Chapter Two

 

The train was already standing on the track when Bartholomew parked his wagon and hurried to the loading platform. The engine puffed steam and noisily belched out black smoke while it disgorged its passengers. People rushed to greet relatives and friends, adding joyous shouts and laughter to the chug-chug of the idling train and the rumble of baggage carts on the wooden platform.

For several seconds Bartholomew stood breathing in the hot-metal smell of the engine, mixed with perfume, body sweat and wood smoke. The air hummed with an excitement he did not share. Pritchard's request that he save the young man's bride from the hazards and discomfort of a stagecoach ride from Yamhill to Tillamook still nettled Bartholomew.

What on earth would he do with her on the long trip home? What could they talk about? Even if the weather remained fair and the road in good condition, they would still spend four interminable days together. Days when they would be entirely alone, for Hester had pleaded illness and opted to wait in Tillamook with friends until he returned.

Days of freedom from Hester and responsibility. Days, which Bartholomew had looked forward to with the eagerness of a child at Christmas.

And what of the nights that went along with those days? Miss Ariah Scott was a city girl. From what Pritchard had learned of her, which wasn't much, she had never as much as stepped foot out of Cincinnati before. Often Bartholomew stayed with friends when he traveled—the Olwells, the Uphams and the Rhudes—but what if it became necessary to camp out? How would such an inexperienced miss handle sleeping on the road with a strange man? And what would his friends think about him traveling with a young, unmarried woman? He would soon find out.

Several women stood on the loading platform, trunks and satchels stacked at their feet as they waited to be met. Two were elderly. Another proved to have a child hiding behind her skirts.

Then he saw her. Miss Ariah Scott.

Three or four inches taller than Pritchard, her body had as much substance as a puff of air. In spite of the current popularity of the perfect, hour-glass shape, this woman obviously disdained the use of body padding such as Hester used in filling out her figure. Miss Scott's face was long enough to wear a halter and was bound to curdle cream.

Bartholomew started forward, feeling both sympathy and irritation for his idiotic nephew, but before he half reached the horse-faced stick of a woman, she let out a screech and flew into the arms of a tall gentleman. Only partly relieved, Bartholomew went back to studying the crowd.

All the passengers had disembarked, and most had already left the station. A young woman came from the station house and joined an elderly lady. He dismissed her at once as being too pretty to have to resort to an arranged marriage with a man she'd never met. She glanced around, and bounced up and down on her heels with glaring impatience. When she turned his way, affording him a full view of her face, he sucked in his breath at its delicate beauty.

Burrowing into the shadow of an overloaded baggage cart, Bartholomew drank in his fill of her, the way an old seaman would guzzle a tankard of ale after too many months at sea. Her hair was the ordinary brown of a walnut shell. Her form, in a well-made traveling suit the color of hot house orchids, hinted of fragility. Her face was less than perfect, its shape too symmetrical, the skin too flawless, without even a smidgeon of character. As for the features, the brows were too thick, the nose too small and straight. And the mouth . . . Good hell, that well-defined mouth with its tiny mole perched so enticingly at the tip of one rounded peak fairly begged to be kissed.

But, except for her mouth and the fresh, innocent sort of sensuality he sensed about her, he was at a loss as to explain her appeal. When he heard the trill of her laughter, like the song of a bird—clear, resonant, alive—he knew. Her face was animated, her hands quick and graceful in their gestures. She was a living, breathing advertisement for youthful enthusiasm. For life.

For the first time in more years than he cared to remember, he was glad to be alive.

Awed by her affect on him, Bartholomew forgot about Miss Ariah Scott. He forgot Hester and Pritchard and the lighthouse station where he was Head Keeper. Had something not burst him out of his trance, he would likely have been content to stand there forever, watching this entrancing creature in her fantastical orchid attire. But at that moment a gray-haired man appeared. With an exclamation of joy the girl rushed toward him. She made as if to hug the man, nearly losing her balance when he quickly backed away.

"Here, here, young woman," the man blurted. "What do you think you're about?"

An elderly lady hurried over to them. "Anthony, what is going on here? Who is this . . .this female? Tell me at once or you'll be sleeping on the summer porch for the rest of your deceitful life, along with that mutt of yours."

Anthony's hands went up in testimony to his innocence. His irate wife took hold of his ear and hauled him to the buggy, casting the girl a look of contempt as she went. Instinctively, Bartholomew's feet carried him toward the trio, his protective urges to the fore. But the girl was already scurrying back to her friend. He turned away so she wouldn't know he had witnessed the embarrassing scene.

"Oh, Mrs. Doughney," the girl wailed when she reached the old woman, "why can't I ever think before I act? My mother always told me I was too impulsive by far and that I hadn't a modicum of common sense."

"No harm done, my dear." The woman patted the girl's gloved hand. "You're a bit anxious, is all. Be patient, your gentleman will show up."

"I'm afraid patience is another of my failings. How am I ever to be a proper wife when . . ."

The girl looked up and caught Bartholomew staring at her. Hope blossomed in her eyes. They were so full of eagerness, those irises, lively and optimistic and innocent. Stunning. The exact blue of forget-me-nots.

Abashed at being discovered spying on her, Bartholomew stepped forward. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to stare. I'm—"

"Are you Mr. Noon?" she asked.

Taken aback, Bartholomew stammered, "Why, yes. That is . . . do you mean to tell me you are—"

"Oh, I knew you'd come." With that she threw herself into his arms.

Bartholomew stiffened with shock. Then he shut his eyes as his body succumbed to the soft, warm feel of her. His arms closed about her. It was heaven. It was hell. His jaw clenched as he fought the urge to snatch her up and run away with her. Resolutely he moved his hands to her arms and set her away from him. Over her shoulder, Mrs. Doughney winked at him. Flushing with embarrassment, he bowed to the girl and spoke with stiff formality.

"I take it you are Miss Ariah Scott from Cincinnati?"

She laughed gaily. "Of course I am. Who else . . .?" Her voice faltered, her smile fled. "Gracious Sadie, I've done it again, haven't I?" Her hands flew to her face and she stared in dismay, first at Bartholomew, next at Mrs. Doughney. "I've made a fool of myself once more. Oh, I am hopeless, aren't I?"

"No, my dear," Mrs. Doughney assured her. "I'm sure Mr. Noon finds you as refreshing a change from the usual stiff-necked young misses from back east as I do. Is that not so, sir?"

Bartholomew smiled, glad to be able to switch his attention away from the girl. "Indeed, ma'am. And I am doubly relieved to see that someone was able to convince her to bring along a chaperon for her journey." He awarded the older woman a deep bow. "Bartholomew Noon at your service."

Chuckling, Mrs. Doughney gave an old-fashioned curtsey. "Utterly charming. If your nephew's manners are as gracious as yours, young man, I shall feel satisfied that my Miss Scott has found herself a good husband. I am not, however, her chaperon, but only an old woman lucky enough to have made her acquaintance when I boarded the train at Pendleton for my yearly visit to my son here in Portland."

"And what need do I have for a chaperon, I'd like to know?" Ariah Scott faced them, arms akimbo, a frown marring her pretty face. "It is nearly the twentieth century, after all, no longer the dark ages. Although one could hardly tell it from the way women are still being treated in some countries." Looking to Bartholomew she said, "Did you know that Greek women are cast from their homes and left to beg beside the road, or chased down and threatened with death, merely because some man got hold of them? Even the savages here in the West are more humane to their women than that."

For the first time in longer than he cared to recall, Bartholomew found himself smiling with genuine pleasure. "The fact that a man was able to get his hands on your Greek woman proves the need for good chaperons."

Ariah glared at him. "All it proves is that she was foolish enough to let herself get into a situation she could not handle. Anyway, this is America, not Greece. Women here are taking charge of their own lives every day. Haven't you ever heard of Arizona Mary?"

He shook his head no, but couldn't help smiling. Miss Ariah Scott was more than beautiful. She was unique. A fiery suffragette in nymph's clothing. Totally irresistible.

"Arizona Mary drove her own sixteen-yoke team of oxen and competed with male freighters quite successfully," Miss Scott was saying. "Or what about Charlie Pankhurst who drove a stagecoach for years until she died and people discovered she was a female? And did you know there have been ten female mayors already in the state of Kansas?"

"No, I didn't know that." Bartholomew struggled not to chuckle. "Were any of them elected to a second term?"

Taken aback, Ariah dropped her hands from her hips and stared at him. "Why, I don't know. There wasn't anything in the article about that."

Mrs. Doughney politely cleared her throat. "Well, this is all terribly interesting, my dear, but now that your young man is here, I believe I shall hire myself a buggy and go on to my son's house. The trip was the most enjoyable I can remember in a long time, but I am quite tired."

"No one is meeting you?" Bartholomew asked.

"No. My son is unmarried, Mr. Noon, and a very busy doctor. I discovered long ago that I was able to reach his home and kick off my city shoes much quicker if I didn't rely on him to tear himself away from patients in time to pick me up. The arrangement pleases us both."

"In that case, may I offer you a ride?"

"What are you driving, if I may be so rude as to ask?"

"You may be as rude as you like. I'm afraid I have only a farm wagon, much more useful for hauling supplies than a buggy."

"Of course it is. Unfortunately, it also has only one seat and that one not too comfortable. In front of the station there are men sitting around in nice cushioned buggies, hoping to pick up a few coins by driving old ladies like me to hotels and such. You won't mind, I'm sure, if I give my business to one of them and let the two of you get on your way."

Sudden panic at the thought of being alone with the entrancing child standing next to him assailed him, but he affected a state resembling calm. "No, of course not."

"Oh, Mrs. Doughney." Ariah threw her arms about the old woman. "I shall miss you so. You've been so kind."

"Nonsense, child. Haven't enjoyed myself so much in years. Waiting with you until your fiancée’s uncle came for you was the least I could do." Her eyes sought out Bartholomew and, once again, she winked. "And it was worth it. Mr. Noon is a handsome devil. Should give you an idea what you can expect in your own young man."

Ariah released her and looked back at him. "You're right, he is handsome. And I should have expected it, from the description Mr. Monteer provided in his wire. In my excitement I had forgotten about it until now."

Her gamin’s smile made Bartholomew's chest tighten. Surely this had to be a mistake. An awkward, immature pup like Pritchard couldn't possibly be lucky enough to win a nymph as intriguing as the one who stood before Bartholomew now. It was a waste, a crime, an outrage.

Bartholomew thought of Hester and tasted a bitterness so vile he closed his mind to it, shocked and mortified by the vehemence of his emotions. He felt as though someone had pried open his soul and spewed its contents onto the muddy, horse-befouled street. Frantically, he snatched at his last remaining bit of self-control, at the precious indifference to life he had so painfully, conscientiously cultivated over the years in order to survive.

"Yes, well, I must apologize for leaving you standing so long." He forced a smile.

"You're not quite what I expected either."

Mrs. Doughney chuckled and waved a finger at him. "I know exactly what you were expecting, young man. A prune of an old maid with a bun so tight it could probably hold up her stockings. Am I right?"

The tightness in his chest loosened a fraction as he gazed at the wizened face with its lively, dancing eyes.

"I confess." He awarded Mrs. Doughney a gallant bow, but his gaze was on the girl.

"That was exactly what I expected."

Miss Ariah Scott grinned.

Ariah. The name suited her. Light and airy. Perfect for a nymph. He struggled to regain his composure and remember what he was about.

Around them, passengers continuing on to Goble, where train and all would be ferried across the Columbia River before resuming the journey to Seattle, were boarding the train. Soon the platform would be empty except for porters and employees of the Union and Northern Pacific Railroads. And Bartholomew suddenly realized he too was eager to be away; he could not wait to have Miss Ariah Scott to himself.

"Actually," she was saying, "I never would have guessed you were Mr. Monteer's uncle. You seem much too young. How old are you anyway?"

Bartholomew burst into peals of deep masculine laughter that were rusty from lack of use, and which drowned out Mrs. Doughney's polite warning cough.

"Gracious Sadie!" Ariah blushed prettily. "I truly should have my mouth sewn shut. It's likely the only way I'll learn to stop shoving my foot in it."

Never! he wanted to say. Such delectable lips were meant to be used, though he did have a purpose other than conversation in mind. "I shall be thirty this year, eight years Pritchard's senior."

"An excellent age." Mrs. Doughney gave an approving nod of her gray head. "Old enough to have sown your oats, as they say, and to have made something of yourself, yet still young enough to adjust to the tricks fate plays on all of us, eh?"

Bartholomew glanced at Miss Scott, wondering if she could be one of fate's tricks. Something niggled at his memory. He shrugged it away.

"I'm sure you're right. Now, Miss Scott, if you'll point out the rest of your baggage, I'll get it loaded while you two finish your good-byes. We've a long way to go."

"Oh, yes, of course." She gestured to two small crates and a large trunk. "That's it there."

Bartholomew shouldered the trunk as though it contained nothing more than bird feathers, holding it in place with one arm while he squatted to pick up one of the crates.

As he put space between himself and the two women, he chuckled silently, remembering how he had wondered what he would do with the girl during the four long days of the journey home. There was no doubt about what he wanted to do. His hands ached with the need to stroke that smooth, velvet flesh, to explore and discover its secret contours. Thinking about it, four days no longer seemed enough.

He set the crate alongside the boxed-up fancy rosewood étagère Hester had insisted he buy her, and lowered the trunk onto the wagon bed.

Hester. Bartholomew's fantasy about Ariah burst like the seed head of a giant dandelion, scattered by the wind.

Hester was his wife—till death do us part—no matter how much he might wish things different. And Ariah Scott belonged to Pritchard.

His shoulders sagged under guilt as ponderous as a steam engine. He rested his arms on the sideboard, braced his forehead on a fist, and tried to banish the image of the girl's sweet tempting mouth, so lush, so—

A warm hand closed over his arm. "Are you all right, Mr. Noon? Is there anything I can do for you?"

Bartholomew looked down to see Ariah Scott standing only a kiss away, gazing up at him with those unbelievable forget-me-not blue irises, her luscious lips moist and parted, her concerned expression sweetly, guilelessly intent.

And he plummeted into hell.