The Great Alone (59 page)

“Well put, Mr. Tarakanov.” Ryan laughed. “But the American way of doing things is called the free enterprise system. Everybody is free to make as much as they can—and spend as much as they want—and work as much as they have to. You can’t sit back and wait for the other guy to pass you the plate. You’ve got to go out there and grab for yourself. That’s how you get rich.”

“There is much more to democracy than merely the commercial gain,” Gabe hastened to add. “It’s a very civilized form that protects the rights of the individual. We have the opportunity here in Alaska to improve the social and economic conditions for everyone. Someday this territory is going to become one of the states in the republic. It’s a new land. Its very name Alaska means ‘great land.’ Why, we can make this the greatest state in the whole United States of America.”

“And, Mr. Tarakanov, this man hopes to be governor of the great state of Alaska someday.” Ryan gestured toward Gabe. “I say that in case you didn’t guess from that speech he just gave.”

“Is this possible?” Nadia wondered, staring at Gabe with new interest.

“It’s possible. In America a man can hold any office. I could even be elected President. I do have some friends in Washington, D.C.” Gabe attempted a diffident shrug of his shoulders. “Maybe in a few years I might even get appointed territorial governor.”

“I think you would make a wonderful governor, Mr. Blackwood. I hope I will be there the day it happens,” Nadia murmured.

“I hope you will, too.”

Demurely she lowered her lashes under his ardent gaze. “By then you will have forgotten about me.”

“No. I shall never forget my Russian princess. It is my fondest wish that you would be there at my side.” Which was the closest Gabe had come to openly declaring himself since he’d been seeing her during the last month.

Aware that Gabe’s interest was solely for the young woman at his side, Ryan engaged her grandfather in conversation, questioning him about the old days. He feigned interest, nodding and tossing in an “Is that right?” or “You don’t say” here and there, but he followed little of the old man’s lengthy ramblings. His Russian-accented English was much too thick to be easily understood.

By the time Ryan’s breakfast order was slapped onto the table in front of him, the Tarakanovs had finished their tea.

“Nadia Levyena, I know you have no wish to deprive your young man of your company, but your mama will worry that we are so long away, and I have bored Mr. Colby enough with my talk,” her grandfather announced. “There is still the marketing we must do.”

“Grandpa is right. It is time we go,” Nadia admitted reluctantly, rising from the bench and stepping clear of the table. As Ryan politely stood, Gabe quickly came to his feet. Nadia turned to Gabe, her market basket in hand. “I must thank you for the tea.”

“Your smile is all the thanks I need,” he insisted. “With your permission, I would like to call on you this evening.”

“Your company would be most welcome.” She inclined her head in a graceful nod, but her proper reply couldn’t mask the quick glow of pleasure that came to her face.

After the Tarakanovs had taken their leave, Ryan sat down to begin eating his stack of molasses-covered sourdough pancakes, but Gabe was slower to return to his bench seat. As the bearded, aproned man came around with the coffeepot, Ryan held out his tin mug for a refill.

“Ain’t you Colby what has the Double Eagle saloon up the street?” the man asked.

“The same,” Ryan acknowledged.

“I’m a miner by trade. Had me some claims along the American River. You can take it from a professional, this here is gold country. Come first melt, I figger to get out in these mountains an’ find jest where it’s hidin’. I’m just killin’ time workin’ here in this hash house o’er the winter whilst I put myself together an outfit. S’not, ya understand, that I’m greedy. If’n I was t’ have a pardner that’d back me, I’d be gen’rous ’bout givin’ him a cut in the mine, ’specially if’n he was someone like you, Mr. Colby.”

“I don’t throw my money away grubstaking prospectors.” Although a gambler, Ryan considered the odds being offered too long.

“I’m an experienced miner,” the man protested indignantly.

“Not interested.” Ryan set his cup on the table and picked up his fork, giving his attention to the plate of flapjacks.

“When I make my strike, you’ll remember this day an’ kick yorself for the chance ya lost.” The hash-slinging prospector stalked away from the table.

“Everybody’s out to strike it rich,” Gabe declared with a shake of his head.

“You make it sound like a crime, barrister.” Ryan shoveled a forkful of pancake into his mouth.

“Everyone’s looking to see what they can gain from this territory. They don’t seem to realize the opportunity we have to build something here. There’s more to life than profit.” He sat hunched over his coffee mug, a troubled frown clouding his face.

“It’s for sure no one can accuse you of being a shyster, but I’m beginning to wonder if you’re a fool.”

“Why would you say that?” Gabe demanded.

“How many offers have you had to buy that office of yours on Lincoln Street?”

“A few.”

“And each one higher than the last.”

“Sure, but I have my office there and I sleep in the back room. You were the one who urged me to buy it. You claimed it was an ideal location.”

“Because the property fronting the main street in town was bound to rise in value. And the prices have soared. But you’d better think about unloading it before they drop.”

“I didn’t buy it with the intention of selling it.”

“Then you are a fool.” Ryan grimaced in wry disgust.

“Why does it make me a fool because I plan to hold on to it?” Gabe challenged.

Ryan leaned forward. “This place is booming right now, but it isn’t going to last. One of two things is going to happen. Either it’s going to level off or it’s going to go bust. Why take a chance? Make your money while you can.”

“That’s what you’re doing, I suppose.” Gabe Blackwood struggled to control his anger.

“You’re damned right. I’m going to make my fortune and get the hell out of here. You wanta stay, then that’s your choice. But take my advice and make yourself some money while it’s to be had. You can still do your good deeds, like helping those squatters and not charging them a fee.”

“They weren’t squatters. They were homesteaders. What this town needs is fewer people whose only interest is in getting rich quick, and more God-fearing people like the Johnsons and the Tarakanovs.”

“The Tarakanovs?” Ryan arched an eyebrow in vague surprise.

“Yes, the Tarakanovs.” Gabe bristled at the inference, his fair skin reddening with anger. “I suppose you think Nadia’s grandfather is a fool as well, simply because he doesn’t endorse your particular brand of aggressive commercialism.”

“Not at all,” Ryan replied, stabbing another bite of pancake with his fork.

“Well, I should say not. You have only to look at old Mr. Tarakanov to know that he comes from a fine, upstanding family. Those proud Slavic features of his say it all.”

Ryan halted in the act of raising his fork, letting it pause midway to his mouth. It occurred to him to correct Gabe’s obvious misconception as to Wolf Tarakanov’s origins. The blue eyes might be Russian, but his features were unquestionably those of a breed. He carried the forkful of food to his mouth, electing to remain silent, deciding that if Gabe wanted to believe the Tarakanovs were pure Russian, that was his business. He had tried to help the man before, but it was evident Gabe didn’t appreciate it. And he had nothing to gain by straightening him out on this point.

But he was mildly amused at how Blackwood’s infatuation with this Nadia had blinded him to the extent that he saw what he wanted to see and nothing more. The man was a dreamer, and Ryan wondered if maybe that wasn’t worse than being a fool. Reality had a way of shattering dreams.

Nadia bent close to the mirror, turning her face this way and that, searching for imperfections with the help of the high flame of the lamp wick. Straightening a little, she licked her fingertips, then slicked the sides of her golden brown hair, flattening them more closely to her head.

But she was still dissatisfied with her appearance. She wanted so much to look beautiful for Gabe Blackwood when he came. Just thinking about him, she experienced a little rush of excitement that quickened her pulse.

All afternoon she’d been recalling his remark that maybe someday he’d be governor here and trying to imagine herself as his wife, presiding over the dinners and fetes as she’d seen Princess Maria do. The prospect thrilled her. And he had called her a princess, she remembered, and said he wanted her at his side.

Feeling terribly daring, she took out the small wooden box that she kept secreted away in the second drawer. She removed the drawstring pouch hidden inside. In the pouch was a square of wool saturated with white lead and chalk. Carefully Nadia dusted her face with the “Spanish paper,” using it sparingly so it wouldn’t be too noticeable.

“What are you doing?”

Nadia jumped guiltily, her heart seeming to leap into her throat as she jerked her hand downward, trying to conceal the patch of whitened wool, but it left a faint powdery trail in the air. Some of her panic eased as she realized it was only her sister.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people, Eva. You startled me.” Hurriedly she tried to stuff the Spanish paper back in its pouch.

“What have you got there?” Eva peered around Nadia before she could get it back inside. Her little sister gasped loudly. “You powdered your face. Mama says only bad women paint their faces.”

“That’s nonsense. Aunt Anastasia powders her face, and she isn’t a bad woman.” As Nadia pulled the drawstrings taut, a little puff of white came from the bag.

“Is that who gave it to you?” Eva asked, wide-eyed.

“If you must know, yes!” Nadia returned the pouch to its box, then hesitated before returning the wooden box to its hiding place in her drawer. “Don’t you say a word about this to Mama. She wouldn’t understand.”

“Can I wear some?”

“When you are older, you may.” She tucked the box in a corner of the drawer, then hesitated and turned to her sister. “When Mr. Blackwood comes tonight, I don’t want you to say one word to him about the Kolosh or any of the Indians. He isn’t interested in your silly stories.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t like Indians.” She studied her reflection in the mirror and adjusted the drape of the shawl on her shoulders.

“Doesn’t he like you?”

“Of course he does.”

“But you are part Indian like me.”

Nadia whirled away from the mirror and caught her little sister by the shoulders, bending at the waist to stare her in the eye. “I am Russian. So are you.”

Eva cringed. “But Grandpa says—”

“I don’t care what Grandpa says,” Nadia declared angrily. “He is old and he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Indians are those natives who live in the Ranche. They don’t believe in God, and they don’t know how to read or write. Their houses have no furniture. They don’t have beds; they sleep on the floor like animals. We are not Indians, and don’t you ever say that again!”

“I’m sorry.” Eva contritely bowed her head.

“Nadia?” As her mother appeared in the bedroom doorway, she released Eva and straightened quickly. “Mr. Blackwood has arrived. I believe he wishes to see you.”

For an instant she stared at her mother’s faintly teasing smile, conscious of the wild fluttering in her stomach. She swung back to the mirror for one last inspection. “Do I look nice?”

“I am certain Mr. Blackwood will think you are beautiful. Come. He is waiting.”

As her mother retreated from the doorway, Nadia said to her younger sister, “Mind what I said.” Then she hurried after her mother, furiously biting her lips to make them appear red.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A March wind prowled outside the wood-frame house, seeking a crack in the mortises and howling its frustration. A heavy cloud cover created a false twilight, necessitating the early-afternoon use of oil lamps. Their yellow flame-glow cast an amber light on the windowpanes.

A fire burned in the parlor hearth, radiating heat into the room. From his chair positioned close to the warming blaze, Wolf stared at his sons and their families, all gathered together in this one room, some sitting, some standing, the younger ones perched on laps or squatting on the floor. Only his daughter, Anastasia, was missing. She had sailed with her husband this past December on a ship bound for Russia.

That almost forgotten need to belong was suddenly strong within him again. He was a Tarakanov. He belonged to the family. His strength came from their numbers. A voice from the past echoed in his mind.

“They always leave.” He murmured the words old Tasha had whispered long ago.

“What did you say, Papa?” Stanislav’s voice dispelled the poignant recollection.

“Nothing.” He shook his head, trying to shake off his melancholy and rouse himself. “Your news saddens me, Stanislav Vasilivich.”