by Forever Wild
“Go it, Marcy!” Laughing, Drew strode to Heyson, pulled the stone from his limp fingers, and flung it high in the air. Marcy swung the rifle to her shoulder, sighting and squeezing the trigger simultaneously. There was a loud crack, and the rock shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Well done!” said Stafford. “I for one think we can use you on this jaunt.” By the look in his eye, Marcy wasn’t quite sure what he meant.
“I agree,” said Mrs. Marshall, taking charge once more. “But I trust you will all remember you are gentlemen. And while Marcy scarcely has the refinements of young ladies of our class, she is, nevertheless, a member of the fairer sex, and as such merits the proper behavior you would all show toward your own mothers and sweethearts.” She turned to Collins. “Now, Edward. Are you agreeable that the girl and her uncle should ride with you?”
Collins looked petulant. “I don’t fancy having a girl show me up every time we go out for deer. And if there’s some hard paddling to be done, I’d just as soon not have the extra weight in the boat.”
“I’ll switch places with you. You can have Alonzo.” Drew’s voice was a humorous drawl. “I’d be delighted to have Marcy do my shooting for me. And if she can spell me at the oars now and again, so much the better!”
Mrs. Marshall sniffed her disapproval. “That’s not a very manly view.”
Drew scratched his ear. “No, ma’am, it’s not.”
Impatiently, Old Jack picked up a large knapsack from the beach and tossed it over one shoulder. “If we don’t pack up right soon, we’ll lose the daylight long before we reach Clear Pond!” While the sportsmen watched and supervised, the guides began to load their boats. Each man had a carpetbag or a soft leather valise, loaded with his clothing and blankets. The hunting and fishing gear—fly-rods and creels and ammunition—packed into knapsacks, was stowed in the flat-bottomed boats. Their provisions and cooking utensils were carried in ash-splint baskets, some two by three feet, which could easily be strapped to a man’s back for the carries between lakes. The Abenaki Indians were skilled in the weaving of these baskets; often Marcy had sat with Tom Sabattis’s kin while they twined the supple splints and told stories of the old times and the old ways.
His mouth pinched tight in disapproval, George Heyson insisted that Jack repack his gear, while Mrs. Marshall flapped about like a large hen in the barnyard, her net veil fluttering, worried that she had not brought enough warm clothing. Ed Collins had already removed his top hat and frock coat, and was now pacing the dock and complaining about the heat while he mopped the inside of his hatband with a handkerchief.
Only Drewry, his hat and coat thrown aside, worked alongside Marcy and Old Jack, carrying his own rifle and carpetbag down to the boat and returning for his painting supplies—a worn satchel filled with rolled-up canvas, sketch pads, a paint box, and a handful of brushes and pencils tied up with string.
Marcy stooped and reached for the straps of the provision basket, grunting as she lifted it, and swung it onto her back. Fresh-stocked for the journey with coffee, tea, flour, and other staples, as well as pots and plates, the basket weighed almost seventy pounds. But she was strong and had carried heavier loads.
“Here. I’ll take that. You take my painting gear.” Drew bent down, his blue eyes warm with concern.
Marcy felt her body go hot just from the look in his eyes. Dang him! she thought. She was angry—angry at him for looking the way he did, angry at herself for allowing him to have such an effect on her.
“Bosh!” she snapped, adjusting the basket and standing up. “I can carry this old thing!”
He shook his head. “I said it before, and I reckon it’s so. You are a stubborn filly!”
Stung, she turned away and made for Uncle Jack’s boat, trying to move as though the basket were as light as a feather. It was heavier than she had imagined; she nearly tripped as she reached the boat. Drew had followed her; without a word he pulled the basket from her back and dropped it onto the beach. She felt angrier than ever, thinking he might be laughing at her.
Then he put his hand on her arm. She looked up and saw that he was smiling. A friendly smile.
“I’m glad you’re coming along,” he said quietly.
Her mouth went dry. “Mr…Bradford…” she stammered.
He grinned. “Drewry. Even better, call me Drew. It’s only fair. Now that you and Old Jack will be…” he chuckled, “…you know. Instead of Alonzo…”
Bed partners. He’d said it to Mrs. Marshall. She felt the blush creeping up to her hairline once again.
“Damn,” he said softly, his eyes examining her closely. “I wish I had my paint box at the ready. I wonder if I could ever mix that lovely shade of pink. I think that’s why I like to see you blush so often!”
“You’re making fun of me!” she said in indignation.
“No, I’m not. Truly.” He reached out and brushed a curl from her forehead. His fingers across her skin sent a flutter racing through her insides. “I don’t have the pigments to capture all those glorious colors. That hair…those extraordinary eyes…and your skin, when you blush…”
“You are making fun of me!”
He laughed. “Not at all. I’m probably thinking of you as an unpaid model for the next couple of months! It’s my good fortune that Stafford agreed to lend me the money. I don’t think I could have come up with that much this month. And I didn’t want the Marshalls to shoulder the expense—they’re already paying for two.”
“But he’s a doctor. He can afford it.”
“No. Not that kind of doctor. He’s just a professor at the university He teaches botany—that’s to do with plants, though I’ll bet you could teach him a thing or two about plants.”
She shrugged. “It’s easy when you’ve grown up with them. But he oughtn’t to call himself a doctor if he isn’t one!”
“He is a doctor—just the wrong kind. So you better not take sick.”
“Don’t fret none about me! I could show you plants and mushrooms in these mountains that’d cure half a hundred ills. And more that could cause ’em!” She giggled. “I could feed you something that would turn your skin green. And then you could match that with your paints!”
He laughed, his teeth white in his tanned face. “Damned if you’re not one first-rate girl, Marcy Tompkins!”
She smiled back, feeling wonderfully comfortable with him, as though she’d known him all her life. Why, she thought, he doesn’t even make me blush anymore! And then he leaned in close and murmured a few words, and she felt her face flaming.
He said, “I haven’t forgotten about that kiss you owe me.”
He was so matter-of-fact, so confident. It scared her. It wasn’t like being with Zeb. It was easy to keep the upper hand with Zeb, to call the tune. She should be able to do it now. After all, she’d already made up her mind that she couldn’t have anything to do with Drewry Bradford.
Then why did she feel so helpless when he looked at her?
“You’re mighty cocksure,” she snapped. “What makes you think I’ll give you a kiss?”
One black eyebrow arched up in cool amusement. “What makes you think I’ll ask?”
She gasped and backed away from him, glancing nervously around at the others on the beach. “If you want to be helpful,” she said quickly, “you’ll find a place to stow that basket in the boat while I go and see if Uncle Jack has more supplies for us.”
She managed to keep her distance from him until the boats were loaded and the party was ready to leave. Old Jack made a last-minute inspection of the provisions, and then frowned.
“Marcy,” he said, “what happened to the linen bandages and salves, and the rest of that stuff? Did you pack ’em?”
She shook her head. “No, Uncle Jack.” She pointed in the direction of a small shack at the other end of the spit of sand. “Maybe you left them in the boathouse. I’ll go look.”
“Bring ’em along if they’re in there,” he said, bending down to stow the paddles under
the wicker seats of the boat. “And the jug. I forgot that too. I must be getting old.”
Mrs. Marshall was at once aroused. “Jug? Did you say jug, Old Jack? Are you speaking of hard spirits?”
“Well, yes, ma’am…”
“I’m ‘Temperance’,” she said indignantly. “I cannot tolerate license on a jaunt such as this. We are here to experience the cleansing and healing powers of Mother Nature. Our souls may be refreshed by our surroundings; our bodies can scarcely be so, if you intend to bring along such poisons!”
“Now, now, Cynthia,” said Dr. Marshall soothingly. “I’m sure that Old Jack intends such spirits for medicinal purposes only. Isn’t that so, Old Jack?”
Uncle Jack scratched at his stubbly chin. “Sure enough. There’s nothing can ease the peskiness of the black flies when they get to biting, except the insides of a good jug!”
Mrs. Marshall looked bewildered, as though she were trying to figure out how the whiskey might be administered; before she could ask another question, Old Jack quickly jerked his head in the direction of the shed. “Tarnation, Marcy, what are you waiting for? Go fetch that stuff!”
“I’ll help you.” Drew Bradford swung into step beside Marcy as she moved toward the boathouse.
“It isn’t necessary, Mr. Bradford, I…” She stopped, seeing the look in his eyes as he towered over her. She thought, He means to kiss me, whether I want to or not! And the boathouse was dim and far away from the others. She lengthened her stride. “I don’t need your help, Mr. Bradford,” she said sharply.
He chuckled. “You’re just a little bit of a girl. Do you really think you can walk faster than I can? And my name is Drew.”
She found herself almost skipping to get away from him. “I don’t want your help.” Her voice shook. She didn’t know whether she was nervous because of his intentions, or angry because he was so cocky about it. “I don’t want your help!” she said again, more firmly this time.
“Hasn’t anybody ever tried to do something about that stubborn streak? A good dose of castor oil every spring, or something?” He took her by the elbow and propelled her forward to the shack, pushing her inside and closing the door softly behind him. Even in the dim light, she could see the devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Now…” he said.
She backed up against the far wall. “Don’t you come near me!”
He grinned. “I promised you I’d take that kiss.”
“I’ll scream!”
He clucked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk! What would Mrs. Marshall say? She’d take a conniption fit, and we’d both have to stay behind. You don’t want to scream.” He advanced toward her and put his hands on the wall on either side of her shoulders.
She looked up and gulped. She hadn’t realized how tall he was. At least eight inches taller than she. Panicky, flustered, she thought about ducking under his arms; but he had already moved nearer and was now so close that she had no space to maneuver.
“Didn’t they teach you any manners?” she asked in a quavery voice.
He shook his head. “Not a lick.” His arms came down from the wall and circled her waist, pulling her close to him. “At least not where pretty girls are concerned.”
She was trembling. His eyes were the clearest blue she’d ever seen, pale and limpid, seeming to look right through her skin. And ringed with black fringes of lash that matched the rakish curl that had fallen over his forehead. She felt an odd tickling at the back of her throat. She thought, What’s he waiting for? Not that she wanted him to kiss her, of course; she’d already decided that she wasn’t interested in him. But if he intended to do it, why didn’t he just get it over with? Then he grinned, that funny, crooked smile of his, and she felt herself getting hot under the collar. Danged if she was about to let him have the upper hand!
She tried to look as indifferent as she could manage, with those eyes boring into her. “Don’t take all day, Mr. Bradford. I have better things to do than waste the time with you. Take your kiss if you must.”
His blue eyes widened in surprise. “You’re a cool one. I take it this won’t be your first kiss.”
Somehow that angered her more than anything else he had said. “Certainly not!” she snapped. “Now take your kiss, or let me go!”
He gathered her more firmly in his arms and bent his head to her mouth. She closed her eyes, feeling the softness of his lips on hers as they moved gently back and forth and pressed against her closed lips. She felt weak and breathless, as though a tight band were wound around her chest. Zeb had never managed to make her feel like this.
Abruptly, Drew raised his head and frowned. “Haven’t you ever been kissed by a man?”
“Wh-what?” She was still trying to catch her breath.
“Honey,” he said gently, “a man expects you to act as if you’re enjoying it.” He smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Otherwise, I might as well go and kiss one of Mrs. Sabattis’s flapjacks!”
“Oh!” Her voice was an outraged squeak. “If you’re not every way the most conceited…”
He laughed and pulled her hard against him, almost lifting her from the ground. His mouth closed over hers, stilling her words, stilling everything but the roaring in her ears, the wild pounding of her heart. She slid her arms around his neck and clung to him, and this time when his mouth moved on hers, she responded, straining against him with her lips, her arms, her breasts. He kissed her very hard for a moment, then lifted his head. She was glad he hadn’t released her from his embrace; her knees were so weak that she would have fallen.
“That’s the sweetest kiss I’ve ever had,” he said.
Eyes still closed, she sighed and leaned up against the wall, letting her hands fall away from his neck. But when she heard him laugh softly, she opened her eyes with a start, suddenly afraid he was mocking her. “Tarnation,” she said. “I don’t know why I just don’t kick in your shins for being so uppity!”
He shook his head. “Only if you didn’t like my kiss.”
Drat! She was blushing again!
He frowned, studying her face. “Vermilion, I think.”
“What?”
“Vermilion. With a touch of madder lake. The color of your blush.”
“Dang you, Mr. Bradford…!”
She knew she was blushing again, and she didn’t even care. “Dang you… Drew! You better watch out, or I just might push you overboard!”
He laughed and reached for the stone jug on the boathouse floor. “Come on, before they come looking for us.” He opened the door and laughed again, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
He said, “You’d better watch out. I’ll take another kiss when I can!”
Willough Bradford peered out the window of the railroad car as the trees sped past. There was a small crack in the pane, a thin line that jagged across one corner of the window. It annoyed her. She knew that it would be repaired as soon as Daddy sent the car back to Saratoga, but it annoyed her all the same. This was Daddy’s private railroad car. His world. It should be perfect.
She turned from the window and smiled across the dining table at her father. “Shall I have Keller bring you another cup of coffee, Daddy?”
Brian Bradford leaned back in his red plush chair, unbuttoned his frock coat, and patted the buttons of his waistcoat. “No. I’ve had more than enough. That was quite a dinner. Now, if it’ll sit comfortably, for a change…”
Willough smiled uneasily. Daddy had been complaining a great deal lately. Perhaps he was eating too much.
“Would you like some mineral water?” she asked. “Keller brought a bottle or two from Saratoga.”
He made a face and reached for a cigar from the silver humidor. “Never mind. If Mrs. Walker’s cooking is as bad as ever, I won’t want much supper when we reach MacCurdyville.” He bit off the end of his cigar and spit it toward the cuspidor on the floor, eyeing it with indifference when he missed. “Give us a light, lass.”
She struck a match and held it to the end of his cigar. He was feeling good.
She could always tell. He called her “lass,” he let his voice slide into the soft lilt of his native Scotland, he ignored the graying hair that drooped carelessly over his forehead. How handsome he must have looked when his hair was still all black, she thought. Like a wild gypsy coming over the moors. There was an air of danger to him that she had never quite got used to. As much as she loved him, wanted to please him, she’d always been a little bit afraid of him. But he was feeling mellow right now. It was a good time to speak up.
She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise to name me the chief clerk at the ironworks. It’s all I’ve thought about for months, since we were at the sawmill. I’ve been reading the financial notes in Harper’s Weekly and the Times. I can quote you the figures for pig iron for the last six months, and I know what the stock was going for last week. I even wrote to your manager, Mr. Clegg, with dozens of questions. He very kindly answered them as best he could, and assured me that”—she laughed nervously—“whenever you’re ready to give me the job, of course, he would be happy to help me through the difficulties of the first few weeks. So you see, I haven’t been idle.”
“Good. Good. It’s not an easy job…to run the ironworks.” Brian Bradford stood up and impatiently brushed back the wayward lock of hair. He paced the length of the railroad car, dropping cigar ash on the flowered carpet. “God!” he burst out, “I wish your brother Drew…it needs a man…!”
She felt the old familiar pang. Why hadn’t she been born a son? His son Willoughby. Drew was Mother’s child. Even his middle name—Carruth—had been given out of pride. Her name had been given out of disappointment.
“I can do it, Daddy,” she said softly. “You’ll see. I’ve always been good with figures. You know that. I’ll be able to fill the clerk’s spot.”
He looked doubtful. It made her uneasy.
She smiled with a brightness she didn’t feel and tried to sound offhand. “If the sign is to read Bradford and Bradford someday, I should get to know the ropes. And soon.”