Poppy: Bride of Alaska (American Mail-Order Bride 49) (8 page)

“Matthew, stop!”

“What is da meaning of dis?!” roared the burly, older Russian. One hand held a boy behind him, shielding him, while the other was balled up into a massive fist. The man looked as if he had plenty of experience fighting, and Poppy guessed that he was only holding back because the boy was watching.

“You’re a thief!” Matthew bellowed, pointing an accusing finger past Poppy. “You’re a no-good, cheating, lying
thief!
”

The man’s face turned the color of borscht, a meal Poppy had eaten often with her Slavic neighbors in the tenement. It wouldn’t take many more insults for him to switch from protecting that boy to defending his own honor. It was just like men to start off screaming instead of talking.
 

Rolling her eyes, she stepped between them, one palm held up to each of them. “Stop! Both of you, stop yelling. Can’t you see you’re upsetting the boy?”

Understanding grew in Matthew’s eyes as he got a glimpse of the cowering boy. He stumbled back a step, as if she’d slapped him, and blinked away some of his rage. The Russian looked between Poppy and Matthew, confused and alarmed, but also calming down.

Turning to the man, she said, “Now, are you Vladimir Vinchenko?”

His dark, deep-set eyes narrowed.

“Why you want to know?”

Poppy smiled grimly.
 

“I’ll take that as a yes. Tell me, Mr. Vinchenko, does this man look at all familiar to you?”

Vinchenko gave Matthew a once-over, frowning deeply.
 

“
Nyet
.”

“Liar!”

Poppy threw a dark glare at Matthew, who glared back but stopped talking.

“Sir, this is Matthew Turner. You know his father.”

Vinchenko’s brow folded in on itself, then recognition dawned on his broad face. For a brief moment, it almost looked as if he might smile, but then his frown grew deeper.
 

“
You
call
me
‘thief’? Your father da
vor
, da thief!”

This proved more than Matthew could bear. Shooting past her, he lunged at Vinchenko, who was more than ready to grapple. Poppy stumbled backward and caught the eye of the boy, who’d taken cover behind a pile of fabric bolts. He bore a slight resemblance to Vinchenko, but he definitely had Indian blood in his veins. Her heart ached at the fear in his dark eyes. No child should have to witness his father fighting. At least Vinchenko wasn’t drunk or beating on his own wife, but still…it needed to stop.

Giving him a wink and a quick smile, Poppy took a deep lungful of air and let fly the loudest blood-curdling scream of her life.

* ~ * ~ *

Blood and hate pulsed through Matthew as he tried to punch Vinchenko in his lying mouth, but the man was too quick, always ducking before a blow landed. This only enraged Matthew further, until Vinchenko’s attention was drawn away and Matthew saw his opening. Drawing his arm back, he summoned all his strength and prayed for a clean shot.

Then the scream of a dying woman split the very air, sending both men reeling while their animal brains tried to figure out what was happening. Matthew spun around just in time to see Poppy slowly tumble to the floor. Instinct took over and he lunged for her, catching her body before her head hit. Hate flipped to fear.

“Poppy! Poppy, what happened? Are you hurt?”

Her moan was music to his ears.
 

“Matthew?”
 

Vinchenko loomed over them.
 

“What happen to pretty lady?”

“I don’t know.” He’d never felt so helpless. Had he knocked her down on his way to Vinchenko? The very idea that he might have hurt her filled him with anguish. “Poppy?”

Her eyes fluttered open, and he’d never been more affected by their vibrant blue. They showed no sign of pain, and suddenly he could breathe again.
 

“Are you finished?” she asked quietly.

Why must she always speak in riddles? Maybe she hit her head after all.
 

“Finished?”

“Acting like a fool? Fainting’s hard business, you know.”
 

With that, she scrambled up, with a helping hand from Vinchenko’s grinning boy, and planted her fists on her tiny waist, glaring at them. She faked it! The little vixen.

“Shame on both of you, behaving like brawling schoolboys. What kind of lesson are you teaching this impressionable boy, Mr. Vinchenko? And you, Matthew. What on earth could you possibly gain from attacking him like that? Bruised knuckles?”

She spoke to them like they were children, and they — or at least he — deserved it. He’d been so consumed by his anger for the last few months that simply seeing Vinchenko’s smug face sent him over the edge. Except, thinking back, Vinchenko hadn’t looked all that smug. More than anything, he looked genuinely upset.

“Now it appears you both have a grudge. Aren’t either of you at all interested in why you each think the other is a scoundrel? I know I can’t wait to find out.”

He wanted to kiss the mirthful grin right off her face, but he suspected her next response to a surprise kiss would leave him crippled. Instead, he stood and turned a baleful eye on Vinchenko, who sported much the same look.

“Why you call me ‘thief’, Matthew?”

Again with the denials. Matthew shook his head in exasperation.
 

“Because, according to my father, your
friend
, you ran off with our family fortune. We’re ruined. Father is going to have to sell the family home if I don’t bring home what’s rightfully ours, which I fully intend to do.”

A dull, pained expression settled on Vinchenko’s face.
 

“He say dat? Dat I ruin
him?
”

A tingle of doubt pierced the rage that had built up in Matthew’s heart, but he’d made it this far. He needed to stay the course.
 

“Indeed he did.”

Vinchenko swiped a big hand across his face, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching loud enough for Matthew to hear. “Come,” he said, stomping toward the back room. “Wood-ka.”

Matthew hesitated. What on earth could ‘wood-ka’ possibly mean? Perhaps it was a weapon, or a curse, or a threat. He didn’t know, and didn’t want to take the risk of blindly following the man into the back room. Poppy rolled her eyes at him and followed the beast into his lair, trailed by the boy.
 

“Fine,” he muttered, moving cautiously into the cramped room.

Far from wielding a weapon, Vinchenko poured clear liquid from a spirits bottle into three small glasses, then passed them to the adults. Lifting his glass, he said something in Russian and threw the drink down his throat in one swift movement.

“Wood-ka,” Vinchenko repeated, motioning for Poppy to drink. “Drink. Good for you. Wake you up.”

It was Matthew’s turn to roll his eyes. Vinchenko obviously believed her fainting ruse. Before Matthew could point it out, she shrugged and mimicked Vinchenko. Then all eyes were on him.
 

“Matthew, now you. Drink.
Vashe zrodovye!”
 

“What’s that mean, anyway?”

“To your health, my friend.”

Friend? Vinchenko wasn’t his friend. He almost threw the ‘wood-ka’ in the man’s face, but Poppy’s wicked grin dared him to drink. He rarely went in for the hard stuff, only occasionally joining his father for an aprés-dinner Scotch. In fact, drinking never held much appeal, but Poppy’s unspoken challenge lay at his feet. She’d bested him enough today; he couldn’t let her win this one. Besides, she’d barely flinched at the liquor — it couldn’t be very strong.

Only as the cool liquid burned a trail of fire down his throat and into his stomach, and a coughing fit buckled him in half, did the truth become clear: Poppy had won again.

Vinchenko slapped Matthew’s back until the fit passed and he could breathe again, then settled his large frame onto a stool, motioning for Poppy and Matthew to pull up crates to sit on.
 

“Alexander, come,” he said, waving over the boy. “I talk with these people alone,
da
? You go play. Be careful.”

Alexander gave Poppy a shy smile before running out of the shop.

“Alexander is my nephew. He is my life.”
 

Envy gnawed at Matthew over the pride and love Vinchenko showed his nephew. Maybe if he returned to Boston with their fortune restored, his father would finally be proud of him.
 

“Now, tell me what all dis about, Matthew.”

Matthew swallowed his anger and did everything he could to keep his voice calm.
 

“You embezzled from my father, took our entire family fortune, and I’m here to get it back.”

Vinchenko stared at him in silence. His face was unreadable, and Matthew’s heart pounded in his chest waiting for his inevitable denial. Of course, every thief ever caught shouted their innocence from the jail, so it would mean nothing. He had the proof in his pocket.
 

“Your father tell you dis?”
 

“He did, and I have the evidence proving it all.”

Oh, that got him. Vinchenko’s eyes widened.
 

“Let me see.”

Matthew pulled a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. He’d carried them on his person since leaving Boston, and rarely let them out of his sight. Reluctantly, he handed them to Vinchenko, ready to snatch them back if he made a move to tear them up. But all he did was scan each document, grunting as he read.

Thrusting them back at Matthew, Vinchenko said, “What dat prove?”

“It proves my father’s claim that you impersonated him at the bank and withdrew every penny in the account. See? That’s not my father’s signature.” He pointed to a shaky scrawl that was repeated on five more withdrawal receipts.

Vinchenko grunted again, then shuffled through a crate of books and journals.
 

“Aha!” Thumbing through a ledger, he found what he was looking for and shoved a sheet of paper at Matthew. “Read.”

It was a shipping manifest for three crates of sewing notions and fabric, received at the Sitka wharf off the steamship
Queen,
dated May 12, 1890 and signed by Vladimir Vinchenko. What this had to do with the man’s crimes was beyond him.

“So?”

“So…look at date on dat bank receipt.”

Matthew had never thought to look at the dates of the withdrawals from his father’s bank account, not that it would have meant anything to him anyway. But they told a story he didn’t want to believe. Chills rippled up his spine, taking his breath away.

“May.”

Matthew’s head felt like it might explode. He’d spent the last several months believing one thing, but now…now, he didn’t know what to believe.

“You see,
da
?” Vinchenko leaned forward on his stool, eager to hear Matthew agree, but he still couldn’t make sense of all this.

“See what? What’s going on?” Poppy asked, looking between the men. Matthew opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“Da papers show I am not thief. Da papers show—“

“Shut up!” Matthew growled his warning at the man. “Don’t say it.”

Poppy looked more confused than ever.

“Say what?”

Vinchenko leaned back, a look of sympathy on his weathered face. An urge to reach out and slap that look off almost overpowered Matthew’s good sense. He hated pity almost as much as he hated charity, both of which had been poured on him back in Boston before he left.

Poppy watched his every move, seeing more of him than he ever intended to show her. Why was she even there with him? Neither one had wanted the other in their lives, yet here she was, concern pouring from her in waves. Not pity, he noticed, but worry. For him.
 

That was new.

But he had other things on his mind at the moment, such as explaining to her what he’d just discovered.
 

“That Mr. Vinchenko here couldn’t possibly have stolen the money my father claimed he did because he was here in Sitka at the time. And if that ledger is accurate, he’s been here for more than a year.”

He nearly choked on the words. Every waking minute of the last few months had been spent sure in the knowledge that Vinchenko was the cause of his family’s downfall. Now to find out that the man was innocent? His mind couldn’t keep up with the thoughts spinning through them.

Poppy sat silent for a long moment, then gasped. Her eyes grew as round as the glasses they were drinking from.
 

“No! Your father…?”

Pain seared his eyes, his heart. Bolting upright, he strode to the doorway, where he could look out the front window, as if he might find answers there.

“You see many things, pretty lady.” Vinchenko didn’t try to hide his admiration for Poppy. And why should he? She did see many things, much too clearly for his comfort, but she couldn’t be blamed for that.

“Do you know what happened, Mr. Vinchenko? You knew Matthew’s father, didn’t you?”

Vinchenko huffed.
 

“For many years. Since we were young men. He come to Sitka to buy furs for Hudson Bay and I trapped them.”

Matthew spun around.
 

“My father worked for the Hudson Bay Trading Company? I…never knew that.”

Vinchenko nodded vigorously.
 

“
Da
. Caleb was good man, very smart, but he no like travel.”

How had his father never told him this? It seemed like the kind of adventure a man would tell his sons. “I thought he’d always worked in shipping.”

“Mostly. Investments, too. Sometimes gambling. Too much gambling.” Sadness settled on Vinchenko like a grey cloud. “Hudson Bay let him go for it. But he was smart. He wrote soon after last visit. Met pretty girl, got job at shipping company, life was good.”

The pretty girl was obviously his mother. He and his brothers came along, Father eventually took over the company, and they became pillars of Boston society. Of course, old money families snubbed them as
nouveau riche
, which had always driven his father crazy. From Matthew’s perspective, the ‘newly rich’ would become ‘old money’ given a little time, so what did it matter?