Louisa Rawlings (15 page)

Mrs. McBride came out onto the veranda and struck the dinner gong. William Stafford smiled at Marcy like the buccaneer she had come to consider him; his eyes swept her ripe curves. “Miss Tompkins,” he said, presenting his arm, “may I escort you to supper?”

“I’ll be eating with the guides,” she said. “I always do.”

“No. I’ve paid for your meal voucher. You’ll sit with me.”

“I’d be right pleased.” She slipped her arm through his, feeling very grand and ladylike.

McBride’s was elegant compared to most of the boardinghouses on the more remote lakes. Indeed, a sign over the doorway proclaimed it a “Hotel,” and Mrs. McBride had brought in a Persian rug and a shiny new piano for the parlor. In the dining room, the guides’ table was plain and tucked into a corner, but the guests were treated to white linen and fancy dishes. For the proper “rustic” touches (earning squeals of delight from Mrs. Marshall), the cloth had been strewn with fresh leaves, and the glass salt cellars were set into hollowed-out pinecones. The men were instructed to hang their hats on the antlers and hooves of a mounted deer, and the chairs around the table, cushioned with bright calico, were made entirely of branches of silver birch.

Marcy smiled in pleasure as the hired girl brought around the platters of food and Mr. Stafford insisted on serving her himself. She didn’t know if that was the way it was always done in the big city, but it certainly made a girl feel special to be fussed over by a man. She laughed gaily all through supper, ignoring everyone else at the table except Stafford. Especially Drew Bradford, who watched her all during the meal, one devil’s eyebrow cocked in mocking amusement.

When supper was finished, the guides went outside to sit on the veranda and swap stories. As soon as Mrs. Marshall retired to the parlor, Mr. McBride brought out a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards, and Collins, Heyson, and Stafford settled down for some poker. In the parlor, Mrs. McBride began to play a slow waltz on the piano.

“Come on,” said Drew, pulling Marcy by the hand. “I’ll dance with you.” He swung her into his arms, holding her tightly, and swirled her around the floor, carefully avoiding the Marshalls, who were also waltzing—with more grace than Marcy would have imagined.

I could dance like this forever, thought Marcy, feeling herself swept up in the sensuous rhythm of the waltz. She was conscious of Drew’s size and strength, the warmth of his arms, the clasp of his hand.
His silence
. She frowned and looked up at his face. Like a closed book.

“Are you angry about something?”

“Why should I be angry?” he said. There was an edge to his voice she’d never heard before. “I watched you at supper. You made a good beginning. You took to it like you were born to the purple.”

“What does that mean?”

He laughed shortly. “It means when you marry your rich man, you’ll fit right in. And Stafford certainly took a shine to you.”

He seemed so strange. “Drew…” she said hesitantly.

“You dance very well. By the by, I thought you were a bit coy with Stafford. Not even the empty-headed city girls giggle all the time.”

“You
are
angry.”

He grinned. “Not at all. And to show you my heart’s in the right place, I’ll play Cupid. In a little while, when we’ve finished dancing, go down to the edge of the lake. I’ll send your ‘beau’ to you.”

“Bosh! How are you going to do that? He’ll be at the cards all night.”

“Not if I tell him that you’ve gone to look at the lake by moonlight. He’ll come running like a hound to the scent.”

“I’m not sure…”

“You’ve talked about it often enough. Are you afraid to put your plan into action?”

Dang him and his teasing! “No!” she said. “I’ll catch me a husband tonight. Just you wait and see, Mr. Drewry Bradford!”

The moon shone on the still water of the lake, making a silver path to the opposite shore. A loon cried mournfully. Marcy shivered. You’re daft, Marcy Tompkins, she thought. Maybe it wasn’t too late to run.

“You shouldn’t have come out without a wrap, Marcy.” The voice was smooth, confident.

She turned. “Oh, Mr. Stafford! You gave me a start.”

“You must be chilly. Take my coat.”

“Oh, no. Really, I…” It was too late. He had already taken off his frock coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, holding it close so her arms were imprisoned.

“I feel cheated, Marcy,” he said. “I had nothing but George Heyson’s company for nearly three weeks. The others had you.”

“Oh, but…the time just flew…we fished and hunted… I’m sure you and Mr. Heyson…” Tarnation! She was babbling like an idiot.

He slid one arm under the coat and around her waist. “You looked charming this evening. I’d surely like to see you in a fancy gown. Perhaps you could come to Philadelphia. I could show you a good time.”

She wriggled uncomfortably, wishing he would let her go. But she knew so little of the ways of men, and she wasn’t sure if he truly had wicked intentions; it wouldn’t do to make him angry. He might take it out on Uncle Jack and the others. “Would you invite me to your home in Philadelphia?” she asked coyly.

He laughed, a low, ugly sound in his throat. “I don’t think Letty would approve.”

His face in the moonlight seemed suddenly frightening. He
is
a buccaneer, she thought, picturing the evil flash of a gold earring. “Who’s Letty?”

“My wife. Now, we were talking about you. In a gown that shows off your figure. Would you like that?”

“I don’t think…”

“Green. Green velvet. The color of envy. Because every man will be jealous of me. A gown that fits just so. Here”—his hand on her waist had dropped lower, caressing her hip—“and here.” Deliberately, he cupped her breast with his other hand.

“Tarnation!” she cried, almost leaping away from him. “Isn’t that Uncle Jack calling me? You must tell me about Philadelphia some other time. Good night, Mr. Stafford. Thank you for the use of your coat.” She almost threw it at him. While he bent to retrieve it, she fled toward the hotel. She was glad there was a back door. She was too ashamed to meet up with Drew or the others in the parlor. She crept up the back stairs and into the small room under the eaves that she was sharing with the hired girl. She stripped down to her chemise and crawled between the sheets, hating Mr. William Stafford and Drew. And herself. She slept, and dreamed of a pirate with one gold earring and a green velvet hat.

She awoke at the first chirping of the birds and sat up in bed. She felt dirty, thinking of the way Stafford had touched her. It was still early; she could take a swim in the lake and be back before anyone else was up. She pulled on her drawers and her man’s shirt and trousers, slipped her bare feet into her moccasins, and tiptoed out of the room.

The morning fog was still on the lake, vertical ribbons of mist rising to the fast-brightening sky. So clean. So pure. Men like Stafford shouldn’t even be allowed in her Wilderness, she thought. She undressed quickly, keeping on her chemise for a bathing dress. The water was cold and crystalline; she swam slowly, reluctant to make ripples on its glassy surface. She looked up. Drew was standing near the edge of the lake, grinning at her.

“I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep,” he said. “How goes your affair of the heart?”

She stood up in the shallows and glared at him. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into last night,” she said, wading furiously toward shore. “That varmint, that…” She stopped, seeing the look in Drew’s eyes.

“If we’re to talk,” he growled, “you’d better get some clothes on.”

She looked down at herself. The chemise clung wetly to her curves, revealing the outlines of her firm breasts, her nipples grown hard from the cold water. “Well, you don’t have to look!”

He laughed and turned his back. “You’re right. Get dressed. But hurry up. I want the whole story of Stafford.”

She stripped off the wet chemise and dressed without it, donning her clothes as quickly as she could. She didn’t like being naked and vulnerable. Drew Bradford might not want a wife, but the look in his eyes made her wonder if she was, perhaps, a little less safe with him than she had thought.

“Well?” he said impatiently. “What about Stafford?”

“You can turn around now,” she said, tucking her shirt into her trousers. “I’ll
tell
you about Stafford! He’s got a wife!”

“Why, that old goat!” Drew was trying hard not to laugh. “I
am
sorry. But from the way he talked about the ladies, I naturally assumed he was single.”

“What do you mean,
talked about the ladies
?” She was beginning to sputter. “Tarnation! Do you think I’d want to be married to a man like that?”

“Well, he
is
rich.”

“With a wife in Philadelphia.” She frowned. “What’s Philadelphia like?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a city.”

“No. Not to me. Is it wonderful and beautiful? With tall buildings? And women in pretty gowns? And fine houses? Oh, tell!”

“My God. Look at you. Your eyes are shining!” He shook his head. “How can you get excited about just a city when you have all this?” He waved an impatient arm in the direction of the lake.

“What do you know?” she grumbled.

He sighed. “Not very much. I certainly don’t know you. You’re so serious about this. So solemn. Good God! I’ve watched the way you look at a flower or a bird on the wing. And then you talk about a city as though it were the end of the rainbow!”

“Leave me alone. It’s none of your business.”

He stared at her, frowning, while she wrung out her chemise. Then he laughed. A forced laugh. “You’re right.” He picked up a pebble and threw it into the lake. “Who’s next? George Heyson? He’s mighty rich.”

“I don’t like him. I don’t care how rich he is. He’s old. And he said mean things about Tom.”

“Tom Sabattis? Stafford’s guide? He’s a nice fellow.”

“But he’s an Indian. At least his father is.”

“So what?”

“Mr. Heyson called him…a red savage…”

He scowled. “Mr. Heyson’s a pompous ass.”

She nodded, then began to giggle. “And I don’t think he likes girls much.”

“I don’t think he likes
anybody
much! Well, what about Ed Collins? Of course, he’s not nearly as rich…”

“Huh! City slicker!”

“He’s just out of his element. He’s not a bad chap. And a lot younger. What about him?”

It no longer seemed to be a game. Why was he forcing her to play it? “Stop it, Drew,” she said softly. “Really, I…”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching in a devilish smirk. “Maybe you could plan to have him come upon you swimming. The way I did. Only it might be a good idea to leave your shift with the rest of your clothes.”

“Oh!” She smacked him in the face with her wet chemise and stormed off toward the hotel, hearing his mocking laughter until she reached the veranda.

Willough lifted her head from the opened ledger and put down her pen. She rubbed at her stiff shoulders and looked across at the other desk. “I don’t like it, Nat. We haven’t had near enough rain this summer. Every one of our farmers says there won’t be enough hay and oats to see the horses through the winter. Even if the skies open up next month, there are too many dry fields. Three months is such a short growing season. We’ll be lucky to have enough potatoes for the company store.”

Nat stood up and stretched, tugging impatiently at his stiff collar. He looks like a caged lion, thought Willough. There was something frightening about all that pent-up power. “God, I hate sitting for hours,” he muttered. “What’s the problem, Miss Bradford? We’re buying extra to make up the shortfall.”

“Not enough.”

“We can always buy more if we get into September or October and find our supplies running short. Mr. Murphy did it last year.”

She tapped the ledger. “At twice the cost. I’d rather put in an order now than be forced to do it with our backs to the wall. I’ve had some correspondence with a farmer down near Ticonderoga; if his grain is as good as his price, it might be worth our while.”

He nodded. “When I go down to Ingles on Sunday, I can stay over and take a look around. If you’ll give me the farmer’s name, I’ll scout around on the sly, and then you can follow up with a letter.”

She smiled in satisfaction. They worked well together. He seemed to understand the way her mind operated, her approach to the business. She had learned a great deal from him in the past few weeks, but surely he had learned from her as well. You’re your father’s daughter, he’d often say, though sometimes she wasn’t sure he meant it as a compliment.

Restlessly he moved around the small office, riffling books, opening and closing his desk drawers, toying with the sturdy briar pipe on his desk. That was something she still found terrifying about him: the way he filled a room with his masculine presence. But she’d done her best to ignore it, avoiding anything but talk about the business, the running of the MacCurdy Ironworks. Thank God there had never been a repetition of that first disastrous day! “Ingles,” she said. “Is that where you go every Sunday, when Daddy and I are at Saratoga?”