The Alaska Brides Collection Part 17

Ian gave him a long look. "I don't back away from a challenge."

Chapter 18.

Ian's lantern cast a halo of light into the darkness of the morning. Drops of ice sparkled along the rough, thin fences he'd made of willow branches. Every two yards or so, Ian left a break about the width of his fist in the fence. He grinned in satisfaction that the snare in the next opening held a ptarmigan.

Ptarmigans seemed to prefer the willow branches, and the birds had a habit of dragging their feet in the snow. They'd scurry along the fence and step into one of a series of loops in a length of string. By dragging their feet, they tightened the snare.

Ian set down his lantern and took off his gloves only long enough to take the ptarmigan and reset the snare.

"Well, well." Tucker sounded pleased.

Ian tugged back on his glove, wound the ptarmigan's legs onto the string, and grabbed his lantern. "I'm falling every fifth step," he announced as he lifted one foot. Though he waddled like a drunken sailor on the snowshoes, it beat having to slog through knee-and thigh-deep snow.

Tucker lifted his own lantern higher. "Is that a complaint or a boast?"

"A boast, of course. When first I set out this morning, I fell or stumbled every other step."

"My sister did better than that." Tucker lifted his chin.

Ian didn't take the bait. "I don't doubt that in the least. Merry's a graceful woman. She took to ice skating right off. Aye, she did." Though he'd been facing both of them, Ian focused directly on her. "And I was proud of you for that, la.s.s."

"I have a patient teacher."

"And an impatient brother. I'm hungry, and if Ian didn't start a pot of coffee yet-"

"You needn't bl.u.s.ter. I have a pot on the stove." Ian held out the string of ptarmigan. "We've three of these, Merry. Tucker can dress them whilst I check the rest of the snares. I'm hoping for more."

"I'm drinking my coffee first. I have to wake up. Otherwise, Ian's going to whip me at chess."

"Oh, now." Ian huffed. "The man's going to be making me sorry I brewed that coffee."

Merry laughed. "Listen to the two of you. You sound like boys wanting the first chance on the schoolyard swing."

"Swings are for girls. Tell her, Rafferty. No self-respecting boy wants anything to do with them."

"I'd be lying." Ian paused a second, then added, "Even when I was a mere lad, I always found the la.s.ses fascinating."

Merry didn't bother to m.u.f.fle her giggle.

Tucker swiped the birds. "You knew what I meant."

"Ian, I can't tell you how thankful I am that you've been so generous about sharing your coffee. Tucker was surly like this once we ran out of coffee last winter."

"You deserve a medal for that." Ian shamelessly took advantage of the opening. "Seeing as I have no medal, I'll take you ice skating this afternoon."

"We're playing chess today." Tucker glowered at him.

"Of course we will. But you promised Merry you'd go pick up the dishes over at Clemment's. I reckoned you'd do that during the light, and she and I can spin around the ice." Ian didn't want to give Tucker a chance to ruin his plan. "I'll be in soon. I just have a few last spots to check."

He walked off. Sound carried exceptionally well on the icy air, so he heard the Smiths go on into his cabin. "Lord, Tucker's starting to wear on my patience. I don't want things to turn ugly. Could You please open his eyes so he understands I'll not shove him out of Merry's heart and life?"

He reached the last part of his trap line then returned to the cabin empty-handed. "Sorry I didn't get anything more."

"But these are nice plump ones. I think I'll save the white meat in a bucket of ice for tomorrow and make chicken and dumplings today. That way, Tucker can take something to Mr. Clemment. I worry about him."

Ian nodded. They'd sent a letter to Mr. Clemment's family, but he wasn't even sure if Merry had a correct address for the man's relatives. No one could rely on what the bizarre man said.

Merry plucked a fistful of feathers and added them to her bucket.

"I'll be done here in a minute. Tucker, please stir the Quaker oats."

Tucker complied. "Rafferty, come spring, I want to send a request to your family. I'm hankering after grits."

"Okay. In the meantime, is there someone who might have some? We could arrange a trade."

Both men turned to Meredith. Her brow puckered. "I'm trying to recall where people are from. I doubt Northerners or Westerners would have grits." She named a few possibilities.

Tucker and Ian alternately ruled out each candidate. Most of them lived too far away. With frigid conditions and barely three hours of light, prudence dictated not going any distance.

"I'm more likely to find gold than grits." Tucker sounded downright morose.

"Come spring, we'll turn some of that gold into grits." Meredith set aside the second bird and started on the last.

"Aye, you're right." Ian turned to Tucker. "I suppose that means you and I had best start working." They went into the adjoining room.

As they'd excavated along the vein of gold, the men had separated out the rocks and gravel that showed promise. Anything that wouldn't bear working, they'd used to make paths between the houses, right by the smokehouse. Come spring, that gravel would keep them all from getting mired down.

The stone they'd chipped out that bore any glimmer of golden hope filled crates and bags in the second room. On the coldest or stormiest days, the men processed the silt in the rocker cradle. On clear days, they'd spread a sheet of canvas outside and use a mallet to pulverize rocks.

"Feels like we're due for more snow."

Tucker nodded. "Guess we'd better bash up some rocks so we can stay busy during the next blizzard."

"We've made faster progress than we antic.i.p.ated. We're liable to run out of anything to process ere the spring thaw comes."

"It's the rocker cradle." Tucker picked up the canvas and the mallet. "Sure beats standing in icy water with water slos.h.i.+ng over my sleeves."

Ian grimaced. "Wouldn't you know you'd say that? I was thinking that when the thaw comes, gold might wash downriver. I wondered if we'd be smart to devote time to the riverbank, then go back to digging when the ground softens."

"The idea holds merit. If I could do it without having to listen to old Abrams shouting across the water at me, I'd be more inclined to agree."

"He's a character." Ian hefted a sack. They went to the door, set things outside, and then returned only long enough to put on their hats, scarves, and gloves.

"The two of you are going to catch pneumonia," Meredith fretted.

Tucker snorted. "Just yesterday you said I'm too ornery to die."

"We've each a union vest and two wool s.h.i.+rts on. 'Tis sweet of you to worry, but needless."

"It's more dangerous to sweat and ice up than it is to be a little chilly." Tucker threw open the door.

Ian followed him out. Turning to close the door, he gave her a rea.s.suring smile. "We'll not be out long."

They worked steadily, and just as Ian finished pulverizing the last rock, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. "Abrams is on his way across the bridge."

"Old goat's probably angling for a meal again."

Abrams tottered over. "Reckon dinnertime's here."

"Sundays, after wors.h.i.+p, you're always welcome to stay and eat supper with us." Ian stood back as Tucker carefully gathered up the canvas.

"But it's Chrisssmesss."

Tucker stopped fiddling with the canvas and folded his arms across his chest. "I don't let drunks near my sister."

"Awww, Schmith, I only had a few nips. For my rheumatiz."

"That's a few too many."

Abrams pouted like a baby. "Iss your cabin, Ian. Whaddya shay?"

"You don't want Merry to see you like this. It would upset both of you. Go on home."

"But I'm countin' on holiday grub. Mer'dith'll lemme eat. I've been eatin' beans forever."

"You're full of beans, all right," Tucker muttered.

"Tha.s.s right. I'm fulla beans. Betcha Merry'll fix me a big ol' roast or ham. Maybe both." Abrams nodded so emphatically he lost his balance.

Ian threw his arm around Abrams. "C'mon. I'll walk you home."

"But I wanna eat. Juss not cat."

"Cat?" Tucker and Ian said in unison.

"Uh-huh. You Bible-thumpers feed folks the fatted cat. Don't want cat. Wanna ham. Tha.s.s pig, you know."

"Yes, I know." Ian steered Abrams toward the bridge. "We don't have any ham, but that can't be helped. Next week is New Year's. If you're sober as a judge, we'd be honored to have you over to celebrate."

Abrams squinted up at him. "You're not gonna push me off in that room and make me take a bath in the middle of winter, are you?"

"Let us make a deal about that."

Abrams stopped at his cabin door. "I getta make the deal. If I take a bath, n.o.body feeds me that fatted cat." He stuck out his hand. "Schake on it."

"We won't feed you cat. Now let me stoke the fire in your fireplace, and you can go to sleep."

From the outside, Abrams's cabin looked small; from the inside, Ian realized he could reach out and touch both sides at the same time. The sight inside would have made Merry's hair stand on end. Items littered the floor, and sacks of staples lay heaped in the corner. A single log burned low in the fireplace. Icicles hung from the ceiling around the edges. To Ian's astonishment, the old man reached up, broke off one of those icicles, and shoved it into a bucket on the hearth.

"Water." Abrams tumbled onto his cot. "I'm schmart. And I don't eat cat."

Ian stoked the fire, added snow to the bucket by the fire, and left the old man to sleep.

Meredith set steaming bowls on the table. "You're right on time for lunch."

"Thanks. It smells great!" Ian peeled off his hat, scarf, and gloves.

She fought the urge to smooth down his riotous hair. The man desperately needed a haircut. Then again, so did her brother. Thanks to the hair combs, pins, and ribbons Ian had given her, she was able to keep her own hair contained into a reasonably ladylike style. Ian called it my crowning glory. He likes my hair. That thought made her s.h.i.+ver with delight.

"I invited Abrams over for a New Year's meal, provided he's sober. I hope you don't mind." Ian tacked on, "He agreed to take a bath before the meal."

Laughter tinting her voice, Merry said, "You could have been a politician instead of a prospector!"

"Are the two of you going to yammer the whole day, or can we eat while chow's still warm?"

Meredith sat down next to her twin. "I forgive you for being impatient. It's just that you want to be done here in time to use the light to go to Mr. Clemment's, isn't it?"

Tucker grunted.

After asking the blessing, they ate with very little conversation. Meredith couldn't wait to go ice skating-not because she felt any confidence, but because she wanted to be with Ian again. He called me "honey" yesterday. And I've caught him looking at me. Can it be that he's developing feelings for me? I hope so. It would be so thrilling to be his wife.

"Sis? You're not paying any attention. I asked what I'm supposed to take the food to Mr. Clemment in."

"I filled a canning jar. It's over there." She wrinkled her nose. "Please bring back as many dishes of ours as you can find."

"Easier said than done. His place is a mess."

"I know you'll do your best."

Tucker rose. "You haven't been out much. Why don't you strap on your snowshoes and come with me?"

Heat filled her cheeks.

"Nay. The la.s.s and I already planned to skate. She can go on a visit to Clemment next time."

Tucker yanked on his coat and scarf then stood by the door.

"Tucker, you forgot the food for Mr. Clemment!" Though the scarf covered her brother's nose and mouth, Meredith could see the ire flash in his eyes. "And take a lantern!"

"I know the way."