Ice Princess (Wells Fargo Trail Book #8) , livre ebook

Books by Jim Walker
Husbands Who Won’t Lead and Wives Who Won’t Follow
T HE W ELLS F ARGO T RAIL
The Dreamgivers
The Nightriders
The Rail Kings
The Rawhiders
The Desert Hawks
The Oyster Pirates
The Warriors
The Ice Princess
The Wells Fargo Trail, Book 8
The Ice Princess
Jim Walker
© 1998 by Jim Walker
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Ebook edition created 2012
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means for example, electronic, photocopy, recording without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Cover illustration by William Graf
eISBN 978-1-4412-6214-1
This book is dedicated
to the woman who prayed at the side of my bed
when I needed it most

my mother.
JIM WALKER is a staff member with the Navigators and has written Husbands Who Won’t Lead and Wives Who Won’t Follow. He received an M. Div. from Talbot Theological Seminary and has been a pastor with an Evangelical Free Church. He was a survival training instructor in the United States Air Force and is a member of the Western Outlaw-Lawman History Association. Jim, his wife, Joyce, and their three children, Joel, Jennifer, and Julie, live in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
Contents
Cover
Books by Jim Walker
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
A Glimpse Into the Future
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
A Glimpse Into the Future
Jenny shivered, her breath escaping into the cold, sharp air in clouds of steam. A dull, thudding pain on the back of her head was all that reminded her of the blow. It had been sudden and without warning; just how long she might remain shut up in the dark hold of the ship she could only guess. The pitch-black stillness was broken only by the sound of ice grating and cracking against the hull. The ice snapped and buckled with each swell of the waves, sending a sharp series of reports like a ripple of gunshots.
Jenny blinked to become accustomed to the charcoal interior of the confined space. Reaching out with her hand, she felt the cold, abrasive hull of the vessel. The icy shelf on the other side of the heavy oak hull slid by with a slow groan.
Oh, God , she thought. What have I gotten myself into? Why am I here?
She sat up slowly and slid her hand along the hard wooden plank of the bench she was lying on. Her fingers quivered in the cold, stretching out to feel something, anything that might be familiar.
A sharp sting lanced at her finger and sent a stinging pain up her arm. A screeching rat hung on to her hand. She screamed out in pain and shock as she shook the creature loose. It scampered away, squealing as it hit the floor. She was not alone.
Clasping her hand under her chin, she made out the glowing pink eyes of her furry guard. The creature moved around the base of the wooden floor, stopping to glance back in her direction before darting under the far timbers. The noise of its claws on the surface of the wood and its sharp screeches cut through the cold stillness.
Jenny quivered inside, responding more to the horror of the bite than to the below zero temperatures of the ship’s belly. The smell of fish combined with smoldering charcoal rammed into her nostrils as she sucked for air.
She wrapped her hands under her arms and shook uncontrollably. “Lord, please send Zac,” she murmured under her breath.
The dark hold of the ship seemed like a grave, its tight space closing around her. The low beams made it impossible to stand upright and she huddled on the plank, beating her arms for warmth. Where is Zac? she wondered.
She heard muffled footsteps in the distance. The thought of another human being brought mixed emotions to her belly. At the moment, all she wanted was to be out of the darkness, even if it was at the hands of the men who had put her here.
The steps came closer, stopping outside the inner wall of the ship. She heard someone lifting what must be a bar across the door. The door swung forcefully open. Jenny blinked in the sudden flood of light from a lantern. She could make out the shadowy forms of two massive men.
“Let’s pick her up and take her on deck,” the man with the raised lantern said.
Each of the men grabbed one of her arms and hauled her into the faintly lit hallway. They pulled her down the dim passage, her feet sliding along the wooden planks. They seemed to be in a hurry, not even taking the time to see if she could get her feet settled underneath her.
On deck, they stood her upright, doing their best to make her stand straight. She could barely make out their features through the icy black beards on their faces.
The northern lights fell across the darkness, curtains of brightly colored beams, a soft glow in the night sky. The stars shone overhead and the ice around the ship seemed to glow.
“Take off her coat.”
It was the sound of a woman’s voice that Jenny knew well. There was no mercy to her, none at all. Her sagging head throbbed.
“She won’t last long without that coat.”
It was the familiar voice of the man, the man she had met in the forest.
“Good,” the woman said. “We don’t have much time.”
Jenny lifted her head to see the woman who was talking. Her eyes widened.
Chapter 1
The bishop lifted his eyes in a moment of silent prayer. The black cone-shaped spires of St. Michael’s Cathedral rose in the pearl-gray sky, and a fog rolled out of the harbor and crept up the bank. The blossoming mist brushed the trees and settled down into Swan Lake. At times like this, Sitka seemed more asleep in the middle of the day than it did at night. The fishing boats were gone, and the men of the lumber mill were out of sight and hard at work.
An unlikely-looking group wound their way up the hill to the bishop’s. A dark-haired young woman dressed in the traditional Tlingit garb of skins and whale bone took her steps with a steady rhythm in mukluks made of sealskin and reindeer fur. Her long black hair fell well below her waist and swayed on her back as she walked. Her hand was held by a gray-haired bearded man in a black suit. His white starched shirt was emblazoned down the front with a bloodred silk tie. He clutched the young woman’s hand tightly, a grim expression on his face.
The other two young women were blond, the smaller of the two with more strawberry highlights. The larger woman had bright yellow hair and a square jaw. Her blue eyes danced with her legs as she skipped ahead up the path and stooped down to pick flowers. She giggled and squealed as she pulled them up, pausing to inspect each one as she added them to the bouquet. Though she looked old enough to be in her twenties, her actions deceived her age, giving the impression of a young girl.
Along the path was a field of what looked like doghouses, catching the dim sunlight with an array of pigment that would be the envy of any artist’s palate. Pink, green, yellow, and stark white slats covered the tiny houses. Some had striped roofs and others were adorned with colorful, pointed studs. A few displayed slanted orthodox crosses, while others were garnished with fresh flowers. Only the fact that these tiny enclosures had no doors would cause a passerby to realize that they were, in fact, the graves of the devoted.
The bishop stood next to his house at the top of the hill. His ebony robe cut a straight line to the tops of his shiny black boots. A white flowing beard cascaded over his thin chest and curled at his waistline in ringlets. Sapphire blue eyes set off his face of parchment, and he clutched his small prayer book and rocked back and forth slightly on the balls of his feet.
Bishop Veniaminov held out his hand as the group approached. “You are welcome here to my house, all of you.”
The man with the gray beard nodded. “Thank you, Bishop. We do appreciate this.”
The woman clutching her flowers seemed to never stop dancing. “We’re here for Risa’s wedding,” she said. Her eyes gleamed with playfulness. “I like weddings, don’t you?”
“Yes,” the bishop said. “I like weddings.”
He turned and walked up the stairs, followed by the group. Opening the large, carved door, he stood aside and allowed them to enter. The group walked into the parlor, where an older woman was seated by a piano. She placed her hands on the keys, but the bishop held out his hand to stop her. He turned back to the group.
“Ian, you know what you’re doing here this day, don’t you?”
The old man smiled at the young Indian woman and patted her hand. “Yes, Bishop. I’m about to marry myself off to the woman I’ve dreamed of all my life. No man could want more.”
“And, young lady, do you know what you are about to do?”
The dark-haired woman smiled, her black eyes beaming as she clutched the arm of the old man. She nodded. “Yes. I marry the man who loves me.”
“And we have the witnesses?” the bishop asked.
“Yes,” Ian said, “my daughter, Dolly, and my niece Naomi will be our witnesses.”
“You know, then, what this union will bring about?”
Ian lifted his chin, his eyes riveted on the bishop. “Yes, peace between two peoples and a family.”
Dolly handed the fresh-picked flowers to the Indian woman. “Here, Risa, I picked your bouquet for you.”
Risa smiled and took the flowers.
“I’m just sorry Jenny couldn’t be here to see this,” Naomi said.
“She’ll be here shortly, girl. This just couldn’t wait.