Northern Lights Trilogy (138 page)

“You’re speaking of divorce.”

“No. You are speaking of divorce, a divorce of emotion, spirit. I want a marriage. One of love and devotion and trust. But you do not allow it.”

“It is you who are not allowing it. I am here begging for it.” Kaatje sighed. “You do not hear me, Soren. I cannot live in fear that you will run off with another woman as soon as my back is turned.” “I will not.”

“And what of Natasha and your son?” She stared at him as her words stole the breath from his lungs. She did know all of it. How long had she known? It was little wonder that she had been distant, difficult to convince. His eyes shot to James, wanting to blame him, accuse him of spoiling it all, but that would not be effective. It was the truth they faced him with, not false accusations. He had to fight back with truth. It was the only way Kaatje would believe him.

“I told you about the woman.”

“But not the truth about how it began. It began as it did with all other women, Soren. It was not different. You were not saving her. You were simply satiating your desires, as you always have. I plan to give a portion of the money from the mine to provide for her and your son.”

Soren turned away, thinking. He had to fight, strike before he was struck. “It had been years, Kaatje. I had not seen you for years. You cannot believe that a man could wait—”

“A man can wait,” James said steadily.

Soren pointed a finger at him. “Stay out of this, Walker. This is between me and my wife. I know you want her. But you can’t. Kaatje, tell him to leave. This is between us.”

Kaatje looked down at her hands.

“You cannot say no to me without him at your side, is that it? Perhaps you have your own little tryst,” Soren continued.

“No! And I resent such an accusation from you, of all people!”

“Then why is he here? It is spring. There is work to be had for a guide. Why remain here?”

Kaatje raised her chin. “James Walker is more a friend to me than you have ever been.”

Her words made Soren’s blood boil with fury. With a guttural cry he lunged at James, taking him unaware, catapulting them both out of the woods and into the clearing in front of the roadhouse. Soren hit the ground and rolled with a grunt. He could hear the air pound out from James’s chest. The man gasped for breath as Soren pulled him up by the collar and struck him with the full force of his fist. James groaned and moved away, trying to protect his face while regaining his breath.

“Stop it! Soren, stop it!” Kaatje was beside him, pulling him backward. “This is no way to convince me to come back to you.”

Soren laughed, wiping his lip. “You have no intention of coming back to me. You never did.”

“That is not true. I have tried, every day I have tried, to find the reasons, the strength to give you another chance!”

James rose to his knees and then to his feet. Blood dripped from his nose and eye. “Stay away from her, Soren. There is nothing left between you two. What is left is between us, is it not?”

He pulled his pistol from his belt and tossed it to the ground, daring Soren to do the same with his. “Come on.”

There were gasps from the porch, the sound of people spilling outdoors to find out what the commotion was, but the trio ignored them.

Soren stepped away from his wife. “I will take care of him, Kaatje. I will get rid of him, and then you and I can be together. He’s the obstacle. He’s the menace to our marriage.”

“No, Soren.” She was crying; he could hear it in her voice. “You were always first to me. You were the biggest obstacle to our marriage.”

Soren glanced from her to James. No matter what she said, he knew. She was just trying to protect him. If he could get rid of James, then Kaatje would have no choice but to take him back. She needed a man. Her husband. And Soren would be there for her. He did not take off his own gun belt. Instead, he pulled a Colt revolver from his belt and cocked it.
“Neil
” Kaatje screamed.

“Adjø
, James Walker,” he said.

Kaatje screamed again and lunged at him as the bullet left the pistol.

James ducked and rolled, but the bullet caught him in the thigh. He neared his own gun as he fell, and immediately reached for it, his face a mask of pain.

Soren shook Kaatje off and aimed again at James on the ground. Kaatje rushed to James, getting in his way. Soren erupted. What was she doing? Trying to protect him? Soren took aim again.

But James had already squeezed off a shot, hitting Soren squarely in the chest. He fell backward as if pushed, falling to the ground. Dimly, he could feel the dust settle around his head and hear Kaatje wailing. Determined, he ignored the burning hole in his chest—it felt a foot wide—and rolled to his side. He took his second pistol from his belt and watched his wife with her lover. They were liars, both liars. He had been cheated, of his wife, of his mine, of his life. They would pay.

“Oh no!” Kaatje wailed. “Oh no!” She brought James to a sitting position, examining his wound. She hadn’t come to Soren. To see his wound. His own mortal wound.

They had to pay.
Look at them
, his mind screamed.
Look at them!
Together they represented all that had gone wrong with his world, all the reasons why his life had not come together as he had always wanted. With a shaking hand, he brought the pistol forward, pointing toward Kaatje, toward James, he didn’t care which. He wanted them both to die. If he was dying, they should die too.

“Kaatje!” a woman screamed from the porch. Maybe Elsa, he thought.

“Soren!” yelled another, that sounded like Karl Martensen.

Kaatje’s eyes came to rest on Soren, and he teared up suddenly, at the thought of it all ending. It was over. All over.
“AdjØ
, Kaatje,” he whispered, squeezing off a shot. He thought James moved then, as if to cover her, but he couldn’t be sure. There was a wall of black moving up before his eyes… The curtain was falling, he mused, thinking of a burlesque show he had seen in Skagway a couple of times, blocking his view of shapely legs and high skirts. The curtain was falling.

“No!” Kaatje screamed.
“No!
” she wailed, crying through her keening. She moved James off of her, laid him down on his stomach, staring at the gaping hole in his back, a vertebra exposed. She glanced over to Soren and knew he was dead. Karl confirmed it with a quick shake of his head.

Elsa ran to Kaatje, pulling her away. “Stop it, Kaatje. Stop moving him.” She pulled the burned fabric of his shirt delicately away from the wound in his back. “Go for the Tlingit medicine man,” she told a wide-eyed Charles. “Tell him to bring supplies to pack the wounds,” she cried after him.

She looked to the porch, now full of staff and guests. Then to Kaatje’s girls, standing motionless, aghast at the scene before them. “Christina! Jess! Get wooden planks!” They took off immediately for the back of the house, obviously thankful for the task. “I’ll need them fashioned into a wooden cot. We need to move him inside, but carefully.”

Swallowing hard, she looked at the wound in his thigh where the bullet had gone clean through, maybe nicking an artery, judging from
the amount of blood. A man nearby offered his handkerchief, and she pulled him over, motioning to the wound. “Push down here, hard,” she emphasized. “I need another man and cloth! Get more cloths!” Another gentleman of about fifty emerged. He knelt beside the first man. “You hold yours on this side,” she said, showing them how to staunch the blood. “We need to keep the pressure constant, so when you tire, ask for someone to take over.”

That done, she moved back to the wound that concerned her more. It was difficult to concentrate as Kaatje wailed. Elsa could see the end of the lead slug, barely. It looked as if it was lodged against his spine. What was she to do? Try and take it out? Or leave it and sew up the wound? She had read of patients surviving, living long lives with bullets still inside them, the muscle and skin growing back over them. Kaatje wailed again. Elsa moved to Kaatje and placed a hand on either side of her head. “Kaatje, please. Please try to quiet yourself. I need to listen to see if he’s still breathing.” Kaatje bit her lip, sniffling, trying to be quiet.

Elsa bent beside his head, where she could hear quick, shallow breaths. “He’s still breathing,” she told Kaatje, who resumed crying, then rose, as if to go to Soren. Karl stopped her, enfolding the woman in his arms. Elsa wanted to help her devastated friend, comfort her, but she knew time was critical if James was to be saved.

The medicine man came running with Charles at the same time the girls arrived with three wide planks of wood.

“I don’t know whether we should try and take out the bullet or leave it.”

The medicine man, smelling of oil and soot, leaned forward and calmly examined the wound. “It is lodged against the bone,” he said. “Leave it. He might live then. He might not walk, but he is more likely to live.” The elderly man gestured toward the shoulder wound, and Elsa understood. James probably wouldn’t survive the bullet extraction after losing so much blood from his thigh.

“All right,” she said as she exhaled. “Let’s get him inside.”

The next day, Ketchikan

W
e are ready to bury him,” Elsa said quietly, squeezing Kaatje’s shoulder gently.

Kaatje was at James’s bedside, as she had been all night. He remained unconscious, sweating profusely. All night Kaatje had dribbled water into his mouth, hoping some of it made it down his throat. He winced every once in a while, and then moaned, as if reliving the scene again and again. Each time, Kaatje envisioned his face, close to hers, as he took the second bullet in protecting her. His eyes had not been afraid—they had been filled with love.

“Mrs. Hodge will stay with James. She’ll let us know of any change.”

She heard Elsa, but as if through a door. Soren had died. The man she had waited so long for, the man she’d secretly hoped was dead, now
was
dead. Because of her, she thought for a moment before correcting herself.
No. He died because of his own selfish choices.
She was sad that it was the truth, that Soren had never looked to God for his fulfillment, had blamed everyone else for his unfulfilled life. She felt bad for him, but she did not mourn him. Not as Elsa had mourned Peder, as a wife who’d lost a true companion. Soren had never truly been that to her. She’d come to accept that in the years he was gone,
and his actions the day before only confirmed it. She rose wearily and pushed aside the muffin Elsa had offered her.

“You need to eat something, Kaatje. It will help.”

“Help what? Help bring Soren back? Help James rise out of that bed?” She broke down in sobs and leaned against the doorjamb. She was not really angry at Elsa; she was angry at herself. For not seeing it coming; for not doing something to stop the two men in her life from killing each other.

Elsa walked over to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “There was nothing you could do.”

Kaatje shook her head. “I should’ve said something. Or I shouldn’t have said all I did.”

“Soren was bent on his own destruction. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened.”

“Exactly. I should’ve seen it coming.”

“And what could you have done to stop it? Perhaps you could’ve stopped it yesterday, but you would have had to stop it the next day and the next. Soren was going to have you back or die trying. And you simply weren’t ready to take him back; you were wise in not taking him back. You sensed he was not being truthful; you saw the holes in his story. You had no choice but to wait. And he could not abide by that.”

Kaatje soaked in her words like a dry sponge and then walked out the door, wiping the tears from her face, past a silent Karl, never turning back to Elsa. She moved down the stairs and sat just above her two girls, who sat on the second step waiting for her. “I’m sorry, girls,” was all she could say. She cried again for the loss of her children’s father, and for all that James was suffering now. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, too.

They rose as a group, hand in hand, and walked out of the road-house and up the hill behind, where Karl had proposed to Elsa. It was clear, and there was a view of the mountains in one direction and the wide sea in the other. “I figured it was a good place for Soren to rest,”

Elsa said gently, suddenly beside her again. “He always had his eye on the horizon.”

The crude wooden coffin was already deep in the grave. Kaatje knelt and took a fistful of dark earth and then sprinkled it over his coffin.
“Adjø
, Soren,” she whispered, and then nodded to the girls to do the same. They did as she bid, each saying, “Good-bye, Father.”
Kaatje nodded at Karl, standing at the front of the grave, and he began shoveling dirt into the hole, along with Bradford Bresley, standing on the opposite side. In minutes it was filled, taking a hundredth of the time it took to dig. Much like Soren unraveling our marriage again and again in minutes after months of rebuilding, Kaatje mused. She knew she should say something. There was no minister to say a few words over the grave, and the nearby missionaries had gone to Juneau for the month. But no words came to mind. Not a single thing. She looked to Elsa, helpless.