[Yukon Quest 01] - Treasures Of The North

by Tracie Peterson

  ‘‘Oh, Father,’’ she murmured, ‘‘why did this ever happen? What did you do to cause such grief to fall upon your shoulders— and my own?’’

  She loved her father and mother despite their distance during her younger years. She had watched them from afar. Though not as the stick figures her mother had mentioned in her own confessions, but rather as beings of importance. People to be revered and in awe of, but not to be close to or loved by.

  Grace supposed she understood that her parents, in their own way, did love her, but their love was far more calculated than Grace desired it to be. She had seen her friends and other families from the church or social settings. She had watched mothers and daughters share amiable moments of what could only be described as true camaraderie. And she had longed for that type of friendship with her own mother.

  ‘‘Now it seems I might have it, but for my escape,’’ she thought aloud. ‘‘Mother is so changed. She feels so responsible for this, and yet I know she doesn’t approve of Mr. Paxton any more than I do.’’

  His very name caused her to shudder. Suddenly feeling chilled, in spite of summer’s warmth, Grace slipped beneath her covers just as another flash of lightning illuminated the room. Pulling the sheet high, like she did as a child, Grace murmured a prayer for protection.

  ‘‘See me here, O God,’’ she whispered. ‘‘See me and guard me. Protect me from harm and deliver me from the hands of my enemy.’’

  Morning came too soon, as far as Grace was concerned. She dressed as she’d been instructed, shared breakfast with her mother and father, then upon her mother’s comment to see to assigning duties to the staff, Grace asked to be excused.

  ‘‘My dear, if I might have a word with you first,’’ Frederick Hawkins requested.

  Myrtle and Grace looked at each other as if to question which woman it was he spoke to.

  ‘‘I only wish to speak with Grace for a moment.’’

  Myrtle nodded and went about her business, while Grace tarried behind her chair. Clinging to the high wooden back for support, Grace waited to hear what her father might have to say.

  Looking genuinely sorry, he met her eyes. ‘‘I would not have caused you pain for all the world. I know you fear this arrangement, but believe me when I say, in the long run, it is for the best.’’

  ‘‘I know you want the best for me, Father,’’ Grace replied, barely able to keep her voice even. ‘‘I have prayed about this and will do what I must.’’

  He nodded. ‘‘Good. So long as you understand. A father must do what seems best—even when all around him suggest it to be otherwise. I am only doing what I feel will benefit you. Becoming a wife is a wonderful event in a young woman’s life. I feel confident that you will want for nothing. Paxton is quite wealthy and has assured me that you will live in grand style at his home in Erie.’’

  Grace nodded. She wanted so badly to explain herself—to tell him everything and hope he might understand her decision to defy him. Doing the only thing she could, Grace left the security of the chair and went to embrace her father. Kneeling beside him, she threw her arms around him in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

  ‘‘I love you, Father. I know you have only tried to do your best for me. I’m sorry I haven’t been the obedient daughter you deserve.’’

  ‘‘Nonsense,’’ he said, his body rigid and unresponsive.

  Grace straightened, looked into his eyes, and realized he had put a wall up between them. He appeared to be fighting with every ounce of his strength to reveal nothing more than manly resolve.

  Standing, Grace bit her tongue to keep from confessing her plan. Better to leave now, she told herself. Leave quickly and quietly, remembering that you did what you could and that you aren’t going out of a spirit of willfulness, but rather desperation.

  She fled the room, narrowly missing the butler as he came in to make the announcement that the minister had arrived to discuss the wedding arrangements. The words caused Grace to flinch as if struck. She hated lying to her father, but how would she feel knowing she had lied to a man of God as well?

  Their plans went through as anticipated, and it wasn’t until after she and Karen exchanged places with the actresses and were dressed in servants’ uniforms that Grace realized the finality of the moment. For reasons that were beyond her understanding, she suddenly feared that she might never again step foot in her childhood home. Looking beyond the kitchen entryway, Grace found herself wanting to memorize every detail she could set her sights on.

  Myrtle came to bid her daughter farewell, and in spite of their resolve to be brave, both women broke into tears.

  ‘‘Please know how much I love you,’’ Grace whispered against her mother’s ear.

  ‘‘I do know,’’ Myrtle replied. ‘‘I love you with all my life.’’ She pressed something into Grace’s hand.

  Looking down, Grace found a velvet bag. ‘‘What is this?’’

  ‘‘Consider it additional insurance,’’ Myrtle replied. ‘‘I sold more jewelry. This is the money I received, as well as a few other pieces that you could sell later. Nothing sentimental, I promise. I want you to take it and be safe. Sew the money into the lining of your dress or jacket. Hide it away so that scoundrels and ruthless men will not seek to harm you in order to take it from you. The world is not a kind place, Grace darling. You must look to God for protection and wisdom.’’

  Grace nodded and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘‘Don’t forget to write to me when it is safe to come home.’’

  Myrtle nodded. ‘‘I will. You know I will.’’

  Grace tucked the bag inside her uniform apron and turned to Karen. ‘‘I suppose I am ready,’’ she told her companion.

  ‘‘Then let us be on our way. The world awaits,’’ Karen said with a smile before adding, ‘‘or at least the nine-fifteen train does.’’

  Grace refused to look back. She boarded the carriage along with the other maids and didn’t so much as wave. Her mother had told her to act no more attached to the place than would a servant and to give it no further thought than one who was about her chores, soon to return.

  But I’m not returning, Grace realized. At least not for a very long time. Somehow she knew this would be the case. With each turn of the carriage wheel, Grace felt her serenity and security slip away. Defeat weighed heavy on her shoulders. Mr. Paxton had taken her home away from her, after all.

  Martin Paxton paced the confines of his hotel room and studied the papers he’d been given. The businesses he’d acquired while on his trip to Chicago were a critical start to helping him in his shipping endeavors across the Great Lakes. A start, but certainly not a completion.

  ‘‘Boss?’’ a scruffy-voiced man asked in the doorway of the suite.

  ‘‘What is it?’’

  ‘‘Came to report in. Davis is on the job now.’’

  ‘‘Very well,’’ Martin said, lowering the papers and waving him forward.

  ‘‘The two young ladies, your fiance e and that Miss Pierce, they left the house this morning. Davis and I followed them.’’

  ‘‘And?’’ Paxton questioned, irritated by the man’s slowness.

  ‘‘And they went to the dressmaker. They looked to be settin’ up for a long spell, and so I told Davis to sit tight while I came back here to report in.’’

  ‘‘Good. Now get back out there and keep an eye on them,’’ Paxton replied. ‘‘I won’t have Hawkins backing out of our transaction. Not after all he’s done to cause me grief. It would be just like him to let his womenfolk talk him into other arrangements.’’

  The man nodded. ‘‘Yes, sir. I’ll get right back like you said.’’

  Paxton flipped the man a coin and went back to considering the figures on the papers. Soon his plan would be well underway. He had Hawkins right where he wanted him, and in time he would exact his revenge. The very thought caused Paxton to feel energized and alive. Casting the papers aside, he decided an early celebration was in order. He would find himself a
willing companion and a case of good liquor. Then he’d spend the evening in company of both—until one or both were completely used up.

  8

  —[ CHAPTER EIGHT ]—

  MARTIN PAXTON read the final paragraphs of the morning paper before casting it aside with a smile. The proclamation from nearly every page had to do with the new discovery of gold in the northern territories of Canada. Not that gold hadn’t been a disputed commodity from that area of the world for years, but it appeared that this time things were different. There were stories declaring the authenticity of the find and warnings from the Canadian government regarding the laws and conditions of coming into their fair country, as well as a bevy of advertisements that spoke to the heart of the matter.

  GET YOUR GOLD RUSH BOOTS HERE!

  DON’T FREEZE WHILE GETTING RICH—

  BUY BREMEN’S LONG UNDERWEAR.

  Guaranteed to keep you warm or your money back!

  MOTHER MADISON’S TONIC!

  Guaranteed to ward off the cold and

  keep your bones strong

  as you journey north to fortune and fame.

  Paxton would have laughed if it hadn’t been so completely pathetic. So what if two ships had docked on the West Coast bearing more gold than people had seen in their lifetimes? Was the average man really so dense that he believed himself to be the one exception to the rule? Did those people not realize what slim chances were to be had in amassing a fortune in such an unconventional way?

  They heard the stories of riches and glory and were blinded to the truth. Never mind that alongside the story of one miner’s newly gained wealth, another told of the hardships endured by those who had been less fortunate. Was it truly so easy to look beyond the several-thousand-mile journey to the hope that gold awaited them?

  But in truth, Paxton couldn’t have cared less. The Yukon gold rush was rapidly making him a wealthy man. Or at least in time it would. Already in the last week he’d bought up six small businesses and one rather large freight company, all because their owners were set ablaze by gold fever.

  ‘‘Ridiculous fools!’’ Paxton declared to no one but himself. They were exactly the kind of men he’d spent his life preying on. Men easily turned by the glitter of gold or the flash of a woman’s smile. Men who would sell their souls, and had, in order to have their dream.

  Paxton found the entire matter to be one of clear profit. The country had long been in a depressed state since the silver panic of 1893. Parts of the country suffered more than others, with the western coastal states perhaps hardest hit. The timber industry slowed to a crawl and with it, jobs were lost in great numbers. Canneries, vineyards, and farms were also to share in the struggles. The gold rush came at the perfect moment— offering the perfect hope.

  Taking up his freshly brushed suit coat, Paxton finished dressing for the day. He would call on Frederick Hawkins and see what news could be had of his upcoming wedding. The twenty-fourth was but two days away, and as of yet, the details coming from the Hawkins house regarding the arrangements were few.

  He smiled to himself. His plans were so close to being realized. After a lifetime of plotting and planning his own brand of revenge against Frederick Hawkins, Martin Paxton was soon to know the satisfaction of breaking his adversary. The thought was exhilarating—it fueled him—fed him in the darkest hours of his life.

  ‘‘You’ll know what it is to lose the things you love most, Mr. Hawkins,’’ Paxton murmured.

  He checked his appearance in the mirror and thought of Grace Hawkins. Such a delicate and petite flower. It would be easy to crush her—to break her of anything even remotely related to a spirit or free will. It hadn’t been his original plan to insist on marriage to the girl, but seeing how beautiful she was and knowing that it couldn’t help but add injury to insult once the truth was learned, Paxton knew he had to have her. Knowing she was her mother and father’s pride and joy made it only that much more satisfying.

  The real dilemma was Grace herself. He hadn’t figured it would be a challenge to win her over. Women usually came quite willingly when he beckoned, but Grace had been different. Her nai vete in dealing with suitors made her fearful and cautious. Those qualities did not suit Paxton’s plan very well. He had figured on seduction, fooling the daughter right along with the father. But no matter what he had done to try to entice Grace, she steered clear of him, hardly giving him more than a second notice. It was enough to wreak havoc with his rather oversized ego.

  ‘‘She’ll pay soon enough,’’ he said, grabbing a brush to adjust the ebony wave of his hair. Grace Hawkins would hardly be so high and mighty when he dumped her in a hovel in his hometown of Erie and left her to fend for herself. Oh, he’d visit just often enough to threaten her and see to it that she stayed put. He’d alternate his visits so that he never arrived at the same time of day. That would keep her guard up constantly and wear her down more rapidly. She’d always be watching and waiting, never knowing for sure when he might return. He’d use her and abuse her as he willed, and when he was completely finished with ruining Frederick Hawkins, he’d return her to her father—a broken woman, a mere shell of the beauty she’d once been.

  Delighted by his own deviousness, Paxton went downstairs to breakfast. The day was young and promised great reward.

  Cooling his heels in Frederick Hawkins’ study, Martin Paxton was not happy when word came that Grace was ill and would not be receiving visitors.

  ‘‘I find your daughter’s lack of cooperation disturbing,’’ Paxton told a rather ashen-faced Hawkins. ‘‘She’s refused to attend parties with me, denied me the pleasure of her company for dinner or other outings, and now, not but two days until we are to be married, she is too ill with a headache to see me.’’

  ‘‘I cannot force her to get up out of bed for a social call. You want her well for the wedding, don’t you?’’ Frederick replied rather angrily.

  Paxton raised a brow. ‘‘Be careful how you address me, good sir. I might find myself forced to divulge information that you would rather see forever silenced.’’

  The effect of his words was clearly noticeable as Hawkins took the seat behind his desk. ‘‘You’re getting what you want, but still I have no guarantee that you won’t deceive me and tell your tales anyway.’’

  Paxton smiled in great satisfaction. ‘‘No. You don’t have any guarantee. You are completely at my mercy, and the sooner you accept it, the better off you’ll be.’’ He got to his feet and narrowed his gaze. ‘‘I will be here tomorrow at precisely four o’clock. Tell Grace to be ready for a carriage ride in the park. Tell her I will not brook any nonsense.’’

  Hawkins nodded, and without another word Martin Paxton turned and left the house. A slow, burning anger stirred memories that he would just as soon have left in the darker recesses of his mind. Clenching his fists as he reached his carriage, Paxton vowed that nothing would keep him from bringing this fine family to the ground. He would leave them completely demoralized and penniless. They would have nothing but the clothes on their backs and the shoes on their feet, and even that, in Martin Paxton’s opinion, would be too much kindness.

  Back at the hotel, Martin let the strain of the day leave him. He studied a bundle of letters that had arrived with the afternoon post. One in particular caught his eye. Opening it, he read,

  Dear Martin,

  It was our pleasure to hear from you once again. I cannot say the times have been kind on this most westerly coast of America. Here in San Francisco, shipping has seen both increase and decrease, and with the rapid growth of the rail lines, I worry that it will somehow fade altogether and Colton Shipping will be no more. Many of our dear friends have suffered grave financial setbacks, and some have even fled California for more lucrative promises back East.

  The family is well; thank you for asking. I think often of you and your dear mother. I was truly sorry to hear of her passing. Please know you are welcome anytime in our home and please let me know if there is anything that we mig
ht do to help you.

  Your servant,

  Ephraim Colton

  Martin refolded the paper and smiled. Ephraim Colton had been the only truly selfless person he had ever known. The man had shown great kindness to his mother and her family. In fact, at one time the two families had been the best of friends. Long before Martin had been born, the Coltons and Paxtons had shared a common interest in shipping on the Great Lakes. When Ephraim had moved his wife west in order to take over a San Francisco shipping firm, Martin had genuinely mourned the loss.

  With barely a dozen years between them, Martin had looked to Ephraim as a father figure and older brother. Martin’s own father had died when Martin was just a few months old. His mother blamed it on typhoid, but it was rumored and later confirmed by Ephraim that there had been trouble of a different kind. Martin Paxton, Sr., had been given to great bouts of drinking. It was far more likely that alcohol had killed his father rather than typhoid.

  Over the years, Martin had done his best to keep in touch with Ephraim. But in this recent correspondence, he didn’t like the tone and worried that perhaps his friend was suffering his own financial setback. Ephraim would never be one to ask for help, but Martin knew his mother would expect no less from her son.

  He contemplated the situation for a moment. Never one to give handouts, Martin knew the situation with the Colton family was unique for him. He didn’t really care if the Coltons succeeded or failed in business, but if he helped them, he just might help himself as well.

  Thoughts of the gold rush once again came to his mind. There shouldn’t be a ship on the West Coast that isn’t benefiting from this rush, Martin thought. Railroads can hardly take people north to the Alaskan shorelines. They need ships.