Gold Mountain. Vicki Delany

Ray Walker. He looked at me.

      “Angus and I have three trunks,” I said. “And several bags of provisions. Obviously, I cannot carry our belongings all the way to the Klondike. I’ve brought enough food to last us several weeks, some warm clothes, blankets, sturdy boots. I also have Angus’s school books, including the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare. I have excellent dresses, among them a Worth from Paris, as well as hats and accessories.”

      I did not mention that I had the last of my funds from the sale of Mrs. McNally’s jewellery.

      “I have food, camping equipment.” Walker dropped his voice. “And liquor. Good Scots whisky. Enough for a chap to open a bar.”

      “And a dance hall, perhaps. Where one could employ respectable entertainers and ladies to dance with the customers.”

      “I’ve got a roulette wheel and chips and cards.”

      A shout came from down the street.

      “Mrs. MacGillivray. There you are.” Paul Sheridan was running toward us, his long legs churning up mud. “You boys, be off with you.” He made a shooing gesture at Angus and his friends. “Don’t you be pestering decent white women.” The Bobs slipped away. Angus looked confused. His face and hands were streaked with mud and his filthy cap covered most of his shock of overlong blond hair. “Get away boy,” Sheridan snapped, “or I’ll have you locked up.”

      “Mr. Sheridan,” I said. “You are speaking to my son.”

      He peered at Angus. Angus’s blue eyes blinked back.

      “Sorry, boy. Didn’t recognize you. Don’t you be hanging around with those Indian bastards. Nothing but trouble, the lot of them. Turn your back and they’ll steal you blind.”

      “We can’t have that, now can we,” I said. My sarcasm escaped Mr. Sheridan.

      He turned his attention to Ray Walker. “Is this man bothering you, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

      “Most certainly not,” I said.

      Walker stared at Sheridan until the American flushed and turned away.

      “Mrs. MacGillivray,” he coughed, “I wonder if I can have a word in private.”

      “Oh, very well.” We crossed the street. Angus and Mr. Walker watched us.

      “You shouldn’t be associating with Indians,” Sheridan said. “It will do your reputation no good.”

      “Your employer wants me to manage his whorehouse and yet you are concerned with my reputation. Your logic escapes me, Mr. Sheridan.”

      I might not have spoken, as Sheridan carried on. “And men like that one, Walker. He’s leaving for the Yukon, and good riddance. He’s small but good with his fists. Mr. Smith offered him a job. He turned Soapy down outright. Soapy don’t like that.”

      “So I gather. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sheridan, I have decided to travel to the Yukon myself.”

      “You can’t be serious! What about my proposal of marriage? Mrs. MacGillivray, I implore you.” And to my astonishment, and that of everyone else on the street, he dropped to one knee and took both of my hands in his. “Mrs. MacGillivray. Fiona, I have adored you since ...”

      I snatched my hands away. “Get up you fool. You’re making a scene.”

      His legs wobbled as he struggled to stand. With a sigh, I held out my arm and assisted him. The knees of his trousers dripped with mud.

      Angus and Mr. Walker were watching us, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. “You tell your mother to forget this talk,” Sheridan said, “only fools and easterners go digging for gold.”

      “We’re easterners,” Angus said.

      “As I’m going to the Klondike in any event,” I said, “what would you say is the best route to take?”

      Sheridan’s eyes slid to one side. “The White Pass, by far. You’ll want horses. I can help you find some.”

      “What an excellent idea. Now, I have to take my son and attempt to find him a bath. Why don’t we meet again, say, the day after tomorrow, and you can take me to view these horses.”

      He touched his hat. “My pleasure, Ma’am. And if, well, if by chance the journey’s too hard for you and you want to come back, my offer stands.”

      “I’m sure it does.”

      I never did meet with Mr. Sheridan to discuss horses. The following day, with the help of his friends, Angus found six men willing to carry our goods over the Chilkoot Pass. Ray Walker and I met for what passed for tea and discussed a joint business venture. A dance hall and saloon. Each of us owning one half of the business.

      I had one more encounter with Mr. Jefferson Smith. We were preparing to board a boat that would take us up the Lynn Canal to Dyea and from there to the Chilkoot. Smith was mounted on a white horse, looking every inch the Southern gentleman.

      He swept off his hat as Angus and I approached. “Mrs. MacGillivray. I’m sorry to see you leaving. I’d hoped we could do business. Your grace and beauty would be a valuable asset not only to me, but to the town of Skagway. If I offended you by my crude offer of employment, I apologize. How about we become partners? Equal shares in the theatre?”

      I looked at Angus. His sweet open face, his trusting blue eyes.

      He believed in me.

      “Goodbye, Mr. Smith. I don’t expect we will meet again.”

      We arrived in Dawson in September of 1897. And the long, dark, cold winter settled in.

      Chapter Eleven

      Spring finally arrived in late May of 1898, the ice on the rivers broke, and thousands upon thousands of people floated down the Yukon River to the mudflats, where the Yukon met the mouth of Klondike and the town of Dawson had been carved out of the wilderness. By summer, despite the hordes of people constantly milling about on the streets, many of whom were out of luck and out of money and wanted nothing more than to go home again, it was not possible for me to continue to avoid Mr. Paul Sheridan.

      He was waiting as I came out of the Bank of Commerce on Monday morning.

      “Go away,” I said. I continued walking.

      He fell into step beside me. “Now Fiona, you haven’t even heard my offer.”

      “I have no need to hear it. Mr. Sheridan, I’m pleased you’ve given up your life of crime. Congratulations. I wish you the best.”

      “Let me buy you lunch and I’ll tell you my plan. You’re going to be impressed.”

      “Mr. Sheridan ...”

      “Please, Fiona, call me Paul.”

      “Mr. Sheridan. I’m off home for an afternoon’s rest before returning to the Savoy for the evening. I am not lunching. With you or anyone else.”

      “I’ll walk with you, then.”

      The last thing I wanted was this ridiculously persistent man knowing where I lived. “No.”

      “It’s no trouble,” he said. His smile hadn’t faltered in the least. I peered into his eyes, wondering if he might be simple. His smile grew broader.

      I caught a glimpse of scarlet on the other side of the street. “There’s my escort now.” I lifted my hand and waved. “Corporal Sterling, over here!”

      Richard waited for a sled pulled by six big dogs to go by, nodded to a woman in a nurse’s uniform, her skirt and apron thick with mud, and crossed the street. He touched the broad brim of his uniform hat. “Mrs. MacGillivray. Good day.”

      I slipped my arm through his. “I’m sorry I’m late. Off we go now. Goodbye, Mr. Sheridan.”

      Richard gave