Free Gold Fever by Vicki Delany Page B

day.”
    â€œThen eight it will be. How did your mother come to be the owner of a dance hall? The Savoy, you called it? Named after the hotel of that name in London?”
    As they settled into a table by the window, Miss Witherspoon plied Angus with questions. He chattered on about Dawson, about the Chilkoot trail, about the Savoy and Ray Walker, his mother’s business partner. He talked about Mrs. Saunderson, tragically widowed then cheated out of her claim by her own brother.
    Miss Witherspoon jotted everything down in her notebook while she consumed every scrap of beans, boiled potatoes, and pork chop on her plate. Miss Forester said almost nothing and picked at her lunch with an expression of distaste.
    â€œTell me, Angus,” Miss Witherspoon said, placing her knife and fork neatly across her scraped-clean plate. “I’ve heard the words sourdoughs and cheechakos. What’s the difference? Would you care for pie?”
    â€œYes, ma’am! A cheechako means a newcomer. A sourdough is an old timer. Although a sourdough doesn’t have to be old—he only has to have spent a winter in the Yukon.”
    â€œSo you’re a sourdough?” Angus had never thought of it that way. He rolled the word around inside his head. “I guess I am. It was some winter, let me tell you. There was talk of Dawson being a starvation camp.”
    He was scraping up the last of his pie when Miss Irene, his mother’s best dancer, came into the café. She was with a plainly dressed older woman, and they made for a table in the dark back corner of the room, although there were window tables still available. Angus waved cheerfully as Irene and her companion crossed the room. Irene tossed him a friendly smile and gave his companions a curious look.
    Miss Witherspoon followed his gaze. “Who is that?”
    â€œThat’s Miss Davidson, Lady Irenee is her stage name. She’s the headliner at the Savoy. The main attraction in the dance hall, I mean. My ma tells me she’s popular with the men. Worth her weight in gold, my ma says. Don’t know the other woman, though.”
    Miss Witherspoon watched the two women settle at their table. Irene fluffed her skirts around her and drifted into her chair like the first leaf of autumn falling graciously to the ground. Her companion plunked herself down and looked around. She saw Angus and Miss Witherspoon watching. She gave Miss Witherspoon a sharp look before turning her attention back to Irene.
    Miss Witherspoon flushed and turned away. “Waiter,” she cried, snapping her fingers. “Our account, if you please.”
    She fumbled in her bag, searching for money. “Now, Angus dear, you must get Miss Forester to tell you what caused her to faint at your shop this morning. She refuses to say a word to me.”
    â€œThere is nothing to say, Martha. I told you. It was the heat and the mud and all those men gathered so closely. Quite unbearable. I knew it was a mistake to come here.”
    â€œEuila spent her childhood on the Isle of Skye. Didn’t you mention that’s where your mother originated, Angus dear? I find that rather hard to believe because they both have such proper English accents. Almost identical, one might say.”
    Angus remembered his manners. He hadn’t spoken to Miss Forester during the entire meal. “Are you a writer also, Miss Forester?”
    â€œHeavens no.” Miss Forester looked quite startled, whether at being mistaken for a writer or being spoken to, Angus didn’t know.
    â€œWhat brings you to Dawson, then?” he asked, simply trying to be polite. His mother hated men who only talked about themselves.
    â€œThe fishing fleet,” Miss Witherspoon said, carefully counting out the money for the bill.
    â€œFishing? The salmon’ll be running soon. We weren’t here last year for the salmon run, but they say it’s really something. I can’t see that