Gold

GOLD

MAUREEN A. MILLER

Copyright © 2020 Maureen A. Miller

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 979-8553324469

Cover art by Angela Waters Art, LLC.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

BLUE-LINK SERIES

SHADOW

MIST

DUSK

GOLD

JADE

(Coming January 2023)

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Should he have waited?

Probably.

Fred Perkins ducked his head. His headlamp sprayed a beam of light across the rocky floor of the abandoned shaft. It was a relic—a mere dilapidated hole in the dirt compared to the nearby Kryterion Mine.

Fred was wrapping up a survey of the adjacent mine when he received a text from Liam, a member of his team. Satellite imagery revealed a potential source of precious metals barely two miles away. Liam was going in to investigate.

That had been two hours ago.

Shuffling deeper into the shaft, Fred hunched over, his lamp reflecting off of puddles of water beneath his boots. Ahead, noises echoed through the tunnel. An eerie keening sound that could have been the weight of the mountain preparing to crash down on him.

Swinging his head around, he was startled to find that the entrance was now a mere pinprick of light in the distance.

Liam? he called, wincing at the hollow sound.

The temperature had dropped significantly.

What was he—200—300 feet in now?

"Liam?" his shout lacked verve.

Even the scuff of a boot against rock could trigger a cave-in.

There were sounds ahead, though. He was sure of it. Rushing water? Muted voices? Had he somehow circled back underground onto Kryterion property?

Pivoting again, there was no sign of the entrance anymore. He switched on his phone, not hoping for a signal—just an extra light source. The image of his wife holding a koala bear glowed against moist walls.

The tunnel was crude; the arced walls pitted as if thousands of fingers had clawed the formation.

Claustrophobia wrapped around his throat with equally eager fingers. Flashlight in one hand, phone in the other, he aimed both forward into the black chasm.

The Kryterion Mine benefitted from modern amenities such as string lighting and ventilation. This decrepit pit boasted no such conveniences. Hundreds of these abandoned shafts littered the area—leftovers from the gold rush of the late 1800s. 

An eerie jingle sounded just outside the scope of light.

Wind chimes?

But there was no wind.

Liam? he tried again.

Hunching further under the tapering ceiling, he inched forward.

Just until I see the chimes.

If it’s nothing, I’m outta here.

Liam will find his way out.

A shadow fell across the path. It quivered as the clanging grew louder.

Sweat pooled under Fred’s helmet despite the moist chill.

Another step.

Another.

Now he could see the source of the chimes. Rusted chains hung from a wooden beam to form a curtain across the narrow passage. That curtain rippled, but there was no breeze.

Fred cocked his head to aim the headlamp at it and saw a boot protruding from beneath the clanging metal.

Liam?

He crept forward, extending his hand as far away from himself as he could manage. Thankful for the work gloves, he reached out and drew two of the heavy chains aside.

The boot turned into a leg and then a torso until, finally, his beam landed on the eternally open eyes of Liam Carlson.

Fred gasped and stumbled backward, landing hard on his ass. He crab-walked in retreat from the corpse, losing his phone in the process. It was only a few inches away. Distressed, he reached for it when the chains suddenly parted.

The muzzle of a gun flashed. There was a sharp scent of sulfur.

Fred Perkins became another precious ore buried deep in the mine.

CHAPTER ONE

Email? On the business account?

Ready to report spam, Sara Eckert clicked it just in case.

Curling her hands into tight fists, she pumped them and did a jig in the wheeled chair.

A reservation! she called out to the empty room.

Unimpressed, a wooden black bear totem stared back at her.

Spinning around in the chair, she took in the state of the spacious lobby. Essentially it was a great room with a loft hallway upstairs that accommodated three guest rooms. Tiny guest rooms.

Wooden beams on the ceiling offered the foundation for a pretty serious network of cobwebs, but the living room was homey. It had a functional fireplace, a plump fake leather couch and matching recliner, and a cabinet that served as a bar with its drop-down shelf.

In the corner of the room, a TV tuned into the nightly news—something about a missing surveyor up near the mine.

Tucked just inside the front door was a wooden desk. It served as her office and the guest check-in center. Brochure stands covered half the surface, leaving little room for her laptop.

JANUARY 23 – 30

A whole week!

Here?

No disrespect intended to the MARMOT HIDEAWAY, but no one came here in January, and certainly not for a week.

Sara’s bed and breakfast was over an hour north of Juneau. It was a rustic location for the serious outdoorsman—offering plenty of hiking, kayaking, crabbing, fishing—all activities that catered to better weather. Oh yeah, and daylight. Something lacking this time of year.

If you seriously wanted to come to Juneau in January, you weren’t doing it on a cruise ship. Chances were that you would stay in one of the hotels in town. Rarely would there be a circumstance that everything was booked up, and someone had to resort to this remote B&B.

So, that meant Mr.—she leaned down to read the name—Lucas Reis—specifically chose to stay in this area.

Hunting?

Hunting was primarily restricted to spring and fall, but there were a few year-round game options.

The only other possibility was the mine.

Occasionally, she would have a few guests in the summer for the Kryterion Mine across the bay. But Kryterion had built its own lodge—a pretty spacious one. And, it was a much more convenient option than ferrying in and out every day.

The fact that this was a single party, and a male, had her leaning toward the hunting theory. It was the one outdoor activity she didn’t really offer.

Whatever. It was money.

At the sound of a boat approaching, Sara hoisted out of the chair and reached for her coat. Throwing it on, she headed outside onto the wraparound deck.

If someone made it to MARMOT HIDEAWAY, it wasn’t for the tiny rooms upstairs or the dusty living room downstairs. It was this. This view.

Just off the front porch and down an embankment of grass, mud, and sand lay a rocky beach with a floating dock moored to two pylons. The sky was gray. The mountains across the bay were white, and the water was slate—inky black in the distance. The overall effect looked like someone selected the cool filter on their phone camera.  Tall spruces surrounded the property, carving out an oasis for anyone sailing by.

Often Sara would just sit on one of the wooden benches on the deck and watch sea lions at play—and seasonally, the fluted tail of a whale.

Right now, the MARMOT HIDEAWAY catamaran butted idly against the dock. She named it the MH Tub, but it had the designation Equalizer painted on it from its previous owner. It had a tight cabin that could maybe fit six people—six really intimate people. It was used for fishing and ferrying, so it usually never held more than 3 or 4 at a time.

The boat that was pulling in, however, was a 31’ custom aluminum-chambered craft, overhauled specifically to host whale-watching tours. It had a window-paneled cabin that could accommodate nearly 12 people at a time and tall railings around the sides for those who wanted to get up close and personal with nature.

Behind the windshield, she could make out the hazy profile of Tim Bailey, her boyfriend. They had met not long after she purchased the MARMOT HIDEAWAY. He lived across the bay. There weren’t many residents in this neck of the woods. Their paths crossed often enough to fall into a companionship.

Exiting the cabin, he offered a quick wave before stooping to grab a rope. ICE ICE BABY was painted in stenciled letters on the side of his boat, the letters scraping against the tall wooden pylon he looped the rope around.

Leaping onto the dock, his block silhouette jogged up the embankment. Once on the deck, he shrugged out of the raincoat and pulled off his baseball cap to comb back rusty brown hair. With the knee-length jacket gone, he looked less like a block and more like a lanky fisherman. A copper beard capped off the image.

Brought some halibut, he said, shouldering his way past her to haul the bag through the living room and dump it in the kitchen sink.

Sara stared at the trail of drops across the wooden floor and took a quick whiff. What did it matter? There was always a trace of mildew in the air.

Guess what?

What? Tim’s head was muffled inside the freezer.

I’ve got a guest coming next week.

The freezer banged closed and Tim looked over his shoulder at her.

Really?

His whole body turned around and he leaned his butt on the edge of the humming box.

"It’s not that outlandish." Yeah. Yeah it was.

Tim crossed flannel-covered arms, and leaned back enough to hook one Carhartt leg over the other at the ankles. Green eyes focused on her, and then past her shoulder to take in the state of the living room.

A couple?

It seems like it’s just a reservation for one man, but I guess there’s still a possibility he shows up with someone.

Well—

And just like that. One little well— and some of her zeal evaporated.

—hope he likes halibut for breakfast, Tim continued.

Ideas began churning already. Omelets. Bagel sandwiches. Halibut sausage patties. She would make it work.

You don’t seem too excited, she observed, following him back through the living room. It will be great to get some revenue through the off season.

Tim stopped at the door, his hand on the knob.

It looks like the economy is picking up. He gazed out the window. I have a four-day charter booked tomorrow. When is this guy arriving?

Tuesday.

Tuesday, he repeated, looking down at his boots. I get back on Thursday, so no— he focused on her reflection in the glass, —I’m not too excited about that.

There should be a warm feeling, shouldn’t there? That satisfying notion that he was going to be worried about her?

I have a rifle, and a couple of big-ass butcher knives. Her smile felt forced.

Tim looked at her, but his eyes slid to the TV in the corner.

Hear anything new on those missing guys?

What missing guys? She turned to look at the picture of Kryterion Mine on the screen. Oh, that. No. Hope they find them.

Yeah. Tim drew in a quick breath. Look, I have to meet the clients real early so I’m just going back to Auke Bay and sleep on the boat. It will be easier—

It would. She knew that. It would give him time to gas up. It made perfect sense.

I’ll be back as soon as I can, he added quickly, reaching out to run his fingers up and down her arm.

She couldn’t feel the touch through her thick coat.

Tim leaned in, brushing a kiss against her cheek. I’ll call you when I get to the dock.

Sometimes she longed for some of the luxuries of the Lower 48. They had to rely on satellite phones for communication, and Tim wouldn’t pay for texting services on his.

Okay, be safe.

On impulse, she lurched forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He folded his across her lower back and held her for a moment before freeing himself and walking out the door.

All that was left was the whiff of pine and brine, and the shadow of his retreat into the sunset.

Boyfriend.

Technically, that was the term.

At thirty-two, Sara didn’t feel like a spring chicken. A little over four years ago, she was engaged to a man who took that sanctity and shredded it until symbolic blood and bone were exposed. The wounds were so brutal that she fled—as far as she could. From New Jersey to this remote oasis in the Alaskan rain forest—a spot nearly unreachable by land. Only the MH Tub linked her with the real world.

Boyfriend?

No one would ever reach her core. No one would ever glimpse inside her heart. Her walls touched the stratosphere.

But this was a lonely place after a while. As hellbent on solitude as she was, companionship reached out to her after those first couple of years. Tim had a good business. He had been a local his whole life, with his family holding a big chunk of land in the area. He wasn’t going to ask her for money and then turn around and stab her in the heart with it. He also didn’t seem like the type to drop down onto a knee anytime soon, which suited her just fine.

Turning back, she crossed the wooden floor, skirting the wet spots. She’d Swiffer it later. Right now, she trudged up the staircase, clutching the wooden banister. There was a shared bathroom at the top of the stairs. The guest would have his choice of one of three identical bedrooms. Each had two single beds, a nightstand, and a dresser. They also had a window overlooking the bay—that was all the décor necessary.

Sara grabbed the vacuum cleaner out of the upstairs closet and began preparing.

Rain beat down on the windshield of the MH Tub. The sweep of the wipers revealed a foggy outline of Auke Bay Harbor approaching. Carefully navigating the aisle of commercial fishing boats and battened-down whale charter vessels, Sara habitually searched for Tim’s empty slip. Continuing past it, she chugged into her own rented berth. Mooring the boat to the pier, she stepped out into the mist.

It was early. Only hearty fishermen were out and about on the dock right now. The rain tapered to a fine haze, and the fog receded enough to network through the spruce treetops like God had spilled a bottle of cotton balls down the mountain.

Retreating into the cabin, she grabbed the thermal mug of coffee and took a lukewarm sip. Between the groan of the Tub against the pier, and the gentle slosh of the tide slapping its hull, she was lulled into mental hibernation.

Until she saw him.

He didn’t belong here.

This man stalking down the gangway—eating each plank with determined strides. This man dressed in black jeans and a black leather jacket. Leather? Seriously? This man with diamonds of moisture clinging to short black hair. This man with a simple duffle bag hiked over his shoulder and a chiseled jawline grinding with purpose.

This man didn’t belong here.

Either he was in far more need of a vacation than he could ever imagine, or he was restless.

Driven.

That was the impression that came to mind.

From a distance, it was easy to regard the dark hair and tan complexion as that of a native. Tlingit, maybe. But as he approached, the characteristics leaned another way. Long face, long thin eyes. Dark and intense. Even from this span, the traits tended toward Latin.

Whether or not he belonged—here he was—standing at the pylon the MH Tub was anchored to. No indecision. No bending at the knee to read the name of the boat. No perusal of the vessels around hers.

There was a tenacious focus to this man.

Sara set her mug back into its cradle, noticing that her hand shook slightly. She stepped out of the warm cabin with a broad smile and inflated enthusiasm.

Mr. Reis? she pronounced it reece, hoping that was right. Lucas Reis?

He didn’t correct her pronunciation as he approached the short gangway she had thrown down.

Luke, he amended in a deep voice.

Offering her hand—a reflexive gesture to assist people aboard—the man, Luke, stared at it for a moment and then grasped it in a firm shake.

I’m guessing you are Sara Eckert?

No accent. Just a husky assurance.

I am. Welcome to Juneau.

She thought her blatant survey of his attire went unnoticed.

I didn’t have time to change, he defended, setting his bag down just inside the tight cabin.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— her voice fell flat, having been called out.

She eyed the black jacket that settled over wide shoulders. It was open to reveal a black button-down shirt tucked into the waistband of black jeans that hugged low over his hips.

I just would hate to see a leather jacket get ruined. This climate—this rain—it doesn’t mix well with leather.

We’re more of a slicker crowd.

It’s fake leather. His quick grin clashed with the sober features.

Dark brown eyes shifted around the tight cabin, settling briefly on the rifle on the shelf.

For a moment, Sara was grateful for its presence. She was alone. On a boat.