Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  “Nat insisted on it. He wants you in MacCurdyville. He thinks the negotiations will go better with a family member there.”

  She fought back her angry tears. “I suppose being a figurehead is better than nothing.”

  Brian smiled. “That’s my girl. After all, it’s only fair. I suppose we owe it to him. You can go up to MacCurdyville tonight. Matter of fact, you can leave right now. My railroad car is at the Saratoga depot. You can dine on board. It’ll save time. In the meantime, I’ll telegraph ahead to Nat. Let him know he can expect you tonight.”

  “All right, Daddy. That’ll be fine.” But it wasn’t, of course. So many emotions at war in her heart: resentment of Daddy for setting so low a value on her worth, uneasiness at seeing Nat again, and yearning too. I still love him, she thought. Was his heart still the same?

  Brian picked up a bell from the table and shook it roughly. “I’ll have Robert drive you to the depot. Oh. And one more thing. Nat said I was to tell you. He said you’d understand. The day you arrive at MacCurdyville—that’s his birthday.”

  Willough gasped. “Oh my God! His birthday?”

  “Yes. I don’t understand. When we talked about it, I wasn’t certain what day you’d arrive. But that’s what he said. His birthday.”

  The words turned her blood to ice. She shook her head. “I won’t go, Daddy! I can’t possibly!”

  Brian turned on her. His eyes were burning. “What do you mean, you won’t go? Nat made it very clear the deal was off unless you went to MacCurdyville!”

  “But, Daddy…do you know what he meant?” Nat wanted everything that was owed him. Including Willough.

  Daddy’s face contorted with anger. She was staring into the eyes of a stranger. “Goddammit!” he burst out. “I don’t want to know! MacCurdyville is my life’s work, my blood! It’s worth anything to me to save it!”

  She began to tremble. Out of fear of him. Out of horror for what had become of Nat’s love. “Even your daughter’s…sensibilities?” she whispered.

  He whirled about and pounded his fist against the side of the house. “What the devil do your sensibilities have to do with it? We do what we have to in this life! Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. And every man has his price. The only important thing is coming out on top! I want to keep that business! If you can’t understand that, by God, you’re no daughter of mine.”

  Willough returned to the parlor car, her thoughts in turmoil. Food was prepared for her and grew cold on her plate.

  “You’ve barely eaten a thing, Mrs. Gray.”

  Willough looked up at Keller and pushed back her plate. “I’m not really hungry, Keller. I’m sorry. The meal was delicious, but…”

  “Can I get you something else?”

  She left the table and settled herself into one of the parlor chairs. Another hour and they’d be in Crown Point. And another hour after that, MacCurdyville. She took a deep breath. “Yes. I think I’ll take a small brandy.” False courage. She thought, What am I doing? She still couldn’t fight Daddy. It still mattered too much. To please him. She was a failure as a wife, as a mother. As a woman. How could she disappoint Daddy on top of everything else? Perhaps if she’d had the courage to tell him what Nat expected, to say it straight out: I’m to be his whore, for the sake of the MacCurdy enterprises. But even with her own honor at stake, her prudery had kept her from speaking plainly to Daddy.

  Nat’s birthday. That’s what he’d said. And she was his birthday gift. It had always been their way of discussing sex. That must be what he meant. But, dear God, how could he shame her like that? Did he hate her so much? Those things that Daddy had said. They owed it to Nat. It was only fair. He was a hard man, still unforgiving. Unforgiving of what? Had it hurt him so terribly to lose her, to lose his future in the business, that he could do this?

  Or did he still love her, want her? Did he think that this was the way to get her? To use Daddy to force her? But surely he knew that this sort of blackmail would do nothing but curdle her love for him. And she was a married woman. It wasn’t right, what he proposed.

  Oh, God, she thought, anguished. What did he feel for her? Was it love? Lust? Or hatred? The clacking of the train wheels beat a tattoo of fear in her heart. Her insides were trembling, cold dread clutching at her. How could she face him? How could she do what he demanded of her?

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, stilling her rising panic. She had to think clearly! Perhaps she’d misunderstood. Perhaps that’s not what he’d meant at all. Daddy might have got the message wrong, she told herself. And then, even if Nat hated her—for whatever reason—he might still just be bluffing to frighten her.

  She was beginning to feel better already. As long as she could remain rational, in control of her thoughts and emotions, she could see this through. Assume the worst…that he had meant just what she feared. Why then, she could appeal to his better nature, to the gentleness she had seen in him many times. Persuade him that nothing could be accomplished by his humiliating her.

  And if he still insisted? She hardened her heart. She was a Carruth. She’d been raised to conduct herself like a lady, no matter what the circumstances. If she was forced to it, she would submit (didn’t she endure Arthur, though he disgusted her?), but she’d make Nat aware of her contempt all the while he was debasing her. There would be no satisfaction for him if he meant this as some sort of obscene vengeance.

  She arrived at last in MacCurdyville in a state of relative calm. Despite the lateness of the hour, a carriage was at the platform, waiting for her, and when she arrived at the boardinghouse, she found Mrs. Walker herself still sitting up. “I’m glad you’re here, Mrs. Gray. There’s so much trouble. We’re all counting on you and Mr. Stanton. I’ve put you in your old room. I left a lamp and a pitcher of hot water, if you want to wash up a bit before you sleep.” Mrs. Walker extinguished the last lamp in the parlor, leaving only a candle on the downstairs landing. She bent to Willough’s small carpetbag. “I’ll just leave your things in your room, Mrs. Gray, and then go to bed. Mr. Stanton wants an early breakfast.”

  “Thank you. You can wake me when you wake Mr. Stanton in the morning. I expect we’ll go down to the furnace together.”

  “Very good, missus.”

  Willough said a silent prayer. She couldn’t lose her courage now. “Oh, Mrs. Walker. Where did you put Mr. Stanton? I think, if he hasn’t retired, I ought to speak to him tonight.”

  “I put him next to you, ma’am. In your father’s room. I don’t reckon Mr. Bradford is up to making the journey right now. Bill says he’s not himself. We’re all sorry to hear it.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Good night, Mrs. Walker.” She waited until the woman had dropped off her carpetbag and retired to her own room; then she knocked softly at Nat’s door. At his quiet response, she entered and closed the door behind her. He was standing at the window. “Mr. Stanton,” she said. Her voice was cool, controlled.

  He turned. “Mrs. Gray.”

  She caught her breath, feeling the old familiar jolt at the sight of him. The amber eyes, piercing even by the light of the small kerosene lamp; the powerful body—now clothed in a rather shabby frock coat—that still exuded male sexuality; the overpowering presence of him that was so frightening. Once, long ago, she’d realized that her feeling of fear was her own suppressed passion; now, remembering why she was here, it had become fear again.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

  “Why not? I’m Brian Bradford’s daughter. I’m needed here.”

  He laughed softly. His voice held a mocking edge. “That’s right. I’d forgotten. A dutiful daughter. Doing what’s expected of you. Are you a dutiful wife as well? To dear Arthur?”

  She drew herself up and eyed him with scorn. “Nothing can be gained by acrimony. I’ve come here because I think I can be of help. It serves no purpose to resort to crude insults. Whatever has happened between us is in the past.”

  One blond eyebrow arched up, a question mark on the deep tan
of his face. Daddy said he’d been a gardener this summer, she thought illogically. I wonder why? He’s a founder!

  “Do you really think the past can be dismissed so easily?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she snapped. “Only a fool clings to the past.”

  He smiled tightly. “Dear Willough, still the haughty grande dame when you want to be.”

  “Do you want to talk about tomorrow or not?”

  He inclined his head. “As you wish. To begin, I spent the day with Bill and the clerk, going over the books. I think the Ironworks can afford to be a little more generous and still stay in the black. As I see it, we have two problems. First, to get the mob out of Number Three without damage to the furnace, and second, to negotiate a deal with the other strikers that they, and the business, can live with.”

  “What about the warden of Clinton prison? My father said he wants to have the governor send in troops.”

  Nat scratched his chin. “Yes. A few of his men were roughed up when the strikers forced them out of town. I’m not sure how we can handle that. The warden seems to feel that the troops should storm Number Three. There’d be hell to pay if that happened.”

  “I may be mistaken, but I don’t think he has legal rights. Not unless Daddy asked for state intervention. This is private land. I’ll send a wire tomorrow to Daddy’s lawyers in the city. They can draw up the papers to insure that the authorities stay out of this.”

  “Good idea. As far as negotiating, I’m set on keeping the prisoners out for good. How do you feel about it?”

  “The same way. I’d like to see as many men rehired as we can manage, even if we have to cut wages.”

  He nodded. “We’ll go over the books tomorrow. I’ll show you the figures I’ve come up with.”

  She felt herself breathing more easily. They still thought alike when it came to the business. Still worked as a good team. Perhaps that was the only reason Nat had asked for her here. She managed a small smile, turned, and headed for the door. She’d handled him well. Kept control of the situation. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  “Just a minute!” His voice was a sharp knife, cutting through her.

  She turned, her chin set at a proud tilt. “Yes?”

  His eyes narrowed coldly. “Didn’t your father give you my message?”

  “Of course. That’s why I’m here. To represent the Bradford interests.”

  “All of my message?”

  Maybe she could brazen it out. “Yes. But I wasn’t sure you meant…”

  “I did.”

  She flinched at the sudden hatred on his face. Keep control, she thought. Keep control! “I’m surprised. I didn’t think revenge was your style.”

  “I told you once I’m not a gentleman.” He rubbed at his leg and gave a bitter laugh. “But then I’m not sure that you’re a lady.”

  She stifled the urge to hurl the cruel insult back at him. She must keep her composure. “I don’t suppose I can appeal to your pity.”

  “I have no pity left, Willough,” he growled. “I’m sick to death of people and what they do to one another. Well, damn you, it’s my turn now!”

  She made one last desperate try. “What if I refuse?”

  He shrugged. “Right now, the lid is on. The men know we plan to deal in fairness tomorrow. But if you refuse me, I walk out. Then this whole damn town blows up—and your father’s hopes with it.”

  “Why are you so important? Someone else can negotiate just as well.”

  “Not quite. The men trust me to be fair. Because they know how much I hate the Bradfords.”

  The venom in his voice made her recoil. Why, Nat? she thought. “You’re determined to have your way with me, then,” she said softly.

  “Primly put, Mrs. Gray,” he sneered. “As usual. The answer is yes.”

  Perhaps she could shame him. “I find you contemptible,” she said coldly. “To take advantage of a woman this way. And when would you want your ‘pound of flesh’?”

  “Now.”

  She tried not to show the sudden terror that gripped her heart. No! She was a Carruth! She could submit without losing her pride, her honor. It was his shame, not hers. “Well, why not?” she said in her most businesslike way. “Let’s get it over with. If you come to my room in ten minutes, I’ll be waiting for you.”

  His voice grated like steel across a stone floor. “No! I said now. Here! I don’t want a bridal scene. The prissy female covered up to her chin, discreetly lifting her chemise only as far as she must!”

  “You’re still as crude as ever, Mr. Stanton,” she said with distaste.

  He rubbed his left leg again and grimaced. “It’s a little late to play the virginal innocent. Not when you’ve shown me you have claws.”

  She was still struggling to stay in command. “Nat,” she said gently, “I think we should talk. I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding… Think of the love we shared. If you…”

  “I want you out of your clothes! Now!” he barked.

  Her lip began to quiver. “N-Nat, I…”

  “Now, dammit! Or I’ll rip them off you!”

  She took a deep breath. “If you’ll turn your back, Mr. Stanton…”

  “I’ll not turn my back. And I’ll not dim the lamp, so don’t bother asking. I want to see what’s left of your pride and your careless cruelty when you don’t have your money and your silk gowns to protect you.”

  Damn him! She’d show him how a lady behaved in front of a boor! But in spite of her resolve, her hands were shaking. She tried not to let him see her nervousness as she put aside her hat and gloves and began to unhook the bodice of her gown. She shrugged out of it and laid it across a chair, then worked at the fastenings at the back of her skirt. She stepped out of it, removed her top petticoat. He was at the window; he hadn’t moved since she’d come in. It was unnerving to have him standing there, watching her undress. She stared back at him with as level a gaze as she could manage while she took off her bustle and unfastened her corset cover.

  All she had on now were her chemise and drawers, her corset, and one petticoat. But the chemise was rather demure, with a modest neck and little sleeves. She’d felt more naked in a low-cut evening gown. She put her hands on her corset tapes and looked hopefully at Nat. There was no pity in his amber eyes. She sighed in resignation and unfastened her corset, pulling it loose from her petticoat. She turned to the bed and nearly lost her nerve. Oh, God. The bed. Her mouth was dry. She gulped once and looked at Nat. “I shall await your pleasure in bed,” she said haughtily. “With my eyes closed. I trust you don’t mean to insult my sensibilities further by forcing me to watch you disrobe.”

  “Spare me your virtuous prudery,” he snarled. “You’re not done yet. I want everything off!”

  If she could only stop trembling! She drew on her last reserves of pride. “It is not my custom to prance around naked as a whore. Not even Arthur…” She stopped, feeling the hot flush on her cheeks.

  He frowned. “I’m not interested in your domestic secrets. Arthur probably got what he deserved.” His cold eyes raked her body with a brutal lust. “But you’re my whore tonight. And I want you as naked as a jaybird!”

  She was beginning to crumble. “Nat…please…”

  He was unyielding. He folded his arms across his wide chest and glared at her.

  Heaven protect me, she thought. Still trying to guard her modesty, she reached up under her petticoat and unbuttoned her drawers, letting them drop to the floor within the tentlike shelter of the full petticoat.

  “Now the petticoat,” he said.

  Her hands were shaking violently. She could hardly grasp the ends of the petticoat tapes. “Nat,” she pleaded, the words choking in her throat, “don’t shame me like this!”

  He stared at her—at her trembling form, her eyes filled with tears—then groaned. He passed his hand across his eyes. “Christ! What am I doing? I don’t hate you enough for this.”

  She sobbed and wrapped her arms around
her quivering body, gasping out her shame and grief. How could she ever have loved this man?

  “Go back to your room,” he growled. “I’ll go down to the parlor to give you time to dress. Meet me in the office at seven tomorrow morning. We’ll look at the books, then head for Number Three.” He crossed the room to the door. She scarcely noticed that he was limping. At the door, he turned. “Damn you and those melting eyes of yours,” he said bitterly. “They make a man forget what a treacherous bitch you are!” Then he was gone.

  She sank to the floor, weeping as if her heart would break. But her heart had broken long ago. The day she’d sent him away. The man she’d loved.

  Why should she be crying now? Why should she mourn a cruel stranger?

  Chapter Twelve

  Marcy dipped her bucket into the crystal stillness of Long Lake, then straightened, setting the dripping bucket on the sand. She gazed across the lake, where the hills rose in graceful swells all the way to Owls Head Mountain. The trees were really beginning to turn now, their brilliant color sparkling in the clear September dawn and echoing in the shiny reflection of the water. Why can’t the whole world be as beautiful as this? she thought. Why can’t people’s lives be as placid and serene as the water?

  “Marcy?”

  Drat! she thought. Why doesn’t he leave me alone? She turned, forcing herself to smile. “Morning, Zeb.”

  Zeb Cary frowned, his eyes dark with accusation. “What happened to you last night, Marce? We were all set to go over to Merwin’s Blue Mountain House—me and the other fellers. I told you I’ve been practicing my dancing. And then you up and disappear!”