Margaret Brownley (6 page)

Tearing her gaze away from the direction of rapid gunfire, she gave him a scowling look. “There isn’t any way I’m going outside.”

He shrugged and hesitated before adding, “I have something for you.” He lifted the fabric he had been working on and shook it out in front of her.

It was a buckskin dress that was long enough to reach clear down to her toes. “It’ll keep your legs warmer than my shirt,” he said. “It’ll also fit better.”

She stared at the dress, her eyes incredulous. “You made that for me?

He nodded. “As soon as I finish lacing up the seams you can try it on.”

She looked close to tears again. “I’m most…obliged to you. I only wish I knew how to repay you for your kindness.”

“There’s no need,” he said. It surprised him that she considered the garment a kindness.  He deemed it a necessity; more so for him than for her.  A man could take only so much temptation.

He gave his full attention to the dress despite the escalating fracas outside. The entire time he worked she fretted and fumed over the “shocking behavior” of town residents.

He responded to any direct question in a polite voice that showed no more concern than if they were discussing the weather. But mostly he let her talk unimpeded, although he did cast a speculative glance at her on occasion. He wasn’t at all certain that a woman in her condition should be getting herself so riled up. Why didn’t she settle down and rest? Why did she persist in asking him the same questions after every gun blast, and then think it necessary to restate her unfettered opinion of the town and its inhabitants as if he didn’t already know it by heart.

“Did you hear that, Mr. St. John?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just like the last time.”

“I’ve never heard such unbecoming behavior in all my born days!”

“So you said.”

“And I’ll tell you another thing…”

He found it utterly amazing that she could ramble on so long without once stopping for air or taking the time to gather her thoughts. This probably explained why she kept repeating herself.

The daylight had begun to fade by the time he stood, shook out the finished garment and held it up for her inspection. “You can try it on now, if you like.” He tossed the gown onto her lap. “I’ll go outside while you change.”

“Don’t do that!” she exclaimed. He looked at her in bewilderment and she blushed. “I mean…Do you think you should? With all that gunfire? You might be hurt.”

“One of the requirements for living in this town is to learn to dodge bullets.” He donned his fur-lined coat and lifted the hood over his head. With an empty wooden bucket in each hand, he headed for the door.

“You really don’t need to leave. I trust you not to invade my privacy.”

His back to her, he hesitated. “It doesn’t pay to be too trusting.” He jerked open the door and was gone.

*****

Libby listened anxiously for any gunfire, but to her relief all was quiet. She quickly pulled off the buckskin shirt.  After examining the bandaged wound on her shoulder she then wiggled into the dress.

The dress molded her body perfectly, allowing just enough fullness to accommodate her bulky shape without binding. Not only did the dress fit her widthwise; the length was also perfect.

Feeling less awkward she glanced around in search of a smooth surface in which to see her reflection. She’d not had the luxury of a looking glass since leaving Boston.  Never again would she take such things for granted.

She could well imagine what her prudish parents would say if they saw her now. The thought made her laugh. Her mother was always so particular about fashion and considered appearances of prime importance. Not one thought had been given to the practical nature of a garment.

As a result of this upbringing, Libby was ill prepared for her trip west. Her velvet traveling suits and satin gowns had been quickly replaced with sturdy calicos. She could only imagine what her mother would think upon seeing her arrive back in Boston dressed in buckskins!

As amused as she was by this last thought, memories of her family caused her spirits to sink. Sighing, she reached into her valise for her silver-handled hairbrush and worked the soft bristles through her tangled curls until her hair fell in smooth waves around the shoulders.

Her parents warned her against marrying Jeffrey. If only she had listened.

Logan finished chopping wood and then carried the two buckets to the swift-running creek that zigzagged behind the cabin. Dipping first one bucket and then the other into the icy waters, he filled each one to capacity. Water sloshed over each brim as he carried the buckets back and set them on the porch to be used as needed.

He paused momentarily to stare at the cabin door. So she trusted him not to invade her privacy, did she? The woman gave him more credit than he deserved. He hadn’t wanted to leave; he wanted to watch her undress. He wanted to touch her abdomen once again and to feel the soft rippling movements of the baby beneath his hands.

It never occurred to him that a woman could be so beautiful while carrying out nature’s purpose. How could such an astounding truth escape him all these years?

He backed away from the house and glanced up and down the street. The town was relatively quiet, with no sound of guns or angry voices to break the solitude. It was only a temporary quiet; the miners would soon be racing through town again, guns blasting.

Overhead, heavy clouds darkened the sky. The wind had picked up considerably in the last hour or so, bringing with it the smell of rain and maybe even snow.

Logan absorbed all the subtle and not so subtle storm warnings as easily as a flower absorbs the sun. He listened to the birds, watched a squirrel frantically forge for acorns, and sensed the heaviness in the air. Reading the weather was not a gift; it was a skill taught him by his father, who had learned it from his own father, Logan’s grandfather. Predicting the weather was the first step to learning how to survive in the wilderness.

He estimated that the approaching storm would last anywhere from three to five days. It was his habit to stock supplies to see him through a storm. He had enough fresh meat stored in the tiny smokehouse behind the shack, but he was running low on staples.

He didn’t want to admit to himself that it wasn’t supplies he needed as much as time for the strange inner fire to run its course.

He shoved his hands down into the warmth of his pockets, and traipsed to the tiny general store squeezed between two tented saloons.

The wind blew against the canvas store walls with such force the nails began to pull away from the rough wooden frames. A red-hot brazier provided some heat, but only if a person stood up close.

Seemingly oblivious to the impending collapse of his store, the store’s proprietor, Hap Montana, looked up from his three-month-old newspaper and grunted. A short man with a bushy beard and head as bald as a hen’s egg, he wasn’t particularly friendly or talkative and that’s exactly how Logan liked it.

Hap didn’t concern himself with neatness. The shelves were never stocked the same way twice; the goods were in no particular order. It irritated Logan to find a bottle of molasses lying on the shelf next to a block of beeswax and four rotting apples.

Knowing from past experience that Hap would be no help in locating the items he needed, Logan scanned the untidy shelves until he found what he was looking for. His arms filled with tinned goods, tallow candles, and lye soap, he dumped the items onto the rough-hewn counter.

Hap folded his paper. “Anything else?”

“You’d better give me some illuminating oil.”

Hap stood on the wooden crate to reach the shelf over his head where a single can of oil stood next to an iron skillet.

Logan glanced around. “You don’t happen to have any eating utensils, do you?”

Hap stepped off the crate and pointed to a wooden keg. “You might find a few pieces in there.”

Logan walked over to the deep barrel and started digging through a wide assortment of goods. Amid a hodgepodge of tin cups, spools of flaxen thread, playing cards, and a book on the life of Franklin, he found a knife and fork forged out of steel. Neither matched, but they would serve the purpose. On impulse, he reached for the book. Perhaps if Mrs. Summerfield occupied herself learning a little history, she would be less inclined to talk so much.

Hap sorted through the supplies Logan selected with great interest, holding up the eating utensils. “What’s the matter, St. John? Ain’t your fingers good enough anymore?” He laughed aloud and wet the tip of his lead pencil with his tongue, then proceeded to add up the purchases. He glanced up. “Holy smokes, how long do you think this storm is gonna last? You got ‘nough supplies here to last a month.”

Logan had no intention of revealing the fact that he was entertaining a guest. He shuddered to think how the miners would react upon finding a woman in town. They’d all be pounding on his door demanding to see her, obligating him to stand guard over her twenty-four hours a day.

“If the storm lasts that long, I’ll be ready.”

“That’ll come to thirty-two dollars even.”

Logan frowned. It was highway robbery, that’s what it was, the prices Hap charged. Logan paid for his purchases and headed for the door.

“Enjoy your eating utensils,” Hap called after him. The man’s laughter followed Logan outside.

A few raindrops fell as he hastened down the dirt road toward his cabin. Upon reaching the porch, he hesitated and wondered if he should knock. Suddenly he felt like an intruder in his own house.

He hated this, hated to share his space. It was bad enough that his leg forced him to hole up in a cabin, but it was only for the winter. Once the danger of snow had passed, he would be on his way again, in search of open spaces. He could hardly wait to head north, away from the madness that had suddenly descended upon California. It was getting so a man couldn’t think anymore without noise clogging up his thought processes.

He decided against knocking, but he did pound his feet against the porch to rid his moccasins of mud. When at last the soles were clean and he was convinced she’d had adequate warning he stomped inside.

She stood facing the door, looking prettier than a field of summer wildflowers. Even he was surprised at the way the dress fit her just right.

“Do you like it?” she asked, turning around so he could see the dress to full advantage. “It couldn’t be more perfect. How did you know my size? You’ll never know how I used to dread the endless fittings my mama insisted upon with each new outfit. But even with all the careful measurements and pinning, I don’t think I ever had a dress fit so perfectly.”

“I’m a trapper,” he said brusquely. He could tell the exact weight of a bear or deer with little more than a glance. Guessing the size of a woman presented no challenge.

He let the door slam shut behind him. He hadn’t counted on her looking every bit as fetching in her new dress as she had in his old skirt. The nuisance of a woman would probably look good in a flour bag. He carried his packages across the room and dropped them on the table. “Are you hungry?”

“Come to think of it, I am. Can you imagine? After the meal I ate earlier…why I never knew myself to have such a healthy appetite. Not since….”

“Can’t you just answer a question with a simple yes or no?”

She looked hurt. “Don’t you like to talk?’

“I have nothing against talking.” He hated her habit of making him feel guilty. He had no idea how she managed it, but she did it on purpose, he was certain of it. “I don’t think a person should talk more than is necessary.”

“How can you let the other person know what you’re thinking if you don’t come out and say it?’

“If you have to beat someone over the head with words, I reckon they don’t want to know what you’re thinking.”

A shadow of a frown touched her otherwise smooth forehead. “Why don’t you just say that you’re not interested in knowing anything about me?”

“I know everything there is to know about you,” he replied, tearing into his packages.

She folded her arms across her chest and lifted her chin in bold challenge. “Just exactly what do you know about me?’

He narrowed his eyes. “I know that you’re from Boston and probably never worked a day in your life before coming to California.”

“Ha! And you think you know everything!”

He couldn’t resist the challenge. “I also know that you don’t have a husband waiting for you in Centreville—or any other city for that matter.”

This got a reaction, as he knew it would. She stared at him dumbfounded, her pretty pink mouth parted and her eyes rounded.

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Why, Mrs. Summerfield, in the short time I’ve known you, you’ve never said so much with so few words.” He chuckled to himself as he stooped to toss kindling into the firebox of the woodstove. He glanced at her briefly as he reached for the tinderbox and flint.

“How did you know?” Her voice was strained, coming out in a half whisper.

“About your husband?” He lit the fire and closed the door of the firebox, adjusting the vent. “A man would have to be a fool to leave his wife alone in a place like this.”