"I don't mean to say that looking like a married woman is a criticism," Bear hastened to add. "I just mean that you didn't seem open to… Oh hell, I don't know what I mean." He grinned down at her. "Are you ready for our match?"
"I believe so, ja," she said, dropping her eyelashes and drawing off her gloves one finger at a time. The wedding ring she had once been so proud of didn't impress her as unique anymore. Besides, wedding rings should be gold, not silver. This one was as much of a sham as her marriage.
Proving her thought, Bear noted the ring without a ripple crossing his brow. To his eye it was decorative, not evidence that she had a husband lurking somewhere in the background.
"Are you right-handed?" he asked, leading the way to a table where a crowd of men waited, eyes fixed on her approach.
"Ja, I am right-handed."
Lordy, lordy. Walking beside him actually made her feel small. Even wearing dress shoes with an elevated heel brought the top of her fountain curls only a little above his shoulder. Never in her life had she met a man who made her feel almost little.
The audience for their match stared as Bear made a point of introducing her to Ben Dare, who would judge their contest.
"Miss Klaus and I have met," Mr. Dare said, smiling beneath eyebrows that soared when he looked at her hairdo and the flash of brilliants in her curls and at her ears.
Juliette was going to be appalled when she heard that Ben Dare had been the judge for this match. Well, that wasn't Clara's fault. He held out a chair and she sat down, facing Bear across the corner edges of the table.
"Hey, Bear. You ain't never going to live this down if she beats you," someone said to a burst of laughter.
Bear grinned and winked at Clara. "I'm big enough to accept defeat with grace."
His tone and the wink informed her that he didn't believe for one minute that he could lose this match. Such a possibility had not entered his mind. And now she saw the concessions he was making for her. No one else's entry fee had been waived. None of the other contestants were being introduced to their judge. No one explained any rules at the other table corners; the contestants just sat down and went at it.
"What rules?" she asked Benjamin Dare. "There aren't any rules for arm wrestling."
"You can place your elbow on that book," he said, nodding to a thick dictionary. "That will raise your hand to the height of Bear's. But you can't lift or move your elbow once it's set."
Anyone who didn't know that had never arm wrestled, Clara thought with disgust. But she said nothing. She crossed her legs, something else that would have appalled Juliette, and she let the movement hike up her skirt enough to expose a black-stockinged ankle. A very nice, comparatively slim ankle, if she did say so herself. That ankle and the shoe with the cloth rose looked positively dainty next to Bear's massive leg.
He cast an involuntary glance at her ankle as she had known he would. Then he quickly raised his eyes to hers and she saw that look. That look was the look men got when they had glimpsed a woman-part they were not supposed to see and the woman knew they had looked and knew they wanted to look again. It was a look of surprise and guilt and pleasure and discomfort overlaid by a flash of happy triumph that they had ogled a seldom-seen item of feminine pulchritude.
"All right, back up," Benjamin Dare ordered the onlookers. "Give the contestants room to concentrate and breathe." It was all for show. No one took this match seriously enough even to wager on it. Mr. Dare nodded at Bear and Clara. "Get set."
She raised her arm up under the cape, leaned forward, and planted her elbow atop the dictionary. She'd feared her hand would disappear within Bear's massive paw, but she had big hands, too, and the disparity wasn't as great as she had imagined it might be. But her reaction to his touch was electric.
His hand was warm and solid, and she felt his quick pulse where their wrists touched. His sleeves were rolled up and the overhead light turned the mat of thick hair on his arms to a fascinating sheen of burnished gold. And she could smell him. The starchy scent of his shirt, a tweedy soap smell, a whiff of cigar smoke, and the pleasant fragrance of brilliantine, which she would have sworn he wasn't wearing because his hair looked naturally shiny.
His eyes weren't six inches from hers. "What is that perfume you're wearing?" he asked in a growly voice.
"Hoyt's Genuine German Cologne." Her own, not borrowed. Jean Jacques had claimed the scent drove him mad with desire. Now, as she analyzed the heat in Bear Barrett's stare, she decided the cologne affected other men as it had Jean Jacques. Excellent.
This close, she spotted gold flecks in his brown-bear eyes and admired a thick curve of gold lashes. Saw a light dew of perspiration collecting at his temples as he stared into her eyes and thought his thoughts and felt his impressions, which she hoped were concentrated on trim ankles, the pulse at her wrist, the flashing eardrops swinging toward her cheeks, and the scent of a cologne guaranteed by the maker to drive men wild.
"Ready?" Mr. Dare inquired.
"Actually, no," Clara said, releasing Bear's hand and leaning back in her chair. "It's very warm in here, and this cape feels restrictive." Pulling open the ribbons that tied the cape in front, she smiled up at Ben Dare. "Would you—?"
"It would be my pleasure." Stepping behind her, Ben lifted the cape from her shoulders.
The audience released a hissing noise like the sound of escaping steam, followed by stunned silence. Bear's eyes widened and his jaw dropped and he didn't even try to disguise the direction of his gaze.
The bodice that she and Juliette and Zoe had all taken a hand in altering now scooped so indecently low that it skimmed the tops of her nipples. Even to her it seemed that acres of full creamy skin lay thrust up by her corset and exposed to view. And she knew she had skin as smooth and inviting as a peach. Big beautiful breasts that begged to be stroked and kissed. Jean Jacques had said so a hundred times.
Leaning forward, giving Mr. Barrett a full heart-stopping view, she planted her elbow on the book again, and clasped his limp hand. His bones appeared to have dissolved.
"Oh—my—God," he whispered hoarsely, staring down into her cleavage. It was impressive cleavage indeed. The good Lord hadn't given her big hips without balancing her out with big glorious breasts.
"We're ready," Clara said pleasantly, nodding to Ben Dare.
With great effort, Ben wrenched his gaze up from her bosom, checked their elbows, then swallowed hard. "On your mark."
Looking dazed, Bear blinked and stiffened his wrist. "The match is starting?"
"Almost," Clara murmured, fluttering her eyelashes.
"Get set."
"That perfume is making me… and those…"
"Go!"
Clara gripped his hand hard, putting her strength behind the clasp. They leaned into each other over the corner of the table, gazing deeply into each other's eyes. Then Clara slowly and deliberately licked the tip of her tongue around the edges of her parted lips.
Bear sucked in a sharp breath, stared hard, and a drop of sweat rolled down his temples. But Clara wasn't finished with him. She inhaled, letting her breasts swell and swell until he couldn't resist, and he dropped his gaze down the front of her dress for a direct look.
And bang, she had him. Seizing the exact moment, she slammed his forearm down on the table and held it there until he looked up into her eyes with a hot brown gaze that set all her exposed skin aflame. A searing gaze that made her tingle where decent women weren't supposed to tingle. Nose to nose, eye to eye, neither of them made a move to unclasp their hands.
Later, when she thought about every little detail, Clara supposed there must have been an uproar from the audience. But she didn't hear a thing except her pulse roaring in her ears as she and Bear leaned toward each other, hands locked, faces close enough to feel the warmth of each other's rapid breath. It was like they were utterly alone in a bubble of scents and gazes and heat and pulses racing where their wrists met. He ravaged her with a smoldering stare and she ravaged him right back.
Heaven help her, but if Jean Jacques had walked into the mess hall, she wouldn't have given that Frenchman a second look.
"For heaven's sake, get out of that dress. You're practically naked!" Juliette snapped, while Clara counted eighty dollars into her outstretched hand. According to Clara's triumphant account, the extra money came from the wagers Clara had placed on her succeeding matches. "I still can't believe you exposed yourself to a roomful of men. It's indecent."
"It was practical. A person does what she has to do, and I won the tournament, didn't I?" She started to relate the story again, how she had pinned five other male arms after beating Bear and had won each match in under thirty seconds.
"It's disgraceful what you did," Zoe interrupted, thrusting her arm past the edge of the bottom bunk to receive her share of the win. She managed a wan smile. "And very clever."
Juliette tucked the money into her wrist bag. Clara had left her all morning with Zoe, and she was desperate for some fresh air and an escape from the fetid atmosphere of their cubicle. After glancing into the mirror at the tired dark circles under her eyes, she pinned on her hat and took the cape Clara returned.
"Her majesty is in particularly bad humor today," she warned, marveling that she could refer to Zoe so rudely. But after living in cramped quarters for three seemingly endless weeks, they were no longer strangers and no longer polite.
"Well damn it, you'd be in a temper, too, if you were dying!"
Juliette ground her teeth. Zoe had picked up bad habits while growing up with six brothers. She considered pointing out that swearing was unbecoming behavior, but her advice would only fall on deaf ears. Instead, she silently glared at the two of them, then sailed out the door and up the staircase into cold clean air that smelled and tasted like ambrosia.
The coastline caught her by surprise. Though she should have, she hadn't anticipated the mountains. Even when she was purchasing heavy woolen underwear, she hadn't been able to imagine snow and cold. Well, here was her first glimpse of snow, and the afternoon air was cold enough to pink her cheeks.
And there was Mr. Dare, loitering beside the railing within view of the staircase as if he'd been waiting for her to emerge. A tiny frisson of pleasure skittered down her spine, accompanied by a damper of guilt.
Thank goodness the voyage ended tomorrow and with it her great pleasure in Mr. Dare's company. She and Mr. Dare would go their separate ways and she could stop lying awake nights listening to Aunt Kibble and her mother lecture about the dangers of married women spending time with handsome, engaging single men. Aunt Kibble muttered about playing with fire. Her mother reminded her that a respectable lady would rather die a painful lingering death than open herself to the slightest suspicion of impropriety.
"Good afternoon, Miss March." He removed his hat with a smile. "May I accompany you on your stroll?"
Shamelessly, she didn't even pretend to consider. "Please do." She hoped she was not begging for a painful lingering death.
"By now you know that Miss Klaus won the arm-wrestling tournament." His smile widened. "The story making the rounds is assuming the proportions of a legend."
Fire invaded her cheeks. She deeply regretted helping Clara alter the bodice of her dress. "It's a fine day," she murmured, changing the subject. She refused to spoil her final encounter with Mr. Dare by imagining him observing Clara's indecency.
"So," he said, "does your journey end at Dyea? Or are you traveling farther?"
"We're going to Dawson City." My, the air was invigorating today. On the other hand, she always felt invigorated when she spoke to Mr. Dare. Her heart beat faster, and she smiled more often. And recalling every word of their conversations had helped pass the time when she was stuck below with Zoe. Moreover, his flattering attention helped soothe the battering her self-esteem had taken since learning of Jean Jacques's betrayal.
"But not to seek your fortune," he said in a teasing voice. "You'll join a traveling party in Dyea?"
"We're not meeting anyone, no."
Stopping abruptly, he turned to her with a frown. "You're traveling to the Klondike alone?"
His expression raised a kernel of alarm in her chest. "Why does that surprise you?" she asked when his stare deepened.
"Has anyone explained the trail from Dyea to Dawson City?"
"I've been told it will be an arduous trek."
"It certainly will."
For a moment she was distracted by trying to decide exactly what shade his eyes were. She'd thought delphinium blue, but now the color had darkened, forming a thrilling contrast to his suntanned forehead and cheeks. And his voice roughened when he spoke seriously, something she hadn't really noticed until now.
"You do know, don't you, that you'll make the journey on foot, transporting your outfit?"
"We aren't going on foot. We'll hire a stage."
His beard was filling out, Juliette noticed. Zoe had shocked her by remarking that full thick beards were a sign of virility. It wasn't proper to think about such things, especially with him standing so close. Still…
"Damn." Taking her arm, the first time he had touched her, Ben led her to the rail.
Startled, Juliette frowned at her arm as if she could see the hot tingle that raced from his hand to her shoulder. How was it possible that his touch sent her nerves shooting to the surface? She didn't recall anything like this happening when Jean Jacques touched her.
When they stopped at the rail, Ben noticed that he still held her arm, and he dropped his hand immediately. It occurred to Juliette that they were not parting company any too soon. This man was dangerous. She was becoming entirely too fond of him.
"Miss March. There is no stage, no train, no carriages. Even horses can't make it over Chilkoot Pass."
His words disturbed her uneasy concentration on his mouth. Disbelief widened her eyes. "That can't be correct." She rubbed her tingling arm. "If what you say were true, then how would anyone get their outfits over the pass and down to Dawson City?"
"By carrying them on their backs."
She laughed. "The outfits can weigh a thousand pounds apiece."
"You carry as much as you can as far as you can, then you return for the next load and the next load and the next until you've assembled your outfit, then you start the process over. You'll cover each piece of ground at least ten times or more."
The smile faded from her lips. "But it would take forever to get there, doing it like that."
"It will take several months, working at it seven days a week," he agreed. "That's why I assumed you must be traveling with a larger party. A large party can pare duplicates and add sleds and dogs." He gazed down at her with a concerned expression. "And are you aware that you may have to winter over at Lake Bennett? Living in your tent," he added, watching her.
She gasped, and a hand flew to her throat. "Camp in a tent for a whole winter?" The question ended on a squeak. Trying to live in the outdoors was unimaginable enough. Doing it through a winter was inconceivable. From what she'd heard about snow and frigid temperatures, she didn't think she would enjoy either.
This was not one of their better conversations. She didn't like what he was saying or the images he placed in her mind.
"Some folks wait until the river freezes, then push on with dogs and sleds," he said slowly. "Others wait until the river thaws and go by boat. There are pros and cons to both approaches."
Juliette wasn't seeing any positives to any approach. The headache that signaled unpleasant choices began to build behind her eyes, and she picked at her gloves.
"You've given me a lot to think about," she said finally, speaking in a faint voice. Zoe had argued there were no stages, but she and Clara hadn't believed that Alaska would be too uncivilized even for stages. Zoe's experience was with men preparing to sail to the Klondike, not with those who had returned, so clearly Zoe didn't know everything.
But Zoe had a way of stating things that made it sound as if she were an authority. If they had known of the impossible h
ardships Mr. Dare listed, Juliette felt certain none of the Mmes Villette would have departed Seattle. The obstacles Mr. Dare described were insurmountable for women.
Suddenly she felt like weeping. Once or twice she had experienced a euphoric view of herself as an intrepid traveler braving the perils of a hostile land to reach her poor deluded husband. She had liked that image.
Now she grasped the impossibility. Alaska had defeated her before she ever set foot on shore. "Are there others who turn back when they learn of these hardships?" she asked in a whisper.
" The Annasett won't return to Seattle empty." He waved toward the mess hall. "Some are already talking about going home."
"I see." She, too, would be on the Annasett when the ship turned around. And all she would have accomplished was treating herself to a late-summer cruise, which she had spent confined in a stinking tiny room with two women she wished she'd never met.
She had to tell them what she'd learned. "Excuse me," she murmured, feeling an urgency build in her chest. "I must speak to my companions."
It wasn't fair. For two days she had occupied nearly every moment considering what her bittersweet parting words would be, and speculating how he might say goodbye to her. Now all she could think about was the horrifying knowledge that they were expected to carry their outfits on their backs.
She did the math in her head. If it was approximately seven hundred miles from Dyea to Dawson City—and they had to cover that ground at least ten times to move their outfits—then they would walk a trail that was seven thousand miles long.
Her eyes glazed in shock. She thought of Zoe and for the first time in her life understood the term crime of passion. At this moment she could happily have fallen on Zoe and strangled her. Juliette should never have listened, should never have agreed to undertake this wasted voyage.
"I have to go," she said abruptly, blinking at the headache rising hot behind her eyes. "It's been… I've enjoyed…" Abandoning any final tender words that he could remember her by, she turned in a swirl of skirts and rushed to the staircase.
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