to.”
“Surely the police will have something to say about that.”
Sheridan laughed. “This isn’t England, Mrs. MacGillivray. Or even the Yukon. There’s one marshall here, and he does what Soapy says.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Soapy wasn’t really asking you to take up whoring,” he said.
“I am sure that will come.”
“I can see a fine lady such as yourself wouldn’t want to be a whoremistress neither.”
“No.”
“You need a man to take care of you, Mrs. MacGillivray.” The words tumbled out of his mouth. “Fiona. You and that fine looking lad of yours. Marry me and Soapy’ll leave you alone. He respects marriage, Soapy does. And ... And ... I think you’re the finest woman I ever have seen. Why ...”
“Good heavens,” I said.
“Does that mean yes?” His eyes sparkled with joy.
I walked away. Leaving Paul Sheridan standing in the mud of the street, rainwater falling on his battered hat.
Chapter Ten
For the rest of the day, everywhere in Skagway I went, people looked me in the eye and said they couldn’t help me. No one had premises to rent. The real estate office man told me every plot in town was sold, although he seemed to be doing a roaring trade with everyone else who stopped by.
I was approached by one gaunt young woman, who scratched constantly at her armpits and crotch and spoke to me with breath like an abattoir. She’d be happy, she said, as I tried not to breathe too heavily, “to come work for you and Mr. Soapy.”
I considered Smith’s offer.
For about five seconds.
I had been controlled by a man once, and I wasn’t much older than Angus is now when I swore I would never allow myself to be so again. I had come to Alaska to make an honest living, to have my son living with me and to be proud of me.
This theatre Soapy was proposing would be nothing but a front for a prostitution operation. If they even needed a front. It seemed like the law didn’t much care what Mr. Smith got up to.
When I’d been an apprentice pickpocket, I roomed with a group of whores in Seven Dials, one of London’s worst slums. I knew what a foul, exploitative, violent business it is. Illegal, immoral or not, I wanted no part of it.
I was most certainly not going to be a madam for the likes of the woman who had accosted me on the street.
No one in Skagway, probably in Dyea either, would offer me what I needed to set up a business or to find employment. Other than Soapy Smith.
Which meant I would either have to marry Mr. Paul Sheridan, or return to Vancouver.
Neither option appealed to me.
I went back to the restaurant with the sign on a pair of trousers and took a seat to consider what I was going to do now. There would be no trouble getting passage south. Boats were arriving day and night, dumping cargo and passengers and returning almost empty.
I sipped at my tea, which I suspected was more seaweed than leaves grown on the verdant green hillsides of India.
A man came in and took a seat in the corner. He was small and rat-faced, with greasy hair, a mouthful of grey and broken teeth, and skin marked with the memory of childhood acne. He ordered beans and bacon in a rich Glasgow burr, and hearing the sounds of my homeland brought a brief smile to my heart.
“Would ye be Mrs. MacGillivray?” he said to me.
“What of it?” I snapped.
“Just asking,” he said. “Ye’re the talk o’ the town, ye ken.”
I humpfed and sipped my tea.
“Ye talk like an Englishwoman but ye’ve a good Scots name.”
“I am a Scotswoman,” I said. “I lived on Skye when I was a child.”
He pushed his chair back and came over to my table. I looked at his ugly face and saw nothing but a man homesick for Scotland. He held out his hand. “Ray Walker. Of the Glasgow Walkers.”
I laughed and accepted his hand. “Why don’t you bring your plate over, Mr. Walker, and join me. But I warn you, being seen in my company might not be good for your business prospects. Unless you work for Mr. Smith. Do you?”
“No, Ma’am. I do not.”
He dug into his food and I sipped my disgusting tea.
“What are your plans, Mr. Walker?” I asked.
“Heading for Dawson tomorrow, ma’am.”
“Prospecting?”
“No. Mining isn’t for me. I’ve a mind to open a bar. Lots of men passing through town, they need someplace to drink.”
“I hope you don’t run into the likes of Mr. Smith.”
“Not likely to. They say the Mounties keep Dawson a law-abiding town. Keep your nose clean, they’ll leave a man alone to mind his own business.”
I nodded. “Sounds like heaven.” I finished my tea, and Ray Walker pushed his empty plate to one side. We stood up and walked outside together. A light rain was falling, making everything even muddier and more depressing than it had been.
I held out my hand. “I wish you luck on your journey, Mr. Walker.”
His own hand was rough and scarred. It felt warm and welcoming in mine. “And you too, Mrs. MacGillivray. If I may give ye some advice, Skagway isn’t a place for a lady such as yourself.”
“So I am beginning to realize.”
We both looked up at a shout. Angus and his two companions were running down the road toward us. My son was caked in mud from top to toe. About the only thing recognizable was his big white smile.
I decided, at that moment, I would do whatever necessary in order to keep him with me.
The three laughing boys ran in circles around us.
“Hi, Ma,” Angus shouted.
“Ma. Ma,” his friends repeated.
“Good heavens,” I said. “What happened to you?”
“He fell.” One of the boys dropped to the ground and rolled around, presumably imitating Angus. When he stood up he was almost as muddy as my son.
“Are you going to introduce me to your friends,” I said.
“Sure. This is Bob and that’s Bob.”
“They’re
