The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 3

  Height. One might even call her statuesque.

  Temperance smiled, exposing a row of blindingly white teeth, which were—of course—also perfect. Even so, something about her grated against Sophia’s nerves.

  “She’s…working?”

  “Yes,” Irene said, without a trace of shame.

  Sophia fell silent. She knew she should say no, should take the money and go. Though not enough to buy a mining outfit, five hundred dollars could buy her passage back to the real world.

  Except her jaw tightened when she thought about slinking back home in defeat. What would she do there, anyway? Scrub laundry until the skin of her hands cracked? Polish somebody else’s floors until she forgot how to properly load a gun? Scrimp and save and die a pauper anyway? She knew all too well about being a woman alone, and she shuddered at the possibilities.

  In contrast, Irene looked relaxed and fulfilled and rich as Croesus. That effortless air of nobility was compelling, and the lure of real money even more so. Money like that could buy her the freedom of a new life.

  “Tell me,” Sophia said, draining the rest of her drink, “how long do I have to decide?”

  Irene’s answering smile glowed with confidence. “I’m in no rush, sweetheart. Take all the time you need.”

  JUNE, 1898.

  4. Temperance.

  At midnight, with a yellow blush still lingering on the wide Klondike horizon, Temperance stepped into church. As always, the broad windows and hushed stillness offered a silent welcome. God’s nearness coursed through her, a surge of warmth.

  Sighing with contentment, she glided up the aisle and tightened her cloak. Out of respect, she wouldn’t reveal what lay underneath. Not here, anyway.

  The wooden pews gleamed warmly in the fading light, and Temperance settled on the foremost bench. A single worshipper sat nearby, his head bowed. Clasping her hands, she followed suit.

  Her lips moved through the first prayer, which never varied. Lord, keep watch over my little sister, who lives in your care. Tell Peony I love her, and that I’m sorry.

  Hesitant, she chose her next words with care. She disliked asking for things for herself, but every once in a while…

  Father, I also ask that you bless the work I do tonight. Please, lead me to one who needs me. It’s been too long since I’ve been of service to another, and without that, I am a woman without purpose.

  Breath held, Temperance sent the prayer winging upward. A moment later, peace suffused her, and she let a small smile blossom. Now she had only to await an answer.

  A few feet away, the lone worshipper regarded her.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  He nodded, his expression somber. Silken light angled through the windows, illuminating coal-black hair and eyes so vividly blue they seemed to lance out from his face. “Good evening, Miss.” His consonants rounded at the edges, rising and falling in a cadence that wasn’t quite Canadian.

  Clean-shaven and neatly attired in mackinaw trousers and a blue woolen overshirt, he was still fresh from the Outside, one of hundreds of newcomers since Chilkoot Pass had thawed. Yet his troubled countenance meant he wasn’t just another cheechako chasing rumors of easy money. No, this man grappled with something larger. The bruised hollows beneath his eyes and the tense slant of his shoulders spoke of hardships deeper than those of gold and fortune.

  Hope folded around Temperance like a warm embrace. For weeks, she’d been searching, but the only wounded soul she’d found—the new girl—didn’t want any help.

  She scooted closer, careful to keep her cloak gathered tight. “Welcome to Caribou Crossing, stranger.”

  His mouth quirked. “Is this so small a town, that you know everyone on sight?”

  Temperance shrugged. She came in contact with more men than most, but he didn’t need to know that yet. “You don’t look wild enough to have been here long.”

  He studied her as if he understood precisely what she meant. As if he knew what the cold and the isolation and the silent, endless wilderness did to civilized men. “No, I suppose not. Thank you for the kind welcome.”

  Suddenly, the lilting music in his words made sense. “You’re Irish.”

  Smiling flatly, he offered a hand. “So I was. A long time ago, now. I’m Connor O’Cahill. Of Ottawa, most recently. And you are…?”

  She shook his hand. “Temperance Hyacinth. Of Salt Spring Island.”

  “You’re Canadian, then?”

  “As the day is long.”

  “It’s as long as can be, up here.” He fell silent as the last washes of twilight gleamed in his raven-dark hair.

  Temperance’s heart quivered, emitting a half-formed whisper—this, right now, is a moment of grace. She tilted toward him. “What brings a man like you to the end of the world? You’re no miner, if I’m not mistaken.”

  He frowned, either at her proximity or her boldness. “No. That I am not. Yet I’d have some difficulty explaining my purpose here. I hardly understand it, myself.”

  “You made an awfully long journey. It must’ve been for a reason.”

  “I’m here to answer a question, I suppose.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Anguish crossed his features like a fleeting shadow. His gaze roved toward the windows. “I want to know…when a man’s been broken, can he ever put himself back together? Can a shattered soul ever be mended?”

  Temperance’s breath fled as iron conviction solidified—this was the man she’d prayed for. For all that God worked in mysterious ways, sometimes He liked to be obvious, too. “It sounds like you have a story, Connor O’Cahill. And not a happy one.”

  “No,” he said simply.

  She smiled tenderly, offering her sincerity. “Well. As it happens, mending people is a specialty of mine. Maybe I can be of service. Would you consider coming with me?”

  ***

  On the other side of Caribou Crossing, Temperance arrived to find the saloon’s sheer red curtains already drawn. Inside, oil lamps glowed, sending scarlet beacons out into the muddy churn of Paradise Alley.

  Open for business.

  As Connor trailed behind her, she prayed he didn’t know what the ruby light spilling from the windows meant. He seemed like the proper type, not one to set foot in a brothel.

  With a deep breath, she plunged through the Blossom’s front door, straight into a chaotic swirl of rough laughter and silky cigar smoke. Across the parlor, the piano sang beneath Palmer’s capable fingers. On stage, Annie’s red hair flew as she belted out explicit lyrics. The new girl was nowhere in sight—probably upstairs.

  Weaving through the crowd, Temperance took a place behind the bar.

  Connor followed, but his hesitation showed. He settled on a stool, casting dubious eyes over the lavish purple finery and crowded gambling tables. “I’m not the kind of man who frequents places such as these.”

  Pulse quickening, Temperance asked, “Places such as what?”

  His gaze roamed. “Dancehalls.”

  A sigh of relief escaped, but the raucous cacophony swallowed it. Just as well. Once she shed her cloak, he’d understand exactly where he was, and judging by the hard set of his mouth, he was already considering fleeing.

  “Whiskey?” Stalling, Temperance plucked two bottles from the shelf, then poured herself a drink from the one with the chipped bottom. The tea, cold and robust, would keep her clear-eyed well into the far-off hours of morning.

  From the second bottle—real whiskey, this one—she topped off Connor’s glass. “On the house, honey. Welcome to the Yukon.”

  He downed the drink, wordless.

  She poured again. “And to mending broken souls.”

  His jaw worked before he tipped his head back again. The ease with which he swallowed made her think he was no stranger to the bottle.

  He cleared his throat. “This is no dancehall, is it?”

  Temperance was many things, Lord knew, but she certainly wasn’t a liar, and she despaired over the truth alread
y hovering on her lips.

  There was no help for it, though.

  “Don’t leave,” she said, peeling her cloak off and bundling it beneath the bar. Warm, smoky air drifted against her exposed shoulders. “Please.”

  Connor’s eyes darkened. She knew what he saw—the gauzy fabric of her bone-white dress hugged every curve, and in the oil lamps’ soft shine, her bare ebony skin glistened as if she’d bathed in gold dust.

  Yet scant clothing and soft flesh held no invitation for a man like Connor. She knew that simply by looking at him.

  “You’re of the demimonde,” he said.

  Half-world. A politer term than most men used, at least.

  “What were you doing in church? No, never mind.” Voice rough, Connor turned away. “I’ve no need of what you’re selling here.”

  “Wait.” Temperance caught hold of his wrist and held on, even when he lowered his eyes to stare at the fingers circling his arm.

  How could she explain? How could she tell him the raw burn of his torment drew her like a lure? How could she make him understand that she devoted her entire being to helping people like him—the lost, the lonely, the broken—and that her profession was only a small part of that purpose?

  How could she tell him he needed her, and that she needed him?

  “I’m more than you think.” She pitched her voice low, speaking with urgency. “And I’m not trying to sell you anything, least of all myself. I promise you.”

  Connor tugged at his wrist. “You’ll be letting me go now, Miss.”

  “Just know, first, that you’re not alone. That place you’re lost in right now—that world of darkness, with an ocean of pain and loneliness trying to swallow you up—I’ve been there, too. I barely escaped. But I can tell you, from one survivor to another, that you don’t need to stay. There’s a bright and beautiful life out here, waiting for you, if you care to find your way back.” She captured his gaze with her own. “And if you do, I can help you.”

  “And why would you be wanting to do a thing like that?” In the lamplight, his eyes glittered like newborn stars, raw and electric.

  A fist clenched around her heart, as it always did when she thought of her dead sister. “Because I did something awful, once. Something that changed my life. I couldn’t make it right afterward, so this is how I atone. This is how I apologize. I can never restore the balance, but I can try, at least.”

  He stared, his face alight with agony and hope.

  Her world narrowed to the width of a single moment. Dimly, she noticed Palmer’s song shift while, across the parlor, Annie strutted on stage. Yet everything faded as Connor leaned in.

  “You’re aware, Miss, that you’re breaking the law here, are you not?”

  Miraculously, Irene’s silken voice saved her from a response. Madam appeared in a froth of violet lace, looking like royalty.

  “Officer,” Irene purred. She pried Temperance’s fingers from Connor’s wrist and offered him an aristocratic smile. “Pardon my girl, here. I’m afraid she gets a bit…passionate, sometimes. I’d hate to think there might be a misunderstanding about the nature of our business here.”

  “Officer?” Temperance chased the weak question with a swig of tea—anything to quell the sudden turmoil in her chest.

  Connor gave a cursory salute, his expression stony. “Corporal Connor O’Cahill, of the North West Mounted Police.”

  In the stillness that followed, Temperance’s lungs contracted painfully. She’d brought a lawman into Irene’s brothel. Even worse, she’d sent Connor drifting out of reach, just when she’d glimpsed a chance of reaching him.

  He eyed Madam, considering. “I uphold the law, wherever it needs upholding. No matter the circumstances.”

  Irene met his gaze with steel of her own. “Then you’d best visit one of the houses down the way. I hear they’re selling more than just liquor and dances with their girls. Believe me, Corporal, I may be an American, but I’m well aware of Canadian law, and I run my business accordingly. I’d never jeopardize my girls’ livelihood by asking them to do anything illegal. And if the Blossom shuts down, they have nowhere else to go. This isn’t exactly the kindest corner of the world for women on their own.”

  Connor’s jaw worked as he digested Madam’s words.

  Temperance held her breath, hoping for leniency—after all, Irene had spoken mostly truth. If the Blossom closed, she’d be adrift and alone. The other houses treated their girls with notorious cruelty. Without the Blossom, she’d have no vocation and, even worse, nobody to help.

  The Corporal cleared his throat. “I’m a man of the law, Miss…”

  “Blumen,” Irene supplied.

  “Miss Blumen. If I’m ever finding anything illicit about your dealings here, I’ll not hesitate to bring you in myself.”

  “I understand,” Madam said. “And I assure you, there will never be a need for that.”

  Connor stood, a lean pillar of solemnity amidst a sea of chaos. Finally, he gave a curt nod and shouldered through the crowd and out into the night. Temperance watched his retreat with a leaden heart.

  Madam pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “Sweetheart. Whatever possessed you to bring a Mountie into my house?”

  Temperance watched the door, willing Connor to reappear. “I’d never seen him before. I had no idea.”

  Irene sighed. “He just transferred up from Ottawa.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I make it my business to know every police officer in this town. Everything I’ve built here depends on the lawmen ignoring us. But that’ll be difficult if you start adopting Mounties for your strays.”

  “Strays?”

  Irene waved a jewel-encrusted hand. “These hopeless souls you bring in here to rehabilitate.”

  Despite the tightness in her chest, Temperance managed a smile. “You realize you do the same thing, right?”

  “Maybe. But I stick to women. They generally don’t have the power to turn us out into the cold. So do me a favor, will you, sweetheart? No lawmen in my house. Please.”

  Temperance deliberated. Usually, plying her trade at the Blossom was enough. When miners spent too long up on the stakes and went half-mad in the frigid isolation of the wilderness, the simple warmth of her touch reminded them of their humanity. Yet lately, some deep and primal part of her ached for more.

  Connor had been the answer to that prayer.

  Irene called out over the crowd. “Professor. I need you at the bar.”

  From his piano stool, Palmer looked up through the haze of cigar smoke and noise. His fingers never faltered, nor did the jaunty melody waver.

  Temperance watched. She’d never grasped how he played such impossible-sounding songs without even looking. Then again, there was a lot she didn’t understand about Palmer. Like why he refused to cut off mid-song, no matter the circumstances.

  “Why don’t you take the night off?” Madam said, her voice gentle. “Clear your head.”

  Disappointment and longing collided in Temperance’s chest. She wanted to help Connor—needed to, even. Yet she would not, could not, put the Blossom at risk. Not when Madam had done so much for her.

  Eventually, Palmer’s fingers slid into a cascade of upward arpeggios. One last, high note mingled with the blue tobacco on the air. With his long braid swaying, he came to man the bar.

  Madam urged her up the stairs. On the landing, though, Irene looked down and stopped. Her hand flew to the banister as she steadied herself.

  Temperance followed Madam’s gaze in surprise. “What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know.” Madam anxiously patted her flawless coiffure. “But I intend to find out. Just see to yourself, sweetheart.”

  As Irene disappeared back down the stairs, Temperance shrugged off her questions and made her way to the end of the corridor. In her spare, secluded bedroom, she plucked a well-worn Bible from her nightstand and sank to her knees.

  God would give her guidance; He always di
d. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder, as she flipped through the pages and lowered her finger blindly on a verse, why the Lord would’ve put her in Connor’s path if He hadn’t wanted her to help him.

  She looked down. Her finger marked Isaiah 37:34.

  By the way that he came, he will return.

  She closed the book and let out a slow breath. So Connor would be back. For better or for worse.

  5. Sophia.

  As the piano downstairs went silent, Sophia stared at the ceiling. All around, the bedsheets glowed white, still warm from Swiftwater Rob’s performance.

  Swiftwater. An apt nickname—he’d taken all of five minutes. Easiest money she’d ever made.

  “What’s your name?” he murmured, sated.

  “Sophia.” She lifted his arm away from her middle. “See yourself out, will you?”

  He gave a slow blink. “Don’t you wanna canoodle?”

  “Not unless you’re paying extra.”

  At his stung look, she prepared to eject him by force, if need be. But he pulled his clothes on and tipped his hat readily enough. Relieved, she didn’t watch him go, just donned a chemise and stretched, steeling herself to go back downstairs.

  That part had gotten easier, at least.

  In her four weeks at the Scarlet Blossom, Sophia had made more money than in the lifetime before that. The work had been impersonal and invasive at first, but she’d come to think of it simply as work. Nothing more. She’d learned to distance herself from the act, to drift from her body. To go someplace else, where the empty cavern in her chest filled, coin by coin, with gold.

  And if she occasionally thought of the stranger she’d encountered that first day in Caribou Crossing, it was only because she wondered why he’d chosen the patron saint of the unwanted and unloved as his mascot, as she had. But since she would never find out, she put him from her mind whenever he wandered in.

  All that mattered was the money.

  A commotion out in the hallway interrupted Sophia’s reverie. On the other side of the thin bedroom door, Madam’s voice rose, strident and angry.