Page 51 of I Do, I Do, I Do
But she gazed into his eyes and felt his warm breath on her cheek, and oh, how she wished that she were free.
Chapter 12
One of the objectives for this trip had been to push himself physically, Ben reminded himself as he redistributed the weight of his backpack. He carried essentials, a twenty-pound arctic sleeping bag, matches, a canteen of coffee, beef jerky, and dried apples. An extra pair of dry socks and gloves, a pocketknife, and a candle stub were in the side flap.
Now that he was seasoned to the trail, his shoulders no longer felt as if they would fall off after a long day of toting his pack over terrain that would have been difficult in summer and was treacherous now that snow concealed loose rocks large and small. Still, he felt the strain and muscle fatigue at the end of the day in his shoulders and legs.
As he had hoped, a yearlong numbness was gradually giving way to the rigors of the journey and the beauty of the wilderness. Yesterday he’d observed a family of caribou near dusk, and this morning rabbits had scampered across the snow when he startled them by rolling out of his sleeping bag. It was impossible to ignore the biting cold air on his face and at the back of his throat. Impossible not to feel a satisfying exhaustion that led to a sound night’s sleep.
The smell of coffee first thing in the morning was a pleasure he had forgotten. And after a long fatiguing day, he would have sworn his beans and bacon were the tastiest dinner he’d ever wolfed down. He was more aware of what happened around him; he even wondered if his hearing had improved.
Not all of the changes were positive. There were evenings when he pulled the sleeping bag up around his ears and suddenly realized he had not thought about Helen all day. The first time it happened, he’d stepped outside his tent, too upset to sleep. The second time he’d walked to keep warm and had struggled with feelings of guilt. How could he pass an entire day without thinking about her, without remembering that she was gone?
From there, he worried over questions that could never be answered. Had he found the best doctors and treatments for her? Had he made her last days as comfortable as possible? Done the right things, said the right things? Should he have left San Francisco or should he have remained near the cemetery?
And what would Helen have thought of Miss March? Would she have felt shocked and betrayed by his interest in Juliette? Would she believe a year of mourning wasn’t enough? Would Helen have expected him to spend the rest of his life alone?
Juliette, he thought, frowning, forming her name in his mind as he searched for his cache of goods, brought to the camp by the Indian packers. Once he’d found it, he began to set up his small tent. Miss Juliette March was an intriguing, maddening enigma.
Since the day they’d climbed Chilkoot, Juliette had kept her distance, and when he did maneuver a moment alone, she behaved cordially, but erected a barrier of politeness between them. It was as if the startling incidents of closeness had never occurred. As if she had never wept in his arms. As if they had never sat on the side of a snowy mountain and stared at each other with growing desire. He felt certain he had not mistaken the signals sent by her parted lips and quickened breathing. And he well remembered his own rush of desire. It was the first time he had experienced a stirring since Helen was diagnosed.
Juliette’s withdrawal baffled him. During the days of descending into a treeless valley he’d searched his memory for any offense he might have given. The only incident that came to mind was talking about Helen the day they climbed Chilkoot.
Listening to him speak about Helen hadn’t seemed to upset Miss March at the time, but perhaps she had thought about it later and had taken offense. There were women who considered it insulting for a man to speak glowingly of another woman in their presence. If Miss March was such a woman, and this was the only reason he could think of to explain her behavior, he was glad he had discovered it now, because Helen would always be part of his life and memories.
If a few words about someone he had cared for was enough to drive Juliette away, then so be it. But it was disappointing.
The trail descended on a sharp incline past frozen waterfalls to the shore of Crater Lake. Within a month deep snow would conceal the huge stones and jagged rocks that were still visible and still difficult to climb over or around. Even Clara found the going hard.
“Did you hear about Mr. Coleman?” she inquired over a cold supper. The steep mountainsides no longer grew so much as a stick, and shrewd vendors charged a fortune for firewood. At her suggestion, they had decided to buy firewood only every other night. This was a no-fire night.
“Is it true he was killed?” Juliette asked, directing a tired frown down at her plate. Tonight’s fare was canned corned beef, reconstituted dried cabbage, and cold dough cakes.
Clara had made the dough cakes yesterday when they had a fire. Mrs. Eddington, whom they’d met back at Sheep Camp, had told her how. You opened a sack of flour, tossed in some snow, salt, and baking powder, stirred it all together, then pulled off globs and fried the globs in bacon fat. Clara thought the result tasted like paste, but she had to admit the dough cakes were filling.
“Mr. Coleman is dead?” Zoe asked in surprise. “Isn’t he the fellow who gave us each a piece of licorice a couple of days ago? He was a nice man.”
Tilting her dough cake to the light of the lantern, Clara spread a teaspoon of berry jam over the top. The jam improved the taste a little. “He was about fifty yards below one of those idiots who are packing hundreds of pounds on a sled, even though there really isn’t enough snow depth yet. The weight drives the runners through the snow and into the ground below.”
“Tom told me about that,” Zoe said. “The runners can hit rough ground, which often causes the sled to flip end over end and send it hurtling down the slope.”
Juliette nodded. “Mrs. Eddington’s husband insists there should be a rule allowing only the smooth-bottomed sleds instead of those with runners.”
“But the flat-bottomed sleds are responsible for pressing down the snow and creating long dangerous stretches of glassy ice.” Zoe shook her head. “Several people have fallen and broken bones in those sections. It almost happened to me.”
“Do you want to hear about Mr. Coleman or not?” Clara asked irritably.
Zoe spread her hands. “He got hit by a fully packed runaway sled. What else could it be? I’m sorry to hear it.”
They were beginning to recognize many of the other cheechakos and identify names with faces. What was making Clara irritable, however, was not meeting new people—that was interesting. Her irritation stemmed from not seeing much of the people she already knew. Namely Bernard T. Barrett.
“Does it seem to you that we haven’t seen much of Mr. Barrett, Mr. Price, or Mr. Dare? It appears they’ve abandoned us,” she added lightly, trying to make it sound like she’d only just noticed and didn’t really care.
“I, for one, think it’s good that we’re not seeing as much of those gentlemen,” Juliette said in the prissy voice that made Clara crazy. “When you implied that it was natural for Mr. Dare and me to be together, I realized I was spending entirely too much time with him. I am, after all, a married woman. And so are you.”
Zoe finished her meal and scrubbed her plate with a handful of snow. “I think we should talk about that.”
“I don’t want to talk about Jean Jacques,” Clara snapped. Thinking about that low-down no-good had given her the fury and the energy to climb Chilkoot Pass. She planned to cheer when Zoe shot him.
