Louisa Rawlings (58 page)

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.

The bed looked as though it were caught in the middle of a snowstorm. Drew waved his arm furiously to clear the air. “Do you intend to choke me to death?”

She straddled him on the bed, glaring at him with determination. “I intend to win this war, by fair means or foul! See how
you
like being tickled!” She attacked him without mercy, while he grabbed at her tormenting hands and tried to wrestle her away from him.

There was a knock at the door. Marcy froze. Tarnation! she thought. Here she was, perched on the bed, her skirts still up around her knees, and feathers all over the place!

Drew smiled innocently. “Come in.”

“Drew Bradford, you devil,” she hissed, scrambling from the bed just as a young woman came into the room. She was dressed in black bombazine trimmed with black crape, a black hat with a small, sheer black veil, black gloves. Even without her mourning garb, Marcy would have recognized her—the tall, slender form and strong features so like Drew’s, the same dark hair and blue eyes, though the eyes held a hint of violet, unlike Drew’s paler blue. Marcy smiled shyly and held out her hand. “You’ll be Willough.”

Willough moved toward her, hands outstretched, and kissed her on the cheek. “Marcy.” She turned to the bed. “How are you, big brother? When I didn’t hear from you, I figured you were either happy with Marcy—and too busy to write to me—or too miserable to want to.” She smiled and indicated the disordered room. “The former, I should guess!”

Drew welcomed his sister’s kiss. “Thanks to you, Willough.”

“They told me in North Creek about your accident. Are you well cared for, Drew?”

“Drew was mighty lucky,” said Marcy. “There was a doctor staying at the boardinghouse.”

Drew nodded. “Dr. Waugh is up here to look into establishing a sanatorium for consumptives. He seems to feel that the air of the mountains is beneficial.
He
certainly was beneficial to me!”

Willough pulled off her gloves and sat on the chair that Marcy had drawn up to the bed. “I would have come sooner, Drew,” she said, “whether I’d heard from you or not. But I had Arthur’s funeral arrangements to make…”

Marcy bit her lip. Arthur Gray. The horrible scene in the railroad car. But he
had
been Willough’s husband. “We were sorry to hear…” she began.

Willough laughed sharply. “Nonsense. We were none of us sorry.”

Marcy thought, I like this woman. Drew
said
we could be good friends.

“I’m almost surprised to see you in mourning, Willough,” said Drew. “Under the circumstances. But I suppose it’s only proper.”

Willough shook her head. “For Arthur’s death, I’d almost be prepared to wear holiday colors! But perhaps I’m mourning…someone else. Besides…” she pointed to her gown, sparingly trimmed with the crape, instead of with the yards of crape required for full mourning, “I’ve slighted my mourning already. I shouldn’t be wearing this for another several months. Mother’s scandalized, of course!”

At the mention of his mother, Drew’s face darkened.

No, thought Marcy, I can’t let it stay this way. “How is Mrs. Bradford? I’ve been meaning to write to her and tell her about Drew. I’m sure she’ll be concerned.”

“It’s probably just as well you haven’t,” said Willough. “I’ve seen her a few times this week. She’s distraught enough over Arthur’s death. The poor thing. She’s probably the only one who did care for him. And now… Daddy’s sick, you know.”

“No, I didn’t. Does he finally need you as a partner, little sister?”

Willough stood up and walked to the window, gazing out over the lake below. “As a matter of fact, yes. But I turned him down.”

Drew laughed. “We both seem to have lost our blind spots. Now what?”

Willough turned and leaned against the sill, a quizzical smile on her face. “You haven’t asked me, big brother.”

Drew reached out and pulled Marcy close to him, holding her hand in a tight grip. “I’ve been afraid to,” he said hoarsely.

“Well, to begin,” said Willough briskly, “your friend Jesse is a treasure. He handled the opening of the exhibit magnificently. I stayed away. Not because I didn’t want to be there, but because the inappropriateness of a grieving widow’s presence would have reflected badly on you. I think Jesse’s in love, by the way.”

“With you?”

“No. It seems there was a Barbara…a friend of yours, I believe…”

Drew grinned up at Marcy. “Yes. A charming thing.”