The Pride of Hannah Wade (46 page)

“If all you want is a woman, I’m not interested.”

“It’s a wife I want.”

She shook her head. “I know what it’s like to just live. A halfhearted thing kills a person inside. If you don’t feel anything for me—“ She couldn’t finish the sentence. “I have so much to give you, I don’t dare start. It would hurt me too much.”

Cutter smiled. “That time I kissed you—I don’t think you could call that halfhearted.” He watched her eyes darken and the unconscious sway of her body toward him. His arms went around her to gather her in, the warm weight of her body pressing against him. Her upturned face was close.

“Will you never regret marrying a woman who once lived with the Apaches? Will it never bother you that I’ve been a squaw?”

His kiss held all his answers. There was no holding back of anything—not the pain of the past, nor comfort, nor love, nor the mysteries before them. The sun blazed down on them, but it was another heat that they felt.

“I have to go back to the fort.” A small tremor shook the hand that touched her cheek. “I want to do what I can for John T. when he comes up on charges. Afterward, I’ll be back to take you to that valley.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Dear Readers,

One of the questions people always ask me is “Where did you get the idea to write this particular book?” With the book I’ve just completed,
THE GREAT ALONE,
the answer is easy.

Approximately six years ago, Bill and I flew to Alaska to research the backgrouod for a small romance I planned to write with an Alaskan setting. From somewhere—-either from watching Hollywood movies, or reading Jack London’s
Call
of the
Wild,
or hearing stories about Eskimos and igloos, or seeing pictures of oil drilling on the North Slope—I had the impression that Alaska was a frozen wasteland where people went around bundled in parkas all year long.

But the Alaska I found that September six years ago was green—winnowers grew everywhere and whole mountain-sides were covered with forests of golden birch. I was absolutely stunned by the incredible, magnificent beauty of Alaska. Bill and I traveled through the whole United States, but Alaska was unquestionably the most beautiful of all the Fifty.

That trip to Alaska was an eye-opener for me—to more ways than one. While I was gawking at the scenery, Bill was gathering research material—material that I read in the evenings when I wasn’t marveling at the Northern Lights. Again I was stunned. I had been let down by Hollywood, the adventure novels and television.

But worst of all, I’d been let down by my American history teacher. Oh, I knew that we had purchased Alaska from Russia. But I didn’t know Russians had lived in Alaska for more than a hundred years before the purchase of ‘Seward’s Folly’—that the Russian capital of Sitka had been called the Paris of the Pacific’ when San Francisco was little more than a

From the moment some six years ago, my curiousity was piqued. The more I delved into Alaska’s past, the more I found a history rich in human emotions and high drama. All the stories were there-of triumpn and trageay, grcect ana glory, rape and revolt, boom and bust, the godly and the godless, A history constantly repeating itself with the lure of gold—whether it was the ‘soft gold’ of the sea otter pelts sought by the Russian fur hunters or the yellow nuggets of the numerous gold rushes or the ‘black gold’ of the oil strikes. A story virtually unknown. All that was left to do was to tell it.

Tackling this novel was an awesome task, ‘requiring both mounds of research to assure historical accuracy and many months of writing. And in telling the story of seven genera-tions of Alaskans—of over 200 years of dreams and desires, love, loss and renewal—the book took on a life of its own, growing into the longest and most ambitious novel I had ever written.
THE GREAT ALONE
is the result. And I’ve never loved working so hard in all my life.

I’m proud that Poseidon Press will be publishing
THE GREAT ALONE
in hardcover in line of 1986, I’m so excited about it, I wish I had it ready for you to read right now, but since I don’t, I’ve selected one of my favorite scenes from the novel to share with you on the following pages.

I sincerely hope that you get as much enjoyment out of reading
THE GREAT ALONE
as I did in writing it, and I’ll look forward to hearing from you when you get to read the

S
INCE THE STEAMER WAS EXPECTED TO BE AT DOCKSIDE FOR
several hours, off-loading supplies and taking on more full, Justin Sinclair took advantage of the opportunity to look around the old Russian town and stretch his legs a bit. Lord knew, he’d had few chances to see much of anything in his twenty-two years. What sights could a man see from the deck of a fishing boat? He swore that when he struck it rich in the goldfields of the Klondike, he was going to eat nothing but meat, rle never wantea to smell anotner nsn again, lie nated fish and he hated the sea. His father was welcome to both, but he wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life stinking like a fish.

Other passengers aboard the steamer had disembarked ahead of him, obviously sharing his intentions. A group of Indians, mostly squaws, crowded around them, trying to peddle their goods, which ranged from niiniature totems carved from wood to silver bracelets and Indian blankets. Justin Sinclair shoulderd his way through the bodies, firmly shaking his head in refusal to every object thrust in front of him.

Once free of the throng, he paused to look around and get his bearings. A perfectly cone-shaped mountain rose in the distance. Snow still frosted the cratered peak of the extinct
volcano, maiang tt stana out tnat mucn more snarpiy against toe Hoe, ctoud-stadded sky.

“Could you tell me where that ship is going?” The question was asked by a woman, her voice oddly accented.

Justin vaguely recalled mere had been a woman standing on the fringe of the crowd at the wharf. He’d noticed her mainly because she had looked so dowdy, dressed in a drab, dark-colored dress, a dark wool shawl around her shoulders, ing her hair. But mis woman’s voice sounded young. Justin turned curiously, surprised to find the voice belonged to the woman he’d noticed earlier. His interest faded sharply. It’s headed for Mooresville.”

Have you neara tney ve discovered gold on tne otner siae of white Puss in the Klondike region of Canada?” Again the voice betrayed a youtntui vigor.

“Yes, I know.” Justin took another look at her, but it was difficult to see her face. The scarf mat covered her hair was pulled forward, obscuring her eyes as she gazed at the vessel tied up to the dock. Then she turned her head to look at him. He was startled by her face. Her complexion was smooth and shone with the lustre of an abalone shell, and her eyes were like large nuggets of shiny black coal.

“Is that where you’re bound?”

“Yes.” He would have stared at her much longer, but she turned away again to gaze at the steamer. “I wish I were going.” She spoke so softly that Justin knew she hadn’t intended him to hear it, so he pretended he hadn’t. “Do you live here?”

“Yes.” She pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, and seemed to withdraw into herself.

“I have a few hours to kill before the ship sails. I thought I’d look around the town. One of the hands on the ship told me this used to be the old Russian capital of Alaska before we bought it. Maybe you could show me around.”

“There isn’t much to see.” The shrug of her shoulders seemed to express her dislike. “Some broken-down old buildings, a church, and a cemetery. There is little else.”

As he glanced toward town, he noticed the green-painted spire of a church, topped by a peculiarly shaped cross. “I’ve never seen a cross like that. What kind of church is it?”

“That is St. Michael’s Cathedral. It is of the Russian Orthodox faith.”

“Why does the cross have that slanted bar at the bottom?”

“When the Christ Jesus was put upon the cross, His feet rested on the lower bar. At the moment of His death, His weight tipped, it to one side.” Her dark eyes gleamed like obsidian. “You should go inside the church. All the gold ornamentation and silver icons are very beautiful.”

Justin noticed die suggestion was not offered with any religious fervor. “Why don’t you show me the inside of the cnurcn:

Again she drew back. “No, I couldn’t go there with you.” She shook her head.

“Why?” His curiosity was aroused by this unusual young woman, one naa sucn an extraorainary iace tnat ne wonaerea

“My aunt might see me with you.”

“Naturally she wouldn’t approve of you being seen with a strange man,” he pessed. “We can correct that situation. My name is Justin Sinclair, formerly from Seattle. And you are—?”

An impish light danced in her eyes. “Marisha Gavrileyna Blackwood. And
I’m
afraid you don’t understand.”

“Marisha Gavrileyna. Are you Russian?” He wondered if that was the source of the faint accent that gave her speech its distinctive sound.

“Russian, American, Indian—I’m a little bit of every-thing.”

He was a little surprised by the open admission of her mixed ancestry, aitnougn it certainly maae me situation easier for him. At least now he knew what kind of woman he was dealing with.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Sinclair, but I must go.”

As she took a step away from him, he laid a restraining hand on her arm, feeing the coarse torture of the wool shawl. “Why? We aren’t strangers anymore. I’m Justin and you’re Marisha. How could your aunt possibly object now?”

“My aunt objects to all men. She says they can’t be trusted, that they only bring pain. My father ran off before I was bom
and took everything my family had. She insists that all men are tarred with the same brush.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“She died when I was eleven.”

“How old are you?” It was impossible to judge her age—all he could see was her face.

“Nineteen. Already I’m an old maid—like she is.” Bitterness flashed across her face, hardening the set of her lips. “There aren’t many bachelors in this town and she’s managed to chase away the few that have come calling.”

“Where is she now?”

“At St. Michael’s, cleaning. I’m supposed to be working in the garden, but I slipped away to come down here.” The corners of her lips twitched with a smile as she made the admission with no hint of remorse. “She’ll be furious when she finds out.”

“Is this where you usually come?”

“No. I just wanted to see the ship and find out where it was going.” She gazed longingly at the steamer.

“Since I’m not doing anything and your aunt
m
already going to be mad at you, why don’t you take me to the place where you usually go when you sneak off from your aunt?”

She studied him for a minute, as if assessing the degree of risk. Justin didn’t doubt for an instant that this aunt of hers bad practically kept Marisha under lock and key, but she obviously had a rebellious spirit.

“This way,” she said and started off.

Walking swiftly, she skirted the edges of town and led him along the southern shoreline facing the Sound and its scattering of small islands. Most of the time she kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might be watehing. Only twice did ne nonce ner glance around to see
a
tney were being observed. They were on the outskirts of town and nearing the forest when she finally slowed down.

“They call this path the Governor’s Walk,” she told him. “Supposedly Baranov used to walk along here.”

“Who’s Baranov?”

“Alexander Andreivich Baranov was the first Russian governor of Alaska. Actually, he built Sitka. There used to be a big old mansion on that knoll we passed. It was known as Baranov’s Castle, but it burned down three years ago. Do you
see that big rock by the shore just ahead of us? During his tost days here, they say he used to spend hours sitting there, gazing out at the Pacific. Guess what it’s called.” “Baranov’s Rock.”

“Yes.” She laughed and ran ahead to the boulder.

There, she stopped to kan against it and gaze out to sea. atare as ne nugnt, tne neavy snawi ana toe voluminous material of her dress made it impossible for Justin to tell if she was plump or if her clothes merely made her look

As he approached the rock, the beach gravel crunched underfoot. Although she didn’t turn, a slight movement of her head indicated her awareness of his presence while she to took at the wide stretch of island-studded

“In the spring, when die herring come into the bays and inlets to spawn, the Tlinget Indians wait until low tide, then spread hemlock boughs on the exposed them down. The herring deposit theireggs on the branches.

You should see it, “she murmured. “The boughs took Mke tney re coverefl wmt mousanos or peans, “It must be something.” But fish was about the test subject

“It is.” She sighed and pushed away from the rock. As she turned toward him, she reached up and began tugging at the scarf knot under her throat. “I hate this
babushka.
It me feel like a
babushka.”

“What’s a
babushka?”