Elaine Coffman - [MacKinnon 04] (7 page)

The two of them looked at each other for a moment. Maggie
could see nothing but kindness in the man’s eyes, while he seemed to be, as
people often were, distracted by the unusual color of hers.

“You must be Miz Mackinnon,” the redheaded giant said,
extending a rough hand and giving her more delicate one a jarring pump.

When she didn’t say anything, he looked up and down the
dock, then turned a puzzled face back to her. “You are Miz Mackinnon, aren’t
you?”

Maggie remained silent, then nodded her head, her mouth
moving, but the “Aye” she mouthed was inaudible. The man stared at her a
moment, looking tremendously relieved when she nodded, but she hardly took any
notice. This person was nothing like the tender, feeling man she had come to
know through his letters. Even his voice lacked the power and strength, the
educated refinement, she had come to expect. She watched him wipe his hands
ineffectively with a dingy piece of cloth pulled from his back pocket, feeling
the urge to cry as strongly as the day she had buried Bruce Ramsay.

Think of something good, something positive.

She saw immediately that he was an even-tempered, rather
jovial sort of man. And healthy, too, judging from the size of him. He was
broad as a Scots pine, with legs that looked as if they had been hewn from
sturdy ship’s timber.
He has nice eyes and he’s probably kind to his
livestock and the men who work for him—which doesn’t amount to a hill of barley
when speculating on how he will treat a wife.

Her heart pounding, her hands trembling from distress, she
lifted enormous hazel eyes to him and said, “Are you…”

The giant threw back his head and laughed.

Taken aback, Maggie was tempted to poke him with her
umbrella for his rudeness, but she was too thankful. The laugh, after all, was
a nice sound. What he said was even nicer. “I’m not your husband, Miz
Mackinnon. Lord-a-mercy, a pretty little thing like you deserves better than a
coarse old war-horse like me.”

Maggie smiled. “Thank you for the compliment, but you canna
go so far as to say I’m pretty. I may be plain, but I’m honest. The truth
doesna hurt.”

If he was surprised by her frank honesty, he didn’t let on.
“Don’t go expecting me to apologize none, ‘cause I won’t,” he said. “You see
plain. I see pretty. And pretty is in the eyes of the beholder, or so I’ve been
told.”

“Thank you.”

Maggie looked at him. He cleared his throat and said, “We
don’t see many women in these parts, Miz Mackinnon, and when we do, they don’t
come dressed all fancy-like and smelling pretty. Truth is, you could put a
dress and bonnet on a falling ax, and the men in these parts would tip their
hats and gape at it.”

Maggie decided she must have had the strangest look on her
face, for the giant laughed again and said, “The name’s Carr. Eli Carr. I work
for your husband. I’m sort of his right-hand man, you might say. I’ll be taking
you north and…”

He went on talking, but Maggie didn’t hear. Relief swept
over her with such force, she swayed upon her feet.

“Here now,” Eli said, his big hands coming out to steady
her. “I reckon you don’t rightly have your land legs yet. Takes a while, it
does. You just lean on old Eli and let me whistle up that driver. We’ll have
that coach over here in no time.” He looked down at the flounce edged in fringe
poking from beneath her cape and said, “I’ll have him bring it up real close so
you won’t get your clothes muddy.”

She was about to tell him a little mud didn’t matter after
the soaking she’d received, but he gave a shrill whistle and motioned the
driver to circle around, putting her inside the coach as soon as it stopped,
not giving her much chance to say anything. “Give me a hand with the lady’s
trunks,” he said to the driver.

Her baggage loaded, Eli climbed inside, tipping his hat and
taking the seat across from her. “Are we going to meet Mr. Mackinnon?” she
asked.

“No, ma’am. We’re going just around to the other side of the
harbor. We’ll be loading your belongings onto another ship, the
Wanderlust
.
She’ll be taking us north.”

Maggie was bewildered. Here she had just experienced the
biggest sense of relief in her entire life when she learned she was not married
to this man, yet that news opened the way for a whole new set of
disappointments—that her husband had not seen fit to meet her ship himself.

Apparently Adrian Mackinnon wasn’t half as interested in
making a good impression upon her as she was in making one upon him. It was
chafing indeed to think she had spent the better part of her morning trying on
this dress and that, worried about the way she would look, when he hadn’t cared
enough to even show up. It was just too much to ignore.

“My husb… Mr. Mackinnon isn’t coming, I take it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Would it be rude of me to inquire as to why, Mr. Carr?”

“Your husband went up to Puget Sound last week, ma’am.
Before he left, he made arrangements for me to come to San Francisco to fetch
you back to camp, if he wasn’t back in time. I’m sure he’ll be there by the
time we reach the country north of Humboldt Bay. He’s been quite anxious for
you to come.” As if sensing her disappointment, he said, “Your husband arranged
for you to have the best cabin on the ship. You’ll be comfortable there.”

“If it’s out of the rain, I’ll be comfortable,” she said.
“I’m fairly soaked to the skin, and I dinna ken Mr. Mackinnon would be too
happy to welcome a wife with the sniffles,” she said, looking out the window
and missing the light of admiration in Eli’s eyes.

Eli Carr didn’t know it, but he had just received his first
dose of Maggie Mackinnon’s charm. “Mackinnon is going to be very surprised to
find he’s taken himself a wife with a dogged resolution and a cheerful,
make-the-most-of-it nature. The little lady has bottom. Damn if she doesn’t,”
he whispered.

Maggie glanced at him. “Did you say something, Mr. Carr?”

“Don’t pay me no nevermind, Miz Mackinnon. I was just
thinking out loud, ma’am. Do it all the time.”

Maggie smiled. “So do I, Mr. Carr. So do I.”

The trip north was rough, a hellish journey through
bellowing darkness where the ship was tossed and pitched about like a child’s
toy. The oil lamp swinging from the ceiling of Maggie’s cabin threw eerie
shadows across the room, its pale glow unable to cast the cabin in a more
hospitable light. Everything about it was dark, cold, and musty as a tomb. It
was too dark outside to see anything, but she could hear the roaring protest of
angry waves lashed by howling winds. The ship groaned and creaked as it
struggled to inch its way northward, and Maggie thought surely she was getting
her first glimpse of a cold version of hell.

Her feet frozen, her stomach unsteady, she made her way to
her bunk. Sleeping was impossible with the ship pitching as it was, and all her
attention and energy were needed just to hold herself flat against the thin
mattress. Praying she wouldn’t fall asleep and be tossed out on her ear, she
could only brace herself for each coming swell and plunge, praying the journey
to Adrian’s camp would be a short one.

It took two days to battle their way north. Two days of cold
food and a cold cabin. She would be lucky if she didn’t come down with lung
fever before the week was out. Maggie had never been so cold, and for a Scot,
that was quite an admission.

They docked the next morning.

Seeing Maggie standing on deck, taking her first look at her
new home, Eli came to stand beside her. “Nervous?”

“No,” Maggie said, giving Eli a confident look. “I’ve made
up my mind to like it here. Making your mind up is half the battle, you ken.
It’s been my experience that you can always find something good about any
situation, if you tell yourself to do it.” She looked away from him toward the
lumber camp on shore. “This is my future,” she said. “This is where I belong. I
willna think about the past.”

Deep inside, Maggie had never felt so lonely. She stood on
the dock and watched the
Wanderlust
sail out of the bay, reminding
herself that she had made up her mind to like it here, only she hadn’t known
just how hard that was going to be. Turning around, she took another look at
Mackinnon’s camp. It didn’t seem any better than it had a moment ago. The camp
was nothing more than a collection of humble buildings and dingy structures,
piles of smoldering wood shavings, littered ground, protruding stumps, sawdust,
staring men, unfriendly dogs, and scrap wood—a place as strenuous as the work.
She stood as if someone had nailed her skirts to the dock, for she was unable
to move, feeling a combination of gripping disillusionment, bitter
disappointment, and a homesickness much worse than any she had experienced
before.
I shouldna have come. I should have stayed in Scotland.

But things hadn’t gone too well for her in Scotland. The
thought had barely come to her before she was reminded of Adair Ramsay. The
vision of his face that day in the library of Glengarry Castle was a sight that
would not go away. She put all thoughts of homesickness and wrongdoing behind
her, chastening herself for allowing them to occur in the first place. As long
as Fletcher lived, he was a threat to Adair Ramsay and all that he so tenuously
possessed. She had been right to come to California. Here, her children could
start a new life with her. Here, Fletcher would be safe.

Safe. She shivered as the words Adair Ramsay had whispered
came back to haunt her. For an instant she was surrounded by darkness and she
felt herself sway upon her feet.
Start digging around in all these ashes
again, and I will see that you regret it. There is no place you can go, no
place you can hide, that I won’t find you. The lad takes after his father. I
would hate to see him follow in his footsteps.

But then Maggie thought about the long journey from Scotland
to America. Now that she was so far away, Adair Ramsay would soon forget about
Fletcher, realizing he was no longer a threat. That, in itself, was a
fortifying boost to Maggie, one that reinforced all the reasons why she had
married Adrian Mackinnon and sailed halfway around the world to become his
wife. Fletcher
would
be safe here. The distance alone made it almost
impossible for Adair to keep an eye on them. In time he would realize she had
no intention of reclaiming Bruce Ramsay’s title.

Eli’s hand came out to take her elbow. “It don’t look like
much, but this is the worst part,” he said. “After we leave the water’s edge
and get into the main part of camp, you’ll see the place perk up a mite. And
wait until you see your house. A real, genuine mansion, it is. Nothing like it
in these parts.”

“I ken it must be lovely, Mr. Carr, simply because you say
so.” Maggie watched silently as Eli directed two men to load her baggage on the
back of a wagon.

“Take this on up to the big house,” he said. “And handle
them carefully. There’s ladies’ things in there—delicate things like teacups
and such.” Then, turning to Maggie, he added, “Ain’t that right, Miz
Mackinnon?”

“Aye.
Prize
teacups,” she said with mock
exaggeration.

Eli grinned. After the wagon rolled slowly away, he looked
at her. “If you don’t mind waiting here for two shakes, I’ll go fetch some sort
of conveyance to carry you on up to the big house.”

Maggie watched him trot amazingly fast for such a big man,
crossing the timber-littered campground to a long, low-slung building across
the way. A cold wind was blowing over the water, and the unfriendly clouds
churned overhead. Already the sky was the color of dark, wet slate. The wind
that assailed her whipped her skirts and carried the smell of rain. Maggie
stood on the small wooden dock, waiting and struggling against the swell of
disappointment rising slowly within her. Loneliness seemed all about her, and
understandably so. She was in a strange place surrounded by strange people. Eli
would surely come back before it started to rain.

It was sprinkling when he returned, a look of disappointment
upon his face. “I should have put you on the wagon with your baggage,” he said.
“There isn’t anything in camp right now that we can use. I’ll have to get you
on over to the office. You can wait there until the wagon returns. I’m sorry.
It’s the best I can do. Curse me for a fool,” he said apologetically.

Maggie looked across the way, toward the building with the
faded sign that said CALIFORNIA MILL AND LUMBERING COMPANY, in smaller letters
below it, ADRIAN MACKINNON, PROPRIETOR.

It wasn’t such a far distance, but the ground was saturated,
and now it was raining again.

Eli followed the direction of her gaze, looking out across
the muddy campground, lingering for a moment on the ruts that were up to the
axle of a wagon. Seeing his discomfort and knowing he hated to ask her to walk
through that, and knowing as well that he didn’t exactly feel comfortable in
asking her to let him carry her, Maggie took matters into her own hands.
Opening her umbrella with a snap, she handed her wicker basket to Eli, and
picked up her skirts. “My father always said, ‘If the Scots didna have enough
sense to come in out of the rain, they’d no get any exercise.’ Shall we go?”

He looked relieved. “I’m sorry about all of this,” he said.
“I guess I didn’t think things through too much when I sent the wagon on with
your things.”

Maggie laughed. “Mr. Carr, I will listen to no more of your
apologies. Believe me, I would crawl through all that mud to get to a warm, dry
place.”

Clutching her skirts, she took his hand for balance as she
stepped down from the dock. The mud was deep and oozing. She felt the wetness
soak through her morocco slippers almost upon contact. Two steps later, she
lost one slipper. “Here, let me,” Eli said, coming to her side as she leaned
over to retrieve the lost slipper. Just as his hand slipped beneath her elbow
for support, she lost her balance, falling on all fours in the mud. Her head
came up. Even from where she was, she could see every eye in the camp was upon
her—there must have been about one hundred and fifty men staring.