Northern Lights Trilogy (135 page)

“Not until I have a word with my wife.”

“Don’t say something you’ll regret later.”

“Like what?”

“Hear me out, Soren. Take a seat.”

James looked miserable, almost repentant. What had he done? What could he have possibly done to look as he did?

“I prefer to stand,” Soren said.

“As do I,” Kaatje said, steeling herself for the hard news that James obviously had to deliver.

“Forget it. I’m having my say,” Soren said.

“But—”

“Kaatje, why didn’t you just tell me?” Soren asked, before James could go on. “You thought you could steal my mine out from under me? Why? A means of paying me back? What was going on in that little head of yours? Were you thinking you’d divorce me, marry him?” He stepped closer to her, menacing in his shaking anger. “Well, you cannot have it. The mine belongs to me. I discovered it, worked it, staked a claim. And you stole it out from under me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this gold strike!” He threw the old Juneau paper at her. It hit her waist and fell to the floor.

“Stop it! Stop it, Soren. I don’t know anything about that mine. I made no plans to divorce you—”

“You think I’m an idiot? Okay, say you don’t want a divorce. But if I want you back, I have to come on your terms, is that it? You have to hold the purse strings? I’m a man, Kaatje. I need my own means.”

“Soren, I’ll ask once more. What are you talking about?”

“This,” James said, his tone miserable. He unfolded a leather pocketbook and pulled a parchment from inside, handing it to her.

Quickly she scanned the document. It was a land deed, for a claim. Her eyes flew to Soren and then James. On the bottom line was her name. “You mean, I own the claim?”

“Why pretend you didn’t know?” sneered Soren.

“Because she didn’t,” James said.

“You’re telling me that she didn’t go and put her name on the deed when it lapsed? That she didn’t intend to use this as a final insult? To laugh in my face when she deposited the gold at the bank?”

“Final insult?” Kaatje asked. “What does that mean?”

“I am saying that you’ve had me groveling at your feet for months. Eight months now, Kaatje. A loving wife, a wife who hadn’t gone frigid, would’ve welcomed me back right away.”

Kaatje took deep breaths as her own fury grew. “I do not know how you could have expected anything else of me, Soren. You left me for more than eight months—it was seven years! You were as good as dead as far as I knew. And I know nothing of this deed.”

He took another step toward her, but James put a hand to his chest. Soren pushed it away, his eyes still on Kaatje. “Sure you did. You strung me along, making me think you would take me back, distracting me until you could get your hands on my mine. My only hope for a future, and you thought you’d steal it out from under me. Trying to pay me back, Kitten?”

James shoved him backward with a roar. “Stop it! Quiet! She knew nothing of the deed. It was I who changed it to her name when I discovered the deed lapsed. It was I who figured you owed her every cent you had, to say nothing of your heart on a plate.”

Kaatje sat down heavily on the edge of a green velvet settee, and Elsa came around and sat down next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

Soren paced a bit, like a wounded dog, ready to strike out in fear as much as anger. Suddenly, Kaatje felt very sorry for him—it was as if all that had been good and hopeful in him once had been lost. Who was he now? What was he about? His eyes were hollow, his expression deadly cold.

“Yes, I see the truth now,” he said, so low they could barely hear him. “You two were working together. Two lovebirds making the most out of the ex-husband. String him along, Kaatje. Yes, make him think
you’re going to welcome him home, while I steal the land out from under him. He’s
idiotisk
—he won’t find out until it’s too late.”

“It wasn’t like that,” James said.

“Oh yes, it was. You never intended to give me a chance,” he said to Kaatje.

“Yes, I intended to give you every chance.” “And when I kissed you. When we were in the alley and you pulled away, your lover was right there to intervene.”

“Coincidence.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Do you think I am so thick?”

“Soren,” she said, rising, “You have it all wrong. There’s been—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish speaking. He shoved her back to the settee and Elsa yelped. James was there, grabbing him by the shirt at the collar and pushing him back toward the door with a growl. “Get out!” he yelled. “Don’t ever touch Kaatje again!” He opened the door with one hand and shoved Soren out.

Soren stumbled and then rose, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Walker? If I never touched her again?” He looked from him to Kaatje, through the windowpane. Then he turned and walked away.

Kaatje was trembling. She had never seen Soren like that, and the strangeness of it unnerved her. Just what was that man not capable of doing? Suddenly she feared for her life, for James. For her girls and Elsa.…

James walked back in, his face a mask of sorrow. “I need to apologize, Kaatje.”

She rose and walked to him. “There is no need, James. I understand.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight, only of Soren and making him be truthful to you. I wanted to hurt him where it would hurt most. Rob him of his future, as he did to you again and again.”

Kaatje couldn’t help herself. She moved to him, wrapping her arms around his chest, holding him close. She could tell he was surprised
and reluctant to hold her. But she didn’t care. She needed reassurance. A man’s reassurance, right now, when she was so frightened.

“I wanted to know his true motivation in coming back to you. Whether he had really changed as much as he led you to believe.”

“How did you know that he was lying?”

“I didn’t. It was gut instinct.” He released her and paced away. “But I confess, there was more to it.” Elsa rose and left the room, obviously realizing they needed the privacy. As the door closed behind her, he continued, “I wanted you, Kaatje. For myself. I had such strong feelings for you; you’re the only woman I have loved since my wife. And it burned to give you up. I wanted Soren to fail you, to give me a chance.” He rubbed his eyes as if suddenly weary. “Will you forgive me? For wishing ill upon your husband? Upon your marriage?”

Kaatje walked to him and took his hands. “You are a good man, James, regardless of the poor choices we made. We both made choices, together. You have honored my marriage more than most men would have and have remained my true friend. I could not have asked for more. My ultimate welfare was on your mind—I know that. Otherwise, you would’ve made the claim out in your own name.”

He looked down at her, his face still mired in confusion. “Where do we go from here?”

“I do not know.” She went over to a secretary behind the front reception desk and pulled out a locked box, then a key from under the collar of her high-necked dress. She unlocked the cherry box and pulled out a letter. “I received this last week. It’s from Trent’s detective, the same man who located Tora for him. Trent had him investigate Soren, set him on Soren’s trail before leaving on his honeymoon.” She smiled ruefully. “I have a lot of friends looking out for me.”

She walked out from behind the heavy desk. “Soren did have an Indian companion. She was not beaten by members of her tribe, as Soren claimed, but was an outcast for … taking up with Soren, her sister’s intended. She bore him a son. They were living in poverty in Saint Michael, where Soren abandoned them in favor of seeking me
out again. She told the detective he had come just as soon as he heard that there was a reward and that I had hired guides to search for him. She told him that Soren came running because he thought I was a woman of means. And that poor girl was left living in squalor.”

James sighed and stroked her face. “An owl never stops hooting.”

Kaatje rested her cheek against his chest. “He hasn’t yet. And one never knows what is beyond the corner when it comes to Soren Janssen. I want to send her money, James. Make sure she is all right and her child cared for.”

“You can’t take care of all of Soren’s messes.”

“I can take care of those I know about. The detective left her some money, but I intend to send more. Apparently I now own a prosperous gold mine.”

James laughed mirthlessly. “That you do, my dear. That you do.”

Just outside, hidden in a dense cedar grove, Soren watched as Kaatje and James finally embraced. It was obvious that he was right. Kaatje was a conniving wench who had cheated him out of his rightful wealth, and James, her lover in the wings. They hoped he would go away and never come back. But they would not be so fortunate. No, he would be back. And soon.

May 1889

L
ora loved being Trent Storm’s wife. She loved having his ring on her finger, the passion of a shared marital bed, the security of having him nearby. There was an intimacy in her marriage that she would never have believed possible prior to exchanging vows with her husband.

They were at sea once again, making their way back to Alaska. After supper that night in the dining hall, Trent bid good night to their companions and offered Tora his arm. She took it, and they left the hall to stroll the teak decks, kept pristine by an endless line of sailors scrubbing, sanding, and refinishing. The captain had told them that they had begun the process on the first voyage of the elegant steamer, and it would be an ongoing venture. As soon as they refinished the entire deck, they began on the rails. When they finished the rails, they went to the wood walls of the bridge and the numerous doors. When they finished that, they began again with the deck. The attention to detail aboard the ship had paid off. She was magnificent, one of the finest ships under steam in 1889.

“Thank you, Trent,” she said, holding on to her dainty hat as a moist gust off the sea threatened to pull it from her head.

“For what?”

“For marrying me, for taking me on this trip. Hawaii, Japan, all of it. It has been delightful.”

“Not nearly as delightful as you. I am proud to be your husband, Tora.

“And I your wife.”

Two sailors passed by, and the couple fell to silence. It was a companionable silence, and they strolled onward, each appreciating the song a quintet of sailors sang at a capstan, unfurling a sail, to counterbalance the new wind off the water. They paused at the bow, where a boy slung clay discs—or “pigeons,” as they called them—from a sling, while another shot each one as it arced toward the water.

“Care to give it a go?” the man with the gun asked Trent.

“No, thank you.”

“I would!” Tora volunteered.

The man laughed, a merry sound that emerged from low in his gut. “My own wife is quite a shot. Do you mind, sir?”

“Not at all. My wife seems capable of surprising me at every turn.”

“Keeps a marriage fresh, that’s what I always say.” He handed the gun to Tora and could tell that she found it surprisingly heavy. “Held one of these before?”

“No.”

He turned to the boy who handed him another shotgun. “Raise it with your left hand, here,” he said, holding the shaft. “Then use your right hand to pull the trigger. It’s cocked and loaded. Be ready for some kickback—it’ll feel as if someone has suddenly pushed you on the shoulder. So keep your stance wide, your knees slightly bent.”

She did as he instructed, tensed for the pigeon.

“Ready?”

“I suppose.”

“Pull,” he called, and with that the boy sent the pigeon flinging into the sky.

She shot too high, and then the man caught it with his gun just before it struck water, shattering it into tiny shards.

“Well, perhaps you ought to stick to sewing, eh?”

She looked him in the eye and gave him a level smile. “Let’s go again.”

They repeated the cycle, but this time Tora wasn’t so far off. “Once more, please?”

“How can I resist a question put to me like that?” he asked Trent. He waited as Tora, after watching him load his, reloaded the gun and cocked it herself.

“Pull,” she said. This time, she kept the pigeon in her sights, just ahead of it, and pulled the trigger as it began to descend.

Trent shouted his approval as the pigeon disintegrated into a hundred pieces and the man’s shot went long, without a pigeon to stop it. The man echoed Trent’s hoot and set his gun aside. “Forgive me for not making a proper introduction. I am Hunter Gainsley.”

“Mr. Gainsley,” Trent said. “I am Trent Storm, and this is my new bride, Tora Storm.”

“You did a fine job, ma’am.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the opportunity to shoot.” “Any time, Mrs. Storm.”

The couple resumed their walk until Tora took a deep breath and paused at the rail. “What do you think they’re doing at home?” she asked dreamily, suddenly anxious to see Elsa, Kaatje, and the rest.

“Probably preparing for the Storm Roadhouse grand opening in Ketchikan. If the Bresleys kept it on schedule.”

“Goodness! Is it that time already?”