It felt good to be back in North America. Aside from his native Scotland, it was where he had spent most of his life. The Mississippi, the high plains...it was a fascinating continent, and he had only seen a fraction of it.

Something was calling him here. The idea had taken root in the back of his mind some time ago, but it took that Australian Aborigine’s queer dream caves to make it germinate. He had tried logic; he had tried advice from others; he had tried following the herd. He had not tried instinct. Time to let his hunches have their chance. After all the years of struggling across the globe, he was really no richer than when he left Scotland. Richer in experience, perhaps, but experience didn't pay the taxes on Castle McDuck. Experience didn't put food in his stomach, or clothes on his back. Now, at least, he seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and the scent of gold was in the air.

A clear, confident female voice rang out behind him, from the porch of the saloon. "Take a break, argonaut! Have some grub!"

He glanced back and saw a blonde duckess his own age inviting him in. She wore a plain gray skirt and a red flannel shirt, but an innate beauty shone through the simple attire.

No time for that, either. "Bah! I just ate last week! Regular meals are for softies!" he snarled, barely pausing before continuing on. He had a claim to find. The gold was calling, and its cry was loud enough to drown out everything else.

Goldie O'Gilt was in an especially good mood. She wasn't sure why. It was probably all the excitement. Dawson was normally the most bland and boring place in the north woods, but now that gold had been found on Rabbit Creek—correction, Bonanza Creek—things were different. She hadn't seen this many people in years!

Goldie was born the second of two daughters in the O'Gilt family in Vancouver, British Columbia. After her mother died of a fever, they moved north, into no-man's-land, to the Yukon Territory, where her father worked at the Dawson lumber mill. Her sister, Sylvia, married and moved to Nome when she was nineteen and Goldie was sixteen. The next year their father was killed in a logging accident on the river. So there she was, in the middle of nowhere, alone. A lumber camp was not the place for an innocent seventeen-year-old. So Goldie stopped being innocent.

Her Blackjack Saloon had been open for just over a year, now. She'd built the entire thing herself, and was rightfully proud of it. At the time, she had no idea that Dawson would soon blossom into Canada's most vibrant city. Thirsty lumberjacks alone provided adequate business.

Even now, there was only an inkling of such future greatness. Just something in the air...

Goldie hummed softly to herself as she rearranged the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Supply and demand... Simple economics. She had the only saloon around, and until another popped up thirsty stampeders had to come to her.

The doors swung open, and she turned around with her most alluring smile, only to find her charms wasted on an overweight pig with an attempt at a beard curdling on his double chin. Well, at least his money was green... "Welcome to the Blackjack. What can I get ya?"

"A business deal," said the porcine newcomer. "Soapy Slick's the name, Miss."

"Goldie O'Gilt." She quickly shook his clammy hand. "What sort of business deal?" she asked warily. She had heard plenty of offers in the past, and most had been the sort she had to refuse.

"I have a loan company back in Skagway. With the gold rush and all, I want to open a branch up here. Problem is, it'll take time to get my own office built."

Seeing there was no need to gloss over the truth, he relaxed and leaned against the bar. "That's right, Miss O'Gilt. There'll soon be a lot of wealth flowing into Dawson!"

She grinned slyly. "That's the truth, fat boy! What with all these sourdoughs and their gold dust, I expect to be glittering by spring!"

The door swung open again, and she prepared herself to woo another customer. Instead she saw an exhausted moose stagger in and plop down at a table. "Hey! I don't serve moose! Scram!" she shouted, pointing out the door.

Clem, one of the men from the logging camp, turned from the window. "He was just turned loose by that squirt heading for the gold fields."

Never one to let a customer pass her by, Goldie rushed outside. A sturdy-looking duck of about her own age was slogging through the mud, with no apparent intention of going into the saloon. He was weighted down by a heavy pack of supplies and looked thirsty. The perfect customer.

"Take a break, argonaut! Have some grub!" she called, beckoning inside.

To her surprise, the duck barely turned around, and didn't even stop walking. "Bah! I ate just last week! Regular meals are for softies!"

Speechless, she watched him head off down the trail without so much as a backward glance. "My, my, my..." she murmured, smiling in spite of herself. Her sales pitch was rarely turned down so bluntly, especially when the potential customers saw her. She was naturally beautiful, and she knew it. By the time they found out food and drink were all she was selling, she had already made a tidy profit.

She watched until the rude but oddly appealing non-customer faded out of sight among the pines, then slipped back inside to negotiate the rent for her corner table.

By the time the worst snows came, Dawson had exploded into a wild city of drunks, thieves, dreamers, outcasts, deadbeats, entrepreneurs, miners, traders and ne'r-do-wells. Goldie O'Gilt had never felt more alive. Her little saloon proved vastly inadequate for the huge influx of business, and although it broke her heart to tear down the building she had built with her own two hands, she now had enough income to construct a ballroom. This time she let others do the actual work, but supervised it all closely.

At the same time, she did a little advertising, strolling up and down the block in her brand-new dress. And what a dress! She had special-ordered it from Skagway. The bottom was trimmed with ostrich feathers, the bodice shone with golden sequins, the sleeves puffed up delicately, and the full skirt faded through a spectrum of red and yellow. It made her feel glamorous, gorgeous, and giddy, and she never wanted to take it off.

A steady stream of people passed her door, leering and grinning. She happened to glance toward Soapy Slick's new Casino and Loan, and spotted that grouchy duck again, the one with the cute whiskers who had refused to patronize her saloon. Still just as good-looking as ever, and still scowling like he had sandpaper in his shorts. The duck obviously needed to have a little fun once in a while.

He stiffened indignantly and kept walking. "Not likely!"

What a spitfire! She smirked. It was surprisingly refreshing not to be fawned over, for once.

Soapy Slick slithered up and followed her line of sight. "Don't waste your time on that bird," he said with a snort. "He's not like the rest of these greenhorns!"

No argument there, she thought. "Have your men tried to follow him to his dig?"

"Every self-respecting, no-good thug in town has tried, but he's too smart for 'em! He always doubles back and gets the drop on 'em! But he'll make a mistake. I'll get him yet!"

"McDuck. Scrooge McDuck. Miserable piece'a..." The pig wandered back into his own establishment, mumbling unkind things.

She shook her head and smiled as Scrooge rummaged in the barrel of nails. What in the world was he doing? He seemed to be inspecting each nail closely and only taking out certain ones. Finally, curiosity got the better of her. She lifted up her skirt to avoid getting mud on her ostrich feathers and tip-toed across the street.

"Hey, sourdough," she said, sidling up to him. "Lose something in there?"

He frowned, half at her and half at a bent nail. "No."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Bent nails are half price."

"You don't say." He continued ignoring her, so she tried a slightly different tactic, leaning over the barrel to smile directly in his face. "I don't bite, you know."

Scrooge looked up with surprise. "I never said you did."

"Then how come you're so dang rude?" she teased.

"With all due respect...mind your own business, ma'am." He gathered up a handful of bent nails and went into the store to pay.

Goldie frowned and stomped her foot, unintentionally wedging her heel in the mud. What an infuriating man! She twisted her shoe free and stood in the doorway of the hardware store.

When Scrooge turned from the clerk to exit, he found himself face-to-face with her. "Pardon me, ma'am," he said, raising a hand to shoo her out of the way.

Instead she leaned in close and said softly, "Even rude ducks are welcome in my ballroom, if they're as handsome as you, sourdough."

He stopped and swallowed, obviously uncomfortable. She noted a droplet of sweat on his brow and stifled the beginning of a giggle deep in her chest. He was shy! How cute!

"Er...thanks, uh, for the invitation, ma'am," he stammered, elbowing his way past her. She leaned back on the doorframe, forcing him to brush against her as he passed. Once free, he hurried off down the street, nearly running into people in his haste to get away.

Goldie allowed herself a brief laugh. He clearly wasn't used to being flirted with. This, she decided, was even more fun than being leered at by every passer-by.

Scrooge McDuck... There was a name she'd remember.

She peeked over the swinging door as Scrooge walked by, studying his gruff expression. She half-considered chasing after him again, just to see him get flustered, but Lulu walked up with an expression of contempt. "There goes that skinflint, Scrooge McDuck! He never spends a cent on fun!"

"No," Goldie said, "that's not his style." She found herself admiring him for it, even if it meant less business. Stories had been circulating about the quality of McDuck's claim, and if rumor was truth, he could certainly afford an evening at the Blackjack. Especially after he paid off that leech Soapy.

Scrooge disappeared into the crowd, and she headed backstage to fix her hair before the next performance. There were paying customers waiting to hear The Star of the North sing, and she could hardly disappoint them.

"Or something? What do you mean, exploded or something? Either it exploded or it didn't," she said as she refreshed a stork's drink.

"I don't know, but something's goin' on down there! I heard someone say that stingy McDuck character's behind it. I'm gonna go watch!" He dashed out the door, and now that the piano player had stopped, she could hear the sound of distant shouting. What the…?

She set down the pitcher, threw a cloth at Lulu and joined the procession of curious folk to the docks.

It was chaos. Soapy's barge appeared to have exploded, imploded, then caught on fire. It was difficult to tell, exactly, but "something" had indeed happened. Or "someone"...

"It's McDuck! He's coming!" somebody shouted, and there was a mass stampede as people rushed to hide inside buildings.

Oh, come now, Goldie thought with amusement. They can’t possibly believe one awkward little duck could have caused all that—

Scrooge was a mystery, but an alluring one. Very intriguing...

Goldie put a thoughtful finger to her mouth. What a duck! Quite a challenge for me...someday soon... she mused.

Their next meeting happened quite by accident. The Blackjack was out of a popular brand of whiskey, and business would suffer if the shelves weren't restocked. Goldie felt restless that morning, so she headed to the general store at the end of Front Street herself. She was stronger than she looked, and carrying the groceries back wasn't a problem. Halfway to the store, however, her plans for the day were abruptly changed. As she passed Larson's Dry Goods, a dingy red projectile shot out the door, and the next thing she knew she was on her stomach in the soupy mud that passed for a street with someone sprawled across her back.

"And don't come back!" shouted Larson from inside.

"Welcher!" yelled the person sitting on top of her.

"Get off!" she snarled, shoving him aside. It was only then, as she managed to sit up, that she realized it was Scrooge.

He looked startled, as if noticing her for the first time. "Oh, er, sorry, ma'am."

"You'd better be. Look at me!" She attempted to wipe the mud off her blouse, but her hands were even muddier. It was fortunate she had left her favorite red gown at home in favor of a low-cut green blouse and tan skirt. "And do you realize what soap costs?"

"You're telling me! It's outrageous!" He somehow managed to stand up in the slippery mud. She waited a moment for assistance, then cleared her throat loudly. "What?" He looked down with minor annoyance. She held up a hand and frowned in disgust. "Oh." He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet, but in the process overbalanced and fell back on his tail, dragging her down again.

"Some help you are," she grumbled, reaching for a hitching post to get herself upright.

When they were both firmly on their feet, he sheepishly asked, "Er, you're not hurt, are you, ma'am?"

"Just my pride," she snapped. She plunged her hands into the icy water of a horse trough just long enough to clean off the worst of the mud. "What's Larson so upset about, anyway?"

He followed her cue and washed his hands in the trough, then dirtied them again by attempting to dry them on his coat. "That cheapskate won't listen to reason! A used canteen can't possibly cost as much as a brand-new one! The prices in this burg are ridiculous!"

"Why do you think I'm in business, instead of freezing my tail off mining? Simple supply and demand, sourdough. Speaking of which, I think a laundry tub is in order for both of us... Yuck!" She held her arms away from her body, grimacing at the thick layer of cold mud.

He started walking away.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

"To see if another store has cheaper canteens."

"Aren't you going to clean up first?"

"Why? Everyone in this armpit of a town is filthy."

"And everyone in this armpit of a town is lecherous and dishonest. But you're not, so there's no reason to start conforming now. You look like you've spent the night in a barn. Now are you coming or not?" He hesitated, and she grabbed his wrist with a surprisingly firm grip. "This won't take long. Besides, you owe me a favor, after knocking me over like that."

"Letting you do my laundry is a favor?" He allowed himself to be led down the street, toward the Blackjack.

"No...just talking to me is a favor. You've got yourself quite a reputation, McDuck. 'The King of the Klondike', they're calling you now."

"Dime novel nonsense," he scoffed as she dragged him through the back door of the ballroom.

"Maybe, maybe not. Tell me about yourself." She led him down an empty hallway into the kitchen. He reluctantly took a seat on a three-legged stool while she extracted the laundry tub from a cupboard. The sound of music and reveling reached them faintly through the walls, but no one was around.

"What is there to tell?"

"Judging by the stories I hear, quite a lot." She filled the tub from a barrel of melted snow, then dropped in a few precious flakes of soap. "Think it over while I go dig up some clean duds." She disappeared out the door, leaving Scrooge to sit and ponder.

A few minutes later she returned in a clean outfit: a surprisingly plain, cream-colored gown. "Here. This should fit." She tossed him a faded but clean flannel shirt. "One of the other girls'...visitors...left that. Don't worry, it's been washed since then." She smirked, then ducked back into the hallway while he changed.

Soon she was up to her elbows in wash water, cleaning the mud from their clothes. "So, McDuck, you're Scottish, I take it?"

"Aye, lassie," he said with an exaggeration of his usual, faint accent. "Glasgow."

"What brings you a'waaaaay over here? Gold?"

"Gold and adventure. Mainly gold."

"Same old story," she mumbled with a cast of disappointment.

Sensing she was expecting more, he quickly added, "But quite a bit has gone on between Scotland and here." She perked up an eyebrow as he began telling her about his life to date, and all the adventures therein. Slowly, his tale drew her in, and she drifted away from the laundry tub to sit across from him on a second stool, listening intently.

Something inside clicked, and they talked for over an hour before even realizing how much time was passing. Conversation came instinctively thanks to an unexpected compatibility. Goldie was enrapt at his autobiographical yarns, and Scrooge listened eagerly to her own tales of the North.

[ Illustration ]

At last she noticed how far the shadows had progressed across the dusty wood floor. She glanced out the window at the position of the sun and stood up, startled. "Gadzooks, look what time it is!" She whirled around and fished their clothes out of the laundry tub, now clean but still sopping wet. "I’ve got to be onstage in less than an hour, and I still haven’t gotten that whiskey. The girls are probably wondering where I am, and-- Oh, geez, you’ve got to go!"

Scrooge stood and frowned at the sun. "I’ll have to, if I want to get back to my claim before morning."

Goldie held up his dripping coat and shrugged apologetically. "This will take forever to dry. You might as well keep that shirt. No sense in freezing to death."

He fingered the borrowed flannel shirt. "What if that…visitor…comes looking for it?"

She lowered an eyebrow. "I don’t think that’s likely. Oh, and don’t get any ideas, sourdough. That’s not my thing. The other girls can do what they want, but I prefer to maintain a shred of dignity, thanks."

Scrooge tipped his fur hat. "My sentiments exactly."

She opened the door and shooed him out. "Well, get moving, McDuck. We should do this again sometime…under better and cleaner circumstances," she said with a sly smile.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, looking as if he wanted to say something gallant, but before he could find the words Lulu and Rodney, the piano player, approached down the corridor.

They were momentarily surprised to see the two ducks, then smiled knowingly. "Oh, hello, Goldie. That’s where you’ve been all this time," Lulu said with a wink. "Don’t tell me the Ice Queen of Dawson got all warmed up?"

Goldie blushed fiercely and shrank back against the doorway. "It’s not like that, Lulu."

The piano player elbowed Scrooge and smirked. "What’s yer secret, pal? I’ve been trying to get her to warm up to me for months!"

"I didn’t— We didn’t— It’s not—" he stammered, the scarlet hue of his face matching Goldie’s.

"Mind your own business!" she finished for him.

"Sure, sure, Goldie," Lulu said incredulously. "Whatever you say."

"So much for McDuck’s ‘holier-than-thou’ reputation, eh?" Rodney laughed. "Sooner or later every man gets reeled into Paradise Alley, I guess."

Anger flared underneath the embarrassment, and Scrooge made a fist. "You don’t know what you’re talking about!"

Goldie’s heart raced. If anyone thought she was compromising her morals like the other girls, she’d never have a moment’s rest from lonely miners and their propositions. It was all fine and well flirting with every man in town, but acting on it… She panicked. "This brute pushed me in the mud, and I was letting him know in no uncertain terms that if he doesn’t learn some manners I’ll knock his teeth out!" She turned to Scrooge, who was too busy blushing to notice her sudden change in demeanor. She shoved him roughly aside and stormed away down the corridor. "Now get out of my way, McDuck!"

Lulu and Rodney appeared partially convinced, and Scrooge furiously barged out the door before they could tease him further.

The problem was, they couldn’t quite forget each other. Alone in that cozy kitchen, they had connected on some level neither quite understood. It was strange, but two people who had never seriously considered romance found themselves enamored. The problem was, neither wanted to sacrifice their reputations to explore the relationship. Scrooge made a few trips into town, of course, for supplies, but he never swerved toward the Blackjack Ballroom.

When word reached Goldie that he was in Dawson again, she found reasons to linger at the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. She hadn’t been blessed with an intelligent conversation since their last encounter, and her brain was growing mold from disuse.

"Beer!" barked a dogface who had already consumed enough liquor to float a paddlewheeler. "More beer, woman!"

Goldie spun from the window, scowling. Yep, this is intellectually stimulating, she thought grimly. She half-considered giving that boorish customer his beer upside the head, still in the bottle, but the sight of his overflowing gold poke stopped her. Slobbering and annoying, but still a customer. She sighed and refilled his glass, then slouched back against the window. Still no sign of Scrooge. Perhaps he wasn’t around after all.

Get a hold of yourself, Goldie, she told herself. You swore to yourself long ago you’d never turn into a giddy, lovestruck schoolgirl. Not like Sylvia. She frowned in disdain at the memory of her wide-eyed sister, rushing off to marriage in Nome, naïve and irrational. He’s good-looking, interesting, and a great conversationalist, but so what? So what if he’s actually got morals? So what if he’s unique? So what if he’s got those cute little whiskers, and that nice bit of an accent… She turned from the window and scowled. Shut up, she told herself. Think about something else.

The dogface she had just served passed out and toppled off his bar stool. Well, it was something else to think about… She whistled for the bouncer, then slouched back to resume her vigil at the window.