Louisa Rawlings (13 page)

Willough felt an uncomfortable flush warm her face; she was embarrassed that Daddy would talk that way in her presence. She looked up. Nat Stanton was watching her. Somehow, that made it worse.

He turned to a still-laughing Brian. “Miss Bradford was telling me how much she enjoyed the tour of the furnace today,” he said quietly.

“That so?” Brian looked at his daughter. “Glad to hear it, lass. Of course, I’m sure there was a lot you didn’t understand. It’s to be expected in a woman…”

“It was quite clear,” she said crisply. “I understood the workings perfectly.”

“All of it?”

What’s the good of getting upset over a few careless words? she thought. Daddy didn’t mean it. She forced herself to smile. “Well, truthfully,” she said, “there’s one thing I don’t understand.”

“What’s that, lass?”

“Why do you call it ‘pig’ iron?”

“I’ll tell you, Miss Bradford,” said Doyle, grinning. “It goes back years. Did you see the shape of the molds in the cast-house floor? The long feeder channel with the little molds on both sides? The men say it looks like a big sow with all her little piggies sucking at her tits.” He threw back his head and roared with laughter as Brian smiled broadly.

Oh, God! Willough could feel herself beginning to tremble inside. She folded her napkin neatly and placed it on the table before her. “I think I’ll take the air on the veranda. I’ll leave you gentlemen to your port and cigars.”

“
Port
?” exclaimed Brian. “Port be damned! You’re not in that fancy city house now, Willough! Clegg, fetch that decanter of whiskey from the parlor. We’ve got some serious drinking to do!”

“If you’ll excuse me,” whispered Willough and fled into the night.

The air was cool on the veranda, fanning the hot shame that still burned her cheeks. How was she ever going to manage to get along here? How could she ever get used to the way the men talked? She took a shaky breath and gazed out into the night, letting its tranquility soothe her.

The rooming house was on a hill. From here she could see the flames of the furnaces lighting up the sky, glowing like four shining beacons in the dark. She felt again that sense of wonder; despite her tour of the workings, it still seemed awesome and mysterious and magical.

The veranda door slammed. She turned. Nat was standing there. “I just couldn’t listen to them anymore,” he said. His voice sounded hard and angry. He crossed to the porch railing and looked out over the landscape. “You’re admiring the view?” He laughed shortly. “It’s the only time it’s beautiful. At night.”

“Oh, but it has a grandeur, a majesty…”

“How do you live?” he snarled. “With your eyes closed? It’s ugly. Ugly! We’ve torn this land apart. We’ve ripped up the earth, and stripped it of its trees… Have you ever seen it when it rains? The place drips ink. Black blood. It pours off the eaves and down the gutters. And when the furnace is burning badly, it belches more soot into the air. Wait until you try to wash your pretty finery and find it gray with soot.”

“There’s a price for progress. It always must be so.”

“And the price here? We’re doing more than destroying the land. Half the water in the east comes from here. And every time we destroy another forest, another river dries up. And no one gives a damn.”

She felt she had to defend Daddy. “Are you suggesting that my father…”

“Your father is no better nor worse than any of the rest of them,” he said tiredly. “Just smarter. If he hadn’t managed to get his hands on that state land near New Russia, someone else would have. But they’ll ruin the land. All of them. The greedy bastards.”

“Mr. Stanton, I do protest your language!”

“Christ!” he muttered under his breath. “Look, Miss Bradford, if you want a place in a man’s world, you’d better get used to it. Including people like Sam Doyle and his crude remarks about sows and pigs. There’s no room here for prudery.”

That stung. “There’s no reason why a man can’t behave like a gentleman.”

“If he doesn’t, that doesn’t mean he’s less a man.”

“I disagree. I’ve never known a real man who wasn’t a gentleman first.” Arthur was a perfect example, she thought. There was nothing frightening about Arthur.

He laughed. “A real man. Gentlemanly and polite. Kiss a woman’s hand. Safe. No need to fear in the presence of a man like that.”

“Yes!”

He shook his head. “Men like that only exist in those books the ladies read.”

She felt naked, her secrets betrayed. She wanted to hurt him. “What can you understand? You’re no gentleman! But I know men like that.”

“You don’t know them very well, then. You’ll find that every man’s the same in bed, gentleman or not.”

She gasped and whirled away from him. With her hand shaking, she reached for the door latch.

“Wait,” he said. She turned. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. We seem to have started out badly today. I’d like to declare a truce, if we can.”

She wasn’t ready to forgive him his bad manners. “We’ll work together, Mr. Stanton,” she said frostily. “I’m sure I can learn a great deal from you. But I don’t have to like you.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me either,” he said quietly.

“I’m
certainly
not afraid of you!”

He held out his hand. “Then I’ll take that handshake now.”

She hesitated. Her slim fingers would be lost in his powerful grasp. No! I’m not afraid, she thought. Resolutely, she clasped his hand. He took a step nearer. For a terrifying moment she thought he would wrap his arms around her. She shook her hand free and backed away.

He sighed in weariness. “It makes no difference to me, Miss Bradford, but why in the name of Christ didn’t someone ever teach you to enjoy being a woman? Look at you. In a gown my grandmother wouldn’t wear. Do you ever let your hair down?”

She felt her heart beginning to pound. She was speechless with outrage.

He shrugged and answered his own question. “No. You probably sleep with it tight and knotted. In your tight little virginal bed.”

“Oh!” She cast her eyes about the veranda, looking for something to throw at him. She’d never felt so reckless in all her life. A small iron doorstop in the shape of a cat was sitting on a windowsill. She lunged for it, but he reached her side first and closed his hand around her wrist. She looked up. The menace in his eyes made her tremble.

“I’m not a gentleman, Miss Bradford,” he said quietly. “You said so yourself. If you raise your hand to me, you’ll regret it.” He released her hand and she straightened, although her entire body shook. “I’ll see you in the clerk’s office in the morning,” he said. “Perhaps we can both forget that this night ever happened.”

Chapter Four

“I won’t have it, Marcy! He’ll kill you
and
himself!”

“Oh bosh, Uncle Jack!” Marcy turned, grinning. “You won’t kill me, will you, Drew?”

Drew Bradford laughed, his eyes twinkling. “Maybe your uncle is right. I’ve never handled a boat in the rapids before.”

She smiled back. It made her feel good just to hear him laugh. “I’ve watched you these last couple of weeks,” she said. “You’re good with oars
and
paddle.”

“I warn you, I may not be that good. Sculling on the Charles River in Cambridge isn’t exactly the same as shooting the rapids.”

Old Jack frowned. “I’ll go down with him, Marcy. You get in the boat with Dr. Marshall.”

“No!” she said stubbornly. “Honestly, Uncle Jack, how many times do we have to go through this? Mrs. Marshall is scared to run the rapids, but she wants Amos to tramp through the brush with her to the next campsite. She won’t have anyone else.”

“Exactly! So you go with Dr. Marshall in his boat, and take the oars. I’ll go with Drew!”

Marcy shook her head. “Drew wants to be on the oars himself. Besides, I don’t think Dr. Marshall would feel safe with me. He’s a regular fraidy-cat. And I can give directions to Drew as we go.”

“Ah-h-h!” With a look of disgust, Old Jack marched off to Dr. Marshall.

Drew chuckled. “Sometimes I like that stubborn streak of yours! Now, what do we do first?”

Marcy knelt to their boat. “First off, we have to lash down everything to the sides of the boat. Your fishing rod, and both our rifles. And the paddles. We only need the oars to run the rapids.”

“And our gear?”

“Tie it to the bottom. And unless you want to lose your hat, you’ll stow that too.”

Drew took off his battered hat and stuffed it into his carpetbag. “I can’t afford another one this summer. As it is, the rain nearly destroyed it last week!” He smiled, his blue eyes warm on her face. “By the way, you looked mighty pretty in the rain. I meant to tell you so, but I was busy sketching you.”

She blushed. “Why do you always say things like that?” she whispered.

He put on an expression of innocence. “Like what?”

“Like you were…courting me, or something!”

He grinned. “Don’t be silly. I’m the poor artist you can’t marry. Why should I court you?”

Dang him, she thought. She
knew
it was impossible, of course. But every time he reminded her of how poor he was, it was like a knife to her heart. “Put on your moccasins and stow your boots,” she said. “If we’re dumped, we want to take to the water light. Even if the boat wrecks, it’ll drift to shore with our gear.”

He unlaced his boots and slipped into his soft camp shoes. “Your ‘beau’ comes back tomorrow, doesn’t he?"

She glared at him. “I’m sorry I ever told you about my plans! You’ve just had great sport these last weeks, making fun, twitting me every chance you can!”

He laughed. “And not kissing you nearly often enough!”

“Not for the lack of trying, dang you!”

He took off his coat and packed it away. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Marcy noticed how tanned his arms had become in the month or so they’d been camping. “So your beau’s coming back tomorrow,” he said.

How maddening he could be! “Uncle Jack said Mr. Stafford and Tom should meet us at McBride’s on Tupper Lake tomorrow night. But he’s not my beau yet!”

“I don’t know why not. You had more than a week before he went off with Heyson to do some surveying. I was expecting you to make your move right away.”

“Well…” She fussed with the ribbon around her hair, feeling uncomfortable. “The truth is, there was never a chance to be alone with him, except the one time he forgot his rifle on the carry at Rock Pond and I had to go back with him.”

“The perfect opportunity! A lonely setting, a beautiful girl with blue-green eyes…”

“It was a little
too
lonely. I’m not so sure I trust him. I want to have some promises…”

He snorted. “I’d hold out for a ring.”

“Well…
something
! At least before I get too far away from help.”

“I’m not worried for you. I haven’t forgotten how loud you hollered when you landed that trout. Mr. William Stafford better not try to take liberties!”

“I swear I’m going to let the rapids take you if you don’t stop funning me!”

He laughed and stood up. “I don’t believe that for a minute. I think you like to be teased.”

She felt her cheeks coloring. It was bad enough that he could see right through her; it was even worse when he
told
her! “I think you’re just a conceited…”

“You’re blushing again.”

“Bosh!” She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Do you want to ride the rapids or don’t you?”

He tried to look serious. “All right. What next?”

“You’ll sit in the middle of the boat, facing downstream. I’ll be behind you. I’ll be on the bottom of the boat, so I won’t be able to see the river as well as you. I can tell you what lies ahead—I’ve done this stretch often enough—but you’ve got to look out for hidden rocks as we go. Keep her straight in the currents, and use your oars to hold her steady. Uncle Jack always says, ‘Smash your oars before you smash your boat.’ The only time you’ll let ’em trail is when we go over the falls.”

He frowned. “How will I know when we reach the falls?”

She smiled in malice. “Don’t worry, you’ll hear them. And by that time, it’ll be too late to back out, Mr. Smart-Aleck!”

They settled into their boat, Drew perched lightly on the caned seat, Marcy cross-legged on the boat bottom in back of him. Old Jack strapped Dr. Marshall into his boat, while Ed Collins, with Alonzo as his guide, jammed his top hat firmly on his head, smiled nervously toward them, and clutched the sides of his boat until his knuckles were white. Old Jack gave the signal, and the three light boats moved into the center of the river.

The current was swift, the river flowing downhill, pulled by a force that could not be seen, only vaguely heard in the distant roar of the falls. Marcy watched Drew’s back as he plied the oars, following in Uncle Jack’s wake; his strokes were sure and strong, guiding the boat over the relative smoothness of this stretch.

He needs a haircut, she thought, longing to reach out and touch the black curls at the nape of his neck.

“Bear to the left,” she said. “There’s a large rock to our right. You see where Uncle Jack is going? There’s a strong eddy there. It’ll pull us too far over unless you lean into your right oar.”