Rivers of Gold (5 page)

Sometimes when Miranda first woke up, she could almost believe that she was safely back at home in San Francisco. At those times, like now, she would purposefully keep her eyes closed tight and imagine that when she opened them she’d see the white fluttering curtains that graced her bedroom window at home. She could almost smell her mother’s cooking. Oatmeal and sausages. Coffee and tea.

She liked to pretend what she would do that day. Thoughts of long strolls in the park or shopping for fresh fish at the wharf seemed most appealing. Funny how she had taken all that for granted.

“Oh, bother!” Teddy declared from across the room.

Miranda realized the poor man was struggling to fix his own breakfast again. Smiling, she eased out from the bed, fully dressed albeit wrinkled. She used her fingers to get the better part of the tangles out of her hair. Mr. Davenport had seemed completely oblivious to her needs. A blizzard had kept them locked inside the cabin after Nellie had gone back to her village. There had been no sign of Little Charley and the dog sleds, but in this weather, Miranda hadn’t really expected them.

She quickly plaited her hair and tied it with a worn piece of rawhide. “Can I help?” she asked, coming to kitchen area.

“I would be very grateful if you would take this matter over,” Teddy replied as he gestured toward a pan full of oatmeal, which was running over onto the tiny stovetop.

Miranda wanted to laugh, but the situation was such that she didn’t. She merely took the task in hand. “How much oatmeal did you put into the pan?”

“I don’t know. I filled it halfway and then stirred water in until it was filled.”

Miranda kept her head down so that he couldn’t see her smile. “That’s way too much oatmeal. You only need a cup or so to make enough for both of us.”

“I can see that now. At least the coffee is passable. Strong, but passable.”

“Good. Now why don’t you set the table, and I’ll have this mess under control in just a minute.”

Teddy nodded and went quietly to the task of pulling down bowls from the cupboard. It was in moments like this that Miranda liked Mr. Davenport very much. But other times she didn’t know what to make of him. He seemed so closed off—so antisocial. He constantly buried his nose in his books and writings, and whenever Miranda tried to talk to him, he only grunted and murmured unintelligible answers.

This, added to the fact that he had no apparent understanding of time, left Miranda frustrated with the man. She’d asked him several times when they might find their way to Dawson. He’d only shrugged and suggested they were at the mercy of the weather and the natives. Without the sled dogs and help of his friends they were stranded, because Teddy had no way to pack his supplies and books back to Dawson.

Miranda cleared away the excess oatmeal, salvaging what she could for their meal. She turned to bring the pan to the table when she smelled the unmistakable odor of something burning.

She stopped and sniffed the air. Turning, she looked once again to the stove to make certain she’d not missed some of the oatmeal in her cleanup and was surprised to see the smoke wasn’t coming from atop the stove, but rather the oven door showed the telltale sign of black wisps.

“Mr. Davenport,” Miranda questioned, turning back to Teddy. “Have you something in the oven?”

“Oh, dear,” he muttered, dashing across the room and sending Miranda sprawling backward onto the floor. Oatmeal flew from the pan and landed everywhere, including on Miranda’s only skirt and blouse.

Teddy, meanwhile, reached into the oven, showing at least the presence of mind to use a potholder, and pulled out a pan of charred remains that Miranda supposed to be biscuits.

Thinking it all rather amusing in spite of, or perhaps because of, the oatmeal that oozed down her cheek and blouse, Miranda began to giggle—quietly at first, and then louder. Teddy caught sight of her and shook his head.

“This isn’t funny. Just look at this mess. Look at yourself.”

“I am.” Miranda wiped away the tears that had trickled down her cheeks. “That’s why I’m laughing.”

Teddy cocked his head to one side and then tossed the pan into the sink. “Well, I see nothing funny about this. Our breakfast is either burned or splattered across the floor.”

Miranda shook off her mirth and got to her feet, no thanks to Teddy offering any help. “My mother always said, ‘When bad times come we can either laugh at them or cry.’ ”

“That makes no sense. Was your mother quite all right in the head?”

Miranda picked up the pan. “I assure you, my mother was quite sane. She was also very content with life because she tried never to let problems overwhelm her. I wish I could be more like her.”

“I’m not entirely certain that would be to your benefit.”

Miranda smiled and began wiping up the oatmeal. “Well, I know for certain that it would greatly benefit us both to stop taking things so seriously. Who knows, Mr. Davenport. You might actually have some fun.”

As Teddy added wood to the fireplace and prepared to retire for the night, he thought of Miranda’s words and shook his head. His mother had always been one for having fun. As a young boy, Teddy had enjoyed her zest for living. Where his father would have been content to sit in his solarium cultivating a new type of rose, Eugenia Davenport was one for cultivating life.

It had been his mother who had taught Teddy to ride and hunt, his mother who had taken him to the museum and opera. She had spent hours teaching him about art and the pleasure that could be had in a single painting.

His mother had loved people with a great passion, and her enthusiasm was contagious. Teddy remembered as a boy being allowed to join his mother for luncheons and afternoon teas. The food was always an adventure of flavors served on the finest china. And it was his mother’s laughter that rang out most clearly in his memory—laughter not so very much different than that of Miranda Colton.

The flames greedily consumed the dried logs, crackling and popping. Teddy’s memories intertwined with the present. His mother and Miranda Colton were very much alike. They both had a flair for living that seemed to overwhelm their environment. Teddy was more like his father. He enjoyed the quietness and solitude of introspection. He preferred a good book or time spent with his plants, to conversation and revelry.

He thought of his father succumbing to an ailment the doctors were never quite sure how to diagnose. Cancer seemed the most likely culprit, but there was nothing that could have been done on any account. His father simply wasted away, day after day. His dreams of travel to North America dying with him.

“I won’t disappoint you, Father,” Teddy whispered, staring into the fire as if he could see the image of Albert Davenport in the flames. “I’ll stay the course.”

He heard Miranda sigh in her sleep and felt a foreign sensation creep up his spine. She was a lovely woman—gentle and spirited and lovely—in spite of the lack of amenities with which to care for herself.

Eugenia Davenport had also been a lovely woman—and she had broken his father’s heart. Teddy squared his shoulders and firmed his resolve. He wouldn’t fall victim to the same temptations as his father. He wouldn’t allow a woman to put an end to his dreams.

—[CHAPTER FOUR]—

“PLEASE UNDERSTAND,” Miranda began. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but I’m most desperate to get to Dawson City. Is there no way we can get a message to your native friends?”

Teddy looked up, distraught to have been drawn once again from his work. “Do explain to me, Miss Colton, how we might send this message.”

Miranda crossed her arms. He noted the determined look in her eye. She was a pretty young woman, probably at least five years his junior.
Her eyes are most appealing
, he thought, noticing the way she watched him with unyielding interest. He remembered his determination from the night before and shook off his thoughts of admiration.

“Please understand me, Mr. Davenport. I realize the situation is difficult, but might we simply hike out? You could leave your things here until your friends could bring the sleds. I’m completely well now, and I know you might not believe this, but I’m fully capable of hiking long distances.”

“Leave my things here?” he said, hardly concerning himself with anything else she’d said. The very thought of it was absurd. The woman simply didn’t have any understanding of his work or its importance—just like his mother, who couldn’t understand when Teddy took up his father’s torch, determined to pick up where his father left off. “I can’t just leave my things here.”

“And I can’t just stay here all winter. I want to know what happened to my friends. I need to know whether they made it or not. Your plants will still be here in the weeks to come.”

“And if your friends are in Dawson, they will still be there as well,” Teddy countered. “There’s no chance they could make their way out if they’ve not already taken their leave. At least it’s highly improbable. Certainly, there are ways, as in any situation. Dog sled teams can be hired and such. Walking out is possible, but very dangerous and highly unlikely unless, of course, your friends are native to the area and quite used to the harsh elem—”

“Oh, you are impossible!” Miranda stomped her foot and moved to her corner of the cabin.

Teddy looked at her in surprise. He’d merely tried to explain the situation. There was no call for her to get so angry. He waited, thinking she might begin again. When she remained silent, he breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she’d leave him alone now and let him work. He picked up a piece of charcoal and began to sketch the outline of a dried subalpine buttercup.

Ranunculus eschscholtzii
, he wrote in small charcoal lettering.
Petals—five, colored a brilliant yellow
. He went to work sketching the petals of the flower.

“Why can’t you try to understand my position?”

Bother! She is back
. Teddy looked up, hoping his expression betrayed his frustration. Slowly he took off the gold-framed spectacles he used for his closeup work. “Miss Colton, I have a feeling you will endeavor to explain it, so I might as well hear you out.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned his head against his hand.

Miranda took the chair opposite him and folded her hands as if he might be about to serve tea. Teddy was more frustrated at the interruptions than angry. After all, she did cook a nice meal and her mannerisms were not at all unpleasant—except for this incessant nagging. He hated to continue conjuring up the likeness of his mother, but Miranda’s attitude was very much like hers. They were both very likable, but not entirely thoughtful.

“My friends most likely believe me dead. Imagine their pain and suffering. It’s inhumane to sit here and let them assume the worst. What if they’ve written to my mother and father?

“I’m not without regard for the work you’re doing here, Mr. Davenport. In fact, I highly respect it. I love books, and I well imagine that your book will be quite fascinating and accurate. I’ll probably be determined to purchase a copy— not only because of having known you, but also because of the topic. Even so, you must understand my position.”

Her expression bore evidence to the pain in her heart. Teddy lost himself for a moment in her huge brown eyes. Her eyes were just about the same light nutty color as the cone of the Canadian spruce. If he’d saved a specimen he could show her. He looked around the room for a moment, and then realized she’d fallen silent.

Looking back to her, Teddy offered an apologetic smile. “I say, please continue.”

“Why should I? You don’t care. All you can think about is your own need.”

“Until recently, that was my main concentration, I must admit. However, with your arrival, I found my plans very much altered. You cannot, with any reasonable truth, suggest otherwise.”

Miranda leaned forward, causing Teddy to pull back ever so slightly. The young woman made him nervous. He’d never been around many women other than his mother or servants. This woman had the ability to rattle his thoughts and leave him struggling for words.

“I wasn’t suggesting that your life hadn’t been altered by my arrival. I am very sorry you were delayed. But I’m even sorrier that you continue our delay.” She got to her feet and put her hands on her hips. “Look, if you haven’t any desire to take me to Dawson, then perhaps I’ll set out on my own. I have the things Nellie left me and I’ll just follow the river. It can’t be that hard.”

Teddy actually smiled at this. She no doubt assumed he’d find such a suggestion threatening. “You cannot be serious. The temperature is forty below, and the river is some distance from here. The creek will do you little good because it branches off in several directions—none of which lead to Dawson, which I might add is a good three days journey from here. Not to mention we are enjoying only about four hours of daylight, and most of that is spent under heavy clouds and snow.”

“I don’t care. My friends and family mean too much to me.”

She turned to go to her bed. Teddy watched as she began pulling together the things Nellie had given her. She laced on the thick elk-skin boots Nellie had crafted while tending to Miranda. Next, she pulled on a fur-lined cloak, also crafted by the old Indian woman. Somewhat amused by her show of independence, Teddy secured his glasses on his nose and began to study the petals of the buttercup in more detail.