Page 33 of I Do, I Do, I Do
“When genteel ladies start showing up on pleasure excursions, civilization has definitely arrived.”
Twice today, Bear had done something without knowing why he’d done it. Ordinarily he’d accompany his goods to Dawson. It wasn’t necessary, but that’s what he usually did, packing out of Skagway instead of Dyea. But he’d made an impulsive decision to climb Chilkoot instead of Dead Horse. And then he’d spent a chunk of money to assist three women he hardly knew. Maybe his manhood really was in danger. He was going soft. “Who’s shooting out behind your place?” he asked abruptly, jerking a thumb toward the sound of shots.
“Miss Wilder is doing some target shooting.”
“She’s shooting? These are very interesting ladies, damned if they aren’t.” These three didn’t behave like most ladies, but like most men, Bear knew at a glance who was a respectable woman and who wasn’t, and Miss Klaus, Miss Wilder, and Miss March were as respectable as they came.
“So you think they’re going to Dawson City on a pleasure excursion?” Tom asked, studying the glow at the end of his cigar.
“Why else?” Since Tom was a friend of Miss Wilder’s, Bear had hoped Tom would know why the women were traveling to Dawson. “I can’t picture them prospecting.”
“Well, there isn’t a brain among them if they think getting to Dawson is going to be a mild lady’s adventure.”
“So why do you think they’re going?”
Tom shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The stable sat at the end of the muddy ruts scarring Dyea’s main street. From where they stood, they had a long view of the horses, carts, and foot traffic flowing in a constant stream past hastily erected storefronts and tents large enough to accommodate boisterous saloons, gambling halls, and primitive lodging. In front of Hanrahan’s Supplies, Bear spotted a bright redhead wearing a little hat without enough brim to keep the northern sun off the wearer’s marvelous skin.
Lord almighty. If Bear lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the moment Ben Dare lifted away her cape and Clara Klaus’s magnificent breasts filled his vision. In his time, he’d seen some breasts, he was happy to say, but none like hers. First they were respectable breasts attached to a respectable woman, meaning they were not meant to be seen. This fact alone was enough to drive a man half mad with guilty joy. Next they were beautifully stupendous, large enough to fling a man’s imagination toward peaks and valleys and images of losing himself in soft yielding mountains of womanly warmth. And finally, her satiny pink skin glowed with such health and beauty and exuberance that only a dead man could be exposed to the sight and powdery scent without breaking into a hot sweat.
He’d been seeing those breasts in his dreams and daydreams, and he wouldn’t mind seeing them again in reality. But that wish was a pipe dream. It wouldn’t happen. Clara Klaus was a clever woman who had figured out how to win the tournament. In the days before and since, no one could claim to have glimpsed a scrap of the woman’s flesh other than her face.
Shoving his hands into his pants pockets, he watched her lean to examine the items displayed in the supply store window. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, but she ranked as one of the most appealing. He liked her direct, clear-eyed gaze, and his impression that she could accomplish whatever she set her mind to. He liked that she had some meat on her bones and was full-figured. He even liked the way she didn’t back down, didn’t let her sex set limitations.
“Tell your boys I’ll be leaving in the morning. I’ll meet up with them at Sheep Camp.” He’d pack light as far as Sheep Camp, where he’d catch up with Price’s Chilkat Indians who would bring the bulk of his supplies.
When he saw Miss Wilder coming around the corner of the stables carrying a Winchester at her side, he tipped his hat to her, exchanged a few words, then set off down Main Street. If he happened to run into Miss Klaus, he might offer to buy her a cup of coffee or tea. He suspected she would prefer a mug of hearty German ale, but there wasn’t a saloon in Dyea fit for a lady.
Ordinarily he wasn’t an introspective man. He did whatever felt smart or right or good at the time and he didn’t question it later. But Clara Klaus had him examining his thoughts and behavior and searching for reasons to explain both.
She had humiliated him before a roomful of companions and shipmates. In the stories making the rounds, she was either an Amazon or a wisp of a little thing, but in both versions, Bear was depicted as being half the man he used to be.
By the time he reached her, he was mad as hell that she’d put a dent in his reputation.
“I didn’t know you enjoyed shooting,” Tom commented, taking the Winchester and hefting it for weight, then sighting down the barrel before he handed it back to her.
“My brother Pete taught me.”
“It’s a good idea to have a shooter in your party. You never know what you might run into.”
When he’d spotted Zoe on the beach, he’d been shocked by her haggard appearance. Since then he’d learned how seasick she had been, and since then she had improved miraculously. Today her cheeks were a healthy pink, and her hands were steady. She still looked too thin, but her eyes had the flash and blue sparkle that he remembered. And he remembered her well.
Jack Wilder’s little sister had been the prettiest girl in Newcastle. When Tom was twenty-two, he’d beaten up Harv O’Day for daring to suggest that Tilly White was prettier than Zoe Wilder. No girl could hold a candle to Zoe; she outshined them all.
She still did, he thought, gazing down at her. No other woman had lashes so long they cast shadows on her cheekbones. He’d never seen a prettier mouth or lips that so invited kissing. And he’d always liked her hair, which was glossy black with red in the depths that could be seen when she stood in the sun. He used to look at her across the Wilder supper table and imagine drawing the pins out of the knot on her neck and then watching her long black hair spill through his fingers.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, frowning up at him. “You’re staring, and you seem a hundred miles away.”
“Sorry.” He still wanted to loosen the heavy twist on her neck and wind the strands through his fingers. After coughing into his hand, he drew back his shoulders. “I believe you wanted to talk about my men packing you into Dawson.”
“I’ve done some checking. You have the best reputation among the packers, but you’re also known as the most expensive.”
He smiled at her raised eyebrow and the way she paused. She was a Newcastle girl, all right, ready to negotiate the price of anything and everything. It was a trait he shared and admired.
“Some speculators are feverishly building a railroad in Skagway, to go over Dead Horse Pass. And someone will figure out how to make Chilkoot easier. Or the gold fields could play out.” He shrugged. “My motto is, make as much money as I can as fast as I can, because this boom isn’t going to last forever.”
A flicker of esteem brightened her gaze and made his chest swell with pride. There were few things as satisfying as standing tall in the eyes of someone from your hometown.
