Elaine Coffman - [MacKinnon 04] (34 page)

Shortly before dinner that same day, Maggie left her room
and went down to the kitchen. Molly was industriously tackling a shank of ham
with a dirk large enough to be called a first cousin to a claymore. She looked
up when Maggie walked in. “You through sulking?”

“What makes you think I was sulking?”

“Your face is as white as a candle in a holy place.”

That drew her up short. “I wasna sulking.”

“What were you doing in your room all afternoon? Having
tea?”

“I was thinking.”

“Thinking…sulking… The difference will never be noticed on a
galloping horse.”

Maggie picked up a small sliver of ham and put it in her
mouth. “You heard about what happened? At the mill, I mean?”

“I heard. Big John told me.”

“I made a fool of myself today. What’s worse, I made a fool
of him in front of the men, and I canna say that I would blame him if he never
spoke to me again.”

“You can’t make a fool out of someone else. People only do
that to themselves. He was probably embarrassed as all get out, and rightly so,
but the men don’t blame him none. But
you
might find their reception a
mite chilled the next time you see them.”

“Aye, I ken it’s already happened,” Maggie said, rubbing her
arms. “Just riding home with Big John has given me frostbite.”

Molly took one look at Maggie’s pale face, her look of pure
misery, and laughed. “Well, cheer up. Big John isn’t a man to stay unforgiving.
It simply isn’t his nature to stay that way for long. He’ll thaw out.”

Maggie shrugged and pulled out a chair, sitting down at the
table, looking as miserable as before. “I dinna remember ever jumping to
conclusions as I did this morning.”

“You didn’t have any right to fly off the handle like you
did, I’ll hand you that much. It’s women like that who make life hard for the
rest of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most men think women should be seen and not heard, just
like children. When something happens like it did this morning, men are
convinced it’s so. Sets us back, is all I can see it does.”

“I’ve never noticed you being afraid to talk,” Maggie said
crossly.

“And you won’t, but we aren’t discussing me. I’m not the one
in hot water here.” Molly shook her head. “I have to hand it to you, though.
You certainly jumped in the well with both feet—shoes, too. Question is, how
are you going to get out?”

“I dinna ken, but I’ll think of something.” Maggie drummed
her fingers on the table. “I ken I should have done my thinking first.”

“Afterthoughts are always so much wiser.”

“Aye, it’s a bed of briars I’ve made for myself.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to appreciate me heaping more
briars on your bed, but I noticed something this morning that I wish you had
seen before you left. I started to tell you, and decided not to, because I
thought you’d like to discover it for yourself.”

“What was that?” Maggie asked.

“The portrait,” Molly said. “The minute I went into the
salon to dust, I noticed it.”

“Noticed what?”

“The portrait over the fireplace…the one of Katherine… It’s
gone.”

Fletcher was waiting at the stable door when Adrian rode up
that evening, pulling Loner to a halt.

“Need any help?” he asked. “I can unsaddle Loner for you.”

Adrian dismounted, pausing for a moment to look down at the
boy. “What you can do is stay out of my way,” Adrian said, leading Loner around
Fletcher and into the bam. “Go on back to the house.”

Fletcher followed.

Inside the stable, Adrian unbuckled the cinch and the girth
strap. “Mother told us about the sick man. She said what you did was right,”
Fletcher said, coming up behind him.

“Did she?” Adrian said, clenching his jaw against saying
more.

“Aye. She wasna too happy when she came home. She said she
was sorry for what happened.”

“Sorry doesn’t mend it, but that’s of little importance.
It’s a little late now to talk about. Go to the house.”

Adrian pulled the saddle off and carried it to the rack.
When he returned, Fletcher was brushing the horse. Adrian stopped short, his
hands on his hips. “I thought I told you to go inside.”

The thrust of Fletcher’s jaw was both stubborn and familiar.
“I’d rather be out here with you.”

“I didn’t ask you what you’d rather do. Didn’t your mother
tell you about obedience?”

“Aye, and my grandfather said the man who obeys is bigger
than the man who commands.”

Adrian gritted his teeth. “Your grandfather was probably
right.”

“My mother said it was important for a boy like me to be
around a man sometimes. I was glad she said that, you ken? I get awfully tired
of being with girls all the time.”

“I can understand that,” Adrian said, opening the stall door
and slapping Loner on the rump. He removed the bridle and stepped out of the
stall, closing the door. The boy was still there.

“If you want something to do,” he said gruffly, “give him
some water and two measures of oats. No more.”

“Aye, sir.”

When he reached the house, Adrian went to the kitchen. Molly
was up to her elbows in piecrust. “I’m making fried pies tonight,” she said,
looking as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

Molly was a woman who knew when to talk and when not to.
Now, if that had been Maggie… His lips compressed into a thin line. He didn’t
want to talk to Maggie right now. He didn’t even want to see her. “I’ve a lot
of work to do tonight,” he said. “I’ll be taking my dinner in my study.”

He had almost reached his blessed sanctuary when Maggie’s
voice rang out softly behind him. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“I don’t have time,” he said curtly, not stopping, not even
bothering to slow down.

“It willna take a minute.”

“I have nothing to say to you, Maggie.”

“But I have something I want to say to you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Why?”

He stopped, but he didn’t turn to look at her. “Because I
don’t want to get started thinking about what happened today. If I do, they may
have to call in help to get me off you.”

“Are you
that
angry, then?”

He started walking again. “I’m sure as hell
that
goddamn angry,” he replied.

“Can you stop a moment, or at least
look
at me? I’m
trying to apologize.”

He stopped, but, as before, he didn’t turn to look at her.
“I
know
what you’re trying to do, but the problem is, you don’t seem to
understand what I’m trying to do.”

“And what is that?”

“I’m trying to avoid you, Maggie, simply because I don’t
want to see you and I don’t want to talk to you. And I hope to God that is
clear.”

“It isna,” she said. “Why don’t you want to talk to me?”

“Because I want to stay angry at you, and I can’t if we
talk.” He opened the door to his study and went inside, shutting it behind him.

Following close behind, Maggie almost thumped against the
door. Putting her hand on the handle, she stood there a minute and debated
opening the door. Should she? Or shouldn’t she? Part of her wanted to apologize
and resolve this. Another part wanted to leave well enough alone. For a long
time she stood there, staring at the closed door, her hand still on the handle,
wondering what Adrian was doing on the other side. Then, with a sigh of defeat,
she shook her head and turned away. It was best to let boiling water cool a bit
before plunging one’s head into it.

On the other side of the door, Adrian poured himself a shot
of whiskey and then went to his desk, sitting down behind it. He opened an
envelope and began shuffling through the papers inside, but before long, he
dropped his head into his hands.

Wearily rubbing his eyes, he lifted his head and returned to
work, reading several letters from his contacts in the ports where he sold his
timber. Almost to a letter they were all the same. Someone working for Pope and
Talbot was contacting his buyers, trying to undercut him and drive him out of
business. He wrote five letters, instructing his representatives to cut his
timber prices beneath the prices quoted by Pope and Talbot. He started a sixth
letter when he heard the door open. Looking up, he saw Ainsley standing in the
doorway. He scowled at her, expecting to see her shrink and flee, but she only
stood there, one small hand fingering the ruffle on her white pinafore, the
other hugging the same rag doll she always carried. He ignored her and went
back to work. After a minute or two, he tossed the pencil on the desk and
glared at her. “Are you lost?”

She shook her head.

“Looking for your mother?”

She shook her head.

“Your brother?”

She shook her head.

“Your sister?”

Again, she shook her head.

“Well, what are you doing in here then?”

She pointed at him.

“Me?”

She nodded.

“You came to see me?”

She nodded, and stepped into the room.

He watched her. She went to the large leather chair, going
at it twice before she was able to climb into it. On her way up, her pantalets
were visible, the white lace and pink ribbon that edged the ruffle around the
knees showing.

Once she had settled herself in the chair, she cuddled her
doll and poked her thumb in her mouth.

“Are you planning on bedding down in here for the night?”

She shook her head. The thumb stayed where it was.

“Is this a visit then?”

She nodded.

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

She shook her head.

“Does that thumb taste good?”

She nodded.

“Can’t you talk?”

She shook her head.

“A silent woman,” he said, throwing up his hands. “There
must be a God in Heaven after all.”

Maggie was not a woman who found solace or even relief in
crying, but she cried that night, and once she started, she could not seem to
stop. How could this happen? How could fate be so cruel as to make the time she
had made a complete fool of herself the same time Adrian had taken Katherine’s
picture down? And why couldn’t she do anything but cry about it? Perhaps it was
because the unfamiliar sound of her own weeping was so desolate, making her
feel lost and abandoned; perhaps it was because there were so many things she
had kept inside for too long—things that needed to be washed away by the tears
that rose from her heart.

Katherine’s picture was gone.

It wasn’t fair that she should gain so much ground with him;
that she should learn he had removed the portrait
after
she had
humiliated him in front of his men.
Why?
she wondered.
Why did God
hand me something with one hand, if He only intended to take it away with the
other? Oh, misery, misery, misery.
She would have rather not known about
the portrait’s removal. There was, after all, a tranquil sense of survival in
remaining ignorant about some things.

She sat in the window seat of her bedroom, knowing the room
had grown cold, yet refusing to call for Wong to light the fire, as if, by
staying cold, she could somehow right the wrong in her life. She leaned her
head against the pane of glass, tears rolling down her face. She could feel the
eerie silence, the terrible loneliness of the northern woods closing in around
her, and her weeping increased.

After a while, the sobbing, so connected with deeply felt
grief, subsided, but the tears did not stop. She didn’t know what she was going
to do. There seemed to be no place for her, no place that she could go. She was
running out of time, for Ainsley was recovered, and before long it would be
warmer weather around the Horn.

Did Adrian really want her to leave?

Yes
, her heart cried,
he would.

A jagged flash of lightning lit up the midnight sky,
followed a second later by a crash of thunder that rattled the panes in the
window. Raindrops, hard and fat, pelted the thin sheets of glass like a wall of
never-ending water.

Outside, the trees beat against the house, and the sound of
the wind echoed in the chimney, flooding the room with a cold draft. Another
clap of thunder, and the house shook. Suddenly Maggie found herself frightened
and alone, overwhelmed by her own sadness, and the vengeance of the elements
outside. She felt alone in the world, a single, solitary being without a
friend, without a mate.

Unaware that she had moved, she suddenly found herself at
her door, flinging it open without conscious thought. The sound of her own feet
was something strange and foreign, and she knew she was running—running down
the hallway, her dressing gown flowing out behind her, her hair streaming down
her back.

It wasn’t until she reached the corner that she stopped,
running smack against Adrian. His arms came out to grab her. For a moment she
stood still, looking up at him with her chest heaving and her eyes wild.

“Maggie,” he said, giving her a light shake. “What is it?”

She shook her head, pressing her face against his chest,
clinging to him, crying softly. She felt his lips in her hair, his arms around
her gently, and her misery became a living thing that stretched its great dark
wings and took flight, freeing her heart from shadow, and flooding her soul
with light. She shuddered, as if the last of the despair was finally leaving
her.

Then he was pulling back from her, and lifting her chin with
the curve of his finger, his eyes soft and gentle on her face, his lips curved
in a smile. “So,” he said, “you’re a real woman after all. For a while I
wondered if Ross hadn’t married me to a water fairie.” He drew her against him,
pressing her head to his chest, his hands infinitely gentle against her back.
“It’s all right to cry,” he said. “It only proves you’re human, that you can
feel.”

“If this is being human,” she said with a sniff, “I dinna
ken I like it.”

“Well,” he said with a laugh, “it does take some getting
used to.”

He drew his head back and looked down at her. “Are you
feeling better now?” he asked.

“Aye,” she said, and made a move to pull away, but he held
her fast.

“Tell me why you were crying. Was it because of Ainsley?”

“Aye…partly.”

“And because of what happened at the mill?”

“Aye…partly.”

“Just how many parts are there?”

“Too many,” she said, sniffing.

He handed her his handkerchief.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“I’m sorry about what happened down at the mill,” she said.
“Verra sorry.”

“I know, but I don’t want to talk about that right now. I’m
more interested in knowing why you were crying.”

She sighed. She was feeling better now, and a little ashamed
that he had seen her like this. Perhaps it was best to answer him and get it
over with. “I cried for a lot of reasons.”

“Name one.”

“Because I’m alone.”

A ghost of a smile lingered about his mouth. “In this house?
With all of us here?”

“One can be alone in a crowd,” she said.

He laughed. “That’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?”

She looked up at his face, more alive with humor and
understanding than she had ever seen it. She felt its pull. “Aye,” she said,
smiling, “I ken it is.”

Over the next few days, things seemed to be going so much
better between them, but still Adrian did not ask her to stay. Worry over his
failure to put her mind at ease seemed to rob her of her vitality. Another ship
would drop anchor soon. Unless Adrian said something, she would have to be on
it. She felt pressured, thinking that once again, time was her enemy.

“You look like someone died,” Molly said when she saw Maggie
coming down the stairs the next morning.

“Someone did,” Maggie said. “Me.”

The dustrag stilled in Molly’s hand, and she had a faraway
look in her eyes. “Lord, Lord, I can remember those miserable nights—crying my
eyes out, bellowing like a sick calf, thinking Big John would be won to my
cause by a bucket of painfully shed tears, only to find the big oaf had slept through
it all.”

Then, suddenly conscious of how she was going on, Molly
changed the subject and spoke in cheerful tones. “Well, you don’t look so far
gone that we can’t get some color back into that pale face.” Maggie wasn’t so
optimistic.

After talking to Molly for a few more minutes, she left to
visit the salon to see for herself if Katherine’s portrait had been restored to
its proper, shrine-like place.

She had not gone to the salon last night, when Molly first
told her about the portrait, because she was certain after what had happened at
the mill that Adrian had wasted no time in replacing Katherine’s portrait.

Maggie came to a slow stop outside the massive doors that
opened to the salon. What if the portrait was back up? What if it wasn’t?

She opened the door, keeping her eyes on the floor. Stepping
inside the room, she closed the doors behind her, her eyes still on the floor.
She leaned back against the door, bracing herself against her hands. Slowly,
and with great purpose, she lifted her head, her eyes going to the space above
the fireplace. The portrait was still gone.

She thought about Adrian and the two things she had most
wanted out of his life: Katherine and chewing tobacco. “Chewing tobacco,” she
said, with a slow shake of her head.
Would he ever give that up? Probably
not.

But then she remembered how she had said the same about the
portrait, and her heart lifted.
One down, and one to go.

It was raining when Adrian came home, a little earlier than
usual. He was just coming in through the back door when he met Maggie going
out. Even before he spoke, she knew the gentle Adrian she had seen last night
was gone. In his place was the familiar Adrian, the one she knew, the rigid,
still one, the cynic.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the stables to find Fletcher. It’s time for his lessons.
He isna too easy to find when it’s time to study.”

“You’ll need an umbrella.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s raining.”

Maggie harrumphed. “And will taking an umbrella make it
stop?”

After Maggie left, Adrian turned around to find Molly
standing behind him. “Was that a bit of Scots logic, or simple feminine wit?”
he asked.

In answer, he heard Molly’s trumpeting laugh.

The rain stopped, collecting in little puddles. Evening was
nearing as Adrian made his way down to the cliffs for his walk.

He called Israel to his side, then seeing the dog’s
mud-caked legs, and the clumps of mud hanging like jet beads from his belly, he
wondered if that was such a good idea. Even so, they walked along the jagged
edge of the cliffs, toward a gentle slope where a narrow trail forked off to
the left, winding and dipping its way down to a narrow strip of beach below.

Israel ran ahead of him now, with his great tongue hanging
to one side. For a moment he stopped at the junction of the trail, looking back
at Adrian, barking and wagging his tail. Too impatient to wait for someone
moving slower than winter molasses, he turned toward the beach, disappearing
between the rocks. It was only after Israel ceased his infernal barking that
Adrian heard the soft pad of footsteps following him. He turned, looking back,
half expecting to see Maggie.

It was Ainsley.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked gruffly.

She pointed at him. “I don’t want you coming with me. I came
out here to be alone. Go on! Get back to the house.”

She stood there looking at him for a moment, with those eyes
that seemed too large and too knowing for such a small head. “Go on,” he said.
“Scat!”

She didn’t scat, exactly, but she did turn back toward the
house. Adrian watched for a moment, then turning, he continued on his way down
the trail to the beach, his thoughts returning immediately to the thing that
concerned him even more than Maggie’s outburst in camp. Someone was out to
destroy him. He walked on, remembering how he and Alex had come out here over
ten years ago to build a lumbering empire. At first it had been a fragile
beginning; a seasonal undertaking where lumberjacks and mill workers could only
work during the six warm, dry months. He remembered how they had risked every
penny they made in the gold fields to hire larger crews, and how they were
laughed at for working around the clock to stockpile a large supply of logs. He
remembered, too, how those who laughed never mentioned it the next spring, when
he had proven that stockpiling had given him enough lumber to keep the big saws
running not only during the winter months, but often for twelve hours a day,
six days a week.

He had been here first, and had carved this place out of
nothing but primitive, raw forest, knowing that there would be those who would
come later.

And they had.

But some of those latecomers weren’t content to carve their
own place as he had done. Adrian paused, looking out over the water, watching a
group of sea otters playing among the sea stacks just beyond the surf. He
wondered if the gray whales had come yet, and if Maggie had seen them.

Adrian sat down, his gaze on the sea otters, his thoughts on
Maggie and his business. He thought about the large fleets of schooners he had
ordered, schooners designed and built by his brothers, Tavis and Nick, and how
those very schooners, with the addition of several new ones, would plow the
seas in good weather and bad, carrying his lumber to exotic ports. He
remembered that it had been Maggie’s suggestion to have his brothers build his
ships.

He had been first to come this far north, first to
stockpile, and first to own his own fleet and market his own lumber. There was
no reason for anyone to try to take or destroy what was his. The forests were
too large, as were the foreign markets, for anyone to ever try to form a
monopoly and take over. So why would anyone even try? Adrian could only imagine
that it was simply easier for some people to take over what others had built.

Big John and Adrian were down at the mill office before
daylight the next morning. The office was small and rustic, the walls no more
than raw, unfinished redwood planks, the same as the floor. Two enormous maps
were pinned to the walls, one of the western coast of America from Mexico to
Canada, the other of the northern California area, carefully detailed as to
where the California Mill and Lumbering Company was logging.

The windows were uncovered, Adrian having vetoed Maggie’s
offer to make curtains. He remembered his words to her that day. “This is a
lumber mill, Maggie, not a tea parlor.” When she had tried again, he had
stopped her by saying, “It’s my office and it’s the way
I
like it.”

And that was true. The office
was
exactly the way he
liked it: two desks, five straight-backed chairs, one spittoon, a stand holding
a collection of rolled and labeled maps, a coat rack, and a potbellied stove
with a coffeepot on top in the wintertime.

Adrian was sitting at his desk, his chair pushed back and
balancing on two legs, his own legs crossed and placed on the desk in front of
him. He glanced across the room at Big John.

“If I were going to throw a log in the gear works, this
would be the time I’d do it,” Big John said. “Over the past two years we’ve
been growing much faster than in the past. We’ve got four lumber mills
operating now; thirty-eight saws at one mill alone. At that rate, one mill can
fill a ship in two weeks—that’s sixteen million feet of lumber a year. The
bigger we get, the harder it is to protect our flanks—and a hungry wolf is
desperate.”