Louisa Rawlings (49 page)

All she had on now were her chemise and drawers, her corset, and one petticoat. But the chemise was rather demure, with a modest neck and little sleeves. She’d felt more naked in a low-cut evening gown. She put her hands on her corset tapes and looked hopefully at Nat. There was no pity in his amber eyes. She sighed in resignation and unfastened her corset, pulling it loose from her petticoat. She turned to the bed and nearly lost her nerve. Oh, God. The bed. Her mouth was dry. She gulped once and looked at Nat. “I shall await your pleasure in bed,” she said haughtily. “With my eyes closed. I trust you don’t mean to insult my sensibilities further by forcing me to watch you disrobe.”

“Spare me your virtuous prudery,” he snarled. “You’re not done yet. I want
everything
off!”

If she could only stop trembling! She drew on her last reserves of pride. “It is not my custom to prance around naked as a whore. Not even Arthur…” She stopped, feeling the hot flush on her cheeks.

He frowned. “I’m not interested in your domestic secrets. Arthur probably got what he deserved.” His cold eyes raked her body with a brutal lust. “But you’re
my
whore tonight. And I want you as naked as a jaybird!”

She was beginning to crumble. “Nat…please…”

He was unyielding. He folded his arms across his wide chest and glared at her.

Heaven protect me, she thought. Still trying to guard her modesty, she reached up under her petticoat and unbuttoned her drawers, letting them drop to the floor within the tentlike shelter of the full petticoat.

“Now the petticoat,” he said.

Her hands were shaking violently. She could hardly grasp the ends of the petticoat tapes. “Nat,” she pleaded, the words choking in her throat, “don’t shame me like this!”

He stared at her—at her trembling form, her eyes filled with tears—then groaned. He passed his hand across his eyes. “Christ! What am I doing? I don’t hate you enough for this.”

She sobbed and wrapped her arms around her quivering body, gasping out her shame and grief. How could she ever have loved this man?

“Go back to your room,” he growled. “I’ll go down to the parlor to give you time to dress. Meet me in the office at seven tomorrow morning. We’ll look at the books, then head for Number Three.” He crossed the room to the door. She scarcely noticed that he was limping. At the door, he turned. “Damn you and those melting eyes of yours,” he said bitterly. “They make a man forget what a treacherous bitch you are!” Then he was gone.

She sank to the floor, weeping as if her heart would break. But her heart had broken long ago. The day she’d sent him away. The man she’d loved.

Why should she be crying now? Why should she mourn a cruel stranger?

Chapter Twelve

Marcy dipped her bucket into the crystal stillness of Long Lake, then straightened, setting the dripping bucket on the sand. She gazed across the lake, where the hills rose in graceful swells all the way to Owls Head Mountain. The trees were really beginning to turn now, their brilliant color sparkling in the clear September dawn and echoing in the shiny reflection of the water. Why can’t the whole world be as beautiful as this? she thought. Why can’t people’s lives be as placid and serene as the water?

“Marcy?”

Drat! she thought. Why doesn’t he leave me alone? She turned, forcing herself to smile. “Morning, Zeb.”

Zeb Cary frowned, his eyes dark with accusation. “What happened to you last night, Marce? We were all set to go over to Merwin’s Blue Mountain House—me and the other fellers. I
told
you I’ve been practicing my dancing. And then you up and disappear!”

“I didn’t feel like dancing.”

“Made me look a regular fool in front of all those city slickers at Merwin’s. I reckon I was the only feller there without a girl!”

She sighed tiredly. “Zeb, I’m not your girl.”

“Oh, I know you talk a lot about being married to that greenhorn you met last summer. But it don’t matter to me
what
you done.”

“Dang you, Zeb Cary! Are you trying to say what I think you’re saying?”

“Look, I don’t care, Marcy. But there’s a lot of gossip in town. You’re wearing that wedding ring, but no one’s seen the groom! Even if we
did
give you a big send-off last summer.”

“And I suppose if I go around with you, you’ll make an honest woman of me?”

He seemed not to have noticed the gleam in her eye. “I’ll treat you good, Marce. And I’d be right happy to marry you. No matter what.”

“
No matter what
? Oh-h-h!” What was she doing, wasting her time with this…
child
? She threw herself against him and toppled him into the shallows of the lake. While he spluttered and splashed about, she stood over him, hands on her hips. “I’m married to a
man
, Zeb! Go and find someone else to pester!” The very idea! They all thought she was a ruined woman. Abandoned by her man before the wedding.

He waded out of the lake and glared at her. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Marcy. I’ve given you your last chance. When you didn’t show up last night, I danced with Sillie Barker, the housekeeper’s niece over to the Blue Mountain House. She didn’t act like I was pestering her!”

Marcy picked up her bucket. “Get out of here, Zeb Cary. Or I’ll douse you again! Go on! Shoo! Scat!” She turned her back on him and trudged up the incline to Uncle Jack’s cabin. She carried the bucket into the house and dumped its contents into the large tub that rested on the cast-iron stove.

“You’re up early this morning, Marcy. It’s just about six, I reckon.” Uncle Jack stood at the door to his room, scratching his ear.

“I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d get an early start on some wash.”

“You need some more water?”

“No. This is my last bucketful. You sit down and have breakfast. The coffee’s hot, and I left a stack of flapjacks warming on the hob.”

He sat at the table, watching as she dumped soap into the hot water and began to stir the mixture with a large wooden paddle. “You just did wash three days ago.”

“Well, but it’s nice to have the sheets all clean and sweet-smelling. I’ll bleach ’em in the sun and fold them away with lavender.”

“Besides,” he said softly, “it gives you something to do, don’t it?”

“What are you talking about, Uncle Jack?”

“I’m not blind, Marcy. I’ve watched you mope around all summer long since you come home, fussing with the cabin to keep busy. And I’ve heard you, too, pacing your room at all hours. When Merwin opened his house over to Blue Mountain Lake, you could have gone down to help. Not for the money. But just to keep busy, see people…even if they are a bunch of city folk. You used to like to be with folk, but not anymore.”

“Oh, bosh, Uncle Jack!”

“Why don’t you go back to that husband of yours? After two months, things should of cooled down between you by now!”

Her heart was stuck in her throat. “I can’t go to him. It’s too late. I expect he’ll divorce me one of these days.”

“You mean you
won’t
go to him! You’re as stubborn as ever. I should of warned Drew you’d need a good paddling now and then!”

“It’s not as simple as that.” She turned and entered her room, stripping the linens from the narrow bed, then went into Uncle Jack’s room and did the same.

Coffee cup in hand, Old Jack followed. “It wasn’t another woman, was it?”

“No. It wasn’t another woman.” She sighed. She had a sudden vision of Drew at his easel, dabbing furiously at his canvas, ignoring the wayward curl that drooped on his forehead, ignoring everything but his painting. “But he had a mistress all the same. And sometimes I think I was jealous of her.”

Old Jack frowned. “Mistress?”

She gulped, fighting back the tears. “And then he gave her up. He gave her up for me! And probably hated me because of it.”

“A mistress? And
he
hated
you
? I’ll wring his fool neck!”

“No, Uncle Jack. I was the one who was to blame. I ruined everything. It was probably all wrong from the start. He didn’t need me. He never needed me.” She fished in her apron pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Carrying the sheets back into the kitchen, she dumped them into the tub and gave them a stir. She turned back to him. “Is that old hermit’s cabin still standing on the top of Owls Head?”

“I reckon it is. Why?”

“I thought I’d go up for a few weeks. I want to be alone. I’ll take up some supplies, hunt and fish. I reckon I’ll be better off if I don’t have to talk to people for a while.”

“And what do you plan to do about Drew?”

She covered her eyes with her hand. Why did the memory of him still hurt so? “I don’t plan to do anything. He’s better off without me. He can go back to his mistress with a clear conscience.” She laughed sadly. “He warned me. And I didn’t listen. She was his first love.”

Willough stared at the furnaces of MacCurdyville, now cold and idled. Perhaps she and Nat could get them started again. She took a deep breath and opened the office door. Nat was sitting at his old desk, the books open before him. She had already decided that the best course of action was for her simply to pretend that the horror of last night had never happened. They were two people with a job to do. That was all. Still, she felt a certain uneasiness, wondering if his anger would get in the way of their business relationship. She wasn’t prepared for the sudden blush that suffused his tanned face. Could he be feeling shame for his behavior? She decided not to risk finding out. It would be enough if they could get through the day with a modicum of civility. “Good morning,” she said.

He nodded. “Mrs. Gray.”

She thought, I don’t hate you, Nat. God knows I should, after last night. But all she could think of was how it had felt when he’d held her, kissed her. So long ago. And the sudden realization that a part of her had never stopped wanting him, had ached with a strange longing. A part of her had prayed that he had forgiven her betrayal in marrying Arthur. She hadn’t counted on his inexplicable hatred, his cold cruelty. He had called her a treacherous bitch. Terrible words. She yearned to throw herself at his feet: What have I done, Nat? What have I done to twist your love into this? But of course she couldn’t. Proper ladies smiled and said the correct things. “Have you spoken to Bill this morning?”

“No. I thought it would be best if he stayed away today. There was too much ugliness the day the prisoners were sent back. I gather Bill only succeeded in pouring oil on the fire.” He motioned her toward a chair. His eyes avoided hers. “Sit down. We’ll go over these figures.”

They worked steadily for more than an hour, discussing wages, the numbers of men that the ironworks could afford to rehire, the possibility of closing down one of the furnaces until the depressed iron market improved. Willough noticed that Nat’s initial chagrin slowly gave way to the comfortable easiness that had marked their business dealings in the past. He even managed to smile as he stretched and closed the books. “I guess that just about does it. We’ll still have to be flexible, of course, depending on the mood and the demands of the men. But at least we know how far we can bend. Jim Taggert is representing the regular strikers. I told him to meet us at Number Three at eight thirty. I hope we won’t have any trouble persuading the renegades to give us possession of the furnace. They’ve held it for more than a week now.”

“What have they been doing for food?”

“The wives have been bringing in their meals. Bill tried to stop them the second day of the occupation, but the strikers backed them, and there was a small riot, with a few bashed heads.”

“Good grief! And out of all this we’ve got to make peace?”

“That’s about the size of it.” Nat pulled out a large gold watch and flipped it open, checking the time.

How odd, thought Willough, noticing again the threadbare quality of Nat’s coat. Yet he seems to have bought himself a fancy gold watch with Daddy’s money. “That’s a handsome watch,” she said.

For the first time that morning he looked directly at her, his golden eyes hard and angry. “Do you think so? It belonged to Gramps.”

She gasped in dismay. “Oh, Nat! Your grandfather. But then, he’s not…?”

He snapped shut the watch case, stood up abruptly. “Shall we go?” His voice was harsh and guttural. They made their way down the cinder path in a cold silence. It wasn’t until they’d gone some way that Willough realized he was limping. Now she remembered that he’d limped out of the room last night. And he’d rubbed his leg—the same one he now was favoring—several times. As though it gave him pain.

“Why are you limping?” she asked.

His laugh was low, unpleasant. “I wasn’t cut out to be a lumberman, I guess. But you didn’t leave me much choice.”

What was he talking about? “A lumberman? But…what happened to your leg?”

“My dear Mrs. Gray. I consider it a gift from you. The legacy of your malice. That, and my grandfather’s death, of course.”

“What do you mean? Your leg…and your grandfather?”

He stopped and stared at her, frowning in disbelief. “You didn’t even know. Christ! When I couldn’t get work in the forges… Didn’t you ever wonder what I’d
do
? Or was it enough just to spread your poison, then walk away?”