The Great Alone (89 page)

“Why, Glory,” he chided. “She’s a young mother, all alone, with two little children to raise in wicked Nome. Surely you don’t believe a man would tell you about someone like her.”

“Meaning she’s decent and respectable and I’m not, I suppose.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She turned to Matty. “Would you please inform Oliver that I’ll be needing the buggy.”

“Where are you going?”

“To visit Mrs. Porter and her pies. The Palace has always prided itself on providing our customers with the best Nome has to offer. Perhaps we have overlooked something.” She glared at Deacon, daring him to suggest that she had any motive other than the one she had stated, but he remained silent. He’d achieved his objective and planted the seed of suspicion in her mind that Justin was seeing this young—
respectable
—widow. “Be sure and check on Gladys for me while I’m gone,” she told Matty, then walked swiftly to the stairs and lifted her skirts an inch to begin her ascent, accidentally crumpling the mail in her hand.

Upstairs, she entered her room and tossed the letters on the bed. She didn’t bother to step behind the hand-painted dressing screen in the corner as she began unfastening the crimson gown she was wearing. Within minutes, she had donned a respectably high-necked day dress of blue and gold satin damask and slipped a bolero jacket over the puffy leg-of-mutton sleeves of her dress.

Oliver was standing guard over the buggy when Glory emerged from the Palace a few moments later. Always exceedingly proper and correct in his manners, he bowed to her and offered one of his massive hands to help her into the buggy. The back of his hand was marked with a network of old scars from his years of bare-knuckle fighting.

“Would you like me to ride with you, Miss St. Clair?”

“No, thank you, Oliver.” She picked up the reins and slapped the chestnut horse on the rump with them.

People, horses, dogs, conveyances of every description jammed the street. Everything moved at a snail’s pace, but riding in the buggy was infinitely preferable to being jostled, shoved, and occasionally trampled by the mob in the street. A dust cloud two feet thick hugged the sandy street, constantly being churned to powder the air.

New buildings were springing up like mushrooms, most of them knockdowns shipped from Seattle or San Francisco and assembled on the spot. Theaters, banks, newspaper offices, restaurants, and more than a hundred saloons were going up, all on one long main thoroughfare. Nome, which some said had been built with one foot on the beach’s sand and the other on the tundra, was two blocks wide and five miles long.

Sometimes Glory wondered if she would ever get used to the stench of so many people massed together in such a small area. The invasion had only compounded the sanitation problem that had previously existed. Public water closets had been built on pilings along the waterfront so the tide could flush them out roughly every twenty-four hours, but they weren’t adequate to serve the exploding population.

As she neared the area where Dr. Vargas had his office, Glory began to look for the pie shop. Finally she spied a hand-lettered sign hanging on a tent; home-made pies was all it said. Judging by the number of men crowding around the tent, she was certain she was at the right place. She parked the buggy along the side of the street and stepped down.

All the sides of the tent except the rear wall were rolled up. Rough wooden planks supported by wooden crates lined the three open ends serving as counters. Every available foot of space at the counter was taken and men were standing to wait their turn, their heads blocking Glory’s view of the person behind the counter.

She picked up the short train of her dress so it wouldn’t drag on the dusty ground and walked closer to the tent, where she could smell the aroma of freshly baked pies. A man turned and glanced her way, then froze. It was Justin. She wouldn’t have minded his surprise if she hadn’t noticed the flicker of guilt and the anxious glance he darted at the person behind the counter. But he was smiling widely as he walked toward her.

“Glory, what are you doing here?” He didn’t speak too loudly, and he was careful not to get too close, she noticed.

“Why, I imagine the same reason you are. I’ve heard the pies here are the best in town.”

“That’s true.” He stuck his hands in his pockets as if he wasn’t sure what else to do with them.

“What do you recommend?” She walked past him toward the tent. “I’ve heard the apple is very good.”

“It is. I kinda like the raisin myself.” He followed her, but he was careful not to let it appear to a casual observer that they were together.

The space at the counter in front of Glory was vacated by an old prospector. She quickly stepped up to fill it. A freckle-faced boy about nine years old paused on the other side of the counter, both hands gripping the wire handle of a large enameled coffeepot.

“Want some coffee, ma’am?”

“No, thank you.”

At the rear of the tent, another boy, probably a year younger, was up to his elbows in dishwater. Then she saw the woman busily slicing a pie into wedges. Her brown hair was swept back in a chignon, revealing her ears, and a mass of curls in front drooped rather attractively onto her forehead. She wore a simple starched white shirtwaist with a dark tie, and a plain dark skirt with a white apron tied around it. She was petite, the image of the “little woman,” Glory thought scathingly. Homemaker and mother all rolled into one.

Glory had come prepared to dislike Sarah Porter on sight, and she did. Equally irritating was the patience of the miners and the absence of their usual cursing. While part of it might be attributed to the presence of the two young boys, Glory suspected that it was mostly out of deference to the young widow.

When the woman noticed Glory standing at the counter, she immediately summoned the boy from the back. “Timothy, will you come serve this pie to Mr. Sorenson?” As the boy willingly left the dishtub, the woman walked over to Glory. “May I help you, ma’am?”

On closer inspection, Glory was prepared to concede the woman was attractive—in a plain sort of way, although her eyes were too close together. “I’d like to buy some pie. I’ve heard that both your apple and raisin are excellent.”

“You must have been talking to Mr. Sinclair.” She smiled in Justin’s direction as he stood discreetly to the side of Glory. “Raisin is his favorite.”

“As a matter of fact, he did recommend it to me,” Glory admitted. “I think I’ll take one of each.”

“Of course.” She partially turned from the planked counter. “Andrew, bring the lady some coffee. You would like some, wouldn’t you?”

“No, thank you. Your son already inquired. He is your son?”

“Yes, I married quite young.”

“A child bride,” Glory murmured. Young, my foot, she thought to herself. She’s twenty-eight if she’s a day.

“Yes. I lost my husband under tragic circumstances this past winter. We’re from Oregon originally. I’m sure you can appreciate how difficult it can be for a woman with two young boys to raise and no man to help. I sold everything we had to pay our passage here, hoping …” She paused and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. You didn’t come here to hear my sad story. It’s just so good to see a woman’s face. There are so few of us in this town. Respectable women, I mean.”

“Yes.” Glory wasn’t convinced that the woman didn’t suspect the nature of her profession, not when she was so aware how few women there were in Nome. “You seem to be doing quite well for yourself, though.”

“I am. I never guessed I could make a living for my children at something so simple as making pies. Some of these poor men tell me they haven’t tasted a real homemade pie in years. I had God’s blessing the day I met Mr. Sinclair. There I go, rattling on again. I’ll get your pies.” The young widow moved away, leaving Glory to wonder exactly what Justin had to do with all this. Justin shifted uneasily beside her.

“Are you on your way into town, Justin?” she asked, fully aware that if he was, he was taking his own sweet time about getting there, since Matty had seen him here almost three hours ago. “I’ll be glad to give you a ride.”

“No. I … uh … gotta get back to the diggings. I just came to get a pie. Sort of a treat for my partners.”

“In that case, I’ll drive you back.”

“That’d be great.” But his reply lacked enthusiasm.

The young widow returned with the pies. “There you are. Still warm from the oven.”

“How much do I owe you?” Glory unfastened the gold ornamental latch on her flat folding pocketbook.

The woman told her, then added, “The first time, I have to charge you for the pie tins. After that, you bring them back and I just charge you for the pie.”

“Of course.” Glory noticed that the difference in cost was considerably more than a pie tin would cost even at Nome’s inflated prices. The woman was not only making a profit on her pies but also on the pie tins. It was very clever, she thought as she handed over the money.

She watched while Sarah Porter carefully counted out the change. When the woman switched the money to her other hand to place it in Glory’s palm, Glory was instantly suspicious. Running a business had made her wise to all the sleight-of-hand tricks to shortchange someone, and switching hands was an easy way to palm a coin. Glory glanced at the change in her hand.

“I believe you still owe me a quarter,” she said.

“I do?” The surprise and innocence in her voice were very convincing. She recounted the money she’d given Glory. “I just don’t have a head for such things, I guess.” As she started back to the cashbox, she glanced down. “Why, here it is on the ground. I must have dropped it.” She bent down and went through the motions of picking the coin off the ground, but Glory was certain it had been in her hand all the time. “There you are. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s quite all right.” But Glory was convinced it was all an act—the poor helpless female with two little boys and no head for business—and a very convincing act it was—to anyone but another woman.

“I’ll take my raisin pie now, Mrs. Porter. It’s time I was getting back to work,” Justin said.

“Right away.” But when she turned away, it was to call her sons. “Timothy, Andrew. Mr. Sinclair is leaving. Isn’t there something you want to tell him?”

Both paused to chorus, “Thank you for the candy, Mr. Sinclair.”

“You’re welcome,” he responded, then said to Glory, “They’re really well-mannered kids. If you wait a second, I’ll help you carry the pies to your buggy.”

“Of course,” she murmured, aware that he had provided himself with an excuse to leave with her.

Sarah Porter came back with his pie. Justin paid for it, insisting she keep the change. Glory was seething as he accompanied her to the buggy. She climbed onto the seat without saying a word to him. He stowed the pies away and crawled up beside her. Immediately she slapped the reins, urging the horse into the street.

An uncomfortable silence reigned as they traveled over the crowded trail to the beach. The scene there defied description as men and machines gouged up the sand, creating a confusing network of gullies and trenches and towering sandhills of tailings. Every bizarre contraption ever invented to extract gold was in evidence. Pumps of every kind, windmills, steam engines, grizzlies, and gigantic dredges that resembled some prehistoric metal monster were operated side by side with the more conventional sluice boxes, rockers, treadmills, and long toms—and almost everything was brightly painted with all the shades of the rainbow, giving the scene the appearance of some freak sideshow.

“Wait’ll you taste her pies.” Justin finally spoke up, competing with the roar and the clatter of the chugging machines. “They’re really good. She’s an excellent cook. I’ve been telling her that she really should open a restaurant or maybe a boardinghouse.”

“Have you?” Glory murmured.

It was obvious to her that Justin had sampled more of the widow’s cooking than just her pies. Silently she listened to more praise of the woman’s food, as if he were trying to convince her that was his only interest in Sarah Porter.

“You really have to admire her, coming all this way to a strange place to make a new life for herself and her children,” Justin stated.

“She is an amazing woman. There’s no doubt about that,” Glory declared dryly. “And she seems to be very grateful to you for the help you’ve given her.”

“I didn’t really do all that much—just loaned her some money to buy a few of the supplies and things she needed to start her business.”

“How generous of you, Justin.” Exceedingly generous, Glory thought, considering that he had financed the business, bought candy for her sons, and
paid
for the pies he took; yet in all this time she hadn’t received a single thing from him. It was beginning to look as though Deacon had been right about Justin all along. “I was going to ask you how the beach was paying out, but you must be doing very well if you can afford to loan money to Mrs. Porter. By now, my interest in your claim must amount to a tidy sum of gold.” She had yet to see a single ounce in return for her grubstake the previous summer.

“Actually, we aren’t taking out as much as we were. We’ve tried several new places, but it’s beginning to look like the sands might be played out. Most of the beach has been worked over pretty good. With all these people here and their crazy contraptions for getting out the gold, there’s hardly an inch of space that isn’t being worked.”