He held her gaze for a long moment. “I knew I could trust him. I also knew he'd be the first one to figure out who you really were, so it seemed best to have him in on the secret right from the beginning.”
“He's nice, but he seemed somewhat standoffish.”
“That's because of who you are. People are inclined to be a little awed by someone like you. You're almost a celebrity, you know.”
“That's silly!”
“No it isn't. Wouldn't you be a little awed by Queen Elizabeth?”
“Yes, but that's different.”
“No it isn't.” He laughed.
“It doesn't seem to affect you.” She could have bitten her tongue for saying the words.
“How do you know?” He raised his brows, and mocking eyes wandered over her face. “I may just be a damned good actor.”
Margaret swallowed on the sudden aching tightness in her throat. “Ready for coffee?”
“Sure. You'll find some mugs in the cupboard.”
Grateful for an excuse to move out from under his gaze, she walked over to the counter to pour from the electric percolator. She was brought up short by his next words.
“Would you have married old Justin if Ed hadn't died?”
Margaret carefully set a mug down in front of him and took her place opposite. “I haven't asked you about your private affairs. Why should you inquire into mine?”
“Ask away. My life's an open book.” His grin did nothing to put her at ease. She wished desperately she could be as relaxed as he was. He disturbed her in more ways than she cared to acknowledge. She'd never met anyone quite so aggressively masculine in her life.
“Why haven't you married? I imagine you're the most eligible man in the county.”
His grin widened. “The woman I marry will have to want no other life but this. I haven't met her yet.”
“You mean you haven't fallen in love yet? Or don't you consider that a requisite for marriage?”
“You evidently didn't or you wouldn't have let yourself get engaged to old Justin,” he countered.
She could find no answer adequate to express her thoughts at that precise moment. She bit her lip, aware of the sardonic twist to his. He'd never understand her reasons for the engagement. She wasn't even sure she did anymore.
“I thought we were talking about you, not me,” she said in sudden exasperation.
“So we are. Now what was the question? Oh, yes. Do I consider love a prerequisite for marriage? Yes. Yes, I do.
I don't think I could stand a woman day in and day out unless I loved her desperately. Out here a man needs a woman he can rely on. I'd want a couple of kids, and I'd have to put up with my wife's bitching because they'd ruined her figure. That would take patience as well as love. There's more to being a wife than providing a man with a housekeeper and a sleeping partner.”
“There is?” Her own tone dripped mockery. “Then you wouldn't want a woman who had an eye on a career outside the home?”
“Absolutely not, sweetheart! I'd be all the career she could handle.”
The gleam in his eye was the spur that caused her to snap. “Well, you'd better find one young enough to idolize your kind of machismo!”
“Idolization isn't what I want.”
Margaret was too incensed to notice how much he seemed to enjoy baiting her. He had stopped eating, and his eyes were alive with amusement.
“No? You merely want subservience?”
“No…” He seemed to be considering. “It wouldn't be a one-way street. She'd have her compensations.”
“I can imagine what!”
He roared with laughter, and she felt her face turn crimson. “Didn't old Justin ever even try to get you into bed?”
“No!” Her heart was thudding against her ribs, and she answered without thinking.
Chip got up from the table and stood looking down at her. “He was a fool,” he said softly. There was a slight rasp in his voice that caused her whole body to tense.
“He was a gentleman,” she defended, striving to keep her tone level.
He laughed again, and she wanted to kick him. “Oh, God! It's like you've just arrived out of the Victorian age. Sweetheart, if the desire's there, a man forgets all about being a gentleman! Old Justin had his eye on your papa's money, not his mind on getting you into bed! You're damn lucky you escaped him.”
Ablaze with rage at his presumption, Margaret jumped to her feet. “Who do you think you are to stand there and analyze my life? You know nothing about it! You don't know what it's like to be caged up on an estate and not allowed to go to the drugstore by yourself, or to shop, or to choose your own friends. Just shut up about my life! And…wash your own damn dishes!” She stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door.
Margaret couldn't remember a time when she'd really let herself go and shouted. It felt good, she was stunned to realize. If Chip Thorn thought she was going to knuckle under and fall on her face before him, he was badly mistaken. She'd done her stint of being subservient to a man's wishes. The thought drew her up short. Never before had she thought of her relationship with her father in quite those terms. She had wanted to please him because he was old, he hadn't long to live, and he loved her. Chains of love were strong. But Chip wouldn't understand that.
The door opened behind her, and she whirled around.
“Sorry, I forgot to knock.” He studied her for a moment, his features uncertain. “I'll help you set up the bed.”
“Thanks.”
Afterward Margaret went to the kitchen and washed the few dishes they had used. Chip was in the basement. She could hear him whistling through his teeth over the hum of the dryer. He'd been quiet since her outburst. She kept seeing him in her mind's eye as she'd seen him that first time. He hadn't changed much during those years, though he was more self-assured now, older. She wondered how he saw her. He had called her naïve, right out of the Victorian age. Did she really project that image?
“Maggie! Come on down and I'll show you how to run the washer. Dolly may not be able to get down the steps for a while.”
Chip was patient with his instructions, and he seemed to think nothing of it when he handed her a pile of his underwear to fold. They were still warm from the dryer. She folded the white shorts carefully and placed them in a pile, then folded and stacked the T-shirts. They carried them upstairs and she followed him to the door of his bedroom. It was neater now.
“Come in, come in. The underwear goes into that drawer.” He rapped on the bureau drawer with his knuckles. “The socks in the one above.” He hung his shirts and jeans in the closet, which she now saw was arranged neatly. “Do you have anything warm to sleep in? The house gets cold at night when the fire in the fireplace dies down. I'll have a load of fuel oil trucked in, and we'll start that monster in the basement.” He tossed her a pair of blue and white striped flannel pajamas. “You'll probably only need the tops.” He grinned devilishly.
“Thanks. I'll buy some things tomorrow if you'll drive me to town.” She was determined not to let him get her rattled again.
“I'm planning on it. Better get to bed. You look tired. The day's not only been long for you, it's been quite a change, going from one world to another.”
She looked at him sharply and realized he hadn't meant the words to be critical or sarcastic.
“Yes. It has been a tiring day. Good night.”
She left for the bathroom, quickly washed her face and brushed her teeth, and made it back across the hall to her bedroom with a sense of relief. There was a key hanging on a nail above the door. It gave her some feeling of security to turn it in the lock before stripping off her clothes and sliding into the top of Chip's pajamas.
She was in bed with the light already out when she heard him pad across the hall and into the bathroom. He came out, stood a moment outside her door, then tried the handle.
“Get this damn door unlocked,” he called brusquely.
Margaret lay quietly, her breathing coming in ragged
gasps. There was a pause, then a hard thumping. She sat up.
“Open the door, Margaret.”
Margaret? She jumped out of bed and turned the key, resisting the impulse to cower away from the muscular figure clad only in a pair of jeans who towered above her when the door was flung open. He reached around and took the key from the door.
“If you were trying to lock me out, forget it! If I wanted a woman badly enough, I wouldn't let a locked door stand in my way. We don't lock doors up here for a damn good reason—safety. If you'd ever been in or near a forest fire you'd understand and not want to be locked into a room fumbling for a key. Now get into bed and quit letting your imagination run away with you. See you in the morning.” He turned on his heel and left her standing barefoot and shivering.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARGARET WOKE TO the smell of bacon frying, and she lay with her eyes closed, listening to the clatter of pans. Chip must be in the kitchen cooking breakfast. She opened her eyes a crack and squinted at the window. The shade was still drawn, but a dim slit of light told her it was not yet sunup. She groaned and snuggled farther down into the warm bed.
It seemed only minutes since she had crawled back into bed thinking she would never go to sleep in this house with Duncan Thorn sleeping in the next room. But exhaustion had overcome the desire to lie quietly and think about the day's events, and she had slept deeply, untroubled by dreams. The strangeness of it all hit her now. Here she was, feeling as safe as if she were behind the stone walls of the Chicago estate—and she had never slept outside a security-protected house in her life!
She reached for the glasses she'd left on the table beside the bed and swung her feet to the floor. She shivered as her toes touched the cold bare planking. Opening her bedroom door a crack, she saw that there was a light on in the kitchen but the hallway was empty. Minutes later she had showered and was in the bathroom pulling on her slacks and a soft cashmere sweater. Chip's sweatshirt went on over the outfit, and the chill finally began to leave her body. With her glasses still perched on her nose she went back to the bedroom, found the container with her contact lenses, and slipped it into her pocket. She then made the impulsive decision to show Chip Thorn a makeup-free face adorned with dark-rimmed glasses. She sneaked a quick look in the mirror from her cosmetics case.
“Will the real Margaret Anthony please stand up!” she whispered to the face that stared back at her.
The kitchen, when she reached it, was empty. She felt strangely disappointed, but she hastily brushed the sensation away. It took her less than a minute to ascertain that Chip was not in the house. She went to the back door and out onto a small porch. There was a wonderful, needlesharp scent in the air: fir and spruce, and other smells, too, that she couldn't identify. The breeze coming off the river was cold, yet exhilarating in a way city air never was. She noticed that the boat was gone from its mooring and the river was empty of life. It was as smooth as a mirror, its far banks edged with lush green forest.
She turned back to the house, moved into the kitchen, and stood absolutely still, realizing that this was the first time in her life she had ever been alone, really alone, in a house! She wondered why the thought didn't fill her with terror. She whirled around the room like a young child, and she saw the note propped up against the electric percolator.
“Fix yourself some breakfast. I'll be back about nine o'clock. The clock over the mantel tells the correct time in case that worthless doodad you call a watch stopped when you dunked it in the dishwater. Chip.”
She hurried into the living room and glanced at the large clock. While she stood there it began to strike the hour, its soft tones oddly comforting in the quiet house. Seven o'clock. She had two hours to get used to the idea of being alone.
Breakfast was, of necessity, first. She plunked a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and set out butter and jam. It was exciting to be alone, doing for herself. She opened cabinet doors until she found a box of cornflakes. Humming softly to herself she set out a bowl, went to the refrigerator for milk, pulled a stool up to the counter, and poured herself a mug of coffee. She had always eaten a good breakfast, but this morning she ate as if she were starved.
Over her second cup of coffee she realized that this would be a good time to tidy up the house—while there was no one there to witness her fumbling attempts. She left her mug beside the coffee pot and washed up the rest of the breakfast dishes.
When there was nothing else she could do in the kitchen she went to the basement and reviewed what Chip had told her the night before about starting the washing machine. Easy. Nothing to it. There were still four pairs of jeans on the sorting table. She lifted the lid and stuffed them into the washer, turned the dial to warm water/cold rinse, added a cup of detergent, and filled the little tub on the side with bleach as she had seen Chip do the night before. She pushed in the knob and the tub began to fill. Enormously pleased with herself, she skipped back up the stairs.
An hour later she had made her bed, run the vacuum cleaner over the living room rug, and made an effort to clean the bathroom. For the first time she acknowledged the value of the homemaking class at the convent school.
The door to Chip's room was closed. Margaret hesitated for a long moment before she opened it and looked into the room. She was high on the excitement of her accomplishments, and the desire to have everything just right when he returned was the impetus she needed to enter his room. But there was nothing there that needed to be done. The bed was neatly made, the bureau that had been littered the day before was cleared off, the double doors of the wardrobe were closed. Margaret felt a strong desire to linger, to sit down on the edge of the bed and let the smell of his aftershave and the woodsy odor of his clothing surround her.
The slam of a car door caused her to jump guiltily. She backed out of the room and closed the door. Chip had come back sooner than she expected! She hurried to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and perched on the stool. The front door opened and closed. Margaret waited, her eyes on the kitchen door. There was silence. Not even the sound of footsteps reached the kitchen. The silence lengthened, and Margaret felt her throat close with fear.
“Chip?” She waited expectantly. There was no answering call. Panic began to build as the silence became unbearable. “Chip?” She shouted his name. There was no sound. Nothing. Terror put wings to her feet, and she bolted for the kitchen door and jerked it open. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see someone lunging for her.
“What're you hollerin' for?” A young girl stood in the doorway. She wore jeans, a red and blue checked mackinaw, and heavy boots. Her hair, shoulder length, was drawn back and hooked over her ears.
“Who are you?” Margaret gasped, her heart pounding from fright.
“Who're you? I heard Chip had a woman here. What're you so scared for?”
“Why didn't you answer when I called out? You scared me half silly,” Margaret said crossly, closing the kitchen door with a bang.
“Why should I? You wasn't callin' me.” The girl, who looked to be in her mid-teens, moved to the cabinet, took down a mug, and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Make yourself at home, Margaret thought resentfully.
“Where's Chip? He's not at the mill.” The girl went to the refrigerator and diluted her coffee with milk from the half-gallon plastic jug. She was evidently familiar with her surroundings.
“I don't know where he is,” Margaret said brusquely, returning to her perch on the stool. “But he'll be back soon if you care to wait.”
The lithe figure leaned casually against the counter, her calf-length boots with the jeans tucked into the tops crossed nonchalantly. The girl's gaze remained on Margaret's face as if searching for some plausible alternative to the obvious.
“Everybody said Chip had a woman here. I wanted to see what she looked like.”
“Now you know,” Margaret said drily.
“Did ya sleep with him?”
“Did I…?” The girl's fr
ankness had rendered her speechless.
“You heard me! You ain't dumb. Ain't very pretty, neither.”
“Thanks a lot!” Margaret looked down to hide a faint smile.
“I heard he's goin' to marry you. I never thought he'd take up with no city girl.”
“Why not? City girls aren't all that bad.”
“I only know what he said, is all. A lot of city girls have been after him. He always said they didn't know their backside from a hole in the ground.” Irritation infiltrated the girl's tone. “Where're you from, anyhow?”
“Chicago. That is, a small town near Chicago,” she improvised quickly.
“I suppose he met you when he went there to meet with that old man who owns part of the mill. I heard the old man died, so I guess he won't be going there no more unless it's to see you.” The girl sank down into a chair. “What's your name?”
“Maggie.” Margaret was surprised at how quickly the name came to her lips. “What's yours?”
“Elizabeth, but I'm called Beth. We live on the other side of the mill. My pop is foreman of one of the logging camps,” she said proudly. Curiosity was patent in the girl's wide eyes. “How long are you gonna stay? There's not much to do up here—not like what you're used to.”
“I haven't decided how long I'll stay. I just came to see if I'd like it here.”
“So there's nothing…settled?” Eagerness had crept into the girl's voice, and Margaret felt a rush of sympathy for her, because she was sure, now, that Beth had a crush on Chip.
“Oh, no. Nothing's settled.”
“That's good. I sure hope he don't get you pregnant.”
Margaret's mouth dropped open, but she couldn't think of anything to say. The girl's bluntness stunned her. She got off the stool, looked around for something to do, then remembered the clothes in the washing machine.
“Excuse me. I've got to take some clothes out of the washer.” Somehow she liked the sound of the words. It was crazy, but they made her feel a little important.
“I can help. I'm used to doin' 'round here. I told Chip I'd come and clean while Dolly's gone, but he didn't want me to. Guess he thought folks'd talk.”
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