weren’t. But what on earth were you doing out there with nothing?”
“I was robbed,” I whispered.
“And the rest of your team?”
I swallowed hard, wincing as much from the memory as the pain in my throat. “Dead.”
His chair creaked. He rested his elbows on his knees and eyed me intently. “How far have you come alone?”
“I . . .” I licked my dry lips and shook my head, wincing again when my face burned. Sooner or later, I’d remember not to do that. “I don’t remember. I’ve been out there for a few days.”
The two Mounties exchanged surprised looks. “And you survived?”
“Apparently I did,” I said dryly. “I had some help along the way. Teams that let me camp with them.” I nodded toward the door. “Sold me the horse.”
“Thank God for that,” the first Mountie said quietly. “What’s your name?”
“Robert.” I licked my lips again. “Robert Belton.”
He blinked and sat up straight. “I . . . beg your pardon?”
“My name is Robert Belton,” I croaked.
He looked at the other Mountie, something unspoken passing between them.
The second picked up some weathered pages off a table and skimmed over them. He flipped to another page, then another, and his eyebrows jumped. He glanced at his counterpart and gave a sharp nod.
Then he looked at me. “Do you know a”—he glanced at the papers in front of him—“Dr. Jonathon Fauth?”
The mention of his name sent a wave of crushing grief right through me. I closed my eyes. “I did, yes.”
“I thought so.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “He’ll be thrilled to hear you’re—”
“What?” My eyes flew open. “What do you mean?”
He stared at me, then gestured over his shoulder. “He’s had half this camp scouring—”
I lunged toward him and grabbed his shoulders, digging my fingers in when my balance faltered. “He’s here? He’s alive?”
“Well, yes.” The Mountie helped me back into my chair before I lost what was left of my balance. “He’s wounded, but he’s been here a couple of days now.”
“Take me to him,” I pleaded. “Please. I thought he was dead. I was sure of it. He was shot, and—”
“Definitely the same man. Came in here the other day with a bullet in his chest. Half-frozen, nearly bled to death. Another day out there, he wouldn’t have made it, I’m certain.”
“But . . . he’s all right?”
“He’s alive, yes.” The Mountie pursed his lips. “He won’t be in fighting shape for a time, but . . .”
My heart beat faster. “Can I see him?”
He put up a hand. “I think we ought to get some food in you, and—”
“I’m fine. I have to see him. Now.”
They looked at each other, and both shrugged. As they rose, the first offered a hand to help me to my feet.
They were probably right. I was too long without a decent meal and a moment’s rest, and my head spun as soon as I was upright. If John was here and alive, he still would be in half an hour’s time. But I couldn’t wait. I wouldn’t. I needed to see him with my own eyes. I needed to be absolutely sure he was really alive. I picked up the box and, although I was certain this was all another delirious dream—I’d had plenty the last couple of restless nights—followed the Mounties out of the outpost and into the encampment.
Walking between rows of tents and mechs and weary men was strange. Surreal. I remembered the fatigue that seeped all the way into the bones and could nearly drive a grown man to weeping like a child. The day we’d arrived here after crossing the Chilkoot, I couldn’t have imagined there existed a deeper, more taxing level of exhaustion like that which weighed down on me now. Or that there would ever come a day when a tent, a mech, and a campfire would be even more luxurious than those baths in which we’d indulged on the other side of the pass.
And I certainly never could have imagined the grief I’d experienced over the last few days, or this relief that I begged and begged and begged to be real. Please don’t let this be a dream. Please, please, let him really be alive.
At the other end of the encampment, a large tent stood between the outfitters and the makeshift saloon. Inside that tent, thick curtains hung between beds much like they had between the baths in the other camp, and a nurse wandered from one bed to the next. A boiler rattled and rumbled outside, and a pipe poured enough warm air into the tent to make it almost stuffy.
The Mountie pulled the nurse aside and murmured something to her. She nodded and went to one of the beds, of which only the footboard was visible to me.
“Dr. Fauth?” she said, and my heart jumped into my throat.
“Yes?” That single word instantly brought tears to my eyes. His voice was weak, hoarse, but still somehow cognac smooth. He was alive. He really was.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Same as ever.” His tone was flat and vaguely slurred, but alive.
She looked toward us and nodded. The Mountie nudged me. I took a deep breath and started toward her. I stepped around the curtain, and for a long, long moment—though perhaps it only spanned a heartbeat or two—I just . . . stared.
John sat upright on a cot, a white bandage sticking out from beneath the collar of his mostly buttoned shirt. Stubble darkened his jaw, and heavy shadows under his eyes spoke of little to no sleep. His journal slipped from his shaking hands and fell into his lap.
“Robert? Are you . . .” He shook his head and blinked a few times. To the nurse, he said, “Please tell me I’m not hallucinating again.”
I laughed, and a couple of tears made it onto my cheeks. I sniffed sharply and wiped them away as I crossed the short expanse of space to his bedside. “If you are, then so am I.”
I sat on the edge of his bed, and he reached up to touch my face but drew his hand back. “What’s happened to you? Your skin, it . . .”
“It’s just a burn. It’ll heal.”
The nurse cleared her throat. “Dr. Fauth, if you need anything else, just call me.”
“Thank you.” When we were alone, John faced me again. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing. I couldn’t let them keep your device, so I . . .” I gestured at the burns.
“My . . .” He stared blankly at me. “You did this? To save my device?”
“It was your life’s work. I couldn’t let them keep it.”
His eyes widened even more, and he caressed the unwounded side of my face. “Robert . . .”
I smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“I’m glad you’re all right too, but this . . .” He touched my chin and gently turned my head, brow furrowing as he inspected my burns. “Oh, Robert. I am so sorry. I never wanted . . . My work is important, but I never wanted this.”
I put my hand over his and kissed his palm. “I had to try.”
“No. You . . .” He winced and shook his head. Then he carefully took my hand in both of his, grimacing at the movement before he brought my fingers up to his lips and kissed them gently. “It took watching them take you away for me to realize it wasn’t that damned box I should’ve been protecting all this time.” He kissed my fingers again, and when our eyes met, his were wet. “From that moment on, all I’ve been able to think about is you. I’d . . . I’d forgotten about anything except you.”
I smirked in spite of the threat of tears. “So I could have just left this damned thing behind?”
He laughed and wiped his eyes. Turning serious again, he touched my face. “As long as you made it back here, you could have dismantled it and burned it for all I give a damn.”
“Now you tell me.” I set it on the floor beside his bed, then sat up and leaned t
oward him. “I still can’t believe you’re alive.”
He wrapped an arm around me and kissed me gently. “I can’t believe you’re here. And alive. And . . .” He ran his fingers through my hair. “I just can’t believe it.”
I kissed him and drew it out for a long moment. I didn’t care if the nurse or the Mounties or anyone saw us.
As I sat up, he asked, “How did you get away?”
I took a breath and told him what happened. Then he told me about the four teams that passed him by, refusing to stop and help him in spite of his obvious wounds, and the fifth that fed him, sheltered him, and brought him back here on their mech. Even now, listening to him tell the story while he squeezed my hand and reassured me that he was real, I could barely believe everything that had transpired. That we’d both made it back here alive.
“Have you had anyone examine your face?” he asked. “Make certain it’s—”
“It’s fine. I don’t imagine it’ll get much worse than it was the first night.”
“Still.” He pursed his lips. “Promise me you’ll let one of the nurses look you over?”
“Of course.” I dropped my gaze and clasped his hand in mine. Neither of us spoke for a long moment, but then I looked at him again. “So what happens now?”
He gestured at his chest. “I’m not going anywhere for a while, I’m afraid. I don’t see myself continuing on to Dawson City.”
“But you’ve already made it this far. You’ve said yourself your entire livelihood depends on all this.”
“I won’t be in any condition to travel up that way any time soon. I certainly can’t swing a pickax or . . .” He trailed off and shrugged. “But even if I could, I can’t go alone, and I can’t ask you to go up there again. It’s just too dangerous.”
“But . . . the platinum . . . your work . . .”
John shook his head. “I could have found a mountain of platinum up there, and I’d have regretted it ’til the day I died, because that damned device”—he gestured at the box on the floor—“almost cost me the one thing I just can’t lose, Robert.”
I held his gaze, even as my vision blurred. “But your work . . .”
“I’ll find other ways to do my research.” His eyes darted toward the box, and he shrugged with one shoulder. “Maybe I’ll just stay in Chicago and manufacture those damned things.” He trailed the backs of his fingers down my cheek. “The only thing that matters to me now is you.”
My heart jumped. “What happened to wanting to revolutionize communication?”
“Oh, it’ll happen. Maybe someday people will be able to see each other’s faces and hear each other’s voices down a wire.” He kissed me lightly. “But if I can’t see yours, then what does it matter?”
“John . . .”
“Let Sidney, Tesla, and Edison beat me to innovation. I just can’t lose you.” He swallowed hard and held my gaze. “I love you, Robert.”
Smiling, I blinked back tears. “I love you too.”
He tugged at my shirt and drew me down to kiss him again. When he broke the kiss, he murmured, “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to come to Chicago with me, can I?”
I sniffed sharply and batted a tear from my cheek. “I thought you said that city was windy and polluted and all of that.”
“It is. But it might be more conducive to making a living than Seattle.”
“Good point.” I chewed my lip. “Do you . . . are you sure you want me coming back with you? You know, immoral conduct and all of that?”
He waved a hand. “Let people talk.”
“Even if they find out I’m a whore?”
John pulled me closer to him. “You’re no man’s whore,” he whispered, his lip brushing mine. “You’re just . . .”
“Yours.” I kissed him and carefully sank into his embrace. “I’m all yours.”
“And I’m yours,” he whispered. “I love you, Robert.”
“I love you too.”
Holding on to him just then, both of us weary and wounded, I hadn’t an ounce of regret that I’d never made it to Dawson City. I’d left Seattle a whore, returned burned and penniless to Chilkoot, and never once put a pickax to the Yukon’s frozen tundra.
But there wasn’t a man alive who came back richer from the Klondike Gold Rush.
From the Diary of Dr. Jonathon W. Fauth, Proprietor, Fauth Prospecting Equipment Company, Chicago, Illinois — June 17, 1899
The company’s profits have been soaring lately. It’s remarkable, really. But ever since word came down that they’ve found gold in Nome, Alaska, everyone still in Dawson City is flocking to Nome, and a new stampede has begun. The timing could not have been more perfect, coming just a month after the second factory opened to manufacture the AR912 Gold Detectors. With the second factory, we are keeping up on orders but barely. I foresee a third facility opening soon.
I’ve sent a hand-picked team to Seattle, and from there, they will venture up to Nome to test for platinum. Another team is already two weeks into their journey to Dawson City for the same reason. I expect the fields to be picked clean of gold, but I’m holding out hope that there is still a vein or two of platinum left to be found. Then perhaps I can resume my semiconductor work in earnest.
I won’t be making the journey this time myself, though. I have my company to run, and Robert has his studies.
Yes, his studies. Since the last time I wrote—my Lord, it’s been some time—I’m delighted that he’s finally been admitted to the university, though it was a battle for a few months. My former colleagues and superiors were anything but enthusiastic about admitting him. Word had gotten around that his lover is a man—this man in particular. Then newspapers from Ketchikan to Seattle made their way to Chicago with their repeated and emphatic mentions that the man who’d bravely saved my device was a lowly prostitute. He is clearly as intelligent and ambitious as any pupil should be, if not more so, but excuse after excuse had been made to deny him entrance.
Then I met with the dean, and in light of a substantial contribution from Fauth Prospecting to the university’s destitute science department, Robert’s “immoral conduct” was suddenly not so unpalatable. I generally don’t believe a student should be admitted through bribery, but I also don’t believe he should be denied entrance based on anything besides his academic performance. I did what needed to be done. It’s the least I can do for him.
Since the gatekeepers let him into the academic world, Robert has flourished. Already, the head of the history department is trying to persuade him to consider concentrating his studies there. Several times, he’s hinted to Robert about staying at the university even after he graduates. Seems one of the history professors will be retiring in the next several years, and there will be a position available. Professor Robert Belton. I think it has a nice ring to it.
Sometimes I still have to stop and shake my head at how events transpired after I stepped off the train in Seattle less than a year ago. I was probably among the few who left for Dawson City without the faintest aspiration of striking it rich, at least not until I returned to Chicago and finished my work. Strange how things turned out, isn’t it?
To this day, Robert still makes my breath catch just like he did the moment I laid eyes on him in that ramshackle Seattle saloon. He’s still certain I’ll be repulsed by the scarring on his face and neck, but my only revulsion to that scar is knowing how close I came to losing him. How much he risked in order to rescue my work.
Most of the time, though, I don’t even notice the scars. He’s just as bewitching as he was the day I met him. In fact, he’s the reason I’ve been remiss in keeping my journal updated with any kind of regularity. It’s difficult to spend much time writing a diary in bed when one is sharing that bed with a lover like Robert, wouldn’t you agree?
In fact, I hear him coming down the hall, so I’ll end this entry now. I will simply have to wait until tomorrow to write my musings about the next generation detector and a thought I had earlier about how to make them
more compact. I have more important things to address for now, outside of my journal.
John closed his journal as I shut the door behind me. He set the book on the bedside table and laid his pen beside it.
“Working in bed again?” I clicked my tongue as I climbed under the covers with him. “All work and no play, John.”
“No play?” He ran his fingers through my hair. “Since when?”
“It’s nearly ten o’clock.” I draped my arm over his waist and slid closer. “And you’re still working.”
“I’m not working now.”
“But you were working in bed.” I eyed him playfully. “Again.”
He put up a hand and shook his head. “I was doing no such thing. Just chronicling my thoughts for the day.”
“All about semiconductors and detectors, yes?”
A hint of amusement flickered across his face, but then he leaned in and kissed me. Gently nudging me onto my back, John murmured, “Semiconductors and detectors, of course,” and kissed me again.
He pushed himself up and met my eyes. His fingers drifted down the side of my face, brushing over the scar, but neither he nor I flinched. It hadn’t scarred as badly as I’d thought it would—it was unavoidably visible, and still made me cringe whenever I saw it in a mirror, but John hardly noticed it. Scarred or not, once we’d both healed enough to make love again, nothing had changed at all. He didn’t shy away from my face any more than I shied away from the scar on his chest. The healed bullet wound simply reminded me of how close I’d come to losing him, and it made me kiss him harder, hold him tighter, and draw out every moment we had in bed.
Small wonder we barely got anything else done.
He ran his fingers through my hair. “You know, I’ve only just sent the team to Nome to look into platinum deposits up there. Maybe once they’ve set up camp, we should join them. Get that gold rush experience we never had.”
I laughed. “Let them have their adventure. I believe I’ve quite happily had my fill.”
“Hmm.” He pursed his lips. “So if I mentioned we might investigate some deposits in Western Australia, you—”