A Timeless Romance Anthology: Winter Collection

by Heather B. Moore

  Not that ignoring everyone but James had helped much; Butch still tried to get her attention. He made off-color comments, laughed, and then went right back to his mashed potatoes as if nothing had happened. At times she wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing, but each time, his grin and the way he nudged his seatmates with his elbow told the truth.

  Now Caroline searched for a way to explain that wouldn’t denigrate a camp employee. “Mr. Larsen is not . . . now I hate to speak ill of anyone or spread gossip, but, well, he hasn’t been entirely . . . appropriate in his behavior toward me.”

  There. She’d said the words she’d been holding back for a nearly fortnight, ever since Butch started getting fresh with her. Her old childhood chum James—a boy who’d grown up on the neighboring farm—arrived at the camp two weeks before Butch, the day after Caroline herself came to help the Hansens in the cookhouse and with other odd jobs like mending the men’s work clothes. Unlike Butch, James worked on road construction duty, so the two men didn’t interact except for during meals, and even then they rarely spoke.

  The roads up the canyon were always rutted and filled with holes, especially in the spring and fall, due to the rain and the snow and subsequent freezing and thawing, making the ruts and holes even bigger. It was the job of the road team to keep the way passable for horse-and-mule teams pulling wagons filled with newly felled trees destined for the Mormon temple, the recently arrived telephone company’s poles, construction scaffolding, and other uses in the city of Logan in northern Utah.

  As Caroline waited for a verdict about the evening’s service, she bit the inside of her lip. Mrs. Hansen pressed her lips into a thin line as she eyed at Caroline critically. “Very well. I’ll do the serving . . . today,” she said, with extra stress on today. “But then I expect you to do all of the cleanup afterward. Every pot, pan, plate, and spoon. All of the sweeping and mopping and wiping down of countertops and tables. Hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Caroline said with a bob at the knee, too grateful for a reprieve from Butch’s unwelcome advances to care that she’d be working an extra hour or two after supper by herself.

  Mrs. Hansen took the bread basket from Caroline and marched into the main room. A distinct moan of disappointment went up, and Caroline had half a mind to peek out the doorway to see who all was reacting that way—surely more than Butch. Did James wish to see her? Possibly. Most nights after her duties were finished, the two of them took evening strolls along the canyon paths and roads together, chatting about old times at school and church, or whatever else struck their fancy. It was pretty much the only time she looked forward to during this job of hers that had taken her so far up the canyon.

  She’d been at the Wood Camp barely over a month, and already she was sick of it. She wouldn’t have come at all if it hadn’t been for the fact that her family needed the extra funds. They’d lost most of their spud crop to disease. Worse, her little sister Bertha suffered from a rare and chronic form of tuberculosis, requiring frequent physician visits and medication that seemed to do nothing, or make things worse, as often as it helped.

  Bertha’s condition is what finally sent Caroline up the canyon for employment. Mr. Hansen had heard about Bertha; as a child, he had battled the same disease for the better part of a decade. It had left him weak as a young man, unable to do manual labor, so he’d turned to tailoring to make a living before emigrating from Denmark. He’d offered the job to Caroline as a way to help pay for little Bertha’s care.

  He’d taken to teaching Caroline how to mend the workmen’s torn shirts and trousers, and she could now mend better than even her mother had taught her. She looked on the lessons as a gift, as each time she fixed someone’s worn-out or torn clothing, she was paid directly by the worker, which added to her stash for Bertha and the rest of the family. And maybe, if Providence shined upon her, for herself and her trousseau.

  Her position at camp would last a few more weeks, and then she’d head home for the remainder of the winter, during which time the Wood Camp would have a skeleton crew, and her services wouldn’t be needed. If they found they required help in the cookhouse again in the spring, she’d return then.

  Would Butch—or James—be here in the spring? She could hope not on the first count, and hope yes on the other. The men would take time yet to finish eating, but eventually they’d leave the building in search of evening pursuits, whether singing, reading scriptures, or resting.

  With the food already prepared, Caroline set to heating a pot of water on the stove to wash dishes in. First it would be the plates, cups, and silverware, and later the pans, bowls and other big dishes. With two pots of water settled to heat on the stove, she found two saucers and put butter in them for when they ran out. They always ran did, as the men generously slathered the stuff on their bread. She refilled the pewter pitchers with well water then prepared servings of peach cobbler for dessert before checking on the heat of the wash water, all while Mrs. Hansen bustled to and from the main room, serving the tired workers.

  As Caroline wiped her hands on her apron, she couldn’t help but think that even though the kitchen work kept her hopping, it was so much nicer than being in the main room. Butch was always the worst part of the experience, whether it was for breakfast, dinner, or supper. He managed to make things particularly uncomfortable for her at supper, when he seemed to lose some his inhibitions after a long day’s work. She had to wonder if he indulged in spirits after the work day was over, even if consuming alcohol was against Wood Camp rules. She didn’t know what alcohol smelled like, but even if she did, she wouldn’t have dared say anything to Mrs. Hansen about Butch imbibing; he scared her too much for that. She’d already stepped beyond her bounds today admitting that he made her uncomfortable.

  When she did have to serve the men, James was the one saving grace, whether she was handing out bread or serving up ladles of soup. With his unruly mop of curly hair, he always sent her encouraging smiles—and gritted his teeth whenever Butch tried to step over his bounds. Butch was subtle enough the few men were aware of his knavery, and no one would have dared confront him about them, not when he was from a respected family—and weighed almost twice what the other men did, his the extra weight being all muscle. More than once, James looked ready to pummel Butch, but Caroline always shook her head at James, begging him to never utter a word. She didn’t want him to risk his job by insulting Butch—who, they soon learned, was the great-nephew to Mrs. Hansen, or fourth cousin, or some other distant relation. No, insulting the blood of the foreman or his wife wouldn’t do.

  No one did, not to Butch, and not to the Hansens. Not even to Caroline.

  She kept her distress to herself as well.

  Chapter Two

  The men had retired from the cookhouse, as had Mrs. Hansen, leaving Caroline alone to finish the work of cleaning up the messes from the meal. She hummed to herself, caring nothing for the extra work or for being alone; after the dread of facing Butch again, the work and the time were nothing. She worked quickly and efficiently, changing songs as she went on to the next task. The only part of working late that she regretted was missing out on the chance for a walk with James. She hadn’t been out front at all—a time they usually confirmed their plans surreptitiously. First it was eye contact, then a subtle nod from James as he casually rested fingers on the table with fingers extended, representing how many hours from supper he’d come to fetch her from the foreman house. She always managed a wink as an affirmative answer.

  Tonight she saved for her final chore the trip outside to dump the dirty dish water. She hated the cold and the snow—and now, the darkness of winter. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, put on mittens, and then hefted the big tub of dirty water, which was now lukewarm and cloudy, with bits of carrot and parsley floating at the top. As she lugged the tub with both hands and headed for the back door of the cookhouse, she decided to find a way to get a message to James to apologize for not being available for a walk.

  The t
ree and bushes she usually dumped the water by stood where the ground sloped away from the cookhouse so nothing would drain back to the building. Cache Valley winters were always cold, but this was worse than usual. Often the dumped-out supper dishwater was frozen solid by morning.

  As Caroline walked to the tree, careful not to spill anything onto her dress, she pondered how best to get a message to James. A note on his bed? No, that might get stolen by another worker. Or, worse, she’d be seen going into the men’s bunkhouse—a fool’s errand, as she would have no idea where he slept. Besides, she’d end up with a reputation of a loose woman—something her mother had specifically cautioned her against before she came, what with being the only young, single woman at the camp.

  That realization eliminated the notion of tucking a note into one of his shirt pockets as well, which was a silly idea, as there was no knowing which shirt he would wear on the job tomorrow—possibly even the one he had on right now.

  She reached the tree and was about to lower the tub of water to the ground and let the water spill out, when a shadow stepped out from behind the tree and a deep voice said, “Missed seeing your figure at dinner, I did.”

  Caroline yelped, and the entire tub of water spilled everywhere—down her apron, to the hem of her dress, across the ground into a puddle, and onto the boots that belonged to none other than Butch Larsen.

  As she stared at him—unkempt hair, three days’ worth of stubble—she took one step backward, followed by a second. She spun on her heel and tried to run away, but Butch grabbed her arm by the elbow, making her cry out in pain as he twisted it—and her, to face him.

  “You’re hurting me. Please let go,” she said, her voice quiet but shaking.

  Butch squeezed her arm harder; she winced, knowing she’d have a bruise tomorrow. With a pleased smirk, he said, “I don’t think I will be letting you go. In fact, you’ve been teasing me so much these past weeks that I think I’ll not only hang on a bit longer, but take a little something for my troubles. A fragile lily like yourself can’t flaunt her petals like ye’ve been doing and not expect a man to pluck the flower for himself.”

  With his other hand, he reached behind her head and grabbed her chignon, yanking her head back. She gasped as he drew close, eyeing her mouth. His fetid breath made her nostrils flare with disgust. But she couldn’t get away, and this man was ready to kiss her against her will—or do who knew what else to her.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Oh, come now,” Butch said, his stale breath hovering above her face. “I’ve seen how you tease the men. It’s time you give me a little attention . . .”

  Scream! But she couldn’t. He’s the foreman’s family. You can’t scream.

  Butch paused briefly before releasing her elbow and hair. She breathed out with relief, but it was short-lived—he reached around her waist and pulled her close, grasping her right breast with one hand as he leaned low for a kiss. The shock and disgust overrode all else; she cried out—loudly.

  “Let me go, you brute!”

  Butch’s eyes widened with surprise, apparently at the idea of his prey fighting back, but Caroline was far from done. His pause gave her courage and the slightest bit of time. She lifted the heel of her boot and jammed it hard onto his toes. She jammed her elbow backward into his nose. She barely registered a disturbing—and somewhat satisfying—crunch—before she ran, taking no chances as Butch yelped and hopped away, releasing her in his pain. As she ran, he doubled over and moaned. The foreman’s house was too far away for an escape, so she headed straight for the cookhouse, where she locked the back door then rushed to the front door and locked it as well.

  She went to the back door again, ear pressed to the surface as she listened, unsure when it would be safe to emerge. Several men’s voices came from the other side of the door—half a dozen or more, based on the noise, including Mr. Hansen.

  “What’s the meaning of all the hollering?” the foreman demanded. “And why is this tub lying here? The snow will warp the wood, and it’ll be useless by morning.”

  Let the tub get warped in the snow. Caroline didn’t care. She could pay for the tub from her wages if need be, but she wouldn’t go back out. Not as long as Butch was out there.

  Mr. Hansen continued, his voice rising. “And what’s the matter with you, Larsen? Why’s your spud of a nose bleeding all over the place? Huh?”

  His nose was bleeding. A fraction of a satisfied smile curved Caroline’s mouth; she’d shown him what kind of strength a “fragile lily” really had.

  A woman spoke next; it had to be Mrs. Hansen. “I heard Caroline yelling at him to let her go. By the looks of the spilled tub there, I’d say Mr. Larsen here was trying to have his way with her.”

  “I was doing no such thing,” Butch insisted. “She misunderstood my offer for gentlemanly help. Flew into a mad craze. She’s a crazy, I tell ya.”

  Caroline wanted to yell at him over that accusation, but Mr. Hansen came to her defense. He grunted as if he didn’t believe a word Butch said.

  “Son, you’re walking on thin ice. This ain’t no place for fraternizing with the help. Before you signed on, you agreed to abide by camp rules. If you can’t do that, you’ll have to—”

  “You can’t fire me,” Butch interjected. “I’m family.” But his voice was muted, as if he held a hand over his nose.

  Knowing that reinforcements had arrived, that Butch wouldn’t be breaking into the cookhouse, Caroline extinguished the two lamps in the main room then crept to the side of the building near a window and peered out. Bless Mrs. Hansen for figuring it all out even if she had doubted Caroline earlier.

  Mr. Hansen grabbed Butch’s arm in his own old, but beefy, one and began carting him back to the main house with the help of three other men. “You may be family, but you’re a disgrace to the parents who raised you. And you’re not to set foot at my camp again. You leave first thing in the morning, and I’ll personally stand guard over you all night if I have to make sure you don’t cause any more trouble.”

  Butch seemed to whimper—actually whimper!—while unsuccessfully resisting those who restrained him. Mr. Hansen grunted and said, “Here, take some snow and pack it around your nose. It’ll help with the swelling.”

  As they walked back to the house in the darkness, the burst of energy that had carried Caroline seemed to drain away all at once. Her knees felt ready to unhinge completely, and her whole body starting trembling. She stumbled to a bench at a table, where she dropped her head to her arms and let herself cry.

  She’d been sitting on the bench for a few minutes, letting her terrified, exhausted, confused emotions stream out, when a knock came on the front door of the cookhouse. Caroline’s heart thumped so hard that she sucked in her breath and sat bolt upright, unmoving.

  “Caroline? Are you in there? It’s me, James. I couldn’t find you, and after what I heard about Butch, I’ve been looking all over for you.” He knocked again a few times then tried the door handle. “Please, if you’re in there, open the door.”

  Relief coursed through her; James was here. She’d be safe with him. She extricated herself from the bench and all but flew to the door. Her hand shook as she tried to turn the heavy iron key to let James in. Finally the lock released, and he pushed the door open. She held her breath until she was certain the figure really was someone she could trust.

  “There you are.” That was James’s voice; she’d know it anywhere. She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder at the horror or what might have been—and at the relief of what hadn’t been.

  Chapter Three

  They stood by the doorway for several moments while her sobs gradually calmed. She lifted her head and wiped at his worn work shirt. “I’ve gotten you all wet.”

  “I don’t care,” James said. “Here, let’s close the door and sit down.”

  She hadn’t noticed the swirls of snowflakes twisting about in small circles about their feet. With a nod, she stepped backward, away from
James’s touch so he could close the door. The heavy door shut with a thud.

  “Lock it?” she said, hating that her voice sounded so mouse-like. She’d never thought of herself as a weak woman in need of rescuing. She may have fought Butch off—ultimately with success, especially when others had heard the commotion—but with the confrontation over, she couldn’t so much as turn a key in a lock. Once was almost more than she could do, just to let James in. Butch may be under watch now, but she still wanted the extra security of a locked door.

  James nodded and turned the key. By the light of the nearly full moon, Caroline made her way to a bench and dropped to it. When he stepped away from the door, he peered through the windows as if checking for anyone lurking outside. Apparently pleased with what he had—or hadn’t—seen, he came to the table and sat beside Caroline. They sat side by side, backs to the table.

  Not until James sat only inches away, the silver light from outside spilling across his chest, did she fully realize that she was alone with a man, and with no chaperone in sight. And after all the warnings and talks with her mother before her mother had agreed to let Caroline take up employment at the Wood Camp.

  If she could see me now, she’d fall down dead from shock.

  Yet somehow, Caroline didn’t care. James wouldn’t hurt her, not like Butch had threatened to. James was here to keep her safe. He wouldn’t impose upon her in any way.

  Even if the men spread stories did, she hadn’t the heart to care at the moment; her reputation could go hang. For right now, she needed to be safe—needed to know that no one would hurt her. James had always looked out for her ever since they were ten years old and he’d chased off two boys who’d harassed her during lunch hour at school.

  James took her trembling left hand between his two rough but gentle ones. “I am so sorry you had to go through that.” Caroline nodded mutely, unable to speak. “Butch finally confessed after Mrs. Hansen raked him over the coals, defending your morals.” He chuckled. “I don’t envy the man.”