Page 78 of A New World for the Irish Daughter

Brendan kissed her back with more urgency, his hand slipping from her cheek to her bare shoulder, their bodies pressed together, and then with a regretful laugh, he eased her away from him, pulling the blanket back over her.

“You’d better get some clothes on,” he told her shakily. “Hopefully there’s still something dry in the boat you can wear.” He smiled wryly. “And we’d better be able to find a preacher in Dawson, because it won’t be a moment too soon!”

CHAPTER 39

Dawson had been a settlement of less than five hundred souls only a year ago, and now it numbered in the thousands.

Like Juneau, albeit smaller and rougher, its muddy streets were lined with a motley mix of dwellings—log cabins, tin-roofed shacks, tents, and the odd more dignified structure with a wooden facade. The streets themselves were full of prospectors—some who had already struck it rich, others who were desperate to strike out and find the yellow dust for themselves.

After five hundred miles on the Yukon, it felt strange to tie up the boat and walk into Dawson’s trading post, where miners brought their gold to be weighed, and paid sky-high prices for the few necessary staples on offer. Maggie had no idea what she looked like; although her dip in the Yukon had washed her clean, she hadn’t looked in a mirror in over a month. It had been a week since her accident, and after two days in Hootalinqua, where Brendan had repaired their boat, they’d journeyed on.

He’d insisted she get out at Five Finger Rapids, and as there were no pilots to be had, he’d had to navigate them by himself. He’d lost a sack of potatoes and a couple of pans when the boat went over a particularly high swell, but, otherwise, he and the craft had remained unscathed.

And now they were no more than a handful of miles from Danny and her da, the endless river behind them.

They’d agreed that first they needed to find her father and brother, and after that they’d tend to the official business of getting married. A week on from that first kiss, Maggie’s feelings felt as solid as the mountains all around them, and she knew Brendan’s were, as well. All the doubt and fear she’d once felt had vanished like the morning mist over the river. All she felt now was certainty… and love.

“O’Halloran?” The man at the trading post scratched his cheek. “They’re out by Hunker Creek, aren’t they? Haven’t seen them in a while, though. Couple of months.”

“How far is Hunker Creek?” Brendan asked, and the man shrugged.

“Twelve, fourteen miles up the Klondike? You have to walk it, though. Can’t paddle upstream.”

“All right,” Brendan replied easily. “We’ve paddled enough as it is. A walk might be nice.”

The man eyed them curiously. “You come down the Yukon?”

“We surely did,” Brendan answered with a laugh.

He whistled in appreciation. “Not many women can manage that. I guess you aren’t a couple of cheechakos, are you?”

Maggie laughed at that. She felt both exhausted and exultant now that they were here, but the anxiety for her father and brother still swirled through her stomach. “Wewere,” she told the man. “But thank you.”

They took what they needed from their dwindling supplies and stored the rest at the trading post, pulling the scow up on the shore, and then they started to walk.

It was a pleasant day, the breeze chilly but the sun warm, as they walked along the fast-flowing Klondike River toward where it met with the smaller Hunker Creek. The man at the trading post had told them the O’Hallorans had a claim about a miledown the creek; they’d built a cabin right by the water, the second one you’d come across, walking from Dawson.

“A little too close to the creek, if you ask me,” he’d added. “But those two never seemed like they knew what they were doing.”

“But they have plenty of pluck to make up for it,” Brendan had said quickly. He’d glanced at Maggie, who had tried not to show her growing dread and fear. What if her father and brother really were dead? If they hadn’t been seen in months… and it had now been over twomonthssince the Inuit had come upon them. It seemed an unfathomable amount of time for her brother to be suffering from a broken leg, her father and brother both near to starving.

“There’s no point to worrying,” Brendan told her gently as he caught her hand in his. “We’re almost there, Maggie, and soon we’ll know.”

“Yes.” She squeezed her hand. “Yes, we will.”

It took them the rest of the day to walk to Hunker Creek, a small stream, especially in comparison with the mighty Klondike, whose gentle waters possessed a greenish tinge. They passed one cabin, a grizzled-looking man knee-deep in the stream with a sluicing box. He gave them a suspicious look as they passed.

“We’re looking for Declan and Danny O’Halloran,” Brendan called. “Have you seen them?”

“Those fools?” The man spat in the water. “No more sense than God gave them, that’s for damned certain. They’ve been holed up in their cabin all summer. Declan comes out on occasion to dredge, but I ain’t see the boy in months. Maybe his da killed him.” He let out a laugh. “Wouldn’t blame him, either. That boy had a mouth on him, and he was lazy to boot.”

Maggie exchanged a nervous glance with Brendan. That sounded like Danny, she thought, but it didn’t sound good.

“Where’s their cabin?” Brendan called over, keeping his voice friendly.

“Next one over. About a quarter-mile more.” The man turned away, intent on his sluice box, and Maggie and Brendan kept walking.

“You’d think they’d be friendlier, since they hardly ever see a soul,” she remarked once they’d passed.