The Snowflake (9 page)

My next thought was to pack my things and get out of this place, but my pack was still on the dogsled, wherever that might be. The only person who knew where it was located was Buck. I had nothing here but the clothes I had arrived in.

I stepped over to the ornate bureau where I had seen a young maid—a very pretty young girl I reminded myself with a shiver—put away my clothes. They were in the top drawer, folded in neat squares among other fine white blouses. I shook them out, hearing nothing from the other side of the wall anymore, thank heaven, and then hurried into them.

I was buttoning the pearl buttons when the realization struck me that it was late at night and I didn’t have any idea where to begin my search for Buck. It would be foolish to go out this time of night alone, but I could hardly stay here. As I contemplated what to do next, my hands shook against the buttons, and I couldn’t push them through the holes.

A knock on the door had me turning around. I smoothed down my skirt, still wearing Kate’s satin blue slippers, and croaked out, “Who is it?”

“Ellen, it’s me, Kate. Can we talk?”

I didn’t want to talk to her. Kate had a way of making things look fine and good when they weren’t. I’d imagined her as my guardian angel, but she’d proven to be . . . well . . . I wasn’t exactly sure what she was, but it was not that. “I’m trying to sleep, Kate. Can we talk in the morning?” I tried to make my voice sound unconcerned and tired.

A brief pause ensued, and then a sniffle and a sigh came from the other side of the door. “Well, I suppose. Just don’t do anything rash. Please, promise me. Let me at least have a chance to explain.”

My heart unbent a bit, but my mind demanded,
What was there to explain?
Suddenly I was angrier than I had ever been. I walked over and jerked open the door. Kate was just turning away, but she turned back, a light of pleading in her eyes.

“You should have told me.”

“Might I come in? We don’t want to wake the others.”

“Are they sleeping?” I asked, incredulous at her lie.

“Well, perhaps not,” Kate had the decency to look embarrassed, “but I would rather talk to you without listening ears.”

I stepped back and allowed her graceful figure to float across the threshold. It was hard to believe she was a fallen woman, a madam of prostitutes. She was just so . . . perfect. I steeled myself against her charm and shut the door. Turning toward her, I pressed my lips together and folded my arms in front of my chest. “Well?”

She clasped her hands together in front of her silky robe. “Oh, dear, you are upset, aren’t you?”

“Upset?” I hissed. “How could you have plucked me off the street like that, knowing I didn’t understand, knowing how weak I was? You didn’t even give me a choice!”

“That’s hardly fair, Ellen. I gave you a choice when Mrs. Lawrence was walking toward us, remember? I said she would demand repayment for her kindness when you were better and that I would demand nothing of you.” She paused, her eyes intent. “Have I not taken the very best care of you? Have I demanded anything in return?”

I hesitated. “Not yet, but I remember you saying something about opportunities? Tell me you don’t want me trapped here. That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” I pressed my lips into the tightest line I could manage.

Kate shrugged a delicate shoulder and looked at me askance. “It was a possibility, of course. You are very pretty, and I knew you would have a successful run in one of my establishments.”

“Your establishments?” The fact that it was plural didn’t escape me.

“That’s where you don’t quite understand, dear. I own several saloons, two dance halls, and this”—she held out a hand, her gaze skittering across the decadent room, satisfaction resting on her curved lips—“the Red Feather, the most lavish and upscale brothel in Dawson, if not the whole country. I’m not asking you to become like me.” She shook her head a little and her long, red curls bounced upon her shoulder. “Once you were well, I would have offered you one of several opportunities. A pretty woman is rarer than gold nuggets around here.” She appraised me with a tight smile. “I am a very successful businesswoman. You can’t blame me for wanting to snatch you up first.”

I stood there, rooted to the floor, not knowing what to think. “I planned to buy a claim and pan for gold.” It was a half-thought-through plan. On the trail I didn’t think of much beyond making it to Dawson. Now I would have to figure out what my future would be without my brother.

Kate tossed back her head and laughed. “Oh, I am sure I could arrange for that too, but I don’t think you understand the, ah, difficulties up here. You would have to endure weeks of camping in the ice and snow to hold down your claim. Then as the creek bed thaws, you would be standing in freezing water up to your knees while your back aches from holding that heavy gold pan.” She smiled again, as if explaining something elementary to a beloved child. “You would have a much better chance striking it rich in another line of work, any other line of work, let me assure you.”

The picture of the hardships of panning for gold validated my worst fears. I had always had a delicate, weaker frame, as had Jonah. I’d wondered when he decided we should come here how the two of us would have the necessary strength for such work, and that was before I’d discovered the bitter temperatures. The thought of going back out into the frozen tundra and slogging through icy rivers put a true shiver of foreboding up my spine. But I couldn’t stay here. There was no question about that. As my mind whirled with possible solutions, a timid knock sounded at the door.

Kate opened it to a hastily dressed Randy Olsen standing on the threshold, turning his felt hat round and round in his hands.

“Not now, Mr. Olsen,” Kate hissed. “I told you I would refund your money in a few minutes.”

Randy’s face reddened, and his head bobbed at me, but he avoided my eyes. “It’s not that, ma’am.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he held out toward me. “I have a message for Miss Pierce. I was, uh, going to leave it for her before I left.”

Kate reached for the note, but I hurried over and grabbed it from her delicate fingers. “Thank you, Mr. Olsen.” I turned away and opened the letter.

Dear Ellen,

I have received word that the man who shot my wife and his cohort have left Dawson City and are traveling up one of the tributaries of the Yukon River. I plan to leave first thing in the morning to track them. I regret that I must leave so soon, but if I am to find them before winter truly sets in, I have no choice. If you are able, please meet me at the warehouse (#42 on Front Street), where I have stored our packs and the sleds. I will be readying my team by seven o’clock.

I would like to discuss your future plans so you can be moved from your present location. If I don’t see you in the morning, I will leave some money for you at the Bodega Hotel where I am staying. Just ask for it at the front desk. But I do hope to see you, Ellen. Please come.

Yours,

Buck

I turned back toward Kate and Randy, both silent and staring, with the note clutched to my chest. He was leaving! And so soon! I took a long breath. “Thank you for bringing the note, Randy. If you see Buck, please tell him I will be there in the morning.”

“Where are you going?” Kate looked alarmed.

“I’m leaving in the morning. I have to see Buck, and then I will find another place to stay.”

She started to speak, but I raised my hand. “Thank you for your care, Kate. I really do appreciate it, but it’s time.”

Kate sniffed and I was surprised by how genuinely upset she looked as she rapidly blinked and pressed one hand against her chest. She sighed, though, and gave me a brief nod. “I suppose so.” She turned toward Randy and started to usher him from the room. “Well, get some sleep, my dear. It sounds as if you have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.”

I took a step forward and then another.

She stopped and turned at the door. “Good night, Ellen.”

I gave her a small smile. “Good-bye, Kate.”

Chapter Seven

Seven o’clock. It was time.

I ignored the curious glances of the townsfolk as I trudged through six inches of new snow down Front Street toward the warehouse on the white bank of the Yukon River. The cold and the miseries of the trail washed back over me as I sucked in the freezing air. How could Buck face going back out there? And alone this time? More important, was there any way to talk him out of it?

The warehouse was easy to spot, painted a pale yellow and sitting beside a wharf full of ice-locked boats. There were hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes. My gaze scanned the homemade crafts as I walked up the cleared path to the door. Who were all these people? What were their lives like? What were their stories and what had brought them here?

Making my way to the front door, I noted the deep snowdrift on either side and signs of Buck, the footprints I had followed and knew so well. A pang of longing stopped me, shocking in its intensity.

I longed to see his face—sure, intense, and purpose filled. I longed to see his eyes and the way he looked at me as if we were the only two people on earth, as if no one mattered to him as much as I did. I longed for the current of understanding between us that was instant and as natural as breath. I longed to touch his hands and his face, feel the whiskers of his beard rub rough under my fingertips. Most of all, I longed to hear his voice telling me he would stay and that . . .

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

It swung shut behind me leaving me in semidarkness. The place smelled of freshly sawed lumber and hay. Bales of livestock feed were stacked in rows to the ceiling against one wall. A light came from around a corner and a faint noise. I picked my way around piles of crates and various boxes, clumps of snow dripping from my moccasins and turning to slush around my feet. I came around the corner and saw him.

Buck’s back was to me, and I watched, unnoticed, as he sorted the packs from one of the dogsleds. He stacked them in a pile and anything belonging to him—his pack, sleeping furs, tarp, dog harnesses—in another pile.

I held my breath as he lifted my pack. He held it for a long moment, leaning his head over it, appearing to be weighing a decision. His neck and shoulders stiffened, and he sighed before he set it down with aching slowness on the ground, away from his pile but not quite in the other pile either.

Tears stung my eyes. “I wish I could go with you, Buck.”

He turned toward me, a startled movement of his head and shoulders. “Ellen.” His voice was colored with surprise and pleasure. The sound of my name on his lips made my heart flutter with a heady feeling.

“You came.” He walked over and pulled me into his arms.

I reached up and grasped the edges of his jacket, burying my face in his neck. He smelled of creeks and rivers crossed, of mountains scaled, of snow and clean, sharp fir trees, the perfect mix of man and nature. Why couldn’t he belong to me forever?

“Don’t go.” My voice was so low I didn’t know if he heard me.

He held me close, kissing the top of my head as his hands came up to grip the sides of my face. With gentle pressure he tilted my head back until I was looking into his clean-shaven, rugged, beautiful face. His gaze roved over my features—eyes and eyebrows, nose and cheeks, my lips—like a whispered caress.

Tension coursed through me as his gaze locked with mine. I saw the internal battle raging within him. And I saw the pain of his answer before he said it.

“I have to.”

“But it’s so dangerous. Can’t you track them later? Come spring?”

Buck just stared at me, and I knew the answer was as solid as stone in his heart. No amount of begging would change that. Nausea turned my stomach.

He would leave. He would never come back. I would never see him again.

He didn’t make any promises. But he did pull me hard against him as his lips came down on mine.

It wasn’t what I had expected a kiss to be. I imagined it to be hard, a pressure that bowed me back and made me feel . . . taken over. But Buck’s lips were gentle and firm at the same time. They moved over mine—inviting, coaxing, exploring—as if he would give as much as he could and expected that I do the same.

I pressed toward him with equal intent. My hands clung to his broad shoulders as I breathed him in, wanting more, wanting it to last. Knowing that it wouldn’t last made a bittersweet ache fill my heart. Tears spilled out and slid down to traverse the paths his fingers made across my cheeks.

He moved his hands to my throat and kissed my tears, drinking them into himself, and then my heart squeezed as he settled his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard in the stillness of the room.

I wanted to beg again. I wanted to demand he give me a chance and let his wife rest in peace, but I could feel the turmoil within him and knew he did not have peace enough for that decision. So I decided to savor the moment we did have and not ruin it with wanting more.

My lashes felt wet against the rounded curve of my cheeks as I closed my eyes and nestled back into his neck, my arms wrapped around him too tight for him not to know what I was thinking. He didn’t pull back. He held me against him, kissed my head and the side of my face, and then my lips again.