Sahara Splendor

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Bobby’s mouth snapped shut, and he stomped off in search of fuel; but Sahara sensed the subject of her husband would fester like a wound between them in the coming weeks. After a supper of corn cakes, salt pork, and coffee, they pulled the coach and the wagon to the side of the road and tended the horses. It was late when they settled into bedrolls, with the men sleeping beside the fire while Sahara and the Pruitts stretched out inside the stage.

  The nights were colder here in the mountains, but as Sahara shifted in her blankets, vainly trying to get warm and comfortable, she knew the temperature wasn’t to blame for the chill she couldn’t fight off. Bobby’s assessment of her hasty marriage had its valid points, and yet…she missed Madigan, dammit! He was a level head—except for that slip-up in Denver—and a warm body, and a friend. And he was a man who’d championed her causes and cheered her on beyond her wildest expectations. And he was gone.

  She herself had done the walking out. Along with a lot of shouting and no listening.

  They rested two days in Salt Lake City, and although Charlie Oswald was pronounced bruised but healing, they hired two young men, James and Jesse Bingham, to ride shotgun and help with the driving. Under the best of conditions, another ten to fourteen days of treacherous, unfamiliar territory stretched ahead of them, and additional brawn and trigger fingers made them all feel better about resuming the journey.

  Sahara was grateful each evening when they pulled over, for another uneventful day had brought her closer to the dream that occupied most of her waking thoughts. She tried to visualize her boardinghouses, and the hopeful faces of women who would soon make this same journey. She prayed Andy Glascock was as sincere and kind as his letters sounded…she wondered what Madigan was doing these days.

  To break the monotony, she insisted on driving when the road was reasonably level, and true to her word, she invited Mitchell to sit in the box between her and James, the burly, taciturn man who accompanied her coach. The bright-eyed boy delighted in pointing out the chipmunks, woodpeckers, and squirrels that darted among the dense evergreens towering around them.

  The air was sweet and clean here—cooler than Kansas, even when the sun dazzled their eyes in a sky of morning glory blue. Traveling at night and trading off her horses, as the commercial stagecoaches did, would’ve gotten them to Oregon much faster, but Sahara savored the chance to gaze at this magnificent, untamed country, so different from anything she’d ever known. It was a rite of passage they all needed…and when Charlie was riding inside with Roxanne, following doctor’s orders for a few hours, she heard talk and laughter that was surely good medicine for both of them.

  Despite their nightly stops and companionable meals around evening campfires, though, it was an arduous trip. And once they left Fort Walla Walla, pointed toward Portland, no one was more eager to arrive there than Sahara. How many letters awaited her at the post office? Had Glascock been receptive to her plan and put her start-up money to good use?

  What if this whole idea was just another of her impetuous, impulsive schemes that would lead dozens of trusting women into lives they would regret forever?

  Sahara set aside her doubts as they rolled into town. It was Saturday evening, August fourth, and Portland teemed with seamen, lumberjacks, and other muscled carousers who eyed her coach with curiosity as they strolled from one brightly lit establishment to the next, whiskey in their grins.

  “James, do you know where we are?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, ma’am, this is Burnside Street,” he answered with the biggest smile she’d seen since she hired him. “Somebody along here’ll know where to find that logger fellow you’re after. Looks like a fine place for a man with pay in his pockets, doesn’t it?”

  She chuckled, and when their other wagon had pulled up behind them, she counted out the agreed-upon sum into James’s outstretched hand, plus enough to buy good mounts for the ride back to Salt Lake City. Moments later the Bingham brothers were lost in the crowd of strapping manhood entering a bawdy house down the block.

  Bobby and Charlie, who’d been discussing the situation, looked up at her like mischievous boys asking a school marm’s permission to visit the privy. “You and the Pruitts best stay here whilst we ask around,” her brother said, his gaze roving to both sides of the busy street. “We’ll start at this here li-bary. Gotta be the place ta get information, right?”

  Rolling her eyes, Sahara waved them off and joined Roxanne and Mitchell inside the stagecoach. She doubted she’d need the derringer in her jacket pocket, but she patted it as she and her friends watched the parade of laughing, noisy, swaggering men pass by. “‘Miss Lillian’s Library,’” she read across the top of the two-story building. “‘Reading rooms, free lunch, hot baths.’ Wonder how many of those delights Charlie and my brother’ll try before they remember we’re out here?”

  Roxanne let out an unladylike snort. “Maybe we should look for a hotel. Tired as I am, I hate to spend half the night waiting for them.”

  “You’re volunteering to go out in that crowd and find us a room?” Sahara teased. “We’re the only women I see.”

  “Ah, but Miss Lillian’s surely in her library. Reading, no doubt.”

  They laughed, but before Sahara could make another suggestion, the door to Miss Lillian’s swung open and her brother came sailing out onto the street. “Do your fighting somewhere else, pipsqueak!” a gravelly voice commanded.

  “Nobody calls my sister a whore!” Bobby hollered back, and as soon as he crammed his hat on he was scrambling into the Library for another round.

  Sahara groaned, unlatching the stagecoach door. “Not here five minutes and already—” She heard Roxanne’s shrill warning, but kept striding toward the saloon’s entrance, wondering how her reputation had been ruined before she even showed her face. Leave it to Bobby to shoot off his mouth and cause trouble!

  The Amazon who greeted her with a no-nonsense glare stopped her in her tracks. Miss Lillian stood as tall—and probably weighed the same—as a lot of the lumberjacks resting against the longest bar Sahara had ever seen. Her fiery red hair was swept up with combs and adorned with a forest green plume that matched her revealing satin gown. Counting all the bangles and bracelets and the heavy gold chain around her fleshy neck—each link held a diamond, she noted—Sahara was guessing the proprietor wore ten pounds of jewelry and probably had a weapon secreted among the folds of her gown.

  “I’m not taking applications, honey,” she said in the rough voice that had accompanied Bobby’s exit. “Go on home, before your mama comes looking for you.”

  A few of the men at the bar snickered, but Sahara’s gaze didn’t drop from the green eyes that challenged her…or at least one eye did. The other, unmoving, appeared to be glass. “I came to fetch my brother.”

  “Best idea I’ve heard since he got here,” Lillian guffawed, “but you’ll have to wait your turn.”

  Sahara looked past the bar, which had wheels of yellow cheese, stacks of sliced bread, and crocks of pickled herring placed along its length, until she saw Bobby dangling in the grip of a tall, broad-shouldered behemoth wearing a plaid shirt, snug tan pants, and heavy boots…with spiked soles. In fact, all the patrons sported such dangerous-looking footwear, and she had no trouble imagining how perforated she and Bobby would look if they got stepped on. Small as they both were, it was something to be considered.

  She shouldered her way through the gathering crowd, noting the scantily clad ladies who were hanging on the burly man’s every word—and Charlie, who watched from one side, poised to jump in should things get out of hand. “So tell me about this Spade lady,” the logger was bellowing at his captive. “From what that piece in the paper says—”

  He pointed to a wall that was covered with tacked-on messages for whoever might pass through, and her familiar advertisement stood out conspicuously among them.

  “—this Sahara character sounds like a madam bringing her girls into our camp. We can’t have that, half-pint. And you can bet Miss
Lillian’s none too happy about it, either. Are you man enough to tell our hostess this is all a mistake and then—”

  “It ain’t no mistake!” Bobby sputtered. He swung a fist, but it came off as a Lilliputian effort as he hung from his assailant’s beefy grip. “And Sary ain’t no madam! She’s tryin’ ta do you boys a favor by—”

  “Boys?” the man jeered, looking to his cohorts for their reaction. “Who’re you, to call anybody in here a—”

  “You by God better put my brother down!” Sahara cried as she broke through the crowd to stand beside him. “I’m short, but I can kick high enough to knock your voice up a notch or two.”

  The place echoed with a gasp of anticipation, and the small orchestra on the stage stopped playing. The man holding Bobby looked her up and down, a grin stealing over his bearded face. “Your brother?” he asked slyly, and with Bobby still in tow he sauntered over to study the newspaper page on the bulletin board wall.

  When he returned he was chuckling, a deep, resonant sound that would’ve been pleasant had he not been making fun of her. “Hot damn, gentlemen,” he announced as his gaze encircled the crowd, “I have the pleasure of introducing Sahara Spade, the angel of mercy determined to bring wedded bliss to the forests. Whether we want it or not.”

  Drunken laughter rang around her, and Sahara placed her fists on her hips to keep from swinging at him. “And who’re you?” she demanded.

  With great ceremony, the man set Bobby on his feet and extended his broad, muscled hand, grinning gleefully. “I’m the bull of the woods, little lady—Andrew Joseph Glascock. My friends call me Andy, but you probably have a few other names in mind by now.”

  Chapter 26

  “Holy sh—” Sahara clapped a hand over her mouth, staring at this mountain of a man. Glascock’s boyish face was framed with thick brown waves like his brother’s; brown eyes snapped mischievously at her as he stooped to bring his bearded grin down to her level. His shoulders were ox-broad, and his calloused hand had swallowed hers up to the wrist without any sign of releasing it. And was so strong he didn’t realize he was grinding the bones of her fingers together.

  Or did he?

  “Don’t talk down to me,” she warned, returning the double-dare in his gaze. “I didn’t come all this way to— just because you’re so much bigger than—”

  “Oh, he’s huge, honey,” Miss Lillian sang out, “and we can all see you’re not woman enough to handle him!”

  Twitters rang out above the loggers’ chuckles, but before Sahara could think of a retort Andy Glascock caught her up as though she were a small child and held her against his chest. “And what made you advertise for wives, and send me word to build two boardinghouses, and—” Her burly captor paused to study her, his unfavorable opinion etched in his raised eyebrows. “Sounds to me like you’ve got more money than sense, little girl.”

  The truth of that statement stung bitterly. The nerve of this overgrown bully—making such a spectacle of her, when she had only the best intentions for him and his men!

  Sahara was suddenly too exhausted and embarrassed…and too damn disappointed to spar with him. She was sadly aware that Andy smelled freshly bathed and had a soft shine to that thick thatch of hair while she—Sahara Spade, multimillionaire—wore dusty pants and a week-old shirt beneath her brother’s denim jacket. “Maybe I do,” she replied in a shaky whisper, “but those letters to your brother Mike made you out to be a lonely man in a profession starved for affection and families. I was just trying to help.”

  Glascock’s face softened. His dark eyes mellowed, and she felt his hold on her tighten slightly.

  “Ya better set ‘er down,” Bobby’s voice threatened, and Charlie Oswald declared, “You’re not going to make light of Sahara! She’s a fine woman with more heart than your mother and more grit than all your loggers combined, Glascock. Treat her right, or you’ll answer to us.”

  Sahara’s eyes widened, as did everyone else’s, when Oswald pulled a pistol from beneath his jacket to emphasize his point. “That’s all right, Charlie,” she said tiredly. “If this gentleman doesn’t want our help, we’ll find someone who does. Set me down, Andy. Give me back that thousand dollars I sent you, and I won’t bother you any further.”

  The logger made no move to release her…just kept looking her over while the other lumberjacks and whores waited silently for his reaction. He wasn’t accustomed to being challenged, she sensed, and she was relieved to see he could at least control his temper. “Bank’s closed,” he stated.

  “Do you have any intention of doing as I asked?”

  “Can’t rightly say.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you first thing Monday morning, with my money in your hand. Now put me down.”

  For a moment longer Andy studied her, and then very gently lowered her to the floor.

  “Thank you.” Sahara gazed up at him, wishing she could see the logger she’d imagined for all these days and miles, thinking that such a man must be another figment of her fanciful imagination. “You better be ready with your best arguments, come Monday. When I’m rested, I’m damned hard to refuse.”

  She turned, and with her brother and Oswald behind her Sahara headed for the door of Miss Lillian’s. A quiet whispering started up, but she could hear Andy Glascock saying, “I just bet you are, little lady. I just bet you are.”

  Monday morning Sahara strode from one banking house to another, circling that end of town in search of Glascock. Of course he won’t show, she thought bitterly. Too much to ask, that there exists a man as decent and considerate as I want him to be.

  She had no idea where Glascock and his men were camped, but the whine of large saws directed her to the logical place to start asking. Along the banks of the Willamette, she found docks stacked with cut lumber to be shipped out. The heavy tang of sawdust hung in the fog-shrouded air, along with the overbearing odor of fish oil from the lamps burning in the mill buildings.

  From his letter to the ranch, she knew Andy and his crews worked in the forests, which had been pushed back from the river just enough to make room for the sawmill and the docks. Setting off through the dense, green trees would be foolish—but then she spied a trail that resembled a giant’s stairway of logs ascending the rise, and reasoned that if cut trees traveled down that path to the mill, she could hike up it and eventually locate the lumber camp.

  It was easier said than done. The huge, round logs were spaced too far apart for her to step from one to the next, so she had to struggle between the stumps and underbrush that flanked the side of the trail. The woods were dim, and so dense she doubted the sun ever penetrated the piney foliage that scented the damp air with cedar and—

  Smells like Madigan when he’s cleaned up, came the unbidden thought, and it only put her in a fouler mood.

  At last she reached a stump-studded clearing and could hear the bite of axes and the steady grinding of crosscut saws. Sahara looked up to see a huge fir tree that had wood planks about the size of matchsticks stuck in opposite sides of it, with a tiny man standing on each plank, chopping valiantly at a gash in the tree’s side with toylike axes. She almost laughed, and then realized the two loggers were the brawny types she’d seen in town, merely dwarfed by the height and diameter of their conquest.

  Open-mouthed, Sahara watched the man nearest her cut a notch at shoulder level, bury his axe higher in the tree, ram the plank he’d been standing on into the new notch—while hanging by his axe with the other hand!—and then swing himself up to his new platform. These were men to be reckoned with, and she could imagine Mitch’s delight when he discovered their grace and prowess on the job.

  Sahara walked on, searching for an office among the low frame structures she spotted in a small clearing ahead. The scents of coffee and freshly cut wood drifted with wisps of morning haze, and all around were the sounds of chopping, and male voices calling out instructions. A long, creaking whine pierced the air, and somebody yelled, “TIMBER!”—and before she knew what was happening, Saha
ra felt herself being snatched up and propelled ahead of a powerful force that rushed at her from out of nowhere.

  She landed with a loud gasp in a pile of sawdust and pine needles, buried beneath a ponderous weight she couldn’t yet identify. There was a deafening crash, and then the forest echoed with the tree’s fall. Sahara couldn’t decide if the ground was shaking or if she was, but she struggled to get out from under the warm, undulating body that threatened to crush her.

  “You trying to get yourself smashed to smithereens?” a familiar voice growled by her ear. “What’re you doing up here, anyway?”

  Sahara spat sawdust and rolled over to glare at Andy Glascock. “I came to give you a piece of my mind about—”

  “And how’d you find the camp?”

  She sneezed in the loose sawdust as she sat up. “I figured a bull of the woods like yourself would need a stairway big enough for your attitude and your swaggering ass to—”

  “You came up the skidroad?” Glascock wiped off his face, scowling deeply at her. “Girl, if it were any other time of the week, you could’ve been flattened under a load of logs headed for the mill. And moments ago you stood right in the path of a two-ton tree, until I—well, you must want to get yourself killed pretty badly!”

  Rolling to her feet, Sahara slapped the dirt from her calico dress. “What would you care?” she retorted. “You’re obviously not the same Andy Glascock who wrote those letters to—”

  A huge hand covered her mouth, a hand that smelled of sawdust and dirt yet closed very carefully around her face. “I care plenty, Sahara,” the lumberjack said in a low voice. “I might not’ve given that impression Saturday night, but—you’re not going to cry, are you?”

  “NO!” She yanked herself from his grasp, yet stood helplessly while he swatted the dust from her backside, as though he’d done it dozens of times.