The Angel Of Devil's Camp

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.

Supper! She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and her stomach felt as hollow as an empty barrel. Oh, yes, supper! She’d be there before five. Perhaps she would go down to the cookhouse early and help out. In the meantime, she had to think.

What can I possibly do in this wilderness to earn money?

By the time she had made up the bed, hauled a bucket of cool water from the creek fifty yards from her porch, and used a dampened handkerchief to sponge the travel dust off her face and neck, she had made up her mind. If Colonel Tom Randall raised any objections, why she would…Never mind. She’d think of something.

She tidied her hair under the crocheted black netting and gave it a nervous pat. All she would require was a bit of ingenuity, a generous helping of elbow grease and God’s forgiveness. Plus a dollop of luck when she went down to supper.

Her heart flip-flopped at the prospect before her. Perhaps the colonel would be busy giving orders to his crew and wouldn’t notice. Maybe the cook…

She dared not think about it too much. To keep her mind occupied she set about unpacking the rest of her things. She laid the tin of candles on the cot, stacked her underclothes on the sink counter, then slid her father’s revolver underneath and covered the pile with a tea towel Charlotte had embroidered for her. A line of poetry was stitched around the perimeter. “Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.”

Tears stung her eyelids. She must write to Charlotte, must write to all her sisters, and assure them that she was safe and…and not the least bit frightened.

On second thought, she wouldn’t lie. “Safe” would have to suffice!

She ran her hand over the mound of clothing covering the revolver, smoothed down her skirt and headed for the door. At the last minute she whipped the tea towel off the pile of garments and stuffed it into her pocket. She would need it.

Tom watched the black-clad form moving down the path from the cabin to the cookhouse and narrowed his eyes. She seemed to float slowly over the earth, and when he realized why, he grinned in spite of himself.

With extreme care she pushed one foot ahead of her, waited a second, then shifted her weight onto it. Only then did she move her other foot forward. Testing for rocks, he guessed. Or snakes. She looked like a miniature black-sailed ship skimming the ground.

You are one helluva fool, Tom Randall. He’d never get her out of his mind if he didn’t stop watching her.

He wrenched his attention back to the open accounts book on his desk. Devil’s Camp wasn’t near breaking even, much less making a profit. Payroll was high. The men made good wages, and they deserved it; he’d hand-picked most of them when he mustered out of the army. Logging was dangerous, and he needed a seasoned crew. But lumber prices were dropping.

He wondered sometimes why he’d taken on this operation. Maybe because the first thing he saw when he’d ridden away from Fort Riley was trees, tall Douglas firs so thick a man couldn’t reach around them. After years of killing Johnny Rebs and then Indians, felling timber seemed like a good, clean thing to do. Trees made lumber, and lumber built houses and barns and churches and stores. Civilization. He liked being part of things that would have a future, things that would live on after his own days on earth were over. He guessed he was like his father in that way.

Maybe that was how Walt Peabody felt about that cabin he’d built for Miss Hampton. At the thought of her, he glanced up to see a black skirt vanish into the cookhouse.

He massaged his tight neck muscles and got to his feet. Great balls of fire, a woman at supper. He’d best go over and keep order.

Meggy craned her neck to peer through the screen door of the cookhouse. No sign of activity. No cook. No crew of hungry men. She lifted the watch pendant at her breast. Exactly five o’clock.

But she heard the clatter of pots and lids, and wonderful, tantalizing smells wafted from inside. She’d just step in and—

A slight figure in a black cotton tunic bustled out a doorway, swept onto the long, narrow porch outside and banged an iron spoon against a metal triangle. The sound jangled in her ears, and when it stopped another sound took its place. Marching feet.

Her blood turned to ice water. Yankee soldiers.

“You stand back, missy,” the bell ringer warned. His long pigtail swung behind him as he sped noiselessly across the rough floor. “Men come,” he called over his shoulder. “You come with Fong.”

Meggy took a step in his direction, but in the next instant the screen door slapped open and a herd of jabbering men, all sizes and shapes, poured into the room, climbing over benches and even the long trestle table, to jostle a place for themselves.

Quickly she followed Fong to the sanctuary of the kitchen, then peeked back around the corner and released a sigh of relief. Not one of them looked like a soldier.

The hulking blond Swede she recognized from the burial this morning. And the Irishman. Two gangly youths with identical patches of freckles scuffled over the space next to the Swede until a man with long, straight black hair separated them with one arm and took the place for himself.

More men tumbled in, pushing and shoving and shouting good-natured insults at each other that made her cheeks warm.

“You help, missy. Bullcook quit yesterday.” The Oriental shoved a huge bowl of mashed potatoes into her hands, turned her about and gave her a little push. “Hurry. Colonel Tom not like to wait.”

Meggy gulped. A blob of butter the size of her fist melted in the center of the steaming potatoes. She was so hungry! She inhaled the delicious aroma and felt another nudge at her back. “Go now. Eat later with Fong. Not good one missy with dozen misters.”

Quiet fell like a sheet of chilling rain when Meggy stepped into the dining room. No one moved. No one spoke. Twelve faces stared at her in complete silence.

She forced her feet to carry her forward to the table, where she set down the bowl of potatoes.

The Irishman rose and swept off his cap. “Boys, I’m presentin’ to you Miss Mary Margaret Hampton. She’s Walt Peabody’s next of kin.”

She tried to smile. “Gentlemen.”

“That they aren’t, lass. Some of ’em haven’t seen the likes of a lady up close for six months, so I wouldn’t be fraternizin’ too much.”

“Aw, come on, O’Malley, be reasonable,” a man shouted. A chorus of similar protests followed.

“Gosh, she shore is a purty one. She kin set on my lap and fraternize all she wants!”

“We want to hear her talk! Been a long time since we heard a woman’s voice.”

“Let’s have us a chiv—”

“Hold it!” a voice boomed from the doorway. Tall and lean, Tom Randall strode toward her, his eyes shooting sparks. Meggy’s heart began to skip beats.

“Thought I told you not to bother my men,” he said just loud enough for her to hear.

She swallowed. “I was not ‘bothering,’ Colonel. I was serving potatoes.”

He turned away from her without a word. “Boys, we’ve got us a problem. Maybe one of you can solve it.”

A murmur of interest hummed through the room. Meggy noticed how he used his body to shield her from view. Fong was right; one missy and a dozen misters not good! She edged backward toward the kitchen.

“The problem,” Tom continued, “is this. We’ve got no meat.”

Meggy stopped still and heard her stomach grumble. No meat? What smelled so good, then?

“We haven’t had any meat for weeks, Colonel. How long is this gonna go on?”

“That’s not exactly true, Price. We’ve eaten a rabbit or two, and a squirrel.”

“And some scrawny little pigeons,” someone ventured.

She saw what he was doing—drawing the men’s attention away from her—but she was so interested in the meat problem, she hovered near the door to listen.

Tom reached into his bulging back pocket, pulled out a bottle of amber liquid and thumped it down on the table. “This is fine whiskey, boys. One full quart.”

Every eye studied the bottle.

“Now I’m going to tell you how one of you can claim this joy juice. It’s plain we need meat. Fong tells me a deer’s been nibbling his tomato plants at night. I’ll give this bottle of liquid fire to the first man who shoots us some venison!”

“Hurray for the colonel!”

“I’m one crack shot,” yelled the Swede. “We haf meat by tomorrow.”

“A whole bottle for just one deer? Wouldja give me a gallon of rum if I kill an elk?”

“Elk meat tastes funny,” the man called Price said. “Least it did back in Kansas.”

“Hell, that weren’t no elk, that were a beef cow. Are all Kansans that stupid?”

Tom held up one hand and a hush fell. “Let’s get on with supper so we can be rolling into the timber at first light.”

Fong scurried past Meggy with an oval platter of sliced tomatoes in each hand. He plopped them down to the accompaniment of groans.

“Not more vegetables,” Price moaned. “I’m gonna turn into a carrot before this season’s half over!”

Tom slid onto the end of the bench and tapped the whiskey bottle with a ring he wore on his little finger. “Just a reminder, boys. We need meat to go with the potatoes.”

Meggy had to laugh. The man was a master at guiding people in the direction he wanted. Her father, minister of the Methodist persuasion until his death in the field at Shiloh, had been similarly persuasive. The difference was that Papa fought for men’s souls; Tom Randall cared about men’s stomachs.

Such a man surely lacked depth.

She tore her thoughts away from him and tried to focus on the mission she had set for herself. She calculated she would need about ten minutes to do what she had to do.

She spied two blue china plates loaded with food and set aside on a small kitchen table. First, she decided, she would eat her supper.

And then she would use the very trick Tom Randall had just showed her to benefit her own cause.

She did hope that God would forgive her.

Chapter Three

Meggy adjusted her position at the small kitchen table so she could see into the dining hall where the men were eating. As she lifted forkfuls of mashed potatoes and boiled carrots to her mouth, she watched Tom Randall out of the corner of her eye.

He sat facing her, speaking to the tall, dark-haired man across the table, the one who had stopped the freckle-faced boys’ scuffle. Tom’s blue eyes steadily surveyed the dark man’s face; Meggy studied Tom.

The colonel was a handsome man, she conceded. The skin of his face and arms was tanned from the sun, his features well proportioned. He wore a red plaid shirt, stuffed into dark-blue trousers. Even his mouth was attractive. For a Yankee, that is. Southern men generally sported mustaches.

The crew laughed and joked as they ate. Tom did neither. He kept his gaze on his men but didn’t join in beyond an occasional word. Many of them eyed the whiskey bottle Tom had set out, and a few even caressed the glass container as they finished their meal and meandered onto the porch for a smoke.

Fong bustled between the huge iron-and-nickel cookstove and the sink, pumping water into food-encrusted pots, shaving in bits of brown soap and setting the utensils aside to soak. Then the cook stood poised in the kitchen doorway, watching for the moment he could swoop down to clear the dirty plates the men had left on the table.

When the main room emptied, Fong shot forward, and Meggy laid her fork aside.

Here was her chance.

Very quietly she pushed back her chair, stood up and glided to the pantry. Inside, barrels of flour, sugar, salt and molasses lined one wall. Woven baskets stuffed with carrots, potatoes, apples and squash teetered on crude plank shelves, and bunches of drying herbs tied together with string hung upside down from nails in the ceiling.