Page 31 of Echoes of Twilight (Dawn of Alaska #4)

31

B ryony held the dainty teacup to her lips and took another sip, ignoring the book in her lap as she stared out the library window. Mountains and water filled the large, west-facing glass. It was a view she’d never tire of—and one she would sorely miss once she was back in Washington, DC.

Her journal lay spread on the table before her, with her favorite pencil she used for sketching lying beside it, but she had yet to put the pencil to paper.

She wanted to soak in as much as possible about this wild, rugged land, and she couldn’t do that with her eyes glued to the page.

It was foolish, really. She’d probably be able to sell her sketches of Sitka the moment she got back to Washington, DC. She wouldn’t need to wait for Mikhail to write a letter to a publisher for that. People in America couldn’t seem to get enough of this vast frozen land.

But still, she couldn’t bring herself to pick up her pencil. Couldn’t bring herself to think of anything other than the wild mountains surrounding her and the man who understood them.

What was Mikhail doing right now? Had he even thought of his promise to write to a publisher on her behalf? She sighed. Probably not. He was surely busy spending time with his family.

And she couldn’t blame him. They had seemed so excited to see him when the Aurora docked, so filled with love and concern for him.

She couldn’t imagine what it might feel like to have such a large group of people excited about something she’d done. Her father and brother loved her, sure, but not in the same way Mikhail’s family seemed to love him. Not in the same way Mikhail loved them back.

She took another sip of tea, moistening her suddenly dry mouth. Had Mikhail even thought of her since they parted ways at the wharf? Because all she could seem to think about was him.

And this was why she never should have let him kiss her. Because all she could do was think about the way it felt to have those strong arms wrapped around her. All she could do was remember the way his scent had filled her senses while she’d been pressed against him. All she could?—

A soft knock sounded on the library door, and Bryony turned to see Rosalind enter, her golden hair piled elegantly onto the top of her head. “Father is asking for you in his study.”

“Me?” Bryony blinked. “Is it about the expedition?” She stood and headed toward the door.

Rosalind offered her a small smile. “I would assume so, but I can’t say for certain. Father doesn’t share business matters with me.”

No, she didn’t expect he did. But it seemed strange that Mr. Caldwell would want to talk to her. She’d assumed he would talk to her father and Heath and Dr. Ottingford. The governor had spent all of yesterday afternoon at the house, and the five of them had been cloistered in Mr. Caldwell’s office for hours.

So why did he want to talk to her?

She stepped into the hallway, repinning a few loose strands of her hair as she allowed Rosalind to lead her down the stairs to her father’s study.

Rosalind raised her hand to knock on the door, then stilled, her brow drawing into a dainty little frown.

Voices floated through the heavy wood, and only then did Bryony realize why Rosalind had paused.

“Who do you think the next secretary of the interior will be?” It was her father’s voice, rusty and coarse, floating through the door.

“I suspect Jameson or perhaps Arnold,” Mr. Caldwell answered. “Why?”

“Jameson is a widower, is he not?” Again, it was her father talking, and she stepped closer to better hear the conversation.

Rosalind’s fist was still poised to knock, but Bryony reached up and wrapped her hand over it.

Rosalind looked at her but didn’t seem to need any other explanation. Instead, she let her hand drop to her side.

“Yes. Jameson is a widower.” The voice that answered was different from Mr. Caldwell’s but still somewhat familiar—the governor. “And Arnold isn’t faithful to his wife, though I’m not sure you’ll find that information useful.”

“I don’t,” her father answered. “Bryony needs to marry, so unless Arnold’s wife up and dies between now and next summer, a secretary of the interior with a mistress or two doesn’t do me any good.”

Her cheeks grew hot as she stood outside the door, but fortunately Rosalind wasn’t looking at her.

“She might die,” the governor added. “Arnold’s wife is a rather sickly sort.”

“Your cousin, the senator, meets with the president every now and then, doesn’t he?” her father asked. “Surely he can put in a word for Jameson over Arnold as secretary of the interior. My only question is, what do I need to do to make sure your cousin speaks with the president?”

A low, deep chuckle echoed through the door. Bryony couldn’t tell if it was from Mr. Caldwell or the governor, but every muscle of her body turned stiff.

She wasn’t naive. She knew these types of negotiations took place in Washington, DC, on a regular basis, and she knew her father participated. But usually they had to do with getting funding for his studies and expeditions—not changing the course of her life.

But here her father was, taking actual steps to barter her future away to a man neither of them had ever met, and all because he hoped that if he married her to the right man, he’d never need to beg or maneuver or perform another favor for funding again.

She wasn’t sure whether to scream or cry or storm off and head into the woods and refuse to leave Alaska, just so she could prevent herself from becoming a pawn in his scheme.

Common sense told her the best way to avoid marriage to this Jameson fellow—or any other man her father picked—would be to find a job for herself and move out of her father’s house once she returned home.

But what if he stymied her plans to become independent? What if he found a way to force her to marry the next secretary of the interior despite everything she tried?

“It’s all right.” Rosalind’s small hand wrapped around hers. “They’re only throwing around ideas. Nothing has been determined yet.”

“Oh, it’s been determined.” Heat burned the backs of her eyes. “It’s been determined since I was about nine years old, and my father told me to go outside and follow Heath and Richard around town on their adventures.”

She hadn’t realized what he’d been up to, but even then, he’d set his sights on having his daughter marry an influential man.

“I can already guess what’s going to happen the morning after you return home.” Mr. Caldwell’s voice held an odd edge. At first it sounded like he was teasing, but there was a mean tone underneath. “You’ll invite Jameson to your house for dinner, where you’re hoping he’ll be quite smitten with your daughter.”

“Don’t make it sound like I’m doing something wrong.” Her father’s voice was firm. “All I can say is I’m surprised you haven’t married Rosalind off yet.”

“Actually, now that the new secretary of the interior won’t be her second cousin, that’s a rather good idea. Perhaps I’ll write Jameson and invite him to Alaska.”

Bryony glanced at Rosalind, but she was back to staring at her shoes. If she felt any emotion about her name entering the conversation, she knew how to hide it.

“That would be a bit unsportsmanlike, don’t you think?” Heath was talking now. It was her first confirmation that her brother was even in the room, though she’d suspected both he and Dr. Ottingford were there. “We’ve had our sights set on marrying Bryony off to the secretary of the interior for over a decade, and you’ve never had any objections. Surely you can find a more advantageous match for Rosalind in the business realm. Perhaps the heir to a shipping or railroad company. Given your investment in the Alaska Commercial Company, a marriage like that would be better for your future. And our families have always been good friends. Facilitating a marriage between Bryony and the next secretary of the interior could have immense benefits for you as well.”

She couldn’t stand it any longer. Rosalind might be content to stand there and allow the men to treat them as nothing more than assets to be leveraged at will, but she wasn’t. She knocked briskly on the door, then flung it open without waiting for a reply.

Mr. Caldwell’s eyebrows rose, and something flickered in his eyes. He moved his gaze to Rosalind, who had entered behind her but didn’t speak so much as a word.

Then again, he didn’t need to. Rosalind was all but cowering, with her hands twisted together and her head bent, as though she had nothing better to do than search for a speck of lint stuck to the plush Turkish rug.

The governor had been standing beside the window when she entered, and he was the first to acknowledge her by nodding her direction. “Miss Wetherby, how kind of you to join us.”

Her father stood next, followed by Heath, Dr. Ottingford, and a portly, balding man she’d never seen before. He was sitting in a chair near the far side of Mr. Caldwell’s desk, and he wheezed as he pushed to his feet.

“Thank you, Rosalind. That will be all.” Mr. Caldwell was the last man to stand. He spoke to Rosalind so dismissively that something in Bryony wanted to object, but Rosalind had already rushed to the door and was shutting it behind her.

An open chair had been set directly in the center of the room, and Mr. Caldwell gestured to it.

“Please, have a seat, Miss Wetherby.” He sent her a sharp smile, then waited for her to sit before sitting himself.

Everyone else followed his lead and sat in their own chairs, except for the governor, who apparently preferred to stand.

It was all she could do not to squirm. She felt like some sort of spectacle, having been placed squarely in the center of the room with six sets of eyes riveted to her. “Is there something I can help with?”

“We just wanted to express our condolences over the loss of your fiancé.” Mr. Caldwell sent her another one of those smiles she didn’t trust. “We can only imagine how devastated you must be.”

Now she did shift. She couldn’t help it. “Of course I’m grieved, but he wasn’t my fiancé.”

“Bryony,” her father snapped. “Don’t say such a thing about the deceased.”

But Richard hadn’t been her fiancé. Why did her father always seem to forget that?

And if she was going to have to answer questions in front of six men, why couldn’t Mikhail be one of them? He would at least smile at her supportively and listen when she?—

“Miss Wetherby, can you tell me about the relationship Mr. Amos and your fiancé had on the trip?”

She jerked her attention to the stranger, the only man in the room she didn’t know.

“Allow me to introduce you to Marshal Hibbs.” Mr. Caldwell gestured to the stranger. “He’s in charge of ensuring that justice is meted out for the entirety of Alaska.”

“You’re a Marshal?” Again, she had an almost irresistible urge to squirm. “If you want to know about Richard and Mikhail, you’re better off asking Mikhail himself. I really don’t know.”

The Marshal held his pencil to his notebook, the tin star she hadn’t noticed before now catching the light from the window. “Did Mr. Amos do anything to single your fiancé out or make him feel inadequate on the trip?”

“No. He was endlessly patient, even when Richard almost caused Heath to fall off the side of the mountain.”

The Marshal stopped writing and looked up at Heath. “Mr. Caldwell nearly caused you to fall?”

Heath sent her a furious glare, then looked at the Marshal. “You’ll have to excuse my sister. She’s being a bit dramatic. Female nerves, I’m afraid. There was an incident on one of the mountains, but I was never that close to falling.”

No. That wasn’t right. She remembered the incident clearly. Heath had slid over the side of a cliff. She’d held onto his arm and looked down while his feet dangled over nothing for an instant, then scrambled to find traction on the side of the rock face.

He would have died had Mikhail not been strong enough to heave him back onto the trail.

So what was going on? Why had Heath just downplayed the seriousness of the situation? She looked at her brother, but his blank face gave nothing away. Then she moved her gaze to her father. “Is that your memory of it too?”

Her father shifted in his chair. “Come now, we’re losing sight of the main purpose for this conversation. Your brother slipping has nothing to do with Richard’s death. That incident took place several days prior.”

“I wasn’t close enough to the edge to see what happened with certainty,” Dr. Ottingford said from his spot in the corner. “I recall there was a rather steep drop, but both Miss Wetherby and Mr. Amos were there to give assistance.”

No. Something was off. She didn’t recall her father and Dr. Ottingford being too far away to realize just how perilous the situation had been, but even if they’d been farther from the edge than she remembered, Heath wasn’t. She knew he remembered.

The Marshal cleared his throat. “It seems that there were several instances where people came close to dying on this expedition, more so than is usual for Mr. Amos’s reputation as a guide.”

Bryony blinked. That was the part about Heath almost falling that the Marshal felt was most important? They’d been lost in the wilderness on the cusp of winter. Of course people came close to dying. It was Alaska, for goodness’ sake. No part of this land was tamed and sedate.

The Marshal tapped the end of his pencil against the nearly blank page of his notebook. “It’s our duty to fully investigate each of those incidents, including the one that killed your fiancé.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you’re after information about Richard’s death, then you should know that Mikhail didn’t have anything to do with it. He tried to save Richard, but as usual, Richard wouldn’t listen. He didn’t listen to anything Mikhail said from the beginning.”

“What about when you almost drowned?” The Marshal held his pencil over his notebook once more, as though finally ready to start recording what she said. “What role did Mr. Amos play in that?”

“What role did he play?” She shot up from her chair. “He saved me. That was his role. Heath and I had trouble controlling the canoe through the rapids. Then it hit a rock, and we couldn’t maintain our direction. Once the wave crashed into the canoe...” She shook her head, raising her arms for a moment, then lowered them to her side. “There was nothing that could have prevented me from going overboard.”

“I see.” Thankfully, the Marshal scrawled some notes in his notebook.

But she wasn’t sure how much he understood. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be asking such inane questions. “Did anyone tell you that Richard pulled a gun from his waistband and threatened to shoot Mikhail if he didn’t tell Richard where to find gold?”

The Marshal sent her a blank look. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss other interviews with you, Miss Wetherby. It might sway your answers.”

“Well, Richard did pull a gun, so make sure you write that down.” She shoved a hand toward the man’s notebook, but once again, he’d stopped writing. “You can also write down that the only reason we needed to be rescued in the first place was Richard’s determination to find gold. He left us for too long in that valley, and it was almost impossible to get out. We would have all faced less danger had Richard and Heath not lied about us being lost and returned when they were supposed to.”

She leveled another glare at her brother, but his eyes were even harder now than they’d been before, his face an emotionless mask beneath his red beard.

The Marshal closed his notebook with a thud.

Had he written down anything other than the fact she’d fallen out of that dratted canoe?

“Thank you for your time, Miss Wetherby.” Mr. Caldwell nodded at her from behind his desk, his voice cool. “You can return to the library now.”

She whirled around and stalked from the room without a hint of Rosalind’s grace or manners. But she didn’t care.

She didn’t know what kinds of things had been discussed in Mr. Caldwell’s office since they’d returned, but she was starting to think they were all lies. Every last one of them.