Wishmakers (3 page)

“You're sure no one's trailing me?”

“I'm sure. I told Justin if anyone did I'd see that he was fired!” Rachel smiled. “That put the fear of God into him! 'Bye, darling.” Rachel hugged Margaret once more and pushed her toward the gate.

Margaret boarded the plane, outwardly composed, but inwardly she felt rather frightened and lonely. But she was also determined, she reminded herself. She watched a young girl in jeans and extremely high heels shoulder her bag and walk down the aisle. I must be at least ten years older than she, Margaret thought resentfully as she settled in for the flight, and she acts as if she hadn't a care in the world.

The airport at Kalispell, Montana, was small. A portable stairway was wheeled out to the plane, and there was but a short walk across the windswept runway. Margaret's eyes skimmed the small waiting crowd, looking for broad shoulders and brown hair. Duncan Thorn had called the house to leave a terse message: “I will comply with Miss Anthony's wish to arrive incognito and be met in Kalispell.”

A man wearing khaki pants and a red mackinaw—and a battered hat atop iron-gray hair—leaned against a wall. He was holding up a scribbled sign that read: “Miss Anderson.” As Margaret walked slowly toward him, he grinned, crumpled up the paper, and stuffed it into his pocket.

“I figured you was the one,” he said. “I'm Tom MacMadden. I was sent to fetch you.”

CHAPTER TWO

M
ARGARET'S EYES FEASTED
on the panorama stretching out before her: forest-covered slopes giving way to a winding river with a small cluster of buildings along its eastern bank. In the distance the sky was edged with snowcapped mountains. There was a soft quality to the afternoon light as it filtered through the clouds, evidence of the autumn sun's waning strength. This was Montana, the northwestern corner of Montana, and it seemed a million miles away from Chicago, where she had boarded the plane that morning.

The battered station wagon bumped along, then rolled to a slow crawl as it rounded a blind curve of the dirt road. The driver jerked his head toward the view they had just passed.

“That's Aaronville down there. It ain't much of a place compared to Kalispell, or even Columbia Falls, but it must have four hundred folks, countin' kids. Most of 'em work for Anthony/Thorn one way or t'other. The sawmill's on north a ways.”

As they approached it, Margaret could see that the town of Aaronville was even smaller than it had looked from above. There was one long street that ran parallel to the river; others branched off at intervals, only to go a short way and stop. There was quite a selection of stores, some faced in stone or brick and some wooden ones that needed paint. A white church was set back on one of the dead-end streets, its cupola stark against a background of trees whose leaves were various autumn colors of faded green, muted rust, and brilliant gold.

“So, you goin' to be stayin' long, Miss
Anthony?
”

Margaret had sensed that Mr. MacMadden's curiosity had been eating at him ever since he'd met her at Glacier International in Kalispell. Now she knew why. Despite her surprise, Margaret registered that his tone revealed his doubt that she would extend her visit.

“I haven't decided,” she said with such confidence Rachel would have been proud of her. “It depends on a number of things. I may decide to buy Mr. Thorn's shares in the company.”

He gave her a sidelong glance and whistled through his teeth. “You don't say? Chip ain't said nothin' 'bout that. There's been Thorns in lumberin' here as far back as I remember.”

“Chip? You must mean Mr. Thorn?”

“Everybody 'round here calls him Chip. He sent me down to fetch you 'cause he wanted to rout out some campers that's been a mite careless with their fire.” He took advantage of a fairly smooth section of road to glance at her again. “He sure was surprised when he got word you was comin'.”

Margaret looked out the window, seeing nothing of her surroundings. All she saw was a mop of gleaming brown hair and a pair of bright blue eyes staring up at her from the foyer below. I'll bet he was surprised, she thought. I'll just bet he was!

The station wagon now cruised easily over blacktop. The people on the sidewalks, mostly women and children, cast curious glances at the car. Evidently strangers were of a rarity to elicit comment. The driver lifted a hand in greeting once or twice and drove on through what seemed to be the entire town.

“I didn't see a hotel, Mr. MacMadden,” Margaret finally commented.

“Ain't none. Call me Tom.”

“But where will I stay?” she questioned, her newfound confidence faltering ever so slightly.

“Chip said to bring you out to the house. All there is in town is a roomin' house, of sorts.” He grinned. “I ain't thinkin' you want to stay there.”

“I knew the company owned a house, but I thought Mr. Thorn and his family used it.”

“It's a big house. Must have five or six rooms.”

“Five or six…rooms?” She hoped she sounded suitably impressed.

“Yeah.” Tom grinned proudly. “Real fine house.”

“Mr. MacMadden—ah—Tom, Mr. Thorn knew of my wishes to arrive as a guest, an employee, or simply as an observer without revealing my identity. I fail to understand why he took you into his confidence.”

“He done it 'cause I've known him since he was a tad and 'cause I knew your pa and 'cause I know a hell of a lot more about this company and how it started than anybody else 'round here. I saw your picture once, and I'd a known who you was the minute I clapped eyes on you.

That's why he told me and sent me to fetch you. Far as anybody else knows, you're Maggie Anderson come to help out for a while.”

“Margaret Anderson,” she corrected. As the station wagon once again jostled them over deep ruts, Margaret commented, “The road's very rough.”

“It gets smoothed out once in a while. Gets hard use. Wait 'til you're on it after the whistle blows. Can't see for the dust the young hellions raise goin' to town to get a beer.”

Margaret swiveled to look at the brick-red dust swirling behind them as they headed along the rough trail. There was a fine film of it over everything in the car, including herself. She could even feel it grit between her teeth when she brought them together. She was certainly going to need a bath before she met her…partner.

“We've come quite a way from town. Is it much farther?”

“Not much.”

“Do you live out here, too?”

“I got a little place down the road a ways.”

“But, you do work for the company?”

“I don't work for nobody but me, Tom MacMadden.”

“Oh. Then I'll certainly owe you something for picking me up.”

He swung his head around, started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut and looked back to the road. Presently he said, “No trouble. I was glad to do it for Chip.”

Suddenly Margaret was as nervous as if she were approaching the guillotine. She fervently wished for the confidence she'd felt while she was planning the trip.

What would she say to this man? She would be crowded into a house of five or six rooms with him and his family! Would his wife resent her? Maybe she should have stayed at the rooming house! She was on the verge of telling Tom to turn the car around and head back to town when signs of habitation again appeared.

A house was set in a clearing some distance from the main road. What sloped from the back of the house to the river below couldn't really be called a lawn, but it was devoid of trees and brush. The structure was a simple uncluttered design of plain lumber that had apparently been stained brown but that was now faded and weathered. It had a long, wide porch facing the road and a big square chimney on the side. There were no shrubs, and the grass in front of the house had a very trampled look. The drive continued past the house toward a long, low garage that housed several vehicles. A path led to the river and a wooden jetty where an outboard motorboat was moored. Two other small houses to the north completed the “estate.”

Tom pulled up to the side of the house and stopped. “This is it,” he announced.

“Where's the mill?” Somehow Margaret had visualized a mill with a brick and glass office building attached and the owner's house set off to the side and surrounded by a white picket fence.

“The mill's on down the road a ways. It's so damn noisy when it's runnin' you can't hear yourself think. Don't look like Chip's got back yet. Leastways I don't see his Jeep. Guess you might as well get out and make yourself at home.”

Without another word he got out of the car, took her bags from the rear, carried them to the porch, and set them down. Margaret followed on trembly legs. This certainly wasn't what she'd expected.

“Is there no one at home?” she asked, struggling to keep the poise she'd been wearing like a borrowed coat since boarding the plane.

“I doubt it, if Chip or Penny ain't here. Dolly's still in the hospital down at Kalispell,” he said casually, as if she should know what he was talking about.

“Who lives over there?” She inclined her head toward the other two houses.

“Curtis and Keith, foremen. The womenfolk are home; the car's there. Kids'll be coming on the school bus soon. Well, I'd better get along. You'll be okay. Chip will come aroarin' in soon. If not, Penny'll be gettin' off the bus—unless she's stayin' in town with Miss Rogers, that is.”

He turned to leave, and Margaret felt acute panic. “Mr. MacMadden—Tom.” She held out her hand. “Thank you. I didn't realize it was so far from Kalispell to the mill.”

“Ain't no distance at all in this country.” From his expression, Margaret gathered that shaking hands with a woman was a novelty for him. “Hope you find out what you come for, ma'am.” He walked purposefully to the car and got back in. “Door ain't locked. Nobody much locks up around here.”

“Thank you again for bringing me out.”

With his hand to the brim of his hat he saluted and then drove away. Margaret watched him, feeling as misplaced as an elephant in a tree. Try my wings and see the world, she thought. Ha! Nonplussed, she looked across the clearing to the other house and saw a curtain quickly fall into place. Knowing she was being watched, she shouldered her bag, draped her red jacket over her arm, and walked into the house as nonchalantly as the teenaged girl she'd seen on the plane.

Margaret hesitated inside the door and looked around. The room was half the width of the house and paneled with warm pine. The fireplace was huge, the furnishings plain and uncompromisingly masculine. Chairs and sofa were covered in a soft brown leather, and the floor was carpeted in light tan, along with several braided scatter rugs. A bookcase ran the length of one wall and was filled to overflowing with hardcovers, paperbacks, magazines, and newspapers. At least this is a reading family, Margaret thought as she took it all in at a glance.

There was another door straight across from where she stood. She walked over, tentatively opened it, and found herself in a short hall with more doors. One gave way into a kitchen the size of the living room. It was bright and cheery, with an oak table standing before a window that commanded a view of the river. Margaret's gaze skimmed over a large cooking range and white counters, and came to rest on a pile of dirty dishes stacked in the stainless-steel sink. She shuddered in distaste, took another look around the room, then peeked into a white tiled bathroom at the end of the hall. To the side of that was another open door. The room beyond had a double dresser and a wardrobe with the doors standing ajar. The bed was unmade, and piles of masculine garments were heaped in the middle of it as if ready for the laundry. Feeling braver, she opened the door across the hall. If it was a bedroom, austerity was the key word for it. With its iron bedstead, four-drawer chest, and looped rug on the bare floor beside the bed, it reminded Margaret of the rooms at the convent where they had put the hard-tohandle girls. She closed the door and looked into the next room. It was larger than the other two. There was a large double bed and a small youth bed covered with stuffed animals. Small scuffed shoes were set beside shiny black patent leather pumps. A ruffled blouse was draped across a chair.

Margaret gave a sigh of relief. Duncan Thorn was married and had a child. At least now she could exorcise those broad shoulders, blue eyes, and glistening brown hair from her mind. Perhaps that would provide the impetus to send her back to down-to-earth Justin. Had Tom said Thorn's wife was in the hospital? She wished she had questioned him further, but there was something standoffish about the man.

She returned to the living room, placed her jacket across the back of a deep reclining chair, and deposited her shoulder bag next to it. She could at least carry her bags into the house. She couldn't believe that they planned for her to use the small bare room at the back, but there seemed to be no other. And the bathroom—there was only one! She'd never shared a bathroom with anyone in her life. Oh, why hadn't she stayed in Kalispell, rented a car, and driven out here the next morning?

She carried in her small cosmetics bag, opened it, and took a wet cloth from a plastic wrap to wipe her face. It felt good to remove the road grime. Feeling somewhat refreshed, she returned to the porch to get the rest of her luggage.

A dust-covered Jeep came careening off the road into the drive, followed closely by a pickup truck with several men standing in the back. They waved and whistled at the stream of cars that moved on toward town in a cloud of dust. The mill must have closed down for the day.

Margaret suddenly felt as if all the air had been squeezed out of her. What was she to do? She couldn't turn and run into the house, much as she wanted to. She was Edward Anthony's daughter, co-owner of the Anthony/Thorn Lumber Company. The thought stiffened her spine. She stood quietly, hands clasped in front of her, and waited for the Jeep to stop beside the house.

The driver sat for a minute and looked at her. The pickup pulled up behind him, and the men spilled out. The door of the Jeep jerked open. Duncan Thorn was big without being bulky, his shoulders broad beneath an open mackinaw. He had the same brown hair, the same blue eyes, and the same tanned face, but a mustache had been added. She would have known him in a crowd of a million people. She fleetingly wondered if she'd be able to say the same about Justin if she had seen him only once years ago.