Gold Dust (32 page)

They were not alone in enjoying the Indian summer. Usually they had at least one other boat in sight, and the last night on
lake Marsh, Jonah counted five campfires winking from the lakeshore. At times the mountains and the cold night air would play
tricks with sound, and conversations or singing from other camps would drift to his ears. All the Klondikers seemed in high
spirits. Jonah made note of it in his journal.

The majestic beauty of the mountains and river is enough to lift the spirits of the most cynical and mercenary of goldseekers,
he wrote.
Like beads strung on a necklace, the glassy smooth lakes follow one after another with short sections of peaceful river between
them. The journey has mellowed. Where we fought rain, mud,
and crowds to struggle to the summit of Chilkoot Pass, on the headwaters of the Yukon we struggle not at all The river and
the woods feed us; the sun and blue skies pamper us., Here there are no crowds, for many who struggled toward the pass turned
around in discouragement or still labor to build their boats at Lake Bennett. We are the lucky ones who sail down this beautiful
river toward Dawson while winter prepares to close the doors to the goldfields behind us.

All in all, Jonah thought as he closed his notebook, the hazards of this part of the trip to Dawson had been greatly exaggerated
in stories and rumors. He continued in that thinking until they sailed out of Lake Marsh and into the stretch of the Yukon
River known as Miles Canyon.

The three-quarter-mile canyon was the first set of real rapids they encountered. They beached the boat a short distance above
the rough water and climbed the bank to examine the challenge before them. The rapids didn’t look too bad, Jonah thought.
Perhaps he didn’t find them frightening because of his long experience sailing. Or perhaps, he thought some while later, he
was so blasé because he was an arrogant, stupid fool, for once they eased the boat down the chute of fast water that led to
the rapids, he found himself battling the rudder for all of their lives. The boat that had proved so steady on the lakes dropped
sickeningly into troughs so deep they could see the rocks of the river bottom through the rushing green water. For a few tense
seconds, the boat would wallow, then lift as the current carried them into a foam-flecked standing wave. The rudder jerked
violently in his hands as the boat tried to turn its side to the wave and capsize. Water broke over the boat, pounding them
like a huge freezing hammer. They shot out of the wave, bow pointed toward the sky, then dropped once more, and the terrifying
cycle began again.

They were drenched in seconds. Everything that wasn’t tied down went overboard. Katy had insisted that a rope be
strung from bow to stem for the passengers to cling to. She sat in the bow, the most vulnerable spot in the boat, Jonah realized
as he saw the front of the boat lift to plow through another wave. With one hand she grasped the rope. Her other arm was wrapped
around Hunter in a secure vise. Even fighting the boat, the current, the foaming white water, and his own unexpected, gut-wrenching
fear, Jonah found one part of his attention riveted on Katy. Of all of them, she was the only one not screaming with fear.
Her shout carried above the crash and roar of the water, but it was a shout of exhilaration, not terror. She met each plunge
into a trough with a whoop of joy and each hammering wave with a smile of glee, riding the bucking, tossing boat as a bronc
rider might ride his wild mount. Hair streaming water, eyes alight, she glowed, and the glow infected Jonah with some of the
same foolish, fervent courage that let her see the wild ride as adventure, not terror. He smiled. He cursed the rudder that
tried to jump from his grip and the boat that wanted to wallow sideways into the next wave, but with the curse came a wild
grin. Katy turned her head briefly to glance at him. She smiled widely and laughed. Jonah laughed with her.

After sixty seconds of chewing them up, the river spit them out the bottom of the rapids, where the water subsided into innocent,
smooth green ripples as if it had never transformed itself into a raging monster. They beached the boat to check for loss
and damage. Jonah succumbed to the need to engulf Katy in a hug.

She hugged him back. Her delicate brows lifted playfully. “Fun, huh?”

The warmth that softened his heart had nothing to do with desire or sex. Jonah had only thought he was living before he met
Katy. If he lost her, her leaving would rip out the core of his heart.

Their boat had come through the rapids with no damage, and, thanks to Katy’s insistence that they tie everything down, little
had been lost overboard. Nearly sixty miles of river lay
ahead of them before reaching the little town of Whitehorse and a short distance beyond Lake Laberge. A much greater distance
lay between them and Dawson, and the distance included more stretches of white water whose names and reputations had drifted
back over the trail from those who had gone before them. After enduring Miles Canyon, Jonah figured he should have been downright
scared at the prospect. If he had any sense he would have been. Instead, he felt as though someone had pumped the fresh juice
of life into his veins.

From Miles Canyon, the Yukon gathered momentum as it rushed on its way, gathering the water of side streams and rivulets along
its way. It tossed them about in riffles and choppy water, but nothing as challenging as the Canyon. Every night Jonah chronicled
the day’s events in his journal, and in rereading his own words, recognized his own growing fascination and affection for
this wild and rugged land. He purged his impatience to actively pursue Katy—and perhaps once again frighten her away—by adding
to the character sketch he’d written of her. It would never be published, Jonah acknowledged to himself. When he’d started
to write it, he’d had every intention of sending it to his editor, but now he realized that the picture of Katy on those sheets
of paper was for him to savor, not share. No matter how brilliantly he might write, however, words on paper would never have
the same glow as Katy in the flesh.

“Trout’s done,” Andy called from where he squatted by the fire. Jonah had always liked fish, but they’d eaten so much of it
lately he thought he might grow fins.

Katy gave a little yip of joy as she helped Camilla lift the cast-iron Dutch oven out of the coals. The Irishwoman had wrought
a miracle in baking a blueberry cobbler for dessert. “Would you just look at that?” Katy chortled. She looked like a hungry
urchin eyeing the goods in a bakeshop window. “If I could cook something like that, it might be worthwhile to learn how to
cook.”

“Katy dear, it’s not that difficult.”

Jonah had to smile. Camilla would never give up. She had badgered Andy into washing his face—even to the extent of his ears—before
every meal, and she had convinced Katy to don feminine attire once again, if only during evenings in camp. Jonah missed the
trousers. If Camilla could convince Katy to take up cooking, though, he certainly wouldn’t object to that. He had ambitions
for Katy that would make her knowing how to cook a welcome skill.

Later that evening, stomachs contentedly full with trout and blueberry cobbler, Katy lingered beside the fire after Camilla,
Patrick, and Andy had retired to their respective beds. Jonah joined her in the late-night vigil, and she didn’t object. Without
the intrusion of human voices, the night was unbelievably peaceful. Stars lit the sky in a glorious blaze, and newfallen snow
on the high peaks glowed in the stars’ gaudy light. The silence was broken only by the hushed whisper of the river and small
sounds of life that burrowed and skittered in the forest. Hunter sat beside Katy, his ears moving like furry antennae to gather
in every sound of the night.

Drinking in the peacefulness, Jonah could feel a contentment radiating from Katy that was similar to his own. All her brashness
had quieted to peace. Her verve, drive, and sparkle slowed from a boil to a warm, comfortable simmer.

Katy sighed and drew her knees up to her chest. One of Camilla’s shawls draped her shoulders, and she tightened it around
her to keep out the night’s chill. “Mountains like these remind me of the story my grandmother Squirrel Woman used to tell
me and my sister on summer nights we spent in her lodge.”

“What was the story?” Jonah asked.

“It was about the Old Man who created the world and everything in it. His name was Napi, and he walked over the earth piling
up rocks into mountains and carving out the beds of rivers and seas and lakes. He made all the plants and animals and people
and told each how they should live.”

“Big job,” Jonah said wryly. “Did he do it alone?”

“No. Eventually he made himself a wife. Old Woman. She agreed that Old Man should have the first say in everything, as long
as she got the second say.”

“Hm. The origin of women’s suffrage.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Katy’s tempting little mouth curved upward in an impish smile. “Squirrel Woman says Old Man only thought he had first say.”

Jonah chuckled. “If Napi was anything like men today, then Squirrel Woman was right. What happened to poor old Napi?”

“After he was done creating the world, he went to live in a mountain in Alberta. I’ve never seen the mountain, though my uncle
Crooked Stick has. I’d think it looks a lot like that mountain over there.” Her chin pointed toward a glowing white peak that
dwarfed the others around it. Lesser mountains clustered about its slope like acolytes sitting at the feet of a master.

“Not a bad place to spend retirement, if one were the creator of all this,” Jonah commented.

Katy cut him a suspicious look. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No. The longer I stay in these mountains, the more they awe me. Sometimes, looking at these peaks, I feel like I could open
my mouth and speak directly to God.”

Katy nodded her head. “I suppose you don’t have mountains in Chicago.”

“Hardly even an anthill.”

“Like the plains in eastern Montana?”

“Not exactly. The country around Chicago has a lot of rivers, and everything that hasn’t been cleared for farming is thick
with trees. Nothing is sharp there like it is here. Even on a clear day, the moisture in the air seems to soften the edges
of everything you see. The horizon, the trees, buildings, the clouds in the sky—everything looks just a bit blurred. The air
feels soft, like a caress on your skin. The country there is beautiful, but it’s a tamer, more serene beauty than what we
see here.” He could see her musing upon the picture he drew. “Wouldn’t you like to see other parts of the world someday, Katy?”

She nodded thoughtfully. “After I make my fortune. But just to visit and see what there is to see. I’d always have to come
back home to the mountains. They’re my roots.”

Jonah was tempted to tell her that letting herself love him would give her stronger roots than burying herself in the mountains,
but he was beginning to understand the spell the West could cast on a person’s heart. Fighting the West and its mystique was
worse in some ways than fighting a flesh-and-blood rival—except, Jonah thought with some confidence—he had some weapons at
his disposal that the mountains, rivers, and clear air didn’t have, and he wasn’t ashamed to use them.

They sat for a while longer in silence before Katy said good-night. “Will you bank the fire when you leave?” Katy asked.

“Sure. I’ve gotten good at banking fires.”

She wound the shawl more tightly around herself and started to rise from the log that was their bench, but Jonah stopped her
with a gentle touch on her arm. “Sleep well,” he said, and cautiously pressed his lips to hers in a kiss. She didn’t move
away, but tentatively put her hands on his upper arms. As he deepened the kiss, her fingers dug into his biceps. The scent
of her—wild forest and woman—made his nostrils flare in sensual pleasure; the pliable softness of her lips inspired a predictable
reaction at his groin, but he didn’t yield to the temptation to fold her against him and show her just how much he wanted
her. Until she realized that she wanted him just as much, he would be patient.

When he let her go, her breath puffed into the air in frosty little gasps. He raised one brow at her and smiled. “More fun
tomorrow,” he reminded her.

She looked dazed. “What?”

“Another wild ride.” Even in the ruddy firelight, he could see high color flood her face. “More rapids,” he reminded her.

Katy gusted out a breath into the cold air. “Rapids. Right. Whitehorse Rapids.”

“Maybe your Blackfoot name will keep us safe riding through them, White Horse Woman.”

She stood up, putting distance between them. “Yeah. That’s what Squirrel Woman would say.” She smiled tentatively. “She’d
say the rapids and I, we have the same spirit looking after us. You’ve got an Indian turn of mind, Jonah Armstrong.”

“Is that good?”

“I think so.” For a moment she stood gazing at him as if she might want to kiss him again, but in the end she turned away
toward the tent.

“Good-night, Katydid.”

She flashed him a smile over her shoulder, then was swallowed by the darkness. He heard the rustle of the tent flap. Hunter
stayed by the fire, sitting placidly on his haunches, head cocked mockingly as if he could read Jonah’s mind.

“Well, go on,” Jonah urged the animal. “Go keep her company, since I can’t.”

The wolf got up and trotted in the direction of the tent. Jonah scratched at his new beard and gazed morosely into the fire.
“Keep the spot beside her warm, wolf,” he whispered. “I’ll be there one of these days soon.”

Five boats had pulled ashore above Whitehorse Rapids to preview the churning water they would soon ride. The rapids had a
nasty reputation, and Klondikers usually waited for several boats to gather before anyone made an attempt to shoot the white
water—just in case something went wrong and a rescue was needed. Stories of disasters in Whitehorse Rapids floated regularly
up the river to meet the Klondikers making their way downstream. Katy had dismissed many of the stories as rumors designed
to encourage the fainthearted to turn
back, therefore leaving more gold for those with the guts to continue. But standing on a rock that overlooked the channel
of churning white water, she gave more credit to the stories’ truth. The toll the rapids had taken decorated the banks on
either side of the river—scrap wood that had once been boats, barrels, and boxes that had once held miners’ provisions, clothing,
cook pots, and unidentifiable bits of flotsam that had once been bound for Dawson.