Margaret Brownley (11 page)

He looked exhausted and in pain, and her heart went out to him. “You stay here and I’ll go and get the horse. I think I can bring it around the long way.” She put her boot back on, leaving it unbuttoned to accommodate her swollen ankle. She then limped back and forth to test her ability to walk.

Watching her, he shook his head in disbelief. “I wish I had your so-called delicate condition.”

Looking back over her shoulder, she smiled. “Now wouldn’t that be something to see?”

Despite his obvious discomfort he laughed and his merry guffaws filled the air. “Indeed it would, Mrs. Summerfield.  Indeed it would.”

*****

That afternoon, Logan sat sprawled in front of a blazing fire, his sore arm and elbow deep in a bucket of hot water. His aching leg was propped up on a stack of cushions, a damp cloth wrapped around his throbbing head. He looked and felt like a casualty of war.

Libby’s ankle was bruised and slightly swollen, but otherwise she seemed none the worse for wear. Had in fact insisted upon preparing their meal, despite Logan’s constant reminders to not ”stir things up.”

“If coming face-to-face with a grizzly didn’t stir things up, I don’t suppose cooking a simple meal will,” she declared.

He had to admit she had a point. And even if she didn’t, he was in no condition to argue. His left shoulder hurt where the bear had swiped him; his rump felt sore. He had a lump where his head hit the ground, matching the bump over his left eye.  His head felt like someone had crawled inside and was demanding with pounding fists to be let out.

His discomfort increased as the day wore on, as did his ill temper. It irked him to find himself dependent on someone. And the fact that it was a woman in a “delicate” condition only made his disposition that much worse. By the end of the day, he was quite willing to believe she’d orchestrated the entire episode for the sole purpose of rendering him helpless.

But in his more rational moments, he was angrier with himself than with Mrs. Summerfield. He was a mountain man. There was no excuse for him not being on guard against any possible danger.

True, under most normal circumstances, bears hibernated at this time of year. But he knew enough about nature to know how unpredictable it can be at times. No, he had only himself to blame, and he was more convinced than ever that living these past few weeks in that man-made dwelling had dulled his survival skills.

Knowing how indolent he’d become in so short a time only increased his restlessness and made him even more anxious to return to his former life.

“You can plead all you want,” he growled during one heated dispute with Libby. “That was the last time I’m taking you to the diggings.”

“You make it sound like it was my fault we got attacked by that bear.”

“I have been to that area more times that I care to count. And I’ve never as much as seen a bear in those parts.”

She folded her arms across her chest and glowered at him. “Considering the difficulties you were having defending yourself, I would say you were most fortunate to have me along during your one lone encounter.”

For the remainder of the day and night, she ignored him, except to give him an occasional look of reproach. And that was about all he could take.

*****

By the next morning most of the swelling had gone down, but Logan’s disposition had not improved. During the long painful night, he’d used up the remains of the healing plants he’d gathered during his travels. He’d also chewed the last of his willow bark for the medicine it contained that was known to ease muscle soreness.

He was left with no choice but to hobble to the general store to purchase man-made salves and soothing balms for his injuries. He was willing to bet they were less effective than the natural remedies he preferred.

No sooner had he entered Hap’s store than, to his profound irritation, he found himself the subject of ridicule.

“Looks like you had yourself one wild night.” Hap winked at the other customers, who joined in the fun.

A man named Sharkey took a swig of whiskey from a brown-necked bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had a long, pointed face and ears that stood straight out like the handles of a sugar bowl. “Heard tell from some of the other men that your woman is a regular wildcat. This more or less proves it.”

Hap glanced over to a tall, rail-thin man with a drooping mustache. “Didn’t that fellow Shakespeare have something to say about taming a wild woman?”

The man immediately acquired the stance of an orator. The palm of his hand flat on his chest, his eyes gazed past the others as if he were addressing a phantom audience. His name was Conrad Peters, but the miners called him Shakespeare due to his habit of quoting the English bard. If Conrad ever had a thought not inspired by the playwright, no one had ever heard it.

“Every man can tame a shrew but he that hath her.”

Big Sam looked dubious. “I don’t suppose that Shakespeare ever met the likes of Logan’s woman. No man can tame
her
. I’d bet my life on it.”

Ignoring the lively exchange that followed, along with the knowing looks, Logan grimly made his purchases and returned to the cabin, but his temper had taken a turn for the worse.

Not only was he in physical agony, he was now the laughingstock of the town.

For three days Logan did little but sit and mope. He complained about Libby’s cooking, about the fire, about life in general and when he wasn’t complaining he sat and ruminated.

When at last his leg improved enough to walk he grabbed the empty bucket and ambled outside to fill it with water from the stream. It had snowed the previous night and he wasted no time in returning to the cabin. That’s when he discovered the door locked.

At first he thought it was a mistake and so he knocked.

“Go away,” she called. “I’m tired of your complaints.”

He couldn’t believe that she had purposely locked him outside.

“Open up, Mrs. Summerfield! Do you hear me?’ He pounded on the door. “This is my house. My house! So help me, if you don’t open the door, I swear….”

His pounding and shouting attracted a small crowd. Big Sam and Choo-Choo were among the miners who stood jawing away like a bunch of frenzied blue jays. Soon others including Shakespeare joined them.

“So what did the Bard have to say about a man being thrown out of house and home?” Choo-Choo asked.

Shakespeare grinned and began reciting. Old William apparently had plenty to say about shrewish women and their henpecked men.

Gritting his teeth Logan dropped his fists, but made no attempt to hide his ill humor. Since it was obvious to the crowd of curious spectators that he’d been thrown out of his own house, it seemed like a waste of time to try to pretend otherwise. He hobbled down the steps and started for the Golden Hind.

“Don’t just stand there!” he growled. “Let’s play cards!”

It was much later that night before he crept back into the cabin. Much to his relief Mrs. Summerfield had left the door unbolted. He tiptoed inside and stood by her bed.

In the orange glow of the slow-burning fire she looked young and vulnerable. Since she was asleep, it was safe for him to forsake the façade of ill humor that kept her at a distance.

Wispy tendrils framed her fine smooth forehead and long silky strands fanned across her pillow. Resisting the urge to run his fingers through her hair he felt an ache, a longing, a hollow emptiness that had nothing do with his leg and everything to do with a lonely heart.

Drat!  It never occurred to him that he was lonely till she came.  Some things were best not known.

*****

By the next morning, Logan’s disposition was worse than ever. He spent the entire night twisting and turning and thinking about his life—not a good thing, especially when it involved wishing for things he had no right wishing for.

He found it necessary to pick an argument with her before either had gotten out of bed. The tension was so thick between them as they ate breakfast, he felt certain he could dull a knife by simply slicing it though the air. That was fine by him. Her hostile glares were a far cry from the soft luminous looks he’d envisioned during the night, and he could almost believe that her presence was nothing more than an annoying imposition.

Without bothering to have his usual second cup of coffee, he grabbed his gold rocker and slammed out of the house

It was much later, as he stood on his claim, absorbed by the peace and quiet around him, that it hit him.

Perhaps he could keep his distance without being so hard on her.

He didn’t often feel guilty and couldn’t imagine why he should feel guilty now. True, it was his carelessness that had nearly gotten them killed by that bear. But had she obeyed his orders the bear would not have bothered them. Still, he did have to give her credit; at least she didn’t stand idly by, like most women would have done, while the bear tore him limb from limb.

In retrospect, it struck him as comical the way she attacked that old grizzly like a fastidious housewife trying to rid the house of flies. Come to think of it, a housewife would be better armed.

He set his cradle along the side of the water. The open-ended wooden box was mounted on rockers. One side was fitted with a sieve. Wooden cleats were nailed along the bottom to catch the gold.

Down on his knees, he rocked the cradle with one hand and ladled water in with the other. His shoulder still sore, he had to stop every few minutes or so to work out the knots. But it was his leg that caused him the most discomfort.

Mrs. Summerfield had been with him for less than a week and his body felt like he’d been in combat. One would think he was the one in a “delicate” condition.

The more he thought of his wounds, the less guilty he felt for giving her a hard time.  He wished to God she’d never found her way to his doorstep that night.

Now he felt obligated to see that she reached her destination, and it was a burden that weighed heavily on him. He wasn’t used to being responsible for another person.

His heart beat faster as he remembered pressing his lips against hers and feeling her warm breath mingle with his own. With a slight rebuke, he reminded himself that he hadn’t kissed her. Not really. He’d only checked her temperature.

Oh, but it felt like a kiss. Tasted like a kiss. Excited like a kiss.

He shook the thought away and rocked his cradle as if his life depended on it.

By noon, his head was damp with perspiration. Even so, he had less than half an ounce of gold to show for his efforts. A cold wind swept down from the upper reaches of the Sierras and shot clear through to the bones.

He decided to call it a day. The only problem was that without his work to distract him his thoughts returned to the woman back at the cabin quicker, as Jim Bridger would say, than fire scorched a feather. Just as quickly the cold wind seemed to fade away and a warm feeling spread over him as visions of big blue-green eyes and honey gold hair took its place.

Gathering up his rocker, he attached it to his saddle and rode back into town, intent upon making peace. He only hoped he didn’t have to do anything as drastic as to apologize.

The door was firmly bolted, requiring him to knock and identify himself before he was allowed in. She claimed that being alone made her nervous, but he was convinced she locked the door just to make him beg for entry.

She looked all flushed and pink and his heart started jumping about like kernels of corn in a hot skillet. He was momentarily distracted from his objective by a smell strong enough and putrid enough to make the hairs of a buffalo robe stand on end. After unbolting the door for him, she immediately rushed back to the stove to stir a large black kettle with a wooden paddle.

He fervently hoped that whatever was in that pot wasn’t supper.

She glanced over her shoulder. “You’re early.”

He closed the door and set his cradle on the floor. “The water’s high,” he said curtly. He had no intention of going into detail about his leg.

“Oh.”

He glanced at the stove and eyed a black ropelike thing hanging over the rim of the pot. It looked like a mangled caterpillar. A strange feeling came over him. He groaned as the source of the stench suddenly occurred to him.

“My clothes,” he said hoarsely. He swallowed hard. The thought was like a sharp knife ripping through his skull. He cleared his throat, not willing to believe what his nose and eyes told him. “My buckskins aren’t—?”

She looked at him curiously. “I’m only washing the ones I used.”

“Washing!” he exploded.

Paling, she nodded. “I didn’t want to return them unwashed and I didn’t know how else to get out the grease.”

He stared at her in astonishment. “That grease makes my clothes waterproof. Do you know how many hours it takes to rub grease into tanned hide?”

Mutely, she shook her head.

“Of course you don’t know,” he thundered. “I don’t imagine people in Boston have to worry about waterproofing their clothes. But us folks out here worry about it a lot.”

“I was only trying to h-help,” she stammered. “The clothes were soiled.”