“Good. A woman who’s accomplished what you have doesn’t get all wobbly-kneed at the first sign of danger, or at an obstacle in her plans. And I admire that.”
Andy’s touch was gentler as he straightened her collar and picked a few pine needles from her tied-back hair. His eyes roved over her, concerned, as though he feared he’d hurt her when he shoved her to safety…and it finally hit home that he’d saved her life, and that she’d been the worst kind of fool to come blundering into the woods, ignorant of the hazards here. Rushing headlong into trouble seemed to be her favorite pastime lately.
“…but like I was saying the other night, we can’t have women camped with us. Too dangerous, as you can see,” he added with a chuckle. “And despite your best intentions, some of the locals and Miss Lillian took your advertisement to mean you were going into, uh, business for yourself.”
Glascock had taken her hand and was walking her in a wide circle back toward where the skidroad broke the edge of the woods. He had a low, pleasant voice when he was talking to her this way—no sign of his previous belligerence. With each leisurely step they took, Sahara realized what a colossal error in judgment she’d made by advertising for a venture that was doomed to fail, while risking dozens of other women’s lives as well as her own start-up funds. All because she’d acted upon yet another half-baked, impetuous scheme without asking anyone for the facts first.
She couldn’t refrain from a long, disappointed sigh. “Just give me my money back and I’ll—”
“I don’t have it. And you should understand that most of these men move from camp to camp as the trees get—”
Sahara whirled around in front of him. “What do you mean, you don’t have it? If you think my plan’s stupid, fine—but you will return that money, or I’ll—”
Once again his touch silenced her. Andy was stroking her cheek, smiling down at her. “You’re a fiery little thing, aren’t you? And that dress makes you look a lot more—well, actually, I’m glad you came up to see me, Sahara. I figured you would, ornery as you are.”
“Ornery?” she protested. What did it take to get through to this man who obviously used his brawn more often than his brain? “I was trying to solve a shortage that’s been written up in all the newspapers. Nice enough to spend my own damn money—”
“Yes, it has been,” he replied quietly. “And yes, you’re the nicest woman I’ve met since I came to Oregon a couple years back. So nice that, well—turn around and head down that path.”
Sahara scowled, wondering what sort of trick he was playing now. They were quite a distance from the bustle of camp, near a stream, in an area that smelled of fresh air and rang with a hushed, welcoming solitude. Had they been walking in circles? Did he plan to send her into the endless forest to find her own way back to town, through groves of green fir trees that all looked alike?
Andy grinned good-naturedly. “Go on, now. I can be an obnoxious old timber beast at times, but I hate to see a lady disappointed.”
With another dubious glance, she walked slowly along a trail, which appeared to have been flattened by huge logs that had been dragged along it, past tall stumps that surely measured ten feet across their centers and appeared freshly cut. If this was another of Glascock’s ways to make her look ridiculous—
And then she saw them: two framework skeletons made of lumber that stood out bright white against the backdrop of green forest around them. Her heart skittered up into her throat, and she trotted toward them, drinking in their plain yet stalwart two-story height. Why, they were ready to be enclosed and roofed, and Glascock couldn’t have received her letter but a week or two ago! They’d had to clear the land, and haul in lumber and nails and—
When the sun broke through the cloud cover, the framework of her two boardinghouses glowed warmly. Sahara hurried over to the nearest threshold, onto the plank flooring of a large room which would be the parlor. She giggled, clapping her hands and stomping her feet in triumph, reveling in the way the happy sounds echoed in the woods. Then she turned to find Andy leaning against the door frame, watching her.
“You are the most—”
“Most what?” he asked, teasing her with a raised eyebrow.
She rushed at him, unable to express her joy in mere words, and then the huge, muscled lumberjack caught her up and swung her around, her laughter mingled with his. Her head spun with giddiness and with the warm, powerful press of his body. One arm cradled her behind while the other hand explored her hair, her shoulders, the curve of her spine.
As though coming to his senses, Andy loosened his hold so that she rocked back in his embrace. She rested her forearms on his shoulders, catching herself before she tousled his unruly chestnut hair. “Thank you,” she breathed.
“You’re welcome, Sahara.”
His eyes delved into hers, a deep, mystifying brown that spoke of happiness newly shared and longing coming to flower after a long dormancy. Andy’s lips were full and firm, parted in anticipation and so kissably close she found herself leaning toward him—
But this was absurd! She was getting far too carried away by a burst of pleasure, too enthralled by a man who appeared to have waited for this very moment as eagerly as she had. Sahara let out the breath she was holding, trying to ignore the solid thudding of his heart against her midsection.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Why what?”
She cleared her throat, trying to make her thoughts toe a rational line. “Why’d you start my houses if it was such an unworkable idea?”
“You sent me the money,” he replied with a shrug, yet a grin flickered on his lips. “And once I told my men what you wanted to do, I had so many volunteers too eager to work in their off-hours that I couldn’t convince them of the pitfalls of shipping women into camp.”
He sounded utterly sincere, and as he leaned against the door frame, he shifted her against him as though he intended to hold her this way for the rest of the morning. Andy looked completely comfortable, unconcerned about what his loggers were doing in his absence.
“So why’d you humiliate me at Lillian’s Saturday night? I had a pistol in my pocket, and I was damn near ready to use it.”
Glascock’s chuckle reverberated against her. “I probably deserved it, too; but I was a little whiskeyed up and I wasn’t expecting you to come busting in, defending your brother,” he began. Then he gave her a sheepish smile. “But mostly, I had an image to protect. Lillian and her girls are our friends, and we’d hurt their feelings if we acted too eager to be domesticated before we even saw these women.”
Sahara nodded, hoping he was as contrite as he sounded. “I can understand that, I suppose.”
“Good. And now I want to state my case while there’s only you to listen.”
Her eyes widened with the solemnity of his words.
Andy’s glance dropped to her collar. “Ever since I read that piece about you in the paper, I’ve been praying for a lady like Sahara Spade,” he said in a dreamlike voice. “I’ve got plans to own my own mills and steamships, Sahara, and I need a woman whose ideas are as bold and far-reaching as my own—somebody who won’t back down when opportunity knocks. When I read that advertisement, I knew it was you, honey. And
when your letter came, it was like the voice of God said, ‘Here she is, Andy-boy, don’t miss your chance.’”
She was speechless, holding her breath as two large, umber eyes focused on hers.
“So I’m saying straight out that I think you’re one helluva woman, and that I won’t bother to look at those other ladies’ letters, because it’s you I want. If you’ll have me,” he added softly.
“Oh, Andy…” Her whole body thrummed, and she closed her eyes against an intense wave of longing. Here was a man who knew what he wanted and wove such a simple yet eloquent snare—and she couldn’t get caught in it. She was a married woman, no matter how deep the chasm between her and Madigan, and she had to tell him that before he became any more attached to her. His disappointment would be a horrible
thing to witness, but Andy Glascock deserved her honesty for opening his soul to her today.
“I…I need some time,” she mumbled. She couldn’t string him along, but she certainly couldn’t slap him with the truth after such a heartfelt outpouring of devotion.
“That’s only fair. It’s not like you’ve had a chance to think about this.” He smiled at her, lowering her until her face was level with his. “If you’d kiss me, Sahara, a tree could fall on me tomorrow and I’d die a happy man.”
There were those lips, open slightly and beckoning with a moist, lush smoothness—such a contrast to his rugged face. Lord, how she wanted that kiss! But she found herself scrambling down from his embrace, every nerve in her body telling her to run like hell when the last thing she wanted to do was hurt this dear man’s feelings.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, honey,” Andy whispered, and he caught her by the hands before she could dash away. Then he chuckled, looking terribly fond of her. “Never guessed you’d be shy, being married before—and what with all the things you’ve done since Spade died. Makes it more interesting, though. I’m looking forward to learning every little thing about you.”
0h, no you’re not, her heart cried out. She couldn’t stop gazing at him, desire woven with regret that was as palpable as a wet blanket and would soon smother her if she didn’t get things straight. Why were feelings so fickle and complicated? Why did love always seem lopsided, and present itself when she was unprepared for it, and slip on like a fancy dancing slipper, so elegant yet ruined by one trip through a mud puddle?
Sahara was halfway out of the clearing before Andy’s voice stopped her. “Sahara,” he called out, his face alight with a smile. “Now that you’re here and the men know you’re serious about this project, they’ll work even harder at it. Don’t be a stranger, honey.”
Chapter 27
Sahara was panting when she reached the post office, and so excited she didn’t realize how breathless she was. Her houses were up! Andy and his men were only bluffing at Miss Lillian’s, and soon the two temporary homes would be filled with women eager to start new lives!
“I’m Sahara Spade,” she wheezed as she approached the counter, “and I’d like my letters, please. I hope I need a mail pouch to put them all in!”
The clerk was a slender, vested gentleman who was graying at the temples. He studied her from behind wire-rim spectacles, and then, in a high, thin voice he replied, “Spade, you say? Name don’t ring a bell.”
“Probably because I just got into town. Perhaps Andy Glascock and his men mentioned that I’d be receiving—”
“Not that I recall.”
Sahara blinked. “Can’t you at least look?” she demanded. He seemed rooted to the floor, so unconcerned that he could’ve been asleep on his feet.
The man raised an eyebrow, but he shuffled to the back room, and then emerged a few moments later, absently placing his hand on the various stacks of mail upon a long table, mouthing the names on them. He returned to the counter with maddening slowness, a defiant shine in his eyes. “Like I said, miss. Nary a letter.”
She nearly rushed behind the counter to shake him, but caught herself. “Thanks,” she muttered, and then she hurried out with a swish of her calico skirts.
Must be some mistake, since the old coot hardly knows up from down, her thoughts raced as she headed for the rooming house where the five of them were staying. There’s surely a PILE of letters stashed away somewhere—or there will be by week’s end! Perhaps a more alert clerk will…
Sahara bustled into the post office every day for the next week, but left empty-handed.
By Saturday, August eighteenth, not a single letter had arrived, and she nearly burst into tears on her way back to her room at Mrs. Beck’s. It was becoming a humiliation to ask the postal clerk—usually the same old grump—for her mail, and an embarrassment to show her face in Andy’s camp. Her two houses now had wood-shingled roofs and exterior walls with plate-glass windows, an extravagance the men had insisted upon, and the rooms were rapidly taking shape. At any one time, she would be able to accommodate forty women—more, if a few slept on pallets in the parlors.
But not one lonely lady had written to her. Not one!
“Roxanne, I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled. From her window, she could see the usual lumberjacks, mill workers, and seamen come to town for haircuts and baths before seeking out their evening’s entertainment. “The houses will be finished soon, and there’s no one to occupy them! We have cookstoves and linens and food ordered—the men have worked so hard for me. I’ve made my share of stupid mistakes, but this one tops them all.”
Her friend looked up from the sampler she was stitching. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said quietly. “Perhaps the problem lies with the mail delivery. Letters from back east could take weeks to arrive—”
“And if Holladay’s seen my advertisement, his express agents could be misplacing all the letters, too,” Sahara commented bitterly. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.”
Roxanne’s brow furrowed. “Why would they do that? Isn’t it a federal offense to tamper with the mails?”
“It’d be a way to rub salt in my wounds. And over thousands of miles and dozens of way stations, who could prove it?” She was met with a dubious scowl and let out a long sigh. “All right, so I’m thinking the worst—but this is awful! What’ll I tell those men when we visit their camp Monday? After all the work they’ve put in, they have a right to some answers.”
Roxanne raised her needle and threaded it with a fresh length of red floss, nipping her lip in concentration. Then she glanced wryly at Sahara. “Are you sure that’s what’s bothering you? Or is it a certain bull of the woods who keeps sending a boy here with messages?”
Her cheeks prickled as she looked out the window again. She hadn’t mentioned Andy’s little proposal speech to anyone, but he was making his intentions clear two or three times each week with his sealed envelopes. How long must I wait? this morning’s note asked. I want you, honey. We’ll get married tomorrow, if you’ll just say the word.
“Andy’s very nice. Very earnest,” she admitted, and then she realized that Roxanne would be a sympathetic ear who wouldn’t repeat what she’d heard. “He—he’s asked for my hand already, and I can’t seem to tell him I’m married. Only a bottom-of-the-barrel whore would behave this way.”
“Or a woman who hasn’t heard from the husband who sold her out. I know how you feel, though,” she continued softly, “because if I don’t get word of the divorce Wendell promised me soon, I’ll be in the same predicament.”
Grinning, Sahara noted the roses rising into Roxanne’s lovely face. “Charlie’s proposed?”
“I think he’s going to.”
“Oh, Roxanne!” She hurried over to hug the woman’s shoulders, suddenly feeling happier than she had in days. “Charlie Oswald’s the nicest, most loyal—”
“Cute backside, too.”
Her surprise turned to laughter, and the two of them giggled like girls, Roxanne swaying happily in her sewing rocker while Sahara stood to one side, squeezing her shoulders—until she sensed someone in the doorway.
Andy Glascock was watching them, his bearded face aglow. He was dressed in a cream-colored shirt and brown trousers with suspenders that looked stiffly new, and the smell of soap wafted into the small room ahead of him. “You ladies make a pretty sight,” he said. “Just the sort of solid, well-meaning women we need in these parts. And if I don’t get back downstairs pretty quick, Mrs. Beck’ll be on my butt. Will you join me, Sahara?”
With a fleeting glance at Roxanne, she preceded him out the door and down the wooden steps, aware of his heavy, spiked footfalls and the warmth of the large hand resting on her shoulder. With a nod to the landlady, who watched them with prying eyes, he guided her onto the small porch at the side of the house.
“Had I known—I’m not dressed very—”
“You look fine, honey. All the satin and lacy d
rawers and jewelry at Miss Lillian’s, piled onto one of those girls, wouldn’t make her a lady,” he said, patting the spot beside him on the short wooden bench. “I didn’t feel right going there tonight, after those notes I’ve sent. I assume you got them?”
“Y-yes, I—”
“Do I embarrass you, Sahara?”
She looked up into intensely brown eyes, in a ruddy, handsome face framed with hair that was freshly trimmed and still damp from washing. Andy Glascock was a man come courting—Lord knew, she’d enjoyed precious little of that before either of her weddings, yet the accelerating tattoo of her pulse warned her not to get comfortable in the lovelight of this logger’s gaze.
“Of course not,” she replied. “You’re a fine man, Mr. Glascock.”
“Mister?” he teased. He slid closer, until his arm rested on the bench behind her and she could feel his breath tickling the loose strands of hair at her temple. “Sounds like we need to get better acquainted. After holding you so close up at the house, I can’t think of anything except how right you felt and what I’d like to do about it. A dangerous frame of mind for a man who swings an axe for a living.”
He was nuzzling her hair, and when his kiss found her cheek, a delicious jolt went through her. Those lips she’d pondered so often were as firm and soft as she’d imagined, and the tickle of his beard made her want to bury her fingers in it while kissing him with all the passion she’d been missing sorely ever since—
“I can’t!” she gasped, turning from him. “Andy, I—I’m sorry, but I’m already married.”
“I know that.”
She sucked in her breath and stared at the man whose deep, dark eyes focused so calmly on her. “But how—”
“And if you’re sorry about it, that doesn’t say much for Madigan, does it?” He chuckled, following the furrow of her brow with a gentle finger. “I saw the marriage notice on the back of that advertisement from The Rocky Mountain News. Farther down the page is a little piece about Spade Express selling out to Holladay, and it’s pretty obvious to me that you weren’t behind it.”
Sahara Splendor Page 28