O'Rourke's Bride, page 19
Peter hesitated. "Anyone here ever set bones?" he asked, willing to share the honors with a more qualified man.
Al stepped forward. "Sure thing."
Griswold was conscious by this time, so Burns and Hoss got busy anesthetizing the patient with liberal doses of whiskey. Meanwhile Katherine rewashed the leg. Between her, Peter, and the cook, they reset the leg and wrapped torn strips of muslin around the injured member and then, using more strips, dipped in plaster, formed a cast.
When they were finished, Kate caught Peter's eye across the cot. "Well done," she said with a merry twinkle.
While she gathered up leftover medical supplies, Peter emptied her water pail out the bunkhouse window. Seeing that Griswold was feeling no pain, he turned to praise his comrades. "Quick action, men."
"We'll be gettin' back now," said Hoss, sidling toward the door.
Al scratched his belly. "Stay to lunch. Then you, Joe, an' Charlie here kin take the grub out to the other men in the buckboard. It'll save me a gol-dang trip."
As they departed for the office, taking the bandages and plaster back to the wangan, Peter impulsively threw his arm around his wife's shoulder. "Thanks, Kate. You had Charlie eating out of your palm. All of them, in fact."
"They are human, after all," she joked.
"So are you, I'm happy to say," Peter returned.
"Was there ever any doubt?" Kate tossed her curls. He noticed she didn't pull away.
She stopped in front of the wangan. "We did quite splendidly, you and me, don't you think?"
They went inside chatting while he returned supplies to shelves and drawers. Finishing up, he paused to give her an impulsive hug.
"What was that for?" she demanded, instantly suspicious.
"For keeping a cool head when it was needed."
"Oh." She sounded pleased by the compliment.
In the distance, the clang of Al's big spoon beating on a pan signaled lunch.
Katherine straightened her shoulders. "I guess I'll be needed," she said. At the door she glanced back at him uncertainly.
"Wait. I'll go with you." Peter shrugged into his jacket. He took Kate's arm and smiled down at the little girl masquerading behind her slanted, grown-up eyes. It struck me that he had a good deal to learn about his wife. Things even she didn't yet know about herself.
* * *
After lunch the O'Rourkes went their separate ways. Katherine milked the cow again, and then Al taught her how to make a huge batch of tapioca pudding. "A mite sticky, but you'll do better next time," was his verdict. To Kate, who had never cooked before, that was high praise.
Since coming to Diablo, Kate had been kept too busy to feel sorry for herself. Al kept her trotting back and forth between the spring beside the lake and fetching firewood whenever she wasn't chopping, cleaning, washing or drying. By day's end, she was so tired she didn't even have the energy to launch a verbal assault on her cabin mate.
After supper dishes, she trudged docilely up the path beside Peter. She brushed her hair a perfunctory hundred strokes instead of her usual two hundred. Doffing her clothes behind the sheet strung between chinked log in the corner, she put on her nightgown and hopped into bed.
Before Peter even got his boots off, Kate was fast asleep.
* * *
For the next few days, Al ran Katherine through her paces like a circus dog rehearsing for center ring. The only thing he wouldn't let her do was take food to Raimey Griswold by herself. Strangely protective, Al and Charlie Mason insisted on accompanying her on errands any time the other men were in camp.
With Katherine occupied, Peter concentrated on familiarizing himself with Diablo Camp's operations and the men. As soon as Raimey could hobble to a chair on crutches, Peter had him peeling potatoes, helping Charlie Mason sharpen saws, and in spare moments, they inventoried the company stores together.
Peter spotted the troublemakers and split them up, giving assignments that kept them apart. In addition, he revised a number of McGillacutty's policies, thereby eliminating several genuine areas of grievance and improving the men's morale.
Encouraged by O'Rourke's fair-mindedness, Jigger Jansen made suggestions about handling the crews better. He began dropping around the office in the evenings to discuss ways they might improve Diablo's productivity. When his brother in Vermont sent him a trade gazette, he showed it to Peter and rhapsodized about the latest equipment to boost production at Diablo.
Peter's respect for Jigger grew with each passing day. "I'd like to go out with you and learn the work the way you have," Peter told Jigger one evening.
Jigger glanced at McGillacutty's tall, well built son-in-law with skepticism. "No fear of heights?" he asked speculatively.
Peter laughed. "Not especially." He fingered the leather rigging straps Jigger had been showing him.
"I can always use a good faller."
"Look, all I want is a taste of what it's like out there," Peter said eagerly. "How can I understand the timber business, if I don't have any hands-on experience?"
Jigger hung the rigging harness on a peg in Peter's office and stood up, a glint in his eye. "Time to hit the sack. Tell you what, Casey, m'boy. I'll start you out, nice an' easy. You kin fill in fer Griswold as a bucker for a few days."
By this time, Peter knew that a bucker sectioned off a tree into logs, preparatory to the oxen hauling them down the skidroad into the yard. He nodded his eager assent.
"See you tomorrow morning."
When the nine o'clock lights-out bell rang, Peter locked up the office and set off for his cabin in the dark.
Katherine had left the lantern lit, its warm yellow glow softly lighting his way to bed. Peeling off his jacket, he looked across the bundling board, Kate was asleep already, and no wonder. Every time he spotted her, usually from a distance, she was rushing somewhere. It seemed Al's new cookee didn't walk; she ran.
While he undressed, Peter noticed that the new curtains in the cabin windows looked suspiciously like Katherine's plaid dress. She certainly hadn't wasted any time putting needle and thread to work, since he gave her a sewing kit from the company store that morning.
It surprised him how accepting Katherine had become of her circumstances, especially since he could understand her initial rage. He was even more amazed by her stamina and her grit. She still flashed him fiery looks in the dining hall; often defiant, sometimes pensive. But mostly she skirted around him, avoiding open conflict. Lately a polite civility had developed. Whether this meant she was just too tired to enjoy a good fight, or had given up hope that he'd let her go, he couldn't tell. He rather thought it was the former, although he preferred to reserve judgment, until she got her second wind.
* * *
In the morning they dressed back to back in silence. Then, at a prearranged signal, his shaving mug sounded the downbeat, and her hairbrush the equally mad maestro's upbeat on their respective sides of the dresser. They squared off and perused each other for possible serious omissions in their individual toilettes. Then they gave each other a curt nod.
If this was marriage, it was deadly, and Peter wanted no part of it. But for now, it kept them civil.
The next morning Katherine crossed the dividing line and headed for the door. Her exaggeratedly long steps told Peter they hadn't reached an armistice, but merely a temporary cease-fire. He opened the door, waved her through, and followed, five paces to the rear.
Like a royal princess bestowing her blessing upon commoners, Kate gracefully raised a hand in greeting to Camp Diablo's derelict crew.
Peter watched the scene with only slight amusement. Kate couldn't spare him the time of day, yet she exuded friendliness toward these men. Probably only a handful had come within ten yards of a wholesome woman in their lives!
Peter tried to relax. He told himself the men were merely responding to her cordial wave. Why worry? After all, Kate was completely covered, neck to toes. There wasn't a thing seductive about her bulky jacket and wool dress.
So why was he so horny that one look from her tied him in knots? Because he was a ruddy fool, that's why. Old habits die hard.
"Dammit, Kate!" he bellowed suddenly, vowing to break with the enemy within his own soul. Perhaps if he took a truly objective look at her. After all, it was only four-thirty in the morning! How many women looked good at such an ungodly hour?
Puzzled by his outburst, Kate turned, the frosty breath of early morn on her rosy lips. Her eyes, paler than precious emeralds, sparkled with health. Her cheeks were nipped a bright rosy hue by air so pure and clean it left him giddy. "Something the matter, Peter?"
Clearly she had no idea that she was driving him half-mad with desire.
Peter stopped in his tracks, realizing how ridiculous his infatuation had become. He needed a legitimate bone to pick, or at least a plausible reason for yelling at her. Pasting a supercilious smirk on his face, he gave Kate a critical once-over. His lips curved in sophisticated amusement, and his eyebrows flew up, almost disappearing into the blond locks flowing across his matinee idol's brow. It was an act he'd used many times with devastating effect.
"Really, Katherine," was all he said.
"Did I do something wrong?" She looked down at herself, wondering what he saw that was out of place. She had all her clothes on and her jacket properly buttoned.
Peter knew he had to come up with something fast, or reveal that he'd been reduced to a complete clown by her stunning beauty. Quickly he reached out and flicked an imaginary bug off the top of her head.
"Stop that, Peter," she protested, flinching.
"It's gone now," he said with a superior smile and walked right on past into the dining hall.
"What's gone?" Katherine asked, running to catch up. She grabbed his arm to stop him.
"For goodness sake, Kate, you mean... you don't know?" O'Rourke bluffed. At least he'd made her drop her Lady Bountiful act.
"Indeed I do not!"
"Poor child," he said condescendingly. "It's lucky you have me to look out for you."
"I don't believe that for a minute," Kate said indignantly. She walked past him and slammed the kitchen door in his face.
"I need more flour," was Al's greeting.
Kate took off her jacket, hung it on a peg, and started toward the storage room. She came back with a scooper full of flour and dumped it in a large mixing bowl.
Peter appeared in the doorway between kitchen and dining room. He grinned at her.
"Loggers wait in the dining room, or outside," she informed him.
"Is that any way to speak to the man who probably just saved your life?" Peter joked.
"Saved my life!" Katherine stamped her foot.
"I could use some sugar and molasses, Mrs. O'Rourke," Al interjected.
"How many times must I tell you to call me Kate?" she raged, feeling close to paranoia. She whirled to vent her anger on the man responsible for making her life nearly intolerable. "Peter, you just love to torment me, don't you? Go on, admit it! You plunked me on the head for no good reason."
Peter spread his hands wide. "You're right, Kate. I made it up."
Kate's eyes narrowed with suspicion. Peter had agreed with her too quickly. Maybe there was something on her head. She came up to him and shook her fist under his nose. "All right, O'Rourke, what was it, hm?"
"Like you said—nothing." He smiled ingratiatingly, and Katherine felt her heart skip a beat.
Meanwhile Al was muttering, "Sugar and molasses." He went to get them himself.
"I can't believe anything you say," Kate said tartly, tying knots in her apron.
"Would you be happier if I told you that you were about to be attacked by a tsetse fly?" Peter affected a tragic pose. "Deadly carrier of disease. Often fatal."
Kate jammed her fists on her hips and glared. "Will you kindly get out of this kitchen?" she yelled. "I have better things to do than flap my jaws with an ornery cayuse like you."
"Good, Kate. You sound more like a western cowpuncher with every passing day," Peter teased. He ducked the metal potato masher she tried to sproing off his head; it landed in the middle of the dining room floor.
Without bothering to retrieve her weapon, Katherine set the table. After she finished, she went out on the back stoop and slumped against the rough shingles. She was still there, fuming, when O'Rourke rounded the corner and dropped a white fur ball in her lap.
"Peace offering."
"For me?" Shocked, Katherine held up the tiny kitten. It had eyes the color of green moss and a black nose. "It's precious!"
Peter nodded toward the small kitten. :"Might give her a bath with some of that stuff Hoss uses to discourage flies and mites on the horses."
"Oh," said Mary Kate, the light finally dawning. "This must be one of the kittens from the bunkhouse."
"Precisely. So give it a thorough going over. We don't want lice or mites in our cabin, now do we?" He reached over and scratched the kitten gently behind the ears.
"She's very pretty. Thank you, Peter." Her fingers rubbing the kitten's fur, Katherine raised her head to gaze at him. "Al says you're trying your hand at logging today, Casey."
"Jigger promised to go easy on me today." Peter pulled on a pair of leather gloves.
"Don't be too sure about that," Kate warned.
Peter winked. "I think he plans to separate the men from the boys."
"Just as long as you don't separate an arm from a shoulder, or a foot from a leg," Kate said with a cryptic smile.
"My sentiments exactly." He hunched his shoulders, driving his collar up around his ears. "Say a little prayer for me today, huh?"
Katherine's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Any special request I should put in for you?
"Oh, something like 'break a leg' will do nicely," Peter quipped and strode away.
Oh, that I'll do, gladly, Mary Kate thought, watching him join the rest of the lean, hungry 'timber wolves,' a name she used to describe the loggers' voracious appetites.
Then she retracted her ornery prayer. She wasn't about to ask the Lord to give him a broken leg. Then he'd be under foot all the time, instead of only occasionally. He probably knows that, too, the pest, she thought, pondering his facetious remark.
Still, it was too bad that he'd beaten her to the punch line.
Chapter Fourteen: Hard Lessons
As the nine o'clock bell sounded the day's end in camp, Kate reluctantly set the last plate on the shelf. It perplexed her that Peter had left right after supper without so much as a nod to acknowledge her. Without fail, he always stayed behind while she finished up, then escorted her back to the cabin. Where had he disappeared to?
She checked through the kitchen window and saw no lights in his office. Nothing about his demeanor at supper had suggested any problem. He had laughed, joked and joined in the after dinner tomfoolery as usual. But when the loggers began to disperse, he, too, had vanished.
Mr. Al came in the back door and put down his wash pan. "What say I walk you up to yer cabin?" he asked. "The boss man must be tied up."
"Yes, I suppose you're right."
She and Al trudged through the dark in silence. When Kate reached the steps of her cabin, she spied a dim light through the closed curtains. Of course, she thought. Peter had a hard day. He's already in bed.
She turned to the taciturn cook. "Goodnight, Mr. Al, and thank you."
"'Night, Mrs. O'Rourke." With a casual salute, four fingers against his knitted cap, he shuffled away into the dark.
On tiptoe Katherine mounted the steps and eased the latch, not wanting to disturb Peter if he were asleep. She cracked the heavy door just enough to slip into the cabin.
She was correct about one thing at least: Peter was fast asleep. But he wasn't in bed.
Feet and arms dangling over the sides of a huge metal bathtub, Peter lay submerged in water, his head propped against the elevated back of the tub. Next to one lax hand, a script bearing the title Hamlet lay on the floor beside an empty glass. A thin cheroot, the smoke still curling lazily toward the rafters, burned in a cracked saucer next to it.
Katherine stood transfixed, her heart behaving like a frog doing somersaults on a lily pad. From the doorway, her eyes zeroed in on the back of O'Rourke's golden head. As she crept stealthily into the room, a set of broad muscular shoulders came into view, and a mat of blond fur on an equally impressive chest rose and fell in peaceful cadence.
Jolted by the sight of so much exposed masculine flesh, Katherine gradually worked her way around to view Peter's long torso sideways. Curiosity coupled with deliciously sneaky pleasure overcame caution. By the time she got within an arm's length of the godlike figure draped over the sides of the bathtub, her heart action was pumping wildly. Her mouth went dry. And a strange exultation surfaced that she had rarely felt, except during Handel's Hallelujah Chorus one Christmas in Chicago.
For here, slumbering in a swamp of bath water, was the kind of good news created to gladden any foolish young maiden's heart! The temptation to touch was so strong that Katherine had to bite her thumb to keep from screaming out loud.
A soft snore rose from lips that curved in a faint smile.
Mary Kate knew she should close her eyes. She should tiptoe across that chalk line and get into bed before she was discovered. From there, safely under the covers, she should awaken him. But how? Yell, "Yoohoo"?
Kate debated furiously with herself. What to do? An opportunity like this didn't come along every day. A cautious glance confirmed that her cabin mate was indeed asleep. Out cold. To her disappointment, her survey of O'Rourke's rippling chest muscles and flat narrow waist stopped at the water line. Emerging at the opposite end of the tub were sinewy thighs and superbly developed masculine calves, sporting a golden sprinkling of downy hair.
Spotting the high arch in his foot, Katherine stealthily crept toward the feet dangling so temptingly over the tub's rim. From O'Rourke's double crown to the tips of his toes, he was an awesome specimen—just waiting for mischief to happen.
When a lifetime of being a proper, predictable, and mostly compliant female is combined with heredity and easy access to a man's unguarded big toe, almost anything can happen, and probably will. Especially when the young lady involved is inspired by a powerful need for revenge.
