Alaskan Brides: Gold Rush Baby Part 2

Viola stiffened. She wiped the smile from her face and cooled her voice by several degrees. "Fair payment for the mending is all I want, Mr. Foster."

He nodded, looked down. "I reckon I know that by now, Miss G.o.ddard. My payment is in the scale." He made a little bow. "Good day to you. And to you, Hattie Marsh." He walked away whistling.

"And to you, John Foster! You old fool." Hattie's voice was rough with hurt. "Go on and join the others who risk their lives o'er and o'er, just cause some miner gets drunk and starts spinnin' tall tales about gold just waitin' to be claimed." The elderly woman snapped the quilt through the air, folded it and jammed one side down between the mattress and the back of the settle. "Old fools ne'er learn! But at least that one doesn't have a wife to leave behind, lonely and grievin' when he don't come back."

"Oh, Hattie." Viola rushed over and put her arm around the plump woman's shoulders. "Your husband never meant to leave you."

"I know. None of them do. That's why they're old fools! And him no better than the worst of them. Sellin' all we had to outfit hisself for minin' gold. Then dyin' up there. And me left with no one to care about me, nothin' in my pocket and nowhere to go. It was a blessin' when you took me in and gave me a home, Viola G.o.ddard. A true blessin'." Hattie patted her hand and smiled up at her. "You're my family now. You and little Goldie. Now, go put the dust from the scales in your poke, and get back to work on that bed. No tellin' when Dr. Calloway will be bringin' your patient."

Chapter Three.

Pulsing pain pulled him out of the darkness. Thomas tried to move his left arm, gritted his teeth at the sudden stabbing anguish in his chest. He gathered his strength against it, opened his eyes and stared up at the rough board and beam ceiling. A soft coc.o.o.n of warmth held him. A hint of roses, coming from the bedding, encouraged him to breathe deeply, to capture more of a distant memory of his mother sitting on the lawn, doing needle-point while he played at her feet.

The dusky light of a midnight sun cast an ambient glow over the room, softening the edges of the rocks on the chimney climbing the opposite wall to the ceiling. He slewed his gaze left, toward the window that ceded entrance to the purple and gold twilight. Curtains softened the hard lines of the frame. Where was he? He frowned, willing the fuzziness away.

A rustle of fabric, soft footfalls interrupted his effort, cleared his head. He didn't have to look their way, didn't want to look their way. He knew who was there.

Viola G.o.ddard stepped into his line of vision, glanced down at him. The connection he'd felt the first time their gazes met burgeoned. "You're awake, Mr. Stone. Would you like some water?"

What he would like was to be in his hut. But judging from the pain and the weakness in his body, that wouldn't happen anytime soon. "Please. My mouth...dry..."

She turned away.

He closed his eyes, summoned physical strength for the effort to lift his head and drink the water, and inner strength to resist the pull of his emotions toward this woman caring for him. He'd never felt so helpless. For an ungracious moment, he wished the kidnapper was miserable. There was a clink of gla.s.s, a small gurgle.

"I shall have to give you the water from a spoon."

He opened his eyes, stared up at her.

"Doctor's orders. You're not to move."

He couldn't stop the frown.

She didn't comment, merely held a napkin against his chin and offered the spoon. He fought back the urge to turn away and parted his lips. She parted her own and leaned forward. The spoon touched his mouth, water moistened his tongue. He felt the soothing coolness trickle toward his parched throat and swallowed, tried to keep his attention focused on the sensation. It was an abysmal failure. When half the gla.s.s was gone, he gave up the fight. He'd had enough. Not of the water, but of the sight of Viola G.o.ddard leaning over him, her violet-blue eyes warm with sympathy. He closed his eyes, heard the soft rustle of her dress as she straightened and moved away, the soft clink of the gla.s.s as she set it down. Help me, Lord. Help me to fight this sense of connection, and feel nothing but grat.i.tude for this woman. You know I made a vow to never- "Mr. Stone, please open your mouth once more. The doctor instructed me to give you a dose of this medicine as soon as you awoke. It will ease your pain."

He considered feigning slumber, but the agony in his chest and shoulder overruled the idea. He opened his eyes, took the medicine and closed them again. There were soft footfalls, the creak of caning in a chair and the whisper of rockers against the floor. He tried to will away the image of Viola G.o.ddard's beautiful eyes, fringed with dark-brown lashes so long and thick they looked like velvet, her full, rose-colored lips and the wisps of dark red curls brushing against her forehead. He failed, and slipped into oblivion, wondering if her porcelain skin was as soft and smooth to the touch as it appeared.

Viola smiled and lay her sewing aside. Goldie had rolled over again, and one shoulder and pudgy little arm were uncovered. She rose from the rocker and stood a moment, looking at the adorable baby face, the tiny b.u.t.ton nose and the small rosebud mouth moving in and out in little sucking motions. Tears welled in her eyes. She leaned down and moved Goldie back to the center of the cradle and tucked the covers around her, blinked the tears away and brushed the back of her finger over the baby's silky, brown hair, her warm, rosy cheek. She blinked again, straightened and turned away, shaken by the strength of the love that filled her.

What if she had lost her? What if the kidnapper had harmed her? No. She would not dwell on that. She shuddered, wrapped her arms about herself and waited for the trembling to pa.s.s. It would. And every day the memory would become more dim, the trembling would lessen, and someday she would be able to look at Goldie and not think of what could have happened. Or remember that it would have been her fault.

The thought set her stomach churning. How would she ever have explained to Goldie's father? She looked out the window, studied the shadows of trees clouding her yard. Where was Goldie's father? Would he ever return? The selfish part of her hoped not. The unselfish part prayed he would. Girls needed fathers to shelter and protect them.

As she would have been sheltered, had her father and mother not died in that carriage accident. If her father had lived, she never would have been forced out onto the streets of Seattle by foreclosure on their home. And Richard Dengler would never have found her sitting on that park bench crying.

Oh, how innocent and trusting she had been! Believing Dengler when he told her she reminded him of his dear dead daughter. And that he was lonely and it would please him if she would allow him to provide for her, that she could stay in his dead daughter's bedroom until she found work by which she could support herself. How shocked she'd been when he presented her with a bill for her room and board and made her that oh, so magnanimous offer to allow her to work off her debt in his house of ill repute, knowing full well she had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to for help and no skill with which to make a living.

Her chest tightened. Sickness washed over her-the same sickness she felt that day she succ.u.mbed to the circ.u.mstances and agreed to work for him. The day she sold her innocence and youth to pay for her keep.

She clenched her hands into fists, forced air into her constricted lungs. One thing was certain. If Goldie stayed in her care, she would make provisions for her. She would never leave the child without means. But neither would she ever marry. Never! The very thought of a man's hands on her again revolted her.

Viola whirled from the window, fighting the memories pushing to the surface, took a slow, deep breath to ease the churning and knotting in her stomach, the tightness now inching up her neck into her face. Her gaze lit on Thomas and the knotting and the tightness increased. Had she gone mad, having the man in her home? He was weak and helpless now, but what about when his strength returned and he still needed care because of his disabled arm? He was strong. Very strong.

She shivered, rubbed her elbow where his hand had gripped her. When he was stronger, she would give his care over to Hattie. He had saved Goldie, and in grat.i.tude and thankfulness, she would shelter and nurse him. But she would not be a victim of a man's wants again. Not ever again.

She walked back to the rocker, pulled a blanket up over her shoulders and leaned her head back and closed her eyes, fighting for breath. Almighty G.o.d, cleanse my mind of all the bad memories, I pray. Take them from me and cause me to forget....

"Got the oatmeal fixed, Viola. I'll sit here with your patient, whilst you eat."

Viola took the empty bottle from Goldie's mouth and set it aside. "I'm not hungry, Hattie. I'll stay with him." I owe him that much. She dabbed a drop of the sweetened goat's milk from Goldie's little mouth and handed her a wooden dog to play with.

The elderly woman frowned and stepped to the bed. "Handsome one, ain't he? Even if he does look like death is just a-waitin' to claim him." She chuckled. "Guess I don't blame you for wantin' to stay with him."

If you only knew the truth. "Do you realize he might wake and hear you?"

Hattie turned from the bed, the wrinkles in her face deepened by a wide grin. "Which part don't you want him to hear? The part about his bein' handsome and death waitin' to claim him...or the part about you not wantin' to leave him?"

"All of it." It came out sharper than she intended.

Hattie's grin died. "Wouldn't hurt you none to take an interest in someone, Viola. It ain't right, a beautiful young woman like you being satisfied to do nothin' but work and spend her time with an old woman and a baby."

"I'm not." Viola summoned a cheeky grin, offered it as penance for her sharp tone. "I go to church, too."

"Hmmph." Hattie stepped in front of her and held out her arms. "Leastways, let me take this one and feed her some of the oatmeal. Lest you want her growin' up to be a slender slip of a thing like you." She lifted Goldie, propped her on her round hip, grabbed the bottle and headed for the door. "It wouldn't hurt you to put some flesh on them bones, you know. Men like somethin' they can get ahold of." The parting comment floated over her round shoulders as she walked away.

"Which is exactly what I do not want!" Viola pressed her lips closed on her vehement whisper and lifted her hands to rub her fingertips across her gritty, tired eyes. Since moving in with her, Hattie had become aware of her lack of social life and was beginning to probe as to the reason. And the woman was not satisfied with her casual answers. She was pushing harder.

She rose and crossed to look out the window, absently rubbing at the scar on the outside edge of her left hand. The one where Dengler had cut her with his knife the last time she had run away. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take Hattie in. But she couldn't simply ignore the woman's homeless state when her husband had died. Please help me, Lord. Please give me the right words to say to satisfy Hattie's curiosity. You know I can't tell her the truth of my past, nor can I lie to- "How's our patient doing?"

She gasped and spun toward the doorway.

"Sorry, Viola, I didn't mean to startle you." Dr. Calloway smiled. "I knocked, but the door was open, so I came on in. I thought you must have heard me at the door."

"No. I-I was thinking." And remembering. She forced a smile. "Come in, Doctor." She stepped back to allow him ample s.p.a.ce to pa.s.s her in the narrow room. "I'm afraid Mr. Stone is still sleeping."

"I'm...awake...."

She jerked her head toward the bed, looked into those penetrating green eyes. How long had he been awake? Had he heard Hattie's comments? And her whispered retort? What if she had prayed aloud? Her body went rigid. She looked away. "I'm going outside for some fresh air while you examine your patient, Doctor. I shall return shortly. If you need anything meanwhile, Hattie is in the kitchen." She turned and walked out the door.

The doctor stared after her a moment, then looked down. "That is one beautiful woman. But I guess you've probably noticed."

"A man would have to be...blind not to." Thomas frowned. What had caused that flash of fear he had seen in Viola G.o.ddard's eyes before she turned away?

Jacob grinned, set his bag on the end of the bed and lifted the edge of the covers. "Feeling a little grumpy, are we?" He pulled his watch from his vest pocket.

"Grumpy?" Maybe he had imagined the fear. He gave a snort, winced. "I'm feeling downright surly. And...uncomfortable." The doctor's fingers closed around his wrist.

"The pain is bad?"

"Beyond bad. But it's the weakness that aggravates me." Thomas scowled up at Jacob. "And your betrayal. I told you I did not...want to come here."

"Ah! That is a problem." The doctor chuckled.

Thomas turned the scowl into a glare. "It's not funny, Jacob. And I promise I will take that smile off your face...as soon as I can stand." He sagged into the mattress, all strength gone out of him from the long speech.

The doctor tucked his watch away and pulled his stethoscope from his bag. "All right, Thomas, you shall have your chance to do so when you recover. But that recovery depends on good care. And that is what you will receive from Viola." He put the earpieces in place and leaned down, listened, then straightened. "I want you to drink a lot of water, Thomas. You need to get your fluids built back up. And above all, no movement! Now, tell me about the pain." He put the stethoscope away and began to check the bandages.

"Hey, Viola."

Viola dragged her thoughts from the past, spotted Frankie Tucker, hammer in hand, gazing at her from behind the picket fence she was building around the churchyard. An undertone of melancholy in the woman's usually hearty voice made her abandon her walk and cross the road. She recognized loneliness when she heard it. "h.e.l.lo, Frankie." She smiled, placed her hand on top of one of the pickets. "You've done a good job. The fence really dresses up the churchyard."

"It'll be finished today. Except for the painting. Burns was going to do it, but he and his dog left for the gold fields. I just have to fancy up these end posts-round the tops off a mite. Mack didn't want no gate. Says he's not trying to keep folks out, just lead them in and corral them once they get here." Frankie smiled, then frowned and ran her work-roughened hand over the taller square post at the edge of the stone walk. "Should of been finished with this job last week. Been kinda slow without Lucy and Margie helping me much. But Lucy is helping to keep Caleb's books now. And they've both been busy...setting up their new homes and all."

So that was the cause of the unhappiness in Frankie's eyes. She should have guessed. Even in the short time she had been in Treasure Creek, she'd learned how close the Tucker sisters were. And how adamantly opposed to marriage the three of them were until Lucy had fallen in love and married. It must have been a shock for Frankie. Especially when Margie followed their younger sister's example a few weeks later. She nodded, tried for the right tone of sympathetic understanding. It wasn't easy. She was as opposed to marriage as Frankie, though for very different reasons. "It must be difficult to get used to both of your sisters being married in such a short time."

Frankie snorted, jammed her hammer back into her leather belt, bent over and grabbed a tool from a bucket at her feet. "Never thought I'd see the day a Tucker girl would marry." She slammed the tool against one corner of the post and shoved down on it, repeated the movement over and over. A blade bit off thin little bits of wood that made a small pile on the ground. "Pa must be spinning in his grave." The shavings grew longer, wider, curled. The corner now sloped from the center of the post to the outer edge. "He raised us to be able to take care of ourselves, not need some man to do for us!"

Viola nodded. It was the best she could offer. She had nothing good to say about men or marriage.

Frankie stopped working, waved the tool in the air. "You won't find me getting yoked up to no man." She scowled, then started shaving away at the next corner of the post. "I'm gonna be a deputy, soon as I can convince that stubborn sheriff of ours I'm as good or better than them men he takes on to help him out when there's a need."

There was hurt lurking behind Frankie's bravado. Her heart went out to the unhappy woman. At least in this, she could offer some comfort. "I'm sure you would make a fine deputy, Frankie. But what will the people of Treasure Creek do without your building skills to call upon?"

Frankie paused, fastened her blue-eyed gaze on her. "Guess I hadn't thought about that." She squinted at the post, ran her hand over the two sloping corners and moved on to the next. "I'll still keep building things for folks. Being a deputy is only when there's a need. And it seems like Sheriff Parker ain't a very needful man." She stopped, looked at her. "Been talking only about me. How's Goldie? And how's the preacher doing? He mending all right?"

She gasped. "Mr. Stone! I forgot all about him." Guilt shot through her. She stepped back from the fence. "I have to go, Frankie. I told Dr. Calloway I would be right back." She lifted the hems of her long skirt, ran across the road and hurried back to her cabin.

"No movement. And no solid foods for Thomas today, Viola."

She nodded and walked the doctor to the door. "What would you advise for his sustenance?"

"A good, strong beef broth will help build his blood back to strength. If none is avail-"

"Ha!"

Viola laughed at the satisfied grin on Hattie's face. "Hattie has already prepared a beef broth, Doctor. She was quite certain it was what you would request for him. Is there anything else?"

"No. Just keep him warm and quiet, and continue the pain medicine. Give him the broth as often as he will take it. And water. He lost a lot of blood, he needs to replace the fluids he's lost." Jacob Calloway reached for the door latch. "I will return to check on him this afternoon. Meanwhile, if he develops a fever or other problems, please come for me. And if he moves and that wound starts to bleed, come immediately."

"I shall, doctor. Please give Teena my regards." Viola closed the door, made the smirking Hattie a little bow, then took Goldie into her arms.

"Would you please bring Mr. Stone some broth, Hattie? I'm sure he must be hungry." She turned and walked into the bedroom. Thomas Stone's eyes were squeezed closed, his mouth was pressed into a tight line and his face looked more wan than ever in the full light of day. She stared at him, feeling sick to her stomach. If she had stayed with Goldie instead of napping to catch up on her lost sleep, the kidnapping would not have happened. Thomas Stone would not have been shot. He would not be in this pain. If only there was something she could do to make him feel better. Perhaps... She whirled around, to Goldie's gurgling delight, and hurried to the kitchen.

"Hattie, keep the soup on the warming shelf. And please watch Goldie for me. I think, perhaps Mr. Stone might feel a little better if I wash his face and comb his hair." She handed the baby into Hattie's arms, then hurried to the tiny bathing room off the kitchen, draped a washcloth and towel over her shoulder, threw a comb and a bar of her soap into a washbowl and went back to the stove to ladle hot water out of the reservoir on the side.

The hot water felt wonderful on his face. The hint of roses hovered, even after she rinsed the soap away. Thomas thought again of his mother, focused on the past to keep from thinking of how soft Viola G.o.ddard's hands were. Or about the ache their gentle touch brought to his gut. He hadn't known, until now, how much he missed the touch of his wife's hands.

The softness of a towel absorbed the moisture from his skin, dragged across his whisker stubble. He had a flash of vanity, wished he was clean-shaven and looking his best.

"I'm going to wash your hands now, Mr. Stone." Her voice sounded different, sort of tight and small. Her fingers brushed against his neck, slid beneath the edge of the covers.

"Wait!" He forgot, tried to grab the covers. White heat streaked through his shoulder and chest. He broke out in a cold sweat. "Shirt...cut...off me." He closed his eyes, silently cursed the weakness, the bullet that had put him in this bed.

"You mustn't move, Mr. Stone. I will do it."

The blankets lifted, cool air washed over his right shoulder and arm. He opened his eyes, looked up at her. Her face was taut. She turned to the washbowl, wrung out the rag and soaped it. He held his breath, fought the sickening throbbing in his shoulder.

"You are quite covered in bandages, Mr. Stone. I'm so sorry for your pain." She lifted his hand. The warm, soapy rag slid over his skin. Her hands were trembling. He saw her catch her lower lip with her upper teeth, turn to the washbowl and rinse out the rag, and swallowed hard against the churning in his stomach.

"I haven't had the opportunity to properly thank you for saving Goldie." She wiped the soap from his hand, took a little shuddering breath, put down the cloth and dried his hand with the towel. "I'm so very grateful." She smiled, but there was something in her eyes.... He tried to block out the pain and nausea and concentrate.

"Your left arm is bound to your chest. To keep it still, I suppose. I shall not wash that hand." There was relief in her voice. She pulled the covers back over him and picked up the washbowl. "You rest now, Mr. Stone. I shall take care of these things and be back in a moment with some broth for you."

Thomas closed his eyes, yielded to the weakness. She had tried to cover it, but Viola G.o.ddard had been upset by his bandages. There had been a fear, a vulnerability deep in the depths of her beautiful eyes that belied her cool demeanor as she washed him. A vulnerability that made him want to take care of her. He clenched his hands into fists, caught his breath at the pain that knifed through his chest and prayed for a quick recovery before falling asleep.

Chapter Four.

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."