I do, I do, I do (12 page)

"The only thing that's interested me in over a year is the Klondike." Straightening, he looked down at her. "I need to test myself and find the man I used to be." His raw honesty appeared to make him uncomfortable because he shrugged and abruptly smiled. "Maybe I'll even stumble across a nugget or two."

"I hope you do," she said earnestly, feeling a kinship. They had both lost a spouse dear to their hearts. His wife had died. Her so-called husband had run away and betrayed her. Though she couldn't say so, they had grief in common. Except Mr. Dare was now moving forward, while she was stuck in place.

"Well," he said, tossing the cigar into the sea. "Is Miss Wilder feeling better?"

My, my. He'd made inquiries and had known her name and the names of her companions before he spoke to her. His interest raised a fluttery warmth in her stomach.

Drawing a deep breath, she strove mightily to look sorrowful about what she had to say. "I fear Miss Wilder is dying."

No one could recover from such violent illness. To her shame, Juliette couldn't bring herself to mourn Zoe's imminent demise with any real distress. She hadn't liked Zoe to begin with, and she liked her less now that she'd wiped vomit from her lips, had bathed her, and repeatedly washed her nightgowns. Granted, a woman was not at her best when ill and dying, but Zoe had displayed a shocking lack of gratitude for Juliette's and Clara's ministrations. She had shouted at them, sworn at them, sobbed at them, and ordered them out of the cubicle. Twice she had thrown up on them. Though the thought revealed how swiftly Juliette's character was deteriorating, it would not break her heart to have one less wife to deal with.

Ben Dare's laugh brought her back from a recurring dread of her upcoming turn as nursemaid. "People rarely die from seasickness, although Miss Wilder probably wishes she would. She'll recover almost instantly next week when we dock at Dyea."

It didn't seem possible that Zoe would survive, or that Juliette and Clara could endure another week of sleepless nights and the long, awful stretches struggling to put up with Zoe and her ill-tempered dying, and trying not to breathe in the cubicle.

"I've enjoyed meeting you, Miss March," Mr. Dare said as they both spotted Clara emerging from the staircase. A large wet spot darkened the front of Clara's skirt, and she didn't look happy. "May I visit with you again?"

"Oh, but I'm—" Juliette bit off confiding that Miss March was actually Mrs. Villette. She had promised not to tell a soul.

She wasn't certain how to handle this situation. She was such a novice in matters between men and women that she didn't know, couldn't be sure if Mr. Dare's request was improper. After all, he believed she was unattached. And really, there was nothing unseemly about exchanging a few words. They were no longer strangers, so a conversation wasn't exactly out of line.

Flustered and blushing, she thanked heaven that Clara reached them before she had to decide how to respond.

"She's still alive," Clara snarled. "But only because I didn't have a weapon." She nodded to Benjamin Dare. "I'm Clara Klaus, and you're Mr. Dare. I've heard the captain address you." She turned a stare on Juliette. "It's your turn in hell."

"Clara! Such language!"

"Mr. Dare, I apologize for requesting a favor on short acquaintance, but do you know if there's any liquor on this vessel? And if there is, will you help me get some?"

A rakish grin widened the area where his mustache ran into his new beard. "I believe we could find some whiskey hereabouts."

"Excellent. Due to a certain violently ill viper with whom I am sharing a cubicle very much against my will, I am desperately in need of a drop of fortification. Lead on."

Laughing, Ben Dare offered his arm to Clara, and they started toward the mess hall, leaving Juliette behind.

Bewilderingly, she felt a hard twinge of something like jealousy as she watched Mr. Dare walk away with Clara on his arm. And the thought crossed her mind that by heaven Clara Klaus was not going to take another man away from her.

Good grief. Where had that thought come from? Shaking her head, she stiffened her resolve and headed for the staircase.

Now that landfall was predicted for the day after tomorrow, growing excitement replaced the boredom that had stretched tempers and patience. Drawn by a buzz of loud male voices, Clara turned her collar up around her cheeks to block a chilly breeze and wandered toward the mess hall, looking for something to occupy her until it was again her turn in Zoe hell.

Even before she stepped into the large overheated room, she heard Bear Barrett's booming shout rise above the others. Surprising herself, she hesitated about going inside.

She and Mr. Barrett had passed each other on deck at least a dozen times, and each time he had tipped his hat to her and stared like she was a sight for sore eyes, but he'd made no effort to speak nor had he sought her out in a solitary moment as Mr. Dare had done twice now with Juliette. Naturally she was relieved by Mr. Barrett's reticence as she had nothing whatsoever to say to him because of
Jean Jacques, her thieving no-good sort-of husband. But still, it would have been nice to converse with someone who wasn't complaining or vomiting.

Slipping inside the door, trying unsuccessfully to make herself small and inconspicuous, she took a seat at one of the long tables near the back and listened to Mr. Barrett speaking to the crowd of men gathered around him.

"We'll have as many rounds as it takes to get down to two contenders." His brown-bear eyes flicked to Clara, held a moment, then he leaned against a chalkboard mounted on the wall. "We'll put all names in a hat and draw them two by two until everyone has a partner for the first round of the tournament."

"What kind of a tournament is he talking about?" Clara asked the man nursing a cup of coffee on her left.

"Arm wrestling, ma'am."

She thought about that. "Is there a prize for the winner?"

"One hundred dollars and free drinks for a month at the Bare Bear Saloon." When she looked puzzled, he explained, "That's Bear's place in Dawson City."

So he owned a saloon. In her opinion that was a lot smarter than digging for gold he might never find. You couldn't go far wrong selling food, beds, or whiskey.

Interested, she watched as a man drew names from his hat and Bear wrote the match pairs on the chalkboard.

One hundred dollars.

It was a lot of money for a little bit of labor. Hugo Bosch would stand over a hot skillet for two months to earn a hundred dollars. In Seattle, the average man would work three months to earn the same amount. Throw in free drinks, and the prize probably doubled. Just for winning a silly arm-wrestling contest.

After thinking another minute, she stood and stared at Bear Barrett until he felt her concentration and turned in her direction. Then she mouthed the words, "Can I ask a question?"

"All you cheechakos shut up. The little lady wants to say something."

Little lady. Clara loved it.

Judging by the frowns and mutters wafting her way, interruptions were not appreciated. But Bear Barrett didn't seem to mind. Those brown-bear eyes narrowed and traveled to the open strip between the edges of her cape, then touched at her hips before rising back to her face. He was a bold one all right.

Clara took a good look at him, too. He wore denim trousers held up by red suspenders that crossed the shoulders of a white shirt made from enough material to upholster a wing chair. He was a big, big man, but she could see that most of him was muscle. She could have bounced a cannon ball off his chest.

When the mutual inspection had continued a beat too long, she asked, "Can anyone on board enter this match?"

A grin spread his lips, revealing big strong teeth. "You have someone you want to sponsor?"

"
Ja
. Me."

Laughter erupted, then abruptly ceased when the men realized she was serious. Then two dozen heads swiveled toward Bear.

"She's a woman!"

"It wouldn't be fair! It would be like handing her opponent a free pass to the next level."

"I ain't gonna arm-wrestle no woman."

Bear's gaze locked to hers during the torrent of objections, and she watched him thinking about it. When she saw a twinkle appear, she knew she was in.

"There's a five-dollar entry fee," he said finally, watching to see if the hugely expensive entry fee would discourage her.

The objections erupted into a firestorm of protest while Clara counted the names on the chalkboard and realized Mr. Barrett could offer the hundred-dollar prize and still make money on the tournament. She wished she had thought of this before he did.

Bear shoved a mass of shaggy gold curls back from his face and lifted his lip in a sneer. "Are you sissy boys afraid of going one-on-one with that itty-bitty woman over there?"

Itty-bitty
. Clara almost swooned.

At the end of a heated discussion, the men fell silent and glared at her. She'd heard enough to know they resented her for interjecting herself into their contest. Either they figured her for a pushover or feared being beat by her. Neither outcome mattered since none of them would agree to be her opponent.

"Guess that leaves me, Miss Klaus." Bear gave her a confident grin. "With apologies in advance for taking your money and whupping you."

"You weren't going to enter," someone groused, spitting on the floor in disgust.

Another voice agreed. "You can't enter your own tournament!"

"Well, I'm going to." He raised huge hands to calm the protests. "After I beat her, I'll withdraw."

She'd hoped for one of the little skinny ones. But all right. She could deal with drawing the strongest opponent.

Tilting her head, she squeezed down her eyes and studied him. Strength was part of it, but so was strategy. He was big and powerful and confident, but he was a man. He could be had.

"When's the match?" she asked. It was flattering to notice that he continued to size her up, too.

"The first round starts tomorrow morning after breakfast."

Excellent. She'd have the time she needed.

The cubicle looked and smelled as hideous as it had when she left it. Zoe sprawled on the bottom bunk, moaning, gagging, and looking like death. Tuckered out, Juliette half dozed on the cot.

"I need your help," Clara announced, dropping to her knees to pull out her bag. She told them about the tournament and that her first match was in the morning.

"You did
what
?"

Even Zoe sat up to stare. "You're crazy," Zoe muttered before she flopped down again.

Clara found her extra dress and shook out the wrinkles, holding it to the sputtering lamp. It would do nicely.

"Whatever you have in mind, Zoe can't help. She's still dying," Juliette said in tones of long-suffering patience.

"It will look good on her tombstone to say that she died with a needle in her hand. Get up, Zoe. We need to pool our brains and our belongings, and we need to alter this dress."

Chapter 6