20
LYDIA STARED AT MR. HARRINGTON, FIRST BEFUDDLED, then infuriated. Brigham's clerk seemed healthier since his elopement a few weeks before; his previously skinny frame was filling out, and his coloring was ruddier. He'd stopped wearing his high celluloid collar and parting his hair down the middle, and there was a disconcerting look of obstinance in his eyes.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Quade,” he said, sounding not the least bit remorseful, “but I have specific orders from your husband. He is to pay your salary personally.”
Lydia felt the blood drain from her face, then surge in again in a fresh tide of fury. “This is unacceptable, Mr. Harrington!” she said, pounding one fist on the tidy desk he occupied in a corner of Brigham's office. “I have taught those children faithfully. And for the last three days I've been staying after classes were dismissed to help prepare the new schoolhouse. I deserve to be paid the agreed-upon wages!”
Harrington finally rose from his chair, holding up both hands in an effort to calm the roiling waters. “I agree, Mrs. Quade—absolutely. Totally. But I cannot go against Mr. Quade's orders.” His thin chest puffed out a little. “May I remind you that I have a family to support?”
Lydia sighed. Arguing with the man would obviously be a fruitless effort, and she was tired from her hard work at the schoolhouse. “Where is he?” she asked on a long breath.
Mr. Harrington gestured toward the looming mountain, with its dense covering of trees. “In the main camp, I suppose. A couple of the bull whackers quit, and Mr. Quade is assisting with the work.”
Lydia's heart beat a little faster at the prospect of confronting Brigham; she hadn't seen him, up close at least, since that wonderful-dreadful night when he'd made thorough love to her. He'd said he would come to her only when he needed her as a husband needs a wife, and a full month had gone by since their last encounter.
Lydia was of two very different minds about that. She yearned to be close to Brigham, to be held by him, to hear his voice. At the same time, she feared facing the man she'd married so rashly, feared looking into those tempestuous gray eyes of his and seeing that he no longer desired her. After all, he could go to the Satin Hammer for his comforts now, and Charlotte had mentioned her father's “meetings” with Clover O'Keefe, the madam, on several occasions. Each time, Millie had given her sister a nudge with her elbow and narrowed her eyes in warning.
A spiky lump formed in Lydia's throat, and she turned away so Mr. Harrington wouldn't see her dilemma in her face. It was nearly suppertime, though the sun would be up for several hours. If she did not go to Brigham that very day and demand fair treatment where her employment was concerned, he would bully her at every turn.
She sniffled subtly, squared her shoulders, and turned to look back at the flustered clerk. “Thank you,” she said somewhat contemptuously, causing a rush of chagrined color to flood Harrington's neck and glow along his jawline. “You've been very helpful.”
Outside, Lydia stood glaring up at the mountain. It represented Brigham in her mind, huge and impervious and unmindful of the wants and foibles of mere humans. Then, resolutely, she hefted her skirts and started up the curving track, made by the hooves of oxen and mules and the enormous timbers they dragged behind.
The foliage was thick on either side of the road, for this was a virile land, junglelike in its lushness. Ferns and berry thickets covered nearly every inch of ground, and the trees, hemlock and cedar and fir, mostly, gave each other scant elbow room. The clamor of the mill receded as Lydia progressed up the slope, but ahead she heard the shouts of men, the braying of mules and oxen, the rhythmic rasp of cross-cut saws, the steady thwack-thwack of axes.
After fifteen minutes of steady climbing, Lydia reached the main timber camp, a helter-skelter arrangement of tents and wagons. A campfire burned at pie center of things, and Elly Collier stood beside it, stirring the contents of the enormous pot suspended over the blaze.
The rough-edged woman smiled when she saw Lydia approaching, and wiped her hands on her apron. Lydia felt a twinge of guilt because she hadn't come to pay a social call.
She smiled. “Hello, Elly,” she said. “As I'm sure you know, Jessup and Samuel are making fine progress with their lessons.”
Elly beamed. She was not a pretty woman; her features were too coarse, her body too broad and bulky, but when she smiled, it was like stepping close to a warm stove on a chill winter morning. “Seems there might be some hope for the two of them after all,” she said, her voice booming like a man's.
Lydia's heart ached, just a little. It was a natural thing for a mother to have aspirations for her children, but life was full of perils. Sometimes, boys grew up to be soldiers, and died screaming on battlefields. If war or disease didn't get them, drink might, or a falling tree, or another man's bullet.
Elly gave the schoolteacher a whack on the shoulder that nearly sent her toppling into the campfire. “You're looking mighty down in the mouth, Mrs. Quade,” she thundered. “It's no secret that things ain't right between you and the mister, you know. If you want to talk, you go right ahead. Old Elly will listen.”
The scent of the stew bubbling in the big pot gave Lydia some badly needed strength. Her stomach growled, and she recalled that she hadn't taken the time to eat since breakfast. She stifled an urge to ask the gruff, kindly cook if the rumors were true, if Brigham was really visiting Clover O'Keefe.
“I need to speak directly to Mr. Quade,” she said. She was so eager, her knees were trembling, and yet she wanted to turn and flee down the mountain at breakneck speed.
Elly gave the stew another slow, thoughtful stir, then gestured toward the woods. “He's up there, bull whackin'. Supper'll be ready in a little while, though, and then the boss and all the rest of them will be down here tearin' into my corn bread. You might just as well sit a spell, and I'll give you some coffee. Got to warn you, though—these timber beasts like the stuff strong enough to strip rust off'n a tobacco tin.”
After drawing a deep breath and setting her shoulders at a steadfast angle again, Lydia shook her head. “If I don't go to him right now, Elly,” she confided miserably, “I'll lose my courage for sure. And if that happens, I won't have any respect for myself.”
Regard glimmered in Elly's faded eyes, but she issued a warning all the same. “Your man ain't gonna like it, you traipsin' around in the woods. He's one to hold firm opinions about such things as womenfolk gettin' in the way of dangerous work.”
Lydia sighed. There was no denying that the coining confrontation with Brigham would not be a pleasant one, but she doubted that he'd be surprised by her appearance on this sacred, masculine ground. After all, he'd forced her to come to him by refusing to let Harrington pay her wages like everyone else‘s.
“I have a few firm opinions of my own,” she said distractedly. Then she set out again, through the camp, along the crude trail leading to the place where the men were working.
Lydia walked perhaps a quarter of a mile up the mountain and presently came into a small clearing. An enormous tree had been felled, and men climbed all over it, sawing off branches, paring the bark away in great curved peelings. Brigham's shirt was soaked with sweat, and his flesh was so dirty that he looked like a performer made up for a road show. With the help of several other workers, he was hitching a team of eight lathered oxen to the half-denuded tree, using a system of heavy chains and ropes.
As Lydia watched, her eyes shaded from the late afternoon sun by one hand, Brigham scrambled up the side of the trunk, which was so big that she couldn't see over it, to attach giant hooks in place. Only when he'd finished did he climb down again and stride toward her.
His pewter eyes snapped with annoyance and a hint of amused triumph. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, raising his hands to his hips.
That stance might have intimidated Charlotte and Millie, and maybe Mr. Harrington, but Lydia was determined not to knuckle under, no matter how fierce her husband looked and acted. “I think you know the answer to that qu
estion,” she said. “A workman is worthy of his—or her—hire, Mr. Quade. I am owed a month's salary. Mr. Harrington refused to pay me, and he said he was following your instructions.”
Brigham's gaze slid over her, heating both her flesh and her temper as it passed, and his white teeth flashed in a brief, quicksilver grin. Immediately after that, he scowled. “I expected you to pay me a call, all right,” he said. “I just thought you'd have the good sense to come to the house or to my office. In case you haven't noticed, Mrs. Quade, a timber site is a very dangerous place.”
Lydia stood toe-to-toe with him, knowing he could run roughshod over her if she didn't stand her ground. “So is a field hospital,” she replied.
He narrowed his eyes. “The war is over,” he reminded her tautly. “This is Washington Territory, not Gettysburg or Richmond or Bull Run, and I give the orders here. Go back to town and wait for me there.”
She was intimidated, but she hid the fact as best she could, tilting her head back to look defiantly into his sweat-streaked face. “I will be happy to go back to town,” she replied evenly, “as soon as you give me my money. And I will not ‘wait for you there’ or anywhere else. I am not a child being sent to the woodshed!”
Brigham bent until his nose was nearly touching hers. She could smell sweat, fury, pine sap, and pure, undiluted masculinity, and the combination affected her like strong drink. “You will do as I say,” he told her in a lethal whisper. “And I warn you, Mrs. Quade: I will not have my authority undermined in front of these men.”
Lydia would have retreated a step, but she was afraid she would lose her tenuous balance and fall. “Fine,” she said, summoning all her dignity. “Then all you have to do is pay me my salary, and I will gladly leave.”
He glared at her, and there was a sizing-up in his look. “Suppose I told you you're fired?” he said. “Suppose I say I don't want my wife to work?”
“If you fire me, I can go to work for Dr. McCauley, as his nurse. And since you are no kind of husband, sir, it makes precious little difference to me what you might want your wife to do or not do!”
Brigham was fairly seething by then; his nostrils flared, his breathing was shallow and rapid, and there was a steely glint in his eyes. A trickle of sweat streaked down over his temple and cheek, leaving a trail in the dirt. “I will warn you once more, Mrs. Quade. Go home.”
Lydia held out her hand, palm up. “Certainly. As soon as you give me my money.”
For a moment she thought Brigham was going to spit in her hand instead of giving her the few dollars he owed her. His eyes narrowed again while he assessed her expression and manner. “You're going to make a scene if I don't give in, aren't you?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm.
“One you'll never live down,” Lydia promised, smiling up at him. She had been heartbroken and humiliated by the thought of this man turning to a prostitute for pleasure, and having the whole town know made things infinitely worse. As far as she was concerned, a little embarrassment was no more than he deserved.
Brigham reached into the pocket of his trousers and, for one delicious second, Lydia thought she'd won. Then he laid a shiny nickel in her palm. “There you are,” he breathed, as though flinging down a challenge. “With all the charges deducted, that's about what I figure I owe you.”
Lydia stared at the coin, then at Brigham. “Charges?”
“Yes,” he replied, clearly pleased with himself, and began ticking things off on his grubby fingers. “There's the roof over your head, for instance. And all the food I've provided. The clothes Devon bought for you, and your passage to Quade's Harbor, and the furniture in your cottage—”
“You snake!” Lydia interrupted.
He raised one eyebrow and looked affronted, and Lydia longed to slap him. “Did you think all those things came with the job?” he asked in a damnably reasonable tone.
Lydia clenched one fist at her side. It wouldn't do for her to strike him, no matter how badly she wanted to do just that. She was a teacher, and she would be setting a bad example if she indulged in violence.
“I am your wife,” she pointed out, but she'd lost most of her momentum, and they both knew it.
Brigham smiled, folding his arms and regarding her indulgently. “Exactly. All you have to do is move back under my roof, where you belong, and we'll call it square. You'll have a more than adequate allowance, and we can bring in a schoolmaster to replace you.”
Lydia's fury was so intense that it made her dizzy. She took a firmer hold on her balance. “I will not share your home, not before you close that brothel, apologize for your supreme rudeness, and pay me what you owe. And if you hire another teacher, after I've worked my fingers to the bone with those children, I swear by all that's holy that I'll make you wish you'd never been born!”
He had the temerity to laugh. “Damn if you're not the stubbornest woman I've ever had the misfortune to run across,” he said a moment later. “You'll do as I tell you, and that's the last of it.”
With that, he turned to walk away, and Lydia suddenly lost all control. She was so enraged that the world seemed to glow red around her, and she flung herself at Brigham's back, hooking one arm around his neck and pounding on him with the other.
He curved an arm around her waist and wrenched her around to face him, slamming her against his impervious chest and thighs. “That,” he told her charitably, “was a mistake.”
With that, he hoisted her up over one shoulder, so that her bottom was sticking up in the air. Her hair came unpinned and tumbled almost to the ground. She let out a shriek of shock and fury and began to kick as hard as she could.
Brigham gave her a swat on the backside for her trouble, and a cheer went up from the watching lumberjacks.
In those moments, Lydia thoroughly understood the philosophy behind plain old, spur-of-the-moment murder. If she could have gotten loose, she'd have gone at Brigham like a wildcat, but his arms were hard as manacles around her. His strides were long and easy, as though she were no more trouble than a sack of dried peas.
She hooked her fingers in the back of his belt, as if to hold him still. “Brigham!”
He ignored her shouted protest, so she began to struggle again.
“Do I have to take you over my knee,” he inquired in a cheerful drawl, “or are you going to behave yourself?”
“You don't believe in striking women,” Lydia reminded him, quickly and furiously.
“In your case,” he replied, “I could make an exception.”
Lydia closed her eyes tightly, then gulped. “Please, Brigham,” she wheedled. “Put me down. I think I'm going to be sick.”
He made a sound of rude contempt. “Try something else, Mrs. Quade. I wasn't born yesterday, you know.”
She paused for a heartbeat, doing some fast calculations in her head. Then she felt herself go pale. “All right,” she said as they bounced down the rutted, bumpy ox trail toward camp. “Here's something else. There's a good chance that I'm carrying your child, Mr. Quade. If that's the case, hauling me around over your shoulder can hardly be considered prudent behavior.”
He set her down in front of him with a jarring thump. He looked at her in mingled wonder, distrust, and exasperation for a long moment, then splayed the fingers of his right hand and pressed them tenderly against her abdomen. “You're just saying that,” he muttered. “Aren't you?”
Lydia's eyes filled with tears. She was still getting used to the realization herself, and as so often happened when this man was involved, she was brimming with paradoxical emotions—the joy of bringing a child into the world, the fear of raising a baby on her own, or being separated from her son or daughter. Under the present laws, she had only a few more rights than one of Brigham's oxen.
“I think it's quite true,” she finally said. “I should have had my—my time over two weeks ago.”
A slow grin was spawned in Brigham's eyes, and it spread languidly to his mouth. Then, all of a sudden, he gave a whoop that sent the birds squawk
ing out of the trees in terror, wrapped one arm around Lydia's waist and swung her around in a gleeful circle.
“I'm glad you're happy,” she said acidly when he'd calmed down a bit.
“You're damn right I'm happy,” he replied. Then, to prove it, he lifted her up into his arms and strode on, whistling, through the camp where Elly was cooking supper and on down the track.
“Brigham, really,” Lydia protested when he reached the edge of town. “Enough is enough. You must put me down.”
“I will,” he responded, then he went right on whistling and right on walking.
Everybody they passed turned to stare at the spectacle they made, Brigham covered in dirt and pitch from head to foot, Lydia with her face smudged and her hair trailing down her back like a trollop's.
They progressed down Main Street, past Joe McCauley's house and the Holmetzes' and Lydia's own tidy little cottage. By then her cheeks were crimson.
She tried again. “Brigham, this behavior is quite unacceptable. You are behaving like a barbarian.”
His eyes were saucy as they moved over her face, rested a moment on her breasts, then returned to her mouth. “Don't worry, my love,” he promised cockily. “I'll be gentle with you.”
Lydia stiffened as a thrill of mingled anticipation and umbrage moved through her. “If you think for one moment that you're going to—to—”
Brigham laughed. “Bed my wife?” he finished for her.
Lydia swallowed as they approached the front gate at the big house. “Brigham, I'm afraid I must insist that you stop this, immediately. We are estranged, you will remember.”
He shifted her weight in his arms and opened the gate latch as deftly as if he made a regular practice of carrying women along Main Street and up his front walk. “Oh, I remember all right,” he replied. “It's time we started making up.”
Charlotte and Millie stood on either side of the path, gaping. Lydia closed her eyes, wondering how she would ever explain being carried into their father's house like a caveman's woman.
Yankee Wife Page 28