At the Rainbow's End (11 page)

“Broken! Dammit, it can't be broken!”

She glanced over her shoulder as she searched for a rag to rip into bandage strips. “No?” Her smile was compassionate.

Joel smiled as her warm expression muted the fierce pain in his hand. Her sympathy did not surprise him. From her letters, he knew she was a caring woman.

“You must admit it'll be highly inconvenient,” he said, trying to maintain his sense of humor.

Sitting on the opposite bench, she began to rip the thin fabric. “That's one way of putting it. How did you do this?”

“We were trying to resecure a brad on the sluice to stopper a leak. Kevin swung the shovel, and I did not move my hand quick enough.”

“The shovel?” she gasped. “Why didn't you use the hammer?”

He grinned wryly. “It was here at the cabin, and we were—”

“In a hurry,” she finished. Laying the strips in a line on the table, she looked him directly in the eye. “Don't you two ever think before you embark on a new project?”

He understood exactly what she meant—in the flurry of excitement to find a woman who could love one of them, they had not planned beyond the time when she arrived at Fifteen Above.

When she rose to walk toward the door, he called, “Wait a minute.”

Samantha hesitated. The laundry must be finished, but she knew if she did not stay here, he would follow. He needed to soak that thumb.

She returned to the table. When he sat, she smiled. It was involuntary. She enjoyed exchanging words with Joel. As she had barely spoken to him in days, she had not been able to delight in trying to outwit him.

“Does it hurt very much?”

“It hurts like hell.”

“I'm sorry.” Leaning her elbows on the table, she asked, “Why do you try to be so offensive all the time, Joel? I'm willing to call a truce, if you are. We have to live here together until my share is enough for me to go.”

“In a hurry?”

“Aren't you? Isn't that why you two do everything with such impatience, and end up making tasks twice as long?” Her voice grew more serious as she checked the hand soaking. “At least the bruises won't be as obvious as last time, when you had a quarrel with a shovel.” When he regarded her with a studiously blank expression, she arched a challenging eyebrow at him. “Was that really an accident?”

He allowed his amusement to show. She had decided he and Kevin had been fighting. He said nothing. Unless Kevin told her, she would never learn why two partners who seldom disagreed came bruised and bloody to the cabin after her visit to the sluice.

“I'm glad you and Kevin aren't angry at each other any longer.” She put a finger in the bowl to test the water. It was still warm. When he began to lift his hand from it, she ordered, “Keep it in there! It's still swollen.”

He obeyed her curt command. Trying to keep his voice nonchalant, he said, “We've been getting along well.” His eyes narrowed as he saw the betraying blush climbing her cheeks. “And you two are getting really pally, aren't you?”

Samantha wondered what emotions hid behind his strong cold face. Joel often seemed to detest her. If so, perhaps he did not want her involved with his partner. Softly she said, “We are friends.”

“Friends? Is that why it took you so long to come from the cabin to the river?”

“Kevin was telling me about his life in Pennsylvania.”

“He did? He usually says very little about that.” He frowned. “You seemed awfully gay for two people who had been discussing murder.”

All color faded from her face. She tried to speak twice before she managed, “Murder?”

He nodded his head knowingly. “I thought so. He told you nothing. I only learned the truth one night last winter, when we were depressed about being snowed-in.”

“But, murder?” Her eyes widened. During the last, great gold rushes, many men had fled west to lose their pasts and emerge with new identities, but gentle Kevin could not be a murderer.

“You are jumping to conclusions again,” Joel warned, correctly gauging her thoughts. “Kevin didn't murder anyone. I don't think he could. It was his father. He idolized the man.”

“I could tell that.”

“His old man was a miner in northeastern Pennsylvania in '74. Like most of his co-workers, he joined the labor movement. You may have heard of the violence that broke out there when the Molly Maguires decided to strike?”

She nodded. In a whisper, she said, “Men were hanged. Is that what happened to Kevin's father?”

“No.” He grimaced, but not because of his sordid tale. Accustomed to talking with his hands, he had automatically moved his aching thumb. Swallowing, he forced himself to go on in a normal tone. “He was killed in one of the violent attacks on the mine management. Something about mishandled explosives or wrong signals.” When he saw the horror on her face, he finished soothingly, “It was over many years ago. You must have been just a baby, then.”

Sorrow darkened her eyes. “Poor Kevin.”

“Yeah, poor Kevin.” Sincerity lacking in his tone, he lifted his hand from the bowl of warm water. “The pain is lessening. I don't think it's broken.”

She leaned across the table to run her finger cautiously along his thumb. “I think you're right. You must stop being so bullheaded. You have tools, you know. Take time to get a hammer or whatever, instead of that blasted shovel.” When she released his hand, he gripped her fingers and drew them back over his.

“Check it again,” he commanded.

“I told you it isn't broken. There is no need—”

Her eyes were caught by the cobalt blue of his as she stretched over the plank table. Fiercely she fought the warmth spinning within her. She did not like this man. If forced to choose, she would select kind, dependable Kevin.

He smiled slowly, his amused expression warning her that her feelings were displayed vividly on her face. “You make a very good nurse, Sam.”

“My name is Samantha,” she said, but there was no venom in her voice.

“Nearly every woman gains a nickname here in the Yukon. One of the dance hall girls in Dawson is called Diamond-tooth Gertie, because of the gem implanted on her front tooth. Another is called Free Frieda, for reasons I don't have to explain.” He laughed as she colored. “You look good when you blush, Sam.”

She moved to the stove to pour the water back in the pot. It was not too dirty to use in the laundry tub. Every bit she could save kept her from carrying the heavy buckets from the spring on the far side of the hill. The water in the stream was too befouled by garbage and the residue of prospecting to be used in the house.

“Why do you taunt me all the time?” she asked softly. She wiped her hands on her dirty apron to hide their trembling.

“That was a compliment.”

“It didn't sound like it.”

He shrugged as he rose. Flexing his fingers, he winced as the pain erupted across his thumb again. “Your problem, Sam, is that you live too much in your dreams.”

“I could say the same to you!”

“And you'd probably be right.” He smiled. “Back to work. See you at supper.”

“Don't be late!” she shouted after his receding shadow. A laugh floated back to her on the light breeze. Instead of being angered by his flippant behavior, she smiled. Despite herself, she was growing to like these men—in different ways, for they were very different.

She anticipated the evening meal with delight. It would not be silent as their suppers had been. While they enjoyed her freshly cooked meal, she would use words as a weapon against the self-assured Mr. Joel Gilchrist. It would be fun to see him react each time she tripped him up on a well-calculated phrase.

Chapter Six

Samantha stretched to place the last of the clean dishes on the shelf over the food cupboard. Biting back a moan, she put her hand against the base of her back. The hours of bending over the laundry tub and the regular sessions of chopping wood left her aching deep in her bones. Although she had done much of the heavy labor at her brother's house, there had been the luxury of a hand pump in the kitchen.

It was worth it. She turned to survey the glistening house, pleased by the change she had made during the months she had been in the Yukon. Her tasks here would help make the time pass more quickly.

There were monetary rewards, as well. In a small tin can in the loft, she had her cache of gold. Without scales, she could not tell the exact amount of her new wealth, but it grew each day. She now washed clothes for the men living on about four claims. Every week more prospectors stopped at Fifteen Above asking for her services.

She never had to worry about improprieties, although she sensed they wished they could hire her for more than washing their shirts. They always treated her politely and called her “Miss Perry, Ma'am.” Sorry about their loneliness, she sometimes listened to stories of the women waiting for them in the United States. Silent, she wondered how many of those women would remain true to these prospectors, thousands of miles away.

Signing with fatigue, she looked at Kevin. He was working at fixing some piece of equipment. Still unfamiliar with the tools they used in their daily work, she could not give it a name. His intensity matched his singleminded desire to wrest the gold from the land. A soft smile tilted her lips as she watched him push his gold-rimmed glasses up on his nose.

Hearing a sound from the rear of the narrow room, she walked into the section called the addition. Since she had forced the men to keep their equipment in some semblance of order, this part of the room had been used more often. Pegs and tilting shelves were covered by tools. Foodstuffs clung to the walls, bags of flour and beans worth hundreds of dollars in Dawson. Although Joel and Kevin had not starved the previous winter, they had come close. They had no intention of repeating that deprivation this year.

Stumbling on an uneven board, she caught her hand on the edge of the mantle. She knew now this fireplace was useless. The men had bought the stove in Grand Forks and partially built the chimney, but had halted to return to the river when the ice broke. They would not have time to complete it before winter made such work impossible. Again she heard a strange noise, and peered about the room. The dim light from the single lantern on the table did not light the corners.

“Joel?”

He stood, his silhouette blending with the shadows. When he walked toward her, his ebony twin loomed up to creep along the walls and ceiling to overwhelm her. He paused in front of her, hands hidden behind his back. Softly he asked, “All done with the dishes?”

Her eyes rose to his bewhiskered face, which concealed so much of what he felt. A smile sparkled through his mustache, and fire returned to her voice. “I think I work hard enough in this partnership that you don't have the right to check up on me.”

“Hush, woman!” he ordered as his smile disappeared. “You're jumping to conclusions again. Why do you always expect the worst from me?”

She moved away from his powerful presence and sat on the first rung of the wobbly ladder. It was easier to think clearly when she was not blanketed by his shadow. “Because I usually get exactly that.”

“
Touché
.” He dropped down to the floor by her, long legs stretched out. Part of her skirt spread out over his arm. “I think that one drew blood. Having you around forces me to keep my wits about me.”

“At least you think I'm good for something.”

“I didn't realize you thought I considered you worthless.”

She laughed. Looking down into his face was a novel sensation. He was so tall she seldom had had a chance to examine his face from this angle. Joel Gilchrist did not resemble the other men she had met at Fifteen Above. His features were more finely sculptured and aristocratic, making him very imposing when rage froze his face into solid lines of unbending determination. Suddenly, she itched to trace the lean length of his nose to the thick, black brush covering his upper lip.

Using humor to cover the unwanted desires swirling through her, she said, “I guess you do consider me worthwhile. What else would you call a free slave?”

“What else, indeed?” His hand moved along the ladder. It slid past her hip, caressing her lightly, before continuing as high as he could reach. Ever so slowly, he lowered his hand. Again it brushed her, creating an electric shock all through her.

Her gasp of shocked delight betrayed her, and she closed her eyes to escape his knowing smile. She wished his touch did not have this effect on her. Once he learned he could daunt her this way, he would use it to control her. She had vowed never to be anyone's docile Samantha again. This was her life, and she would live it as she, and she alone, pleased.

A daring thought spun through her mind. If Joel enticed her so strongly with a single touch, she might be able to do the same to him. Then she would be the one in charge of the strange relationship. She glanced at his piercing eyes and away. Touching him to see if she had guessed correctly was not a risk she wanted to take lightly …

Noticing an item nearly hidden near his leg, she asked, “What's that?”

With a flourish, he drew out a violin. “This, as you see, is a musical instrument, but many have called it an instrument of torture in my hands.”

“Play something.” When he raised an irreverent eyebrow, her mouth quirked. “Please?”

“You may make us civilized again, Sam, with your impeccable manners.”

She grinned, arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees, her boot heels caught in the first rung to help balance her. “Good habits are sometimes as difficult to break as bad ones. I doubt you brought this violin out simply to flaunt it.”

“I did have a plan.”

“And you want me to beg you to play.”

He looked at her with a fervor which frightened her. “I can't imagine you begging anyone for anything, Sam.”

His softly spoken words stirred something inside her. Wanting to stroke the sturdy lines of his face, she reached toward him. Pulling back her hand, clutching the rebellious fingers in her other hand, she asked with ill-concealed desperation, “Will you stop being silly and play?”