“Tyler Evert Barker!”
“Say, Judge, your autograph is too fine and proper for a bucker. You oughter go into show business.”
“Grace Nickerson!”
She froze. The men went quiet out in the mess hall, but there was no way she was parading in front of them to retrieve her letter.
“I’ll go get it for you, Gracie,” Sam volunteered. He returned in moments. “It’s from Aunt Sally and Uncle Peter. I got one too.”
Grace wiped her hands on her apron and took the letter. The familiar script swept her with powerful emotions. She placed the precious envelope in her pocket to savor that evening in her bedroom.
The mail call continued. “Charles Lamden!”
“Happy Charlie! Even you can’t find gloom in a letter!”
Grace heard his morose reply. “It’s probably bad news.”
Before too many more minutes, the clamor had transferred to the bunkhouse. Grace didn’t know where the crews found the energy to celebrate the end of the week so enthusiastically. She could barely stand up to stack the last of the evening’s dishes. And tomorrow, while the crews would take a day off, she’d be peeling potatoes and baking pies. Even on Sunday, everyone needed to eat.
“Miss Nickerson?”
Grace barely heard her name over the sound of loud fiddling and shouts of laughter. Ivan flicked his mustache at the door, granting permission to answer the summons.
It was the young teamster. In his arms sat a gangly kitten, its white fur splotched with black.
“Bertie!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you?”
She wrapped the trembling animal in her apron before taking it from the young man’s arms. The fabric soon looked like it had been dipped in stove blacking.
“He was looking down at us through the smoke hole again,” the teamster said, “only this time he lost his balance and tumbled into the camboose.”
“Bertie!” Grace scolded, checking his paws for burns. “You must stop climbing on the roof!” Twice, so far, Sam had to scramble up the crossed logs at the corner of the building to rescue the mischievous animal.
Bertie gave a plaintive meow and tried twisting out of Grace’s arms, so she seated herself at one of the tables to finish her examination with a firmer grip. She chose one close to the kitchen; the mess hall walls did little to keep out the frigid evening air.
“He landed at the very edge of the fire. I think he scrambled out before getting singed too badly. Hope it didn’t cost him one of his lives,” the teamster joked, sitting down across from her.
When the worst of the soot had been wiped away, only one foot appeared to be damaged. “It’s just a blister,” she said with relief. “Thank you for bringing him to me.”
“You’re welcome,” the young man answered, but he didn’t go away.
Ivan lumbered out of the kitchen with a tub of lard. “Good for burns,” he grunted. Despite his gruffness, Grace knew he was partial to the cat. She sometimes caught him with Bertie on his lap, stroking the soft fur or dangling his apron strings in front of those quick paws. She smiled her appreciation.
The cook sniffed, nodded once, and returned to his work.
The teamster watched Grace spread the white grease on the injured paw. “It took a near tragedy, but I finally got to meet the elusive Grace Nickerson.”
She glanced sharply at him. “Why are you still here?”
“Sam said you were wary,” he chuckled. “My name is Gideon Black. I just wanted to meet you, but it’s not so easy when you’re always hiding. A girl as pretty as you should get out and socialize some.”
“There’s no one here to socialize with,” she said flatly.
Gideon glanced pointedly at all the empty seats. “You haven’t seen anyone else in camp?”
She looked at him in disgust. “I mean, there’s nobody here my age except Sam.”
“I’m fifteen,” he countered. “I have a sister your age. Two of the swampers are seventeen. And Johnny, the road monkey, he’s only fourteen.”
“Road monkey?”
“One of the road crew. Johnny mostly, you know, cleans up the ice after the horses.”
Grace set Bertie on the floor. He trotted under a table and sat with his toes extended, licking off the grease. “What do you want, Gideon?”
“How about a game of checkers? I know you get a few hours off tomorrow afternoon.”
“No, thank you. I’m in the middle of a book and I’d like to finish reading it. And I have plenty of schoolwork to catch up on.”
“Aw, come on, Grace,” he cajoled. “It’ll be fun.”
Grace hesitated. For a moment, he didn’t seem so different from the boys she had grown up with. She shook her head.
“All right. Read your book. But I’ll be here at two o’clock anyway.”
Gideon returned to the bunkhouse and Grace, her chores finally finished, retreated to the safety of her bedroom. Shivering, she slipped out of her dress and under two company blankets and Grandma Harper’s quilt, waiting till the material warmed before reaching her arms out to light a candle. Then, placing the light on the floor, she opened Aunt Sally’s letter.
Grace’s lip quivered as she read about home. The letter contained only mundane details about the farm and a bit about the neighbors, but she could see it all, and she could feel her aunt’s love across the miles. She longed with all her heart to be there.
After reading through it three times, Grace blew out the light and placed the precious paper beneath her pillow. But she couldn’t sleep. The noise from the bunkhouse traveled straight through the gaps in the wall.
And Grace found her mind wandering. Not to Aunt Sally, but to Gideon.
Chapter 7
“Silas, if you don’t get a haircut today, I’m going to tie you down and do it myself.”
Grace was wiping down a work table she had already cleaned twice, peeking into the dining hall to see if Gideon really would follow through with his promise of the night before, but the only one to come near during the last ten minutes was Mr. Bigg, barking out orders as usual. She could hear the conversation in the dingle.
“Aw, you ain’t the boss man no more,” Silas growled.
“Maybe I should be. That dirty, tangled mess will attract every flea for fifty miles. Get one of the men to hack it off before you infest the whole bunkhouse. And while you’re at it, take a bath.”
“What if I don’t?” he groused. “You gunna pin me down and scrub me?”
Grace could hear the disgust in the scaler’s voice. “Not even with gloves on. But I’m not above throwing you in the river.”
Sunday was, in fact, wash day. Pa insisted on a scour and a change of clothes at least every other week to keep the bugs down. Other than swapping out wet socks, hygiene wasn’t something most lumberjacks resorted to, so Sunday morning brought a good deal of grumbling.
But Pa’s word was law, so fleas and laundry went into the washtub. The men shaved and trimmed and splashed enough water on themselves to pass muster. And Sam was kept busy all morning heating water and running errands.
Apparently, Silas ignored the scaler, for he stepped into the mess hall a moment later. Grace leaned out to see him enter with another jack who looked, if it was possible, even greasier and more bug-bitten than Silas.
“I wish that bloke would step under a falling branch,” the companion muttered.
“Who, Bigg?” Silas scoffed. “He’s an annoyance, but he hasn’t got an ounce of clout. It’s Nickerson drives this place, Pokey, even if he is something of a washerwoman.”
“Then why not clear out for another operation?”
“It’s too late in the season, jug head.”
The door slammed against the wall and Fiddlestick’s high-pitched laughter filled the mess hall. “You boys hidin’ from the dirt police, too?”
“We were just discussing that,” Silas drawled.
“Ain’t natural, boys. Ever seen a horse take a bath?”
Pokey snorted in reply.
“You won’t see this old horse take one either. Not if I can help it.” Fiddlesticks cackled and slapped his thigh.
The mess hall filled with silence, and Grace peeked out again to see Silas eyeing the barn boss suspiciously. “You remind me of someone, old man.”
“Sticks is the name. Been here, been there. Mighta passed each other somewhere, but I don’t recollect you, son.”
Grace, figuring she’d rather not hear any more, hung her rag to dry and settled onto Sam’s bunk with Aesop’s fables in hand. She had just decided Gideon wasn’t going to show up for his checkers game when she heard his voice in the mess hall, and her heart gave a little leap.
“Afternoon, Silas, Pokey. Coast is clear, Sticks. Bigg and Nickerson went into the van.”
“Thank ya mightily, boy,” Fiddlesticks answered, and his laugh trailed him from the building.
“Black,” Silas drawled, his voice grown more sinister, “it might be in your best interest to choose better company.”
“I’ll thank you to let me pick my own friends. What are you doing in here?”
“Avoiding the public bathhouse, same as the old man.”
The tension that poured into the room spilled over into the kitchen.
“We’re not looking for trouble, Silas,” Gideon stated.
“Keep hanging out with that one and you’re going to find it.”
A heavy clomp of boots marked a peaceful end to the confrontation. With her book still in hand, Grace stepped out into the mess hall to meet Gideon only to shrink back from the lean, tall black man who accompanied him.
“Grace!” Gideon called out, spotting her at once. The two lumberjacks were upon her before she could escape. “I want you to meet my friend, Jefferson Jones. I brought him along just in case you stood me up. Jeff, this is Grace Nickerson, Sam’s sister.”
“Nice to meet you, miss,” Jeff said, holding out a calloused hand that completely engulfed her own. “I can see now, you and Sam do look like kin.”
“Shoot! They ought to. They’re twins,” Gideon told him.
“That’s real fine,” Jefferson said with a smile like a row of corn kernels. “Families should stick together.”
Gideon held up a checkerboard burned onto a slab of wood. “So, Grace Nickerson, are you going to put your book down and play against me, or does Jeff, here, have to be my date?”
Grace hesitated, glancing uncertainly at the big lumberjack. He was so large and dark. Just then, Johansen poked his head in the door, “Hey, Wrong Hand, I got a new helve made for your ax. I need the head to make it fast.”
Jefferson waved a hand in acknowledgment. “Guess I’m the one standing you up,” he told Gideon with a clap on the shoulder. “Miss Nickerson, it’s a pleasure.”
She watched him walk away with long, easy strides. “Why did Johansen call him that?” she asked, finally finding her voice.
“What, Wrong Hand? Most of the fellas call him that.”
“But why?”
“It’s just a joke about being left-handed. It started when Silas put up such a stink about being paired with him, and it stuck.”
“Does he like it?”
Gideon shrugged. “He don’t put up no fuss. Jeff is pretty laid back. ’Sides, plenty of the men have nicknames.” He set the game on the table. “Ready to play?”
Grace bit her lip. “Is Silas still angry about working with Jefferson?” she asked in a low voice.
“Sure he is. Grudge like that takes a lifetime to wear off, and maybe that ain’t long enough. But I guess Jeff can take care of hisself.”
He dumped out a sockful of black and white buttons and set up the board. “Thanks for meeting me like this. Sometimes I just got to get out of the noise and stench of the bunkhouse.”
She smiled and watched him set the game pieces on the charred squares. “Is this your first year logging?”
“Second. It’s the worst job in the world. Reckon I’d rather go to jail, ’cept that wouldn’t earn no money for Mama. You make the first move.”
She pushed a black button forward with her fingertip. “If you hate it so much, why don’t you find a different job?”
“Ain’t none. With so many soldiers flooding back, who wants to hire a kid?”
“That hardly seems fair,” she observed. “Where’s your Pa?”
“Chickamauga cemetery.”
“Oh.” Stupid question. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Everyone here lost somebody. We’re all learning to live with the changes.”
The silence felt awkward. In her embarrassment, Grace lost her train of thought, and Gideon jumped a button all the way to her side of the board.
“Sam told me your family had a farm over Saginaw way,” Gideon prompted. The comment ushered in a wash of feelings she’d rather not display.
When she didn’t speak, Gideon continued. “I’m a farm boy myself. My folks purchased forty acres north of Grand Rapids the year I was born. I’ve never known anything but animals and hard work.” He shrugged. “Guess that’s why McCready made me a teamster. Gets the family through winter, anyway.”
Grace paused, her finger on a button. “You knew Mr. McCready?”
“Sure I knew him,” Gideon replied.
“What was he like?”
“A hard driver. A bit stand-offish and gruff, but a decent enough sort, I suppose.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
Gideon gave her a quizzical look. “Reckon you can’t be boss without ruffling some feathers, but if you mean did anyone want him dead, no, I don’t think so.”
“What happened when he died?” she probed. “I mean, what were the circumstances?”
“Are you going to take your turn?”
“Oh, sorry.” She pushed the button forward. He promptly jumped it.
“It was the darndest thing,” Gideon answered, plucking the conquered game piece from the board. “McCready just showed up dead one Sunday on a skid road, shot through. His rifle was laying a few feet away. No one knows what happened. Best we can figure is he shot himself accidentally while out hunting.”
Grace frowned. “With a rifle? That doesn’t make any sense. He couldn’t reach the trigger if the barrel pointed at his body.” She hopped one of Gideon’s buttons and added it to her much smaller pile.
“Maybe he dropped it. Maybe he slipped. Maybe the trigger snagged on a branch.” Gideon shrugged. “Hard telling. Accidents happen in the woods all the time, but outright murder’s pretty rare.”
“Maybe someone stood to benefit by his death.”
Gideon’s eyebrows lifted. “You worried about your Pa? Is that why you’re asking all these questions?” He chuckled, not unkindly. “Colonel Nickerson has the place nicely under control. Another game?”
She looked down to watch him sweep her last piece from the board. “Guess I’m not a very challenging partner,” she admitted with a wan smile.
“You just haven’t had the hours of practice I’ve had,” he said with renewed lightness. “It’s about the only thing to do in camp. This year, the buttons were the very first things I packed in my turkey.”
“Turkey?”
“My pack. Every good jack arrives in camp with an axe or two, a bindle, and a turkey tied across his chest.”
“A bindle?” she asked doubtfully.
“A blanket roll,” he laughed. “Grace Nickerson, if you’re going to live in a lumber camp, you’ll have to learn the lingo.”
“I needn’t bother. The only time I see the men is at mealtime, when you’re all too preoccupied to talk.”
“That’s true, I suppose. So how about joining our next caper Saturday night? You’ll get an earful then.”
She sighed and asked, “All right, what’s a caper?”
“A jig. A shindig. A real whing-ding in the bunkhouse!”
“A dance? Is that what all the racket is on Saturdays? Who on earth do you dance with?”
He chuckled. “You’d have to see it to believe it. W
ant to go?”
She hesitated. She had no wish to enter that wretched smelling room ever again, but if Gideon was asking...
Sam spared her from having to make a quick decision. “Gid!” he hollered, stomping in from the dingle, “I told you it would work! I knew if anyone could get my sister out of her hidey-hole, it would be you!”
Grace looked from one boy to the other, her eyes narrowing. “You two planned this?”
“Of course we did, Gracie,” Sam told her, missing the warning signs. “I had to figure out some way to—”
She cut him off. “Gideon, did you ask me to play checkers with you because Sam asked you to?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
She stormed off to the kitchen.
Sam followed moments later. “Grace, what on earth are you angry about?”
“What am I angry about?” she yelled, whirling to face him. Then, realizing Gideon could hear every word, she lowered her voice. “What am I angry about? I’m angry that Pa brought me here. I’m angry that you thought to make a project out of me. And I’m angry that Gideon would dupe me like that just because he felt sorry for me.”
“Gideon didn’t dupe you. He’s a decent sort. Most of the fellas are.”
Grace wrapped her arms around herself as she paced in the small room. Her face burned and tears sprang to her eyes. What a stupid, silly girl she had been.
She flopped forlornly on the edge of Sam’s bed. “Oh, why didn’t Pa let me stay with Aunt Sally?”
“I’m beginning to wish he had, Grace Ellen Nickerson!”
Grace recoiled from the uncharacteristic anger coloring her brother’s face.
“I am just about fed up with your sulking and your self-pity. I’ve done my best by you. I’ve been patient and understanding, but you aren’t doing a thing to help yourself!”
Grace was too stunned to reply.
“At least you could speak to Pa again. It isn’t right, this rift between you two with me stuck in the middle. He’s different, Gracie. The war broke something. I can’t explain it, but I can see it. And maybe you could, too, if you took your focus off yourself long enough to look for it.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed and her lips compressed. “Pa’s fine. He’s right where he wants to be. We are all right where he wants us to be.”
Beneath the Slashings (Divided Decade Collection) Page 5
