“Curtis and Keith, foremen. The womenfolk are home; the car's there. Kids'll be coming on the school bus soon. Well, I'd better get along. You'll be okay. Chip will come aroarin' in soon. If not, Penny'll be gettin' off the bus—unless she's stayin' in town with Miss Rogers, that is.”
He turned to leave, and Margaret felt acute panic. “Mr. MacMadden—Tom.” She held out her hand. “Thank you. I didn't realize it was so far from Kalispell to the mill.”
“Ain't no distance at all in this country.” From his expression, Margaret gathered that shaking hands with a woman was a novelty for him. “Hope you find out what you come for, ma'am.” He walked purposefully to the car and got back in. “Door ain't locked. Nobody much locks up around here.”
“Thank you again for bringing me out.”
With his hand to the brim of his hat he saluted and then drove away. Margaret watched him, feeling as misplaced as an elephant in a tree. Try my wings and see the world, she thought. Ha! Nonplussed, she looked across the clearing to the other house and saw a curtain quickly fall into place. Knowing she was being watched, she shouldered her bag, draped her red jacket over her arm, and walked into the house as nonchalantly as the teenaged girl she'd seen on the plane.
Margaret hesitated inside the door and looked around. The room was half the width of the house and paneled with warm pine. The fireplace was huge, the furnishings plain and uncompromisingly masculine. Chairs and sofa were covered in a soft brown leather, and the floor was carpeted in light tan, along with several braided scatter rugs. A bookcase ran the length of one wall and was filled to overflowing with hardcovers, paperbacks, magazines, and newspapers. At least this is a reading family, Margaret thought as she took it all in at a glance.
There was another door straight across from where she stood. She walked over, tentatively opened it, and found herself in a short hall with more doors. One gave way into a kitchen the size of the living room. It was bright and cheery, with an oak table standing before a window that commanded a view of the river. Margaret's gaze skimmed over a large cooking range and white counters, and came to rest on a pile of dirty dishes stacked in the stainless-steel sink. She shuddered in distaste, took another look around the room, then peeked into a white tiled bathroom at the end of the hall. To the side of that was another open door. The room beyond had a double dresser and a wardrobe with the doors standing ajar. The bed was unmade, and piles of masculine garments were heaped in the middle of it as if ready for the laundry. Feeling braver, she opened the door across the hall. If it was a bedroom, austerity was the key word for it. With its iron bedstead, four-drawer chest, and looped rug on the bare floor beside the bed, it reminded Margaret of the rooms at the convent where they had put the hard-tohandle girls. She closed the door and looked into the next room. It was larger than the other two. There was a large double bed and a small youth bed covered with stuffed animals. Small scuffed shoes were set beside shiny black patent leather pumps. A ruffled blouse was draped across a chair.
Margaret gave a sigh of relief. Duncan Thorn was married and had a child. At least now she could exorcise those broad shoulders, blue eyes, and glistening brown hair from her mind. Perhaps that would provide the impetus to send her back to down-to-earth Justin. Had Tom said Thorn's wife was in the hospital? She wished she had questioned him further, but there was something standoffish about the man.
She returned to the living room, placed her jacket across the back of a deep reclining chair, and deposited her shoulder bag next to it. She could at least carry her bags into the house. She couldn't believe that they planned for her to use the small bare room at the back, but there seemed to be no other. And the bathroom—there was only one! She'd never shared a bathroom with anyone in her life. Oh, why hadn't she stayed in Kalispell, rented a car, and driven out here the next morning?
She carried in her small cosmetics bag, opened it, and took a wet cloth from a plastic wrap to wipe her face. It felt good to remove the road grime. Feeling somewhat refreshed, she returned to the porch to get the rest of her luggage.
A dust-covered Jeep came careening off the road into the drive, followed closely by a pickup truck with several men standing in the back. They waved and whistled at the stream of cars that moved on toward town in a cloud of dust. The mill must have closed down for the day.
Margaret suddenly felt as if all the air had been squeezed out of her. What was she to do? She couldn't turn and run into the house, much as she wanted to. She was Edward Anthony's daughter, co-owner of the Anthony/Thorn Lumber Company. The thought stiffened her spine. She stood quietly, hands clasped in front of her, and waited for the Jeep to stop beside the house.
The driver sat for a minute and looked at her. The pickup pulled up behind him, and the men spilled out. The door of the Jeep jerked open. Duncan Thorn was big without being bulky, his shoulders broad beneath an open mackinaw. He had the same brown hair, the same blue eyes, and the same tanned face, but a mustache had been added. She would have known him in a crowd of a million people. She fleetingly wondered if she'd be able to say the same about Justin if she had seen him only once years ago.
Thorn bounded up onto the porch. “Hi, sweetheart. I see you made it!” Strong hands snatched her to him, and he placed a hard kiss on her lips. “C'mon boys, meet my girl, Maggie Anderson. What's the matter, honey? So glad to see me you're speechless?”
Speechless wasn't the word. Stunned, dumbfounded, shocked beyond all understanding was more in keeping with Margaret's feelings. She tried to push herself away from him, but his arms bound her tightly.
“Let me go,” she hissed, glaring up into amused blue eyes.
“Play the game…darling,” he hissed back before kissing her again quickly and whirling her around to meet the grinning men lined up at the edge of the porch. “Here she is. Didn't I tell you she was a beaut?” With an arm clasped tightly about her, he drew her forward. “Maggie, this is Jase, Pete, Harry, Whistler, Pegleg, Keith, and Curtis.”
In a daze Margaret offered her hand to each man, trying to smile through their bone-crushing grips. “How do you do. I'm very happy to meet you.”
The chorus of male responses was immediately forthcoming. “I'm doin' just fine, darlin', and so's old Chip now you're here.”…“Wheeeee, she's a looker, Chip!”…“You ain't got no sister, have ya, honey?”
“Okay, you guys. Clear out. See you tomorrow.”
Margaret stood trembling in the curve of Duncan Thorn's arm and watched the men pile back into the truck and head toward the two small houses to the north.
Duncan dropped his arm from around her and picked up her cases. “Open the door,” he said without looking at her.
Shaking more from nerves than from the chill of the evening, she followed him into the house. He set her bags down at the entrance to the hall and flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. He muttered a curse, then jerked the screen from in front of the hearth, knelt down, and put a match to the fire already laid in the grate. The fine kindling burst into flame. He stood for a minute and watched it, then replaced the screen.
“I'll turn on the generator. I forgot I shut it off this morning.” He glanced at her standing beside the door. “Make yourself at home.” He strode into the back of the house, and soon she heard a door slam.
Margaret went to the large chair and leaned against it, thankful for these few minutes to pull herself together. Had there been sarcasm in his words, or was it her imagination? Everything he had said, done, was beyond the realm of her imaginings! Nothing was as she'd thought it would be! What had he meant—my girl? She had to get out of here. He was married and had a child, who would be getting off the school bus any time now, according to Tom. She picked up her red jacket and put it on.
“Going somewhere?” He came through the doorway, reached over, flicked the light switch, and the room was flooded with light.
“Explain your asinine behavior!” She was so angry her voice trembled.
He laughed, and she felt her face turn a d
ark red. “I didn't think it asinine at all. I thought it was kind of fun. You would've, too, if you'd seen that surprised look on your face.”
Her features froze into a glare. No one had ever dared speak to her like that! “It was inexcusable for you to demean me in front of those men,” she said icily.
“Demean? Come down off your high horse. You're no princess around here.” The laughter had left his eyes. “You wanted to be incognito, and the big wheels at Anthony's wanted you safe. So I gave it a lot of thought, and decided there was no way you'd be safer than as the fiancée of Chip Thorn. Not many young single women come to this area. The men would've been after you like bears after honey. Is that what you wanted, Miss Anthony?”
There was no doubt in Margaret's mind that the last words, so softly spoken, were meant as an insult. Anger flared anew, but she quickly controlled it. She had promised herself she would handle whatever came up as the result of this impulsive trip.
“Let's get a few things straight, Mr. Thorn. That little show you put on out there”—she jerked her head toward the porch—“placed me in a position where it will be impossible for me to stay on here. I'm going back to Kalispell, and when I return it will be as Margaret Anthony, co-owner of this operation.”
“Like MacArthur, you'll return.”
“I don't appreciate your humor.”
“I didn't think you would. I doubt if you even laugh at the funny papers,” he said drily. “Why in the hell did you come here, anyway? If you're worried about your interest in the mill, you can read the financial statement prepared by the accountants.”
“I wanted to learn about the business firsthand.”
“Why this business? You must have a hundred others you could play around with.” He seemed to make a conscious effort to wipe all traces of mockery from his expression. “Have you come to offer me your shares?”
The question caught her off guard, but she hurriedly rallied her thoughts. “Maybe. Are you interested?”
“Sure, for the right price.” His dark brows drew together sharply. “Sit down and we'll talk about it.”
“I'd prefer to leave. We can talk about it another time.”
“Scared you off already, have I? Well, I didn't figure you'd last long. But I did think it would be longer than”—he looked at the gold watch strapped to his wrist—“twenty-two minutes.”
“That was your intention, was it not? By introducing me as the other woman in your life, you knew it would be impossible for me to stay,” she said, hoping her sweet smile was masking her cold anger.
“What do you mean by that? I haven't had any woman in my life for a good many years—permanent, that is.”
She made herself look him directly in the eyes. “Tom said your wife was in the hospital and your child would be getting off the school bus.” She felt color rise while she spoke.
“My wife?” He laughed, and Margaret suppressed the impulse to hit him. “I doubt if Tom said my wife. He probably said Dolly was in the hospital, and Penny would be getting off the bus. So that's what's bugging you!”
“I'm not exactly bugged, Mr. Thorn,” she flared, “but you'll have to admit this was all rather confusing, particularly in view of your greeting.”
“Dolly is my housekeeper. Penny is her granddaughter,” he explained tersely. “They've been with me for about five years. I have no children. Kids belong in a marriage, not out of it. I'll have mine when the time is right.” The banter had vanished from his voice, and there was unmistakable intolerance in the set of his mouth.
“Admirable of you,” she murmured.
“Sit down. I'm not taking you to town tonight.” He lifted a tool from the assortment hanging beside the fireplace and poked at the glowing coals on the grate, then lifted a small, neatly cut log onto them.
Margaret could feel the warmth from the fire seeping into her, and she wanted to move closer to it. Instead, she crossed to the window. Darkness had settled quickly; it was that time of year.
He followed her to the window, and she saw his dark reflection mirrored in the glass. It was slightly blurred, but she could see that he was big, powerful—that image was perfectly clear. She didn't turn around. She didn't want to look at him because that same breathless feeling she'd had when she first saw him almost eight years ago was descending upon her again.
She said the first thing that came into her mind. “I'd planned on staying at a hotel.”
“There's no hotel in Aaronville.”
“There is in Kalispell.”
“That's fifty miles from here.”
“I could get a helicopter to transport me.”
“Oh, hell!” he said with disgust. “I forgot you had Fort Knox to draw on. Well, go ahead, if you want to blow your cover.”
“Well, I can't stay here!”
“Why not? The damn house is half yours.”
He moved away from her, and she turned to see him standing with his back to the hearth. She shut off a powerful physical memory of his lips against hers.
“Do you want me to draw a chalk line down the middle of it?” he asked.
“That will hardly be necessary.” She was determined not to let him get to her again.
“It really blew your cool when I kissed you, didn't it?” He placed a hand on his chest. “Forgive me. It was an impulsive action, for which I beg your pardon.”
A word came to her mind that she dare not use. Smartass!
“It wasn't that,” she snapped with a lift to her shoulders. “I've certainly been kissed before.”
“How come you've never married? Couldn't Ed find anyone good enough for his princess?”
“I was engaged to be married, and I…postponed it, not that it's any business of yours.”
“Before or after Ed died?”
She had never heard her father referred to as Ed before. “After,” she admitted without thinking.
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No!” She caught herself up, conscious that she had allowed him to antagonize her again.
He laughed, his eyes almost half shut as he looked at her. “Justin Whittier is too old for you, anyway. What was Ed trying to do? Put a watchdog on his little princess to keep her safe in her ivory tower?”
“Stop calling me that!” Her poise completely abandoned her, and she heard herself nearly shouting. He was exasperating! He knew all about her, so why the questions?
“Now we're getting down to the real Margaret Anthony. Just a spoiled brat!”
Margaret drew in a deep breath. “Hardly a brat, Mr. Thorn.”
“I know how old you are, but you're a brat nevertheless. I also know about old Justin. I make a yearly trip to Chicago to confer with the powers that be. The last time I was there Ed told me that, although you would own his shares in Anthony/Thorn, I was to be the trustee. And you would have to offer them to me before you sold them elsewhere. He wasn't doing me a favor, mind you. He simply had a perverted sense of loyalty. He did it because he and my father had known each other when they were both poor, and he'd bailed my father out when he was having trouble with this mill. Does it surprise you to know that Edward Anthony was once poor?”
“No,” she responded equably. “My father worked hard for everything he had.”
“Not everything. Some things just fell into his lap after it was lined with gold.”
“Are you an inverted snob, Mr. Thorn?” she asked softly, gratified to see that she had, at last, touched a raw spot.
“Hardly that, princess.” His voice was low and impassioned. “But enough of this sparring. Are you going to stand around all evening in those ridiculous shoes and that hundred-dollar dress?”
Margaret opened her mouth to say, “Hundred-dollar shoes and five-hundred-dollar dress,” but she choked back the retort and asked instead, “Shouldn't the little girl be here by now?”
“Penny stayed in town. Tomorrow is Saturday, and a friend of mine is taking her to see Dolly.” He picked up the suitcases and carried them to the small, auste
re room, where he set them down with a thump. She had no choice but to follow him. “All yours,” he said, switching on the light beside the bed. “Penny moved into Dolly's room for the duration, and I found this bed in the attic. This is the bathroom.” He reached around the corner and switched on a light. “We may have to share the same towel, since the wash is piling up.” His grin was devilish, and she didn't know if she should take him seriously or not. “Stick around, Maggie, and you'll see how the other half lives.”
She started to protest again. She despised the nickname Maggie. But even that was better than princess!
“Thank you, Mr. Thorn. I'm sure I can manage just fine.”
“I think you'd better forget about the Mr. Thorn business, Maggie. Call me Chip, unless we're with someone—then you can call me darling…or sweetheart.” He was smiling wickedly.
“Don't count on it…Chip,” she said haughtily, concentrating on keeping her own lips from curving upward.
“You'd better be careful, or you just may smile, princess. I know you can: you smiled at me one time, long ago, when you were a teenager.” He laughed aloud. “It didn't take Ed long to hustle me out and away from you.”
Rankled again, she snapped, “I wouldn't know. I don't remember ever seeing you before.”
He moved past her into the hall, and she faintly heard him murmur, “Liar.”
In the tiny bedroom she slammed the door shut, drew the shade against the night, and kicked off her shoes. The bare floor was cold. She stood on the looped rug beside the bed, opened one of her cases, and dug around until she found a pair of blue silk slippers. They weren't very warm, but they were better than nothing.
The closet was barely large enough to hold her clothes, and it was equipped with flimsy wire hangers. She grimaced when she hung her slacks and the wire sagged. Then she giggled. So this was freedom, seeing the world, trying one's wings, et cetera, et cetera.
Margaret put her things away carefully, removed her dress, hung it in the closet, and, preparing to freshen up, slipped into a long blue silk robe. With her cosmetics case in hand she opened the door a few inches and looked out. The bathroom door was closed. Did that mean he was in there? She listened carefully, and could faintly hear water running. He was in the bathroom. She'd have to wait. The room was cold, so she wrapped a blanket from the end of the bed about her shoulders and sat down to wait. This is ridiculous, she thought. I can't believe this is really me in this bare room. It's almost as if I were back at the convent school being punished for something or other.
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