Where Heaven Begins

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Thank you, and God bless you,” Elizabeth answered, feeling sorry for the overworked woman. The cook just stared at her a moment, obviously surprised at her last remark. She smiled. “Why, thank you,” she told Elizabeth. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

  Elizabeth took the tray, smiling in return, and feeling better that she’d said something kind rather than let the owner make her rude to everyone else. She left, thinking how people and places like this were such a test of one’s faith and one’s desire to be kind to others.

  She made her way to the hotel and after briefly relating Clint’s condition to Mr. Wheeler she entered the storeroom.

  “Here you are!” she told Clint as she set the tray on the only table in the room. “I have eggs and ham and biscuits and coffee! It cost me a whole dollar, but you need to start eating.” She turned to face him. “I think you’ll—” She did not finish her sentence. There sat Clint Brady, with a look on his face she couldn’t even read, a brown bottle in his hand. He held it up.

  “How about a toast, Miss Christian-Holier-than-Thou Breckenridge? What does your Bible say about a woman drinking whiskey? Jesus drank wine, I think, didn’t He?” He chuckled. “Maybe He wasn’t so perfect after all.” He waved her over. “Come on. Take a swig. This stuff will cure anything that ails you. I drink enough of this and I’ll be back to my old self within twenty-four hours.”

  Elizabeth’s heart fell. “I just spent a whole dollar on you, Clint Brady, and I come back to find you drunk!”

  He winked at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll eat the food, soon as I finish this bottle.”

  Elizabeth felt like crying. “You can finish it alone, Mr. Brady, and if you do, I highly doubt you will be one-hundred-percent cured by tomorrow. It is more likely you’ll hardly be able to get out of bed!”

  He laughed again. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you? What the heck does it take to get you to loosen up, Miss God’s-Gift-to-the-World?”

  “Certainly not whiskey! And no, I don’t have the answer for everything. I don’t have an answer for why you behave the way you do.” She folded her arms, struggling to control her fury and deciding to say something that would wipe the drunken smile off his face. “One thing I don’t know is—who is Jenny? You called me Jenny a couple of times while you were your sickest. Was she your wife, Clint? What happened to her?”

  The remark certainly did wipe the smile off his face—to a greater extent than she’d thought it would. The smile turned to a grim look, his blue eyes suddenly looking much darker. “Get out!” he told her. “Get out of here before I knock you clear out the back door!”

  He rose, making ready to come for her, and Elizabeth backed away. The anger in his eyes was unnerving. She grasped the door handle, but before Clint could reach her he wavered, then fell flat on his face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  An ungodly man diggeth up evil: and in his lips there is as a burning fire.

  —Proverbs 16:27

  Clint awoke to a raging headache. Unaware at first of where he was, he rolled onto his back and rubbed his forehead, finding there a swollen knot. He squinted with pain, taking a moment to think. The room was dark except for an oil lamp burning low.

  Skagway. He was in Skagway…and he’d been so sick he’d wanted to die. The darkness could mean practically any time of day, since daylight hours were getting shorter and shorter this time of year. Was it morning or evening? With a groan he sat up, running his hands through his hair, which he realized was getting long. He scratched at his face and frowned at the long stubble there.

  He took a deep breath, thinking more, looking around the room. He spotted a brown bottle nearby. That was when it hit him. Whiskey! He’d drunk practically that whole bottle of whiskey! It wasn’t a big bottle, but big enough. No wonder he felt so lousy. And he remembered something about food…Elizabeth…she’d brought him food…said something about paying a whole dollar for it.

  He managed to get to his knees, then realized he’d been lying on the floor. He stood up and stumbled back to the bed. He sat down on it and looked at the floor, groaning. Had he passed out in front of Elizabeth Breckenridge?

  He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair yet again. It all came back to him, and he moaned. What had he done? After all Elizabeth had done for him, and he’d threatened to clobber her! What kind of man had he become?

  He walked over to the little table where the oil lamp sat, and he turned it up so he could see the room better. On the stove sat a tin plate with food on it, and a pewter coffeepot. He walked closer to see that the tray held eggs and ham, although quite dried out now. Elizabeth must have put the food there to keep it warm for him…and after he’d as much as cussed her out and chased her out of here. He checked the coffeepot and found it full, and still hot from sitting on the little potbelly stove, which she must have stoked with wood before leaving.

  He glanced at the bed and saw that the sheets had been changed. Everything was clean and neat…kind of like Jenny used to take care of things. Clean clothes were laid out for him. For God’s sake, had she gone and had his clothes washed?

  A further glance around the room showed that all of Elizabeth’s things were gone. Hadn’t he told her to get a room of her own? She must have done so, which would probably cost her more than this back room had. Or maybe she’d found someone to take her on to Dawson.

  No! He couldn’t let her do that! There wasn’t a man in this town who could be trusted to take her alone on a long trip like that. But then, maybe he couldn’t even trust himself under the same circumstances. Apparently not, judging by his most recent behavior.

  Never had he felt like such a complete ass. His aching head made him want to lie back down for several more hours, but he had to do something about this mess. He needed to apologize to Elizabeth. He needed to find out if she’d already left for Dawson. If so, he had to go after her and order her to go with no one but him.

  He felt as if someone had beat him near to death and dragged him behind a horse for a few miles, but he was better and could do the rest of his healing on the journey. There was no time to be wasted! What was the date? How late was too late to head for Dawson? Were the horses he’d boarded still all right? For all he knew they’d been sold out from under him, or stolen.

  The last few days were like a nightmare of sickness and dizziness and being hardly aware of where he was or what was going on around him. Then he’d had to go and drink that whiskey, thinking it would cure what was left of his pneumonia. Thing was, he’d drank it for another reason, like he always did—to forget. Forget. Forget. Whiskey eased the pain in his heart, but then sometimes it only made things worse, so he’d drink till he passed out. When a man was that far gone, he couldn’t think about anything at all.

  Now he did have to think! He was a mess, needed a shave, needed to change, needed to go find Elizabeth, needed to apologize, needed to get a map showing the best route to Dawson, needed to get the proper supplies, needed to go claim his horses…and he’d practically forgotten about Roland Fisher! The man was worth five thousand dollars!

  This sickness had put him behind on everything and had shown him up to be a weak man in front of Elizabeth. He’d sure never let that happen again! What must she think of him!

  Quickly he turned and scarfed down the dried, rubbery eggs and ham and toast, washing all of that down with the coffee that had become strong from sitting so long. There, that felt better. He took a porcelain bowl from a shelf, along with a towel and some bar soap and poured water from a kettle into the bowl.

  He undressed and began vigorously washing himself, then rummaged through his things to find his shaving mug, brush and razor. A mirror hung on the wall near the door, so he moved the small table there so he could shave, wincing when he nicked his jaw. He washed his face again, then put on the clothes Elizabeth left out for him. He picked up his comb and walked back to the mirror, combing back his disheveled hair as best he could, thinking how he’d better get it cut befo
re he left for Dawson. Then again, why bother? On a trip like that a man might as well not worry about shaving or cutting his hair until he arrived at his destination.

  He walked to the back door to check the temperature outside. Cool and rainy. Could he have expected anything else? Seemed more like late evening than morning. He scurried to the privy to take care of personals, then went back inside and took his fur-lined suede jacket from a hook. Under the jacket hung his gun belt and six-gun. Deciding not to wear those just now, he pulled on his jacket, then drank down more coffee to help sober himself more before going through the door that led to the hotel lobby. The manager was at his desk.

  “Wheeler, isn’t it?” he spoke up, walking up to the man.

  “Well, Mr. Brady! You’re looking quite a bit better! Glad to see you up and around! Did you enjoy the food Miss Breckenridge brought you yesterday?”

  “Yesterday?” Elizabeth must not have said anything to the man about his being drunk. “Yes. It really hit the spot,” he answered. “Can you tell me what time it is? And where is Miss Breckenridge now? Her things are gone.”

  “Yes! I finally had a decent room open up.” He winked. “I think she was happy to get a room of her own. She seems like such a nice young lady.”

  Clint’s feelings of guilt kept getting worse. “Yes, she is. Which room is hers?”

  “Well, it’s upstairs—first door on the right, but she’s not there. She went to get something to eat, and then she wanted to try to find someone who might accompany her to Dawson. I told her about a town meeting just up the street where men are gathered to learn more about the trip. But I also tried to tell her there are few men in this town she could trust. She insisted—”

  Clint did not wait to hear the rest of the man’s sentence. He hurried out the door to find Elizabeth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The simple believeth every word: but the prudent man looketh well to his going.

  —Proverbs 14:15

  “Well, lady, first you have to take either Chilkoot Pass or White Pass to get to Lake Bennett. If you’re real lucky, you’ll still have all your provisions with you. Now, if ya can’t get all yer supplies over there yerself, then you’ll pay about triple what it costs to buy them here, if’n you have to buy them from those that carry them over for you, so yer best off gettin’ them to Lake Bennett yerself, ya know what I mean?”

  Elizabeth just stared at the bearded, kind-eyed older man who called himself only by the nickname of Hard Tack. He was obviously enjoying being able to show her how much he knew about the trip to the Yukon. He’d rattled on so fast that she was left totally confused.

  “Now, I’d shore like to take ya myself,” he continued, “only I ain’t goin’ all the way, on account of I take supplies just to Lake Bennett. I kin git ya that far, if that helps, but then ya’d have to find somebody else to help you git the rest of the way, which is by boat up the Yukon River, over dangerous rapids and all that.” He looked her over. “Ma’am, I’d suggest ya wait till spring myself.”

  “I’d really rather go now,” she answered. “I don’t know what on earth I would do with myself in a place like Skagway all winter. Besides, I can’t afford room and board for that long. I guess I could get a job, but all I want is to reach my brother in Dawson and have it over with. There I could rest at last and truly be home and with someone familiar.”

  The man scratched his beard. “Well, now, I know that that group of fellas over there is goin’ for sure, leavin’ in a couple of days. One of ’em is a lawyer, so he says. The others are just friends of his, all businessmen, they claim, ’cept in these parts ya can’t always believe what a man tells ya. I reckon ya can trust them as good as anybody.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the group of men gathered in a large tent with about one hundred others who’d come to hear about what they would need for their trip to the Klondike. Those here to fill them in were outfitters and owners of Skagway supply stores, as well as men with horses, dogs, sleds and boats for sale.

  The men Hard Tack referred to were mostly dressed in suits and overcoats, certainly not men who appeared to know much about survival in the wilds. Still, as Hard Tack said, they certainly appeared to be gentlemen who would at least honor her integrity and would surely protect her if need be from animals and the elements. She thanked Hard Tack and walked over to the men, who were intently listening to a man telling them about the proper way to pitch a tent on hard, cold, rocky ground, giving tips on what to do if the snow was deep. It was obvious by comments some of the men made that indeed, they didn’t know much about such things. One of them turned to eye her, then removed his hat. “Ma’am?”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath for courage, hating to approach strangers with her request. “My name is Elizabeth Breckenridge, and that man over there—” She pointed to Hard Tack. “He’s a supplier, and he told me you and your friends might oblige my request.”

  The man smiled through thin lips and looked her over with rather unreadable brown eyes. He was neither handsome nor hard to look at, with dark hair that seemed too thin for what appeared to be a man only perhaps Clint’s age, which she guessed to be late twenties or perhaps thirty. “And what might that request be?”

  “Well, I’m headed for Dawson myself, to find my brother, Peter. He’s a preacher there.” She hoped that fact would cement her own credibility and honor. “I need some kind of escort on the trip, and I was hoping…well, Hard Tack…he said you were a lawyer here with some other businessmen. I hoped that meant you were all gentlemen and that perhaps I could trust you to get me to Dawson. I wouldn’t be any burden, I promise. I could cook for all of you, keep your clothes washed and mended, that kind of thing. I can’t really afford to pay—”

  “Certainly!” the man answered before she could finish. His grin widened. “We’d be honored to take you along with us, Miss Breckenridge!” He touched the arm of one of his friends, a portly, middle-aged fellow wearing a suit. “Jonathan Hedley, meet Miss Elizabeth Breckenridge.”

  Hedley nodded to her as the first man put out his hand.

  “And my name is Ezra Faine, ma’am.” He looked at Hedley. “Miss Breckenridge needs an escort to Dawson, wondered if we might be obliged to help her out.”

  Hedley’s eyebrows shot up with pleasure as he grinned, his cheeks actually turning red. “Why, of course we would!” the man answered, too quickly it seemed to Elizabeth. He turned to Ezra and winked.

  “We leave in two days, Miss Breckenridge,” Ezra told her. “We and our friends would be glad to take you along with us. We’ll make sure you get to Dawson all safe and sound. Do you have all the supplies you need?”

  Someone in the crowded tent bumped Elizabeth’s velvet hat, and she adjusted it as she answered. “Actually no. I mean, I just don’t have the money—”

  “Not to worry,” Ezra told her. “We have brought along plenty of money, and we’ll get all the necessary supplies. You just bring along your personal baggage and we’ll make room.” He leaned closer, grinning eagerly. “You, uh, don’t have any other female friends you could bring along, do you?”

  Elizabeth frowned. “What?”

  The man put an arm around her shoulders and led her aside. “Ma’am, we both know that it’s pretty unlikely a woman traveling alone to Dawson is totally proper, if you know what I mean. Now, I’ll accept your story about having a brother there who is a preacher. That’s what we’ll tell the others. But, well, it’s possible we could get caught in a blizzard or something like that, which means we’d have to all hole up in a tent together. Now I know that even a woman who’s, uh, not so proper, shall we say?—that even she wouldn’t want to put up with a whole tent full of men. Me, I’ll have my own tent, and I’ll see you get to Dawson without charging you one blessed cent, as long as you share my tent with me, if you know what I mean.”

  Elizabeth’s heart fell like a rock. This man thought she was lying about Peter! He thought she was a prostitute trying to hook a free ride to Dawson! Fury and disappointment
engulfed her, and she could not hide her tears as she looked at Ezra Faine. “You are a filthy-minded, reprehensible man with not one ounce of manners or honor about you!” she shot back.

  The man grasped her arm. “Now, honey, don’t get angry. I just wanted to be sure—”

  “Let go of the lady,” came a deep voice.

  Elizabeth recognized it as Clint’s. Ezra glanced up at someone tall standing behind her. “What was that?” he asked.

  “You heard me. Take your hand off her arm. And if I were you, I’d turn around and rejoin my friends and not say one more word.”

  Ezra gave Elizabeth a light shove before he let go of her. “Says who?” he asked, trying to look brave and manly.

  “Mister, I’m a bounty hunter, so hurting or killing a man means nothing to me. Is that enough of an answer?”

  Ezra backed away slightly, looking Clint over and pretending not to be afraid. He moved his gaze to Elizabeth. “He one of your customers or something?”

  In the next split second a big fist came from behind Elizabeth and slammed into Ezra Faine’s face, sending the man sprawling into a stack of sacks stuffed with beans. One of them broke, spilling the contents onto the wooden floor. Beans bounced about, some of them off Ezra’s face. Other men turned to look, and Clint grasped Elizabeth’s arm. “Let’s go,” he told her.

  Still fighting tears, Elizabeth left with him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that everyone may receive the things done in His body, according to that He hath done, whether it be good or bad.

  —1 Corinthians 5:10

  Clint walked so fast that he nearly dragged Elizabeth along the boardwalk back toward the hotel.