Louisa Rawlings (60 page)

“Of course you don’t! You can run it just as well from New York City if you have the proper manager. You did it in the old days.”

“In the old days I had my health.”

“Then sell the business. The ironworks. And the sawmill too. If you can’t run them yourself, why do you need the burden?”

He thought about it. “Yes. The market is coming up again. I can get a good price.”

“And then you can invest. You’ve made sound investments in the past.”

“Arthur always advised me. I’m sorry, Belle,” he said as a flash of pain crossed her face. “I forgot.”

She pulled a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. He saw that her hand was shaking.

“Have you had your tonic?”

She stared at him, hollow-eyed, and ran her tongue across her dry lips. “I’m…trying to break the habit. Dr. Page says it isn’t good for me.”

“I’ll help you all I can,” he said quietly.

She looked at her folded hands, clasped tightly to keep them from quivering. “Would you like me to read to you for a little while? I’m not tired.”

“If you wish.”

She stood up and pulled down a book from the shelf. “Would you like Mr. Dickens?”

“Yes. Please.”

She seated herself near the kerosene lantern. The light shone softly on her face, easing away the years and bathing her still-vibrant beauty in a warm glow.

He felt overwhelmed by grief, by the waste of years. “I’ve lost my children, Belle,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve driven them both away.”

She looked up at him, her face etched with sadness. “So have I.”

“We’re both a couple of old fools.”

She nodded and looked down at the book. She began to read. Her voice was clear and beautifully modulated, with the vital ring to it that had captured his fancy twenty-seven years before.

He smiled at the bent head, held with such pride and dignity. He was a damned lucky man to have her as his wife. “By God,” he said, “you still have more class than any woman I’ve ever known, Belle.”

Willough walked along the shore of Long Lake, breathing deeply of the sweet night air. The moon was full, bathing the night and the lake in a silvery glow. In the distance she could hear the mournful hoot of an owl. This is what Nat meant, she thought. This peace and serenity. This beauty and solitude that civilization was trying to destroy.

She’d noticed the wasted tracts all along her journey from North Creek. The burned-out patches of forest; the streams choked off by jammed logs, leaving only dry beds; the flooding where ponds had been diverted to provide banking grounds for the lumbermen. It isn’t right, she thought. It’s time to build, not destroy. To give back to the land what had been plundered. She thought about her supper with Dr. Waugh. Here was something she could do that had real benefit. They’d buy a large, unspoiled tract, keep it in its natural state. Build their small hospital. Use Nature in the way she was intended to be used, in harmony with man.

And this was a good place. Perhaps she’d build a house here. Near Drew and Marcy. It would be a good place to raise Cecily, at least part of the year. Somehow, in this setting, she could keep civilization from doing what it had to her and to Isobel. And Arthur. There was a timelessness in these woods—the thought that the same mountains and lakes had been here for generations before and would endure long after they were gone. Somehow it made the petty concerns of the city almost meaningless. Isobel with her sense of propriety. Brian with his need for money. And poor Arthur, with his pathetic desire to hide his humble beginnings beneath a cloak of respectability.

She sighed, feeling a contentment she hadn’t known was possible. She turned back toward the boardinghouse. There were only a few lights shining in the windows. It must be quite late. She’d excused herself when Dr. Waugh had gone to bed, and slipped out into the night, needing the time to think, to sort out her future.

It would be a good future. She thought of Isobel and Brian. Two sad people trapped in an unhappy life together. She would never have stayed married to Arthur all those years, no matter what. It was a pity that her parents hadn’t had the courage to divorce; they probably would have been better off. Well, maybe when she built her home here, she’d invite them to come and visit. Perhaps the air would be good for Daddy’s health. And she might get Mother to break her drug habit.

She mounted the steps to the boardinghouse and slipped quietly in at the door. She felt tired, but strangely elated. Her life was useful. With a goal, a purpose. Nat had given that to her too. By reaching out to help others, she was finding fulfillment for herself.

She opened the door to her room and walked in, closing it gently so as not to disturb the other boarders. Mrs. Sabattis had left the kerosene lamp turned low. She adjusted the wick; the flame sprang up, bathing the room in a golden glow. She turned toward the bed.

Nat was standing by the window.

“I got halfway to Ohio,” he said softly, “before I realized I couldn’t live without you.”

She leaned back against the door, too stunned to say a word.

“I heard about Arthur,” he said. “When I went looking for you in the city. I’m sorry.”

“Nat.” Her voice was trembling.

“I’ve almost nothing left. I’ll have to start again. I can’t afford much. And I’ll not take charity from you. Or Brian.”

“I’m through with Daddy. I turned down his partnership. He’d probably welcome you with open arms.”

“I’m not sure I’d take it. If I did, I’d have to run it my way, pouring back the money into the land, to preserve the Wilderness.”

“And what about the peace you were looking for?”

He laughed softly. “I saw families going west. Hundreds of them. I started thinking. There’s not going to be any wilderness left, any unspoiled places, unless we take a stand. It suddenly seemed damned cowardly of me to run away, seeking something that I’d lost years ago. I can’t bring back my innocent youth. I can’t bring back my family. But I can take a stand. Here. And fight for what I believe in. Maybe if I could get the laws changed…”

“Why don’t you run for the state legislature?”

“I’m not sure I can afford it. Not right away.”

She hesitated, hoping he’d take her words in the right spirit. “I know a very wealthy Fifth Avenue widow who’d love to support your run.”

“I couldn’t possibly take her money.” He smiled gently, and the dimple appeared in his cheek. “Of course, if she were my wife, I’d feel differently about it.”

Her lip began to quiver. “Even if she’s quarrelsome?”

“I reckon I don’t mind that as much as I thought. Besides, the quarrels always seemed to be about sex. And if memory serves me, I think we resolved that problem. And very satisfactorily, too, I might add!”

“And what if she’s a snob?”

He grinned. “A
damnable
snob, as I recall I told her the first time we met.”

“What if she’s a
damnable
snob?”

“She wasn’t entirely to blame. I think I was a bit defensive. I reckon she can help me smooth the rough edges. It won’t hurt me, especially if I go off to the state legislature.”

“But, Nat…”

“And I won’t let her get
too
uppish.”

She stared at him. It was too wondrous to be believed. Her love had come back to her!

He smiled and looked at the bed. “Dammit, woman,” he said softly, “how long are you going to stand there?”

She felt the chills start up her spine, remembering their last glorious night of love. She pulled the pins from her hat and put them aside with her gloves. With the hat still perched precariously atop her head, she crossed the room to him. Reaching his side, she laughed for joy, pulled the hat from her head, and skimmed it clear across the room, watching in delight as it skidded under a chair. She turned back to him. His amber eyes glowed with love.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered, and melted into his arms.

Postscript

On May 15, 1885, the governor of New York signed into law a bill which said, in part, that the nearly seven hundred thousand state-owned acres in the Adirondack Mountains would be kept forever wild as forest lands. What trees there were on those acres could not be removed, nor could the land designated as Forest Preserve ever be sold or exchanged by the state. The law became known as the “Forever Wild” law.

About the Author

Award-winning author Louisa Rawlings was born in Toronto, Canada, and raised in Western Massachusetts. She studied Art History and French Literature at Brown University. She raised four children in New York, while working as an interior designer and indulging her passion for “trivia” by appearing on quiz shows and constructing crossword puzzles for the
New York Times
. She is now a grandmother of nine.

Her first historical novel, written as Ena Halliday, was chosen by Pocket Books to launch their Tapestry line. She subsequently wrote for Popular Library/Warner and Harlequin Historicals under the pen name of Louisa Rawlings, the name of her maternal great-grandmother. She has written for Kensington/Zebra under the pseudonym of Sylvia Halliday. She has published 14 historical romances.

Her novel
Forever Wild
earned 5 stars from Romantic Times and Affaire de Coeur, and was a RITA finalist for the Romance Writers of America.

Look for these titles by Louisa Rawlings

Now Available:

Forever Wild

Coming Soon:

Stolen Spring

Promise of Summer

The key to winning her hand is simple—he just needs to figure out what women want.

Daughter of Gold

© 2013 Janeen O’Kerry

Niamh travels to the late summer festival known as the Lughnasa Fair, a great gathering of the kingdoms. There she meets Bryan, a member of the Fianna, a group of the king’s finest fighting men. He wishes her to be his “Lughnasa Sister”—his mate for the fourteen days of the Fair—but Niamh wants an offer of marriage. And the offer must come from a man who can answer her riddle: What three things does a woman want most from a man?

Yet Bryan has little time to think on Niamh’s riddle, for the Fair is plagued by a supernatural creature: the puca—a malevolent, destructive spirit in the shape of a black horse with fiery red eyes. Putting aside other matters, Bryan and Niamh must work to solve the mystery of the puca and save the people of the Fair—and their future—together.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Daughter of Gold:

Back down the road, the horses Bryan held threw their heads up and looked into the darkness in the direction Leary had gone. And then Bryan heard the sound of fast galloping hoofbeats and his brother’s terrified shouting.

“Stop! Stop! Let me go—let me off!
Stop
!”

And down the road, all but invisible in the cloud-covered night, charged a powerful black pony with Leary clinging to its back. Yet Bryan could see in an instant that this was no natural animal. It wore an old rope halter with a trailing lead, but its eyes blazed a furious orange. By their light Bryan could see the creature’s bared teeth and flattened ears.

“Leary! What are you doing? Get off of that beast. Get away from it!”

“I
can’t!”

And to Bryan’s horror, the malevolent black pony slid to a stop right in front of him and the two horses he held.

Bryan held tight to the reins, certain the horses would be terrified of such a monstrous beast. His own heart beat wildly and he wanted nothing more than to turn and run away, where he might at least have a chance to draw his sword.

But to his amazement, the two horses he held did not move at all. And the black pony ignored him entirely. Instead, it reached out its heavy head to touch noses with Anfa, who calmly returned the gesture. All the while Leary clung desperately to its mane, his face white with terror.

“Leary, get down. Get down!” Bryan whispered.

“I can’t.” Leary’s voice shook with fear. “I cannot move!” And Bryan could see that his brother’s fingers were locked to the creature’s neck, entangled in its wild thick mane, and that his trembling legs were clamped tight to the shaggy sides as though lashed there with rope.

Then Leary cried out as the beast whirled around and bolted down the road again, snapping its terrified rider’s head back and leaving Bryan and the horses standing alone in the grass. Anfa nickered softly, and both he and Luath peered into the darkness where the strange creature had disappeared.

Bryan dropped Anfa’s reins and in one swift move vaulted onto Luath’s back. “Leary!” he shouted, and sent the stallion racing down the road. “Leary! I’m coming! Keep trying to get away from it!”

Far ahead of him in the darkness, Bryan could see the glowing yellow eyes of the beast as it continued to gallop and could hear the pounding of its heavy hooves on the road. He urged Luath on faster, determined to catch up, but it seemed the creature would allow him to close in and then draw away whenever it pleased. It raced at speeds no natural horse could ever have attained.