Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  While Amos cleaned the fish and Alonzo mixed some pancake batter, Old Jack examined the upended boats. “Marcy,” he said, “I think we’re about to spring a leak.”

  She peered over his shoulder at the hull of their boat. There was a deep gash in the wood. “I was afraid of that. We scraped a bit going over that last slide.”

  “Aren’t we near that spruce bog?”

  She pointed away from the river. “Half a mile in. I blazed a fresh trail in the spring. Do you want me to go?”

  He nodded. “I should help Amos with the fish. You get us some spruce gum for the boat.”

  “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind,” said Drew.

  Mrs. Marshall had been taking a proprietary interest in the preparation of her fish, but at Drew’s words she turned to him, frowning.

  “Did you intend to go into the woods with Marcy, Mr. Bradford? Alone?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did,” he said solemnly. He bent to the pile of supplies on the sand and grasped his rifle. “If our boat isn’t repaired, it could mean our lives. But if it grows dark before Marcy returns from her noble mission, who’s to protect her from the savage beasts that may lurk in the wilds?”

  Mrs. Marshall smiled uneasily, unsure of his sincerity.

  Marcy thought, If she starts in lecturing him, we’ll never get out of here. “Mr. Bradford’s right,” she said. “I’ll feel much safer with his protection.” She grabbed for a tin cup, motioned to Drew, and made for the narrow path beyond the beach.

  Behind her, Drew laughed under his breath. “Safer?” he whispered. “Really?”

  As soon as they were out of sight of the others, she slowed to let him walk beside her. “Honestly, Drew Bradford,” she said. “You’ll burn in hell for all those lies!”

  “I wasn’t lying. I didn’t say I’d protect you!”

  She giggled. “And I didn’t say who I thought the savage beast might be!”

  “Anyway, what are we doing?”

  “There’s a big swamp ahead, ringed with spruce trees. The sap is hard and sticky. I’ll scrape off a few chunks into this cup, and Uncle Jack will cook it up with some bits of shredded rope. When it cools a little, he can caulk the seams of the boat.”

  He looked around. “How do you know where we’re going?”

  She pointed. “See that tree? That thin gash in the bark? That’s how you blaze a trail. I was out here last spring. That’s my mark.”

  “You’re a regular Hiawatha.”

  She ignored that, content to walk beside him in silence, taking in the sights and smells of the wilderness she loved so well.

  He seemed to feel it too. “It’s so silent,” he said at last. “I guess I’ve noticed that from the first day, but it didn’t register in my brain. Dark and silent and mysterious. Why’s it always so quiet? I can’t remember the Catskills being like this.”

  She shivered unexpectedly. “It’s scary, sometimes,” she said softly. “Like it’s haunted. The Indians felt it too. They didn’t live here, you know. They just hunted and fished. Then went home again. Some north, some south.”

  “But why is it this way? So eerie?”

  “Haven’t you noticed? The trees. Dr. Marshall was talking about it yesterday. He made it sound so…scientific. It’s colder here than the Catskills. And rockier. So there’re more evergreens. Pine and spruce and tamarack. And lots more. Look at all the patches of needles on the ground. That’s not good ground cover for the little animals. It doesn’t give them much to eat.”

  “Nor the birds. I’ve mostly heard chickadees.”

  “Well, anyway, that’s why it’s so quiet.”

  He laughed. “I’d like to hear Mrs. Marshall’s explanation sometime. The majesty of God. The silence of the spheres…”

  “It’s nice enough without her trying to find highfalutin reasons. Come on. There’s the spruce swamp.” They circled the marshy patch until Marcy had found a tree to her liking. Pulling out her knife, she hacked off several large wads of the thick resin that oozed from its bark, and filled her cup.

  “My God,” said Drew. “Look at that sky.”

  Marcy turned. Large, fleecy clouds, touched with gold and red, were cradling the setting sun. Above it, the sky glowed in bands of bright color, deep ruby and pale green and, finally, clear blue. And the evening star.

  She’d never been able to make a wish on the first star. What could she wish for beyond the beauty of the star, the glory of the sky? She gulped, feeling the tears well in her eyes.

  “Good Lord, you’re crying!” Drew turned her to face him.

  She stuck out her chin. “So what if I am? Can’t a body cry when…when something’s so beautiful?”

  He stroked the side of her cheek. “Then I should cry every time I look at your face.”

  She sniffled and pushed him away. “Bosh! You’re just buttering me up to steal another kiss.”

  He grinned. “Oh. Then you’re not beautiful?”

  She looked disgusted. “Well, I’m not a fool either. I know I’ve got looks. But I’m not about to let a devil like you turn my head!”

  His blue eyes narrowed. “Now I really am going to kiss you.”

  “You’ll have to catch me first!”

  “Easy enough.” Before she could flee, he had swept her into his arms. “Now, my beautiful Marcy…” he said, holding her close. “Damn!” He released her and slapped his neck. “I thought we’d seen the last of the black flies!” He rolled down his sleeves, buttoning them tightly, and brushed at the air in front of his face.

  She swatted at a swarm of insects. “It’s gnats. The black flies are done for the season. Maybe it’s just the swamp,” she said hopefully.

  He scooped up his rifle and grabbed her arm. “Then let’s get out of here!”

  Laughing, they raced back toward the campsite. At last Drew stopped, breathing hard. He smacked at his cheek. “No. They’re still with us.”

  “If we’re lucky,” panted Marcy, “the wind will blow them away from camp.”

  He chuckled. “I’m hoping not. I’ll personally take great delight in smearing Mrs. Marshall’s face with that foul slime your uncle mixes up.”

  “It’s just tar and castor oil. It keeps the bugs off. Why are you so mean about Mrs. Marshall?”

  He laughed. “It’s only that I can’t do this when she’s around.” He bent and kissed her. “Two in one day. Fancy that! Well, I’ve got to get them while I can. Tomorrow I lose you to Mister Moneybags William Stafford!”

  The following afternoon Drew watched as Marcy began her campaign when the group sat together at McBride’s boardinghouse.

  “You’re looking mighty pleased with yourself, Mr. Stafford. Did you have a good success?” Marcy smiled warmly with what she hoped was a seductive expression. On the other end of Mr. McBride’s veranda, Drew cleared his throat and turned away. Dang him! she thought, and smiled again at Mr. Stafford.

  Stafford stroked his side whiskers. “Very good. Very good. I took some barometrical observations of Wall Face Mountain, and explored a bit of the Ausable River. Should be good for an article or two in Harper’s Weekly.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” she breathed. As though half the city slickers didn’t write stories for the newspapers the minute they left the Wilderness! But she couldn’t think like that. She’d already made up her mind to marry; she’d better start finding good things to think about William Stafford. He certainly was handsome enough, very distinguished—even if that gleam in his eye made her nervous.

  She was glad she’d put on a skirt and lady’s waist; it was plain, but far more attractive than a man’s woolen shirt. She was sorry that she’d left her mother’s earrings back at the cabin in Long Lake. But she’d brushed her hair until it shone, and left it loose.

  Mrs. McBride came out onto the veranda and struck the dinner gong. William Stafford smiled at Marcy like the buccaneer she had come to consider him; his eyes swept her ripe curves. “Miss Tompkins,” he said, presenting his arm, “may I escort y
ou to supper?”

  “I’ll be eating with the guides,” she said. “I always do.”

  “No. I’ve paid for your meal voucher. You’ll sit with me.”

  “I’d be right pleased.” She slipped her arm through his, feeling very grand and ladylike.

  McBride’s was elegant compared to most of the boardinghouses on the more remote lakes. Indeed, a sign over the doorway proclaimed it a “Hotel,” and Mrs. McBride had brought in a Persian rug and a shiny new piano for the parlor. In the dining room, the guides’ table was plain and tucked into a corner, but the guests were treated to white linen and fancy dishes. For the proper “rustic” touches (earning squeals of delight from Mrs. Marshall), the cloth had been strewn with fresh leaves, and the glass salt cellars were set into hollowed-out pinecones. The men were instructed to hang their hats on the antlers and hooves of a mounted deer, and the chairs around the table, cushioned with bright calico, were made entirely of branches of silver birch.

  Marcy smiled in pleasure as the hired girl brought around the platters of food and Mr. Stafford insisted on serving her himself. She didn’t know if that was the way it was always done in the big city, but it certainly made a girl feel special to be fussed over by a man. She laughed gaily all through supper, ignoring everyone else at the table except Stafford. Especially Drew Bradford, who watched her all during the meal, one devil’s eyebrow cocked in mocking amusement.

  When supper was finished, the guides went outside to sit on the veranda and swap stories. As soon as Mrs. Marshall retired to the parlor, Mr. McBride brought out a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards, and Collins, Heyson, and Stafford settled down for some poker. In the parlor, Mrs. McBride began to play a slow waltz on the piano.

  “Come on,” said Drew, pulling Marcy by the hand. “I’ll dance with you.” He swung her into his arms, holding her tightly, and swirled her around the floor, carefully avoiding the Marshalls, who were also waltzing—with more grace than Marcy would have imagined.

  I could dance like this forever, thought Marcy, feeling herself swept up in the sensuous rhythm of the waltz. She was conscious of Drew’s size and strength, the warmth of his arms, the clasp of his hand. His silence. She frowned and looked up at his face. Like a closed book.

  “Are you angry about something?”

  “Why should I be angry?” he said. There was an edge to his voice she’d never heard before. “I watched you at supper. You made a good beginning. You took to it like you were born to the purple.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He laughed shortly. “It means when you marry your rich man, you’ll fit right in. And Stafford certainly took a shine to you.”

  He seemed so strange. “Drew…” she said hesitantly.

  “You dance very well. By the by, I thought you were a bit coy with Stafford. Not even the empty-headed city girls giggle all the time.”

  “You are angry.”

  He grinned. “Not at all. And to show you my heart’s in the right place, I’ll play Cupid. In a little while, when we’ve finished dancing, go down to the edge of the lake. I’ll send your ‘beau’ to you.”

  “Bosh! How are you going to do that? He’ll be at the cards all night.”

  “Not if I tell him that you’ve gone to look at the lake by moonlight. He’ll come running like a hound to the scent.”

  “I’m not sure…”

  “You’ve talked about it often enough. Are you afraid to put your plan into action?”

  Dang him and his teasing! “No!” she said. “I’ll catch me a husband tonight. Just you wait and see, Mr. Drewry Bradford!”

  The moon shone on the still water of the lake, making a silver path to the opposite shore. A loon cried mournfully. Marcy shivered. You’re daft, Marcy Tompkins, she thought. Maybe it wasn’t too late to run.

  “You shouldn’t have come out without a wrap, Marcy.” The voice was smooth, confident.

  She turned. “Oh, Mr. Stafford! You gave me a start.”

  “You must be chilly. Take my coat.”

  “Oh, no. Really, I…” It was too late. He had already taken off his frock coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, holding it close so her arms were imprisoned.

  “I feel cheated, Marcy,” he said. “I had nothing but George Heyson’s company for nearly three weeks. The others had you.”

  “Oh, but…the time just flew…we fished and hunted… I’m sure you and Mr. Heyson…” Tarnation! She was babbling like an idiot.

  He slid one arm under the coat and around her waist. “You looked charming this evening. I’d surely like to see you in a fancy gown. Perhaps you could come to Philadelphia. I could show you a good time.”

  She wriggled uncomfortably, wishing he would let her go. But she knew so little of the ways of men, and she wasn’t sure if he truly had wicked intentions; it wouldn’t do to make him angry. He might take it out on Uncle Jack and the others. “Would you invite me to your home in Philadelphia?” she asked coyly.

  He laughed, a low, ugly sound in his throat. “I don’t think Letty would approve.”

  His face in the moonlight seemed suddenly frightening. He is a buccaneer, she thought, picturing the evil flash of a gold earring. “Who’s Letty?”

  “My wife. Now, we were talking about you. In a gown that shows off your figure. Would you like that?”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Green. Green velvet. The color of envy. Because every man will be jealous of me. A gown that fits just so. Here”—his hand on her waist had dropped lower, caressing her hip—“and here.” Deliberately, he cupped her breast with his other hand.

  “Tarnation!” she cried, almost leaping away from him. “Isn’t that Uncle Jack calling me? You must tell me about Philadelphia some other time. Good night, Mr. Stafford. Thank you for the use of your coat.” She almost threw it at him. While he bent to retrieve it, she fled toward the hotel. She was glad there was a back door. She was too ashamed to meet up with Drew or the others in the parlor. She crept up the back stairs and into the small room under the eaves that she was sharing with the hired girl. She stripped down to her chemise and crawled between the sheets, hating Mr. William Stafford and Drew. And herself. She slept, and dreamed of a pirate with one gold earring and a green velvet hat.

  She awoke at the first chirping of the birds and sat up in bed. She felt dirty, thinking of the way Stafford had touched her. It was still early; she could take a swim in the lake and be back before anyone else was up. She pulled on her drawers and her man’s shirt and trousers, slipped her bare feet into her moccasins, and tiptoed out of the room.

  The morning fog was still on the lake, vertical ribbons of mist rising to the fast-brightening sky. So clean. So pure. Men like Stafford shouldn’t even be allowed in her Wilderness, she thought. She undressed quickly, keeping on her chemise for a bathing dress. The water was cold and crystalline; she swam slowly, reluctant to make ripples on its glassy surface. She looked up. Drew was standing near the edge of the lake, grinning at her.

  “I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep,” he said. “How goes your affair of the heart?”

  She stood up in the shallows and glared at him. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into last night,” she said, wading furiously toward shore. “That varmint, that…” She stopped, seeing the look in Drew’s eyes.

  “If we’re to talk,” he growled, “you’d better get some clothes on.”

  She looked down at herself. The chemise clung wetly to her curves, revealing the outlines of her firm breasts, her nipples grown hard from the cold water. “Well, you don’t have to look!”

  He laughed and turned his back. “You’re right. Get dressed. But hurry up. I want the whole story of Stafford.”

  She stripped off the wet chemise and dressed without it, donning her clothes as quickly as she could. She didn’t like being naked and vulnerable. Drew Bradford might not want a wife, but the look in his eyes made her wonder if she was, perhaps, a little less safe with him than she had t
hought.

  “Well?” he said impatiently. “What about Stafford?”

  “You can turn around now,” she said, tucking her shirt into her trousers. “I’ll tell you about Stafford! He’s got a wife!”

  “Why, that old goat!” Drew was trying hard not to laugh. “I am sorry. But from the way he talked about the ladies, I naturally assumed he was single.”

  “What do you mean, talked about the ladies?” She was beginning to sputter. “Tarnation! Do you think I’d want to be married to a man like that?”

  “Well, he is rich.”

  “With a wife in Philadelphia.” She frowned. “What’s Philadelphia like?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just a city.”

  “No. Not to me. Is it wonderful and beautiful? With tall buildings? And women in pretty gowns? And fine houses? Oh, tell!”

  “My God. Look at you. Your eyes are shining!” He shook his head. “How can you get excited about just a city when you have all this?” He waved an impatient arm in the direction of the lake.

  “What do you know?” she grumbled.

  He sighed. “Not very much. I certainly don’t know you. You’re so serious about this. So solemn. Good God! I’ve watched the way you look at a flower or a bird on the wing. And then you talk about a city as though it were the end of the rainbow!”

  “Leave me alone. It’s none of your business.”

  He stared at her, frowning, while she wrung out her chemise. Then he laughed. A forced laugh. “You’re right.” He picked up a pebble and threw it into the lake. “Who’s next? George Heyson? He’s mighty rich.”

  “I don’t like him. I don’t care how rich he is. He’s old. And he said mean things about Tom.”

  “Tom Sabattis? Stafford’s guide? He’s a nice fellow.”

  “But he’s an Indian. At least his father is.”

  “So what?”

  “Mr. Heyson called him…a red savage…”

  He scowled. “Mr. Heyson’s a pompous ass.”