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Viola stared down at Thomas Stone’s pale, sleeping face, placed the spoon in the bowl, lifted the napkin off the quilt and carried them to the kitchen.
Hattie glanced at the bowl and frowned. “He didn’t eat but half. How’s he doin’?”
She shrugged and placed the bowl of broth on the warming shelf. “All right, I suppose. At least that’s what Doctor Calloway said. But he looks frightful to me.” She stepped to the end of the stove, out of Hattie’s way, and stood absorbing the warmth. Her growing weariness was causing an inward chill. “If only he had some color in his face. And that horrible weakness. Oh, Hattie, he hasn’t strength enough to even talk without stopping and gasping for air. And it’s my fault.”
Hattie stopped stirring and looked at her. “Your fault? How’d you figure that?”
“I should not have napped. If I hadn’t—”
“I told you to get some sleep whilst I watched over Goldie.” Hattie spooned soup from the pot into a bowl. “Guess the way you figure it, I’m the one to blame. I’m the one shouldn’t have gone to sleep.”
“Oh, Hattie, no! That’s not true.” Viola hurried to the elderly woman and put her arm around her shoulders. “I don’t blame you, Hattie. Please don’t think that. Goldie’s father left her on my doorstep. His note asked me to care for her until he returned. She is my responsibility, not yours. I meant only that. Do not blame yourself.”
“I don’t.” Hattie scooted out from under her arm and plunked the bowl onto the table. “Sit down and eat whilst Goldie and Mr. Stone are sleepin’. You’re lookin’ a mite peaked your own self.”
Viola shook her head, brushed back a curl that fell onto her forehead. “You go ahead and eat, Hattie. I’m not hungry. My guilt over Mr. Stone, and Goldie, and, well, this whole situation, has stolen my appetite.”
“Fiddlesticks! You ain’t to blame for what happened any more than I am. That kidnapper is. And I don’t need two sick grownups and a baby to look after. Sit down and eat.”
She sat. “All the same, I should have been with Goldie instead of napping.”
“Why? So you could have been hurt or worse when that man snuck in here to take the baby, so’s he could get his hands on them gold nuggets the father left for you to use to pay for Goldie’s care?” Hattie turned and walked back to the stove. “It’s likely there was two of them, you know. ’Cause that man wasn’t expectin’ to find us sleepin’ that time of day. I figure God worked things out for the good.”
Two of them. Viola stared at Hattie’s back, her nerves tingling. With all that had happened, she had forgotten about that stone thrown from the woods. It had been a warning. The kidnapper had a partner. What if he decided to sneak into the cabin and… She shivered, gripped her hands and waited for the nervous chill to pass, took a breath to remove any tremor from her voice. “I don’t see how you can say that, Hattie. Mr. Stone is lying in that bedroom too weak to even lift his head off the pillow. How is that God working things out for good?”
“He could be dead.”
“Oh. Yes. He could…” Viola placed her hand on her roiling stomach and drew another deep breath. She couldn’t understand faith like Hattie’s. She had experienced too much of evil. Bitterness rose like bile, formed a metallic taste on her tongue. “If God was involved, why would He have let all of this happen?”
“I don’t figure He did.” Hattie carried her bowl of soup to the table and bowed her head. “Bless this food, Almighty God. Use it to keep us healthy and strong and to help heal Thomas Stone. Amen.” She lifted her head, scooped up a piece of beef with her spoon. “The Good Book says there’s good and evil in this world, and because of that, bad things are gonna happen. But it also says God’ll take the bad and turn it to good for His children.”
By allowing a helpless young girl to be forced into choosing to make her living by prostitution? And then, after she escaped that life, by forcing her to bring a man into her home? By placing Thomas Stone here, in his helpless condition, where he could be killed if someone broke in again? Viola laid down her spoon, swallowed to hold back the bite of onion and peas that did not want to stay down. “Forgive me for disagreeing, Hattie. But I do not see the good in this situation.”
Hattie scooped up a piece of potato and broth, looked up and smiled. “It ain’t over yet.”
That is what I’m afraid of.
Viola looked up from her sewing as Hattie carried Goldie into the bedroom and sat her down on the rag rug. “This one’s all fed and dry and ready to play.” She straightened, glanced at Thomas Stone, then looked her way. “I’m gonna take me a walk down to Tanner’s store. I’m all out of licorice drops. You need anything?”
“Yes.” Viola handed Goldie the wooden spool she’d just emptied. “I need another spool of blue thread, and another packet of horn buttons.” She smiled at the baby and looked up. “And ask them to please order me another five yards of tent canvas. I’ve used the last of mine. Oh! And shaving supplies for Mr. Stone. He will probably want them when he is sufficiently healed to move his arms.”
Hattie nodded and started out the door.
“Hattie…”
The elderly woman turned.
Now what was she smiling about? Viola stared at her friend, then gave a mental shrug, kept a casual tone in her voice. “Please leave word that I would like Frankie Tucker to come see me.”
“What do you want with Frankie?”
“I have some work for her to do.”
Viola watched Hattie amble away, then turned and glanced at Thomas Stone to see if they had disturbed him. He was sound asleep. The pain medicine she had given him after the broth was working. She stared at his face, watching his eyes to make certain. The loose-fitting shirt she was making him out of soft cotton needed no measurements, but for the sleeves. But she did not want to ask him, for she was certain he would refuse the shirt.
She looked at the covers over his chest, watched the even rise and fall of his breathing and set aside her sewing, picked up her tape measure and hurried to the bed. As stealthily as she could manage, she lifted the edge of the covers until she could see his free arm. She measured the length from shoulder to wrist, then inched the tape around his wrist for the cuff measurement, trying her best not to see his hand. She knew well the punishment a man’s hands could inflict, and she knew the strength in his from his firm grip on her arm.
She shuddered and backed away, but could not leave his shoulder and arm uncovered. His breathing remained steady and even. She glanced at his face, stepped close and drew the covers back in place, then hurried back to her chair. He looked younger in repose. And handsome. But she had seen handsome turn to ugly very quickly.
She dropped her tape on the table and went to her knees beside Goldie, to wash away the dark memories with the sight of the baby’s sweet face. Goldie dropped the spool and grabbed for her feet, tugging at her moccasin booties, letting out a howl of frustration when they did not yield. “Shhh, little one, you’ll wake Mr. Stone.”
Viola gave her back the spool, lifted her into her arms and carried her to the chair. The rockers whispered against the floor as she cuddled the baby close and exorcized the remembered cruelty of hard, rough hands with the silky touch of the baby’s cheek against hers.
Thomas opened his eyes, drawn out of the darkness by the warm, musical laugh of the woman who gave him such cool, remote smiles. He slewed his gaze toward the rocker, saw Viola playing pat-a-cake with the baby and shut his eyes against the ache that filled his chest—an ache that had nothing to do with the bullet wound in his shoulder.
Louise, I am so sorry. So very sorry.
He opened his eyes and stared up at the rough wood ceiling to block out the image of his infant daughter in his wife’s arms when he had buried them. An image seared into his mind. He had buried them together so they would never be apart. He clenched his jaw against the memory he couldn’t stop from invading his thoughts. He was over the ravaging grief, but the guilt remained. He never should have given in to Louise’s pleas that they marry before he answered his call to minister to the Alaskan natives. And he should have stayed strong and refused when she begged to come along. He hadn’t known it then, of course, but living conditions in the Indian villages had proven too primitive and harsh for his city-bred wife. And then he had gotten her with child. All selfish acts that had cost Louise and tiny little Susan their lives. If he had known…
A soft gasp broke into his thoughts. Instinct drew his gaze toward Viola Goddard. She was peering closely at the baby who was standing on her lap, supported by her hands around her small chest. “Goldie! Oh, baby, you have two teeth!” The hushed words floated toward him on a ripple of quiet laughter that spoke of surprise and delight. The baby waved pudgy little arms, babbled sounds that made sense only to her infant ears, then gurgled out laughter.
The ache in his chest sharpened. His baby girl would never— Thomas yanked his gaze back to the ceiling, clenched his hands and set himself to battle the guilt in his heart. Forgive me, Louise, for my weakness and selfishness.
How many times had he thought those words over the past three years? How many more times would he utter or think them before the guilt went away? Would it go away? Or would he live with the shadow of his selfish acts clouding his life forever?
This time he didn’t fight the darkness that rose to claim him, but yielded to the weakness and the medicine, and welcomed the oblivion that blotted out all thought.
Viola leaned down, picked up the rattle Goldie had dropped, then straightened. “I want strong locks put on my doors, Frankie. I thought perhaps you could do that for me?”
“Sure I can, Viola.” Frankie Tucker’s blue eyes gleamed with excitement. “You figure someone else will try to break in here and kidnap the baby, now that the idea’s been planted in people’s heads? I told Sheriff Parker I thought that might happen, and asked him if I could help him watch your place. I mean, I know he shot the kidnapper dead, but what if he had a partner or something?” Frankie sighed and tucked a lock of her short, curly, dark hair behind her ear. “He refused. Like always. I don’t know why he doesn’t think I’d make a good deputy. I’m smart as any man. Smarter than Henry Duke for sure! And he uses him sometimes.”
The hurt in Frankie’s voice tugged at her heart. Viola set aside the fear that had surged at Frankie’s mention of the kidnapper’s partner, and searched for some sort of balm she could offer—remembered that awful moment when she saw the blood spreading across Thomas Stone’s shirt. “Being a deputy can be dangerous, Frankie. Look at what happened to Mr. Stone. Perhaps the sheriff is afraid you will be harmed in a gun battle, or—”
“Ha! I can outshoot any man.” Frankie’s blue eyes flashed. “Our pa took us girls hunting as soon as we were strong enough to heft a rifle. And he taught us to use pistols, too. Lucy and Margie are good shots, but I’m the best. I don’t miss. And the sheriff knows it. I challenged him to a shooting contest tomorrow, just to show him. Figure that ought to make him look favorable on me as a deputy.”
That would be amusing, if she weren’t envious. Viola caught Goldie’s baby hand before she could grab her hair, kissed its pudgy palm. “I wish I knew how to use a gun. Things would have been much different.” She bit off the bitter words, afraid she had revealed more than she intended.
Frankie grinned. “That would have surprised the kidnapper for sure.” Her face lit up. “I could teach you if you want. I got time. No reason for me to be home, with Lucy and Margie gone.”
Viola stared, shocked by the offer, then intrigued. She would never have to be afraid again. Not of Dengler and his thugs, the kidnapper’s partner, any of her male customers or any other man. She would be able to protect herself. She curved her lips in what she was afraid was a rather grim smile. “I would like that, Frankie. When Mr. Stone is recovered, I shall buy a pistol and you can teach me how to use it.”
“Good. You let me know when. Now I’ll go down to the smithy and check with Duncan. If he’s got a couple good, sturdy locks in stock, I’ll come back and put them on your doors tonight.” Frankie opened the door, paused. “If not, I’ll have him make you some. It won’t take him long, if he’s not busy. And if he is, I’ll see to it he gets to them fast as possible.”
Viola nodded. “Thank you, Frankie. You have relieved my mind a good deal.” More than you can possibly know. “Tell Mr. MacDougal to put the locks on account. I will stop by and pay him as soon as Mr. Stone is well enough for me to leave him.” She closed the door, lifted Goldie into the air and smiled up at her. “There, sweetie. Now you will be safe…and so will I.” She lowered the laughing baby to her chest, held her close and hurried to the bedroom to check on Thomas Stone.
“How are you feeling, Thomas?” Jacob Calloway set his black bag down, then pulled back the covers. “That light-headedness and nausea any better?”
“Somewhat. It’s not a problem so long as I don’t try to…lift my head.” Warm fingers circled his wrist. Thomas slid his gaze to the watch in the doctor’s other hand, waited. The watch was tucked back in a vest pocket with no information offered. “Well?”
“Steadier and stronger. It should be back to normal soon, as long as you follow my instructions and drink plenty of water and take broth often.”
“And I’ll be able to get out of this bed then?”
“It’s going to be a few days, Thomas. Aside from the weakness due to your loss of blood, you need to limit movement and give this wound time to begin to heal. I put in some deep sutures to stop the bleeding, but only a few loose ones at the surface. You’ll have quite a scar, but any infection will be able to ooze out.” Jacob leaned down, peered closely at the bandage on his shoulder. “Hmm, we’ve got some seepage here. I’ll cleanse this and apply a new bandage.” He turned his attention to removing the bandage.
Thomas sucked in a slow breath, gathered his strength to talk against the pain. “Look, Jacob, I respect your skill, but—”
“No buts, Thomas.” Jacob delved into his bag, splashed liquid from a bottle onto a clean white cloth. “Hold still now.”
The cloth touched his shoulder, cool and moist. And then the burning started. He gritted his teeth, willed himself not to flinch away.
“There, that’s got it. Now for the bandage…” Soft cloth covered his wound. Jacob’s fingers brushed against his sore flesh, secured the bandage in place. “You will stay flat on your back in that bed until I say you can move, Thomas. Unless you want to rip that wound open and make everything worse. Now, let’s take care of your personal needs, then I will go back to the clinic. I’ll come check on you again tonight.”
A few more days until he could get out of this bed. And then, how long before he could go home to the solitude of his hut? How long must he be here with the baby? And with Viola? The woman pulled at his emotions in a way he had never experienced before, not even with Louise. She was eye-catchingly beautiful it was true. But it was something else. Something he couldn’t put a name to. But it was there all the same. When he’d first looked into her eyes he’d felt that sudden, sure connection. And it hadn’t gone away. It had gotten stronger.
Thomas pulled in more air, set his jaw and stared at the chimney stones against the opposite wall. It didn’t matter how long he stayed, or how strong the draw he felt toward Viola Goddard. He had made a vow to never again subject a wife to the primitive living conditions necessary to his missionary work with the Tlingits and the men swarming up the Chilkoot Trail to the gold fields. He intended to keep that vow. Being the cause of Louise’s and Susie’s deaths was enough guilt and regret to carry.
Chapter Five
“Sorry. So sorry…”
Viola started, opened her eyes, blinked and stared into the darkened room. Who was Thomas speaking to?
“I’ll carry them— Auugh!”
“Mr. Stone, no! Don’t move!” She threw off her blanket and rushed to the bed, placed her hand on his good shoulder to stop him from trying to rise. “Lie still. You will injure yourself!” His eyes opened, his good hand lifted, clamped around her wrist. She jerked, grabbed for his fingers. “Let go of—”
“Don’t try to stop me, Seth. That’s my wife and child. I’ll bury them myself.”
He was dreaming. Viola’s panic died. She stopped pulling at his fingers, stared into his unseeing eyes. The reflected, low flame of the oil lamp gleamed in their green depths, revealed shadows of pain.
“Do you want me, Viola? I thought I heard you call.”
She jumped, glanced over her shoulder at Hattie standing in the doorway in her rumpled nightgown, her gray hair hanging down around her plump shoulders, and shook her head. “Thank you, Hattie, but no. Everything is fine. Mr. Stone was dreaming.”
“Night, then.” Hattie yawned and padded off into the other room.
Viola took a calming breath and turned back. Thomas Stone’s eyes were closed, his mouth parted slightly in slumber. She tugged gently at his fingers. His grip tightened. She fought back resuming panic, the queasiness rising in her stomach. The man was sleeping. He didn’t know what he was doing. No matter, he was injured and Hattie was near. She was safe. She took another breath, tapped his cheek. “Wake up, Mr. Stone.” He blinked, stared up at her. She held her voice steady, tapped his hand. “Please let go of my wrist.”
His gaze dropped. He stared, frowned. “What…” He sucked in a breath, pressed his lips into a tight line.
“You were dreaming. And thrashing about a bit, which has probably increased your pain. I’ll get the medicine.” She pulled at his fingers, slipped her wrist from his grasp while he was still confused. His hand dropped to the bed.
Viola stepped back, moved to the window and pulled the bottom of one curtain back a slit. A narrow streak of midnight sun spilled down the wall and washed over the commode stand. Please, Almighty God, don’t let him have hurt his shoulder. Please don’t let it bleed. She opened the bottle, filled the spoon and turned back to the bed, on his wounded side. She would not make the mistake of standing by his good arm again. “Here is your medicine, Mr. Stone.”
He opened his eyes, fastened his gaze on hers. “I’m sorry for…whatever happened, Miss Goddard. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
His voice was tight with pain. She shook her head. “You were dreaming, Mr. Stone. And I am fine.”
His eyes darkened. “No, you’re not. You’re trembling.”
The words came out from between his gritted teeth. She looked down at the quivering medicine in the bowl of the spoon. Never admit fear. “I guess I am more fatigued than I realized. You had better take this before I spill it.” She held the spoon to his mouth. He swallowed. “I will get you some water in a moment. But first I must look at your bandage.”
“No. That upsets you.”
How did he— Oh, when she had washed his hand. Viola stared down at him, uncertain of how to respond to his concern—if that’s what it was—then turned and laid the spoon on the medicine tray. “I cannot deny that is true, Mr. Stone. But this is no time for such foolish weakness.” She turned back, reached for the covers.
“Please, don’t.” He slid his good hand toward her.
She jerked back, caught herself and leaned forward. He could not reach her unless he turned onto his wounded shoulder. “I’m afraid I must. The doctor warned me that if you moved you could cause your wound to begin bleeding again. If that happens, I am to go for him immediately.” She braced herself and lifted the covers, let out a relieved sigh. “There is no sign of bleeding.”
“You’re brave…”
His words were halting, slurring. “Don’t go to sleep, Mr. Stone. You must have some water. Doctor’s orders.” She replaced the covers, poured water into a glass and picked up the spoon. She managed to coax half of the water into him before sleep overcame his will. She gazed down at his face, taut with pain even in slumber, then slid her gaze to where his hand rested on top of the covers. Had he really tried to stop her from looking at his bandage because he had noticed it bothered her? She could not remember a man ever showing concern for her feelings. Not even her father. He had been only a distant figure of authority.
She put down the glass, stared at Thomas Stone’s bared arm. She had to cover it. From the other side of the bed. His good side. The queasiness returned to her stomach. She rubbed her wrist, erasing the feel of his grip, strong even in his weakened state, and studied his face. It would be all right. He had slipped into a deep sleep. She tiptoed to the other side, lifted his hand enough to free the covers beneath it, pulled them over his arm and shoulder and hurried back to her chair. He hadn’t even blinked. He would sleep quietly until the medicine wore off.
She picked up the blanket off the floor, shook it out and covered herself, leaned back and closed her eyes. So Thomas had a wife and child who died. What had happened to them? Odd that he had never spoken of them. Of course, they were only acquaintances because of the circumstances, and they weren’t exactly having conversations. He was sleeping most of the time.
She turned her head and studied his face, shadowed by the low light of the lamp. Is that why he had helped her when Goldie was kidnapped, because he had once had a child? And had he refused her offer to come to her home and let her care for him because he felt it was a betrayal of his dead wife?
She huffed out a breath, closed her eyes again. She, of all people, should know better than that. Many of her repeat customers at Dengler’s “house” had been married men. And marriage vows had not kept them from their pleasure—not even in the beginning, when she had begged and cried.
The familiar tightness clamped around her chest, inched up her neck into her face. She forced herself to relax, to slowly pull in air. Simply because Thomas had been considerate of her feelings over the bandages was no reason to ascribe him high motives for everything. No. He may have shown consideration for her feelings now, when he was weak and needed her to care for him. But she must stay wary and watchful, and be very careful. His strength was beginning to return.
Viola bent, picked up a bright red leaf and twirled it between her finger and thumb. “I’m sorry Mr. Stone was sleeping when you stopped on your way to the clinic to check on him, Teena. But I’m glad you suggested a walk. The fresh morning air feels wonderful.” A worm of guilt squiggled though her. And that fear that never quite left her made her glance back at her cabin. “But I shouldn’t go too far. I want to be back before Goldie or Mr. Stone wakes.” Or someone comes.
“We will go only to the woods that hide my village from the town, and then return.”
Viola nodded. She would be able to keep her cabin in sight the whole way. She took a deep breath and glanced over at her friend. Teena looked as calm and serene as ever, but there was a new, happy glow in her dark eyes.
She sniffed at the air, enjoying the blended scents of the towering firs, the moist, grassy undergrowth and the dirt path they trod. “The air here is so fresh and untainted by the smells of the campfires and trash of the swarms of stampeders.” She frowned, twirled the leaf faster. “Everywhere you go in the area around town, from the harbor to the mountains, the land is covered with the garbage and discards and the broken equipment of the miners. Why is it clear here?”
“Most of the whites do not travel the path to the Tlingit village. They stay far from my people.” Teena glanced over at her. “There are only a few who come. And they are respectful of our ways and our lands.”
The happiness was in the soft lilt of her voice, the gentle tilt of her lips. The picture of Teena looking up at Dr. Calloway the night of Goldie’s kidnapping flashed into her head, and she knew. Her stomach knotted. She tossed down the leaf and looked back toward the cabin, searching for a way to put off her friend’s confidence. “Like Thomas Stone?”
Teena Crow’s long black braids glistened in the sunlight as she nodded. “Yes. Like Thomas Stone. He is good to my people. And he is good for my people. He leads them to God, so their hearts may be healed.” Teena paused at the edge of the woods and turned toward her, her face aglow. “And like Jacob.” The name was a soft whisper of love and hope and trust. “Jacob helps heal my people when they are sick, as I help him heal his people when they are sick.” She smiled, held up her hands and clasped them. “Our two hearts have become one. We are to go to Skaguay and marry. I wanted you, my friend, to know.”
Viola sucked in air, dared not speak. Teena was so quiet, so serene standing there, bathed in her happiness, she refused to destroy it with the truth of what men really were. Please don’t let him hurt her. She dredged up a smile, hugged her friend and forced joy into her voice. “I’m so happy for you, Teena. I pray you will find every happiness your heart seeks.”
“It will be so.” Teena gave a soft laugh, stepped back and placed her hand on her chest. “My heart knows this.”
She nodded, turned and started down the track toward town, searching her tumbling thoughts for an appropriate change of subject. She did not want to talk about the false hope of love. “Will you live at the clinic, or in the house with your people?”
“My father is with his ancestors. My brother will bring his bride to the house to live with our people one day. It is right that he does.” Teena smiled. “I will go where Jacob wishes to be. For that is right, also.” She gave another soft laugh. “You see, already I find that the hearts of our peoples are not far apart.”
What had Hattie said? There is good and evil in the world, and bad things happen because of it. It was no doubt the same with the Tlingit people. Hearts are the same in all people. Was there no place to hide? To be safe? She smiled as they reached the point where the road divided and Teena would continue on toward town. “Thank you again for stopping to share your news, Teena. I will tell Hattie as soon as I get home. I know she’ll be delighted for you.” She turned toward the faint path that led to her cabin, looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Come again soon. I enjoyed our walk.”
