Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  “I didn’t feel like dancing.”

  “Made me look a regular fool in front of all those city slickers at Merwin’s. I reckon I was the only feller there without a girl!”

  She sighed tiredly. “Zeb, I’m not your girl.”

  “Oh, I know you talk a lot about being married to that greenhorn you met last summer. But it don’t matter to me what you done.”

  “Dang you, Zeb Cary! Are you trying to say what I think you’re saying?”

  “Look, I don’t care, Marcy. But there’s a lot of gossip in town. You’re wearing that wedding ring, but no one’s seen the groom! Even if we did give you a big send-off last summer.”

  “And I suppose if I go around with you, you’ll make an honest woman of me?”

  He seemed not to have noticed the gleam in her eye. “I’ll treat you good, Marce. And I’d be right happy to marry you. No matter what.”

  “No matter what? Oh-h-h!” What was she doing, wasting her time with this…child? She threw herself against him and toppled him into the shallows of the lake. While he spluttered and splashed about, she stood over him, hands on her hips. “I’m married to a man, Zeb! Go and find someone else to pester!” The very idea! They all thought she was a ruined woman. Abandoned by her man before the wedding.

  He waded out of the lake and glared at her. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Marcy. I’ve given you your last chance. When you didn’t show up last night, I danced with Sillie Barker, the housekeeper’s niece over to the Blue Mountain House. She didn’t act like I was pestering her!”

  Marcy picked up her bucket. “Get out of here, Zeb Cary. Or I’ll douse you again! Go on! Shoo! Scat!” She turned her back on him and trudged up the incline to Uncle Jack’s cabin. She carried the bucket into the house and dumped its contents into the large tub that rested on the cast-iron stove.

  “You’re up early this morning, Marcy. It’s just about six, I reckon.” Uncle Jack stood at the door to his room, scratching his ear.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d get an early start on some wash.”

  “You need some more water?”

  “No. This is my last bucketful. You sit down and have breakfast. The coffee’s hot, and I left a stack of flapjacks warming on the hob.”

  He sat at the table, watching as she dumped soap into the hot water and began to stir the mixture with a large wooden paddle. “You just did wash three days ago.”

  “Well, but it’s nice to have the sheets all clean and sweet-smelling. I’ll bleach ’em in the sun and fold them away with lavender.”

  “Besides,” he said softly, “it gives you something to do, don’t it?”

  “What are you talking about, Uncle Jack?”

  “I’m not blind, Marcy. I’ve watched you mope around all summer long since you come home, fussing with the cabin to keep busy. And I’ve heard you, too, pacing your room at all hours. When Merwin opened his house over to Blue Mountain Lake, you could have gone down to help. Not for the money. But just to keep busy, see people…even if they are a bunch of city folk. You used to like to be with folk, but not anymore.”

  “Oh, bosh, Uncle Jack!”

  “Why don’t you go back to that husband of yours? After two months, things should of cooled down between you by now!”

  Her heart was stuck in her throat. “I can’t go to him. It’s too late. I expect he’ll divorce me one of these days.”

  “You mean you won’t go to him! You’re as stubborn as ever. I should of warned Drew you’d need a good paddling now and then!”

  “It’s not as simple as that.” She turned and entered her room, stripping the linens from the narrow bed, then went into Uncle Jack’s room and did the same.

  Coffee cup in hand, Old Jack followed. “It wasn’t another woman, was it?”

  “No. It wasn’t another woman.” She sighed. She had a sudden vision of Drew at his easel, dabbing furiously at his canvas, ignoring the wayward curl that drooped on his forehead, ignoring everything but his painting. “But he had a mistress all the same. And sometimes I think I was jealous of her.”

  Old Jack frowned. “Mistress?”

  She gulped, fighting back the tears. “And then he gave her up. He gave her up for me! And probably hated me because of it.”

  “A mistress? And he hated you? I’ll wring his fool neck!”

  “No, Uncle Jack. I was the one who was to blame. I ruined everything. It was probably all wrong from the start. He didn’t need me. He never needed me.” She fished in her apron pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Carrying the sheets back into the kitchen, she dumped them into the tub and gave them a stir. She turned back to him. “Is that old hermit’s cabin still standing on the top of Owls Head?”

  “I reckon it is. Why?”

  “I thought I’d go up for a few weeks. I want to be alone. I’ll take up some supplies, hunt and fish. I reckon I’ll be better off if I don’t have to talk to people for a while.”

  “And what do you plan to do about Drew?”

  She covered her eyes with her hand. Why did the memory of him still hurt so? “I don’t plan to do anything. He’s better off without me. He can go back to his mistress with a clear conscience.” She laughed sadly. “He warned me. And I didn’t listen. She was his first love.”

  Willough stared at the furnaces of MacCurdyville, now cold and idled. Perhaps she and Nat could get them started again. She took a deep breath and opened the office door. Nat was sitting at his old desk, the books open before him. She had already decided that the best course of action was for her simply to pretend that the horror of last night had never happened. They were two people with a job to do. That was all. Still, she felt a certain uneasiness, wondering if his anger would get in the way of their business relationship. She wasn’t prepared for the sudden blush that suffused his tanned face. Could he be feeling shame for his behavior? She decided not to risk finding out. It would be enough if they could get through the day with a modicum of civility. “Good morning,” she said.

  He nodded. “Mrs. Gray.”

  She thought, I don’t hate you, Nat. God knows I should, after last night. But all she could think of was how it had felt when he’d held her, kissed her. So long ago. And the sudden realization that a part of her had never stopped wanting him, had ached with a strange longing. A part of her had prayed that he had forgiven her betrayal in marrying Arthur. She hadn’t counted on his inexplicable hatred, his cold cruelty. He had called her a treacherous bitch. Terrible words. She yearned to throw herself at his feet: What have I done, Nat? What have I done to twist your love into this? But of course she couldn’t. Proper ladies smiled and said the correct things. “Have you spoken to Bill this morning?”

  “No. I thought it would be best if he stayed away today. There was too much ugliness the day the prisoners were sent back. I gather Bill only succeeded in pouring oil on the fire.” He motioned her toward a chair. His eyes avoided hers. “Sit down. We’ll go over these figures.”

  They worked steadily for more than an hour, discussing wages, the numbers of men that the ironworks could afford to rehire, the possibility of closing down one of the furnaces until the depressed iron market improved. Willough noticed that Nat’s initial chagrin slowly gave way to the comfortable easiness that had marked their business dealings in the past. He even managed to smile as he stretched and closed the books. “I guess that just about does it. We’ll still have to be flexible, of course, depending on the mood and the demands of the men. But at least we know how far we can bend. Jim Taggert is representing the regular strikers. I told him to meet us at Number Three at eight thirty. I hope we won’t have any trouble persuading the renegades to give us possession of the furnace. They’ve held it for more than a week now.”

  “What have they been doing for food?”

  “The wives have been bringing in their meals. Bill tried to stop them the second day of the occupation, but the strikers backed them, and there was a small riot, with a few bashed heads.”


  “Good grief! And out of all this we’ve got to make peace?”

  “That’s about the size of it.” Nat pulled out a large gold watch and flipped it open, checking the time.

  How odd, thought Willough, noticing again the threadbare quality of Nat’s coat. Yet he seems to have bought himself a fancy gold watch with Daddy’s money. “That’s a handsome watch,” she said.

  For the first time that morning he looked directly at her, his golden eyes hard and angry. “Do you think so? It belonged to Gramps.”

  She gasped in dismay. “Oh, Nat! Your grandfather. But then, he’s not…?”

  He snapped shut the watch case, stood up abruptly. “Shall we go?” His voice was harsh and guttural. They made their way down the cinder path in a cold silence. It wasn’t until they’d gone some way that Willough realized he was limping. Now she remembered that he’d limped out of the room last night. And he’d rubbed his leg—the same one he now was favoring—several times. As though it gave him pain.

  “Why are you limping?” she asked.

  His laugh was low, unpleasant. “I wasn’t cut out to be a lumberman, I guess. But you didn’t leave me much choice.”

  What was he talking about? “A lumberman? But…what happened to your leg?”

  “My dear Mrs. Gray. I consider it a gift from you. The legacy of your malice. That, and my grandfather’s death, of course.”

  “What do you mean? Your leg…and your grandfather?”

  He stopped and stared at her, frowning in disbelief. “You didn’t even know. Christ! When I couldn’t get work in the forges… Didn’t you ever wonder what I’d do? Or was it enough just to spread your poison, then walk away?”

  “Poison? What are you talking about?”

  He laughed bitterly. “The carelessness of the rich. You take what you want and destroy what you don’t. You despoil everything, so there’s nothing left. You didn’t even know!” He shook his head. “But if you’re riding in your carriage, how can you see the mud in the street? Even if you put it there.” He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Oh, the hell with it. Come on. Let’s get started.”

  They moved past a large crowd that had gathered—half the town of MacCurdyville. Nat acknowledged the waves and greetings from the people who recognized him; Willough tried to ignore the muttered curses that seemed directed toward a hated Bradford. They reached the large furnace house set into the side of the hill. At the top level, near the charging room door, Nat introduced Willough to Jim Taggert and two of his confederates, who represented the strikers. Taggert turned to the building and shouted. A man with a week’s growth of beard peered cautiously out from the charging room, then stepped out to join them, his hands folded belligerently across his chest.

  “We ain’t taking nothing but full amnesty, Stanton,” he growled.

  “Agreed, Charlie. Unless you’ve done damage to the property. Then Mr. Bradford will expect to be reimbursed.”

  “No deal. Who’s to say that skinflint Bradford won’t come back to us later, saying we owe him?”

  Willough stepped forward, her voice ringing clear and strong in the morning air. “I’ll inspect the premises myself, with Mr. Stanton, as soon as you vacate. If there’s no damage, you have my guarantee—as a Bradford—that you won’t be held liable.”

  Charlie sneered. “Huh! Bradford! He said he wouldn’t bring in prisoners, neither. But as soon as times got hard, we were out in the cold.”

  Nat’s voice was edged with anger. “You have Miss Bradford’s guarantee, Charlie! That still stands for something around here. And you damn well better respect it! Mr. Bradford could bring charges of criminal trespass against the lot of you if he wanted. With or without damage to the furnace! I think he’s being very generous.”

  Charlie grumbled and kicked at a pebble. “I don’t know why you’re so loyal to the family, Stanton. After what they done to you!” He snickered. “But maybe Miss Bradford there is paying you off…and not in money.”

  Nat’s face turned red. Stepping forward, he swung one huge fist into Charlie’s jaw. The man dropped to the ground, clutching his bruised face. Nat glowered above him. “Miss Bradford is a lady. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of her! Now get your men out of Number Three!” As Charlie scrambled to his feet, Nat’s face softened. “Appoint a couple of your men to sit in on the strikers’ negotiations. Maybe we can arrange to put you and some of your people back to work.”

  At Charlie’s signal, the renegades filed out of the furnace house, carrying blankets and ragged quilts. Their eyes were cast down—men without hope. The women and children who detached themselves from the crowd to run to the men looked equally despairing, with pinched features and hungry eyes. What poor wretches they are, thought Willough sadly. She hoped that she and Nat could manage to find jobs for most of them.

  Nat. How confused and mystifying it all was. He’d defended her honor! She couldn’t believe it. Maybe it was just guilt, because Charlie had come close to speaking the truth. Perhaps that’s why he’d blushed. He certainly couldn’t be softening toward her. Not if he held her responsible for his grandfather’s death! If that was so, it helped to explain his cruelty of last night. Poor Nat. What a dreadful loss his grandfather must have been for him. She bit her lip. How could he blame her for his grandfather? And yet he seemed to think that she should know why he couldn’t get work in the furnaces. But that was absurd! Why wouldn’t they hire him? He’d had more experience than half the men in the region! As a founder, as a clerk… It made no sense. She sighed. After this was over, she’d insist he tell her everything.

  They moved into the charging room for serious negotiations. It was a large room, at the hilltop level so that barrows of ore and charcoal and limestone could be trundled in and dumped into the top of the furnace stack. Unused barrows were lined up against both walls, and near the platform-balance that weighed the loads was a tally board, like a giant cribbage board, for keeping track of the number of charges. Willough frowned, remembering the impersonal numbers. But the calculations took on a different meaning now. What was it Nat had said? Despoiling everything. Every twenty-four hours each furnace turned out two tons of pig iron. But to produce that took one barrow of charcoal eighteen to twenty times a day. She remembered more numbers. One acre of forest produced thirty to forty cords of wood, wood that was needed to make the charcoal. Nat had once told her that it took nearly fourteen cords of wood per day to feed just one furnace with charcoal. The numbers had meant little to her. Now, staring at the large charging hole that led into the furnace, she calculated what that hunger meant. Five thousand cords of wood a year. Nearly a hundred and fifty acres of forest stripped bare. Every year! For just one furnace. Good God, she thought, we are despoilers!

  They began their discussions, sitting around a large table that had been set up hurriedly in the middle of the charging room. Taggert and his men were clearly more desperate than they wanted to appear; Willough couldn’t help but notice that Nat was prepared to bend over backward to give them as much as he could. How like Nat, she thought. In a few days he would be a part owner of the ironworks, and yet his first concern today was for the men.

  The negotiations went on for hours. There was so much to be decided. How many men could be rehired, how deep a pay cut they could afford to take, whether closing one of the furnaces would be best. Fewer men at more pay, or more men taking less pay. The arguments went back and forth. Again and again Willough reiterated the Bradford promise: no reprisals against the renegades, no Clinton prisoners to take away anyone’s job. Mrs. Walker brought over a basket of sandwiches and hot coffee. While Taggert and his men, sandwiches in hand, stretched their legs, Willough and Nat sat silently eating at the table, carefully avoiding each other’s eyes.

  Willough couldn’t bear the mystery any longer. “Nat,” she said softly. “You said you couldn’t get work in the forges.”

  He smiled, an ugly smile, his lip curling in disgust. “That’s right. I’m a gardener now. For a
nice little old widow in North Creek. I know more about compost piles than I ever thought I would!”

  “But why, Nat?”

  He leaned forward, his amber eyes burning into hers. “Because every door in every furnace was closed to me. You did a better job than you supposed!”

  She was near tears. “Nat! I never knew what happened to you. I swear it! I thought you’d gone away for good.” She swallowed hard, feeling the old pain. “I kept hoping…you’d come back.”

  He stared at her, a bewildered frown on his face. “I don’t understand.”

  “Mr. Stanton, can we get back to our talks?”

  Nat looked up. “Of course, Taggert.” He turned to Willough. His eyes were cold again, his expression unreadable. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  At last, after hard bargaining, they concluded the agreement. Number Four would be closed, but there’d be jobs for everyone. At reduced pay. There were handshakes all around, and Taggert and his men went out to tell the waiting workers, who greeted the news with glad shouts.

  Nat stood up from the table and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked at Willough. He seemed almost friendly. “You did a good job. Your father would be proud of you.”

  She felt a twinge of bitterness toward Daddy. “Would he?” She rose from her chair, smoothed down her skirts. “Are you hungry? I’m sure Mrs. Walker can fix us a little something.”

  “I want to take a look around first. Make sure the furnace will be ready to blow in tomorrow. Why don’t you go back to the house?”

  “No. I did promise Charlie that I’d inspect the place for damage. I’d better come with you.” They took the stairs down to the second level, walking out across the footbridge that overlooked the massive water wheel. The footbridge was narrow. Willough put her hand out to the railing to steady herself. Nat did the same, and their hands touched. She felt a thrill course through her body. She hadn’t known she could still feel this way about him. Why did he hate her? She had to know!

  “Nat. I want to talk…”