The stillness of the brightly sunlit night increased his need for caution. His cabin would have seemed deserted if his mare, tied to the post just beside the dog yard, hadn't lifted her head and softly whinnied at his approach. The dogs had been kenneled with the Han several weeks ago in preparation for his leaving, and were not there to whine and bark for his attention. The hour was late and quiet surrounded his small rough home; he knew she was asleep, most likely curled up in his bed.
Pausing at the door, he rested his hand on the latch. He'd left instructions for Kyle to secure the cabin once he and Lizzie started for Rabbit Creek. Glancing around, he realized Kyle's horse was gone. He'd had left her alone. Or taken her with him. Either way Kyle would have some hell to pay when Jake caught up with him.
Suddenly thoughts of Lizzie hurt, even dead, alone in his cabin raced through his head. What if Kyle had been forced to ride for help? What if they were both dead, the horse stolen?
The door pushed open easily and Jake rushed in, stopping abruptly in the center of the room, his eyes scanning the floor for bodies or damage. The rhythm of his racing heart filled his ears and despite the cool night, a clammy sweat broke out on his face and arms. Nothing. The room was quiet and as he had left it. It was then he allowed himself to cross to the far corner he kept dark during the summer months with a heavy curtain hung from a rafter. He hadn't realized he'd stop breathing until he pulled the curtain back and air rushed back to his lungs.
Lizzie lay sprawled a top his bed, pillow held tightly in her arms. Her hair, still damp from washing, fanned out down her back and shoulder. She would have needed help rinsing her hair, it was so long and tightly curled. He'd been in the village while she cleaned up. He added one more item to the ever growing list of reasons to kill Kyle Anderson.
Suddenly he was drained, exhausted, all the adrenaline from the days' events gone. Fatigue, dull and heavy, settled over him. He relaxed, allowing himself to watch her. The subtle rise and fall of her body as she breathed stilled him. His mind went blank, no thoughts, no ponderings, no dwelling on the future, looking for a way out or his next move. But here, now, Lizzie at rest in his bed, all seemed right in that moment. He moved toward her, still not thinking, aware of her only, the warmth and comfort she offered, the need for rest, and the overwhelming urge to lie beside her and sleep.
He carefully lowered himself onto the bed, and as soon as his body stretched out beside hers, she rolled over and into his arms, her head resting on his chest. She sighed deeply and draped an arm across his waist. His hand slid up her arm and slipped beneath her wealth of gold curls. He cradled her head in his wide hand, marveled at the deep sense of satisfaction that coursed through him. She was beautiful, and fit perfectly beside him. He didn't spare a thought as to the why of his sudden surge of gentleness. He pressed his lips to her forehead and she hummed softly in response.
Somewhere out there, in a stream bed or a mountain side, a vein of gold as deep and wide as ever found waited for him. He could hear it calling. He watched the woman in his arms sleep, wondered at the mystery of his dreams of her. The Wealth Woman, sent to lead him to great riches. To keep it, according to the Inuit legend, he must catch her.
Still sleeping, she slipped her leg deftly over his and he gripped her closer. Did this mean he'd caught her? Did he dare keep her?
"But Mr. Healy," Lizzie pleaded. Mr. J.J. Healy of Healy's Supply gave a grunt and crossed his arms. "If you don't know when my father arrived or where he's staying, you must know someone who would." She hesitated but he made no move to answer. She hadn't wanted to play her hand so soon, in case things were not as they seemed. "A Mr. Smith, perhaps?"
Healy looked decidedly bored, "Jake Smith you mean? Yeah he'd be a good one. Knows everything around here, even stuff he shouldn't. Why don't you ask him?"
"But where would I -"
"Miss Madigan, why don't you ask me?" The voice was quiet, deep and intimate, spoken almost directly into her ear from behind. She knew that voice. But it couldn't be him. Yet, it was a small town.
He was so close. Lizzie could feel his warm breath against her neck, the inviting heat from his body, and knew that a half step backward would have her back pressed against his chest. An unexpected thrill shot through her from toes to fingertips. Hands tingling, her mind muddled for a moment, she squeezed her eye closed and wriggled her fingers. She took one deep breath to steady herself, and turned to face her rescuer.
She stared directly at a broad chest covered in a thin deerskin jacket. The heady masculine odors of leather and bay rum overwhelmed her senses. A large, warm hand gently lifted her chin. She looked squarely into the dark brown eyes of the man who had, only hours before, held her cold vulnerable body against his own. She could still feel his chest beneath her hands. This was Smith? The man her father wrote to, with such sentiment and love, as if he was a long lost son. Who was he?
As he fixed his gaze on her, she saw that his eyes were not as dark as she had first thought. There were flakes of green and gold throughout the rich mahogany brown. It had to be a trick of the poor light in the store. She could spend hours searching his eyes. For what? She didn't know and suddenly it didn't matter.
What had been the look in his eyes when he held her that morning, trying to warm her body with his? She caught the fierce heat rising from him. It had been the same earlier, despite his time in the cold river. His arms had been solid and strong as he held her tightly to him. Her breath caught at the memory and her breasts felt heavy, tight against her woolen blouse. She wanted, no, needed to feel him again. The safety and excitement she felt when she was near him made no sense. But if she dared she would have leaned ever further closer to urge him to hold her with the same urgency as he had that morning. Although, it occurred to her, it would be difficult to feel much of anything with all this cloth and leather between them.
"Miss Madigan."
She blinked and shook her head a little in an attempt to rid herself of the ever more intimate visions in which she had become utterly lost. In return, he gave her a wicked smile. Her face flushed instantly. Was she so transparent he knew what she had been thinking?
"Perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere?" He placed his hand over hers. It was then Lizzie realized her hands rested on his chest-- his decidedly warm, hard muscled, male chest.
"Oh!" She quickly pulled back and danced several steps away from him.
"I am so sorry but the journey, not to mention that little swim of mine this morning that you so kindly saved me from-"
His arms were crossed and he relaxed into his stance as if he was patiently waiting for her to finish babbling. Lizzie detected a slight bit of indulgence in his manner toward her, or was it condescension? She must get control over herself or she will have failed before she had even begun. With her best "all business" self in place, she attempted start over.
"You? You're Mr. Smith? Jake Smith?"
The corners of his eyes softly creased. His smile eased into a grin. However boyish he looked at the moment even she, who had a very bad record reading men, could tell he had more than boyish pleasures on his mind. She bit her bottom lip, tugged at it, and desperately tried to focus on why she was here. He was not making this easy, and she was sure he knew it.
"I don't usually admit so readily to my identity but in this case, I think I'd lie if I weren't him," Jake Smith said, his eyes leisurely considering her.
"Oh. I see." She didn't know how else to respond. But his eyes, the way he was looking at her, she may as well be laid out before him. It unhinged her and even worse, she felt herself responding to him in a very foreign way. She'd been engaged to be married for goodness sake. Moments alone with Howard hadn't been all that frequent but certainly she'd been in his arms, she'd been kissed. But she had never been this confused. Her very core ached with need, but for what exactly? She didn't dare examine it. Why wasn't she peppering him with questions, demanding him to take her to her father? She knew she should but all she could do was watch him breathe. He was so very good at that. In fact, she didn't think she'd ever enjoyed watching a man breathe before. But his chest rose and fell, his lips soft and slightly parted, and...her father. As impossible as it was, she had honestly forgotten her father for a moment.
If this was the Jake Smith her father had been coming to see, he would likely be useless to her in her search if she turned into a complete idiot every time she tried to talk to him.
"Miss Madigan is it?" He said her name like he was just comprehending it. He cocked his head a bit to the side and considered her, but not the way he had been. The atmosphere between them changed somewhat, grew more cautious, less heated.
Oh but, Dear Lord the man was gorgeous. His black hair reached his shoulders, the ends curled ever so slightly. He seemed at once familiar but that, along with everything else in her life since her father left, made little sense.
"You're Sean Madigan's-"
"Daughter." She relaxed. He was her father's contact. Everything was fine and now this man was going to take her to her father. How good to know he was a heroic man. Obviously he was the sort to be there when he was needed. She felt her mood begin to lighten, a smile escaped her earlier unsettling fear.
"Why are you here?" He said.
Gone was his warm, seductive manner. His expression was hard, suspicious. Her brief moment of glorious relief fled and dread, once again, stole her heart.
"To see my father?" She had meant to say it as a statement but it came out a timid question.
His confusion at her response was clear and it was a long moment before he spoke.
"Well, he's not here. Never has been and I don't expect he ever will be."
Two months she had spent aboard first an ocean steamer and then a river boat. She'd been ill for the first three weeks. She barely ate or slept. But she had been certain her father would be waiting for her when she arrived. She had been absolutely certain. He wasn't here. Jake Smith was being completely forthright. It was obvious and he had no reason to be otherwise. She couldn't mistrust a man who had risked his own life to save hers. Nor could she doubt a man her father had so obviously trusted and even held dear.
"Miss Madigan?" His voice seemed to come from a distance.
If her father was not here then he was truly missing. She was a thousand miles from home, from the place her father was last seen, from where she should be looking for him or at the very least be waiting for news from him. If he needed her, he would be unable to reach her. If he was not here, something was horribly wrong and she had no doubt her selfish reasons for leaving Seattle had caught up with her and the punishment may well be her father's life.
She tried to focus on Jake Smith who had slipped from her view though he had remained in front of her.
"I've made a terrible mistake."
She immediatley pushed past him and rushed from the store to return to the dock, to do whatever she had to in order to get out of the Klondike, to get back to her father or at least those who could help her find him.