PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
Dawson, Yukon Territory 1898
Benjamin Stark sat in a jail cell. His broad shoulders rounded as he leaned his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor with a haunted expression. Bold images came in bright flashes and out-of-sync clamor.
Hours ago, he had been sprawled on the step of his crude miner’s cabin, set in relief against the startling beauty of the mountains behind. Spruce trees punctured the mist on the river walled in by daunting, steep cliffs. The haze was just starting to lift to expose jagged peaks and bold faces, which plunged to the brilliant blue water below. The place wooed him with terrible beauty.
He was sobering up when two Mounted Police rode up. The older eyed him as he walked past and stopped at the threshold. He turned and grabbed hold of the doorframe to steady himself. With a nod, he directed the younger to go look inside while he kept an eye on Stark. The young Mountie glanced in and then looked at Stark, who had barely moved from his place on the steps. He then went to the porch rail and took in some air until the nausea passed. The older one took one more look inside and then pulled the door gently closed.
While the younger watched with acute concentration, the older man looked down at Stark and said quietly, “Let’s go to Dawson and talk.” For a moment, he waited and then gently said, “C’mon, son.”
Stark looked up with a hollow expression and gave a half nod. He stumbled and, with their help, rose to his feet. He winced as they tied his wrists, one of which was wrapped in a blood-soaked rag.
“We’ll have a doctor take a look at that,” the older man said.
Stark did what they asked—except answer their questions. When he failed to answer—or even respond—they left him in a jail cell where, after a doctor came in to tend to his hand, he sat there for hours, alone. He kept seeing it, feeling it, over again. The gunshot. The visceral jolt of his body. Humming stillness. An unholy hush. And the blood.
Stark wasn’t ready to talk.