Kate moved the rest of the way indoors and closed the door.
She wiped moist palms on her pant legs, then extended her right hand. “I’m Kate Evans.”
The man had a solid grip. “Glad to meet you. George
Parker.”
Kate managed to smile. “I just flew in from Washington State.”
George’s eyebrows peaked. “That’s quite a trip.”
“It is. I flew up the coast. I don’t know that I’ve seen so much green in all my life.”
George nodded. “It’s a pretty flight, all right.” His eyes darted to the window. “You on your own?”
“Uh-huh.”
A moment of awkwardness fixed itself between them. Kate dredged up her courage. “I’m looking for work . . . as a pilot.” Before George could respond she continued, “I grew up flying planes. My dad taught me. I’m a good pilot and—”
He held up a hand, palm out. “I have to stop you there, miss. Sorry, but I don’t need a pilot. Not right now anyways. Even if I did, couldn’t afford one.”
“I’d work on a job-by-job basis—you get paid, then I get paid.”
He studied her and shook his head. “Nah. Just don’t need anyone. Things are slow. Wish I could help.” He shoved his hands into his front pockets. “I’m glad to have you here, though. We can always use more plucky ladies.”
“And how would you know if I’m plucky or not?” Kate tried to keep her tone light, hoping to disguise her disappointment.
“Figure if you flew here on your own, thinking you’d pilot the Alaskan Territory, you’ve got to have spirit, or you’re just plain stupid.” He grinned and then spit tobacco juice into an empty coffee can parked alongside the desk.
Kate liked the notion of being spirited. In a newspaper story she’d read, one of her heroines of the skies, Marvel Crosson, had once been referred to as plucky. “Well, I wouldn’t describe myself as stupid.” She stepped back toward the door. Realizing she had no notion of where to go, she stopped. “Can you give me the name of a hotel where I might stay?”
George rubbed the whiskers on his cheek. “There aren’t many places around here. But we’ve got a fine hotel down on Third. Real nice place.”
“How do I get there?”
“It’s not far. Just follow the road toward the bay, and when you hit Third, take a left. You’ll run right into it.”
“Doesn’t sound too complicated.” Kate grabbed the doorknob. “Do I need to sign in my plane?”
“Yep. And you better tie it off too. Never know when the wind’s going to kick up.” George grabbed a dog-eared ledger from a table and handed it to her.
Kate filled in the information and headed for her Bellanca.
Her bag slung over one shoulder, Kate stood on the side of the road and stared at the hotel. It was nice, too nice. She glanced up and down the street, hoping for something more affordable. Nothing.
Figuring she might as well find out how much it cost, she pushed open the door and stepped onto a thick carpet. Not a good sign for someone needing to be thrifty. She felt underdressed and out of her element, but she straightened her spine and walked toward a counter. She’d probably be heading out the door in another minute.
A clerk was checking in another customer. His hair was slicked down with grooming oil. So was an overly tidy mustache, which seemed to dance above his lip when he talked. He called for a bellman. “Show Mr. Dalton to room 202.”
“Certainly,” a pudgy young man said, taking the key and dropping it into his uniform pocket. He picked up two suitcases. “Right this way, sir.”
The clerk turned to Kate and gave her a critical inspection.
She was suddenly aware of her unorthodox clothing— slacks, a flight jacket, and her knapsack.
He made no effort to disguise his disapproval. “Can I help you?”
Self-conscious, she touched her disheveled hair. “I was . . . just wondering about your rooms.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Can you tell me how much the cost is for one night?”
The corner of his upper lip lifted slightly. “I’m sure more than you can afford.”
Indignation replaced Kate’s discomfort. “Cost is not an issue. I was merely curious. I’ll take a room.” Setting her mouth, she met his eyes with a hard stare.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Certainly.” Moving to a guest register lying open on the counter, he picked up a pen. “Your name?”
“Kate . . . Katharine Evans.”
“Address.”
“I . . . don’t have one yet. I just arrived in town.”
“What was your address before you arrived in our fair city?” His tone was patronizing.
“Three fifty-seven Reservoir Road, Yakima, Washington.”
The clerk recorded the information and then turned the ledger toward Kate. “Sign, please.”
Her anger had fired off so much adrenaline, Kate had to fight to keep her hand steady. She managed to sign her name, knowing it was foolish to stay in such an expensive establishment. She ought to walk out.
“It’s five dollars a night . . . in advance.”
Shock reverberated through Kate.
Five dollars! That’s pure
robbery!
Doing her best to look unconcerned, she took a coin purse from her bag, dug out the exact amount, and set it on the counter.
“You can have room 210.” The clerk handed her a key. “It’s on the second floor.”
“Thank you.” Kate headed toward the stairs, chiding herself. Once again, she’d let her pride get the better of her. She found her room, pushed in the key, and opened the door. Standing in the corridor, she stared inside. The same plush carpet that sprawled throughout the hotel extended into the room. There was a full-sized bed and a bureau. Brocade curtains framed a window where afternoon sunlight slanted in.
The bellman she’d seen in the lobby approached her. He walked as if he were attempting not to wrinkle his perfectly pressed uniform. “Can I be of service?” The chin strap of his cap cut into a double chin.
“No. I’m fine, thank you.” All Kate wanted was rest.
The bellman remained. “How long are you staying in town?”
“I don’t know yet. I hope a long while.”
“Well then, welcome.”
“Thank you.” Kate soaked in his kindness. It felt good. “Do you know where I might find a job?”
“What kind of work?”
“Anything.”
“Heard the general store needs someone.”
“They sell quality goods and pay on time.”
It wasn’t flying, but it was a job. She needed something to hold her over until she found a position at an airfield. “Where is it?”
“About a block from here.” He walked into the room and moved to the window, then pointed up the street. “See, right there.”
Feeling hope stir, Kate looked in the direction he pointed. “I’ll go right away. Thank you.”
He smiled. “Anything I can do, you let me know. My name’s Bill.”
“I’m Kate.”
He headed toward the door and then stopped. “By the way, don’t worry about Howard.”
“Howard?”
“The front desk clerk. I overheard the way he talked to you. He’s got his nose so high in the air that when it rains he nearly drowns.” He chuckled. “He’s new and won’t last long.”
Kate smiled. “I hope not.”
After Bill left, Kate explored her room and was ecstatic to find a clawfoot tub. A hot soak was just what she needed.
She dug her only dress out of her bag, tried to smooth the crumpled linen, then hung it in the bathroom. She turned on the bathtub faucets, hoping the steam would take out some of the wrinkles.
After stripping off her travel clothes, she lowered herself into the hot water, rested her head against the end of the tub, and closed her eyes. Weary muscles relaxed, and sleepiness enveloped Kate in a warm, steamy cocoon. Forcing her eyes open, she picked up a bar of perfumed soap and lathered her body. She washed her hair and rinsed it under the faucet, then climbed out and towel dried.
Kate stood in front of a mirror and studied her reflection. The crumpled dress hung from her tall slender frame. “I look awful,” she said and pulled on a sweater, hoping it would disguise some of the wrinkles. She ran a brush through short bobbed hair, applied fresh lipstick, and then dabbed a drop of perfume on the inside of each wrist. With one more glance in the mirror, she headed for the door. Rumpled or not, she had to go. She needed a job.
A bell hanging from the mercantile door jangled as Kate stepped inside. A balding man, wearing spectacles, stood behind a counter. He squinted as he wrote in a ledger. When she approached, he straightened and looked at her, lifting the glasses.
“Afternoon. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve just arrived in town and was told you might be hiring.” Kate smiled and hoped he didn’t notice the condition of her dress.
“Could be.” He looked at her with interest. “Ever work in a store?”
“No. But I’m sure I can learn. And I’m strong—I grew up on a farm.”
“You look strong, all right . . . for a woman. I need someone who can lift fifty-pound sacks. You think you can do that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Where you from?”
“Yakima.”
“Washington?”
“Yes. My parents own an apple farm.”
“Long way from home. What brings you here?”
Kate wasn’t sure how to answer. If she told him she was hoping to find a job flying, he might not hire her, but she didn’t want to lie. Reluctantly, she said, “I fly . . . I’m hoping to work as a bush pilot.”
The man smiled sympathetically. “Then I guess you do need a job.”
Kate wasn’t sure what to think of that, but it didn’t sound good.
“I need a clerk. The gal who used to work for me took off with her boyfriend, without a word to me or my wife.” He rested a hand on the ledger and looked straight at Kate. “Can you be here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“I sure can. Earlier, if you need me to.”
“No. Eight is early enough.” He smiled. “Guess I better get your name. The missus will want to know.”
“Kate Evans.”
He wrote down the name, then looked at her. “I’m Albert Towns.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You have a place to stay?”
“I’m at the Anchorage Hotel.”
“That’s a pretty classy place. Can’t pay you wages to cover that.”
“I’m hoping to find something less expensive.”
Albert scrubbed his clean-shaven cheek. “We have a room in the back of the store. It’s not much, but it’ll keep you warm and dry. There’s a little kitchen with a sink and a small bathroom. Sofa’s not bad for sleeping. And my wife just painted it.”
“That sounds just right.”
“You want to have a look?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
And right now I don’t have any other
options.
She extended a hand. “See you tomorrow?”
He shook her hand. “Tomorrow.”
Kate strode toward the door.
A job and a place to stay!
I’ve got to call Mom and Dad.
She hurried her steps, hoping the hotel had a phone and wondering how much it would cost to call home.
P
aul Anderson walked along an Anchorage street, taking in the sights and sounds of the community. He lived a mostly solitary life on Bear Creek and rarely came to town, so even something as ordinary as an automobile seemed noteworthy.
He slowed his pace and decided to browse the storefront windows. He stopped at one with a display of jewelry, which included fine watches. Taking out his pocket watch, he studied the gold timepiece, then flipped open the front. It was just after nine o’clock. He closed the watch and then turned it over, running his thumb across the letters
G. A.
engraved on the back. Gerald Anderson had been a good man. Paul could still see his father’s large hands as they snapped open the watch. He’d always been a stickler about being on time.
A breeze kicked up, swirling dirt into the air. Paul slid the watch back into his pocket and continued down the street. A pair of boots in a store window caught his eye. It would be nice to replace his old ones. He glanced down at the toes of his Harvesters and decided they’d do for another year. Summer was nearly over, and he’d soon be switching to fur-lined winter boots anyway.
He noticed a man and young boy standing in front of the next window display. The boy was looking at something, his nose nearly pressed against the glass. The man leaned over and rested an arm across the child’s back. Paul figured they were father and son and felt an ache in his throat. His son would have been about the same age.
Heaviness of spirit settled over Paul as his mind carried him to the what-ifs of his life—if Susan had lived . . . if his son had survived . . . if his home were still in San Francisco. He caught sight of his reflection in the store window. His usual serious expression had deepened into one of misery. Straightening, he lifted his hat to brush thick brown hair off his forehead and looked up the street.
Two children barreled past him. One of the youngsters bumped into Paul, knocking off his cap. He stopped. “Sorry, mister.”
“Not a problem.” Paul reached down and picked up the cap and handed it to the boy.
He planted it on his head, nodded at Paul, and then took off after his friend. Taking in a long, regretful breath, Paul watched them go and wished life had turned out differently.
He headed toward the general store. Might as well complete his shopping and get on home.
The bell announced his arrival as he stepped through the door. He liked the mercantile; it felt homey and always smelled of grains and spices. He removed his hat and scanned the room, searching for Albert or Helen. He looked forward to seeing them. Aside from Patrick, who lived on the property next to his, they were the closest thing to friends he had in Alaska.
Albert Towns set a bag of grain against a wall and straightened. “Howdy.” He moved to Paul and grasped his hand, shaking it vigorously. “Good to see you. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
“Out at the creek.” Paul clapped Albert on the back. “Time to stock up for winter.”
“Summer came and went so fast I barely even got a look at it. Wish winter would hold off for a while.”
“It’s only the third week of August. We’ve still got some summer left.”
“Hope you’re right.” Albert moved to a counter and, taking a pencil from behind his ear, wrote in a ledger. He glanced up. “So, you going to be in town long?”