Gold Rush Baby

She had to reach the cemetery before the sheriff and the others arrived. Before the kidnapper came.

Chapter Two

The water roared over the mountain ledge in a silver deluge that washed the face of the layered rock, foamed over and slithered through the piled boulders, then whispered its way into the creek flowing toward town.

Toward the cemetery.

Viola shivered, studied the deep shadows beneath the towering firs. She spotted no one lurking in the depths, and moved forward until the woods opened onto a small clearing and she could see the fence. And the gate.

She should have stayed and made the sheriff listen to her. What if the kidnapper was expecting a woman? What if he saw Mack coming and sensed a trap? Bile burned its way into her throat. She leaned back against the massive trunk of a tree, its branches laden with yellow leaves, and closed her eyes. Please, Lord. She’s a helpless little baby. Please protect her.

A violent shaking took her. Tears stung her eyes. She took a deep breath, blinked them away, and opened her eyes and stared at the gate. If there was one thing her past had taught her, it was that tears never helped. The light grew dimmer, slid toward deep purple. Twilight back home. Nearly midnight here.

A figure emerged out of the shadowed distance, strode across the cemetery and stopped by the gate. She watched Mack Tanner sweep the woods with a long, searching gaze, willed him to hurry and do what the kidnapper asked. He pulled a small bag from his pocket, held it aloft, then bent from the waist and placed it on the ground at the foot of one of the gate posts, turned and walked off the way he had come.

It was done. Now they had only to wait. Where were Thomas Stone and Dr. Calloway and the sheriff? She scanned left and right, saw nothing but trees and rocks and shadows. Where was the kidnapper? What if he didn’t come? What if he’d seen one of the men? Or her? What if he left with Goldie? The shaking took her again. She shouldn’t have come. She should have listened to the sheriff and stayed at home. Maybe…

Movement at the edge of the woods caught her eye. Her heart jolted. Was that him? She stared into the shadowy gloom formed by the thick growth of trees, made out the blanket-wrapped bundle the man carried, a gun in his other hand.

Lord, don’t let him see me. Keep Goldie safe.

She pressed back against the tree trunk, felt the rough bark bite into her palms and back, the pulse throbbing at her temples and the base of her throat. Footsteps neared, turned away, stopped. Where was he?

She strained against the silence, broken only by the sibilance of the creek flowing by. Her ears failed her. So did her lungs. They were as frozen as the glaciers atop the high mountains. She inched her head to the left. He was there, crouched behind a pile of huge rocks, looking toward the cemetery.

Time stopped. She dug her nails into the bark to hold herself from running to him and snatching the baby away. She stared at the bundle. It was quiet…still. Why wasn’t Goldie moving? Or cooing? She loved to wave her little fists in the air and chatter her baby talk. Fear seized her, dropped like a rock into the pit of her stomach. Rage burned away the ice in her lungs. She took a deep breath, clenched her hands. If he had hurt the baby…

She jerked, yanked her head back. He had glanced her way. Had he seen her? She checked to make certain her long skirt was hidden, inched her head to the right and peered around the opposite side of the tree trunk. What was he doing? Heart pounding, she watched as the man rose to a half stoop and moved toward a dead tree beside the pile of rocks. He placed the bundle in the hollow base of the tree, gave another scan of the area, then, gun raised, stepped into the small clearing and walked toward the cemetery.

She held her breath and waited. I’m coming, Goldie. Oh, baby, don’t be afraid. I will get you as soon as he is far enough away that I can get across the clearing. No! She jerked her gaze toward the movement on the right, saw a man slipping through the trees toward the stones. Toward the bundle. They had set a trap. There were two of them! They had never intended to return Goldie. Could she reach the baby first?

She grasped her skirts, lifted the hems, then let them fall and leaned back against the tree again. The distance across the open area was too great. She would follow the man. She glanced toward the kidnapper. He was opening the gate, reaching down for the gold. When he turned back, she— Her thoughts froze, focused on the sheriff who was edging around the small building in the middle of the cemetery.

A stone flew out of the woods and crashed against the pile of rocks. She jumped, gasped.

The kidnapper looked up, spun around and raced back toward the stones.

The sheriff shouted and gave chase.

Goldie! She had to get her! Viola whirled, saw a man break from the woods and sprint toward the rocks. Thomas Stone!

The kidnapper stopped, raised his gun.

“No! Don’t—”

The report of a shot slammed against her ears, echoed off the mountain. Thomas Stone lurched, ran forward, grabbed the bundle and ran back into the woods. He had saved Goldie! Joy flooded her. She grabbed her skirt, lifted her hems. Another shot rang out. The kidnapper staggered, fell. She turned and ran. Shouts, grunts and curses followed her to the woods.

Thomas Stone was sitting with his back to a tree, the unwrapped baby in his arms. He smiled when she skidded to a stop, dropped to her knees and reached for the baby. “She’s all right.”

Viola nodded, clutched Goldie to her breast and looked at him. “Thank you, Mr. Stone. I—” She stared. The left side of his shirt was soaked with blood. “He shot you.” The whispered words brought a crooked grin to his face.

“It appears so.” He tried to rise, grimaced, sank back and closed his eyes. The blood stain spread.

Her heart clutched. “Don’t move, Mr. Stone. I’ll get the doctor.” She put Goldie on his outstretched legs, lurched to her feet and ran.

“He’s coming around, Viola. He’s going to be all right.”

Her lungs emptied in a long sigh. “Thank You, Lord.” She fought back grateful tears and brought up a smile. “And thank you, Dr. Calloway.”

He shook his head. “You were right the first time—thank the Lord. If that bullet had been a little closer to…” He stopped, smiled. “But it wasn’t. I was able to extract it safely.” The smile morphed into a frown that knit his brows together. “The problem now is his recovery. He lost a lot of blood before we got him here to the clinic, and more during the operation. He’s going to be as weak as that baby you’re clutching as if you’ll never let her go. And he won’t be able to move for a few days, and not use his left arm normally for weeks. He’s going to need constant care. I don’t know where we will find that for him. The clinic is full. And there is no place—”

“He’s not married?”

“No. And it’s certain he can’t go live in that hut of his on the Chilkoot Trail.” Jacob Calloway shook his head, sighed and massaged the back of his neck. “I’ll keep him here in the clinic overnight of course, but then I’ll need the room for other surgical patients.” The frown returned. Then he gave her another tired smile. “Why don’t you go home now and get some sleep. Morning will be here soon, and when the laudanum that thug gave Goldie wears off, she is going to be demanding a lot of attention.” His smile widened. “You can put her down, you know. She’s safe here.”

“Not yet. It’s for my sake I’m holding her.” Viola kissed the baby’s silky, dark hair, squelched the war raging inside her. It was clear what she must do. “You said Mr. Stone is ‘coming around.’ May I see him?”

He studied her for a moment then nodded. “All right. He keeps muttering about a baby. It will likely do him good to see you holding the baby safe in your arms. But you can’t stay but a minute. Like I said, he’s lost a lot of blood and needs rest.”

“I understand.” Viola rose, and hugging Goldie close, followed Jacob Calloway through his small surgery, to the tiny room where his surgical patients recovered, her steps reluctant but determined. She smiled at Teena Crow, stepped to the bed and looked down at Thomas Stone. Her heart almost stopped. She had never seen anyone so pale. Only his eyebrows gave his face color. Even his blond hair seemed to have paled.

“I didn’t realize he was so… I will thank him tomorrow.” She took a steadying breath, looked up at the doctor. “You said Mr. Stone will need care and a place to stay, Doctor. I have room. Please bring him to my cabin when he recovers and—”

“No.”

Viola glanced down. Thomas Stone had opened his eyes. Though his voice was weak, the look in those green eyes left no doubt that he meant exactly what he said. The tension left her. She had offered to care for him. Her obligation was satisfied. It was not her fault the man refused. Still, she stood rooted to the spot, unable to walk away. The man was in dire straits and most likely not fully aware of his situation. “This is no time to stand on pride, Mr. Stone. I am in your debt for saving Goldie, and Dr. Calloway has said you will need constant care—until you are recovered. Staying at my cabin is the sensible solution. I live close by, and the doctor will be able to come visit you daily.”

“No.” His voice was weaker this time, but the tone just as adamant. “Woman…repu…ta…tion…” His eyelids closed, fluttered, but refused to open.

“You’ll have to leave now, Viola. He needs to rest.”

She nodded, stared at Thomas Stone’s pale, still face. Surely, he hadn’t meant he was concerned for her? Of course not. It was his own reputation as a missionary he was concerned about. “No one’s reputation will be sullied, Mr. Stone. Hattie Marsh lives in my home and will help me care for you. Now, rest well. And I will see you tomorrow.” There was no response. She must have put his worries over his reputation at rest.

She looked up at Jacob Calloway. “As I was saying, Doctor, please bring Mr. Stone to my cabin when he is sufficiently recovered. I will have a bed ready for him.” She glanced at Teena, mouthed “thank you” and left the room.

“No.”

“Don’t be foolish, Thomas. If you don’t go to Viola Goddard’s, where will you go? You need care.”

Dr. Calloway sounded decidedly exasperated. Too bad. He was not going to spend a couple of weeks under Viola Goddard’s care. He wouldn’t do it. In spite of what she said, there was her reputation to think of. And there was the baby. Thomas mustered what little strength he could find and opened his eyes. “I’ll go to…my hut.”

“That’s ridiculous, Thomas. You’re too weak to even lift your head off the pillow. How do you expect to— Stop that!”

Jacob gripped his good shoulder and held him pinned to the bed. He hadn’t strength enough to push the restraining hand away, let alone sit up with one arm. Not that he wanted to try again anytime soon. The agony that shot through his upper chest at his movement was enough to hold him still.

“I told you not to try and move, Thomas. Any strain could start that wound bleeding again, and if that happens, I doubt I could save you. Here, swallow this, it will help with the pain.” The doctor held a spoon to his mouth. He swallowed. “Good. Now, stay quiet. I am keeping you here the rest of the day. But this evening, Sheriff Parker is coming to help me move you to Viola Goddard’s cabin. There is no choice here. You need care.”

He had no strength left with which to argue the matter. Time enough for that tonight, when he would be stronger. He closed his eyes and waited for the knife-like pain to subside. Felt the darkness slip over him….

“Here is the quilt from my bed, Hattie. The coverlet is fine for me.” Viola rushed from her bedroom into the living room, the quilt overflowing her arms. “If we double it, you should be nice and warm here on the settle.”

Hattie stopped tucking the sheet around the thick, feather tick that padded the seat of the long, wood settle, faced Viola and fisted her hands on her ample hips. “Stop fussin’, Viola! I been takin’ care of myself for close to seventy years, and I reckon I can do so now. This mattress we’ve fixed up here on the settle will make as fine a bed as any I’ve e’er slept on. Now, go on with fixin’ up that bed for Mr. Stone, and leave me get my work done.”

“You are a pure gem, Hattie!” Viola hugged the short, round woman, then dropped to her knees beside Goldie, who was lying on her back on the braided rag rug, waving a rattle and cooing. “And so are you, little Miss Goldie.” She grabbed the baby’s free hand, kissed the tiny palm and then kissed her way up the pudgy little arm to her round, rosy cheek. The baby squealed, laughed and kicked her feet.

A knock on the door stopped the play. “That must be Mr. Carson to pick up his mending.” Viola rose and shook out her long skirt, brushed back a curl that had escaped her snood, and went to answer the door. “Oh, Mr. Foster. I was not expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I know I’m early, Miss Goddard, but I got a chance to join up with three other men going up to Dawson today. Heard tell there’s been some new sites opened up, where the gold is just laying on the ground waiting for someone to scoop it up. I aim to be that someone.” The wiry little man grinned. “I’m hoping I don’t have to go without those shirts you was mending for me. That blue one is my lucky shirt.”

Viola nodded and stepped back to let him come inside. “Your lucky shirt is ready. As are the rest. I’ll get them for you.”

She walked to the large wardrobe where she kept her sewing work, and pulled out the shirts tied up in a neat package. “Here you are, Mr. Foster. I hope your blue shirt works for you.”

“It will.” The man took the package, glanced up at her. “Having you sew it up will make it doubly lucky, Miss Goddard. Tell you what— When I strike it rich I’ll give you half!”

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 Goddard. 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 Goddard. 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 cocoon 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 Goddard 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 glass, 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 glass was gone, he gave up the fight. He’d had enough. Not of the water, but of the sight of Viola Goddard 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 glass as she set it down. Help me, Lord. Help me to fight this sense of connection, and feel nothing but gratitude 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 Goddard’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 button 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 pass. 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 succumbed to the circumstances 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 gratitude 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 God, 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.