Margaret Brownley (22 page)

She held the locket close to the window so that the light would pick up the feathery strands of Jeffrey’s hair.

During the first few weeks following Jeffrey’s death, she had only to pick up the locket to see his face and feel his presence.

Today, by contrast, the locket elicited no strong emotions. She rubbed the locket with her fingers and tried to bring the memory of Jeffrey to mind. She couldn’t recall his face, but she remembered all too well the arguments that dominated their marriage during those last few months.  They argued over money, his drinking and gambling and lack of devotion to God.

With a deep sense of remorse, she snapped the locket shut and tried to remember Jeffrey in the early days of their marriage when they were still very much in love. But the smiles and gestures that so readily came to mind were not Jeffrey’s. They were Logan’s.

Tears burned her eyes as she placed the locket back into the box. “Oh, Jeffrey,” she whispered. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

Noel cried out, and grateful for the respite from her tortured thoughts, she ran to his room. Lifting him in her arms, she held him close.

“You’re getting so big,” she cooed. “Wouldn’t your father be proud of you? Have I told you about your father? Well, let’s see now. He was a banker. Yes, indeed and…” On and on she droned, in a desperate attempt to hold on to Jeffrey’s memory. In the end, however, she was forced to concede failure.

She toyed with a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe it was natural and had nothing whatsoever to do with Logan. It could mean she had dealt with the past and was ready to tackle the future.

Of course, none of this explained why Logan commanded so many of her thoughts, or why his recent cold demeanor toward her affected her on so many levels. She couldn’t imagine what she’d said or done to make him act with such indifference.

Unless…she sat forward in her chair. It suddenly occurred to her that Logan might have good reason to seem so remote. He’d provided her food and shelter, saved her life for goodness’ sake. And what had she done to show her gratitude?

Not one single thing!

She had been in her house for two weeks and had not once thought to repay his kindness. Whatever was the matter with her? There simply was no excuse for her lack of good manners.

She decided it was an oversight that required immediate attention. She would invite him to supper. It was the proper thing to do, and the fact that her heart beat faster at the thought only proved how anxious she was to live up to her social obligations.

Having made up her mind, she watched out of her window off and on for the remainder of the day until Logan returned home. Allowing enough time to pass so that he wouldn't think she’d been waiting for him, she then wrapped Noel in a warm blanket and carefully made her way across the muddied street.

Logan answered the door soon after she knocked. Upon seeing her, his eyes widened in surprise. “Libby. Is something wrong?” He glanced at Noel and ran his knuckled across one of Noel’s chubby red cheeks.

“Nothing is wrong.” Her heart was beating fast, and she could feel even her smile quiver on her lips. “And you accuse me of always thinking the worst.”

He smiled and she watched the lines crinkle around his eyes. She caught her breath and found it necessary to remind herself what she was doing there. “I came to invite you to supper.”

His hand froze next to Noel’s face. “Supper?” He drew his hand away and looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

She was beginning to have second thoughts. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “I made a pot of stew and—”

“I would like that.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You would?”

“Very much.”

“Well, then.” Suddenly she felt self-conscious, although there was no reason she should. This man had seen her under the worst possible circumstances. It made no sense whatsoever that she should feel as shy as a bride in his presence now, on his porch, in broad daylight, and discussing something as mundane as supper.

“Shall we say seven o’clock?”

“Seven would be fine,” he said.

“It won’t interfere with your poker game, will it?” She hated that he gambled, but it was hardly her place to say anything. “I could have supper ready earlier…” She held her breath waiting for his answer.

“That won’t be necessary.”

She inhaled deeply. “Very well, then. I’ll see you at seven.”

Logan waited until she had walked back to her own house before closing the door.

Supper, she had invited him to supper!

Well, now, the least he could do was make himself look presentable. A haircut, he needed a haircut. And a shave. It might not be a bad idea to take a bath. No sense exposing Noel to unnecessary germs.

He found Sharkey passed out at one of the tables at the Golden Hind. Logan managed to rouse the man enough to drag him back to his house where he plied him with coffee strong enough to raise the dead. Between cups, he splashed Sharkey’s face with ice-cold water freshly drawn from the stream.

It took two full pots and the better part of the afternoon before Sharkey started to come around. “What in blazes is that poison you’re pourin’ down me throat? Can’t a man get drunk in peace?”

“I need a haircut and a shave.”

Sharkey rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “What’s so impo’tant that you have to look all gussied up t’day?”

“Does a man have to have a reason for wanting to look his best?”

Sharkey struggled to focus his eyes. “It’s Miss Libby, ain’t it?”

“What?”

“She’s the only woman in town. It’s got to be her. Every time I turn ‘round, someone’s wantin’ a haircut and shave to impress Miss Libby.”

Logan felt his dander rise. “Who’s been wanting a haircut and shave?”

“You know, Big Sam, Shakespeare, Beaker, Thornton.”

At the mention of Thornton’s name, Logan slammed the empty coffeepot back onto the stove.

Sharkey grabbed his head with both hands and moaned. “Take it easy, will you? My head feels like it’s ‘bout to split open.” He took another swallow from his cup. “As I was a-saying, since Miss Libby came to town, I’ve made more money a-cuttin’ and a-shaving than I made in the last six months a-minin’.”

“Maybe you ought to open up a barber shop. We could use one.”

“Maybe so, maybe so.” Sharkey stared into the fire. “There’s an art to cuttin’ hair. Minin’ fer gold, that’s no art. It’s pure luck. An artist like me needs to express himself better.” He rubbed his forehead. “Well, let’s get this job over with.” He staggered out of his chair, his upper portion two strides ahead of his lower.

Logan watched Sharkey stumble around the room. “Before you start expressing yourself on me, you’d better have another pot of coffee.”

*****

At exactly seven o’clock that night, Logan arrived on Libby’s doorstep. He ran his palms down the sides of his head to smooth his neatly trimmed shoulder length hair.

His buckskins had been carefully brushed and aired. His skin smelled fresh with the scent of soap and water, and the slightest drop of beaver castoreum. The French valued the sweet musk fragrance and perfume makers depended on beaver men for their supplies. Trappers used castoreum as a tobacco sweetener, and he was convinced his old friends would laugh if they knew he was using it to impress a woman. He might not look like a city slicker, but he sure smelled like one.

Had he been living in the wilderness every hostile Indian and wild animal in the territory would smell him out and, as Sharkey would say, come a-calling. He’d be in mortal danger. Just thinking about it made him check the dark shadows on either side of Libby’s porch before he knocked.

The door flew open instantly, convincing him that Libby was anxious to see him She was dressed in her pretty blue dress, her golden hair done up on top of her head. Tiny tendrils framed her face. She looked mighty pretty and the house provided a perfect setting with its warm, cozy glow.

A table for two was set in front of the blazing fire. Candles flickered from the center of the calico-covered table, capturing them both in an intimate circle of light.

Feeling disarmed, he stepped back. “It smells good,” he said, sniffing the succulent odors that drifted from the fireplace.

“We’re having venison stew,” she explained in a breathless voice that made him study her.  Why was she getting all worked up over venison?

“Big Sam went hunting this morning. Bagged himself a fine stag. Insisted on giving me some fresh meat.”

“That’s mighty generous of the man.” He picked a silver fork off the table and held it up.

“Thornton loaned me some of his silverware.”

“That was right nice of the man,” Logan said politely.

Noel let out a cry, and Libby made a quick check of the large black caldron hanging over the fire before excusing herself. A moment later she reappeared with Noel in her arms.

“He’s growing quicker than a weed,” Logan said chucking the boy beneath his soft rounded chin. He lifted his gaze to meet Libby’s. Her eyes were more blue than green tonight, and sparkled as brightly as stars on a wintry night. “Pretty soon, he’s going to be running around like a wild pony.”

“I do believe you’re right. Would you like to hold him while I check on dinner?”

“I’d like that.”

Libby handed Noel over and Logan held the little fellow next to his shoulder. He patted the boy’s back as he’d done many times before. Noel rewarded him with an impressive hiccuping burp. “That’s what you get for being such a guzzler,” he said, wiping off his buckskin shoulder with the cloth Libby handed him.

Almost without thought he checked Noel’s breeches. For a change, the baby was dry. Looking up, he caught Libby smiling at him. “Well, now…”

By the time Libby carried a steaming bowl of venison stew to the table, Noel had fallen asleep; his little head resting in the crook of Logan’s arm. Logan felt that same sense of belonging he’d felt when Libby and Noel lived with him, and he knew this was a dangerous thing.

“I’ll put him back in his cradle.” Libby said, her voice hushed.

He slid Noel into his mother’s waiting arms. Moments later he sat opposite her enjoying the best meal he’d had in a month of Sundays.

Never had he tasted venison so tender. He forced himself to eat with the awkward fork, although he would have much preferred to use his knife.

“Is supper always such a grand occasion in Boston?” he ventured. He felt an obligation to fill the silence that stretched between them.

The instant he saw the look of longing on her face, he regretted having brought up the subject of Boston.

“It was the one time of day that the family gathered together,” she said at last. She studied him a moment. “Tell me what it’s like to be a mountain man.”

The question surprised him. “I’ve told you the important stuff.”

“Which wasn’t very much.”

“I’m afraid you’d find the rest boring.”

“Weren’t you ever lonely?”

Funny she should ask that question. He’d been thinking about that word a lot lately, loneliness. “Not that I remember.”

“Didn’t you ever long for company?”

“I had plenty of company. Once a year us mountain men meet for rendezvous. We gather together to swap news and experiences, compete in various contests of skill and strength. As a boy I learned to read and write at the rendezvous. The other mountain men would take turns teaching us.” He thought for a moment before adding, “I remember one man in particular. He taught us numbers. If we acted up, we had to sit and count the stars at night. Can’t tell you how many nights I sat in the dark, counting.”

The story seemed to delight her. She clasped her hands beneath her chin and learned toward him. “Did you ever finish counting the stars?”

He gazed at the stars in her eyes and decided there were only two stars worth counting. “Can’t remember,” he said vaguely.

“Oh, Logan, you must tell me more about these rendezvous.”

“There’s not a whole lot to tell. A rendezvous usually lasts several weeks. Believe me, that’s enough company to see a man through an entire year.”

After supper, they sat on the bearskin robe in front of the fireplace and talked about their childhoods.

Listening to her describe Boston, Logan grew relaxed and became mesmerized into a strange dreamlike state. The warmth of the room made him feel lethargic. His own cabin was always cold and drafty no matter what size fire he built.

Yes, he felt warm, strangely disoriented, so unlike himself. Suddenly he found himself talking about Catherine. Libby listened quietly as he spoke. He could only surmise by the sympathy in her eyes that she failed to understand the full circumstances of what he told her. “It was wrong of me to marry her,” he said.

“It was a very kind thing for you to do.”

He looked at her incredulously. “Had I not married her, she might still be alive.”

“You don’t know that for sure. I think that what the Indians did to her had more to do with her death than anything you might have done.”