Beneath the Slashings (Divided Decade Collection)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Instead of answering, Sam just grinned. “Leastwise, if he lops off a leg, Doc will be there to sew it back on.”

  She scowled and turned to watch Silas and Pokey stalking off in the opposite direction. Sometimes she hated that her brother always knew what she was thinking.

  Moments later, Jefferson was back. His face was as grave as she’d ever seen it. “Boss, I think you better come with me.”

  “What is it, Jeff?”

  “You need to see this for yourself.”

  Pa followed the black man with Sam close at his heels. Not wanting to be left alone, Grace followed.

  “Look there.” Jefferson pointed to a hole bored into the side of his tree. “Put your finger in it.”

  Pa did. When he pulled it away, the tip was coated with a fine black residue. He sniffed at it and met the lumberjack’s eyes. “That’s gunpowder,” he exclaimed.

  “Sure is. And there are another half dozen holes right at the level of my axe stroke. Probably more if we look. Someone must have drilled them last night. They’re packed with metal scraps and filled in with bark. Never would have noticed them if it wasn’t for a bit of sawdust on the ground.”

  Pa poked his finger into another of the holes and dug out a broken nail. “The first strike of an axe would spark the powder and turn the metal into shrapnel.”

  “That’s the theory I came up with too, sir.”

  Sam stuck his finger into the hole and wiggled out a chunk of iron. “But who would sabotage Wrong Hand’s tree?”

  The men looked at each other significantly. “Someone who didn’t want him to win.”

  Chapter 20

  “I didn’t do it!” Silas screamed, straining against the many hands that dragged him back to the camp. His greasy hair flopped about a neck corded with veins. “I could win this on my own without even breathing heavily. I did not tamper with that darky’s tree!”

  “Lock him in the van,” Pa stated. “I’ll let the law sort this out later.”

  Silas turned to Jefferson then, “You believe me don’t you? You know I wouldn’t do this. Not after—” He broke off, unwilling to dig a deeper hole for himself.

  Jefferson shrugged. “Ain’t up to me anymore, Silas.”

  Doc spoke then, “Everyone knows you’ve had it in for Wrong Hand since day one. Besides, what if we had switched trees and you killed a white man?”

  Grace didn’t see what difference that made.

  “We don’t kill black or white men in this camp, Doc,” Pa blazed.

  “Sure, sure, I know,” Doc replied. “I’m just saying it could have been worse.”

  Pa grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, his face whitening with fury. Grace could see the veins in his forehead pulsing with every heartbeat. But Pa didn’t say a word, simply shoved Doc away from him in disgust.

  Silas went slack after that and let the posse lead him away. He no longer appeared angry, only stunned, as if couldn’t believe what he had been accused of. It was then that Grace began to wonder if he was, in fact, telling the truth. After all, Jefferson had saved his job twice.

  But someone had drilled into the tree and filled it with powder. Someone had sliced the horses’ harness, someone had filed the chain and hidden the file in her bed, and someone had tampered with the axe handles. Someone wanted someone dead.

  Then an unwelcome thought pushed its way into her mind and came out her mouth in the form of a sharp gasp. There was one person who would have had the ability to carry out each and every deadly act. Someone with the knowledge and the tools. Someone no one had thought to suspect.

  The men dragged Silas into the van, and Pa escorted him all the way into Grace’s room where he secured the lock. “We will deal with Silas this evening. First, we have a contest to finish, then the afternoon’s work to accomplish, and then,” he sniffed appreciatively, “cake to eat.”

  The men cheered his words, but it was no longer the full-bellied celebration of earlier. The treachery had leeched some of the enthusiasm from the day.

  Grace’s heart had thundered all the way back to camp. She was positive now they had the wrong man. She couldn’t explain it, but the feeling had been growing inside her like a swelling fruit. It just made sense. But how could she make any accusations without proof? And how could she, a girl—and a frightened one at that—possibly prove that Johansen was a murderer?

  Grace’s heart felt as heavy as a waterlogged skirt, and she chose not to accompany the men back to the forest. Instead, she sat down on the van’s doorstep and rubbed her hands thoughtfully down the soft skin of her moccasins as she watched them stride away.

  If Silas was innocent, the whole camp could still be in danger. She could be the only obstacle standing in the way of someone’s death. The thought brought with it the icy grip of Fear. Her hands began to shake, and she ran them again along the rabbit skins.

  Loon! The thought of the old Indian woman gave her sudden reassurance. Surely, Loon would know what to do.

  She jumped up and began trotting in the direction of the old woman’s wigwam. She could imagine the keen look in the Indian’s eye as she told her story, as she revealed how the culprit was so obvious he’d been able to hide right under their noses. She could almost hear what the woman would say.

  “Cries Under Tree, if you have been given knowledge, you must act on it. You cannot pass it off onto another. But like the muskrat, you will also be given courage to accomplish your purpose.”

  Grace slowed uncertainly. That’s exactly what the woman would say. And she would be right.

  Her legs trembling and her stomach boiling with nausea, Grace turned toward the blacksmith shop. Fear still kept a tight hold on her neck, and she had no idea what she was about to do, but she knew she had to do it. She would be the muskrat. She took a step and then another.

  In the bright light of day, the shop looked dark. The forge lay cold and unlit. Familiar smells of coal and iron, horses and leather drifted out of the interior, but Grace could see no sign of Johansen. She edged inside.

  A whisper of movement in the stable made her freeze. She ducked behind the forge and peered over its top.

  Fiddlesticks was in the saddle mount’s stall, tightening the girth strap. “I am a genius, darlin’,” he told the horse. “A true genius.” Grace didn’t recognize his voice or his mannerisms. It was as though someone else possessed the thin, scarred body. “After eight years, Warren is stuck like a cork in a bottle and not another soul in camp.”

  Fiddlesticks laughed, a low, unfamiliar sound. He led the horse from its stall, tied the reins loosely around a post, and turned to fumble in a pile of hay.

  Grace’s pulse boomed like artillery fire in her ears as she struggled to understand what she was hearing. Suddenly, she wished with all her heart that the blacksmith would walk into the forge.

  Fiddlesticks drew out a sack that he tied behind the saddle then he slapped the horse on the rump. “You know, I feared he recognized me. But I never did meet a Warren with any more sense than a tree stump.” He chuckled again, making Grace’s skin crawl. “Give me five minutes, darling, and I’ll have the Stevenson family honor fully restored. Then you and I will be off to a new home.”

  And then Fiddlesticks walked straight toward the forge!

  Grace hunkered down into a tiny ball and prayed he wouldn’t discover her as he sifted through the dead coals above her head. After what felt like hours, he swore. “There’s got to be an ember left in the camboose.”

  As Fiddlestick clumped out the door, Grace scooted around the opposite side of the forge, frantically sorting through the puzzle. The two men seemed to share a history, a bad one, though Silas didn’t realize it. It almost sounded like a family rivalry or a—

  Understanding dawned as she watched Fiddlesticks disappear inside the bunkhouse. She’d stumbled into the middle of a clan war! Fiddlesticks was about to burn Silas out of the van!

  She panicked. Her chest wheezed as she sucked air in short bursts, and the edges of her v
ision started to go dark. She leaned back against the brick and forced herself to take deeper breaths, thinking again of the muskrat. She had to stop Fiddlesticks. She needed to alert Pa, but he was twenty minutes away!

  The saddle mount snorted and pawed at the floor of the stable.

  Of course! She could take the horse!

  She flung herself across the room. Jerking the reins loose, she was mounted and riding up the tote road before Fiddlesticks emerged from the bunkhouse.

  The road was still covered in a thick layer of ice. Grace gave the horse its head, trusting the animal to find the men and keep its footing. Precious seconds ticked away, and horrible images of being burned to death flickered through her brain. She had to reach Pa in time!

  Finally, the sounds of chopping reached her ears over the pounding of the horse’s hooves.

  “Grace! Get out of here! Do you want to get killed?” Pa’s words sparked with fury, but she ignored him. The men couldn’t have chopped through those huge trunks yet.

  “Pa! It wasn’t Silas! It was Fiddlesticks!” she screamed. “He’s going to burn down the van with Silas still inside!”

  A firestorm of noise followed her words. She yelled over top of it. “They know each other! Pa, Fiddlesticks is going to kill him!”

  She skidded to a stop in front of her father. He pulled her down and leaped into the saddle. “I sure hope you’re not right about this!” he hollered and kicked the horse into a run.

  Men everywhere were shouting and running back toward camp. Gideon climbed onto one of the timber sleds and grabbed the team’s reins. “Hop on!” he called. She did, along with Sam and fifteen or twenty of the men. Gideon whipped up the team, and the ice began skimming along at a terrifying speed only inches beneath her.

  As they neared camp, the unmistakable stench of smoke reached them, and then clouds of it drifted over the road. Gideon pulled the horses to a halt just in time for Grace to see her father throw an unconscious Silas out of the van door—just as the roof collapsed on top of him.

  Chapter 21

  “I’m sorry, Grace.” Johansen rested a hand on Grace’s shoulder. It felt as hard as a wooden block, but she drew comfort from it regardless. “It’s been a long, difficult week for you kids.”

  Sam sat beside her, his eyes red-rimmed and staring. Gideon sat on her other side. In all that time, Pa hadn’t moved. Not when three of the men heaved the burning beam off him. Not when Doc set his broken bones. Not even after resting quietly in Johansen’s bed for five days.

  After the fire, a courier had ridden to Manistee for help, and the next day the sheriff had hauled Fiddlesticks away. Silas was treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation and also taken in for questioning. The men had resumed working, answering to Mr. Bigg’s orders, but amid all that activity Pa had remained as stiff and unmoving as a plank of wood.

  “Why did he do it, Johansen?” she asked. Her words sounded as bleak as the acres of cutover land spreading out from camp.

  “Because the feud between the Warren and Stevenson families stretches longer than the Manistee River. It seems Silas’s father killed Fiddlesticks’s son back in Pennsylvania a number of years ago. Sticks was badly injured in the same encounter and presumed dead, but he lived, and he swore vengeance. Then he recognized Silas last fall and managed to avoid detection, due to his heavy scarring and some incredible acting. All his mischief was designed to land Silas in trouble. If he could get Silas alone, he figured, he’d be an easy target.”

  Grace had been told this information before, but that wasn’t what she had been asking at all.

  But Sam knew what she meant. “Because that’s the kind of man Pa was, Grace.”

  And it was those words, spoken with quiet pride, that finally brought Grace to tears.

  Gideon rested an arm on her shoulders as she sobbed into her hands. “I knew things could never return to the way they were before the war,” she wept. “Why didn’t I just let it go?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Grace,” Gideon told her. “Your Pa was crazy about you. He used to talk about you sometimes. Said it’s not every girl who can buck up under a winter like you’ve had.”

  “But I’ve been so awful.”

  Johansen spoke then. “Gid’s right, Grace. It takes more than a little argument for a father to give up on his daughter. Your Pa loved you more than you’ll ever understand until you’ve had children of your own.”

  Grace was burdened with extra misery for ever suspecting the steady blacksmith.

  “I had a lot of respect for him,” Gideon added. “Your Pa was quite a man.”

  There was a stirring on the bed in front of them. A bandaged hand slipped from beneath the blanket and rested on Grace’s knee. “What’s all this past tense?” Pa whispered hoarsely. “So happens I’m still quite a man.” He made a weak attempt at a smile.

  “Pa!” Grace fell to her knees and buried her head in his chest. Pa groaned and passed out again.

  Johansen gently pulled her away. “Easy there, Grace. He’s got a whole slew of busted parts. You’re going to have to treat him like spun sugar for a time but,” he grinned broadly, “I do believe he’ll be just fine.”

  The wagon moved slowly over the ruts in the tote road. Pa sat stiffly on the seat beside Watkins, Prince Albert Edward yowled piteously from his cage, and Grace sat happily next to Sam. All around them, spring was blossoming, rising from the death of winter.

  “Pa, when did Aunt Sally and Uncle Peter say they would get here?” Grace asked eagerly.

  Pa laughed and then grimaced, clutching at his mending ribs. “Have patience, Sweet Pea. A move like that takes time. The steamers can’t even make it in until the ice melts on the lakes. And besides, they’ll be bringing much more with them than we carried.”

  Including the trunk full of Grace’s treasures. Unfortunately, Grandpa Harper’s carved dog had not survived the fire. Neither had Grandma’s quilt or any of Grace’s books. But having Pa returned to her made the loss seem inconsequential.

  “And will we be returning to the lumber camp next fall?”

  “Grace, I already told you we won’t. Uncle Peter wants to homestead, and I’ve a mind to try it as well. Raising two kids in the forest didn’t go quite as smoothly as I hoped.”

  But the news hadn’t felt like the victory she had expected. “We can still visit sometime, can’t we?”

  It was Sam who understood her mixed emotions. “Grace, even if we came back, it wouldn’t be the same.”

  Grace knew he was right. Most of the faces Grace had come to know so well over the winter had already drifted off to other places: some went to the mills in town, others joined the log drive, and several had returned to their homes. Time moved on and people moved with it.

  The parting with Gideon had been the hardest. Two days ago, he had drawn her out of the kitchen, his turkey already slung across his chest.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked, her heart squeezing inside like a fist.

  “Jeff and I are walking out together, but I couldn’t go without saying goodbye.” He touched her arm and smiled down at her, his eyes sparkling just like they had all those times he’d asked her to the dance. “Here, I made something for you.” He fumbled in his sack and drew out a carving of a bird with outstretched wings.

  “An owl!” she exclaimed. “It’s beautiful.”

  “There’s a hole here where you can tie a string, maybe hang it on a Christmas tree.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if it will balance right.”

  She stopped him. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  An awkward silence fell between them. Then, with a grin, a hug, and a tear or two on Grace’s part, Gideon departed.

  Grace held up the owl, a reminder of lives that had merged for a season.

  But Grace wasn’t leaving alone. She had Pa, and Sam, and Aunt Sally and Uncle Peter, all the people who belonged to her. Together they would put down roots and create a new home, one that was safe and unchanging—for a time.

  Grace s
at back and crossed her feet in front of her. It was still cool enough to wear her moccasins. “If we’re going to homestead, I know a great place where the Indians used to hunt—”

  Suddenly, the forest opened up and the wagon traveled through a swath of cutover land. After the swelling buds and greening branches of the woods, the stumpy field looked desolate and vulgar. She never had grown accustomed to it.

  Then a tiny patch of color met her eye. She stood up. “Stop! Watkins, stop the wagon!”

  The driver tugged on the reins and the obedient mules pulled up. Grace scampered over the side before the wagon came to a full halt.

  “Grace, what is it?” Pa asked with a trace of alarm.

  “Flowers!” She ran to the spot where she had seen the splash of color, scrambling over stray branches and rounding piles of debris. And there, beneath a dead stump, she found a tiny clump of blooms tinted the most delicate shade of lavender.

  “Spring beauties!”

  She knelt beside them, fingering the flowers in amazement. Finding them growing in a field of death was like finding jewels in a dung heap.

  She could have feasted her eyes on them for an hour, but Pa and the others were waiting. She picked one of the blooms to carry away with her. She would press it in a book, perhaps in a brand new volume of Aesop or Hans Christian Andersen, to remind her that life could indeed grow again beneath the slashings.

  Thanks for reading!

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider signing up for my email list. It’s the only way I have to communicate new releases directly to my readers. I send out 1-3 messages a year. And you get a free ebook by way of thanks.

  Your opinion matters

  Other readers want to hear your reaction. Would you please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads, even if it’s just a sentence or two? It really does help to connect great readers with great books. And authors appreciate it, too.