Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  “You don’t need me,” she said sulkily. “You have your painting. You don’t really need me.”

  “I just told you I did!” he huffed. “What more can I say?”

  “No. It’s more than that. I’m not good for you. You nearly gave up your painting for me. You feel obligated to me.”

  “You’re my wife and I love you!” he explained through clenched teeth. “I’m supposed to feel obligated!”

  “Then what would happen if you couldn’t support me? You’d give up your painting again. And I couldn’t stand that.”

  “I swear to you I won’t. I have high hopes for my exhibit. And even if it isn’t a success, I can still get a job while I continue painting. I can teach at the National Academy or the Cooper Institute. The important thing is that we’d be together.”

  She stuck out a belligerent chin. “And what kind of job could I get? I can’t hunt or fish in the city. I can’t be a guide!”

  “You won’t have to work! We’ll manage.”

  “You see?” she said accusingly. “You don’t need me. I’m no helpmate.”

  “Dammit, I’d forgotten what a stubborn devil you are! You’re my helpmate just by being my wife and my love! If that isn’t need, I don’t know what the hell is!” He took a deep breath, cooling his anger. “I’m going back to the city. Are you coming?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve made up your stubborn little mind, haven’t you? No matter what I say! Well, I’m going down. I expect you in Long Lake.”

  She wavered. Maybe he was right. Maybe her arguments were foolish. No! She’d had plenty of time to think about it. It made sense for her to stay here. “I’m not coming.”

  He ignored that and turned toward the door. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Oh! He made her so hot under the collar! Who did he think he was, bossing her around like that? “You can’t go down tonight,” she grumbled. “It’s already night. The trail will be dark. You’ll have to stay here.”

  “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said sarcastically. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I won’t change my mind.”

  His eyes narrowed in fury. “Then you just might wind up with the sorest backside my right arm can give you!”

  “Oh!” She glared at him and turned away.

  “I left my knapsack and blanket down the trail. I’ll go get them,” he growled.

  “Take the lantern.”

  “There’s enough light. I’ll be able to see. My things are just down the trail.” He went out the door.

  “Consarn him,” she muttered. She slammed the kerosene lantern onto the table and pulled out a tin of matches. She struck one and touched it to the wick. No matter what he said, it was too dark out to see. She’d hear him crashing around in a minute, and then she’d go out with the lantern. Spank her, indeed! Dang him! She wouldn’t be bullied into going back with him!

  A terrible sound tore through the stillness. She gasped. She heard Drew’s voice—half shout, half cry of pain. A long, drawn-out howl that turned her blood to ice. “Drew!” she screamed. She snatched up the lantern and her double rifle and raced out the door. The sounds were coming from the trail—Drew’s groans and cries, and an ominous growling noise. Hurtling down the path, lantern held aloft, she stopped in horror.

  Drew knelt on the trail. Above him loomed a giant black bear, at least six hundred pounds, that reared up on its hind legs and slashed at him with razor-sharp claws. The contents of the knapsack lay scattered on the trail. Blood poured down the back of Drew’s neck, staining his shirt; he raised his arms to ward off the bear’s attacks. “Get back, Marcy…” he gasped.

  “Lie down and play possum, Drew!” Roughly, Marcy set the lantern on the trail in front of her and raised the rifle to her shoulder. Drew flattened himself to the ground. The bear growled once, prodded the prostrate form, then turned his attention to Marcy. In that moment she aimed and fired. The great creature roared its pain as the bullet smashed through its shoulder, then advanced on her, swinging its huge paws in fury.

  Drew struggled to his knees. “Marcy…”

  “Dang you, Drew! Stay down!” She aimed again, feeling the cold sweat trickling down her back. She had only the second barrel to depend on; she’d left her cartridges back at the cabin. She murmured a prayer and squeezed the trigger. Straight for the heart. The bullet slammed into the bear. The beast staggered backward, grunted once, and crashed into the brush at the side of the trail. Marcy advanced cautiously; then, certain the animal was dead, she threw down her rifle and knelt to Drew. She gasped at the sight of him. His face and shoulders and arms were covered with scratches, deep gashes that traced bloody lines across his flesh. But the most serious injury was to the back of his head; the bear, in its rage at being surprised with the knapsack, had torn a great patch of his scalp away from the skull. Blood poured from the flap of skin, drenching Drew’s shirt.

  He laughed unsteadily. “I should have taken the lantern. The damn thing didn’t like my disturbing his supper.”

  “Oh, hush,” she said gently. She brought the lantern closer and examined his head. The skin, though badly torn, was still attached. But the bleeding was fearful. “We’ll have to get back,” she said. “You can’t stay here.” There had to be some way to retard the flow of blood. Gingerly, she lifted the skin flap and pressed it tightly against his head. “Can you hold this, Drew? Until I can get a bandage from the cabin?”

  “I’ll try.” He put his hand to his head. “Lord, that hurts!”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’ll leave the lantern here for you.” She made her way back to the cabin, treading carefully up the trail until the light from the open cabin door showed her the way. She left her rifle; it would be impossible to carry. She picked up a roll of linen bandages and stuffed it in her pocket, filled her canteen from the water bucket and slung it across her shoulder. Drat! She would have liked some biscuits; Drew might need his strength before they got to Long Lake. She had a few toffees. She shoved them into a pocket.

  She hurried back to him. Working quickly, she wrapped the bandage about his head, pulling it as tightly as she dared to stem the bleeding.

  He smiled up at her. “I guess I am a greenhorn. You always warned me not to leave food around. Let’s go back to the cabin. I’ll be all right after I rest for a little while.”

  “No. You’re losing too much blood. Even with the bandage. We’ve got to get down to Long Lake, so your head can be stitched up properly. Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” He hauled himself to his feet, clinging to Marcy for support, then let go of her. “I can make it on my own.”

  She turned and picked up the lantern. “I’ll walk in front of you. But if you feel your knees giving way, holler.” They started down the trail. It was slow going. The path was steep. Twice Drew slipped, managing at the last minute to clutch at a sapling tree, and once he tripped on an exposed root and tumbled to the ground. Marcy noted with dismay that the blood had already begun to seep through the bandage. She helped him to his feet. “Can you go on?”

  He shivered and smiled thinly. “Damn, it’s cold!”

  She frowned in dismay. “I should have brought your coat. I didn’t think of it!”

  “We’ll manage.” They continued on down. Drew was breathing heavily. Marcy turned to watch him, noticing the beads of sweat on his face, the pallor of his skin even by the dim light of the lantern. At last he stopped and sat down on the trail. “I’m getting awfully light-headed, Marcy.” His voice was beginning to slur. “You go on without me. I don’t think I can make it.”

  She set down the lantern. “Oh, bosh, Drew Bradford! There’s no good my going without you!” She knelt to him and gave him a drink of water, then unwrapped the toffee. “Here. Suck on this. It’ll keep up your strength.” She helped him to his feet. “Put your arm around my shoulder and lean on me.” The trail was wider here. They proceeded side by side. She held the lantern in one hand, li
ghting the path; her other arm, firmly wrapped about his waist, was soon wet from the blood that continued to pour from his wound.

  By the time they reached the bottom of the trail, Drew was staggering. He blinked his eyes, desperately trying to stay conscious. Marcy let him rest while she pulled her canoe out of the brush and righted it. Drew’s boat was here as well, but the canoe would be faster. She pushed it partially into the water, then turned back to Drew. Grunting with the strain of his weight, she managed to help him into the canoe. She waded into the water, hooked the lantern onto the bow of the canoe, then scrambled into the stern, launching the canoe at the same time. She paddled quickly around Clear Pond, straining through the darkness to find the entrance to the creek that led to Long Lake. The sky was black, thick clouds scudding across its dark expanse. Despite her years in the wilderness, her eyes that had grown used to seeing in the dark, it was difficult to make out shapes. She cursed softly as she saw the lean-to on the shore of Clear Pond; she’d gone too far, missed the creek. She turned the canoe about and headed back. She looked down. Drew lay in the bottom of the boat, his eyes closed. “Drew,” she said. “Drew!”

  He grunted and opened his eyes, managing to smile weakly at her. “Marcy…” he whispered.

  She peered through the darkness. The lantern illuminated just a small patch of shore ahead, but she managed to make out the creek and headed down its narrow way. She maneuvered the twists and turns, running aground once on a shallow stretch. She jumped out of the canoe into the water, and tugged and pushed until she’d worked the small craft back into the center of the creek; then she regained her seat and took up the paddle again.

  The wind had begun to blow. The storm she’d seen far off was moving in. Gusts of wind whistled through the trees and shook their light craft. Dang it! she thought. It wasn’t too bad here in the creek, which flowed into Long Lake. But once they hit Long Lake itself, there might be danger with a storm. The settlement was only a mile or two away from the creek entrance—on the opposite side of the lake. But the current of the lake ran in the other direction. She’d be battling the flow as well as the storm. Worse than that was the knowledge that if she couldn’t win out over the current, their small boat would be swept down the length of the lake—at least eight miles. And there wasn’t a cabin or guide in all that uninhabited way to which she could turn for help. And unless she could make it back soon, Drew would bleed to death.

  She came out onto Long Lake as the mists rolled in, damp clouds that swirled around her, gusting fitfully. The kerosene lantern had been sputtering for the last ten minutes, its fuel nearly used up; now, with a small hiss, it died. Only her instinct, the feel of the strong current under the canoe, guided her. She fought against the movement of the water, seeing the whitecaps on either side of her fragile boat each time the wind parted the mists for a second. She could only guess she was headed in the right direction.

  At her feet in the boat, Drew began to shiver and moan feverishly, his voice barely distinguishable above the whistling of the wind. Oh, God, she thought, let him not die!

  She fought against the current, her muscles straining, her arms quivering with the agony of each tortured stroke, until wind and waves and night were one enemy, against which she battled to the edge of exhaustion. She had no idea how long she struggled. The storm blew down, sheets of rain that drenched her, savage winds that whipped her hair about her face. She moved in a delirium of storm and wind and pain. As the storm abated, she was aware that the sky was lightening; it must be nearly dawn. She had been on the lake all night long.

  The lake was dim, though the sky brightened in the east. She saw no sign of life. Oh, God! she thought. Could the current have carried them down the length of the lake, despite her efforts all night long? If they’d gone past Round Island, it might be hours more before she could get help for Drew.

  She leaned over him. He was so pale, so still, his damp hair matted to his forehead. She lifted his head for a moment, and was heartened to see that his eyelids fluttered. But her hands were covered with his blood. How long could he last?

  She lifted her eyes to pray to the heavens, and sobbed aloud for joy. She saw lights, closer than she would have hoped. She strained her eyes, seeing shapes more clearly as dawn advanced. Sabattis’s Boardinghouse. Just up on the hill. God bless Mrs. Sabattis! If she hadn’t been up early to cook, Marcy would never have seen a light. She headed the canoe in the direction of the shore, grateful that the pull of the current had slackened; in another few minutes the canoe was on the beach. She scrambled out of the boat and raced up the hill, bursting in on the Sabattis family at breakfast. She knew she must look a sight, her clothes drenched from the storm, her arms covered with Drew’s blood.

  “Quick!” she said. “On the beach! Drew’s been attacked by a bear! Oh, help me, please!”

  Tom Sabattis and his father jumped up from the table. Trembling violently, she reached out a quivering arm to them and crumpled to the floor.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Tarnation! What a smell!” Marcy came into Uncle Jack’s room, closing the door behind her. She crossed to the window and opened it to the crisp autumn afternoon.

  In the wide bed Drew stirred and plumped at the pillows behind his back. “The doctor spilled some carbolic acid while he was changing my bandages.”

  She moved to him and brushed back the black curl that drooped over the strip of linen at his forehead. “How does it look, did he say?”

  Drew patted the back of his head gingerly. “He thinks once my hair grows in, the scars won’t even show.”

  She rubbed a tender hand across his cheek. “Scratches are almost gone.”

  He grinned up at her, one eyebrow raised in mockery. “Pity. I was hoping to be able to tell everyone my wife did that.”

  Her eyes narrowed in pretended anger. “I can oblige you, you varmint!”

  “I don’t know when! I’ve spent more than a week alone in this bed.” He indicated a small trundle bed in the corner. “Even Uncle Jack in his cot is beginning to look good to me!”

  She giggled. “Oh, bosh! You know you were in no condition. And neither was I. That was a fearsome cold and fever I came down with. Even if I wasn’t as sick as you. Though every time Uncle Jack put another mustard plaster on my chest, I almost would have traded places!”

  “Poor Marcy. And all to save my life.”

  She felt herself blushing. “Don’t, Drew.”

  He smirked. “I just want to hear you tell me again how I don’t need you!”

  “Stop funning me. That was different, and you know it!”

  “Well then,” his mouth twitched in a smile, “you can stand guard outside my studio with your trusty double rifle. I can think of a few wolves and other creatures I’d just as soon keep from the door!”

  She smoothed the edge of his quilt, unwilling to look at him. “I don’t want to argue with you now. You’re not in a fit condition. But I hate to leave here. I meant what I said up on the mountain.”

  His eyes were suddenly serious. “I know. I’ve had a lot of time to think, lying here. Even if you agreed to come back to the city, I don’t think you could be happy there.”

  She put her arms around him and kissed him. “Oh, Drew,” she said unhappily, “what are we going to do?”

  “I’ll set up my studio in Long Lake or North Creek. There’s no reason why I can’t paint here.”

  “Oh, no, Drew! I won’t let you do that for me. You must be in the city! To study. To teach. And to be near the dealers and the galleries. I’ll go with you. Wherever you want to be.”

  “I want to be where you’ll be happy. We’ll stay here.”

  She shook her head stubbornly. “No!”

  He glared at her. “Dammit, Marcy, do you want us to be separated?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Then we’ll stay here. And not another word about it!”

  She couldn’t let him make such a sacrifice for her. “No, Drew, I…”

 
“By God,” he muttered, reaching out to grab her by the shoulders, “Uncle Jack has the right idea! I’ve had enough of your stubbornness!”

  Her eyes widened in fear. “What are you doing?”

  He pulled her down to the bed, slinging her roughly across his lap. “What I should have done last week on top of the mountain. Or a year ago. Or every time that chin of yours jutted out to defy me!”

  She wriggled furiously, her face buried in the quilt. His arms were strong, holding her down, immobilizing her. She gasped as she felt his hand tossing back her skirt and petticoat, leaving her thin drawers as her only protection. “Drew!” she wailed, steeling herself for the first sharp slap.

  He laughed suddenly. “Of course, now that I have you in this position, there’s a heap of other things I can do besides spank you!” He began to tickle her, his fingers working their way up from her buttocks and hips to the top of her drawers and the sensitive line around her waist.

  “You lop-eared devil!” Giggling, she twisted and turned, managing at last to swivel herself around so she could grasp one of the pillows behind his head. Still lying facedown on the bed, she tugged loose the pillow and swung it at him.

  He grunted as the downy softness of the pillow connected with his shoulder. “This means war, Mrs. Bradford,” he said, and released his hold on her waist to reach for another pillow behind him.

  She scrambled away from him on the bed, warding off his blow as she saw the pillow come crashing down. Getting up on all fours, she attacked again, this time managing to smack him across the chest. There was a ripping sound. The air was filled with feathers. “Oh, drat!”

  He crowed in triumph. “Ha! You’ve an ill-equipped army, ma’am!” He gave her two blows on the rump with his pillow, sending her sprawling on her face.

  She struggled up, puffing at a feather that had lodged on her nose. “I’ll fight to the death, sir!” She hit him again with her pillow (careful to avoid his injured head), laughing as the down came flying out in a rush of feathers.