Wishmakers (8 page)

She instantly hated him for speaking to her as if she were no older than Beth, and she retorted sharply. “My clothes are
decent.
They may not be suitable for this country, but they are
decent.
”

“Of course they are, honey,” he said placatingly. “Now run along. And, princess,” he drawled, “you'd better put your contacts in; I don't want to be pushing your glasses up all day.”

She had wanted to anger him. Instead she had amused him, and that annoyed her. She ground her teeth and went to her room, closing the door softly because she wanted so badly to slam it. The sweatshirt came off over her head and the glasses with it. She grabbed up her cosmetics case and went to the bathroom, shooting the bolt into place, defying him to tell her she couldn't lock the bathroom door. Forest fires be damned! She had finished putting in her contact lenses and was carefully applying makeup when she heard the bellow from the kitchen.

“Maggie! What the hell did you do to my jeans?”

Instead of feeling frightened, as she had when she'd discovered the splotched jeans, she was almost pleased. Revenge was sweet!

“I only did what you told me to do,” she called innocently through the door.

“Damn it! You've ruined four pairs of my best jeans. They'd been washed just enough to be comfortable.”

“Sorreee! I'll call Fort Knox and get the money to buy you a truckload.” She held her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“I told you to bleach the
white
things, damn it,” he yelled from the door to his room.

“Oh, is that what I did wrong? Well, I'm so
useless,
I can't remember things overnight.” She deliberately made her voice sound young and helpless.

The firm closing of a door was his response, and Margaret claimed a small victory. She fastened tiny diamond clips to her ears and slipped her diamond-studded watch onto her wrist. Back in her room she looped the jacket from her Jourdan suit over her arm, picked up her bag, and went out to the living room.

Chip stood with his back to the hearth, although there wasn't a fire burning. The blue eyes studied her, and she could tell her defiance had hit target. He wanted to present her as a dowdy girlfriend, and she was having no part of it. She kept her head erect, meeting his eyes unsmiling. A faint frown pleated his brow, but he remained silent until he shrugged into his mackinaw.

“The minute they find out who you are, you're leaving on the next plane.” He made the statement softly, but he might as well have shouted the words that accompanied his cool, cool look.

“I have as much right to be here as you do,” she answered, her voice sharp.

“No, you don't. I'm the trustee, remember? Even more than that, all I'd have to do is leak it to the papers that you're here, and the Anthony corporation would see to it you didn't leave the house without a couple of bodyguards. Is that what you want?”

“You know it isn't!” she protested.

“Then why the hell don't you behave yourself?” He couldn't keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Oh, hell! C'mon.” He opened the door and waited for her to pass through. “Wait here,” he said when they reached the porch. “I'll bring up the other car. I doubt if you'd care to ride to town in the Jeep.”

Margaret climbed into the dusty car and idly wondered if comfortable cars had been banned in this area. At least it was enclosed, which was an improvement over the one he'd driven yesterday, she thought ruefully.

She glanced at Chip's set profile as they drove on in silence. After ten minutes or so, Chip finally said, “Most of the timber you see off to the left is on land leased by Anthony/ Thorn.”

She made a pretense of looking in the direction he indicated. Somehow her sense of defiance had vanished in the face of his silence. It still rankled that he thought her useless and had announced that opinion to his friends. Suddenly she saw, as if in a scene unfolding, the complete emptiness, the barren waste, of her life. She had done nothing, worked at nothing, was responsible for nothing except speaking softly and seeing that she didn't upset her father. There had been Rachel to run the house, Edna to manage the meals, and Justin to see that the bills were paid. There had always been someone to see that life ran smoothly and comfortably. Chip hadn't been too far wrong about her, not that she'd ever admit it to him.

“How did you get the name Chip?” She longed to be friends with him again. It was too wearing to be at loggerheads. She smiled when the word came to mind; it was very appropriate.

He glanced at her. “Why are you smiling? It's logical a lumberman would nickname his son Chip. You know the old saying ‘a chip off the old block’? I used to follow my dad around the logging camps; the name came naturally.”

“I wasn't smiling because of your name. I'd about figured that out for myself. I was thinking it's much nicer to be friends than to be at loggerheads. I don't know where I got that word from unless I heard my father use it.”

“As you might have guessed, the term is a common one here for describing a disagreement. But it's also used in marine biology. A loggerhead is a very large carnivorous turtle.”

“Are you interested in marine biology?”

“Only mildly. I'm too wrapped up in the lumber business and a few other projects I have going to branch out with another interest.”

“It must be a very satisfying life,” she said quietly.

“It has its moments—and its drawbacks—just like everything else.” The road was steep and winding, and Chip concentrated on driving and didn't speak until it straightened out again. “What do you plan to do when you return to Chicago?”

“I haven't decided. I'm trying my wings, you know.” She hadn't meant the sad note to creep into her voice, but it had.

“Yes, I know. Just be careful and don't get your wings scorched, little butterfly.” His grin was so charming she could do nothing but smile back at him.

As they approached Aaronville she slipped the diamondstudded watch and the earrings into her handbag. There had been an imperceptible change in her thinking since she'd met this man.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE DUST-COVERED ROAD
to Aaronville seemed infinitely shorter than it had the previous day when she'd driven over it with Tom MacMadden. Still, it was full of hills and curves, and Margaret was relieved when it finally began to flatten out into the valley and she could see the town stretched ahead. Houses were scattered at intervals on both sides of the road, each with its own neat garden displaying orange pumpkins amid the drying vines, huge stacks of firewood, and wood smoke curling from cobblestone chimneys.

Chip turned the car down a side street before they reached the business district, traveled down what appeared to be a little-used road, and swung into an alley behind a store. He parked the car in an area reserved for loading and cut the motor.

“We can go in the back door and get you fixed up with some clothes that won't make you look quite so conspicuous.” He looked at her as if expecting an argument, and his expression told her he was ready to overrule any protest she might make.

She acquiesced. “Okay. This is your territory, so we'll play it your way.”

“Good girl. C'mon.” He smiled with his eyes as well as his mouth. There was charm in his face again, and Margaret felt herself responding to it.

The back of the building was dark and piled from floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes. Chip reached for Margaret's hand and led her through the stack of merchandise. As they came in out of the direct sunlight the room seemed incredibly dark to Margaret, and she followed closely along behind Chip. She hooked her toe on a box and stumbled. His grip on her hand tightened.

“Hold it! Am I going too fast?” He turned and slipped his hand through her arm, gripping her waist.

“I'm as blind as a bat in the dark,” Margaret murmured.

“I'll have to remember that.” His soft laughter made her laugh back, although she wasn't quite sure what he'd meant.

Chip pushed open a swinging door, and they entered a store unlike anything Margaret had ever seen before. The counters and tables were piled high with work clothes of all kinds. The aisles were narrow, and Chip had to release her arm so they could walk single file to the front of the store.

“Hi, Roy.”

“Hi, Chip. How ya doin'?”

“Fine. Dottie around?”

“Sure I am. I'm hiding behind this stack of coveralls.” A small, plump woman with short curly hair and a bright smile emerged from behind a center table.

“Hello, Dottie. I want you to meet Maggie.” Was that pride in his voice? He put his arm around Margaret. “Darling, these are a couple of my best friends, Dottie and Roy Lemon.”

Margaret held out her hand. “It's nice to meet you,” she murmured.

“Same here. We were wondering when this devil was going to bring you in to meet us.” Dottie looked up at Chip fondly.

“Maggie needs some clothes, Dottie. She brought all the wrong things because I forgot to tell her to bring outdoor clothing. Fix her up with some jeans and shirts, boots, socks, and a warm mackinaw.” He still had his arm tightly about Margaret, as if he were reluctant to let her leave his side.

“Sure thing. Come on, Maggie. There's nothing I like better than to run up a bill on Chip.”

“Oh, no! I'll pay for my things.”

Chip took her purse from her hand. “They don't take credit cards here, sweetheart.”

“Yes, they do. The sign beside the cash register says so.”

“Not yours,” Chip said firmly. “Run along with Dottie. Or would you rather I helped you?” He grinned down at her, but his eyes were not smiling.

When Margaret came out of the cubbyhole of a dressing room she found Chip waiting with Dottie. She paused, uncertain, while he eyed her critically. The jeans were a little big at the waist, but otherwise they fit perfectly. The soft cotton shirt with the snap fasteners was tucked smoothly into the waistband.

“Now that's more like it.” Chip reached for her hand and fastened the cuffs of the shirt, then inserted his finger into the waistband of the jeans. “You need a belt. How do they feel?”

Margaret looked up at him. He seemed taller than ever because she had left her shoes in the dressing room, but his eyes were warm. “They're a little stiff,” she admitted; “I'm sure they'll be okay after they're washed a few times.” She tossed him a teasing glance.

He was standing very close, and he bent toward her and murmured in her ear, “Sure. I'll wash them for you like you did mine.”

It was the kind of patter that passed between people who had known each other a long time, Margaret reflected. She tilted her face up to his and felt more alive than she ever had before. This sweet, comfortable familiarity was like heady wine.

“I want a shirt like yours.” She ran her fingertips over the soft flannel. “And some boots like Beth had on this morning.”

“She's running up the bill on me, Dottie. Oh, well, I'm a sucker for a pretty face.”

When they left the store Margaret was wearing jeans, a green cotton shirt Chip had insisted she buy, and comfortable rubber-soled running shoes, and she was carrying a red and black checked mackinaw similar to Chip's. The Jourdan suit was stuffed into a brown paper sack.

Chip tossed the bundle containing her new wardrobe into the backseat of the car. They had bought sweatshirts, calf-high boots, more jeans and shirts, and at the last minute Chip had added a long flannel nightgown and fleece-lined slippers to the pile.

“Okay. Now let's get something to eat.”

Margaret dug into her purse for a comb. “I look a mess after trying on those clothes.” She combed through the soft waves brushing her cheeks, then smoothed her bangs.

Chip grinned at her. “Some mess. Look at yourself.” He tilted the rearview mirror so she could see.

“I don't have on any lipstick, and I forgot to bring it,” she moaned.

“Good. You don't need any.”

They drove slowly down the main street until they found a place to park, and Chip angled the car in facing the curb.

“Saturday is a big shopping day here,” he explained. “Friday is payday at the mill.”

“I thought the mill ran on Saturdays during the busy season.”

“We've shut it down to just Saturday mornings now. By this afternoon the town, especially the bars, will be full. C'mon. This place is known for its homemade pie.”

They met on the sidewalk in front of the car, and Chip tucked her hand in his. By now it was a familiar gesture, and Margaret's fingers found spaces between his. Several people gave Chip a friendly greeting and eyed Margaret with interest.

The diner they entered was small, with a row of booths down one side and a counter with low barstools down the other. The window was full of green plants, and a vine growing in a large pot reached the ceiling by way of a small lattice. The woman behind the counter was blond, middle-aged, and pleasant. She greeted Chip with easy familiarity, extending a friendly acknowledgment in Margaret's direction.

Chip led Margaret to a booth. “This place will be loaded in another half hour.”

“What'll you have, Chip?” The blond woman set two cups and a thermos pitcher of coffee onto the table. Her eyes darted from Chip to Margaret.

“This is Maggie, Donna. She's here to visit for a while. I'm showing her the sights.”

“That won't take long,” Donna said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “If you bat your eyes when you go through this town you'll miss it altogether.”

Margaret was uncertain whether she should offer her hand. She hadn't expected to be introduced to a waitress. Chip, for all his status as the man who supplied most of the jobs in the area, was certainly on familiar terms with the people who lived here.

“Give us a couple of tenderloin sandwiches and a slice of your famous apple pie, Donna.” He reached across and covered Margaret's hand with his. “Okay with you, sweetheart?”

Margaret nodded while butterflies of happiness danced in her stomach. She saw the woman raise her brows. Chip was clearly announcing that she was more than a casual friend here for a visit. Even if it was just a subterfuge to protect her identity, this sense of belonging to Chip was the most sensuous, lovely feeling she'd ever experienced. She immediately felt a moment's remorse as Justin's face flashed before her eyes.