I do, I do, I do (28 page)

Duty overcame Bear's pleasure in a good brawl. Someone had to get those women out of this before they got hurt. He tried shouting Clara's name, but the din was so loud his voice got lost in the noise. Throwing people out of his way, he fought toward her. By the time he reached her, she was facing away from him and another man lay writhing at her feet.

He tapped her shoulder and shouted her name.

Instantly, she turned. In the same fluid motion she stepped into him and brought her knee up hard between his legs. The ground shook beneath his body when he went down.

He saw her eyes widen and her hands fly to her mouth before pain exploded behind his eyes and between his legs. Damn it, she'd done it to him again.

Brooding, Bear sat hunched in front of his tent, staring at the flames of his campfire. Never in his life had he met a woman as magnificent as Clara Klaus. It was his profound bad luck that she was a respectable type. He had nothing to offer a respectable woman.

Even so, he couldn't get her out of his mind, couldn't stop watching her. Now that the days were considerably shorter, he'd developed a habit of standing in the darkness and observing as she and her companions ate their supper. He positioned himself so he could watch the firelight or lantern light flicker across her splendid skin. Now he knew that she preferred her own cooking, had learned that she constantly tucked a truant strand of hair behind her left ear. When she laughed, he smiled in the darkness. When she frowned or sighed, he wondered why and sometimes dared to hope that she sighed over him.

"We need to talk."

Well, speak of the devil and here she was. And she wore the hat he liked best, a winter green felt worn on top of a scarf that came down over her ears and tied beneath her chin. All he saw of her hair was a fringe of red curling on her forehead.

"Now why would I want to talk to you?" he said, as though he was still upset at her. But he waved her to a camp stool. Watched her fuss with the folds of a short walking skirt made out of brown duck. The color almost matched her coffee-and-cream eyes.

"I've come to offer my sincere apologies." The peachy tones in her cheeks were lost to flames of embarrassment. "I didn't know it was you. When you grabbed my shoulder, I reacted instinctively and I just…" She waved a mitten. "It's taken two days for me to find the nerve to come and speak to you."

He'd known she would. That's why he'd paid a king's ransom to get his hands on six bottles of German ale. He fetched two bottles out of his tent and brought them back to the fire.

"Apologies are drinking occasions."

"Thank you." Her eyebrows soared. "
Mein Gott
! Where on earth did you get this?"

He studied her, wishing he was more respectable or that she wasn't. Wishing he could forget her. Wishing he'd never seen those amazing breasts.

"For years I'm going to be hearing snickers about how you bested me at arm wrestling, then beat me up in a brawl."

"I am truly sorry."

"No man alive can claim to have beat me in anything." Clara Klaus was the only person who had ever put his arm on the table or his body on the ground. When he thought about it, he didn't know whether to laugh or swear or worship at her feet. But one thing was certain. He'd have to whip every man in the Klondike to restore his reputation.

But then, he could do that and he would enjoy it. So he might as well forgive her. But not immediately.

"How is Miss March feeling?"

"She's stronger every day. Mortified that several hundred men might have glimpsed an inch of exposed flesh." Clara smiled and shook her head. "She doesn't remember much about what happened. If Mrs. Eddington hadn't told her, Juliette wouldn't have recalled that Mr. Dare warmed her under the blankets with her completely naked, and him mostly so. She won't see him. Won't come out of the tent. But aside from some sniffling and sneezing and a huge dose of humiliation, she'll be fine."

They drank the rest of the ale in silence, eyeing each other and listening to the camp noises. Bear liked it that she hadn't asked for a glass, but drank out of the bottle like an ordinary person. She had some exemplary qualities for a respectable woman.

Still, she was nothing but trouble for a man like him. That's why he'd been avoiding her and why he was mad at himself for slipping around in the darkness to watch her. He couldn't stay away from her.

"I need to say some things," he said at length. If she kept gazing at him with those clear, steady eyes, and he kept fantasizing over her ripe strawberry mouth, he would do something he'd regret. Since he seemed to lack the willpower to forget about her, he'd have to make her take the initiative and wash her hands of him. It was time for her to understand that he was not husband material. There was no future here.

"
Ja
? I'm listening."

Bits and parts of her reminded him of food. He didn't know what that meant. Her eyes were light coffee, her skin peachy, she smelled like apples. Her mouth made him think of strawberries. Her breasts were like melons. He wanted to taste every inch of her, wanted to nip and lick and suck and savor, wanted to make a meal out of this delectable woman. It would be a long time before he forgot about her.

"I keep thinking about you." He stared at her, every muscle tense and hard as stone. "In fact, I've been sneaking around in the dark just to look at you."

She blinked. "You are spying on me?"

"I guess I am. I didn't want you to know because you're no good for me, and I'm no good for you."

"Why do you think that?" She took a swig off the bottle, gazing hard at him as she swallowed.

"I own a saloon, Clara."

"I know. The Bare Bear. You won it from Jake Horvath."

"What would your father say about you keeping company with a saloon owner?" He knew the answer. Her father would object.

She surprised him by shrugging off the question. "Papa owned an inn. It was mine after he died. I imagine he'd see some similarities between your saloon and our inn."

"You own an inn?"

"I
used
to own an inn," she said, her chin coming up. A suspicious glare flickered in her eyes. Why, he couldn't guess. "I don't own anything now."

"What kind of an inn did you own?" The news didn't entirely startle him. He'd never been able to picture her sitting around wasting time with fancy needlework or china painting.

"One of the best of its kind. We didn't sell liquor, but we sold bed and board. We served the best food on the Oregon coast, I'm proud to say."

He drank the rest of his ale and thought a minute before his shoulders slumped. "It isn't the same. I don't guess you had nightly brawls at your inn. Or rinky-dink piano and cutthroat card games. I don't guess you had whores looking to make a buck off your customers," he added, watching her.

She was quiet, as he had expected she would be. Getting ready to jump up and march off in offense that he'd mentioned the whores who worked out of his saloon.

"I'm thinking. And I'm wondering—do the whores pay you part of what they earn?" she asked calmly, astonishing him.

"No," he answered when he could speak. "I charge them fifty cents a throw to use the rooms over the bar."

"How many—throws—does each whore have each night?"

He could not believe he was having this conversation with her. Or that she hadn't flounced away, never to speak to him again.

"It varies," he said finally. "With most of them, my take runs a dollar a night. Sadie usually pays six bits."

"Well, now. Let's see." Sucking in her cheeks, she looked up at a gray sky. "Adjusting for the Yukon's inflated prices, it probably costs you fifty cents per room for cleaning and laundry, would that be about right?"

Disbelief clouded his brain, and he didn't answer for a minute. "I suppose so."

"Bear," she said, lowering her head to look at him. "You have to stop renting rooms to the whores. You have to send them somewhere else."

"No, Clara," he said softly, almost sadly. It had taken her longer than he would have believed, but she'd reached the point of taking offense, as he'd known she would. "I'm a businessman in the business of owning a saloon. Whores are part of saloons. I don't expect a woman like you to understand, but I'd be foolish to close down a profitable side of the business."

"I understand perfectly because I'm a businessman, too." She pushed the ale bottle into the snow, then leaned forward. "But you're not making a profit. You're losing money."

"What? How do you figure that?" If she'd jumped to her feet and started dancing the cancan, he couldn't have been more surprised than he was at the turn this conversation had taken.

"Well, do the arithmetic. You're making fifty cents a night from everyone but Sadie. Sadie pays a bit more."

"No, I'm making a dollar a night from each whore."

"I'm talking after expenses. It costs you fifty cents a night to maintain each room. But if you turned them into regular hotel rooms, you could charge, I don't know, five or six dollars a night, maybe more, and your expenses would stay the same. You could earn four or five dollars a night for the same room."

His mouth fell open, and he stared at her. Then he sprang to his feet, paced, and swore steadily.

She was dead-on correct, and damn his hide, he'd never seen it, had never questioned an existing situation. Jake Horvath had made the deal with the girls, and Bear had simply continued Horvath's arrangement. The only flaw in Clara's argument was the price of a hotel room in Dawson City. He could get twelve dollars a night without changing a thing. If he spiffed up the decor, he could charge twenty bucks a night. Hell, the Grand Hotel two blocks from his saloon charged thirty-five bucks for a room. When the Grand opened, everybody in town had laughed and said no one in his right mind would pay thirty-five bucks for a place to sleep. Everybody in town had been wrong. The Grand Hotel filled to capacity every night of the week.

"I'll make a fortune with this idea," he said in a voice that turned husky when he gazed down at her. She was smiling and her eyes glowed with pleasure. My Lord, this was an amazing woman. "I could kiss you in gratitude." he said, giving her another opportunity to see his rough edges and stamp away.

Her smile widened, and she tilted her head in a manner that impressed him as almost coquettish. "I think you're too much of a gentleman to ruin my reputation by kissing me in public where everyone can watch."

Good Lord. His knees almost buckled. She wasn't stomping away, and she wasn't saying no. She was saying: Don't go kissing me in public.

Immediately his brain exploded in joy then feverishly began sorting through places in camp that might be private. And rejecting them all. Inside his tent was private, but the instant she stepped in there with him, the news would fly through camp, and her good name would be shot to smithereens. If he took her hiking, that, too, would be noticed, and besides, they could be seen on the barren mountainsides. He couldn't think of anyplace they could go that wouldn't compromise her.

Standing, she arched an eyebrow and gave him a long speculative look that made his chest tighten and his privates stiffen. What she could do with one lazy look ought to be outlawed. He wanted to grab her, jump on top of her, and roll around in the snow kissing her, among other things.

Finally she lowered her eyes, smiled, and walked away from his campfire without another word.

Some might have glanced at her and seen a ball of clothing with boots at the bottom and a green felt hat on top. But he saw an armful of woman with curves where there ought to be curves and muscle where there ought to be muscle. He saw the only woman who had ever made him feel less than invulnerable. She had bested him twice. That made her the most fascinating creature on earth.

Sinking down on his camp stool, his mind aflame, he studied the ale bottle she had pushed into the snow and thought about her mouth pursed around the lip of the bottle. Lord. Then he forced his thoughts to privacy. Where to find some.

Almost at once, his cabin at Lake Bennett sprang to mind. He made supply runs often enough that he'd built a cabin at the point where the Dyea and the Skagway trails converged. By the time he reached Lake Bennett, he was damned near desperate for a real bed instead of sleeping on the ground or on a camp cot that was too short and too narrow for a man his size.

His cabin would be very private. A wide grin curved his lower face, then he tilted his head back and shouted happily at the sky.

Now all he had to do was wait for Crater Lake to freeze solid, then hurry himself and Clara down to Long Lake and then Deep Lake, then Linderman Lake, and finally to the shore of Lake Bennett. Four weeks from now, five at the latest, he'd be licking strawberry syrup from those sweet lips.

"Has Ben come by recently?"

"You told us to tell him that you didn't want to see him," Zoe said, reaching deep for patience.

Juliette dropped back on her cot, her arms swinging off the sides. She stared up at the stovepipe exiting through the vent. "I need to express my gratitude, but I'm too embarrassed to see him. Do you think it would be unforgivably rude and improper if I just sent him a thank-you card? I sent the other two men a card. And there's a thank-you card on your cot and on Clara's."

Only Juliette would pack thank-you cards into the wilderness. "I don't claim to know the fine points of etiquette, but Ben did save your sorry life. And at great cost to his own. He could have drowned trying to rescue you, or he might have caught pneumonia afterward. It seems to me that he deserves something more personal than a thank-you card."

Actually the thank-you cards didn't surprise Zoe, not after watching Juliette dispense little notes of appreciation to anyone who did her a favor or a courtesy. She had delivered thank-you cards to the late Mr. Coleman, who had given her a piece of licorice, to the man who let her cut in front of him during the climb up Chilkoot Pass, to Mrs. Eddington after Mrs. Eddington gave them the dough-cake recipe, and to the Chilkat responsible for transporting her outfit. The Chilkat couldn't even read.