Louisa Rawlings (51 page)

“No!” His fist crashed into her jaw. She saw colors dancing before her eyes, then blackness. She felt her legs crumbling beneath her.

When she came to, Arthur was gone and she was lying on the walkway. She sat up and moaned, rubbed at her chin. Oh God! Nat! She looked down. He was stirring, blinking and rubbing at his eyes. “Hold on, Nat, I’m coming!” she cried. There was no way he could climb back up to the walkway, even if he weren’t badly hurt. And it was a good fourteen-foot drop from the top of the hub where he lay to the old creek bed at the bottom of the wheel. She raced down the steps, past the closed casting-room door. At the bottom of the wheel, she looked up. “Nat, are you all right?”

“Get help,” he gasped.

It would take so long to get help. And she didn’t want to leave him alone. But she’d seen the wheel in operation, when its steam engine turned it to force air out of the giant pistons. Air that kept the furnace burning at a white-hot pitch. The wheel turned smoothly, its gears well oiled. “Nat,” she said. “If I could turn the wheel by hand and bring you closer to the ground, could you get off?”

“I think so. I’m mighty dizzy, and my head hurts. But I think so.”

She reached up and pulled with all her might. To her surprise, the giant wheel began to turn, its wooden beams making a soft creaking sound. As it turned over, Nat clung to a spoke, waiting until it was angled close to the ground before easing his way down its length and into Willough’s helping arms. He stood alone for a minute, then stumbled to his knees, closing his eyes and clutching his head. “Jesus! I think the son of a bitch broke my skull!”

Willough sat down on the damp floor and pulled him into her arms, resting his head on her lap. She dabbed at the bleeding cut with her handkerchief. “Rest for a few minutes. I’ll get someone to carry you back to the house. If it is a concussion, you should rest for a while.”

“Damn,” he mumbled, “I feel cold and clammy all over. Helpless as a baby.”

She eased him out of her arms and onto the floor. “Stay here. I’ll get help.” But he had already closed his eyes again, and seemed unconscious. She stood up. My God, what was that? She lifted her head, sniffed the air. Damp, from the old creek bed. But something else besides.
Smoke
! Now she could smell it distinctly. And see it too. Curling out from under the casting-room door. The furnace house was on fire! She must get help. The nearest outside door was in the casting room, but it must be ablaze by now. The smoke was becoming thick and billowing, and she could hear the crackle of flames beyond the closed door. She’d have to try the charging-room door, up above. She hesitated, reluctant to leave Nat; but he was unconscious, dead weight. There was no way to get him out alone. She dashed up the rickety stairs to the charging room. Racing to the door, she threw herself against it with all her might. Oh God! It was locked. She smelled the smell of kerosene, strong and pungent from outside the door. There was a sudden whooshing noise, then flames shot up outside several of the windows. She turned and grabbed hold of one of the empty wheelbarrows; without a moment’s hesitation, she drove it through a window. She picked up a broom that was lying in a corner and smashed out the last of the glass shards from the window. Propelling herself through the opening, she dashed down to the bottom of the hill, where the casting room was now a mass of flames. The casting house bell was there. She grasped the rope and pulled with all the strength in her. Let it bring help! she prayed. The men began to appear, running down the slope, the man Charlie in the lead. “Quick!” she gasped, pointing to the furnace house. “Nat’s in there! Below the wheel!”

It was impossible to get in through the door at the bottom near the casting room. As they ran up to try the charging-room door, Willough had a sudden thought. The creek had been dammed and diverted years ago, no longer needed for power after the steam engine had been brought in to turn the wheel that created the air blast. But the dry creek bed was still there, leading toward the furnace house. Willough turned to Charlie. “Open the sluice gate!” she ordered.

Charlie nodded and raced to the sluice, turning the wheel that held it shut. There was a rush of water, spilling and tumbling down the slope until it struck the flaming furnace house in a hiss of steam and smoke. It failed to extinguish all the flames, but it created enough of a break in the fire so the men were able to move in and drag Nat out. He was still groggy from the blow to his head and the effects of the smoke. Willough gave directions for him to be put in Mrs. Walker’s care, then turned her attention to the fire.

She barked orders like a commanding officer, directing a bucket brigade, sending someone back to the village to fetch more manpower, ordering carts of combustible charcoal moved from the vicinity of the flaming building. It felt natural to her—to take charge. As though she’d been waiting for this challenge all her life. And the men accepted her leadership without question. Not because she was Brian Bradford’s daughter, she thought. Nor because she was a woman. But because she was
able
, and they knew it. In the midst of this destruction and chaos, she reveled in her triumph.

The sun was setting before the fire was finally extinguished. They’d lost the casting room, but the charging room was only burned around the windows and door, the giant wheel and its pistons had scarcely been scorched, and the stone furnace was intact. The furnace house could be rebuilt.

Willough slumped with exhaustion, feeling the strain at last. She trudged up toward the boardinghouse. She would see to it that the men all received a bonus for the work today. She’d insist on it with Daddy. She wasn’t nearly as certain that she’d tell him what she suspected. That Arthur had set the fire deliberately. But the evidence was too plain. The locked charging-room door. It had been open when she and Nat had been up there. And the smell of kerosene. During the talks, she’d noticed the can of kerosene in the charging room, kept there to fill the lanterns that hung from the beams. But Charlie had found it outside when the fire was over.

More awful still was the realization that Arthur had tried to
kill
her. And Nat. She pursed her lips in determination. If it was the last thing she did, she would ruin him.

She was met at the door by Mrs. Walker. “Oh, missus! You just look plumb worn out! You go right up to your room and I’ll have someone bring you a hot tub. And some supper. That’ll set you to rights.”

“Mr. Stanton. How is he?”

“It’d take more than a thump on the head to get him down. I recollect when he used to be up at the crack of dawn, helping chop wood before a full day’s work at the furnace. And all on the sly, so your daddy wouldn’t find out! He’s a strong one. Don’t you fret over him!”

“Yes, I know. But how is he feeling?”

“Well, I put a stitch in that cut of his. Just to be on the safe side.” She shook her head. “I haven’t done that line of work since my days as a cook in a lumber camp. I reckon I did enough patching and stitching in those times to last me a lifetime. Anyways, I stitched him up and put a small plaster on the spot. And gave him a bit of laudanum. He was stubborn about that, but I told him it was for his own good. If that knock on the head shook up his brains, he needs to rest. He should sleep for a few hours. And then he’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

Willough sighed in relief. “Oh, I’m so glad.” She moved toward the staircase. “I will have that bath now.” She smiled at Mrs. Walker. What was it Nat had said once? That Mrs. Walker had been Daddy’s mistress? She hadn’t wanted to believe it then. Not in the days when she still thought Daddy was the most wonderful man in the world. She sighed again and climbed the stairs. At the top of the landing she turned. “By the way, Mrs. Walker, have you seen my… Mr. Gray?” She couldn’t even bear to call him husband. Not anymore. Not after what he’d done to Nat.

“Land sakes, ma’am. He lit out of here hours ago. Just hopped into his carriage and skedaddled down to the depot. Just before the fire started. I reckon he caught the four o’clock train out of here. Now you just stop worrying about everything and climb out of that gown. I’ll bring you a cup of tea before your bath, if you want.”

It had been a long day. “No. I think I’ll take a glass of whiskey.” It wasn’t ladylike, but she was sick of being a lady.

The bath was wonderful. Mrs. Walker had boiled up some herbs—lemon verbena, lavender, rose geranium—and strained the infusion into the bath water. She soaked in the scented tub, letting her mind wander, trying not to think of Daddy, or Arthur, or what she was to do with her life now. She dressed in her nightgown and wrapper, brushed her hair in front of the small dressing table. She peered closely at her face. Her chin seemed swollen where Arthur had struck her, but perhaps it wouldn’t bruise too badly. It was a small price to pay for her freedom.

She picked at her supper; she was too drained from the day’s events to be hungry. But she wasn’t sleepy either. She paced the floor of her room—long after her supper and bath things had been removed, and the house had stilled for the night—unwilling to face herself, the longings of her heart. At last she stopped her pacing and stared at herself in the mirror. “Are you a woman?” she whispered to her reflection. “Or are you still tied to all the stupid conventions?” Oh, damn conventions! They’d brought her nothing but grief! It was time to listen to her heart. She pulled Arthur’s wedding ring from her finger and went into Nat’s room.

He was sleeping quietly, his features soft in the light of a small night lamp that had been left burning on his night table. A small white patch of adhesive plaster on his temple was the only sign of injury. His color was good and his breathing regular; Willough muttered a fervent prayer of thanks.

Someone had taken off his shirt. His chest was bare. Willough’s breath caught in her throat. He was beautiful, his tanned skin taut over swelling muscles. She remembered the first time she’d seen him in the furnace. How frightening she’d found his masculinity then. Now she yearned to have those powerful arms hold her, to feel herself crushed against that hard chest. She felt a surge of desire deep within her. She reached out a tentative hand, brushed her fingers across his hard-muscled shoulder. His flesh was silken and hot to her touch. He stirred restlessly in his sleep. The light sheet that covered him shifted, uncovering a portion of his legs, which were bare. The bottom of the furnace house had been damp and muddy. They must have taken off all his clothes.

Willough stifled a cry of dismay. His legs were strong and wonderfully formed, but along the left leg, from thigh to calf, was a line of ugly scars. Oh, Nat, she thought. How you’ve suffered. And I’m just as guilty as Arthur! I
should
have looked for you. I should have wondered what had happened to you. Perhaps if I’d known… No. She had no excuses for herself. Half the North Woods, it would seem, had known. About the blackball, about Nat’s accident. Oh, God, why hadn’t she tracked down Nat’s grandfather, his beloved “Gramps?”

“Because you were a proper fool, Willough,” she whispered. Concerned with the proprieties, with the niceties, with her duty as a wife. To the exclusion of her common sense. Her heart.

“I love you, Nat Stanton.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the mouth, then straightened the sheet to cover him more snugly. Walking quietly around to the other side of the bed, she lay down beside him, turning so she could watch him. The strong profile, the pale golden lashes that curled against his tanned cheeks. She watched him until the very last moment, when sleep closed her eyes.

She dreamed of Arthur—an ugly nightmare—and woke with a start. Beyond the small window she could see the stars and the silvery slice of the waning moon. Nat was still asleep, his blond curls damp across his forehead. She eased herself off the bed. It must be two or three by now. She was terribly thirsty. The smoke from the fire had done it, no doubt. There was a covered pitcher on a table near the door. And several glasses. She slaked her thirst gratefully.

“Can you spare a glass of that?”

She turned. Nat was awake, struggling to sit up in bed. “Of course.” She poured a glass and brought it to him, watching with maternal concern as he drank it down. “Does your head hurt?”

“No.”

“Would you like something to eat? I’m sure…”

“Willough.”

Avoiding his eyes, she took the glass from him. “Mrs. Walker can…”

He closed his hand around her wrist, pulled her down to sit on the bed. “Willough. Stop. How can I beg your forgiveness if you won’t let me?”

She ached with remorse. “There’s nothing to forgive. It was because of me that Arthur…”

“I must have been mad to think you had anything to do with it. All these months I’ve been burning up with hate, thinking it was your doing. Can you forgive me? How could I have believed it was you?”

“It could have been. I was spiteful enough to marry Arthur just to hurt you.”

He smiled sadly and stroked the side of her face with gentle fingers. “Poor Willough. I wonder who was hurt more.” His eyes were filled with pain. “And last night…oh God! I wronged you so. Shaming you like that. I was so filled with blind hatred.”

“But even then, you relented at the last minute. You didn’t force me to…”

He groaned. “I couldn’t. It was easy enough to hate you when we were apart. And last night, when you defied me—proud and haughty—I could still consider you my enemy. Your pride only fed my hatred. But when your mouth started to tremble, I was undone!”

She began to cry. “Oh, Nat! It was your hatred that hurt so. I didn’t care about my shame. But your hatred cut like a knife, tearing me apart. I kept thinking you must have hated me from the moment we parted.”