The next day Thorn was gone, and when she asked her father about him, he shrugged and dismissed the man as he did anyone he considered unsuitable for his only child. At different times during the years Duncan Thorn's face had come to Margaret's mind, and she'd wondered about him. Now she had to push aside the uncomfortable feeling that thinking about him was somehow being disloyal to Justin.
Margaret leaned her elbows on the terrace wall and watched a freighter glide slowly behind the peninsula that jutted out into the lake. This could be a turning point in her life, she realized, remembering Rachel's words. She could marry Justin, and he'd move into the house, assuming his position as monarch, protector, decisionmaker. Or she could postpone the marriage, try her wings, as Rachel had suggested, take her chances and exert some control over her life. The seed Rachel had planted in her mind had grown to such proportions that she could scarcely think of anything else. The idea of an immediate marriage to Justin was suddenly less reassuring than it had once been. She tried to push the niggling doubts aside. But it was true, she had never experienced any of the sensations she read about in romance novels—except maybe that one time when the tall Montana woodsman had looked up at her from the foyer below.
A blue and yellow sail appeared on the lake, then a green and orange one. The small boats skimmed recklessly across the water. They were having a race. What fun, Margaret thought. Suddenly she felt young and daring, and she knew what she had to do. She would account to no one for a while, no one but herself.
Rachel—and Justin, she guiltily reminded herself—would understand.
Margaret and Rachel looked at each other as the lawyer's voice droned on and on. There were no surprises in the will. The family home was left to the two of them, Rachel being described as “dear friend and faithful companion.” Margaret was left the bulk of the estate, with ample provisions made for Rachel and the family retainers. The vast conglomerate Edward Anthony had built during his lifetime would remain under the direction of the board of trustees, with the exception of the Anthony/Thorn Lumber Company. Margaret's ears pricked up, and she looked over at Justin's stalwart figure as she tried to correct her vagrant thoughts.
“Out of respect for my late partner, August Thorn, I place control of the business in the hands of his son, Duncan Thorn. I bequeath my shares in the company to my daughter, Margaret, and further state she cannot sell them without first offering them to Duncan Thorn at a reasonable market price.”
It took the lawyer almost an hour to read the rest of the will. His voice droned on about royalties, commodities, real estate, and investments—all very dull stuff to Margaret, who listened with interest only to the part about the Anthony/Thorn Lumber Company. She was a business partner with Duncan Thorn, who had regarded her so contemptuously when she was a shy teenager. Would he even remember the girl whose heart had pounded so furiously when she looked down at him from the balcony?
She knew that those glancing occasionally at the heir to the Anthony millions—including Justin—would have been surprised to read her thoughts: Never again, as long as I live, will I be regarded as a useless little rich girl. I'll not be coddled and protected as if I were a child. I'm going to experience life outside these stone walls—and make that life count for something beyond keeping the Anthony fortune intact!
The scene with Justin, when she handed back the diamond, was explosive—so much so that she wondered why she'd never noticed his short temper before.
She walked into the study the morning after the will was read, placed the ring on the desk in front of him, and nervously waited for him to look up and acknowledge her presence.
“What's this, Margaret?”
“It's the engagement ring you gave me, Justin.” Seeing his puzzled expression, she explained, “I need time to gather my thoughts, to find the direction my life will take now that Daddy is gone.” She paused. “I realize it's not fair to keep you dangling while I try to find myself.” There, she'd said it. She was surprised to hear herself speaking so calmly; she had fretted over this confrontation for hours last night.
Justin got slowly to his feet, his face turning a dull red, perspiration popping out on his high forehead. Alarmed at his obvious dismay and trying to make things easier for both of them, she blurted, “It isn't as if we've ever declared undying love for each other.” She would have liked to withdraw the last words; they were rather cruel. After all, she was fond of Justin, and up until a few days ago she'd thought he'd soon be her husband.
“What do you mean? You know how much I care for you.”
“I know that we like each other very much, but I also know that that's not enough of a reason for us to consider marriage right now.” She was trying to be sensible, trying to spare them both more pain. “I'm sorry if it will cause you embarrassment, but I really need time to think, to do things on my own. Surely you can understand that, can't you, Justin?” she pleaded.
“You're not going to marry me?” He spoke slowly, his tone intimidating. “What nonsense is this? Put that ring back on your finger! You will marry me! It's what your father wanted!” He was almost shouting.
Stunned and horrified by his reaction, Margaret was silent for a moment as her reeling mind flashed back to other times when her father had stood behind the desk telling her that she would not leave the estate without a bodyguard, she would not go to camp, she would not be allowed to drive the car…
“It might have been what my father wanted,” she finally said with quiet dignity, “but it isn't what I want. I'm not sure I love you, Justin. And right now I don't even like your behavior. You're trying to turn yourself into a replica of Edward Anthony. And when I marry, I want a husband, not a second father!”
“Why you ungrateful little—” He cut himself off, then continued more calmly: “I've handled everything for you. I've given my life to this company, and—”
“You've been paid for it,” Rachel's quiet voice pronounced from the doorway. “Now that Edward isn't here for you to confer with, I think it would be better if you conducted business from the office in the city.”
Margaret walked slowly to the door, smiling gratefully at Rachel as she passed. Painful as it was, she had taken the first step in controlling her own destiny. Now she had some emotional sorting out to do.
Justin came to the house several times during the next few weeks. He apologized profusely for his outburst, but for Margaret the shock of his behavior was still too fresh. He tried to court her, bringing her flowers and asking her out to dinner and the theater. Her resolve to live life firsthand growing, she accepted his apologies but refused his invitations. Evidently realizing that she'd made up her mind to postpone the marriage, he finally stopped pressing his suit. Recognizing the return of the sensitive man she had known, Margaret was grateful for his understanding.
She called him one morning and asked for a dossier on the Anthony/ Thorn Lumber Company. He seemed reluctant to send it, as if he thought her request a personal threat to his position, but the file arrived by messenger and she spent a day going over the information before returning it.
Rachel expressed surprise when Margaret announced she was making a trip to Montana to look over the operation she now partnered with Duncan Thorn.
“Why? Why do you want to go there?” Rachel's hands visibly trembled as she poured from the silver coffee service. “I thought you'd prefer to go on a skiing vacation, or take a cruise.”
“I want a reason to do something. I want to be involved, Rachel. I may want to buy Mr. Thorn's shares.”
“Buy a lumber company? Darling, you've got to walk before you can run! That's a whole new world up there!”
“Anywhere will be a whole new world for me,” Margaret reasoned.
Rachel was quiet for a long while, but then she conceded, “Maybe you're right. At least you'll be safe up there. Duncan Thorn may give you a rough time, but he's August Thorn's son, and he'll see that no harm comes to you. Yes, I think for your maiden venture into the world, that's as good a pl
ace as any.”
At the airport Margaret kissed Rachel good-bye. Justin had offered to accompany her to O'Hare, but she had declined. She'd never taken a trip alone before, never handled her own tickets or traveler's checks, and she wasn't sure she wanted Justin to see her so rattled.
The plane was boarding, and she had only a moment to hold tightly to Rachel's hand and whisper, “I love you…I'll miss you…I'll call often…Take care of yourself.”
“I love you, too. Have a wonderful time, and don't forget: you look very beautiful, like a well-groomed, smart sophisticate who's able to take care of herself.”
“You're sure no one's trailing me?”
“I'm sure. I told Justin if anyone did I'd see that he was fired!” Rachel smiled. “That put the fear of God into him! 'Bye, darling.” Rachel hugged Margaret once more and pushed her toward the gate.
Margaret boarded the plane, outwardly composed, but inwardly she felt rather frightened and lonely. But she was also determined, she reminded herself. She watched a young girl in jeans and extremely high heels shoulder her bag and walk down the aisle. I must be at least ten years older than she, Margaret thought resentfully as she settled in for the flight, and she acts as if she hadn't a care in the world.
The airport at Kalispell, Montana, was small. A portable stairway was wheeled out to the plane, and there was but a short walk across the windswept runway. Margaret's eyes skimmed the small waiting crowd, looking for broad shoulders and brown hair. Duncan Thorn had called the house to leave a terse message: “I will comply with Miss Anthony's wish to arrive incognito and be met in Kalispell.”
A man wearing khaki pants and a red mackinaw—and a battered hat atop iron-gray hair—leaned against a wall. He was holding up a scribbled sign that read: “Miss Anderson.” As Margaret walked slowly toward him, he grinned, crumpled up the paper, and stuffed it into his pocket.
“I figured you was the one,” he said. “I'm Tom MacMadden. I was sent to fetch you.”
CHAPTER TWO
MARGARET'S EYES FEASTED on the panorama stretching out before her: forest-covered slopes giving way to a winding river with a small cluster of buildings along its eastern bank. In the distance the sky was edged with snowcapped mountains. There was a soft quality to the afternoon light as it filtered through the clouds, evidence of the autumn sun's waning strength. This was Montana, the northwestern corner of Montana, and it seemed a million miles away from Chicago, where she had boarded the plane that morning.
The battered station wagon bumped along, then rolled to a slow crawl as it rounded a blind curve of the dirt road. The driver jerked his head toward the view they had just passed.
“That's Aaronville down there. It ain't much of a place compared to Kalispell, or even Columbia Falls, but it must have four hundred folks, countin' kids. Most of 'em work for Anthony/Thorn one way or t'other. The sawmill's on north a ways.”
As they approached it, Margaret could see that the town of Aaronville was even smaller than it had looked from above. There was one long street that ran parallel to the river; others branched off at intervals, only to go a short way and stop. There was quite a selection of stores, some faced in stone or brick and some wooden ones that needed paint. A white church was set back on one of the dead-end streets, its cupola stark against a background of trees whose leaves were various autumn colors of faded green, muted rust, and brilliant gold.
“So, you goin' to be stayin' long, Miss Anthony?”
Margaret had sensed that Mr. MacMadden's curiosity had been eating at him ever since he'd met her at Glacier International in Kalispell. Now she knew why. Despite her surprise, Margaret registered that his tone revealed his doubt that she would extend her visit.
“I haven't decided,” she said with such confidence Rachel would have been proud of her. “It depends on a number of things. I may decide to buy Mr. Thorn's shares in the company.”
He gave her a sidelong glance and whistled through his teeth. “You don't say? Chip ain't said nothin' 'bout that. There's been Thorns in lumberin' here as far back as I remember.”
“Chip? You must mean Mr. Thorn?”
“Everybody 'round here calls him Chip. He sent me down to fetch you 'cause he wanted to rout out some campers that's been a mite careless with their fire.” He took advantage of a fairly smooth section of road to glance at her again. “He sure was surprised when he got word you was comin'.”
Margaret looked out the window, seeing nothing of her surroundings. All she saw was a mop of gleaming brown hair and a pair of bright blue eyes staring up at her from the foyer below. I'll bet he was surprised, she thought. I'll just bet he was!
The station wagon now cruised easily over blacktop. The people on the sidewalks, mostly women and children, cast curious glances at the car. Evidently strangers were of a rarity to elicit comment. The driver lifted a hand in greeting once or twice and drove on through what seemed to be the entire town.
“I didn't see a hotel, Mr. MacMadden,” Margaret finally commented.
“Ain't none. Call me Tom.”
“But where will I stay?” she questioned, her newfound confidence faltering ever so slightly.
“Chip said to bring you out to the house. All there is in town is a roomin' house, of sorts.” He grinned. “I ain't thinkin' you want to stay there.”
“I knew the company owned a house, but I thought Mr. Thorn and his family used it.”
“It's a big house. Must have five or six rooms.”
“Five or six…rooms?” She hoped she sounded suitably impressed.
“Yeah.” Tom grinned proudly. “Real fine house.”
“Mr. MacMadden—ah—Tom, Mr. Thorn knew of my wishes to arrive as a guest, an employee, or simply as an observer without revealing my identity. I fail to understand why he took you into his confidence.”
“He done it 'cause I've known him since he was a tad and 'cause I knew your pa and 'cause I know a hell of a lot more about this company and how it started than anybody else 'round here. I saw your picture once, and I'd a known who you was the minute I clapped eyes on you.
That's why he told me and sent me to fetch you. Far as anybody else knows, you're Maggie Anderson come to help out for a while.”
“Margaret Anderson,” she corrected. As the station wagon once again jostled them over deep ruts, Margaret commented, “The road's very rough.”
“It gets smoothed out once in a while. Gets hard use. Wait 'til you're on it after the whistle blows. Can't see for the dust the young hellions raise goin' to town to get a beer.”
Margaret swiveled to look at the brick-red dust swirling behind them as they headed along the rough trail. There was a fine film of it over everything in the car, including herself. She could even feel it grit between her teeth when she brought them together. She was certainly going to need a bath before she met her…partner.
“We've come quite a way from town. Is it much farther?”
“Not much.”
“Do you live out here, too?”
“I got a little place down the road a ways.”
“But, you do work for the company?”
“I don't work for nobody but me, Tom MacMadden.”
“Oh. Then I'll certainly owe you something for picking me up.”
He swung his head around, started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut and looked back to the road. Presently he said, “No trouble. I was glad to do it for Chip.”
Suddenly Margaret was as nervous as if she were approaching the guillotine. She fervently wished for the confidence she'd felt while she was planning the trip.
What would she say to this man? She would be crowded into a house of five or six rooms with him and his family! Would his wife resent her? Maybe she should have stayed at the rooming house! She was on the verge of telling Tom to turn the car around and head back to town when signs of habitation again appeared.
A house was set in a clearing some distance from the main road. What sloped from the back of the house to the rive
r below couldn't really be called a lawn, but it was devoid of trees and brush. The structure was a simple uncluttered design of plain lumber that had apparently been stained brown but that was now faded and weathered. It had a long, wide porch facing the road and a big square chimney on the side. There were no shrubs, and the grass in front of the house had a very trampled look. The drive continued past the house toward a long, low garage that housed several vehicles. A path led to the river and a wooden jetty where an outboard motorboat was moored. Two other small houses to the north completed the “estate.”
Tom pulled up to the side of the house and stopped. “This is it,” he announced.
“Where's the mill?” Somehow Margaret had visualized a mill with a brick and glass office building attached and the owner's house set off to the side and surrounded by a white picket fence.
“The mill's on down the road a ways. It's so damn noisy when it's runnin' you can't hear yourself think. Don't look like Chip's got back yet. Leastways I don't see his Jeep. Guess you might as well get out and make yourself at home.”
Without another word he got out of the car, took her bags from the rear, carried them to the porch, and set them down. Margaret followed on trembly legs. This certainly wasn't what she'd expected.
“Is there no one at home?” she asked, struggling to keep the poise she'd been wearing like a borrowed coat since boarding the plane.
“I doubt it, if Chip or Penny ain't here. Dolly's still in the hospital down at Kalispell,” he said casually, as if she should know what he was talking about.
“Who lives over there?” She inclined her head toward the other two houses.
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