Wishmakers Read online

  “I want a shirt like yours.” She ran her fingertips over the soft flannel. “And some boots like Beth had on this morning.”

  “She's running up the bill on me, Dottie. Oh, well, I'm a sucker for a pretty face.”

  When they left the store Margaret was wearing jeans, a green cotton shirt Chip had insisted she buy, and comfortable rubber-soled running shoes, and she was carrying a red and black checked mackinaw similar to Chip's. The Jourdan suit was stuffed into a brown paper sack.

  Chip tossed the bundle containing her new wardrobe into the backseat of the car. They had bought sweatshirts, calf-high boots, more jeans and shirts, and at the last minute Chip had added a long flannel nightgown and fleece-lined slippers to the pile.

  “Okay. Now let's get something to eat.”

  Margaret dug into her purse for a comb. “I look a mess after trying on those clothes.” She combed through the soft waves brushing her cheeks, then smoothed her bangs.

  Chip grinned at her. “Some mess. Look at yourself.” He tilted the rearview mirror so she could see.

  “I don't have on any lipstick, and I forgot to bring it,” she moaned.

  “Good. You don't need any.”

  They drove slowly down the main street until they found a place to park, and Chip angled the car in facing the curb.

  “Saturday is a big shopping day here,” he explained. “Friday is payday at the mill.”

  “I thought the mill ran on Saturdays during the busy season.”

  “We've shut it down to just Saturday mornings now. By this afternoon the town, especially the bars, will be full. C'mon. This place is known for its homemade pie.”

  They met on the sidewalk in front of the car, and Chip tucked her hand in his. By now it was a familiar gesture, and Margaret's fingers found spaces between his. Several people gave Chip a friendly greeting and eyed Margaret with interest.

  The diner they entered was small, with a row of booths down one side and a counter with low barstools down the other. The window was full of green plants, and a vine growing in a large pot reached the ceiling by way of a small lattice. The woman behind the counter was blond, middle-aged, and pleasant. She greeted Chip with easy familiarity, extending a friendly acknowledgment in Margaret's direction.

  Chip led Margaret to a booth. “This place will be loaded in another half hour.”

  “What'll you have, Chip?” The blond woman set two cups and a thermos pitcher of coffee onto the table. Her eyes darted from Chip to Margaret.

  “This is Maggie, Donna. She's here to visit for a while. I'm showing her the sights.”

  “That won't take long,” Donna said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “If you bat your eyes when you go through this town you'll miss it altogether.”

  Margaret was uncertain whether she should offer her hand. She hadn't expected to be introduced to a waitress. Chip, for all his status as the man who supplied most of the jobs in the area, was certainly on familiar terms with the people who lived here.

  “Give us a couple of tenderloin sandwiches and a slice of your famous apple pie, Donna.” He reached across and covered Margaret's hand with his. “Okay with you, sweetheart?”

  Margaret nodded while butterflies of happiness danced in her stomach. She saw the woman raise her brows. Chip was clearly announcing that she was more than a casual friend here for a visit. Even if it was just a subterfuge to protect her identity, this sense of belonging to Chip was the most sensuous, lovely feeling she'd ever experienced. She immediately felt a moment's remorse as Justin's face flashed before her eyes.

  “Like that, is it? Well, it's about time, Chip Thorn. You've driven all the unattached females between fifteen and forty wild for too many years now. It's time you picked one and put the others out of their misery.”

  “If that's the case, how come you haven't been giving me the come-on?” That irresistible charm spread over his face again, and Margaret's eyes couldn't leave it.

  “Honey, if I weren't more than five years on the top side of forty, you'd not've had a chance. I'd have been after you like a coon dog on a hot trail.” She flounced away, giving Margaret a wink over her shoulder.

  “I can't get over the fact that everyone knows you so well.” Margaret had allowed her hand to rest beneath his while the waitress was at the table. Now that there was no longer an excuse, she slid it into her lap.

  “You mean you're surprised because everybody calls me Chip instead of Mr. Thorn and no one stands at attention when I walk by?”

  “No, I didn't mean that. From what I've learned, the company is the principal employer in this area, and these people look to you for their jobs.” She knew she was on shaky ground, and she wished she hadn't brought up the subject.

  “That's true. If Anthony/Thorn folded, this place would be a ghost town in a couple of years. I don't intend for that to happen, and the people know it.” He studied her for a moment. “Are you wanting to sell your shares and wash your hands of this puny operation?”

  “No!” The denial came without hesitation, and something inside her contracted with hurt. She didn't want to talk about the mill today. There would be time enough for that next week when she visited it.

  “When is Dolly coming home?” Donna slid a basket containing a giant sandwich in front of each of them.

  “Monday or Tuesday. Arlene Rogers took Penny over to Kalispell today. We'll know for sure when she brings her back tomorrow.”

  “Arlene Rogers? Humph!”

  Margaret looked quickly at Chip to see his reaction to Donna's grunt of disgust, but he was spreading mustard on his sandwich, his face expressionless.

  “Before you go, I'm going to sell you some tickets to the dance tonight,” Donna announced when she returned with the catsup bottle. “The V.F.W. is having a benefit for the Secorys, who were burned out last week. Betty and the kids have moved in with her sister, and Larry is out at the place trying to clear a spot to put up another house. How many tickets do you want?”

  “A hundred,” Chip replied calmly.

  “I thought you would,” Donna remarked just as matter-of-factly. “Ought to take your girl to the dance. If she can survive that, she's tough enough to winter with.”

  “Want to go, honey?” Chip's eyes twinkled at her, and Margaret carefully placed the large bun in the basket to hide her confusion.

  “I didn't bring anything to wear to a dance.”

  “Oh, you don't dress up at our dances,” Donna said quickly. “It's a square dance. Most everyone wears cotton skirts, some wear jeans—the ones that have the little behinds and look cute in them,” she said with a forlorn shake of her head.

  “We'll buy a skirt if you want to go.” Blue eyes met hers with a definite challenge in their depths.

  “I always get me a dance with this gorgeous hunk. You'd not cheat me out of that, would you?” The woman placed her hand on Chip's shoulder, but her smiling eyes were on Margaret.

  “I certainly wouldn't want to do that. I suppose I'll have to stand in line to get a dance with this gorgeous hunk myself,” Margaret teased, and she was delighted to see Chip squirm a little in his seat.

  “That settles it. I'll get your pie.”

  The pie was an enormously thick wedge of crispy pastry oozing fruit and topped with vanilla ice cream. Margaret agreed it was delicious, but after the sandwich she was able to take only a few bites. Chip finished his and reached for hers.

  The diner was filling rapidly by the time they were ready to leave. Chip answered greetings as they waited beside the cash register to pay the bill. Margaret was conscious of the speculation in the looks she was receiving and she was acutely aware of the fact that Chip's proprietary attitude toward her was creating the impression that they were far more than friends.

  “Let's go over to the office,” Chip suggested when they reached the sidewalk. “It's only a few blocks; we can walk.” Again he took her hand, dwarfing it in his palm, and they strolled down the street past shops, bars, eating places, and a brand new bank. T
hey took their time, looking into store windows. The sign in one said:

  YOU LL NEVER GET A LEMON AT LEMON S.

  Margaret tugged on Chip's hand to stop him. “This is where we bought my clothes. It looks different from the front. Do they sell skirts here?”

  “Maybe. We'll take a look after we've been to the office.” He squeezed her fingers. She looked up and lost herself in his smiling blue eyes.

  The square brick building sat at the end of the street. It was unadorned except for a small bronze plaque that read: ANTHONY/THORN. Chip unlocked the door, and they walked into a tastefully furnished reception area. He led her through a hallway and into his private office.

  “Sit down if you like, or look around. I've got a few things to do.”

  “Is this where you work?” She looked at the large desk, the leather swivel chair, and the framed map on the wall studded with different colored flag pins.

  “Part of the time. We have a very capable office staff, so I spend most of my time out in the field. The blue shaded area on the map is the area we're working this year. The green is next year's, and the orange the year after that. The flags with the C are logging camps, the E flags are equipment stations, and so on. Next week I'll take you out to one of the camps. You might as well see the whole show while you're here.”

  “I'd like that,” she murmured.

  While Chip sat at the desk and thumbed through some documents, Margaret wandered out into the hall and looked into the other offices. The telephone on one of the desks reminded her that she should call Rachel. She sat down and dialed the number. After a few rings Rachel was on the phone.

  “Margaret? Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am! I wanted to let you know that I arrived safely. Mr. Thorn is showing me around this morning. We're in the company office in Aaronville.”

  “Aaronville? Oh dear! Well…” she said hesitantly, “the country must be lovely there this time of year. Where are you staying, dear? How can I get in touch with you without going through the office?”

  “I'm staying out near the mill. The company owns a house there. Don't call me at the office, Rachel. It would be awkward. I still don't want anyone here to know who I am. They're very curious about strangers as it is. Chip…Mr. Thorn…has introduced me as…a friend.”

  “Are you feeling a bit more confident about being on your own?”

  “It's strange, but I do. Mr. Thorn inspires confidence. Sometimes I find it hard to believe I'm really here. I should have done this five or six years ago.”

  “Yes, and I feel bad that I couldn't convince Edward to let you live your own life.”

  “I'll never regret those years, Rachel. It gave Daddy peace of mind having me there, and…I knew I was loved. Oh, by the way, there's a man here who knows who I am. Mr. Thorn had an emergency and couldn't meet the plane, so he sent a man named Tom MacMadden. Mr. Thorn said he'd figure out who I was anyway, so he might as well be in on the secret from the beginning. If you need to reach me and all else fails, you can contact him.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Rachel? Are you there?”

  “Yes, dear. I heard you. What did you think of Mr. MacMadden?”

  “He's nice. A real earthy, independent type of man. He seemed put out when I asked if he worked for the mill.”

  “Well, I doubt if I'll need to contact him. Give me the number at the house where you're staying, and I'll call there if I need you. Of course, you could call me every few days.”

  “I'll do that anyway. Hold on for a minute and I'll get the number from Chip.” Margaret punched the button to put the phone on hold and went into Chip's office.

  The big chair at the desk was empty. A quick glance told her he wasn't in the room. She stood beside the door and looked down the hall. The building was quiet. Was he in the men's room? She waited a minute, then walked quickly toward the front foyer, a nervous flutter in her stomach.

  Margaret stepped into the room and felt her heart jump into her throat. A man, a big man with a black beard, was coming toward the door. He was less than a couple of yards away, and he stopped short when he saw her. She stood riveted to the floor, her hand raised in horror to her mouth, and watched the man reach for her. Then, terrorstricken, she turned blindly and ran.

  “Chip! Chip!” she shrieked.

  Miraculously he was there at the end of the hall, a haven—safety! Desperate, Margaret stumbled toward him and threw herself into his embrace. She wrapped her arms about his waist and buried her face against his chest. His arms enfolded her.

  “What the hell? Maggie?”

  Margaret glanced over her shoulder to see the big man standing at the end of the hall, his palms raised and a look of puzzlement on his face. She burst into tears.

  “Did Boomy frighten you? I'll admit he looks like a bear, but he's harmless. He works here on our electronic equipment.”

  Margaret barely heard the words over her racking sobs. Humiliation replaced fright. Once again she'd made a fool of herself, and of course Chip had to witness it.

  “I'm sorry.” The tears were pouring down her face, and she was desperately trying to control her voice. “I couldn't find you and…then he was there.”

  “You were talking on the phone, so I went back to the storage room. Now don't cry.” His hands moved up and down her back, and he held her protectively close.

  “I was talking to Rachel Riley. She wanted the number at the house so she could call me.” She choked back her hysteria, knowing she was going to have to lift her face and look at him.

  “Is she still on the phone?” he asked patiently.

  “Yes. I put it on hold.” She drew away from him and glanced down the hall. It was empty. “She'll wonder what's happened.”

  “C'mon. I'll talk to her.” He frowned, then smiled. “I'll have to ask Boomy to come around more often.”

  They went back into his office, and Margaret plucked a couple of tissues from a packet on the shelf and wiped her eyes. Chip picked up the phone.

  “Miss Riley, this is Chip Thorn.” His voice was abrupt, businesslike. “No, there's nothing wrong. Margaret couldn't find me. I'd gone to the storage room.” He listened for a moment. “I don't think it would be wise for you to call her there. The phone is on a seven-party line. If you feel you must get in touch with her, you can call me here at the office. I'll know the call is really for her, and I'll have her call you back.” He swiveled in the chair, and Margaret couldn't see his face, but his voice held a note of impatience. She was feeling too wretched to wonder why.

  Chip put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Do you want to speak to her again?” He looked at her intently. She nodded, and he handed her the phone.

  “I'm back, Rachel,” she said in her brightest tone. “I'll call again soon.” She glanced at Chip, whose eyes had iced over like a winter frost. “I love you, too. 'Bye.” She replaced the phone carefully, not wanting to look at Chip, who was still watching her very closely.

  “You think I'm paranoid, don't you.” She looked away from him to some distant spot behind his head, but she could still see his face. Instinctively she knew she would always see his face; it would be forever etched in her mind.

  The softness of his voice brought her eyes back to his. “Are you?”

  “Yes.” The whispered word was an admission she hadn't even made to herself before.

  Chip got up from the chair and moved around the desk. His hands found her shoulders, and his thumbs made little circling movements in the hollows beside her collarbone.

  “The first step in solving a problem is admitting you've got one,” he said reassuringly to the top of her head.

  Her eyes fastened on a spot at the base of his throat. She found herself tongue-tied. Her mind went blank, and she couldn't think of anything to say. It seemed quite natural to rest her forehead against the spot she had looked at so intently. They stood silently until they heard a door closing in another part of the building. Chip moved away from her, but he slid a hand down her arm
to clasp hers.

  “Come and meet Boomy.”

  The large, black-bearded man insisted on taking the blame for frightening her.

  “I'm sure sorry I scared you. I didn't see Chip's car, and my first thought was that someone had broken into the office. You were as much of a surprise to me as I was to you.”

  “I panicked. My only excuse is that in the city we keep three locks on every door.” Margaret decided she liked Boomy. He was big and woolly, but soft and gentle, like a teddy bear.

  “I know about that. I lived in Washington, D.C., for several years. This is the best place to live and raise kids. I suppose even this place will fill up eventually, and we'll all put three locks on the doors, but for now my wife and I are enjoying it. I'd like you to meet her sometime.”

  “I'd like that.” Her fingers curled tightly around Chip's. She welcomed his confidence, his self-assurance.

  “We'll be at the benefit dance tonight. Maybe we'll see you there.” Chip's fingers spread against Margaret's rib cage and urged her to the door. “C'mon, sweetheart, let's see if we can find you a party dress.”

  Her heart brightened and she looked up at him with merry devilment. “Does that mean I can run up the bill?”

  The warm blue eyes were amused, the whisper a husky caress. “Sure. But you'll have to suffer the consequences.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  FEELING SOMEWHAT LIKE a sixteen-year-old getting ready for her first date, Margaret dressed for the evening out with Chip. She had chosen a full, dark cotton skirt from a rack in the store. It had a deep ruffle edged with eyelet lace on the bottom, and Chip had insisted she buy a simple, emerald-green blouse to go with it. She carefully applied her makeup, turned her hair under with the electric curling iron, and stared at herself in the mirror over the bathroom sink. Was that young-looking person really she? Wrinkling her nose, she gave herself a big smile. “Calm down, Margaret Anthony,” she said to the starryeyed reflection. “You're acting like a kid on Christmas morning!”

  But there was no way she could heed her own advice when she pivoted for Chip's inspection. “Will I do?” Her voice quivered a little in spite of her attempt at control.