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.
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