by Forever Wild
“What do you mean?” Could this be her own voice? So prissy? So cold and unnatural? Oh God! she thought, anguished. Why doesn’t he cover himself? “What do you mean, I’m not what you expected?” she asked again, using the harshness of her voice as a shield.
“I mean,” he said, “that I hardly expected the daughter of Brian Bradford to be a snob.”
The injustice of his words tore an outraged “Oh!” from her throat. She glared at him in fury, clenching her hands at her sides.
He smiled crookedly, bringing an unexpected dimple to his bronzed cheek. “You don’t really intend to slap my face, Miss Bradford,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to soil your glove.”
She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, she wanted to flee the frightening masculinity of him. But well-bred young ladies did none of those things. She thought, He thinks I’m a snob. If he’s too coarse to see the difference between snobbery and proper behavior, he must have had a frightful upbringing. And Daddy had said she was not to allow him to get out of line.
She pulled the lace-trimmed hanky from her cuff and dabbed at her upper lip. “If we’re to work together, Mr. Stanton,” she said coldly, “I can only hope that this afternoon was merely a lapse on your part. I trust you shan’t forget your place again.”
He scowled in anger; for a terrible moment she almost thought he’d strike her. The golden eyes had become hard amber, glittering and cold. “A snob, Miss Bradford,” he said quietly. “A damnable snob.” Turning on his heel, he stalked away.
Willough watched his retreating back, feeling the blood pounding at her temples. She dabbed again at her face; then, fingers shaking, she replaced the handkerchief in her cuff.
Chapter Three
Marcy closed her eyes and leaned back in the square stern of the boat, feeling the lovely warmth of the sun on her face.
“I’m sorry you tied up your hair, Marcy. It’s too pretty to tie up.”
She opened her eyes, sat up, and glared at Drew Bradford, who sprawled in the middle of the boat, facing her. The summer’s jaunt had barely begun. Did the lop-eared rascal intend to torment her every mile of the journey? Even the way he was sitting in the boat had been planned to get her goat. She was sure of it. Uncle Jack was on the oars in the pointed bow of the boat, facing to the back. When the boat was rowed, it needed weight toward the front of the craft, which was why Drew had had to sit in the middle. Only when the boat was handled like a canoe, being paddled at both ends, was it supposed to be evenly balanced; at those times, Uncle Jack would steer from the stern, and Marcy would take the middle.
But, dang him! thought Marcy, frowning at Drew. Why did he have to face in her direction?
He smiled wickedly. “Don’t make faces. Old Jack will wonder what’s the matter.” He spoke in a low voice. Old Jack, plying his oars behind Drew’s back, heard nothing.
“You’re supposed to sit facing the other way, Mr. Bradford,” she hissed. “Why don’t you?”
“Drew. Because I prefer to look at you. Your hair. Why did you tie it up?”
“It’d only get tangled!”
He shrugged good-naturedly. “I suppose it’s sensible. And you do have nice ears.”
“My ears are my business, Mr. Bradford.” In spite of herself, she found herself nervously touching her lobes.
“Drew,” he corrected again.
She ignored that. “I think you enjoy making me blush!”
He grinned. “I think I do. It’s nice to know, when I’m giving a compliment, that it’s being appreciated.”
She felt a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach. “A…a compliment?”
“Yes. I thought you understood that. It seems I must be more explicit. Well…” He put his hands behind his neck and leaned back comfortably, allowing his pale blue eyes to assess her thoroughly where she sat. “To begin…your hair is glorious, especially with the sun on it. It’s quite red in the sun. A wonderful color. Burnt sienna with highlights of crimson, perhaps. Your skin is healthy looking… I find pale city girls tiresome after a while. I haven’t yet been able to figure out what color your eyes are; sometimes I think they’re blue, sometimes green. Your ears, as I mentioned before, are quite nice. No. More than that. They’re like delicate shells…so beautifully curved… I haven’t decided yet whether I’d prefer to sketch them, or kiss them…”
“Please, Mr. Bradford,” she whispered. She’d never felt so flustered in her whole life.
“Drew. Shall I go on to your mouth?”
“No!” At the sharpness of her tone, Uncle Jack stopped rowing and looked up at her from the bow. She smiled in reassurance. “It’s all right, Uncle Jack. I was only telling Mr. Bradford that it’ll be just another moment until we clear the creek and break out into Clear Pond. He…he can’t believe it’s taken such a short time.”
Old Jack grunted and bent again to his oars. A few more strokes and their boat, leading the other four loaded with sportsmen and guides, reached a sharp bend in the creek. Another turn, and they found themselves on the edge of Clear Pond, a glassy body of water some two miles around. In its center was a small, tree-covered island.
Mrs. Marshall clapped her hands in wonder and stood up in her boat, nearly capsizing it. “Oh! Isn’t it magnificent! Mother Nature in all her glory!”
“Sit down, ma’am,” muttered Alonzo, fighting with his oars to keep the boat upright.
Drew put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, and turned about to survey Clear Pond. He studied it for a long time, then turned back to Marcy. “It is beautiful, though,” he said seriously. “I’ve never been camping this far north. I’ve just been a little above Saratoga. This is far more breathtaking and wild. What’s that peak?”
“Owls Head. You can see it from Long Lake, but not so well.”
“I’d like to sketch it. Where do we set up our base camp?”
Marcy pointed to the distant shore just opposite. “There. Can you see the lean-to? It’s a nice, sheltered spot, with plenty of room to leave our extra supplies. And only a three-mile carry to the next lake.”
“Carry?”
“Honestly, Mr. Bradford. Don’t you know anything about this region?”
He grinned. “Don’t you dare call me greenhorn again. But, no. I guess I don’t know much.”
“This whole Adirondack Wilderness…the waters only flow in two directions. South to the Hudson River…most of the streams in the High Peaks run that way. Just last fall they found out where the Hudson begins. Right on the top of Mount Marcy.”
“That’s where you got your name? From Mount Marcy?”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, they said it’s the source, a little pond on top of Marcy. And they called it Lake Tear-of-the-Clouds.” She shook her head in wonder. “Isn’t that pretty?” she whispered. “As if the clouds had wept.” She gulped, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. Beautiful things always did that to her. Feeling foolish, she stole a sidelong look at Drew.
His eyes were warm and serious. “You’re enchanting, Marcy Tompkins,” he said softly.
“Tarnation! Don’t start that again! Anyway, the rest of the waters flow north to Canada. And the thing is, you can put a boat into the water at Blue Mountain Lake and travel clear up to the Saint Lawrence River and the open sea.”
“I’ll be damned! And never touch land?”
“Well, sometimes you have to take your boat overland a few miles to the next lake.”
“Which is why it’s called a carry?”
“Yes. Most of the carries are three, four miles or so. That’s all.”
He laughed ruefully. “That’s all? With a boat on your back?”
She patted the painted siding of their craft, a sleek boat some fourteen feet in length. “Didn’t you notice the boats?”
“Well, they looked a bit queer to me. Like wide, square-sterned canoes.”
“They’re made especially for the Wilderness. My…my father helped design them. He’d build a boat, and then every time a guide would come back from u
sing one, they’d talk over the changes. First off, they have to be big enough to carry supplies, like a regular rowboat. But they have to be flatter. Because some of the lakes are shallow.”
“Why can’t they use a regular flatboat?”
“Too heavy. You’re forgetting the carries. And a canoe isn’t big enough. Not sturdy enough. These boats are built as light as canoes. Pine planking as thin as pasteboard.”
“But shallow, like flatboats. About ten inches deep, I’d guess.”
“And with a pointed bow,” she said. “And rowed like rowboats, most of the time.” She pointed to two grooves on either side of the boat, just in front of Drew. “You see those cleats? There’s a shoulder yoke stashed up front under Uncle Jack’s boots. For a carry, he’ll put the yoke in there, up-end the whole boat, and lift it on his shoulders.”
“Good God! I’m glad I don’t have to do it!”
She laughed. “It weighs only about seventy pounds. You and I will have to carry the rest of the supplies, including the oars, unless Uncle Jack makes two trips!” She laughed again as he groaned. “Now aren’t you sorry you didn’t stay in the city?”
“Not a bit of it.” He shook his head. “Damned if you’re not beautiful when you laugh.”
She felt her face flaming again. “Oh, please turn around, Mr. Bradford!” she begged.
He smiled wickedly. “Only if you promise to call me Drew all summer long.” He held up an admonishing finger. “And if you forget—even once!—I’ll make you blush right in front of Mrs. Marshall, and then you’ll be sorry!”
She giggled. He was a charmer.
“Well?” he said, frowning. “Is it a deal?”
“Yes.”
He cocked one black eyebrow at her.
“Yes…Drew,” she said, blushing once more.
He grinned again and turned about to face Uncle Jack.
In another quarter of an hour the boats pulled up to a wide expanse of sandy beach on the shore of Clear Pond. Set back from the beach and nestled up against a line of deep green spruce trees was a lean-to. About the size of a small cabin, its three sides were made up of stacked logs; its fourth, open side faced out toward the pond.
As soon as the party had clambered ashore, Mrs. Marshall began to examine their surroundings, exclaiming in delight at the rustic charm, the joy of dining in the open air, of sleeping with the stars as a coverlet.
She frowned suddenly, nervously adjusting her pince-nez. “Where…where do we sleep, Old Jack?”
Marcy’s uncle pointed to the floor of the lean-to. “Right there, ma’am. You’ll find it cozy enough with some fir boughs as a mattress.”
She looked doubtful. “And the women? Marcy and I?”
“That’s the only lean-to there is, ma’am.”
“I’m not sure I approve of that! I’m not concerned for myself, of course. I’m a respectable married woman. But Marcy…”
“I can look after myself, ma’am…” began Marcy, only to be cut short by Mrs. Marshall’s snort.
“And the men?” she asked with suspicion.
Drew Bradford stepped forward. “I can assure you, Mrs. Marshall,” he said solemnly, “that I, for one, have no intention of storming Marcy’s person in the dead of night.”
She peered at him through her glasses, her mouth pinched tight in disapproval. “I don’t like your levity, young man. I warn you that I shall be eternally vigilant in the matter of Marcy’s virtue. Eternally vigilant, gentlemen!” she added, glaring at the assembled party.
In the end, with much fuss on Mrs. Marshall’s part, it was decided that Marcy should sleep at the farthest corner of the lean-to, shielded from the rest of the men by Mrs. Marshall and then Dr. Marshall.
There were still some hours left of daylight. The supplies were unloaded from the boats and stowed in a large, covered storage box. Since the company would be returning regularly to Clear Pond during the summer, it wasn’t necessary to travel with all they had brought.
Stafford, Collins, and Heyson shouldered their rods and reels and set out upon the lake once again with boats and guides, to see if they might catch some fish for supper. Mrs. Marshall, delivering shrill orders to Dr. Marshall and a patient Alonzo, proceeded to reorganize the camp to her liking. Drew Bradford rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a pencil and a small sketch pad. Seating himself on a tree stump, he opened the pad and gazed out across the lake.
Old Jack stuffed a handful of cartridges into his pocket and picked up his rifle. “If we could bag us a deer before sundown, we’d have fresh venison for the carry. Come on, Marcy. Let’s see how good your aim is today.” He turned to Drew. “You’re staying here, Mr. Bradford?”
Drew looked up, grimacing at the sight of Mrs. Marshall. “All she needs is a broomstick,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure I want to be abandoned.” He closed the pad and stood up. “I’ll come with you.” He waited until Old Jack had started down the narrow trail, then fell in beside Marcy, putting his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Besides,” he whispered, “you’re much better company than Mrs. Marshall.”
She looked up at him and brandished her rifle. “I just might shoot you!” she hissed, but she let his hand remain.
Moving quietly along the path, they came at last to a small rise that looked out over a broad meadow made up of marshy patches and tall grass. The grass seemed to be bent and beaten down in spots.
Old Jack pointed. “The deer bed down there,” he whispered to Drew. He indicated the rise. “This is as good a place as any to wait. You stay here with Marcy. I’ll go down a ways.” Skirting the meadow, he moved off, finally settling down some twenty feet to their right.
Marcy sat on a fallen log, loaded both barrels of her rifle, and placed the weapon across her knees. Against her better judgment, she left room on the log so Drew could sit beside her. She knew he was looking at her and leaning in close, but she kept her eyes determinedly on the far side of the meadow, where a break in the line of grasses marked the deer run.
“They’re even prettier up close,” whispered Drew. “Your ears.”
“Sh-h-h!” Marcy strained her eyes, peering at the line of trees beyond the meadow. Was that a movement, there beside the silver birches?
She gasped. She felt a tickle in her ear, a slight current of air that caressed the inner edges and sent a shiver down her spine. He was blowing in her ear! Hanging on to her control, she turned carefully and scowled at him. Drew Bradford was smiling like a saint in a Sunday school book.
She thought, Deer or no deer, I’ll give him a piece of my mind! And then she saw something out of the corner of her eye. A small doe, just in among the trees. She held her breath, waiting for it to emerge into the meadow. Uncle Jack was already slowly raising his rifle to his shoulder in anticipation of a clear shot. The doe stopped, sniffed the air, hesitated.
And then Drew Bradford blew in her ear again.
“Dang you!” she whooped, leaping to her feet. The doe vanished.
“Tarnation, Marcy!” Uncle Jack shouted. “If you’re too fidgety to hunt today, go on back!”
“That’s a good idea, Old Jack,” said Drew. “Even better, maybe Marcy can show me a place near the edge of the pond where I can get a good view of Owls Head.”
“Right enough. Take him on down to Miller’s Cove, Marcy. I’ll bag us a deer.”
Angrily, Marcy rose from her seat and stormed back down the path, taking a fork that was narrower than the first one. She parted the overgrown branches with impatient hands, deliberately allowing them to snap back at Drew. After about five minutes, during which the path grew more dense with growth, Drew reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder.
“Whoa!” he said, turning her around. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea! Why’d you say you’d come hunting if you didn’t want to?”
“What was my alternative?” he said mournfully. “Mrs. Marshall?”
He looked like such a woebegone little boy that Marcy had to lau
gh in spite of herself. “Drew Bradford, you’re a devil!”
He grinned and rubbed at his cheek, where a branch had left a small scratch. “And you’re an imp! Now lead me to Miller’s Cove while I try to dream up a story to explain this to Mrs. Marshall.”
While he knelt on the small beach of the cove and drew the outlines of Owls Head Mountain, Marcy wandered down to the water’s edge. From its still surface she plucked a water lily, soft, golden velvet with a ruby center, and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply of its rich scent. Drew was absorbed in his drawing; it gave her a chance to examine him at her leisure. He was beautiful, there was no denying that, with that reckless black curl falling over his forehead. And those liquid blue eyes. Beautiful and charming.
And impossible.
She felt herself torn with longing, remembering the sweetness of his kiss. Maybe…
No! The mountains had killed her parents. How could she stay? But the city had broken Bill Peterson and his wife. How could she live there with a poor artist? Just for a moment she yearned to be a child again, when life had been so simple.
He had finished his drawing and was frowning down at the page. She walked to him and knelt beside him on the sand, peering over his shoulder at the sketch. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
“It’s dreadful,” he growled. He sighed heavily and snapped shut the pad. “Well, maybe when I work it up in color…” He turned to her, then burst into laughter. “You have pollen on your nose! It’s all orange.” He held her chin in one hand while he wiped the tip of her nose with his handkerchief, but when he was finished he still held her chin. Leaning down, he kissed her softly on the mouth.
No! she thought, feeling her heart melt. I can’t let him. I can’t! She pushed violently against him. “Now you just quit that!” she cried. “I can’t marry you!”
He rocked back on his heels as though she’d struck him. “What? Who’s talked of marriage?”
“Well…no one…but…but…” She felt like a fool, stammering idiotically. “But a girl has to think about those things!” she finished with defiance.