Louisa Rawlings (10 page)

“I thought we’d go to Number Three before we settle in at the rooming house,” said Brian. “I want you to meet Nat. He was supposed to blow in Number Three today…it’s been closed for repairs. It’ll be his last job as founder—showing the new man how to start up a cold furnace.”

“Whatever you say, Daddy.”

“We’ll have him for supper tonight. He stays at Mrs. Walker’s anyway, but now he’ll be entitled to eat with us and Mr. Clegg.”

The carriage was now ascending a steep hill. Far below, on the left, were the ore banks, deep, gouged-out pits, looking as though a giant hand had torn at the earth and left it raw and bleeding. But the blood that poured out was long lines of men and carts transporting the crushed rock to the furnaces. What a mournful image, thought Willough. I wonder why I thought of it.

She hadn’t remembered the pits, nor the black soot that seemed to cover everything the nearer they came to the furnaces. Sooty children played in sooty roads around ramshackle, sooty houses, and the few trees that were still standing were gray-green.

The carriage drew up at last to a large building crowned with a smokestack belching flame, bright red and smoky. The deep roar of the flame was a sonorous contrast to another sound that seemed to come from within the building, a steady creaking and whooshing, like a giant bellows. On the side of the building was painted a yellow number three.

Two men were standing on the gravel path, staring up at the chimney, as Brian and Willough alit from the carriage.

“I don’t like the look of that flame, Nat,” said Brian.

One of the men turned. “Nor do I, Mr. Bradford. There’s too much flux.” He turned back to the other man. “Put in another charge of ore, Bill, and let’s see what she does.” As Bill nodded and vanished into the building, the other man held out his hand to Brian. “Nice to see you again, sir.”

“Nat.” Brian shook the proffered hand, then jerked his chin in the direction of Willough. “Nat Stanton. My daughter Willough.”

Nat stepped closer to Willough and held out his hand. “Miss Bradford.”

Willough sucked in her breath, feeling as though she’d been hit in the pit of her stomach. She’d been prepared to hate the man—simply for what he represented. She wasn’t prepared for this feeling of panic that swept over her at sight of him. He wasn’t excessively tall…perhaps a few inches taller than she. And his looks were not remarkable: sandy-blond hair, tightly curled, shaggy eyebrows that veiled light brown eyes, a wide nose, a straight mouth. His jaw was square and looked stubborn, but otherwise he had the face of a pleasant enough man. About thirty, she guessed.

But his body…oh God, his body…she felt her mouth go dry. His body was the most beautiful—and frightening—thing she had ever seen. And the way he was dressed left nothing to the imagination. His work pants were tight; his hard-muscled thighs and calves bulged beneath the sturdy fabric. And above the waist he was almost naked, with only a skimpy leather vest that barely covered his powerful shoulders and fell open in the front, revealing a thick patch of yellow curls. His sinewy arms were darkly tanned beneath a light dusting of golden hairs. She was mesmerized, seeing a sudden vision of herself being crushed lifeless by those overpowering arms. All the terrible things her mother had ever told her came crowding back into her brain—rapacious men, savage men filled with lust. She found herself trembling violently.

He was still holding out his hand to her. She couldn’t bring herself to shake his hand. The thought of his touch, the raw sexuality of the man, was too frightening to endure. She took a step backward, nodding her head. “Mr. Stanton.”

Without a word he withdrew his hand. “Did you want to see anything here, Mr. Bradford?”

Brian shook his head. “No. Let me talk to Clegg for a few minutes, if he’s here. Then when I come back, you and I can take Willough over to Number Four. I want her to see a furnace in full operation this afternoon. And as long as you’re still firing up here…” He looked up at the flame of the chimney. “Tell Bill to make that two charges of ore before we go.” Brian turned about and strode off into the furnace building.

Willough stood where her father had left her, trying desperately to keep her composure. She didn’t dare look at Nat Stanton, though she could tell, just by the way her skin tingled, that he was gazing intently at her.

“My hand is clean, Miss Bradford.” His voice was low and edged with mockery.

In spite of herself she found her eyes drawn to his face, then his broad chest, damp and glistening from his labors.

Frowning, he followed her glance, looking down at his chest and arms. “And it’s honest sweat,” he growled.

Was I staring at his body? she thought in horror. “Really, Mr. Stanton…” she said primly.

“Does even the word upset you? Don’t fine ladies ‘sweat’?”

She felt like a caged animal. “I find you very rude, Mr. Stanton.”

He smiled thinly. “And I find you very attractive, Miss Bradford. Though not at all what I expected.”

“What do you mean?” Could this be her own voice? So prissy? So cold and unnatural? Oh God! she thought, anguished.
Why doesn’t he cover himself?
“What do you mean, I’m not what you expected?” she asked again, using the harshness of her voice as a shield.

“I mean,” he said, “that I hardly expected the daughter of Brian Bradford to be a snob.”

The injustice of his words tore an outraged “Oh!” from her throat. She glared at him in fury, clenching her hands at her sides.

He smiled crookedly, bringing an unexpected dimple to his bronzed cheek. “You don’t really intend to slap my face, Miss Bradford,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to soil your glove.”

She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, she wanted to flee the frightening masculinity of him. But well-bred young ladies did none of those things. She thought, He thinks I’m a snob. If he’s too coarse to see the difference between snobbery and proper behavior, he must have had a frightful upbringing. And Daddy had said she was not to allow him to get out of line.

She pulled the lace-trimmed hanky from her cuff and dabbed at her upper lip. “If we’re to work together, Mr. Stanton,” she said coldly, “I can only hope that this afternoon was merely a lapse on your part. I trust you shan’t forget your place again.”

He scowled in anger; for a terrible moment she almost thought he’d strike her. The golden eyes had become hard amber, glittering and cold. “A snob, Miss Bradford,” he said quietly. “A damnable snob.” Turning on his heel, he stalked away.

Willough watched his retreating back, feeling the blood pounding at her temples. She dabbed again at her face; then, fingers shaking, she replaced the handkerchief in her cuff.

Chapter Three

Marcy closed her eyes and leaned back in the square stern of the boat, feeling the lovely warmth of the sun on her face.

“I’m sorry you tied up your hair, Marcy. It’s too pretty to tie up.”

She opened her eyes, sat up, and glared at Drew Bradford, who sprawled in the middle of the boat, facing her. The summer’s jaunt had barely begun. Did the lop-eared rascal intend to torment her every mile of the journey? Even the way he was sitting in the boat had been planned to get her goat. She was sure of it. Uncle Jack was on the oars in the pointed bow of the boat, facing to the back. When the boat was rowed, it needed weight toward the front of the craft, which was why Drew had had to sit in the middle. Only when the boat was handled like a canoe, being paddled at both ends, was it supposed to be evenly balanced; at those times, Uncle Jack would steer from the stern, and Marcy would take the middle.

But, dang him! thought Marcy, frowning at Drew. Why did he have to face in her direction?

He smiled wickedly. “Don’t make faces. Old Jack will wonder what’s the matter.” He spoke in a low voice. Old Jack, plying his oars behind Drew’s back, heard nothing.

“You’re supposed to sit facing the other way, Mr. Bradford,” she hissed. “Why don’t you?”

“Drew. Because I prefer to look at you. Your hair. Why did you tie it up?”

“It’d only get tangled!”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “I suppose it’s sensible. And you
do
have nice ears.”

“My ears are my business, Mr. Bradford.” In spite of herself, she found herself nervously touching her lobes.

“Drew,” he corrected again.

She ignored that. “I think you enjoy making me blush!”

He grinned. “I think I do. It’s nice to know, when I’m giving a compliment, that it’s being appreciated.”

She felt a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach. “A…a compliment?”

“Yes. I thought you understood that. It seems I must be more explicit. Well…” He put his hands behind his neck and leaned back comfortably, allowing his pale blue eyes to assess her thoroughly where she sat. “To begin…your hair is glorious, especially with the sun on it. It’s quite red in the sun. A wonderful color. Burnt sienna with highlights of crimson, perhaps. Your skin is healthy looking… I find pale city girls tiresome after a while. I haven’t yet been able to figure out what color your eyes are; sometimes I think they’re blue, sometimes green. Your ears, as I mentioned before, are quite nice. No. More than that. They’re like delicate shells…so beautifully curved… I haven’t decided yet whether I’d prefer to sketch them, or kiss them…”

“Please, Mr. Bradford,” she whispered. She’d never felt so flustered in her whole life.

“Drew. Shall I go on to your mouth?”

“
No
!” At the sharpness of her tone, Uncle Jack stopped rowing and looked up at her from the bow. She smiled in reassurance. “It’s all right, Uncle Jack. I was only telling Mr. Bradford that it’ll be just another moment until we clear the creek and break out into Clear Pond. He…he can’t believe it’s taken such a short time.”

Old Jack grunted and bent again to his oars. A few more strokes and their boat, leading the other four loaded with sportsmen and guides, reached a sharp bend in the creek. Another turn, and they found themselves on the edge of Clear Pond, a glassy body of water some two miles around. In its center was a small, tree-covered island.

Mrs. Marshall clapped her hands in wonder and stood up in her boat, nearly capsizing it. “Oh! Isn’t it magnificent! Mother Nature in all her glory!”

“Sit down, ma’am,” muttered Alonzo, fighting with his oars to keep the boat upright.

Drew put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, and turned about to survey Clear Pond. He studied it for a long time, then turned back to Marcy. “It is beautiful, though,” he said seriously. “I’ve never been camping this far north. I’ve just been a little above Saratoga. This is far more breathtaking and wild. What’s that peak?”

“Owls Head. You can see it from Long Lake, but not so well.”

“I’d like to sketch it. Where do we set up our base camp?”

Marcy pointed to the distant shore just opposite. “There. Can you see the lean-to? It’s a nice, sheltered spot, with plenty of room to leave our extra supplies. And only a three-mile carry to the next lake.”

“
Carry
?”

“Honestly, Mr. Bradford. Don’t you know anything about this region?”

He grinned. “Don’t you dare call me greenhorn again. But, no. I guess I don’t know much.”

“This whole Adirondack Wilderness…the waters only flow in two directions. South to the Hudson River…most of the streams in the High Peaks run that way. Just last fall they found out where the Hudson begins. Right on the top of Mount Marcy.”

“That’s where you got your name? From Mount Marcy?”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, they said it’s the source, a little pond on top of Marcy. And they called it Lake Tear-of-the-Clouds.” She shook her head in wonder. “Isn’t that pretty?” she whispered. “As if the clouds had wept.” She gulped, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. Beautiful things always did that to her. Feeling foolish, she stole a sidelong look at Drew.

His eyes were warm and serious. “You’re enchanting, Marcy Tompkins,” he said softly.

“Tarnation! Don’t start that again! Anyway, the rest of the waters flow north to Canada. And the thing is, you can put a boat into the water at Blue Mountain Lake and travel clear up to the Saint Lawrence River and the open sea.”

“I’ll be damned! And never touch land?”

“Well, sometimes you have to take your boat overland a few miles to the next lake.”

“Which is why it’s called a carry?”

“Yes. Most of the carries are three, four miles or so. That’s all.”

He laughed ruefully. “That’s
all
? With a boat on your back?”

She patted the painted siding of their craft, a sleek boat some fourteen feet in length. “Didn’t you notice the boats?”

“Well, they looked a bit queer to me. Like wide, square-sterned canoes.”

“They’re made especially for the Wilderness. My…my father helped design them. He’d build a boat, and then every time a guide would come back from using one, they’d talk over the changes. First off, they have to be big enough to carry supplies, like a regular rowboat. But they have to be flatter. Because some of the lakes are shallow.”

“Why can’t they use a regular flatboat?”

“Too heavy. You’re forgetting the carries. And a canoe isn’t big enough. Not sturdy enough. These boats are built as light as canoes. Pine planking as thin as pasteboard.”