Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  The two men shook hands. Nat frowned. “Gray. The lawyer?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Nat’s eyes were cold. “You’re the one who arranged that lease over at New Russia?”

  “I had a hand in it.”

  “And a purse as well?” Nat’s voice cut like a knife.

  Willough was horrified. The man had no manners! “You have no right to question Arthur!” she snapped.

  “Of course not.” Nat bowed mockingly. “I only wondered how a man arranged to have state boundaries redrawn at will. Or whether Mr. Gray will stop to mourn when the next rainfall brings a flash flood to the local farmers because there are no more trees to hold back the deluge.”

  Willough stamped her foot angrily. “Nat. Stop!”

  “Willough, my dear. Please.” Arthur smiled benevolently. “I don’t like to see a frown on that pretty face. I’m sure Mr. Stanton was only expressing his concern for the Adirondacks. Quite admirable of him. We all take an interest in this region. I meet with legislators every day in Albany who are deeply involved in the fate of the Wilderness. Ah. I see your father on the veranda. Let me take care of my business.” He turned to Willough and smiled. “Will I see you before I go?”

  “I don’t know… I…”

  He took her hand. “If I stay long enough for tea, will you pour for me as you did in the city?”

  “Mrs. Walker is not very good at tea,” she stammered, feeling flustered again. “There’ll be no cakes or sweets.”

  “I won’t even need sugar in my tea if you’re there,” he said, kissing her hand. “I’ll see you later.”

  Willough turned away as he mounted the path to the rooming house. Her face was flaming. And yet there had been something thrilling in the way he spoke to her. As if he could hardly wait to see her again.

  It would have been perfect except for Nat. And now he was staring at her, his amber eyes boring into her. She stuck out her chin. “Well? What have you to say for yourself? You insulted the man unforgivably! And now you’re standing there thinking…what? I can read your disapproval! You believe in speaking your mind. Well, perhaps you’ll do so now!”

  “Do you really want me to?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes!”

  “Quite aside from his obvious shrewdness as a lawyer, I think he’s out for no good.”

  “In what way?”

  “In the matter of…you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Must I be more blunt?” he said with a sigh. “In plain English, he’ll seduce you if he can, or I miss my guess.”

  “Oh! If it weren’t so amusing, I’d find your crudeness despicable! I’ve known Arthur for years. He’s an old friend of the family. I’m sure he’s…fond of me”—she felt herself blushing again—“but he’s a man of honor.” Hadn’t he respected her mother’s married state all these years? How could Nat think for a minute that he had unholy designs? The very idea of it! “Perhaps that’s your style with the ladies, Mr. Stanton! You can hardly be expected to appreciate a gentleman’s behavior!”

  He swore under his breath. “You’re the most exasperating woman! I’m trying to tell you for your own good. Watch out for the man. He’ll get you into bed if he can. And you’re such a blind little fool, he won’t even have to work hard to do it!”

  “I’m sure he has no such thoughts,” she said coldly.

  His lip curled in scorn. “If a man’s nails are manicured, you wouldn’t begin to know his intentions.”

  “I’d know your intentions, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Would you?” He eyed her contemptuously, his insolent glance raking her body. “I’d have to be interested first.”

  She took a deep breath, stilling her thudding heart. “We have a business to run, Nat,” she said. “You keep out of my private life, and I’ll keep out of yours!” Whirling on her heel, she marched back to the office and the safety of her impersonal ledgers.

  Marcy pushed through the last of the brush and emerged onto the shore of Clear Pond. It was a cool afternoon, rare for July. She threw down her rifle and rubbed her fingers together.

  Drew glanced up from the easel that had been set up in front of the lean-to, then resumed his painting. “Where are the others?”

  “Mr. Stafford bagged a deer. I never saw him so happy in all my life! Tom and Uncle Jack are dressing it in the field before they bring it in. They sent me on ahead to get the fire roaring and boil up some coffee. Did you remember to stop for lunch?”

  He dabbed at his palette and applied the color to his canvas. “I wasn’t hungry enough to cook a can of beans. I worked on those apples your uncle brought back from Long Lake the other day.”

  “What’d you do with the cores?”

  “I didn’t toss them into the woods, if that’s what you mean. Though I wonder why you make such a fuss over a few apple cores.”

  “You wouldn’t want to be visited by a panther or a bear in the middle of the night. That’s why Uncle Jack covers the food or keeps it near the fire.”

  “Panthers and bears. You make it sound so melodramatic! I can’t imagine…” His voice trailed away. He frowned at the picture, stroked on another bit of paint, then threw down his brush in disgust. “Oh, hell! I can’t get that sky to look like anything but a flat blue smear.”

  “Why don’t you quit? You’ve been at it all day. You should have gone fishing with the others at least.”

  He laughed. “You’re a regular mother hen today. The marriage bug bit you again? Is that why you’re being so domestic?”

  She blushed. “I told you to quit that teasing! It was a foolish plan and I’ve changed my mind and I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”

  He chuckled. “I’ll take some of that coffee when it’s ready.” He cleaned his brushes and tied them up with string, then wrung out a rag in a bit of water and placed it carefully over the blobs of paint on his palette so they wouldn’t dry out.

  Marcy knelt to the fire, watching the pot of coffee. “Oh!” she squealed. Drew had crept up behind her and wrapped his arms tightly about her. “You lop-eared devil! Stop that!”

  He kissed her on the neck. “Why? Have you decided to set your cap for Ed after all?”

  “I’ve decided that I don’t want you to kiss me again,” she said firmly.

  “Really? Why?”

  She thought, He’s so offhand. He doesn’t care a fig for me, dang him! “Why do you kiss me?” she asked, stubborn chin jutting forward.

  “Because you’re nice to kiss. Why do I need any other reason?”

  Her heart fell. “Well, I don’t want you to anymore.”

  He laughed and stood up. “If that coffee’s not ready yet, let me do a sketch or two of you.” He reached for his pad and a small piece of charcoal. “Sit on that rock.” He knelt in front of her, propping the sketch pad on one knee.

  She shivered. It always felt so strange when he drew her picture. The blue eyes searched her face with an intimacy that was almost embarrassing. And yet a part of him didn’t really see her—it was like being examined by a stranger. She never knew if she liked it or hated it.

  He sketched in silence for about five minutes; then the stranger’s eyes were replaced by an unmistakable twinkle.

  “What are you up to now?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Sh-h-h! I’m sketching your mouth. That soft, lovely mouth. That sweet taste of honey…that I’m not supposed to kiss anymore.” His voice was gentle, like a caress. “What a pity. I had so many more kisses to give that sweet mouth. I’ve wondered what it would be like to run my tongue along the edge of your soft lips…to invade your mouth with my kisses. Would you have minded, I wonder?”

  She felt faint, her heart pounding furiously. Her throat was dry. “Drew…”

  “Hush! You can’t talk while I’m drawing your mouth.”

  She gulped. “But don’t you want…”

  He looked innocent. “To kiss you? I can’t! You’ve forbidden me!”

  She gasped
in sudden understanding. “Tarnation! You rapscallion! You’ve been funning me!” She reached for a handful of grass and threw it at him. But when he began to roar with laughter, she forgot her anger and joined in his mirth. At last she stopped laughing and took a deep breath, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “You’re always making fun. Everything’s a joke with you.”

  He shrugged. “Why not? Life’s a lark. I’m having too much fun to take anything seriously.”

  “Except your painting,” she said softly.

  He laughed sharply. “Don’t be silly.”

  “You can laugh all you want, Drew. But I’ve seen your eyes. When you draw. When you paint. Even when you make jokes about it.”

  He put down his pad and pencil and stood up, turning his back to her. “You’re a Paul Pry, do you know that? You’re not supposed to look so carefully.” His voice sounded choked.

  “It matters to you, doesn’t it?”

  Silence. Then, “I want it so badly, sometimes it hurts.” The words dragged out of him.

  “Money?”

  He laughed and turned back to her. “Good God, no. That’s the least of it. Acclaim, maybe. I don’t know. I need to paint. God, I need it! I want to be the best there is. That’s all there is to life, as far as I’m concerned. The rest is just”—he waved a hand in the air—“a puff of smoke.”

  She stood up and moved to him, seeing the pain in his eyes. “But you’re good! I’m sure of it. I’ve seen other painters. Mr. Tait comes to Long Lake every summer. He’s a success. But you’re as good as he is.”

  “No. No. There’s something wrong. Something missing. I’ve been thinking about it all summer long. I saw some work before I left New York…things they’re doing in France…with color and light. If I could get to Paris, study with someone…”

  She fought back her tears, feeling helpless to ease his anguish. Reaching up, she pushed back the lock of black hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Why does your hair always fall in your eyes?” she whispered.

  He stared at her for a moment, then pulled her into his arms, clutching her fiercely to his chest. He kissed her hard, his mouth pressing on hers, taking, demanding all the comfort she could give. When she felt the tip of his tongue probing gently, she parted her lips, welcoming the thrilling sensation of his possession.

  Her mouth was his. Her heart was his.

  He grunted in anger and thrust her away. “I must be losing my mind!”

  “What…what do you mean?” she gasped, swaying unsteadily.

  He smiled in mockery. “I nearly forgot. At my peril.” He turned about and snatched up the drawing of her. “Look,” he said, sketching rapidly. “I’ve given you a tiara. And diamond earrings. It’s a pity I didn’t draw you full-figure. I would have dressed you in a ball gown.” His blue eyes were cold and hard. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  She’d never cursed in her life before. “Damn you,” she said softly, “I will go after Heyson!” She stared down at the pot of coffee that was boiling furiously over the fire. Drawing back her boot, she kicked it viciously and sent it flying, then raced into the woods so he wouldn’t see her weep.

  She had to stay away from him, she decided. Yet the following week, during an outing, she was at the river’s edge with him, sharing a sight she knew would delight him.

  “You see, Drew? What did I tell you?” Marcy leaned over the grassy bank and pointed to the rocks in the shallow riverbed.

  “I’ll be damned.” Drew knelt beside her, frowning into the water. “Look at the way they catch the sunlight! Like blue-green fire. I never saw anything sparkle so.” He scooped up a pebble from the riverbed, turning it back and forth in his hand. “You have to hold it just right to make it shine.”

  “I told you. It goes on that way for miles. That’s why they call it the Opalescent River.”

  “But what is it?”

  “I always called it the shiny rocks. But Mr. Heyson gave it a funny name when he took some samples yesterday. Lab…lab…labradorite, I think he said.”

  Drew chuckled. “Leave it to George Heyson to take the romance out of everything! Is that all you were doing? Looking at rocks?”

  She sat up and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. “I told you last week I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You also told me you didn’t want me to kiss you anymore. But I don’t believe it. I think you’ve been avoiding me.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  He laughed. “Because you’re stubborn. And you can’t let on that you want to change your mind.”

  She leaned forward and stared into the river, unwilling to look at him. She’d never felt so miserable in all her life. He’d made it clear often enough. He was too poor to marry. And even if—by some wonderful miracle—he did marry her, he’d hate her soon enough, because it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to paint. He wanted to go to Paris. He didn’t want a wife.

  She thought, You’re daft, Marcy Tompkins, for even hoping. Marriage. Marriage, indeed! When any fool could see it was all a game to him—the kisses, and the teasing, and the jokes about helping her to find a husband. And she’d made it worse by telling him her idiotic plan.

  He was still playing with the labradorite crystal. “It really does look like an opal. It reminds me of your eyes. Blue, then green. And flashing with every change of color.”

  “That’s what my father always said.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Do you live in Long Lake with your father?”

  “No.”

  “Mother?”

  She gulped. Grief had a way of catching a body unawares. “I live with Uncle Jack,” she said softly.

  “Your parents?”

  “Both…dead. An accident.”

  “Marcy. I’m so sorry.”

  She felt herself beginning to quiver. She shook her head, fighting off the tears. “It was more than eight months ago. You’d think by now…”

  “Marcy.” He reached out and touched her cheek.

  She bit her lip. “Sometimes, I feel so frightened,” she whispered. “So alone.” She felt a surge of anger. “Sometimes I hate these mountains!”

  He smiled tenderly. “I’d like to kiss your tears away.”

  She struggled back from the edge of the black abyss of her fears. She sniffled and wiped her sleeve against her cheeks. “Tarnation! I should have known that’s all you think about!”

  He grinned. “What else?”

  She flopped onto her stomach, her face close to a patch of shining clubmoss. “Look. I always thought they looked like little trees close up.”

  He lay down beside her, peering intently at the bright green plants. “So they do.”

  “I used to play with them when I was younger. The little pods. Here. If you lift the top of one ever so carefully, you can shake out the seeds.”

  “And the little men, who live among the little trees, will think it’s snowing,” he said solemnly.

  She giggled and rolled over onto her back. “I never thought of that.”

  He leaned over her, his blue eyes warm on her face. On her lips. “Marcy…” He kissed her softly, then deepened his kiss, his chest pressing against her heaving bosom.

  No. No. How could she let him kiss her—and the memory of her parents still fresh in her mind? I have to leave the mountains! she thought. I can’t think of him. It’s hopeless. She felt as though her brain would explode with the tangled thoughts and longings that crowded in. A great sob rumbled up from her chest. She pushed him roughly from her, feeling overwhelmed by her grief. “Don’t do that!” she cried, bursting into tears. “I don’t want you to do that anymore!”

  He sat up, bewildered, and searched her face. “No you don’t, do you?” he said at last, frowning. The eyes had become blue ice, cold and distant. He rose to his feet. “My mistake. I seem to have…misread… It won’t happen again. I’ll see you back at camp.” He turned about and moved purposefully toward the path that ran along the river.

&nbs
p; Marcy curled herself into a tight ball, sobbing out her unhappy confusion until there were no more tears left.

  Chapter Five

  “Are you sure you have enough wood for the week, Gramps?” Nat Stanton pushed the wicker wheelchair toward the small cot and bent to pick up the frail old man.

  “Consarn you, boy, get your hands off me! I’m not completely helpless!”

  Nat stepped back, watching in concern as the old man struggled out of the wheelchair, leaning heavily on his right arm and leg. His lined face reddened with the effort. He managed at last to fall across the bed, face-downward; after a moment’s rest he rolled over and dragged himself to a sitting position, readjusting his useless left arm and leg with his right hand. Nat shook his head. Stubborn old codger, he thought. “The wood, Gramps. Will it last you?”

  The clear gray eyes that stared at Nat were astonishingly young under their shaggy white brows. “Why in thunderation not? It’s August, not December!”

  “I just don’t want to find you eating cold mush by the time I come back next Sunday.”

  “I’ll manage. I’ve eaten cold mush many a time when my body was still whole, and it didn’t kill me! Many’s the time I’d be out trapping and didn’t have food at all! I don’t know why you make such a fuss, boy. I’ve got my books and my pipe. It’s enough.”

  “I wish I could get you to move closer to town. I’m sure there’s someone in Ingles who could…”

  “Hell, boy! There’s no one in Ingles—or any other fool town—who’s worth a tinker’s damn!” He peered through the small window at the horse that waited outside. “’Course if it’s a question of the time it takes you to get here…”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “The cost of the train ride and renting a horse…?”

  “Dammit, Gramps, you know that’s not it at all! I worry about you! I don’t like to be up there at MacCurdyville all week wondering how you’re getting on.”

  “You worry too much. You’d probably be better off if I was dead.”