Measure of Katie Calloway, The: A Novel

by Serena B. Miller

  Charlie held out his plate. “May I have seconds?”

  “Of course.” She rose from the table and busied herself in the kitchen.

  “Is she married?” Charlie asked Robert in a low voice.

  “She’s a widow.” Robert discovered that he wasn’t thrilled with the question. “But you only come out of the woods a few weeks out of the year—you aren’t looking to settle down, are you?”

  Charlie laughed. “No, but a man can dream.” His expression grew serious and his voice lowered again. “I found something while I was out there, a few miles from here. Not quite sure what to do about it.”

  “What was it?”

  “A trapper.” He drew his pack to him and extracted something. “Couldn’t tell who he was. Looked like he had drowned while setting a beaver trap. I buried what was left of him. Have no idea who he was, but I brought this along. Thought someone might recognize it.”

  He held out a hunting knife encased in a homemade buckskin sheath decorated with intricate beadwork.

  At that moment, Moon Song, who had been looking on during the conversation, became visibly agitated. She hurried over, snatched the knife from the table, looked closely at it, let out a wail, and then a river of unintelligible words came spilling out.

  Katie heard Moon Song’s cry and came running. The girl was so distraught, Katie pried the baby from her arms for fear she would drop him. Moon Song barely seemed to notice. She collapsed onto the bench and began to sob, holding the knife and its case in her hands and rocking back and forth. Katie patted her with one free hand, held the baby with the other, and made soothing noises.

  “I guess her husband didn’t deliberately abandon her after all,” Robert said.

  “What should we do?” Katie asked.

  “It would take weeks to get her back to her tribe. As weak as she is, there’s no way she could make it alone, and I don’t have anyone to spare to take her. Do you mind keeping her with you awhile longer?”

  “Not at all.” Katie smoothed the girl’s hair away from her tear-streaked face. “We’ll do fine together.”

  Robert wondered how many women he had known who would willingly take a stranger with whom they could not even communicate into their home—especially if that home had only one room. Katie was becoming one of the most intriguing women he had ever known.

  Katie draped a dish towel over the clothesline Tinker had strung for her between the cabin and the cook shanty. Several of the men had also hung their own dripping clothes around the camp. It felt good to be out in the morning sun.

  There was a great deal of bright-colored clothes flapping in the wind today. The ever-present red flannel, of course, which fit right in with the logger’s love of red. It seemed to be the color of choice for their heavy plaid shirts. Henri, the fiddler, and another French-Canadian wore red sashes around their waists for no apparent reason—a strange custom, but dashing. The blue nightgown that Moon Song favored hung alongside of Ned’s two blue shirts. Of course, Katie had hung unmentionables discreetly inside of the cabin. She had no intention of treating the men to a show of her bloomers.

  The colors were a treat for the eye against the mud-colored background of trampled earth and the weathered log buildings. It was her first Sunday in camp, and it gave both her and the men a chance to get caught up on camp chores. Many of the men sat around a large pot of boiling water into which had been shaved plenty of lye soap. A load of dirty socks and long underwear had gone into that pot. She couldn’t help but notice they boiled the clothes all together, creating a sort of uniform gray color of anything that was dropped in—but killing at least some of the gray backs that almost always infested lumber camp shanties.

  Lice weren’t something she wanted to have, but she feared her close proximity to these men would make it hard to escape those annoying little creatures.

  The men spent the morning telling yarns, drinking tea, spitting tobacco, or smoking “nose warmers,” those short, stubby pipes shanty boys seemed to favor.

  The small camp store Robert kept in the office, and which she had already inspected with interest, consisted primarily of an abundance of chew, pipes, and pipe tobacco. She had seen men spit the amber juice straight into small wounds in the belief that some imagined medical properties of the weed would make the cuts heal faster.

  These men, although hard working, were—in her opinion—rather vile. They cursed, smoked, and—from what she had gathered—would drink anything that wasn’t nailed down when they went to town. Evidently they also visited unsavory ladies when they were in town as well, or else places like the Catacombs wouldn’t stay in business.

  At least Jigger seemed to have unruffled his tail feathers enough to be of some help. Instead of watching her cook herself blind today, he’d informed her that he would prepare the noon meal—laying out leftovers and sandwich makings for the men’s dinner. She intended to help with supper preparations tonight, but for now, she was enjoying her partial day off.

  She laughed to herself about how most women wouldn’t consider doing a week’s worth of laundry on a day off, but after standing over a cookstove all week, the chore of plunging clothes into soapy water, scrubbing them on a tin washboard, and hanging them on the clothesline felt like play. She was also looking forward to heating and carrying enough water for a good bath this afternoon. Ned was going to take a bath too, whether he wanted to or not. Even if many of the shanty boys took pride in not bathing for the entire seven months, she had no intention of it becoming a habit for her little brother.

  As she wrung out a pair of Ned’s britches, she noticed that the muscles in her arms had become stronger and more defined. Lifting the heavy cast-iron pots and kettles was getting easier each day. Standing there, admiring her clothesline filled with freshly washed clothes, she realized that she was feeling healthier than she had in years.

  It was amazing what being able to support herself had done for her morale. The feeling of freedom in not having to fear Harlan’s anger was downright intoxicating. Without realizing what she was doing, she straightened her spine and lifted her head higher.

  Moon Song and the baby were napping in the cabin, still regaining their strength.

  She breathed deep of the mid-October air. Even though it was a sunny day, there was a definite snap in the air. Robert had said only this morning that he was expecting snow soon.

  Robert.

  So far, she liked everything about the man, from the way he treated Mose and Moon Song, to the way he treated her—with respect and consideration. She liked the way he kept himself clean-shaven, when nearly every man wore a beard. She even liked the way his hair, already grown too long, curled against the collar of his shirt.

  It would truly be something to be married to such a good man.

  With sheer willpower, she shoved that daydream aside and stood up. She was not free, and that was that.

  15

  She was blessed with a bright little youngster

  a pretty and sweet-natured lad,

  whose voice was the joy of the pinery,

  whose laughs made the wilderness glad.

  “Jim Brooks”

  —1800s shanty song

  He was headed to the barn, intent on telling Mose that he needed to make a trip into town for supplies. He was hoping on getting a head start on the trip, maybe leaving right after their Sunday noon meal. As banged up and sore as the fight with Mainer had left him, he wasn’t going to be much help in the woods tomorrow. Now that the camp was up and running, his plan was to leave Skypilot in charge and get some business finished in town.

  At least that was his plan.

  Then he saw Katie and stopped in his tracks. She was sitting on the top step of her cabin, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, drying her freshly washed hair in the sun. He had never seen her hair unbound, and his mouth went dry at the sight of the shiny, copper mass cascading down her back.

  Even though she was fully dressed, this moment felt strangely intimate. He had rarely se
en her outside of the cook shanty, where she was usually swathed in a giant white apron. He stood, drinking in the lovely, feminine sight of her.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes. “While I can.” She reached up to twist her hair into a bun.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  Her hands paused. “Excuse me?”

  “Go ahead and let it dry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “If you say so.” She dropped her hands.

  With her glorious hair about her shoulders and her big blue eyes looking up at him with such trust, he could barely remember where he had been headed before he saw her. This was a different, softer woman than the one he watched wielding a rolling pin and meat cleaver in the cook shanty.

  “Was there something you wanted?” she prompted.

  He tried hard to remember what it was that he had come for.

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m headed into town to finish getting in supplies before the weather gets bad. Is there anything you want?”

  She pursed her lips in thought. “We’re going to need a whole lot more potatoes and flour before the winter’s over.” She began to tick items off on her fingers. “Sorghum, of course—the men practically drink the stuff. At least two more tubs of lard. Maybe some cabbages and rutabagas and carrots—they would keep well in a cellar through the winter.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well . . .” Katie’s voice took on a teasing tone. “I miss my cows. If you brought me one, we wouldn’t have to rely on canned milk anymore, and I could make fresh butter. That stuff your men have to eat doesn’t taste right. I think it’s all the brine and saltpeter it comes packed in.”

  “No chance of getting a milk cow way out here. You might as well wish for chickens to lay fresh eggs.”

  Katie jumped into the game of make-believe. “And a couple of pigs to throw the leftovers to—not that the men leave much in the way of leftovers. Sometimes I worry I’m going to bankrupt you from cooking so much.”

  “You don’t have to scrimp on food, Katie. I want the men to eat well.”

  “How soon are you leaving?” she asked. “I’d like to put together a menu and check it against the food we already have.”

  He had been in a hurry only moments ago. Then Katie ran a hand through those damp curls, and his rush evaporated. Now, the only thing on his mind was the fact that it was a lovely day, and he hadn’t been for a stroll with a beautiful woman in years.

  “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.” He glanced up at the sky. “We won’t have many more days like this.” He found himself fidgeting with his hat like an awkward boy. “If you’d like to take a walk, you could hear what Charlie was talking about. There’s a nice place about a mile from here that we haven’t lumbered yet.” He cleared his throat. “We could discuss the things you’ll need from town and it’ll give you a chance to see a little more territory than just the camp.”

  “Oh, I’d like that.” Her face lit up. “I’ll go get Ned. He’s been wanting to go exploring.”

  Robert felt a little deflated at the prospect of her little brother accompanying them. But he also saw the wisdom in taking the child along. It would discourage talk if any of the men saw them leaving together.

  She got her brother, and the trio took off. Robert pulled out a small notebook and a stub of a pencil from his pocket so he could write down her list as they walked. She tied her still-damp hair back with a black ribbon. It made her look very young.

  “Like I said, flour and potatoes. And I’m almost out of cinnamon.”

  “What about sugar?” Ned said. “I think we might need more sugar.”

  Katie laughed and ruffled Ned’s hair. “My little brother has quite the sweet tooth.”

  “So do the men. We went through over a hundred pounds of sugar last year. I can’t even remember how many barrels of sorghum.”

  “I can believe it.”

  The destination Robert sought was a particular stand of white pine—the finest he had ever seen. He would eventually have men working there, but for now, he wanted to share the beauty of it with Katie—and, of course, Ned.

  Katie had a long stride and easily kept up with him as they made their way through the tree stumps that surrounded the camp. As they entered the shade of the hardwood forest, he realized that he was feeling very odd. He tried to figure out why and discovered, to his surprise, that the strange emotion he was feeling was . . . happiness.

  It had been years.

  He felt almost lighthearted for the first time since his daughter had been born . . . and his wife had died.

  The technical name was puerperal fever, better known as childbed fever. Some doctors believed that it was caused by a woman’s predisposition to the disease. Others believed it was a judgment from God. He, however, subscribed to Harvard dean Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes’s belief that puerperal fever was caused by the attending physician’s unwashed hands.

  His wife’s life could have been spared by the simple, civilized ritual of soap and water.

  Robert had observed, in his own practice, that simple cleanliness usually brought about greater health in a patient. He had shared this knowledge with Dr. Walker before he left, and cautioned him to wash his hands thoroughly before he delivered the baby. Dr. Walker had assured him that he had been especially careful during Claire’s delivery. Unfortunately, his new assistant had not. Another medical emergency had drawn Dr. Walker away from Claire’s bedside only moments after her delivery.

  If the doctor hadn’t been so overworked because of Robert’s absence, he could have stayed and made certain Claire was well cared for.

  If Robert had been there, where he belonged, he would have been at Claire’s side, seeing to every detail, making certain that everything that touched her was clean.

  But he had not been there.

  While he struggled to save the lives of men on the battlefield, his own wife had died of something he knew how to prevent. The knowledge tore at his gut daily.

  Therefore, this fleeting touch of happiness caught him by surprise. He started to feel guilty for allowing his burden of grief and regret to lift, even for a moment. But then the grace of this sunny Sabbath day once again washed over him and tore the darkness away—at least momentarily. It was impossible to walk through the bright colors of the autumn woods with the innocent companionship of this good woman and small boy without his spirits lifting.

  Katie finished reciting her list of culinary needs, and he tucked his notebook away. He was looking forward to showing her the place he had been so struck by the first time he had explored this tract of timber. He had left it uncut as long as possible because it was a place he enjoyed coming to for solitude when the elbow-to-elbow existence with his men began to pall.

  A flush of ruffled grouse flew up and then dove to deeper cover, startling Katie. She laughed at herself, which he found charming. Ned pointed out a soaring bald eagle, and they all marveled at its grace.

  As they entered the pine forest, Katie stopped and stared.

  “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “It’s like a—a cathedral!”

  “I’ve always thought so.” He was pleased that she had reacted in the way she had. “Let’s walk farther in so you can listen.”

  Katie was wide-eyed as they moved through the open, brushless forest. “I hear it!”

  “Me too!” Ned exclaimed.

  There was a breeze today, and the treetops shimmering so far above their heads created a strangely aquatic sound, like rushing water, almost like an ocean crashing against a seashore.

  “This is what Charlie listens for?” she asked.

  “People call it ‘whispering pine,’ but on days like today, when there’s a little wind, the pines don’t whisper, they roar. On days when there’s wind, Charlie will climb to the top of a ridge and listen for the air to carry the sound to him.”

  “I think I might like to do Charlie’s job,” she said.

  “It’s a lo
nely existence.”

  “There are worse things than loneliness.”

  Robert wondered what Katie had experienced that was worse than loneliness, but there was something about her voice that cautioned him it would be best not to ask.

  “There’s more,” he said. “I think I have a surprise both of you will like.”

  When they reached it, she gasped in awe.

  “Oh, would you look at that!”

  In front of them, surrounded by the soaring pines, was a pristine lake shimmering in the slice of sunlight that fell through the break in the forest. All around them was a carpet of thick pine needles.

  The supply list was forgotten. Katie walked to the water’s edge, stooped, and dabbled her fingers in the water. Then she sank to the ground and drew her knees up to her chin, gazing at the water, drinking in the sight.

  “This place feels . . .” She searched for the right word. “Holy.”

  Holy. Robert turned the word over in his mind. Yes, that fit the place perfectly. It had always felt like sacred ground to him too. A place so ancient and primal that it was possible to imagine God walking through the trees as he had once walked with Adam and Eve in the Garden. That was the very reason why he had directed his men to cut on the other side of the section—to give him more time to come to this place before he was forced to destroy it.

  Not the best attitude for a lumber camp owner. His father wouldn’t have hesitated—this place with its valuable timber would have been the first to go.

  “Can I go skip rocks?” Ned asked.

  “Of course,” Katie said. “Just don’t fall in.”

  Ned ran off to the other side of the lake where there was a small, rocky beach. Robert sat down on the cushion of pine needles close to her.

  “I needed this.” She turned toward him. “But I didn’t know.”

  “In a few weeks it will be covered in snow.” He picked up a pine needle and shredded the end.