Ashes and Ice

by Tracie Peterson

  “Yes, Captain. I’ll tell ’em.”

  Peter hurried in the direction of the Hotel Alaska. The unpainted clapboard building did nothing to raise his spirits. He bounded through the front doors like he owned the place, determined that nothing would keep him from his father and the truth.

  “We’re full up,” a grizzled old man told him from behind the counter. The man’s face was hideously disfigured, having encountered a bear or some other equally harmful beast. One eye had been lost altogether, and thick white scars intertwined grotesquely around the empty socket.

  Peter thought the man should have covered his misfortune with a patch, but the man seemed not to care. “I’m not here for a room. I’m looking for my family.”

  “And who might they be?”

  “Colton is the name.” Peter knew patience had never been his strong suit, but waiting for the man to answer was severely testing his limits.

  The man eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “They’re up at the top of the stairs and two doors down on the right. If you’re figurin’ to stay with them, I’m going to have to up the rent.”

  “I’m not staying,” Peter said. “And hopefully neither are they.”

  He took the stairs two at a time and pushed his way past three men who appeared to be not only drunk, but close to exhaustion as well. They were wandering back and forth as if trying to find their room or some person. Ordinarily, Peter might have attempted to help them, but with his father lying ill, he had no interest in their plight.

  Pounding on the door loud and hard, Peter found himself welcomed quite happily by Miranda. “Oh, Peter, you’ve come. We prayed you would. We couldn’t find you.”

  “What’s happened here? How is Father?”

  He looked past Miranda to where his father slept. “Is he . . . worse?”

  “Oh no. No, he’s much better. The doctor believes in time he will be completely healed. Mother and Grace, oh, you didn’t know we brought Grace, did you?” She watched his face as if expecting some sort of response. Peter wasn’t at all sure what she expected from him.

  “One of father’s crewmen told me she was here. What in the world is going on, Miranda? Why was my ship taken from me?”

  “That question,” Ephraim called weakly from the bed, “would be better answered by me.”

  Peter rushed past his sister, not even pausing to consider where Grace and his mother might be. “Father, are you all right? What does the doctor say?” He stared down at the ashen-faced man and shook his head. “What has happened?”

  Ephraim struggled to sit up, bringing Miranda quickly to his side. “Let us help you, Father. You know the doctor said you must rest and take care not to overwork yourself.”

  Ephraim relaxed and let Peter and Miranda help him. Plumping pillows around her father to assist his upright position, Miranda turned to Peter. “Mother and Grace have gone to buy food. They should be back anytime now.”

  “Why don’t you go see to finding them?” Peter suggested.

  Miranda seemed to understand that Peter wanted to speak privately with their father. She took up her coat and headed for the door. “You mustn’t leave Father alone. You will stay with him, won’t you?”

  “I promise not to leave until you return,” Peter assured her.

  Once she had gone, he pulled off his heavy wool coat and tossed it to one side. “Now, let us get down to business. The sheriff showed up on board Merry Maid. He said the ship had been confiscated as a part of an agreement with Martin Paxton.”

  His father nodded sadly, affirming Peter’s worst fears. “The papers I signed when Paxton advanced us the money for repairs—they held a clause that said should Paxton find his investment . . . compromised or threatened . . . he would have the right to take over possession of the company until such time as he felt the property was once again on sound footing.”

  “But he has no grounds,” Peter stated. “Even if the contract holds such a clause—and mind you, I do not remember reading such a thing when I looked the papers over—he would have to have reasonable grounds for such an action.”

  “He feels his actions are reasonable,” Ephraim said wearily. He closed his eyes, and Peter thought for a moment that he’d never seen his father look so old and tired. The dark circles under his eyes, the sagging of his jaw—it all made him look so very fragile. It wasn’t something Peter dealt with easily.

  “Father, I should let you rest.” Peter said the words, but at the same time, allowing his father to rest was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “No,” his father said, waving his hand weakly. “Don’t go. We must discuss this.”

  Peter sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress sagged under his weight, leaving him little doubt its support was nothing more than ropes. “Why does Paxton feel he has a right to do this?”

  Ephraim slowly opened his eyes. “He feels his investment is threatened because of your marriage.”

  A burning sensation arose in Peter’s chest. How dare Paxton take this to such lengths, and over a woman! He would strip a man of his business, leave him on his sickbed from the shock, burn down his assets, and for what? To exact revenge over a missed opportunity for marriage?

  “Paxton has done this because I married Grace?”

  Ephraim nodded. “Apparently because of the bad blood between them, Paxton felt you might threaten his investment by siding against him.”

  “But Grace has nothing to do with the business. Nothing to say. Are you certain you understood him?”

  “Ask Grace. She was there with me.”

  “Grace went to Paxton? After I told her to never be in his company?”

  “She was only trying to help. The men had come to take us from Summer Song. I knew I had to straighten this matter out, and Grace offered to go with me. She already felt confident that Paxton had done this as a deliberate act against her.”

  Peter rose from the bed and began pacing in the small room. His father once again closed his eyes, as if telling such a woeful tale had taken his last reserves of strength. And perhaps it had. Peter immediately felt guilty for not concerning himself with his father’s condition.

  “What are the doctors telling you?”

  Without opening his eyes, Ephraim drew a deep breath. “They tell me I’ve suffered a heart attack. With rest they believe I will recover. They are suggesting I go home as soon as possible, where better medical facilities and doctors are available to aid me in recovery.”

  “Then we’ll see to it that you leave immediately. I’m surprised you brought Mother and Miranda here. Whatever brought that about?” He tried to make the question sound curious rather than disapproving.

  Ephraim looked at his son quite seriously. “You left in a bad way. You hurt Grace deeply.”

  “Yes . . . well, she hurt me, if that’s any consolation.”

  “It’s no consolation,” Ephraim replied. “Such matters are never easily consoled. Peter, she is your wife. You must find a way to deal gently with her. Your temper is easily provoked these days, and I fear this news will not bode well for your marriage. You must determine to put your differences aside and let the past go.”

  “I would love nothing more, but apparently Grace and Mr. Paxton have other plans.”

  Just then Miranda opened the door. Their mother, dressed somberly in a dove gray coat, came next, and Grace entered behind her. A delivery boy stood at the door, a box of goods in his arms. With the stranger there, Peter held his tongue and said nothing. While his mother paid the boy, Peter had a chance to meet his wife’s eyes.

  She looked at him as though she’d not seen him in years. Her expression was one of hope. It even suggested pleasure in seeing him. Peter softened momentarily. She was beautiful. Her dark eyes drew him like a moth to a flame, and just like the moth, Peter knew he could very well be wounded to the point of death if he got too close to Grace.

  Grace ignored the distance and Peter’s lack of movement. She went quickly to his side. “I’m so glad you’re safe
. We were terribly worried about you.”

  Peter had no words. He wanted to jump right to the heart of the matter regarding Paxton, yet he didn’t want to further upset his father by creating a scene. What he needed to do was take Grace somewhere away from his family. Once he had her alone, he could question her and learn the truth.

  The delivery boy placed the contents of the crate inside the room and turned to go. Amelia stopped him and handed him a coin, then closed the door behind him as he whistled off happily down the hall. She turned and met her son with an expression that suggested veiled displeasure. Peter hadn’t seen this from her since he’d been a young man. She had always hated to take him to task as a child, and her reluctance and obvious distaste for such matters kept him in line more often than the threat of punishment.

  “Peter.” She said nothing more, but her expression said it all.

  “I’ve been speaking to Father,” Peter began. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you ashore. I’m sorry you were displaced.”

  “We’ve had quite the adventure,” his mother admitted and crossed the room to gently kiss her son’s cheek. “But we are all well and fine. Your father is recovering his health and soon will be back on his feet.”

  “I think Father should go home. You all should. There are better doctors and hospitals, and who knows if he’s had the proper treatment here in the wilds of the north?”

  “Passage home can still be rough at this time of year,” his father replied.

  “Have you the money for tickets?” Peter asked, still not daring himself to speak what was really on his heart.

  “Mr. Paxton has offered us free travel home,” Amelia said as Miranda helped her from her coat. She pulled off her bonnet and handed it to Miranda as well. “We plan to leave soon, but not until your father has regained more of his strength.”

  Peter felt slightly upbraided by her response. She wasn’t asking his opinion or his advice. She was simply stating how it was to be. He nodded, then looked to Grace. “I need to speak with my wife.”

  “I should say so,” his mother replied half under her breath. She turned to tend to the groceries, then turned back abruptly. “Do so in gentleness, son. I will not brook any nonsense of ill will between the two of you. Not now—not after all we’ve been through.”

  Now Peter felt his anger stirred. His mother was treating him as if he were a young boy again, chiding him to mind his manners and play nicely with the other children.

  “The matter is between Grace and me. We will speak in private.” He took hold of Grace’s arm and tightened his fingers around her wrist. “Come, Grace.”

  He led her past his mother and sister, opened the door, and fairly pushed her into the hall. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?” he questioned in a barely audible voice.

  “Not really,” Grace replied. “Why don’t we go for a walk? The day has turned out quite nice, and we can walk away from the town and have a moment or two to ourselves.”

  Peter nodded and turned back inside to grab his coat. He allowed Grace to walk ahead of him as they went down the stairs and out the door. Freighters with teams of less than cooperative horses added to throngs of people, dogs, and mules, all obstacles of living flesh for anyone brave enough, or foolish enough, to join their numbers. Peter tired of the noise and the ordeal before they’d even walked two blocks.

  The buildings thinned out quickly, however, as did the crowds. The town proper was all that really held the interest of these gold rushers. That and the trails to White Pass and the Yukon.

  Grace clung to Peter’s arm, more for support than intimacy. The muddy streets were difficult to maneuver, and even when they were treated to a few plank boards to negotiate the muck, the walk was still quite uneven.

  Peter tried not to be physically drawn to Grace’s presence. She seemed so small and helpless sometimes, yet he knew she was quite capable. Her hand holding his arm was less than half the size of his, yet he knew this woman could cause him more pain than men with fists double the width.

  “I’m sorry you had to find your father in such a state,” Grace finally said after they’d walked a good distance from the planned tracts of Skagway.

  Peter stopped and turned to her. Calmly, he asked, “What happened? Tell me everything.”

  Grace licked her lips and looked quickly away. “The men came to Summer Song and escorted us off. When your father learned that this was Mr. Paxton’s doing, he decided to go see what he could do to change his mind. I accompanied him, not to defy you or your wishes, but because I didn’t want him to face Mr. Paxton alone. I knew his action was most likely on account of me.” She looked up as if awaiting his approval or rejection.

  “Go on,” he said, trying hard to keep all emotion from his voice.

  Grace seemed to consider the matter a moment. “Mr. Paxton stated that there was bad blood between our families. That his friendship with your father was completely threatened by my marriage to you. He said that you had taken what was rightfully his, and in turn he would take what belonged to you.”

  “Why, that—”

  Grace held up her hand. “Your father told him that Colton Shipping was his life—your inheritance. Mr. Paxton didn’t care. He felt it was only a matter of time before you blamed him for the destruction of the store in Dyea and that soon you and your father would conspire against him.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” Grace said.

  The wind blew loose a strand of chocolate brown hair and draped it across her face. Peter thought to reach out and push it back, but he held himself in check. If he touched her, even for a moment, he might well forget why he’d brought her here in the first place.

  Grace’s gloved fingers quickly tucked the hair back into place. She said nothing, but looked up at Peter as if awaiting instructions.

  “What else?” he finally asked.

  “When your father fell ill, Mr. Paxton called for his men to take him to the doctor. I wanted to accompany your father, but Mr. Paxton would not allow me to follow.”

  Peter could no longer hold back his rage. “Did he touch you? Did he?”

  “He did not hurt me, except with his words,” Grace replied. “He made it clear that my marrying you had caused this ordeal. I am sorry, Peter. I don’t know why he insists on having me for his wife. The matter is settled, yet he acts as though it’s only begun. His demands suggest he could change everything with our cooperation.”

  “What do you mean by that? What are his demands?”

  Grace turned away. “I intend to send a telegram to my mother. I am hoping she might have some idea of what Mr. Paxton had said to my father. I am hopeful that she will have some idea of why he continues to pursue me even after he has destroyed my family and our fortune.”

  Peter gripped her shoulders much too tightly. He knew he was hurting her, but nevertheless, he yanked her back around to face him. “What does he want?”

  Grace shook her head. “He wants me.”

  Peter looked at her and saw the fear in her eyes. He could feel her trembling beneath his hold and knew it was from fear of him. Ashamed, he dropped his hold and stepped back. “You’re married. How can he hope to resolve that?”

  “He wants me to divorce you. He’s already arranged for it and wants only my cooperation. He’s probably bought himself a judge and court somewhere,” Grace said, her words cold but honest. “Peter, he says he’ll return everything to you and your father if I leave you.”

  “I’ll kill him!” Peter said, no longer caring. Doubling his fists, he closed his eyes. He saw hot white stars against a field of blackened emptiness. He had never wanted to kill a man before now. His earlier anger and irritation with Paxton were mere annoyance compared to the feelings coursing through his body—feelings that were quickly fueling his rage and pushing him toward action.

  Opening his eyes, he saw the tears streaming down Grace’s face. “I suppose you want me to forgive him, madam? Maybe pray for him? Well, there will be none o
f that. Any prayers said will have to originate with you. I’ll kill him before I’ll allow him to hurt my father any further. I’ll kill him before I’ll see him in charge of Colton Shipping. And I’ll surely kill him before I see him lay a finger on you.”

  —[CHAPTER THIRTEEN]—

  KAREN SAT DOWN on the edge of the bed and brushed out her long, damp hair. She’d hated to give up her time in the bath, but others were waiting and there was no chance of keeping the place to herself.

  With each stroke of the brush, Karen couldn’t help but remember Adrik’s touch. She shivered, even though the room was quite toasty and warm. What had he done to her? How could she be so easily moved by this man?

  She thought of her father and Adrik’s loyalty to Wilmont Pierce’s memory. She had at first believed Adrik’s interest in her was nothing more than an expression of that loyalty. But now . . . now that he’d kissed her, she realized it was something entirely different.

  Licking her rather chapped lips, she felt her cheeks flush at the memory of his touch. He sparked a fire inside her. He left her weak-kneed and full of romantic thoughts. No one else had ever done that. Was this truly what it was to fall in love? Could she give her heart to this man? Love him? Marry him? Could she develop any relationship before she’d first dealt with the past?

  Karen knew she must deal with her anger toward Martin Paxton. It was affecting everything else in her life. Leah knew it. Adrik and Grace had both endured the effects of it.

  Poor Grace. Karen hadn’t seen her young friend since their encounter. The thought of Grace being so near yet so far away—just a few miles away in Skagway—was frustrating. Karen longed to make things right between them again. She longed to sit down and put aside talk of Paxton and even of Peter. She longed for things to go back to the way they had been before they’d come to Alaska.

  How many times had Karen faced a new day only to wish—even pray—that the reality of her life was nothing more than the remnants of a bad dream? But as bad as her own nightmarish existence was, there was Leah to contend with. Leah’s grief had changed the girl. She added her brother’s disappearance to her list of losses, tallying them like an account she could never hope to reconcile. Karen saw the child slip further away almost daily. Gone were the vibrant smile and childlike faith. In their place had come a touch of cynicism and defeat, emotions much too adult for a girl not yet thirteen.