Gold Digger. Vicki Delany

off the floor to illustrate my point. Irene Davidson, Lady Irenee, she called herself—pronouncing the name in the French way with an extra “e” on the end—was, this month at least, the most popular dance hall girl in town. Since she’d started working for us a few weeks ago, our nightly take had gone up considerably.

      I didn’t care for the way Ray caressed her name, rolling over the “r” in his rough Glasgow burr, the look on his face as he watched her sashay across the room, or how he talked about her at every opportunity that presented itself. It’s never a good idea for the boss to get involved with the hired help.

      “What brings you here so early?” “Couldna sleep any longer. Decided I should be doing something more worthwhile than staring at the ceiling. I’ve got a new lad starting on the faro table today. Needs someone to keep an eye on him.”

      I put my pen down and rubbed at my fingers, stained blue with ink. “I’m going home after I drop this lot off at the bank.”

      Ray held the door open for me. He was a particularly unattractive man with a nose that had been broken more often than probably even he could remember and skin ravaged by youthful acne. What little remained of his brown hair fell to his collar in thin, greasy strands. Short and scrawny to the point of emaciation, over the long, harsh winter Ray had looked like everyone else in town. But while the rest of us filled out as soon as supplies began to make it through, Ray didn’t gain an ounce. His brown eyes shone with a warm intelligence, and I both liked and trusted him. Maybe not with my life or the life of my son, but enough to accept his much needed help in running the Savoy. I’d never operated a business before, with hired help and premises and stock and all those complications. My work had always been more…personal.

      I put on my hat, a plain but charming straw affair with a broad plum ribbon around the band, and left the office, lugging a bag of gold, highly pleased with the weight of it. Gold, dust as well as nuggets, was as much of a currency as money. And often more readily available. Everyone from the dance halls to the banks to the laundries and the Paradise Alley cribs dealt in gold dust.

      As I descended the stairs, I could see men behind the bar, serving hard-toiling miners and general layabouts who’d spilled through the door the minute we’d opened for business. Ten in the morning, and clearly some of the customers had merely stumbled the few feet from a neighbouring bar. The door at the back of the saloon leading to the gaming rooms was open, and the roulette wheel clattered cheerfully.

      I’d named it The Savoy after the luxury hotel that opened in London during the most productive years I’d spent in that city. I had enjoyed more than a few teas and suppers in that wonderful place with the wealthy and influential men who, not always willingly, had provided my livelihood.

      “Mrs. MacGillivray!” One of the drunken sourdoughs caught sight of me and lurched across the room. The scent of rotting teeth and bad liquor (most assuredly not mine) washed over me. “Come ’ave a drink.”

      “Thank you, sir, but I have errands I must run.” I gave him a smile into which I tried to insert a touch of regret.

      Once outside, I stood on the step for a moment. The wind had picked up, and the sea of banners strung across Front Street, advertising doctors and dentists, dance halls and ladies’ clothing, men’s hats and laundry services, flapped and fluttered, making as much noise as ocean waves hitting a rocky shore in a storm. The Union Jack and the American flag with its thirty-eight stars competed for prominence, the latter a sign that the ownership of the Yukon Territory was still a matter of dispute. Occasionally a banner or flag tore loose and blew away, to lie forgotten in the mountains or sink into the river, there to decay and merge into the barren landscape. To the north, Moosehide hill loomed over town, the remains of an ancient rockslide that had long ago taken an enormous chunk out of the side of the mountain.

      Summer in the Yukon is delightful. The ground might be a morass of mud and the countryside reminiscent of what a mountainside would look like after a volcanic eruption, but after breathing the coal smoke of London and Toronto, I appreciated the fresh, clean air and the view that stretched for miles. Although the amount of sawdust thrown into the air, as the forest was chopped down and turned into lumber occasionally hindered one’s breathing, I often thought that I could simply stand here on my front step all day long, sniffing at the air and watching the clouds passing across the wide sky.

      The winter recently finished I’d decided never to think about again. It had been followed by a spring of such heat that it was difficult to believe that one single place on Earth could offer such a range of temperatures.

      The hills across the wide Yukon River were touched with mist, and for some reason they reminded me of my home in Scotland. Last seen so long ago.

      Enough of sentiment. I walked down the street, heading for the bank, then home for a nap. It was my custom to leave the Savoy when it closed at six in the morning and catch a bit of sleep. At nine, I’d return to work on the books, supervise the opening of the bar at ten, and take the night’s earnings to the bank. Back home again for a bit more sleep before going to the Savoy at four to oversee preparations for the evening. If things weren’t too hectic, I’d be able to have supper with my son prior to changing into suitable evening wear, returning to the Savoy before things got lively at eight when the dance hall performances began.

      It made for a hectic schedule and not a lot of sleep. But gold rushes don’t come along all that often, and I’d sleep once I’d made all the money I could out of this town.

      It would be nice to be able to spend more time with Angus, but at twelve years of age, the boy didn’t particularly want to spend time with his mother anyway.

      It had rained during the night, and Front Street was more like a river of mud than a proper city street. Foolishly, the town had been built on a swamp; after a good, hard rain, the muck could reach a tall man’s knees. Planks had been laid down to make a rough sort of sidewalk along one side of the street, but sometimes they got so crowded that men would prefer to step off and take their chances with the mud. The result, of course, was that the floors of every boarding house, shop, government office and dance hall were caked with wet and drying mud—which could be expected to consist of more than just good Yukon earth, as horses and half-tamed dogs also filled the streets. Laundries did a lucrative business, and Helen Saunderson, the Savoy’s maid-of-all-work, spent a substantial part of her day mopping.

      A wagon stuck axle-deep in the sludge held up traffic. The horse struggled against its unyielding burden, neighing in panic, sinking deeper and deeper. His round white eyes stared for a moment into mine.

      I looked away.

      After attending to the banking, I made my way home. I’d rented a couple of rooms in a boarding house on Fourth Street near York, which was, a year ago, on the outskirts of town. A tiny bedroom for Angus, an even smaller one for me, and a cramped sitting room where my son could do his school work in the evenings and I, on Sundays when the Savoy was closed, could read or simply enjoy a moment of peace.

      I shook the sawdust off my pillow, as a light sheen had accumulated since I’d left my bed only three hours before, and I washed my face and hands in the cool, fresh water Mrs. Mann, the landlady, had left in the basin on the dresser. I hung my hat on the hook behind the door, pulled my day dress over my head, unlaced my corset, dropped it to the floor to join dress, stockings, over-corset, drawers and petticoats, and crawled into bed. I fell asleep to the sound of hammering from the property next door. Someone was squeezing an addition onto a house that was already falling over because it had been so badly erected a year before.

      Chapter Three

      Angus MacGillivray, overflowing with as much enthusiasm as a puppy watching his owner pick up a ball, bounced through the door of the tiny town detachment on Third Avenue.

      “Good morning, sir.” He stood to attention in front of the desk, his arms stiff at his sides, spine straight, eyes facing directly forward.

      Constable Richard Sterling of the North-West Mounted Police looked up. “Morning, Mr. MacGillivray. What brings you here this early?”

      Angus’s face fell and his shoulders