Mary Connealy (8 page)

Nine

For the next two weeks, Amy did the lion’s share of the work, and Meredith got the credit.

Amy neatly rolled the pallet she slept on in the main room as Meredith talked to her through the window. “I feel like a fraud sitting out here day after day.”

“You are working.” Amy talked to Meredith through the cabin window as she set the salmon steaks on to roast in the covered skillet. “You have almost finished that shirt for Braden.”

The day before, Amy had hiked to the spawning beds and speared enough salmon to last a month. She’d cleaned them at the stream to keep from luring hungry grizzlies to the cabin, then dragged them home with a travois she rigged out of cedar branches. Hanging them high in a tree a good distance from the house so a bear wouldn’t get to them, she planned to spend the morning building a separate smokehouse for the salmon to separate the fishy smell from the bighorn sheep and other meat, then go fishing again in the afternoon. The salmon would run for two weeks. By the time they were done, she’d have enough to last the winter.

She’d seen bear sign between the cabin and the stream and was tempted to go hunting. The fur and lard would come in handy, and she loved bear meat. But it would be wiser to wait until the end of summer for that, when the bear’s fur grew thick and its belly fat.

“Ian loved his shirt, didn’t he?” Meredith got a faraway look in her eyes. Amy remembered Ian’s delighted thank-you to his wife when she showed him what she’d sewn. The affection between the two of them had awakened a longing in Amy, but for what she didn’t know.

Ian had worn it for the very simple church service the
Raffertys held each Sunday morning. Then, because the Raffertys kept the Sabbath and did no hunting or mining on Sunday, he’d worn it the rest of the day.

Braden had attended the service, but he remained solemn and offered nothing when Ian read the Scripture. Amy was nearly brought to silence when Ian read the verse that she’d so studiously ignored when she’d headed north.

Ian read from Isaiah the same verse Parson McGraw had read her when she lay mending in Seattle:
“But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”

Wait.

How clearly she’d heard God’s urging. But what purpose did waiting serve? Her father was dead, and she needed to find out why and make sure justice was done. She turned her thoughts from that part of the morning’s message and joined in with the group’s discussion of God’s blessing. She heard an eagle cry overhead, and her heart pounded more quickly as the encouraging words from Isaiah settled in her soul. Yes, those words called her to wait. But they also promised strength to soar, to run, to walk and not faint. A request from God and a promise in return for obedience.

Meredith needed strength. She needed to not be weary. With a sigh of relief, Amy claimed this verse for Meredith. It was good Amy had come to help out the family so Meredith could rest.

After their day of rest, Meredith chose a length of fabric to make another shirt, this one for Tucker.

Enjoying the feel of a piece of smooth, lightweight calico, Amy said, “I can’t believe Mrs. Rafferty sent all those bolts of cloth.” It served no purpose to make a dress of the calico. It wouldn’t protect against mosquitoes in the summer, and it was too thin to keep a body warm in the winter.

“We could take it to Skaguay and sell it for a fortune.” Amy shook her head at the waste.

“Well, we’re not. We’re keeping it all to ourselves. We’ll be the best-dressed people in Alaska. And what doesn’t work for clothing, we’ll use for curtains and tablecloths.” Meredith threaded a needle and knotted one end. She dug her needle into the soft flannel.

Amy saw Meredith finger the red plaid and envied her working with the bright, smooth cloth. Then the smell of the salmon teased her nose—a delicious smell she’d missed—and she decided she had the better of the two jobs.

Once the juniper berries were on to simmer, sprinkled with a bit of the precious sugar Mrs. Rafferty had sent, Amy headed outside and went to work, piling the stones for her smokehouse.

Wanting to build it well away from the cabin so the smoke wouldn’t torment Meredith, Amy chose a spot near a tumbled pile of stones at the base of the mountain. The Rafferty’s sturdy little log smokehouse stood close to their cabin, nearly depleted of stores after the long winter. Ian’s recent luck hunting bighorn sheep had kept them fed, but Amy wanted a change of diet for Meredith. Starting with heavy flat stones for the foundation, she rolled them into a circle, wanting it big enough to get the dozens of salmon steaks all cooking at once.

She worked the morning away, carefully selecting stones that went well together. The tighter she made it, the faster the salmon would cook. Every foot, Amy left good-sized holes in the chimney, and by the holes, she rigged drying racks of fresh saplings.

The work reminded her of her childhood. Her mother had smoked salmon just this way. The pangs of loneliness for her papa still hit her hard at times, but she knew her papa’s faith. Picturing him in heaven—surrounded by white-capped mountains and soaring eagles, sparkling, rushing streams. and heavily furred animals that now were his to caress without needing their fur for warmth—made her grief bearable. Then she thought of the man who lived in her father’s house, and her anger burned. She needed to go back and find out if the sale was real. If not, that man might have. . .

Amy veered her thoughts away from the awful man and her father’s fate. She couldn’t go now. She had to care for Meredith. The need to gain justice for her father festered like a sliver embedded under her skin, but it would have to wait.

Sweating from exertion, Amy felt better than since before her accident. Using smaller and smaller stones, she narrowed the smokehouse, five feet across at its circular base, into a chimney. The stones were still heavy, nearly the size of a man’s head, but her ribs didn’t protest when she lifted them. She felt healthy and happy and at home. Just as the structure reached waist level, the trees rustled behind her.

With a start, she turned.

“What are you doing?” Braden dashed across the opening around Amy’s smokehouse. He grabbed the rock she held as if it were preparing to drop on her head.

“I am drying salmon. Is it midday?” Amy wondered if she’d lost track of time. “I am sorry if your meal is late.” She glanced at the sun, not quite overhead. If she hurried, she had time to finish the chimney, lay out the fish, and start a smoldering fire.

Dusting her hands, she pointed at the smokehouse. “Just rest the flat side right there.”

Amy noticed his stunned expression as Braden laid the stone into place on the half-built wall. She turned and selected another rock.

“You did all this?” Braden shifted the piece of granite he’d taken from Amy.

Impressed with his feel for fitting the stone in place, Amy said, “Of course. We have to preserve the fish for winter.”

“What fish?”

Amy reached for one of the cedar branches she’d laid over the salmon and flipped it aside. “These fish.”

Braden’s mouth gaped at the dozens of filets. “Where did you get all this?”

Amy tilted her head at the silly question. “Uh, the river? You know fish come out of the water, right?”

Braden pivoted to face her, his eyes narrow.

She grinned.

A spark of humor relaxed his features. “Yes, I know where fish come from.”

“I went fishing yesterday afternoon. I left after you’d gone back to the gold mine and got home ahead of you. I forgot to mention it. The salmon are running. Meredith says Ian gets them out of the river, but I knew of a little stream nearby that angles off the Skaguay River.” Amy arched her brows. “The one we came up to get here.”

“I remember the Skaguay River.” Braden crossed his arms. “I walked in ice water for half a day. I couldn’t forget that river if I tried.”

“Good.” Mindful of the time, Amy grabbed a rock and set it on the narrowing smokehouse.

Braden took it from her. “Tell me where to set it.”

“If you want to help, then get your own rock. I am not going to stand here and point while you do the work.”

Braden set the rock in place, then stopped to stare at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. “You’re going to help me?”

“Braden! I am not going to
help
you. I am going to do it myself. Maybe, if I am really lucky, you are going to help me. I have already finished with the hard part. We are to the little rocks now.” She bent for another rock.

Braden grabbed it.

She held on, glared, and asked, “Do you not have some gold to mine?” She had a brief tug-of-war with Braden, her callused fingers slipping on the rough piece of rubble.

Then, as if the sun came out from under a cloud, a smile broke out across his face. It reached his eyes in a way she’d never seen before. “You’d throw me out and do it yourself?”

Amy jerked the rock free of Braden’s hands. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, Braden, but get your own rock, or go away.”

A gurgling sound startled Amy into looking at the pesky man. Braden was laughing. His voice tripped over the sound coming out of his throat as if he didn’t remember quite how to laugh.

The laughter sang like sweet music in Amy’s ears after seeing the weight of sadness Braden carried like a load of stones. The joy of the moment made her laugh, too. He released the rock when he laughed, and Amy set it in place. Then side-byside they enjoyed the day and their silly argument and each other.

Ragged corners of Amy’s heart, tattered from her father’s death, knit together as she laughed with Braden. When the laughter faded, she remembered anew how this beautiful land had been like God’s own cathedral when she was growing up, as if Alaska sat on the top of the world closer to heaven. Amy felt more at peace than she had since she’d left her northern home six years ago. Braden’s laughter had brought her closer to God.

With a silent prayer of thanks and a quick flutter of her hand at Braden, Amy shook her head. “Enough nonsense. I am in a hurry. I have got to get dinner on.” She grabbed another rock.

Braden hesitated for a second as if he seriously considered taking this stone from her, too. She angled her back to him to protect the rock.

Braden bent down and selected his own stone. “There’s no hurry. Merry does all the cooking.”

Amy froze with the rock resting on her smokehouse wall. In the closeness of the moment, she’d forgotten they’d been hiding the news of the baby from the men. Knowing all Braden had been through, Amy thought it even more important to keep the news from him than Ian.

The silence must have told him something was amiss. “Merry does the cooking, right?”

Shifting the rock around to suit her, as if fitting it just so was a matter of life and death, she bent to get another one. Neither she nor Meredith would lie if they were asked. But they didn’t want the men to know yet. Meredith had felt better the last couple of days. A week from now, maybe two, she would be ready to announce her wonderful news.

Calming herself, Amy forged on, hoping Braden would forget her careless words. “I do want to help her, though.”

She felt Braden studying her as she kept her back to him and busied herself with the smokehouse. Suddenly, Braden’s big hands appeared beside her and picked up a rock.

Sighing with relief, Amy worked quickly, glad she’d fooled him but feeling guilty. They’d had such a nice moment together, and now her dishonesty had placed a barrier between them.

As they worked on the smokehouse, her mind went to her mother, who’d taught Amy the skill of building an
atx’aan hídi
to preserve their food, and from there her thoughts went to Papa.

“Braden, I want to go back to my father’s house.”

“I’m really sorry about your da.” The dry scratch of stone on stone made a hushed backdrop to Braden’s solemn voice.

Amy regretted that the laughter was gone.

“I haven’t told you how sorry I am for your loss because. . . well, there hasn’t been time.” Braden’s height made the stone structure go up faster. As the smokehouse wall grew higher, Amy began handing him rocks rather than nesting them herself, and the system worked smoothly.

Amy knew there’d been plenty of time for Braden to mention her loss. They’d been here nearly two weeks, and they’d eaten three meals a day together. But they’d avoided each other. The long journey here had forged a friendship between them that confused Amy. Worrying about her father and his home, and now caring for Meredith and three hungry men were all she could handle. An attraction to the kind man who had cared for her but still loved his wife, was a complication she didn’t need.

For Braden’s part, she knew he still mourned his wife. His perfect wife. He’d spoken of her a few times, how ladylike she was, how gracious and soft spoken. Amy glanced at the calluses on her hands and the tan she’d already gotten from working outside for long hours. Her Tlingit heritage showed far more since her return to Alaska. Relearning the ways her mother had taught her enhanced her resemblance to her native people. With a sad heart, she knew she looked and acted nothing like the woman Braden had loved and lost.

“It takes a lot of hard work to make a go of Alaska,” she said quietly. “There is not a lot of time to visit.”