Lynna Banning - The Angel Of Devil's Camp

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.