At the Rainbow's End (3 page)

Several tables were occupied. Samantha guessed the profession of the women in the room, from the daring cuts of their gowns. Uneasy, she pulled on the collar of her concealing cloak. This is what those men outside wanted her to be. She shivered with a mixture of disgust and trepidation.

“Yes, ma'am?”

She whirled to see a squat man behind the counter. His eyes were calculating the worth of the clothes she wore and, she feared, what was beneath. Trying to keep a tremor from her voice, she stated, “I'm Samantha Perry. I believe Mr. Houseman made arrangements for a room for me. Will you check?”

“Nope.” He did not move, but a slow, insulting smile tilted his lips as he watched the movement of her chest as she gasped in reaction to his words.

“Excuse me?” she asked, sure she had misunderstood his terse reply.

“No reservations. This ain't San Francisco, ma'am. If you want a room, you come in. You tell me. You pay me. You get a room.” He rested his elbows on the well-nicked counter and smiled more broadly. Too many teeth seemed crowded into his full mouth. “So—do you want a room?”

She glanced over his head at the rates, and her eyes widened. A single room cost five dollars a night. The rooms in Seattle had been a dollar or less. She guessed she could pay for two nights, possibly three. If rooms were this expensive, surely meals would be as overpriced. She did not know how long it would take Mr. Houseman to come from his claim. If it was longer than three days, she was unsure what she would do.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “Arrangements can be made if you don't have enough money.”

Samantha started to express her gratitude until she saw the lascivious glitter in his eyes. She wondered if the women working in the saloon made similar “arrangements” with the owner of the hotel. Vowing to sleep in the street before lowering herself to that, she shook her head.

“I can pay. One room.”

“How long?”

“I will pay one night at a time.” She kept her voice coldly distant.

“I rent rooms by the week.”

She gasped, “By the week?” Thirty-five dollars! She could not afford to pay for half of that.

Putting his hand over hers on the countertop, he smiled. “As I said, Miss Perry, we can work out arrangements for you to pay for your room. You might be very pleased with them.”

“No!” she cried. She jerked her arm away and grasped the handles of her well-worn satchel. “I will find somewhere else to stay.”

“Ain't no other place. Everything's full, with the
Merwyn
in.”

“Then I'll start walking toward Mr. Houseman's claim.” She raised her chin defiantly, to prevent tears from spilling from her eyes. “Good day, sir.”

“You'll be back, girl!” he shouted at her. “Working here may be your only choice, except a crib with the whores in Lousetown.”

With her hand on the door latch, she said icily, “That's where you're wrong, sir. Good day.” She turned before he could see she was afraid that he was correct.

Joel must come for her before she was forced to do exactly as this man suggested.

He must.

Chapter Two

Samantha stood on the boardwalk and sighed, the heat sitting heavily on her. She longed to take off her cloak and the wool jacket beneath it, but carrying them in addition to her reticule and her satchel would be difficult. She must avoid dropping anything into the mud.

Looking both ways along Front Street, she tried to decide which way to walk. She was intensely aware of every glance in her direction. Men moving in a steady stream along the mud-covered street paused to stare. More than one tipped his hat jauntily, but she did not acknowledge them, afraid of enticing them.

She walked away from the junction of the Klondike River and the Yukon. When she had driven with Gwen and Mr. Munroe, it had seemed the better houses were in the opposite direction. Now, smiling wryly, she doubted that any of the houses could really be termed “better.” None seemed sturdier than a balsa raft constructed to amuse a child.

Flinching, she slapped away a mosquito. The whine of another sounded near her ear. Waving a hand about her head sent the insect away for only a second.

“Nasty pests,” said a man, his voice close to her other ear.

She whirled to see a man as filthy as the others on the street. Very little of his face was visible between his broken rimmed hat and the full, black beard obliterating his lower features.

Continuing along the boardwalk, she forced herself not to look at the man, who matched her pace. Her heart was pounding.

“Lost?” he asked in a voice blurred with alcohol.

“No.”

“Interested in some company?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want, honey?”

Without pausing, she snapped, “To be left alone. Good day, sir.” She gasped as he took her arm and turned her around, leering at her.

Other men stopped what they were doing to watch Hawk Olean and the pretty lady. Olean had struck a rich pocket just last week, and was steadily spending it on the lavish entertainments available in the city. He had vowed not to let a single woman in Dawson escape his attentions before he returned broke to his claim.

“Let me go!” Samantha ordered. She jerked her arm out of his grip, but the glitter of drunken amusement in his eyes told her he was not going to let her flee easily.

She did not know why someone did not come to her assistance. In desperation, she searched for an ally, but she knew this was futile. The only person she knew in the city was busy with her new husband. When Olean stepped toward her purposefully, she had no place to escape but down into the muddy road. The crowd closed in tightly around them, leaving little space for Samantha and the obnoxious brute. If she moved any farther, she would be in another man's embrace.

She screamed as he caught her by the arms. A lusty cheer rang through the afternoon air when he pressed her close to his sour body. Her second shriek was halted by his mouth over hers. She pummeled his shoulders and back, but he did not release her.

“What's this?” demanded an authoritarian voice. The lewd comments stopped immediately. In the silence, she heard a horse's hoofs, muted by the mud.

The man released her, and Samantha fell backward. Her revulsion became dismay. She sat in mire thick with garbage. Appalled, she lifted her hands to stare at the ooze dribbling from them. Once gray, her gloves were streaked with foul brown.

“Someone help her!” came an order in the same firm pleasant tenor, and several hands appeared before her face.

Disdaining these belated offers, Samantha rose by herself. Rage distorted her features as she lifted her satchel from the mud. She feared it and all the things within had been ruined.

“Are you hurt?”

Finally she looked at the man who had come to her rescue. His scarlet uniform took fire from the brilliant sunlight, further dimming the drab buildings. Even without the insignia, she would have recognized him as a representative of the Canadian government. Gold buttons and a bandolier of shotgun shells cut across the coat. His clean-shaven face was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. He lifted his fingers to it in a silent salute, while his gray eyes subdued all the men.

“Constable Palmer French of the North-West Mounted Police at your service, ma'am. Are you hurt?” he repeated.

“I'm fine, although I fear for the condition of my dress.” Samantha glared at the man who had dared to kiss her. “I'm new in Dawson, Constable. If you could suggest a proper boardinghouse, I would be in your debt.”

He dismounted easily. The men melted away before him. The Mountie made no comment as the street cleared. Only when Olean started to scurry away did the constable move from Samantha.

“Hawk, you're wanted down at the Palace Saloon,” he said quietly. “I understand Gretchen is anxious to see you. Why don't you hurry down there?”

“I will. I will, Constable,” he mumbled hurriedly. Without looking in Samantha's direction, he raced along the street.

Constable French grinned as he turned to the disheveled woman. He had not needed to hear her explanations to know she was a cheechaco, a tenderfoot unfamiliar with this frontier city. Every bit of her shouted her innocence of Dawson. Why she was here and what she planned to do were none of his business, but the questions teased his mind. He did not allow that curiosity to show, but kept his expression professional and serene.

“Thank you, Constable,” Samantha said sincerely. “I had been warned about the coarse men of the Yukon, but I didn't expect this.”

“Dawson is quite a shock for most of the folks who arrive from the States. A boardinghouse, did you say?”

“Yes.” His reply had been so businesslike, she answered in the same manner, “I need a place to stay, and someone to clean the mud from my dress.”

He allowed his eyes to rove along the damp pattern on her skirt. She was a pretty thing, not worn by rough weather and hard labor like so many women who lived here. He could not remember the last time he had seen a woman this soft. His fingers yearned to touch her loosened dark curls, which accented her high cheek bones, wanted to determine if those vagrant strands were silken as they looked. Fiercely, he forced that thought from his head.

“Mrs. Kellogg,” he answered trying to cover his hesitation. “She does laundry for the miners in the area. Whether she can clean a wool suit, I don't know. As for a boarding-house, I fear you may have trouble finding one acceptable to a lady.”

Although she felt cold fear seep into her, she said calmly, “One worry at a time. Can you direct me to Mrs. Kellogg's place?”

“I will be glad to escort you there.” He reached for her satchel.

She drew it away in a motion she knew was impolite. She could trust no strangers. Too many had eyed her today. “Directions will be sufficient, Constable.”

“If you please, Miss Perry, I'll escort you.”

“How do you know my name?”

He smiled and pointed to her muddy satchel. “Most people don't write someone else's name on their baggage, Miss Perry. I assume that
is
your name.”

“Yes.” Trying to recall her manners which were as strained as her nerves, she said, “I'm Samantha Perry.”

“It's a pleasure, ma'am. Now why don't you let me take you out to Mrs. Kellogg's? I patrol these streets and try to keep some semblance of order. I don't want to have to break up another such scene as I came upon here.” When she paled, he held out his hand. “Your case?”

Silently she placed her bag in his gloved hand. When he offered her his arm, she put her fingers on it, gingerly. Her other hand held up her skirt to keep from further dirtying it with the filth in the road.

He attached the handles of her bag to the saddlehom, swung easily onto the horse, and held out his hand to her. She gripped it with both hands. With no sign of effort, he pulled her up to sit in front of him. She smoothed her skirt over her high shoes, and he started the horse along the street.

Staring straight ahead, Samantha tried to ignore the strength of his arm around her and his male form so close. To be this near to a strange man, even a representative of the law, was totally improper. She was engaged to another. Telling herself she had no choice did not soothe her conscience.

The crowds parted before the horse. The respect for the NWMP surprised her. She had expected the men here to resent this symbol of authority. When they passed a fist-fight in the mud, he did not pause.

“Do you need to—”

His laugh was as resonant as his pleasant voice. “No. Fisticuffs don't bother me, Miss Perry. Men have to let off a little steam. Work is hard here, and they play that way, also.”

“I'm learning that.” Despite herself, she smiled. After what she had suffered in the past hours, his genteel manner was a welcome change.

“As long as there are no guns involved, we look the other way. Captain Stames, my superior, enforces the ordinance that there will be no weapons in Dawson.”

As they rode on, he told her more facts about the city. That Joel had not written about these tidbits did not surprise her. Their letters had spoken of unfulfilled love, not his surroundings.

Despite Constable French's charming company, she was glad when she saw a brightly painted sign.

“Mrs. Kellogg's LAUNDRY

Mending Available FREE of CHARGE”

A woman bustled out of the canvas-roofed building, wiping her hands on her apron. Scowling, she met the eyes of the policeman steadily. Gray twisted through her thinning, dark hair. The rough life she had lived was imprinted in the creases of her unsmiling face.

“Yes, Constable?” Her voice sounded like the wind moaning through mountain passes, grating on ledges of unyielding stone.

“Business for you, Mrs. Kellogg.” He leapt from the saddle and helped Samantha to the ground. “Miss Perry here had a run-in with Hawk Olean. You can see the result.”

“Is that fool still drinking and whoring his gold away?” Mrs. Kellogg demanded without looking in the younger woman's direction. “Damn fool! A year's labor gone in a week.”

He grinned at her vehemence. “We all aren't as wise about money as you, Mrs. Kellogg. Hawk will realize his mistake when he sobers up broke.” Clearing his throat, he looked at Samantha. “Now, about that business …”

“Let's see, girl. Turn around.” She clicked her tongue in dismay as she saw the staining mud covering the back of the dark skirt. Rubbing the material between her fingers, she shook her head. “Can't guarantee I can clean that. Might ruin it. Wool is nasty stuff. You should get yourself some serviceable clothes, girl.”

Samantha pointed to the bag hanging like an overripe fruit from the saddle. “Those things are in there. I wore this for my last day on the
Merwyn
. I was hoping my fiancé would be here to meet me, and I wanted to look nice for him.”