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Tom spun the paper under his thumb until the writing faced her. “This concerns you, Miss Hampton.”
“Me? Why, how could it possibly?”
“It’s Walt Peabody’s will.”
Meggy lifted the paper with shaking hands.
“…all my earthly possessions to Miss Mary Margaret Hampton, soon to be my wife.”
“Possessions? Oh, you mean his law books?”
“No, not his law books. Seems he built a cabin. For when his fiancée joined him.”
Meggy stared at him. “You mean…you mean Mr. Peabody provided for me?” The knot in her stomach melted away like so much warm molasses. Oh, the dear, blessed man. He had left her some property! She sank onto the cot.
“Oh, thank the Lord, I have a home.”
Tom shot to his feet. “Not so fast, Miss Hampton. You can’t stay here. I run a logging camp, not a boardinghouse.”
“But the cabin—my cabin—is here.”
“A logging camp is no place for a woman.”
The red-haired sergeant stepped forward. “Oh, now, Tom—”
“Shut up, O’Malley.”
Meggy stood up. “No place for a woman? Mr. Peabody seemed to think otherwise.”
“Mr. Peabody isn’t—wasn’t—the boss here. I am.”
Meggy felt her spine grow rigid. It was a sensation she’d come to recognize over the last seven years, one that signaled the onset of the stubborn streak she’d inherited from her father. “That does not signify, for it is—was—Mr. Peabody who wrote the will, not you.” She gentled her voice. “And you, sir, even if you are the boss here, are surely not above the law?”
At that instant she noticed that Mr. O’Malley stood off to one side, shaking his head at her. The Irishman was trying to warn her about something, but what? What was it she was not supposed to say?
Silence fell, during which she desperately tried to think.
A woodpecker drilled into a tree outside the tent, and Meggy started. The noise rose above the rasp of cicadas, pounding into her head until she thought she would scream.
“The law,” Tom said in a low, hard voice, “protects no one. When push comes to shove, it’s not the right that wins, but the strong. Coming from a Confederate state, I’d think you’d have a hard time forgetting that.”
She clamped her teeth together. Was that what the man had against her? That she was from the South?
“The mighty prevail, is that it?”
“That’s it. It’s a lesson I learned the hard way. I suggest you are about to do the same.”
O’Malley pivoted toward his boss. “Oh, now, Tom, couldn’t we—”
“Nope.”
Meggy drew in a long breath and used the time it took to expel it to gather her courage. She might as well risk it. She had nothing to lose and everything—a home, a sanctuary out here in this remote bit of nowhere—to gain. She needed time to absorb what had happened. Time to make new plans. Besides, she had no money, and until she could decide what to do next, she was stuck here.
“On the contrary, Colonel…I beg your pardon, what is your family name, sir? I do not wish to be improper in addressing you.”
“Randall,” he growled. “I come from Ohio.”
“Colonel Randall,” she continued. “I believe it is you who may learn the lesson here. For it is a known fact that when a suit is brought, and the issue judged by an honest jury of one’s peers…”
She left the rest unspoken. It was always best to allow the enemy a graceful exit. “Why, your own president, Mr. Grant, made that very point not long ago in a speech before the Congress of the United States.”
Tom took a good long look at the young woman standing before him. She wasn’t going to give up, he could see that. Her softly modulated voice never rose, but beneath the controlled tone he detected cold steel. And the look in her eye…Yeah, she sure did remind him of Susanna.
In that instant he knew he was beaten. Women like this one, like his sister, didn’t give up. If he pushed, she would fight back, and she would continue until she either triumphed or died trying. He closed his hands into fists. He didn’t want to be responsible for another one. She had determination written all over her.
And, he noted, she had unusual eyes, set in a perfectly oval face and framed with thick lashes. Her dark hair was parted in the center and gathered in a soft, black-netted roll at her neck. The only other part of her body he could see was her hands, which were graceful and small-boned, with long fingers and short nails. For all her fragile female appearance, those hands looked capable enough.
For some reason his gut clenched just looking at them.
The good Lord can sure play a joke when He sees fit. The last thing he needed was a woman at Devil’s Camp. A pretty woman with eyes like a cool, deep river. The last thing he wanted anywhere near him for the remainder of his life was a woman who stirred his emotions.
He grasped her elbow, turned her toward the tent entrance.
“Meeting’s over, Miss Hampton. I’m sending you back to Tennant.”
Chapter Two
Miss Hampton regarded Tom with calm eyes. “Might I see the home Mr. Peabody constructed for our future?” Her voice was like honey, warm and so sweet it made his heart catch.
O’Malley nudged his elbow. “Can’t hurt, Tom,” he said in an undertone. “Might be it’d ease the lady’s grief some.”
Tom sighed. Being outnumbered wasn’t what got his goat. What bothered him was his reaction to her. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for this woman. Sympathy led to caring, and the minute his heart was involved he knew it would lead to pain, pure and simple. You could love someone, but you couldn’t keep them safe. Ever.
“Cabin’s that way, Colonel.” The Irishman pointed over his shoulder. “Past the bunkhouse. You can barely see it from here. It’s nice an’ privatelike, and…”
Tom raised his eyebrows and O’Malley fell silent. Then Tom waved a hand and the sergeant turned and headed toward the cabin.
Miss Hampton trudged beside Tom through the pine trees, their footfalls muffled by the thick forest duff. Her face had an expectant look, but she kept her mouth closed as they followed O’Malley past the cookhouse. At this altitude and in the midday heat, Tom guessed she was too short of breath to talk much.
He studied her full-skirted black dress as it swayed beside him. It had a wide ruffle at the hem and a bit of delicate-looking lace at the neck and sleeves. She looked as out of place as a rose in a potato field. She’d be used to town life, with gaslight and a cookstove with a built-in hot water basin. She wouldn’t last five minutes in a logging camp. He almost chuckled. The food alone would kill her.
The cabin was small, but Tom could see it was well built of peeled pine logs, notched and fitted at the corners. He noted that Peabody hadn’t had time to fill the chinks with mud. A good breeze would whistle through the cracks and chill her britches good. Not too bad a thought on a day like today, with the temperature near a hundred degrees and the sun not yet straight up. But in the winter…
He bit back a smile. Like he said, five minutes.
She quickened her pace. “Is that it? Why, it’s…charming.”
Tom had to laugh. The cabin looked sturdy. Rough and practical, not charming. He’d bet his month’s quota of timber she’d never lived in a place with just one window, to say nothing of a front door with leather straps for hinges and no way to lock it.
He tramped up to the plank porch and turned toward her. It was a giant step up from ground level; she’d never be able to negotiate it weighed down by that heavy skirt and a bunch of petticoats.
She stepped up to the edge of the porch and halted. “Well, I never…the door is open! I can see right inside, and…” Her voice wavered. “There isn’t one stick of furniture!”
O’Malley cleared his throat. “But there’s a fine stove, ma’am. And a dry sink. Creek’s nearby, so you won’t be havin’ to haul your water too far.”
Tom clenched his fists. “Shut your trap, O’Malley. A lady can’t live out here on her own.”
Miss Hampton looked up at him. “This lady can.”
Without another word, she hoisted her skirts and planted one foot on the porch. Bending her knee, she gave a little jump. Tom glimpsed a lace-trimmed pantalette as she levered her body onto the smooth plank surface.
“No, you can’t,” he argued. “I’m short on crew now. I can’t spare any men to nursemaid a—”
“I must respectfully disagree, Colonel Randall. I shall manage quite nicely on my own, as I have for all the years since my father passed on.”
“This is not a civilized town like you’re used to, Miss Hampton. This is wild country. You got heat and dust, flies big as blackberries, spiders that’d fill a teacup.”
She turned to face him. “We have heat and dust and flies and spiders in Seton Falls, too. I am not unused to such things, Colonel.”
A grin split O’Malley’s ruddy face. “You figure to stay then, lass?”
“Yes, I—”
“No, she doesn’t,” Tom interrupted. “I have troubles enough with two young greenhorns joining a rambunctious crew, ten thousand board feet of timber to cut within the next two weeks and weather so hot you can fry eggs on the tree stumps. A woman at the camp would be the last straw.”
Before he could continue, she swished through the cabin door. Her voice carried from inside. “Why, it’s quite…snug.”
O’Malley punched Tom’s shoulder. “Snug,” he echoed with a grin. The Irishman clomped onto the porch and disappeared through the open door.
“Just look, Mr. O’Malley,” Tom heard her exclaim. “A small bed could fit here, and my trunk could serve as a table.”
Tom gritted his teeth. “No bed,” he shouted. “No trunk. And no women!” He stomped through the doorway and caught his breath.
Smack-dab in the center of the single room, Mary Margaret Hampton sank down onto the floor, her black dress puffing around her like an overflowed pudding.
“Possession,” she said in that maddeningly soft voice, “is nine-tenths of the law.” She patted the floor beside her. “I am in possession.”
Tom stared at her. Was she loco? Or just stubborn?
“I will need a chamber commode,” she remarked in a quiet tone. “I do not fancy going into the woods at night.”
“Get up,” Tom ordered.
“I do not wish to, Colonel. This is my home now. Walter Peabody left it to me in his will, and any lawyer with half a brain will agree that I am in the right.”
He took a step toward her. “I said get up!”
O’Malley’s grin widened. “You’re not gonna like this, Tom, but she’s got a point.”
“She’s got chicken feathers in her head,” he muttered. He moved a step closer.
She looked up at him and tried to smile. “Please, Colonel Randall. Oh, please. Let me stay here, just for a little while. I will be ever so quiet.”
It was the trembling of her mouth that did him in. “How long?” he snapped.
She thought for a moment. “Until I can earn enough money to pay my fare back to Seton Falls.”
Tom snorted. “Doing what?”
“I will find some way. I am not without accomplishments.”
“Three weeks.” He almost felt sorry for her.
“Six weeks,” she countered.
Instantly he felt less sorry for her. Damn stubborn female. “Four weeks. During which time I expect you to keep to yourself, not bother any of my crew and be careful with your stove ashes. Timber’s bone dry this time of year.”
“Yes, I will do all those things. Thank you, Colonel Randall.”
“And don’t bathe in the creek without letting me know. I’ll have to post a guard.”
When she didn’t respond, he shot a glance at her. Her fingers were pressed against her mouth, and at the corners of her closed eyelids he saw the sheen of tears.
Tom groaned. Women were a menace to the human race! They acted so brave, so fearless, and then when they won, they cried. Susanna had done the same, and this one was no different. He hated the way it made him feel—downright helpless. His gut churned just thinking about it.
“Four weeks,” he barked over an ache in his throat. “And then you’re on your way back to Tennant, you savvy?”
She nodded without opening her eyes. Tom swung out the doorway, heading for his tent and the bottle of rye whiskey he hadn’t finished last night. Maybe a drink would help get her out of his mind.
The minute Colonel Randall and the Irishman were gone, Meggy covered her face with her hands. Oh, dear God, help me. I don’t know what to do now, and I feel so awfully alone.
After a few moments, she raised her head and took a good look at her surroundings. Through the chinks in the walls she could see glimpses of green leaves and an occasional brown tree trunk. A black iron potbellied stove sat in one corner, and a smoothed plank counter ran along the adjoining wall. The single window over the dry sink was so dust-smeared it admitted only a dim gray light. Well, Meggy, you needn’t be a complete ninny. A good scrubbing will fix that.
As for the rest, sheets and soap, a lantern, tablecloths, her Bible and her secreted copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin—all the things she had packed in her trunk to start married life with Mr. Peabody—they would not arrive until next week when Mr. Jacobs drove out from Tennant with his next delivery. She could manage until then, could she not?
She eyed the other two walls. A few nails would serve to hang up her clothes. As for a bed, perhaps she might gather some pine boughs and cover them with the extra petticoat in her satchel.
Her satchel! She’d left it in Colonel Randall’s tent. Bother! She’d have to walk back down and…
“Comin’ through, ma’am!” Footsteps thumped across the porch. Hastily Meggy rose and stood aside as the sergeant barreled through the door, balancing a cot on one thick shoulder. His other hand gripped her travel satchel, and from under his arm trailed a bundle of bedclothes. She thought she recognized the olive-green blanket. Hadn’t she sat on it in the colonel’s tent?
Speechless, she watched him plunk the cot down and shove it against the wall. “Colonel won’t mind, ma’am. He never uses this one.”
He dropped the bedclothes on top. “Had to scrounge a bit for your chamber pot.” He swung two battered milk pails into the corner. “One for haulin’ water, one for…you know.”
Her face burned.
The sergeant tipped his blue cap and gave her a wink. “Supper’s at five. Latecomers leave hungry.” With a grin he pivoted and sauntered on his way.
