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Cover
Dedication
For my mother, Mary Gail Cargo.
Thanks, Mom.
Chapter One
It was my habit to arrive home in time for supper with my son. I wasn’t always successful, but today we had enjoyed a quiet afternoon. Quiet being a relative term, meaning that things weren’t quite as hair-raisingly frantic as usual.
I left the Savoy Saloon and Dance Hall—my own private gold mine—at six o’clock and made my way west along Front Street. The streets were no more packed than usual for early evening, meaning there was a sliver of room along the boardwalks and across the duck boards.
In later years, what I would remember most about Dawson in this summer of 1898 was the mud. The town had been built with no thought for anything other than access to the gold fields. Inconveniences, such as being located on a flood plain on the flats where the rivers jammed during spring break-up, were inconsequential in light of the town’s desperate need to be close to the Creeks, where lumps of gold waited to be found. Waiting, as some would say, to be plucked like potatoes in a well-tilled Ontario field, or apples hanging low in a New England orchard.
As long as there were men gullible enough to believe that, there would be women like me, happy to provide them with a bit of comfort when they realized all their dreams had come to naught.
I exchanged polite greetings with a good number of the men I passed on the street. I didn’t know most of them from Adam, but they knew me and that I kept “the finest, most modern establishment in London, England, transported all the way to Dawson.” My son, Angus, had recently come up with that slogan. At the intersection of Front and York Streets, close to the mud flats and the swift-moving Yukon River, the most miserable of donkeys struggled to get the back wheels of a cart through the mud and up and over the duckboard laid across the street. The red-faced driver waved his whip about and screamed with so much vigour that I hoped, for the donkey’s sake, he’d drop dead with apoplexy.
“Allow me to assist you, Fiona.” A hand touched my elbow. It was my friend, Graham Donohue.
“I am perfectly capable of crossing the street.” “I know you are. But imagine the prestige I’ll enjoy for a day if I’m seen escorting home the raven-haired beauty of the Klondike.” Our admiration was completely mutual. If I was (to heck with modesty—no if required) the most beautiful woman in the Territory, Graham was probably the most handsome man. A woman could easily drown in his dark eyes, with only the thick black lashes to hold her up. His face was thin, the cheekbones sharp underneath perfect skin. He laughed a great deal, as he did now, showing off straight white teeth. He was a bit on the small side, but I intensely dislike men who loom over me. I do not care to feel physically vulnerable.
I allowed Graham to take my arm. “Then you may assist me.”
The donkey cart driver was almost foaming at the mouth, but the poor beast at last managed to drag the cart over the duck board and plodded away down the street.
“Boor,” I sniffed. “Anyone interesting been in the Savoy lately?” Graham asked.
I laughed. “So your gallantry is nothing but an illdisguised attempt to extract the latest gossip?”
“You know I have no ulterior motives concerning you, Fee.”
I ignored the comment because I knew Graham held feelings for me I was not prepared to reciprocate.
“However,” he went on, “if you have some good gossip to share...”
Graham was a reporter for a big American newspaper, always on the lookout for news.
“It’s been a fairly uneventful week, as far as Dawson goes,” I said. “Although we’ve been visited the last few nights by an interesting character.”
“Yes?”
“A professional gambler, I would imagine. An American. Flashy dresser. Plenty of money, at least that I can see. He’ll probably be back tonight. He seems rather fond of Irene.”
“Irene. Aren’t they all? You’re lucky to have gotten that one, Fiona.”
And I was. Irene—she pronounced her name in the French fashion Irenee, although she was as American as Graham—was, for this week at least, the most popular dance hall girl in Dawson.
We walked up York Street in companionable silence and soon arrived at Mrs. Mann’s boarding house on Fourth Avenue. It was a most unimposing dwelling—built of wood harvested too early and thrown up too quickly—with only one storey and two windows on either side of the plain front door. But in a town where a canvas tent was all the accommodation many families could find, I was happy to live here. For now. I hadn’t come to Dawson to live comfortably; the frantic days of the gold rush wouldn’t last forever, and I intended to make my money and get out.
“Shall we see if Mrs. Mann has prepared enough supper for a guest, Graham? And then if you’d like a touch more prestige, you may escort me back to the Savoy.” Opening the door and stepping into the front hall, I tossed him a seductive smile.
If Graham had owned a tail, he would have wagged it. But he was a man, so he bowed gallantly and said, “It would be my pleasure, Fiona.”
I was surprised to see that Graham wasn’t our only dinner guest. A small brown-skinned woman sat at the kitchen table, hugging a steaming mug of tea. Mr. Mann was sitting in his usual place at the head of the table, scowling mightily (as usual) while Angus ferried cutlery and plates, and Mrs. Mann stirred the contents of her heaviest cooking pot. Beef and boiled cabbage tonight, by the smell of it. I hate boiled cabbage—I hate cabbage no matter how it is prepared, but after coming through a winter of near starvation, I ate whatever was put on my plate.
Angus didn’t look up when Graham and I came in. Instead he ducked his head as though he were trying to hide behind a lock of too-long blond hair. He was only twelve years old but growing into a man too quickly for my liking. He would be passing my height of five foot eight soon, and his lanky, huggable frame would turn hard and firm.
This was a tough town for a boy without a father to learn how to be a good man.
As I plucked a pin out of my hat prior to taking it off, I realized the woman was wearing my dressing gown, my favourite one, made in the Chinese style of brilliant crimson silk with an elaborately embroidered gold dragon streaking across the back. I had bought it in Vancouver and carried it all the way over the Chilkoot Pass in order to have a touch of luxury for my private enjoyment only.
“What the…” I said, my hat half off my head. “I brought her here, Ma,” Angus said. “Why, it’s Indian Mary,” Graham said. “Not proper,” Mr. Mann said. “More tea, you poor dear?” Mrs. Mann said. “Angus,” I said, “what is going on here?” “Are you all right, Mary?” Graham asked. “Yes, Mr. Graham,” the Indian woman mumbled into her mug. She hadn’t looked at me.
“You know this lady?” I said, tossing my hat onto the wooden plank that served as a sideboard.
“I can explain,” Graham said. “I can explain,” Angus said. “Then explain,” I said. Mrs. Mann snatched up the hat, tsk-tsking heartily. It was a plain straw affair, suitable for daytime, saved from total ugliness by a wide satin ribbon of startling midnight blue. “Don’t leave your hat there, Mrs. MacGillivray. It’ll get kitchen grease on it. Angus, take your mother’s hat to her room.” She shoved the offending headpiece into my son’s arms.
Angus blinked in surprise but took the hat.
Mary got up, not making a sound. Much too long for her, my dressing gown fell in a silken red puddle around her feet. “I’ll leave. Thank you for your hospitality, young Mr. Angus, Missus.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Sit down and finish your tea.” I waved my hand. “Graham, tell your friend she needn’t leave on my account. Angus, put that hat in my cupboard.”
“Is not proper,”