Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  Her heart began to pound beneath the coarse flannel of her shirt. It made her shiver to have him so near.

  Retreat seemed the wisest course. “Oh-h-h!” she cried, and turned on her heel and stormed back down the path to the lake.

  Behind her he roared with laughter. “You’d better run, girl. Next time I see you, I intend to take my kiss!”

  Chapter Two

  “Tom Sabattis, don’t you dare laugh!” Marcy stifled her own urge to giggle and shot a warning look at the young guide.

  “If she don’t beat all, Marce,” said Tom under his breath. “She looks like she’s come straight out of one of them fancy catalogs, without even stopping to get dust on her boots!”

  Marcy nodded in agreement as a tall and buxom woman emerged from the wooded path and advanced across the small spit of sand to where the guides waited beside the mound of supplies and stacked rifles. To Marcy’s way of thinking, she looked sturdy enough to stare down a bear. She was encased in the very latest mountain gear, or at least what the city folks took to be the right way of dressing for “roughing it.” A knee-high walking dress over Turkish drawers fastened tightly at the ankles; thick balmoral boots with rubbers for added protection; a pair of buckskin gloves with chamois armlets sewn on at the wrists and buttoned snugly at the elbows (to keep out the black flies, thought Marcy); and a large felt hat with a net of fine Swiss mull poised on the edge of its broad brim, in case the mosquitoes should start to bite. A pair of funny little glasses was pinched onto the tip of her nose, forcing her to peer out of them with her head tilted far back, like a turtle sniffing the air.

  “She’ll see fine going up mountains,” whispered Tom. “I just don’t want to be in front of her when she’s coming down! And I sure wouldn’t want to be Amos!” He looked with sympathy at Amos Robinson, one of the guides, struggling along behind the woman and sweating under the load of a bulging carpetbag, several blankets, a waterproof coat, and two fur hats.

  Marcy nearly choked, swallowing her laughter.

  She thought, That must be Mrs. Marshall. The lady with the squeaking corsets. I hope she’s not still wearing them. With all that gear, and corsets besides, she’d most likely swamp the boat!

  “Lewis. Lewis!” said Mrs. Marshall in a shrill voice that reminded Marcy of the quavering of a loon. “Did you remember to pack the special envelopes for the leaf specimens?”

  “Yes, my love.” Dr. Marshall was a gentle-looking man half a head shorter than his wife. His forehead was lined with years, but his cheeks and nose were pink and round and cherubic. On his head he wore a floppy straw skimmer studded with fishing flies.

  “And a spare flannel undersuit for yourself? You know how important a ‘change’ is in the wild.”

  Dr. Marshall blushed and tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Yes, my love.”

  Marcy ignored Tom’s snicker beside her and concentrated on the men who had followed the Marshalls down to the beach. Uncle Jack had said there were five men in the party—and Mrs. Marshall, of course; not counting Dr. Marshall, that left four prospects for marriage. It seemed a bit cold-blooded to take stock of them like boots in a dry goods store, but she was nothing if not stubborn, once she’d made up her mind to something. And she’d made up her mind to find a husband this summer. Before she became an old maid. Before it was too late to leave the mountains.

  She discounted the first man almost at once. He seemed dry and old—forty at the least. And there was an uppishness in the way he carried his head, looking toward the assembled guides and boats, that she didn’t much take to. As a last resort, she thought.

  The next man was decidedly good-looking. His straight brown hair had been allowed to grow into long side whiskers in front of his ears, which gave a dashing appearance to his square-jawed face. Like the pictures of buccaneers that Marcy had seen in one of her father’s books. His eyes, casually but thoroughly assessing her where she stood with the rest of the guides, were certainly a buccaneer’s eyes, on the lookout for plunder. Dangerous, she thought, but a distinct possibility. Over one shoulder he carried a tripod and several odd-looking instruments. Marcy remembered that Uncle Jack had said one of the men was planning to measure and survey some of the territory.

  She was disappointed in the next man who appeared. He was younger than the first two—much closer to her own age—and he was handsome, with pale yellow hair and fine features. But he seemed to be everything she most disliked about the city folk who came to her mountains. He picked his way carefully down the path, frowning as he kicked aside a small rock that stood in his way; and when a stray branch caught at his well-tailored frock coat, he brushed away the offending twig as though it had clutched at him intentionally. His jaunty top hat, sprigged with a turkey feather in a deliberate attempt to appear “country,” didn’t look substantial enough to withstand the first rainfall. Marcy knew tourists like that. They pretended to love the wilderness, and treated their stay in the mountains as an adventure, but they did nothing except complain and wish that the country could be more like the city.

  She sighed. He might be rich; he was certainly soft and spoiled.

  The last man, his soft felt hat tilted rakishly over one eye, bounded onto the beach laughing and knocked his comrade’s top hat onto the sand. He laughed again, stooped to retrieve the hat, brushed the sand from the fine plush, and returned it to its owner. Then he looked around the clearing, his blue eyes widening at sight of Marcy.

  “Well, well,” he said softly.

  She felt her knees go weak. Her fancy artist. She smiled tentatively, not sure whether she was glad or not to see him again. Then he grinned—a crooked, funny smile—and her heart began to thump madly at the thought of spending two whole months in the wilderness with him.

  She thought, He’ll see me blush. And turned away in embarrassment, moving to where Old Jack was checking the straps on a valise.

  “That tall one looks a good prospect,” she said quietly, trying to sound offhand and indifferent.

  Old Jack straightened, quickly appraised the man, then turned back to her in disgust. “That one? Huh! You might’s well stay in Long Lake and marry Zeb Cary. You wind up in the big city with that one, and you’ll be boiling rats from the cellar for his dinner!”

  “Oh, bosh, Uncle Jack, what do you know?” But it was so, of course. After the first shock of seeing him again, she had begun to notice his clothes. His hat was battered and old-looking, and his heavy boots were dappled with paint. His shoulders were broad and manly under the billowing shirt he wore, which only added to her dismay. For the shirt itself had begun to fray at the cuffs, and the scarf tied so casually under the soft, turned-down collar was no more than a simple cotton neckerchief. She wondered if he even owned a second shirt. He was carrying his coat slung over one shoulder, and both the coat and his snug-fitting waistcoat had obviously seen better days.

  I don’t care! she thought defiantly, then remembered what Uncle Jack had said about the Petersons, beaten down by the poverty of the city.

  She thought, I can’t afford even to consider him. And if I stay in the mountains, I’ll die. She sighed unhappily and forced herself to look again at the other three men. Dressed in new, fancy clothes. And not a one of them with a wedding band. That was a good beginning, at least.

  The blond man replaced his top hat and grimaced at the artist. “Do you intend to ruin my hat before our jaunt begins, Drew, old fellow?”

  Marcy thought, Drew. What a nice name.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr…” Old Jack stepped forward to the top-hatted man and tugged politely at the brim of his own flat-crowned felt.

  “Collins, my good fellow. Edward Collins.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Collins. If you reckon on keeping that hat in a stiff breeze, you’d best tie a string to it and hook it on your lapel. A tall hat don’t usually last long in the wilderness. You oughtn’t to have brung it.”

  Collins looked faintly annoyed. “Do you hear that, Drew? My first morning in this backward terri
tory, and already I’m being lectured by a yokel.”

  Drew’s blue eyes were like ice. “Don’t be a prig, Ed,” he said quietly. “I told you not to wear your good clothes.”

  “If the rest of this summer is like the past two days, my clothes will be old in no time!” Collins rubbed his rump in dismay. “Ten hours in that coach from North Creek! And those roads…ye gods!”

  “Now, now, Edward!” said Mrs. Marshall in a hearty voice. “Have you forgotten so soon that this is to be our great adventure? All the hours that you and Lewis and I spent in planning? Think of it! The forest primeval. The sacred wilderness!” Her eyes began to glow with religious fervor. “Treading paths hitherto trodden only by our noble red brethren. To return to Nature is to return to God!”

  Tarnation! thought Marcy. She will want praying on Sundays.

  Collins smiled ruefully and rubbed his chin. “Our ‘adventure’ seemed more exciting in a gaslit drawing room than after two days in a dingy railroad car and a bumpy stagecoach! But…”

  “Come, come, my lad,” said Dr. Marshall. “Haven’t you been longing to see the ring lichen in its native habitat? Even an amateur botanist must venture into the field once in a while. Why, I remember once in ’68, with some of my students…”

  Mrs. Marshall cut in sharply. “There’ll be time for that later, Lewis!” She turned to Marcy’s uncle. “Old Jack. I understand that you and my husband have made all the arrangements. Will you please assign us to our guides and boats?”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. There are five boats. You and Dr. Marshall are with Amos in the first one. Most often we ride two to a boat, one guide for one sportsman. But the doctor wished for you to be together.”

  Dr. Marshall looked concerned. “I knew the task of paddling a boat would be too strenuous for your delicate constitution, my love.”

  “Quite so.”

  Marcy nearly laughed aloud as Mrs. Marshall attempted a delicate expression. She looked away, flustered, when she saw that the man Drew was grinning too, sharing the silent joke with her.

  “Young Tom, here”—Old Jack indicated the Sabattis boy—“is to go with that gentleman there.”

  “That’s Mr. William Stafford,” said Mrs. Marshall.

  The dashing buccaneer has an ordinary name, thought Marcy, as Stafford handed his surveying instruments to Tom and pointed to a valise and knapsack on the small beach, which Tom immediately began to stow in one of the boats.

  Old Jack beckoned to another guide. “Alonzo will take that tall feller there.”

  “Drew’s my name.”

  “Mr. Bradford,” corrected Mrs. Marshall primly. “We don’t want too much familiarity, Drewry. Do we?”

  Drew’s eyes twinkled wickedly, but his smile was as innocent as the day. “Why not, Mrs. Marshall? You and I met only three days ago, and I asked you to call me Drew soon as we shook hands. Now Alonzo here will practically be…so to speak…my bed partner for the next two months. Why can’t he call me Drew?”

  Mrs. Marshall looked scandalized. “Mr. Bradford!”

  He hastened to appear contrite. “My dear Mrs. Marshall. It was only a figure of speech, I assure you. But you do see my point…”

  She adjusted the pince-nez on her nose, tugged at the buff ribbon that held the glasses around her neck. Then she tilted back her head and peered coldly at Drew. “You may be as democratic as you wish, of course, Mr. Bradford. But you’ll reap the consequences.”

  “I quite understand, Mrs. Marshall,” he said solemnly. “I shall endeavor to avoid being overfriendly with the guides.” His expression still serious, he deliberately winked at Marcy.

  Tarnation! thought Marcy, feeling her face burning again. If that long-eared devil doesn’t stop making me blush…

  “Humph!,” said Mrs. Marshall, indignantly turning her back on Drew.

  “Old Jack,” said Dr. Marshall quickly, “you haven’t finished assigning the guides.”

  “Yes, sir.” Old Jack indicated the first man who had come down the path. “That’s Mr. Heyson, isn’t it?”

  Stuck-up Mr. Heyson, thought Marcy.

  “You said he collects rocks,” continued Old Jack. “I thought Jerry there would be just about right for Mr. Heyson. He’s a strong ’un.”

  Jerry stepped forward, a strapping lad of eighteen, and grinned at George Heyson. There was a gap where his front teeth should have been. “I can carry any pack you can load up, Mr. Heyson, sir!” He flexed his arms to show the bulging muscles of his biceps.

  Heyson eyed him critically. “Just don’t chatter away,” he said in a voice as colorless as his face. “I don’t enjoy unnecessary talk. And I expect a day’s work from you.” He frowned at a large pebble on the beach, then scooped it up to examine it more closely.

  “It sure is getting warm.” Ed Collins pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “I guess that leaves me with you, Old Jack.”

  “And Marcy.”

  George Heyson turned indignantly to Dr. Marshall. “Lewis. Is that girl coming with us?”

  Dr. Marshall cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had the opportunity to speak to all of you. The girl is Marcy Tompkins, Old Jack’s niece. He asked me about her yesterday. I didn’t think any of you would mind.” He turned to his wife. “She’ll be good company for you, my love.”

  “Yes…perhaps.” Mrs. Marshall’s disapproving eyes traveled over Marcy’s shirt and trousers. “Is that what you intend to wear, girl?”

  “It’s what I’m comfortable in, ma’am,” Marcy answered. “But I did pack a skirt for Sundays,” she added quickly.

  “Well…”

  Drew Bradford pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his black hair. “I hate to be crass, Dr. Marshall, but is the girl hiring on? And if so…who’s to pay for it?” He looked at Marcy and shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, honey. But by my reckoning, I’ll be lucky to have a ten-dollar greenback in my vest pocket at the end of the summer. And glad I already have my ticket home.”

  Marcy’s heart felt as if it had dropped into the pit of her stomach. He was obviously poorer than she had imagined. A man like that wouldn’t want the burden of a wife.

  “Don’t fret, Drewry,” said Dr. Marshall kindly. “Old Jack said she’s skilled at roughing it, but we both agreed that the going rate of two fifty a day was a little steep for a female. We settled on a dollar fifty a day, plus her weekly board of two dollars for supplies. And her meal vouchers if we stop at any hotels or boardinghouses along the chain. And I don’t see why we can’t divide the cost among ourselves—it doesn’t amount to that much per man. What do you say?”

  Drew shook his head. “I don’t know. I make that out to be fifteen, twenty dollars—at the very least—for every man. I just don’t have that kind of money with me.”

  “See here, Bradford. I’ll pay your share.” William Stafford fished a cigar out of his breast pocket and bit off the tip. He struck a match against the sole of one fine leather boot and took several deep puffs of his cigar. The smoke that drifted in Marcy’s direction was rich and aromatic.

  She thought, Whatever the buccaneer does for a living, he must do it well.

  “Well, Bradford? You can pay me back whenever you’re able. I’d quite understand.” For a moment Stafford’s eyes focused on Drew’s paint-spattered boots; then he smiled at the other man and exhaled a stream of blue smoke.

  “I can forward you the money as soon as I return to New York City,” said Drew softly. “I’m obliged to you, sir.”

  Stafford allowed his gaze to travel the length of Marcy’s lush form. “I’m not sure I’m doing it for you, sir.”

  Drew smiled disarmingly. “I’m not sure that’s a gentlemanly thing to say, sir.”

  Marcy bit her lip. In a strange way, they seemed to be engaged in some sort of battle, though neither man had stopped smiling. And she seemed to be a part of it. It was frightening and exciting all at the same time. And brand-new. Zeb was a boy. These were men—strange and unfam
iliar to her. She felt a moment’s panic.

  She thought, Am I getting in over my head?

  “Well, I don’t like it.” George Heyson’s fingers played with the rock he still held. “A female doesn’t belong on a jaunt like this!”

  “I beg your pardon, George!” Mrs. Marshall’s face began to turn red.

  “Cynthia…I…I didn’t mean…you’re not…”

  “Not what, George? Not female?” Mrs. Marshall’s voice was growing shrill. “In all the years you’ve known Lewis and me, I’ve never heard you say a crueler thing.”

  The fingers had now become quite agitated. Marcy thought the rock would fly out of Heyson’s hand.

  “That’s not what I meant at all. Not at all,” he stammered. “I just don’t see what a young chit like that can contribute to the seriousness of our expedition.”

  Old Jack stepped forward. “She’s a good hunter, Mr. Heyson. She’ll more than earn her keep in game. You won’t regret it.”

  “I don’t like it, Lewis. We don’t need her.”

  “I don’t see why Miss Tompkins can’t come along,” said Drew.

  Old Jack turned to Mrs. Marshall. “I appeal to you, ma’am,” he said mournfully. “The girl had her heart set on going. My poor dead brother’s only child…orphaned and alone in the world, with no one but me. To be at the mercy of strangers while I’m away…”

  Tarnation! thought Marcy. What’s Uncle Jack trying to do? She’d begged him to do what he could to arrange things, but she didn’t expect he’d start pouring out all that hogwash! He sounded like the actors in the melodrama she’d seen last year down at North Creek.

  And all because that high-nosed Mr. Heyson didn’t think that females could do anything.

  “Oh, balderdash!” she cried. Marching to the rifles lined up on the beach, she snatched up her own weapon and slammed a cartridge into the breech. She whirled angrily to the men.

  “Toss up that rock, Mr. Heyson.”

  George Heyson looked shocked, his eyes widening at the sight of the rifle barrel pointing in his direction. “Now just a minute, young woman…”