He grabbed a chunk of wood out of the wood box, opened the door on the stove and tossed it inside. Smoke puffed out, stung his nose and eyes. He closed the door, waved the smoke away and looked around the small sloped-roof shed.
A cot with a straw tick and blankets...a chipped pitcher and washbowl...a heating stove with an iron kettle and pot...and a trunk that held his clothes. None of it his, save the trunk and clothes. His face tightened. Add in a small log cabin for his ma’s use and a wage that provided food and a bit extra for her, and it was not much to show for twelve years of hard work. Well, that was over.
Twelve years ago he had resigned his counting-house apprenticeship and buried his dream of making himself into a man worthy of Ellen’s love in a grave along with his father. He had turned from that grave, marched to the Townsend lumber camp and announced that he was there to take his pa’s place. He’d had no choice. There had been no other way he could provide a home for his mother. But he had a choice now. His mother was in Syracuse caring for Aunt Ruth, and she’d never come home and leave her sister in need. The log cabin was empty. And so was his heart. The remnant of the dream, the hope he had so stubbornly, foolishly clung to, had died with Harold Lodge’s arrival and Ellen’s imminent betrothal.
He stepped to the trunk, careful not to catch a sliver off of the plank floor with his stocking-clad feet, squatted and shoved his hand beneath the clothes. His fingers touched the rough wool yarn, felt the stitches knitted by his mother. He closed his hand and withdrew it, then went back to stand by the stove.
The hat was worn, frayed. And all he had left of his father. He stared at the small loop of gray yarn near the crown where a stitch had been pulled loose by a tree branch, most likely on the day of the accident when his father had been killed by a rotted tree that turned into a spinner. It had to have been that day, else his mother would have mended it. She was always careful to keep their clothes in good repair.
He touched the loop, worked at pulling in a breath. “I promised you I’d take care of Ma, and I’ve kept my word, Pa. You don’t need to be concerned. I’ll see to it that Ma’s all right. But I’ve got to leave Pinewood.”
He opened the hat’s brim he held clutched tight and stared at the coins he’d set aside against any unexpected need. It wasn’t enough. What he had left in the bank he would need to give his mother to keep her until he could find other work—maybe on one of those big ships that plied the Great Lakes. But he would be staying in camp now, and with his mother gone, he wouldn’t have to buy any food or other provisions. He should be able to save enough to leave in a few weeks.
Leave Pinewood and all he loved. The thought took him like a kick in the gut. But it was the only answer. His love for Ellen would never die as long as he stayed where he would occasionally see her, where every place he went or looked, memories lurked and tore at him. He closed the hat over the coins, moved back to the trunk and tucked it away. A few weeks...
He stepped to the small window and stared out at the night, lifted his gaze to the pines standing like dark shadows against the falling snow and blew out a breath to ease the tautness in his chest. “Thy will be done, O Lord. Thy will be done.”
Chapter Fifteen
“There, all hitched and ready to go, Big Girl.” Daniel smoothed down the mare’s mane. “Irish will be taking you to town today, so you go easy, you hear?” The Belgian huffed out a breath, shook her head.
“Don’t play ignorant with me.” Daniel laughed and stroked her nose, cast another look at the sky. The heavy cloud cover did not look promising.
He tromped to the kitchen, kicked his caulked boots free of snow and went inside.
“’Bout time you come in. I was thinkin’ you supposed I’d keep this food hot all day.” Smiley threw a scowl his way, grabbed the pot off the stove and slapped a heaping mound of oatmeal onto his plate.
He nodded his thanks, then looked at Irish. “The pung’s hitched. I threw Big Girl’s blanket into the back in case the temperature takes a dip. The sky’s heavy.” He yanked off his hat and gloves, shoved them in his jacket pockets and took a seat. Steam rose from the oatmeal. He spooned on butter, made a small hollow in the top of the pile and filled it with molasses. Hot coffee splashed into his cup, its fragrant steam tantalizing his nose.
Scudder held his cup up to Smiley for a refill. “If it comes on to snow again, the hicks will stay in town. Looks like we’ll be the only ones cutting today.”
“Ja. It be best if ve vork close by to each other.”
“Me an’ Scudder were planning to start cutting over by the creek where we were when the snow caught us.” Joe scooped up the last of his oatmeal, took a swallow of coffee and looked his way. “Can you get the sledge in there, Daniel?”
“No, the snow will be too deep in that cut. But I won’t be hauling logs without my team. And Big Boy can haul the tool cart in without a problem.” He ate another spoonful of oatmeal and buttered a biscuit. “I meant to tell you, Irish, it’s good to handle Big Girl gently. She’s got a soft mouth and tends to fight the rein when you keep too tight a hold on her.”
“I’ll remember that, Danny-boy-o.” The lanky Irishman looked around the table and grinned. “An’ I’ll be rememberin’ the lot of you workin’ downin’ timber while I’m ridin’ to town an’ back at my ease.”
Joe drained his cup, stood and clapped Irish on the shoulder. “Well, enjoy your ‘ease’ while you can, boy-o, ’cause you’ll be back swinging an ax tomorrow.”
Daniel cast a glance toward the window and slanted his lips in a grin. “Those of us who are actually going to work today had best get going. It’s getting light out there.”
Irish tipped his chair onto its back legs, crossed his hands over his belly and grinned. “May the good Lord rest His hand o’ blessin’ on you all.”
“Ja. Und on you.”
Chairs scraped against the floor as Hans, Scudder and Joe shoved away from the table. Daniel tugged on his hat and gloves, grabbed a couple of biscuits, wiped them in the molasses left on his plate and followed them out the door.
“Here you are, Big Girl.” He gave the mare a biscuit, patted her mane and moved on. “Here you go, Big Boy.” He fed the second biscuit to the Belgian, stepped up to his seat and took up the reins. Joe and Scudder and Hans climbed onto the cart and found seats among the tools, chains and coiled ropes.
“Let’s go, Big Boy!” He clicked his tongue and the horse leaned into the harness. The runners on the cart skittered onto the logging road that wound through the forest. He splayed his legs and braced his feet against the front board to maintain his balance as they rocked over hummocks of frozen snow, released his breath in small gray clouds that disappeared behind him.
The growing daylight filtering through the trees revealed the deep cut ahead. “Haw, Big Boy!” The horse turned left, plodded along the trampled path at the edge of the iced-over creek. Light poured into the cleared area where they’d already downed timber. “Whoa.”
The men climbed down from the cart, their caulks clattering against the wood, reached into the box and pulled out the tools they needed. “Joe and I will be cutting over by the creek.”
He nodded to Scudder, hauled out his ax, some wedges and two shovels. Hans hefted the crosscut saw so the flat of the blade lay against his shoulder, grabbed his ax in his other hand and trudged to a huge pine at the edge of the clearing.
They worked in silence, the only sounds the soughing of the rising wind through the branches of the pines and the swish of the shovel blades against the snow as they each cleared an area to stand in on opposite sides of the tree.
“Ve fell him there, ja?”
He glanced in the direction Hans pointed, nodded and picked up his ax. He sank the blade deep in the tree trunk and pulled it free. Hans’s ax blade flashed, hit exactly where his left off. They swung again and again, wood chips flying
out to litter the ground as each picked up the rhythm of the other’s strokes. The notch that would dictate the direction of the tree’s fall deepened.
Craaack!
“Timber!”
Daniel pivoted, his heart leaping into his throat. The warning yell was supposed to come before a tree started falling.
Swish, thud!
The ground trembled beneath his feet.
“Help! Help!”
He gripped his ax and started running toward the creek, Hans’s boots thudding against the snow behind him. Scudder lay on the ground beside the trunk of the fallen pine.
“Joe’s in the creek!”
He veered left at the wave of Scudder’s arm, his heart lurching at the sight of the dark pool of flowing water in the broken ice beneath the fallen tree. “Joe! Where—”
He caught a glimpse of the logger’s arm flailing around, dropped his ax on the ice, jumped into the thigh-deep frigid water and dropped to his knees. Icy coldness soaked into his clothes and covered his chest, stealing his breath. He grabbed Joe’s arm, followed it under the trunk with his hands, found a broken branch that had snagged the back of the logger’s sweater and yanked it free. Cold air seared his lungs. He pulled Joe’s torso toward him as far as he was able, lifted the logger’s head out of the water and held him as he coughed and sputtered.
“I can’t p-pull you any farther, Joe. Where are you c-caught?” He tried to stop them, but his teeth chattered like an angry squirrel. Shivers shook his body.
“F-foot.”
He looked toward Hans on the bank, standing ready to help. “His f-foot’s caught under the trunk. Can Scudder h-help you saw?”
“Ja, he’s pinned by a branch. I get him free!”
He nodded, then knelt in the water holding Joe’s head and listening to the thunk of Hans’s ax while he studied the situation. Thankfully, the fallen tree spanned the creek, the top resting on the higher far bank. That, and the large limb that had broken the ice, held the tree up at an angle, else Joe would have been crushed.
His feet and legs went numb. He tried to wiggle his toes but couldn’t tell if they moved. How much longer would Joe be able to keep breathing?
The chopping stopped. Hans and Scudder came running, the crosscut saw whipping wildly in the air between them. “You’ll n-need chocks!”
Scudder spun at his call, ran to the base of the tree, snatched up the chocks and raced back.
“P-put them under this side of the l-log so it can’t drop on Joe or r-roll back when it’s cut. The bank will hold up th-that end.”
Scudder dropped to his knees on the ice and shoved the chocks in place.
He looked at Hans. “Put skids on th-that side, then get Big Boy and wrap the chain around the tr-trunk. He’ll pull it off when it’s c-cut. Pivot it on that b-bank.” He nodded toward the far side.
“Ja!” Hans and Scudder raced toward their cutting site.
His body felt like a block of ice, his hands stiff and numb. He fixed his gaze on them to be sure he still held Joe’s head and prayed. He’d never heard anything as beautiful as the thud of Big Boy’s hoofs trotting toward them.
Hans stopped the horse on the bank, dragged the chain out onto the ice and shoved it beneath the log to Scudder, who pulled it through, then tossed it over the top so Hans could hook it. Two quick thrusts and the skid logs were in place.
The numbness crept up his chest and arms. He kept his eyes on Joe while Hans and Scudder sawed the log from its heavy base on the bank. The ice creaked, started to crack when the log was cut through and the chocks took its weight. It was now or too late. “Hup! Hup!” The Belgian leaned into his harness at his call. The log slid onto the skids. “Whoa!”
Hans dug Joe’s foot free of the impacted snow that imprisoned it, and Scudder pulled his partner onto the bank.
Daniel forced his lungs to suck in air. He tried to pull himself onto the ice but his body wouldn’t obey. Hans grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him from the water, yanked off his sodden sweater, then tugged off his own dry one and slipped it onto his cold, wet torso. Scudder was doing the same for Joe.
He lay on the snow shivering and shaking, fighting to stay awake while Hans ran and unhitched Big Boy. The cold overwhelmed him. His eyes closed. Hoofs thudded and the ground beneath him trembled. His body jerked. He forced his eyes open, watched the German pull his soaked boots and socks off but felt nothing but the tugs. And then Hans lifted him, and tossed him across Big Boy’s broad back like a bag of grain. Joe was plopped into place beside him, and the horse’s thick blanket was thrown over them.
“Hup...hup...”
The Belgian’s muscles rippled beneath him. The warmth of the horse’s huge body seeped into him. And then the darkness came and all awareness ceased.
Chapter Sixteen
Daniel tugged the blanket closer around him and bent forward, convulsed by the force of his cough. He’d tried to hide how poor he felt, but with the coughing and the shivers that shook him it was a losing battle. And the pain in his head that stabbed deeper every time he coughed wasn’t helping matters.
“You’re getting worse, Daniel. You need some proper care.” Doc Palmer frowned and closed his black bag. “Get your jacket on. I’m taking you back to town with me.”
“No p-point, Doc.” He coughed again, winced. “Ma’s g-gone.”
“I know that! I’m taking you to Willa.”
“No.” He would have shook his head for emphasis, but it hurt too much.
The doctor scowled, snatched his jacket from where it lay on the chest and tossed it on the bed. “Do you want to make Willa come all the way out here to the camp to get you? You know she will once she learns you’re sick.” The doctor fixed him with a look and tossed his gloves, hat and scarf on top of his jacket. “And I intend to tell her as soon as I get back to town, should you force my hand.”
“Th-that’s blackm-mail.”
“You’re right. But I’ve no wish to face Willa if she learns of your illness from someone else.” The doctor gave him another look. “Well? The choice is yours, Daniel. But you know I’m right. You’ll be going to Willa’s one way or the other.”
He tried to scowl, but it took too much effort. Doc Palmer was right. He might as well yield and save Willa the trouble of a trip. Because she would come after him. He released his death grip on the blanket and reached for his jacket while goose pimples raised on his flesh. “Get my b-boots. They’re by the s-stove.”
* * *
Winter had returned with a vengeance. It was cold and snowy and blustery. Ellen donned her cloak and bonnet, grabbed her muff and stepped outside. A gust of wind almost took her off her feet. She tugged the door shut, shoved one gloved hand in her muff, grabbed hold of her bonnet brim with the other and hurried down the shoveled walk to the road.
The garlands on the gazebo were swinging wildly, the red bows fluttering and their tails snapping in the wind. Snow blew off the conical roof in a white, swirling cloud, the icy particles stinging the side of her face. She turned the corner, glanced across Main Street at the Sheffield House with its windows aglow with warm, inviting lantern light and quickened her steps. She would call on Sophia as she’d promised. But first she’d go to Cargrave’s and check the mail. Mr. Cuthbert might have sent her notice of the day of his arrival.
The footing was treacherous. The wind punishing. She crossed the road, climbed the steps and hurried across the walkway, ducked into Cargrave’s recessed entrance and bumped into someone coming out of the store. “Oh, I’m sorry!” She looked up.
“Ellen! How nice to bump into you, dear.” Sophia Sheffield laughed, reached up and pulled the scarf wound about her neck closer. “I’ve been expecting you to call, but I know you’ve been helping Willa. And you are probably busy now making plans for your wedding to Mr. Lodge. Has a date bee
n set?”
She shook her head, sending the snow clinging to the fur on her bonnet flying. “I refused Mr. Lodge.” She brushed back the curls on her forehead and met the older woman’s gaze.
“Should I offer my condolences, dear?”
“Only to my parents.” The truth blurted out. Sophia always had that effect on her. She gave a little shrug. “Mother and Father were not pleased.”
“I’m sure they were disappointed for you, dear.”
“Perhaps, but there was no reason for them to be. The choice was mine. Anyway, it’s of no importance. They are now looking forward to the arrival of Mr. Cuthbert—my other beau.”
“Well, gracious, the people of this village are behind in the news. This storm is interfering with our...visiting.”
“Visiting?” She laughed at Sophia’s word choice. “There was nothing to visit about. You are the first person I’ve told.”
“Hmm, then I must get this straight.” Sophia’s eyes twinkled at her. “You refused Mr. Lodge because Mr. Cuthbert is the man you have chosen to wed? You must be excited, waiting for his arrival.”
She stared at Sophia, shocked to silence by the truth that hit her at the comment. She wasn’t at all excited about Mr. Cuthbert’s coming visit. In truth, she had been relieved at the delay.
“Is something wrong, Ellen? You look— Oh, dear.” Sophia’s gaze shifted, her eyes clouded. “I hadn’t heard any of Willa’s family was ill.”
“They’re not.” She turned, stared at the black buggy fastened onto runners standing by the parsonage’s side porch and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold or the wind.
* * *
Ellen forced her feet to move down the steps to the road. She lifted her hems and picked her way over the ruts, stopped and stared at the black buggy. The old terror washed over her. Her heart thudded. Her breath shortened. She stepped over the piled snow at the edge of the road onto the walkway and forced her feet to carry her to the porch.
A Season of the Heart Page 18
