Louisa Rawlings (11 page)

“But shallow, like flatboats. About ten inches deep, I’d guess.”

“And with a pointed bow,” she said. “And rowed like rowboats, most of the time.” She pointed to two grooves on either side of the boat, just in front of Drew. “You see those cleats? There’s a shoulder yoke stashed up front under Uncle Jack’s boots. For a carry, he’ll put the yoke in there, up-end the whole boat, and lift it on his shoulders.”

“Good God! I’m glad I don’t have to do it!”

She laughed. “It weighs only about seventy pounds. You and I will have to carry the rest of the supplies, including the oars, unless Uncle Jack makes two trips!” She laughed again as he groaned. “Now aren’t you sorry you didn’t stay in the city?”

“Not a bit of it.” He shook his head. “Damned if you’re not beautiful when you laugh.”

She felt her face flaming again. “Oh,
please
turn around, Mr. Bradford!” she begged.

He smiled wickedly. “Only if you promise to call me Drew all summer long.” He held up an admonishing finger. “And if you forget—even once!—I’ll make you blush right in front of Mrs. Marshall, and then you’ll be sorry!”

She giggled. He
was
a charmer.

“Well?” he said, frowning. “Is it a deal?”

“Yes.”

He cocked one black eyebrow at her.

“Yes…Drew,” she said, blushing once more.

He grinned again and turned about to face Uncle Jack.

In another quarter of an hour the boats pulled up to a wide expanse of sandy beach on the shore of Clear Pond. Set back from the beach and nestled up against a line of deep green spruce trees was a lean-to. About the size of a small cabin, its three sides were made up of stacked logs; its fourth, open side faced out toward the pond.

As soon as the party had clambered ashore, Mrs. Marshall began to examine their surroundings, exclaiming in delight at the rustic charm, the joy of dining in the open air, of sleeping with the stars as a coverlet.

She frowned suddenly, nervously adjusting her pince-nez. “Where…where
do
we sleep, Old Jack?”

Marcy’s uncle pointed to the floor of the lean-to. “Right there, ma’am. You’ll find it cozy enough with some fir boughs as a mattress.”

She looked doubtful. “And the women? Marcy and I?”

“That’s the only lean-to there is, ma’am.”

“I’m not sure I approve of that! I’m not concerned for myself, of course. I’m a respectable married woman. But Marcy…”

“I can look after myself, ma’am…” began Marcy, only to be cut short by Mrs. Marshall’s snort.

“And the men?” she asked with suspicion.

Drew Bradford stepped forward. “I can assure you, Mrs. Marshall,” he said solemnly, “that I, for one, have no intention of storming Marcy’s person in the dead of night.”

She peered at him through her glasses, her mouth pinched tight in disapproval. “I don’t like your levity, young man. I warn you that I shall be eternally vigilant in the matter of Marcy’s virtue. Eternally vigilant, gentlemen!” she added, glaring at the assembled party.

In the end, with much fuss on Mrs. Marshall’s part, it was decided that Marcy should sleep at the farthest corner of the lean-to, shielded from the rest of the men by Mrs. Marshall and then Dr. Marshall.

There were still some hours left of daylight. The supplies were unloaded from the boats and stowed in a large, covered storage box. Since the company would be returning regularly to Clear Pond during the summer, it wasn’t necessary to travel with all they had brought.

Stafford, Collins, and Heyson shouldered their rods and reels and set out upon the lake once again with boats and guides, to see if they might catch some fish for supper. Mrs. Marshall, delivering shrill orders to Dr. Marshall and a patient Alonzo, proceeded to reorganize the camp to her liking. Drew Bradford rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a pencil and a small sketch pad. Seating himself on a tree stump, he opened the pad and gazed out across the lake.

Old Jack stuffed a handful of cartridges into his pocket and picked up his rifle. “If we could bag us a deer before sundown, we’d have fresh venison for the carry. Come on, Marcy. Let’s see how good your aim is today.” He turned to Drew. “You’re staying here, Mr. Bradford?”

Drew looked up, grimacing at the sight of Mrs. Marshall. “All she needs is a broomstick,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure I want to be abandoned.” He closed the pad and stood up. “I’ll come with you.” He waited until Old Jack had started down the narrow trail, then fell in beside Marcy, putting his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Besides,” he whispered, “you’re much better company than Mrs. Marshall.”

She looked up at him and brandished her rifle. “I just might shoot
you
!” she hissed, but she let his hand remain.

Moving quietly along the path, they came at last to a small rise that looked out over a broad meadow made up of marshy patches and tall grass. The grass seemed to be bent and beaten down in spots.

Old Jack pointed. “The deer bed down there,” he whispered to Drew. He indicated the rise. “This is as good a place as any to wait. You stay here with Marcy. I’ll go down a ways.” Skirting the meadow, he moved off, finally settling down some twenty feet to their right.

Marcy sat on a fallen log, loaded both barrels of her rifle, and placed the weapon across her knees. Against her better judgment, she left room on the log so Drew could sit beside her. She knew he was looking at her and leaning in close, but she kept her eyes determinedly on the far side of the meadow, where a break in the line of grasses marked the deer run.

“They’re even prettier up close,” whispered Drew. “Your ears.”

“
Sh-h-h
!” Marcy strained her eyes, peering at the line of trees beyond the meadow. Was that a movement, there beside the silver birches?

She gasped. She felt a tickle in her ear, a slight current of air that caressed the inner edges and sent a shiver down her spine. He was blowing in her ear! Hanging on to her control, she turned carefully and scowled at him. Drew Bradford was smiling like a saint in a Sunday school book.

She thought, Deer or no deer, I’ll give him a piece of my mind! And then she saw something out of the corner of her eye. A small doe, just in among the trees. She held her breath, waiting for it to emerge into the meadow. Uncle Jack was already slowly raising his rifle to his shoulder in anticipation of a clear shot. The doe stopped, sniffed the air, hesitated.

And then Drew Bradford blew in her ear again.

“Dang you!” she whooped, leaping to her feet. The doe vanished.

“Tarnation, Marcy!” Uncle Jack shouted. “If you’re too fidgety to hunt today, go on back!”

“That’s a good idea, Old Jack,” said Drew. “Even better, maybe Marcy can show me a place near the edge of the pond where I can get a good view of Owls Head.”

“Right enough. Take him on down to Miller’s Cove, Marcy. I’ll bag us a deer.”

Angrily, Marcy rose from her seat and stormed back down the path, taking a fork that was narrower than the first one. She parted the overgrown branches with impatient hands, deliberately allowing them to snap back at Drew. After about five minutes, during which the path grew more dense with growth, Drew reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Whoa!” he said, turning her around. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea! Why’d you say you’d come hunting if you didn’t want to?”

“What was my alternative?” he said mournfully. “Mrs. Marshall?”

He looked like such a woebegone little boy that Marcy had to laugh in spite of herself. “Drew Bradford, you’re a devil!”

He grinned and rubbed at his cheek, where a branch had left a small scratch. “And you’re an imp! Now lead me to Miller’s Cove while I try to dream up a story to explain this to Mrs. Marshall.”

While he knelt on the small beach of the cove and drew the outlines of Owls Head Mountain, Marcy wandered down to the water’s edge. From its still surface she plucked a water lily, soft, golden velvet with a ruby center, and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply of its rich scent. Drew was absorbed in his drawing; it gave her a chance to examine him at her leisure. He was beautiful, there was no denying that, with that reckless black curl falling over his forehead. And those liquid blue eyes. Beautiful and charming.

And impossible.

She felt herself torn with longing, remembering the sweetness of his kiss. Maybe…

No! The mountains had killed her parents. How could she stay? But the city had broken Bill Peterson and his wife. How could she live there with a poor artist? Just for a moment she yearned to be a child again, when life had been so simple.

He had finished his drawing and was frowning down at the page. She walked to him and knelt beside him on the sand, peering over his shoulder at the sketch. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“It’s dreadful,” he growled. He sighed heavily and snapped shut the pad. “Well, maybe when I work it up in color…” He turned to her, then burst into laughter. “You have pollen on your nose! It’s all orange.” He held her chin in one hand while he wiped the tip of her nose with his handkerchief, but when he was finished he still held her chin. Leaning down, he kissed her softly on the mouth.

No! she thought, feeling her heart melt. I can’t let him. I can’t! She pushed violently against him. “Now you just quit that!” she cried. “I can’t marry you!”

He rocked back on his heels as though she’d struck him. “
What
? Who’s talked of marriage?”

“Well…no one…but…but…” She felt like a fool, stammering idiotically. “But a girl has to think about those things!” she finished with defiance.

The corners of his mouth had begun to twitch. “And you’re on the lookout?”

She tried to sound as grown-up as she could. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Wait a minute. This little excursion. All that humbug Old Jack was spouting—poor helpless orphan, can’t leave her behind, and all that rot. Were you figuring on hunting deer this summer? Or husbands? From among our jolly band?”

She turned red with embarrassment. She hadn’t meant for anyone to know.

He shook his head. “I don’t suppose it’s because
you have to get married
. No. I thought not,” he said dryly, as her eyes widened in horror. “Not when you kiss the way you do.”

She felt young, stupid. He was so worldly and experienced. It made her angry to have him treat her like a child. “I just decided one day it was time to get married,” she said grandly.

He smirked. “Just like that.”

“Just like that!”

“Yes. I can see you—with your stubborn little chin stuck out—making up your mind to it.”

“Don’t laugh at me!” She swung her fist at him, but he grabbed it and wrestled her to the sand, holding her immobile beneath him. He kissed her hard, then released her.

“But you can’t marry me,” he said.

She sat up and inhaled shakily. “N-no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have to marry a rich man.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” Laughing, he rose to his feet. He plunged his hands into his pockets and turned them inside out. A solitary silver dollar fell to the sand. “Then I’m not the one, that’s for sure.”

That settled it. Even if she’d wanted to marry him, it was clear he didn’t want the expense of a wife. “That’s for blamed sure!” she said sulkily.

He dropped to his knees beside her, pocketing the coin. “You’re joking, of course.”

“Don’t laugh at me!”

He frowned. “You’re
not
joking.”

“Of course not!”

“You innocent child! And you think that’s how it’s done? You just ‘decide’ on it?”

“Isn’t it? Don’t the ladies in the city marry well?”

“Yes. Usually.”

“And don’t they set out to catch a rich man?”

He laughed ruefully. “With a little more subtlety perhaps. But why on earth are
you
doing it?”

“I
told
you,” she said, as patiently as she could. “Because I want to live in the city and be very rich.”

“In God’s name, why?”

How can I tell him? she thought. What can I say? That I’m afraid? It barely made sense to her—how could she explain it to him? And he already thought her a silly child. How could she tell him of her childish fears? “Because I want nice things,” she said. It seemed the easiest lie.

“A house with lace curtains, I suppose.”

“And a carriage with four horses!” she said defiantly.

He was grinning again. “A dozen silk dresses in your wardrobe.”

“Two dozen! To change into five times a day if I want! And show the likes of you! Dang you, stop laughing at me!”

“We haven’t even talked of jewels. I suppose you fancy diamonds…”

She’d never even seen a diamond, and cared even less. “A whole handful! But it’s clear I’d never get ’em from you,” she added spitefully. He didn’t even flinch. The thick-skinned timber wolf!

“No,” he said, trying to look serious. “A starving artist isn’t for you. Well, then, which one of our fine gentlemen is worth snagging for matrimonial purposes?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What are you saying now?”