“If you think this is bad, you should see Dyea, the starting point for the Chilkoot Trail, a few miles west of here,” John said. “It’s totally deserted and overgrown now. The White Pass Railway terminus and ice-free port have kept Skagway from becoming a ghost town too.”
Up Broadway, on the western edge of town near the railroad tracks, they came to a small cemetery with a handful of unremarkable headstones. Violet didn’t like cemeteries. They reminded her of her losses and how much she missed Aunt Mabel. In the middle of this one stood a towering granite obelisk with the name Frank H. Reid and the words, “He gave his life for the honor of Skagway,” engraved on it.
“He must have made it rich in the gold rush,” she said, as she compared it mentally with the more modest headstones that marked the graves of her parents and uncle and aunt in Boston.
“Frank Reid? He was a vigilante guard who gave his life to bring justice to the frontier,” John said.
“He wasn’t rich?” Violet asked.
“No. Would you like to hear his story?”
“Sure.”
“Reid had a shootout with the colorful gangster, ‘Soapy’ Smith, buried over there.” John pointed to an unremarkable wooden plank that marked another grave on the edge of the cemetery. “That shyster conned so many unwary prospectors out of their gold that they didn’t want to bury him in Skagway’s cemetery. Among Soapy’s notorious cons was his fake telegraph office, in which the wires went only as far as the walls. We walked right past it in town.”
“You mean it wasn’t real?”
“Not then. People came in to send telegrams. He’d take their money, but no message was ever sent. In the shootout at Juneau Wharf on Skagway’s waterfront, Smith died instantly of a bullet through the heart. But Soapy hit Reid too. He died of his wounds twelve days later.”
“Oh no!” Violet shook her head sadly.
“Yes, but such is sometimes the price of justice in these wild places. To honor his sacrifice, people erected this tombstone.”
On their way back toward the hotel, John led her along another street, where they passed a box-like, wooden storefront. “Peniel Mission,” the sign above the door announced in black letters. A smaller sign read, “Nightly meetings at 8 p.m. All are cordially invited, especially strangers.”
“The minister is a friend,” John said. “We’re a bit early. Would you like to go in?” He glanced at her. “If you’re not too tired?”
Violet hesitated. Was John religious? She’d noticed the way he always bowed his head before his meals, but they hadn’t discussed God except for oblique references to His hand in creation as she exclaimed over the beautiful scenery along the way. Dare she admit she hadn’t been to church since her parents died except for her uncle and aunt’s funerals?
John had given her a way out. She could claim she was too tired. Her body was still adjusting to the new time zone. On the other hand, this might be an opportunity to learn more about John.
“Okay, why not?” She smiled up at him. “I’ll try not to fall asleep. Poke me if I do.”
Inside, they found a tiny, rustic sanctuary with several rows of handmade benches. A hand-hewn cross hung in front of a dark blue curtain that completely covered the wall behind the wooden lectern. A pump organ stood to one side of the handcrafted pulpit, and a middle-aged woman sat playing a soft rendition of “Amazing Grace.” She nodded to a man seated on the front pew, and he rose to greet them.
A broad smile lit his face as he rushed toward them, hands held out. “John! How good to see you! Headed back for summer on the Yukon Belle, I see.” The two embraced like long-lost brothers. The man released John and turned to Violet with a twinkle in his eye. “And who is this lovely lady?”
“This is Violet Channing. I met her on the ship.” John turned to her. “This is Brother Paul, the minister of this mission.”
Violet smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.” As she shook hands with the pastor, she quickly assessed the engaging man. Tall, with brown hair graying around the fringes, he was wearing a charcoal gray, pinstriped suit, white shirt, and dark tie. He didn’t fit the mold of the sophisticated ministers with flowing robes and liturgical stoles she’d met back East. The warmth in his hazel eyes and his hearty welcome set her at ease immediately.
“She’s on her way to Whitehorse to help George Henderson with his daughter, Jenny,” John added.
The kindly man’s smile suddenly faded to one of sorrow and compassion. “John, did you say she came to help out with Jenny?”
At John’s nod, Brother Paul’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Miss Channing, you’ve been traveling and haven’t heard. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you. Little Jenny died last week.”
Chapter 7
SKAGWAY, ALASKA, MAY 1915
Fiery heat shot down Violet’s spine. She stared at Brother Paul. Did he say Jenny was dead? No! She must have heard him wrong. Jenny couldn’t be dead.
Violet opened her mouth to ask him to clarify, but no words came out. She couldn’t catch her breath. Numbness set in, and blackness smothered her vision. She swayed.
John caught her elbow to steady her and voiced the question she wanted to ask. “Jenny’s dead? What happened?”
As though from a distance, Violet heard Brother Paul clear his throat. “George usually stops by whenever he brings the train to town. I thought it strange that I hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks—until a few days ago. He looked awful. Apparently, Jenny caught a bad cold and, in her weakened condition, couldn’t fight it off. He buried her beside her mother. The man is heartbroken.”
Why did everyone important to her have to die?
A sob ripped from Violet’s throat, and she covered her face. John slipped a folded handkerchief from his pocket, tucked it into her hand, and drew her to his side. Shoulders heaving, she turned into his arms, and he cradled her against his chest until her crying subsided.
Finally, she pulled away, embarrassed, head hanging low, and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I guess the shock was too much.” She mopped her face and looked up. “I never even got to meet Jenny, but I felt like I knew her already from her grandmother’s description. All the way from Boston, I’ve been looking forward to meeting her.”
At the thought of Mrs. Henderson, Violet shook her head. “Her poor grandmother. She must be devastated. And Mr. Henderson—” Another sob escaped. “I know what it’s like to lose your entire family.”
At that, tears began to fall again. “In the face of Mr. Henderson’s loss, I shouldn’t even be thinking this, but—” Her panicky voice hitched higher. “What am I going to do? I have no family, no money, and now no job. I sold what little I owned to come to Whitehorse. I can’t go home.” Her voice broke. “I have no home.”
As John wrapped her in his arms, Brother Paul lifted his voice in prayer. “Oh, God, our Heavenly Father, we need Your guidance now. Nothing that has happened is a surprise to You. Lead us, dear Father. Oh, God of all comfort, soothe Violet’s grieving heart and show her Your plan. In the name of Your Son, Jesus, we pray. Amen.”
It wasn’t a long or complicated prayer, but a peace Violet had never known settled over her. She wanted to know God the way Brother Paul did.
Several people had quietly entered the little chapel while they were praying. It was time for church. She and John sat down, and the simple service began. Brother Paul announced a page number. As the organist struck a chord, John handed Violet a well-used tan paperback hymnal. John’s rich baritone joined in as the small congregation began to sing enthusiastically, “What a friend we have in Jesus . . .”
“ . . . All our sins and griefs to bear . . . ”
The hymn stirred Violet’s memory of her parents taking her to church as a child. She’d loved going to the Sunday services in the majestic brick building with the tall, white steeple. She’d been fascinated by the Bible stories portrayed in the stained glass windows. As the tiny congregation in the humble Skagway mission sang the hymn this night, she could almost hear h
er mother singing the same words while working around the house on weekdays. Jesus had been her mother’s Friend. At that moment, Violet opened her heart to Him and entrusted her future into His hands.
That night, when she laid her head on the pillow of the strange bed in Skagway’s Golden North Hotel, she fell asleep instantly. The ghost of poor little Jenny did not disturb her sleep. She didn’t even dream of gold or stampeders or the Yukon or even John. Instead, she was aware of nothing until the next morning when the sun streaking in between the dark curtain and the frame of the window woke her.
As Violet dressed for the day, she realized that she must make some hard decisions. Her situation had changed. She had no job. What should she do? Go back to Boston? Her mind screamed no. She couldn’t face that garment factory or the tenement. Could she stay in Skagway or go on to Whitehorse? No matter what she chose, she would need money. Could she get a job here?
Worry, like picking at an itchy wound not yet healed, drowned out the peace she’d felt the night before.
Trust Me, a still, small voice seemed to say. Trust your Heavenly Father.
Her brush stilled midway down her brown tresses. “Is that You, God? Please lead me. Show me what to do.”
Do not be afraid. I have a plan. Trust Me!
Was that her imagination? Or . . . was it God? She remembered the peace that had settled over her when Brother Paul prayed the night before and wanted to feel it again. Taking a deep breath, she whispered, “Okay, Lord, I will trust You.”
Immediately, her fears calmed. By the time John knocked on her door, she was ready to face the day. She’d changed from her traveling suit into her best casual dress of blue cotton.
“You look rested,” he said as she stepped out of her room.
“Amazingly, I am. I slept well.” She didn’t tell him about her worry session and surprised herself when she admitted, “I’m actually hungry.”
“Good! How about some Alaskan sourdough hotcakes for breakfast? And it’s on me.”
“Sounds interesting!” She looked into his earnest face. “But, John, I do have enough money to pay for my own breakfast.”
“I know you do, but I want to treat you.” He linked her hand into his elbow and escorted her down the carpeted staircase to the hotel’s restaurant.
When the waitress came over to take their order, she exclaimed, “John Barston, you’re back! Good to see you.”
“Glad to be back, Frieda. This is my shipmate, Violet Channing.”
Violet caught the brief look of disappointment that passed over Frieda’s face as she glanced her way before asking, “What can I get you, John?” Violet could see that Frieda was sweet on John, but he seemed oblivious.
“How about two stacks of sourdough hotcakes with real butter and Alaskan blueberry syrup? The lady will have tea with sugar, but I’d like a cup of your strong, hot coffee—black.”
“Coming right up, John. The blueberry syrup is from last summer’s crop, but the butter came in with you on the Princess May yesterday.” Frieda tossed her long, red hair over her shoulder and pranced back to the kitchen, swaying her hips provocatively.
John studied Violet’s face. “Something’s different about you.”
“I’m wearing a different dress?”
“No, your dress is a lovely shade. It brings out the violet-blue color of your eyes. But it’s something else. You look . . . more peaceful.”
“Oh!” Violet ducked her head momentarily. How could she explain? Staring past John’s shoulder, she pictured herself as a young, carefree girl, all dressed up, walking hand in hand between her mother and father. “When my parents were alive, they always took me to church. My mother loved that song we sang last night. I’d forgotten it until we began singing it—‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’” Violet looked directly at John. “Last night, I asked Him to be my Friend too.”
“I’m so glad to hear that!” John’s eyes glistened as his mouth curved into a wide smile, and he placed his hand over hers.
“Maybe that’s why I had to come all this way only to find out that Jenny is gone.” Tears filled Violet’s eyes, but she spoke with a quiet assurance she’d never felt before. “But I’ve decided to trust God with my future.”
Before John could respond, Frieda sashayed back to their table with their tea and coffee. “The flapjacks will be right out.” The blare of her voice shattered the tranquil moment.
After breakfast, John invited Violet to go for a walk with him. They took a different route than the previous evening, crossed a footbridge, and followed along a gurgling stream. Although the sun was shining, a gusty breeze whipped the tops of the spruce trees towering above them. The new leaves on the alder bushes provided a backdrop for the green shoots poking up through the brown grasses of the previous summer. Here and there, wildflowers Violet didn’t recognize sported buds tinged with pale blue, yellow, and magenta that looked about to burst open.
They walked in companionable silence until John stopped suddenly and turned to face Violet. “I have an idea.”
“Well, I’m certainly open to ideas right now.” She laughed uncertainly. “I don’t know what to do.” All she knew was that if she returned to Boston, she’d never discover if her friendship with John could develop into something more.
John took both of her hands in his. She caught the tender expression on his face. What was he thinking? A tremor raced through her.
“Violet,” he said in a husky voice, “I realize we’ve known each other scarcely a week, but you must see that I have come to care deeply for you.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, I love you. I intended to court you properly, but this new development changes things. Why don’t we get married now, and you can go to the Yukon with me?”
Violet could hardly believe her ears. Her heartbeat sped up, and her knees felt wobbly as though she were back at sea on the Princess May. “Did I hear you correctly?” she asked breathlessly. “Did you really just ask me to . . . to marry you?”
“Yes.” John smiled tenuously. “I don’t want to lose you. What do you think?”
Many thoughts flashed through her mind. She’d been too busy working and caring for Aunt Mabel to go out with boys back in Boston—not that she’d known any young men in the tenements she’d cared to keep company with. After Aunt Mabel died, marriage hadn’t entered into her thoughts as she tried to figure out how to survive. Coming to the Yukon had been all about getting out of that hellhole of a garment factory and an opportunity to do what she loved—teach. And Jenny! Now Jenny was gone, taking that opportunity with her.
Looking deeply into John’s eyes, Violet considered his proposal. She might have wished for this fairytale ending to her journey, but she’d never dreamed it could actually happen. She hadn’t known a young man like John before. She trusted him. Did she know him well enough to marry him . . . now?
All the way up from Vancouver, he’d been the perfect gentleman, treating her with gentleness and respect—like her father had treated her mother in her memories of them. Violet was suddenly sure he would have approved of John. Happiness bubbled up from deep within.
“Oh, John, I . . . ” Shyness came over her, but she breathed out, “I love you too. I knew you were special the first day we met.” Her voice grew stronger. “Yes! I think getting married is a wonderful idea.”
John’s face relaxed into a grin as he drew her into his arms and kissed her. Sensations she’d never felt before sprang to life. She’d never even imagined love could feel like this.
John murmured into her ear, his soft breath caressing her neck in its most sensitive places. “Oh, my love, my cabin on the Yukon Belle is very comfortable and roomy enough for two. We can sail the river together. When it freezes up in the fall, we can either buy a house in Whitehorse or go back to Seattle for the winter. How ’bout we ask Brother Paul to marry us this afternoon, and we can catch the train to Whitehorse in the morning?”
Violet paused before answering. A picture of herself as a young girl studying t
he tintype of her parents’ wedding that now lay at the bottom of her trunk flashed into her mind. Her mother had looked like a princess in her gown of white satin and lace. Violet had dreamed of a dress like that for her own wedding someday. But she had nothing like that with her. What would she wear on such short notice?
Then she remembered the formal gown Mrs. Henderson had insisted on buying for her. It was tucked away in tissue in one of her trunks. It would do nicely. She hoped it wasn’t too wrinkled.
“Okay. I think I can be ready by late afternoon.”
“Good. Let’s go over to the mission and speak to Brother Paul.”
Giddy with joy, she wondered what she had done to deserve this sudden change in fortune. One minute, she had no family. The next, she would belong to this wonderful man. For the first time since learning of Jenny’s death, Violet felt secure in this raw land. With John by her side, she could face the future.
When Brother Paul heard their plans, he clapped John on the back. “I knew as soon as I saw you last night that you were sweet on this young lady. You certainly aren’t wasting any time.”
John’s face flamed. He ran his fingers through his curly, dark hair. “Unfortunately, we don’t have any time for proper courting, given the circumstances. But we do love each other.”
“I’m happy for you both,” Brother Paul assured them. He asked them a few questions about their faith, and Violet told him about her commitment to Christ the previous night. “I’m so glad to hear that! Welcome to the family of God!”
After their brief conversation, Brother Paul told his wife, Dorothy, about the impromptu wedding. Violet asked her to stand up with her. While the pastor ran down the street to line up the organist, Violet and John returned to their hotel to grab a bite of lunch and prepare for their ceremony.
Kneeling beside the trunk that held her clothes, Violet lifted out the tissue-wrapped garment and held it up. The tissue dropped away. To her relief, the pale periwinkle lace that overlay the ice blue satin cascaded wrinkle-free, concealing any creases beneath it. She hung it carefully on one of the clothes pegs.
Beside Still Waters Page 5