Louisa Rawlings (56 page)

“You know Marcy,” Old Jack had said last night. “A body never can figure what she’s thinking. And she might have lit out of the hermit’s cabin by now. You’ll need food if she’s not up there. And enough to get you back here again.”

Drew had rowed his boat to the far side of Long Lake this morning, following the current for a mile or so before reaching the creek that led to Clear Pond. He’d circled Clear Pond, felt the painful tug of old memories as he passed the lean-to on its shore. It was deserted now. The nights were getting too chill for the tourists and sportsmen to want to sleep in the open air. He’d rounded Clear Pond Island and seen the beach. Where he and Marcy had made love that glorious night. How long ago it seemed! Heading for the distant shore of Clear Pond, he’d finally seen what he had been looking for. It was just as Old Jack had described it—a rocky inlet, no more than a small indentation, and beyond it the beginning of the trail that led to Owls Head Mountain. Coming closer, he’d seen a canoe, upended and pulled well out of the water. Marcy’s canoe. That boded well.

In spite of the cool day, the climb was making him warm. He took off his frock coat and wadded it into a ball that he stuffed into his knapsack. A small stream bubbled alongside the trail; he knelt and drank deep of its sweet water. He sat and rested for a few minutes, peering through a break in the trees at Clear Pond far below. The September color was spectacular. The bright reds and golds of maple and birch and white oak, the blue-green of the evergreens, the clear sky.

He thought, I should come back here with my paints. Paris in autumn couldn’t begin to compare to this glory! He laughed to himself. What a paradoxical fool he was! When he was painting—and Marcy gone—he was miserable. Yet here he was, about to get his wife back (God willing!), and all he could think about was painting!

Well, not all. It had been over two months, and his body ached with wanting Marcy, needing her. He yearned to hold her, kiss her, press her sweet form to his heart. He sighed and picked up his knapsack again, continuing on up the trail. He wasn’t sure what she’d think when she saw him. The things he’d said to her in the railroad car—cruel, ugly words. And then to send her that money, as if she were a cheap…

Oh, God, Marcy, I’m sorry.
Had she gone
willingly
to Arthur, it still couldn’t excuse his cruelty.

Arthur, he thought. I suppose one ought to forgive the dead. Poor Willough. She must have already known when she’d come to the gallery. He’d only heard the news when he’d arrived at North Creek yesterday morning. He’d stopped off to refresh himself at the hotel before taking the stage to Long Lake. The day’s news was just coming over the telegraph in the lobby, straight from the morning’s
New York Times
: Wall Street was continuing to improve after the disastrous panic; ground had just been broken on the site in Philadelphia for the Main Building of the Centennial Exhibition; Arthur Bartlett Gray, prominent New York lawyer and gentleman, had been tragically killed in a street accident on Wednesday afternoon.

Gentleman
! Well, he could forgive the dead, in spite of Arthur’s heinous behavior. He wasn’t as sure that he could forgive the living. He hadn’t wanted to see Isobel before he left; he might have said things that he’d regret later. He’d left for the Grand Central Terminal directly from Jesse’s gallery after sending a note to his mother, saying that he didn’t want to see her for a while. Not after what she’d done to Marcy. And to him.

Willough was right, of course. Isobel loved him with an unhealthy passion. He’d seen that before he’d gone to Paris, when they’d quarreled over Marcy. But she had been so contrite upon his return, so desperate to make amends that he’d ignored his own better instincts. And then, of course, her dependence upon drugs had probably clouded her judgment. He sighed. Perhaps he could find it in his heart to forgive her eventually.

He looked up. The top of the mountain seemed to be in sight. His shoulders ached. He shrugged out of the heavy knapsack and put it on the trail. If Marcy was there, he’d come back and get it. If she wasn’t, he could pick it up on his way back down the mountain. He chuckled, remembering. Marcy’d probably take a fit if she knew. With all her talk about panthers and bears and not leaving food around. But he didn’t really have to worry. There were still a few hours of daylight left.

At the cabin, Marcy slipped two cartridges into her double rifle and leaned the weapon against the wall near the open door. It was just common sense to be prepared. The nights were getting cool. It wasn’t cold enough yet for wolves, but she’d heard noises outside the last three nights. And there’d been bear droppings just off the trail this morning.

She lifted the lid on the iron pot that hung over the cold fireplace. There was still enough rabbit stew for her supper. Maybe tomorrow she’d take her rifle and fishing rod down to Clear Pond. If she couldn’t catch a few trout, she might be able to flush a grouse or two. She picked up the kerosene lamp and shook it. The liquid was nearly gone. Well, she wouldn’t use it unless she had to; the fireplace would do just as well.

She looked around the snug cabin. The old hermit who’d lived and died here had built himself a cozy retreat. A stone fireplace, a box bed with a fragrant, balsam-filled mattress, a table and chair, with an old apple barrel for extra seating. There was even an oiled-paper window, with wooden shutters to close against the north wind in the winter.

Except for the kerosene, she had plenty of supplies. Flour for pancakes, coffee and sugar. Tea and a few tins of condensed milk. She could stay here until the last leaf fell. Maybe by then she’d be able to drive Drew from her thoughts. She sighed unhappily. Well, if she was going to heat up that stew for her supper, she ought to bring in some more wood and light the fire. She stepped out of the cabin and went around to the side, where the logs were piled in neat stacks. It had taken her two days to do that. She’d felled a small maple, dragged it to the cabin, chopped it into proper lengths. It would last her for a while unless there was a cold spell.

She stopped and looked about her, feeling the old thrill at being in her Wilderness. The cabin perched on top of Owls Head. From here she could see for miles: the brilliant autumn foliage rolled down in waves of color to the sparkling lakes far below, glittering diamonds nestled among settings of rubies and golden topaz; beyond, the distant mountains were deep blue and purple.

My
Wilderness, she thought. She felt again that enchantment that had moved her a thousand times. The mystery, the wondrous silence, broken only by the soughing of the wind through the trees below. There was peace here in this remote solitude. She should never have left. This was where she belonged.

Except that she still loved Drew.

Tarnation, Marcy! she thought. It won’t do you any good to mope about! She looked beyond the far mountains. There were clouds gathering in the distance, silvery wisps against the late afternoon sky. She wet a finger in her mouth and held it up to the air. It would rain before morning. She’d better bring in an extra load of wood.

She turned to the woodpile, then stopped. Drew had emerged from the trail and stepped into the clearing. Now he stood there watching her, that funny smile on his face. Her heart leaped in her breast, beating wildly in a tattoo of joy. And then shame, remembering the last time he had seen her—naked in a bed with another man. She felt the hot flush creep up from her bosom to stain her cheeks, to flood her with guilt.

He moved slowly toward her, his clear blue eyes on her face. She’d forgotten how tall he was, towering over her. He smiled again. “I still haven’t painted that blush,” he murmured and swept her into his arms. He kissed her hungrily, his mouth warm and sweet on hers, his arms holding her tightly against his hard body as if he would never let her go. At last he raised his head. “Marcy,” he said. His voice was husky in his throat. He looked toward the cabin. “Is there a bed in there?”

She nodded, her heart too filled with love and happiness to allow her to speak. He kissed her again, then picked her up, carrying her into the cabin and laying her gently across the bunk. He lay beside her, pulled the ribbon from her hair, and spread the burnished curls across the pillow. His eyes, devouring her, were filled with a tenderness that made her tremble. All the yearning, all the misery that had besieged her heart for months was gone, driven away by the sweet reality of her love beside her. “Oh, Drew,” she whispered and pulled his mouth down to hers.

And suddenly kissing was not enough. His impatient hands tugged at her shirt, fumbled with the buttons of her breeches. Laughing like children, they tore at each other’s clothes. When at last they lay naked together, she clasped his burning manhood and guided him to her, aching for the feel of his hard fullness within her. She gasped and cried out in ecstasy as he plunged, striking chords of feeling that she had denied for months. She wrapped her legs around him; he thrust into her again and again, his fierce passion taking her to heights she had never known. She was a great bird swooping and soaring above the mountaintops; a storm on the lake; a roaring waterfall. They exploded together in a dazzling sunburst of rapture that subsided into a throbbing quiet, like the cry of a loon dying away over a distant shore.

While he stroked the soft curls at her forehead, she lay snuggled in his arms, smiling in contentment. At last he roused himself. “It’s getting chilly in here,” he said, sitting up and reaching for his trousers. “I’ll light the fire.”

“There’s no wood inside. I was just fetching some. Have you eaten?”

“Not since lunch. A cold sandwich on the trail.”

“There’s stew.” They dressed in silence. There seemed to be no need for talk. Tarnation! she thought, I’m grinning like an idiot. But every time he looked at her, his eyes warm with love, she couldn’t help but smile, the joy in her heart finding expression in her eyes and mouth. She cooked the stew, boiled some coffee, set the table. After he’d brought in the wood and lit the fire, he perched on the apple barrel, watching, grinning at her. She found herself blushing—like an innocent girl, like a new bride—in the heart-stopping presence of her love. She hadn’t thought she could love anyone as much as she loved him.

They ate in silence as the quiet contentment of twilight crept across the clearing and through the open door. At last Drew put down his fork and smiled at her for the hundredth time. “I love you,” he said softly, covering her hand with his.

Her lips began to tremble with remembered pain. “I thought you didn’t. Or at least I thought you’d stopped loving me, long ago. In Paris. Because I was such a burden.”

“Oh my God. I thought
you
didn’t love
me
! That you were miserable in Paris. Because of the money.”

“Why should you think that?”

He smiled ruefully. “I couldn’t forget that silly girl who wanted to marry a rich man.”

“Oh, Drew. That
was
silly. But…I couldn’t tell you, last year. I was so mixed up. And it hurt too much.”

He pulled her hand to his lips, kissed her fingertips. “What, Marcy?”

“I told you once…or tried to. That my parents had died in an accident. There…there was an earth tremor. Our cabin…”

“Don’t talk about it if it hurts so,” he murmured.

She fought back her tears. “But I
have
to. I want you to understand. Once and for all. I was
afraid
. A part of me kept thinking the mountains would kill me too. It didn’t make any sense. But I was terribly afraid.”

He nodded in understanding. “And you thought you’d be safe if you left.”

“Yes. In a city. But…but Uncle Jack kept warning me how hard it was to live in the city without money. After a while I got to be more frightened of that than staying here in the mountains.”

He laughed softly. “Until you decided to marry a rich man.”

“Don’t make fun of me. I know it sounds silly now. But last year it seemed the most important thing in the world. To get away and find a rich husband. And you just mixed things up. I was in love with you the minute I saw you.”

His eyes twinkled. “Especially after I cornered you in the boathouse and kissed you?”

“No. Even before then. When you were drawing the picture of the deer on the path. Without any boots.” She smiled. “Greenhorn,” she said tenderly.

“But you thought I was poor. Until Collins told you differently.”

“My heart and my head battled all summer long. But when I finally had you, I knew that the nonsense of the rich husband had been just that. Stuff and nonsense. But I could never make you understand that.”

He sighed in relief. “I thought you were miserable. And it was all my fault. Because we had nothing.”

“Oh, Drew. I didn’t need
things
! I was just unhappy in Paris because I thought I’d lost your love. I felt so helpless. You didn’t seem to want my help. To
need
me! And after a while I thought you were sorry you married me.”

He stood up and pulled her into his arms. The cabin was now quite dim. His eyes were warm in the firelight. “If you’ll come back to bed, I’ll show you how much I need you. How much I love you.”

There was still so much to be said. All the guilt she’d lived with since they’d parted. All the times—for so many reasons—she’d blamed herself. She pulled away from his arms, feeling the tears burning behind her eyelids. “How can you love me when I’m so wicked?” she whispered.

“What do you mean, wicked? My foolish, dear Marcy.”