THE FRUITCAKE CHALLENGE
A Christmas Traditions Novella
By Carrie Fancett Pagels
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, characters, and events are products of the author’s imaginations, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2014 by Carrie Fancett Pagels
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever- except short passages for reviews – without express permission. For information, email [email protected].
First Edition
September 2014
Printed and bound in the United States of America
ISBN-13
ISBN-10
Cover Art by Cynthia Hickey
For contact with the author or speaking engagements, please visit www.CarrieFancettPagels.com
Dedication
To Jeffrey Donald Pagels, my best friend, the love of my life, and the inspiration for so many of my heroes! So glad God blessed me with such a wonderful husband. And to the memory of my mother, Ruby Evelyn Skidmore Fancett, whose stories of growing up in a lumber camp, assisting her camp cook mother, Eliza Jane Clark Skidmore, inspired this story. My mom really did make “the best fruitcake ever!”
Acknowledgements
First I want to thank God, who has inspired me to write. Couldn’t do it without God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Abba Father—every book is for you! I have so many people to thank. I’d like to thank my husband, to whom the story is dedicated, and my son, Clark, for being such a history buff and working on my stories with me. And for his tolerance and accompaniment for all the research trips we did for this novella. He has amazing insight into literary plot devices. Hugs to Cassandra Pagels for bringing DarDar, my big black Labrador retriever grandpuppy, over—he brought back great memories of our family lab, Blue Dog and inspired the addition of Jo’s dog in this book! And I’d like to acknowledge Clark’s friend, Thomas McWithey, for letting us “borrow” his first name for my hero. A good name.
Thank you to all the wonderful folks at the Tahquamenon Logging Museum, in Newberry, Michigan, in the beautiful Upper Peninsula. I want to acknowledge Rose Anderson, in particular, who has been so supportive of my writing. Thank you to the volunteers and those who’ve donated to the museum help keep alive the lore of the lumber camps and lumberjacks. The museum has a cook shack and serves lumberjack breakfasts on special occasions, which is a huge labor of love (and which I’ve greatly enjoyed!) I love this place!
Thank you to the Hartwick Pines staff in Michigan’s lower peninsula, which includes one of the last stands of virgin white pine in the state. Walking through this gorgeous protected area of towering trees gives an idea of what it must have been like before these pines were logged out.
Thank you to the staff of White Star ferry lines in St. Ignace, Michigan, in particularly the wonderful young Yoopers at the Railroad ferry dock. Also, I appreciate help I received at the Old Mackinaw Point lighthouse, in Mackinaw City, which is part of the state park system. They have some wonderful pictures and facts about icebreakers that opened up the straits so that railroad cars could be pulled across even in winter.
I’m grateful for Gina Welborn’s invitation to contribute to this collection. Participating in the Christmas Traditions authors group has been a great experience. The group includes Cynthia Hickey, the lead, who designed my cover and our banner. Cynthia has also helped those of us who are new to “hybrid” publishing. The members of the Christmas Traditions Promotion Group on Facebook are the best influencers! Big hugs to Linda Marie Finn, Angi Griffis, Diana Montgomery, Sister Mary Lou Kwiatkowski, Nancy McLeroy, Debbie Lynn Costello, Jackie Tessnair, Maxie Lloyd-Hamilton Anderson, Wendy Shoults, Chris Granville, Britney Adams and *Beta readers listed below.
Kudos to *Kathy Maher for help in promoting the novella and for help as critique partner. Big hugs to my professional Beta reader, *Teresa Mathews, for her read through of the manuscript. And more hugs to my other Beta/ARC readers *Anne Payne, *Regina Fujitani, *Bonnie Roof, *Janella Wilson, Melanie Backus, *Tina St. Clair Rice, and *Rosemary “Chicki” Foley (*all of whom are also part of the promo group!) Thank you to Eva Marie Everson for editing. Any errors in the book are my own.
I don’t know what I’d do without my blog support system, the ladies are friends as well as amazing bloggers at www.OvercomingWithGod.com blog. Thank you to Diana Flowers, our Senior Reviewer, *Teresa S. Mathews, our poet and reviewer, and to our international reviewer, Noela Nancarrow of Australia. The OWG angels really have blessed me.
Thank you also to the talented bunch of authors at www.ColonialQuills.org. It’s been such a blast, and so informative, to hang out with like-minded writers who love colonial and early American history. And our Tea Parties online are the best—even if I say so myself!
Thank you, Dr. Mark Croucher, my chiropractor, for keeping me adjusted so I can write! Hugs to my writing accountability group members: Julie Klassen, Melanie Dickerson and Sarah E. Ladd—you keep my attitude adjusted so I can write and you keep me on track!
Prologue
Near Mackinaw City, Michigan 1890
Vast evergreens crowded the roadway on both sides of the wagon, towering over a hundred feet to the sky, almost obscuring the sunlight. Every time the dray hit a bump in the mucky road, Tom Jeffries grasped his crate of books in one arm and his boxy leather suitcase in the other. After the last spine-jolting rut had been crossed, he pulled out his father’s gold pocket watch.
Shouldn’t be too much longer now.
He swatted at the mosquitoes that swarmed the deep woods. No wonder the men at the mercantile had laughed when Tom had asked about purchasing arm garters to go with his new work shirts. He’d need to leave his shirt sleeves unrolled, even for summer, to keep the pests off him. Even that wasn’t working now, though. Tom draped his Hudson Bay blanket around his shoulders and pulled it up over his neck and then squashed his felt slouch hat down further to cover his forehead.
The vehicle slowed. Sitting in the bed of the flat dray, Tom swiveled so he could see the reason for their halt.
The drayman turned to him, as did his son beside him. “Here’s yer camp.”
Nothing but woods surrounded them. Tom hesitated. He wasn’t about to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere.
The barrel-chested man pointed straight ahead. “That there’s Boss Christy’s office and the cook shack is beyond.”
Tom hopped down, but left his belongings on the wagon bed.
“Ya oughta be glad ya ain’t come in with the regular crew, young fella.” The driver barked out a laugh. “Ya’d have been trampin’ to the camp this ten miles out insteada ridin’ plush in the back.”
The red-haired youth scowled. “Mister, ain’t ya ever been a lumberjack before?”
Ignoring the boy, Tom turned toward the supposed campsite. As he squinted, sunlight pierced the treetops, illuminating a circular clearing of dark earth about fifty feet ahead and a wood-sided hut to the left that blended in with the forest. He stretched out the kinks in his long legs. Thank God the train had gotten him as far north as it had. How had the old timers ever managed riding in a wagon for days?
“Best get your stuff out. I’m gonna turn around down there but it gets tricky with the mud from the rain.”
The man’s son dropped down and moved to the back of the wagon. “I’ll help ya, mister.” But when he made to lift Tom’s crate of books, the youth stumbled under th
e weight.
Tom grabbed hold of his treasure trove. “If you could carry that bag,” he said, nodding toward the suitcase, “I’d be obliged.”
“Yes, sir.” Flushed, the boy hoisted down the brown case.
In a short while, Tom’s belongings had been deposited on the wood-planked stoop of what passed for an office, and his driver and son had circled the dray around. Other than bird song and wind rustling the tree boughs, there was little sound or movement. Then the wagon’s wheels rumbled down the narrow drive, away from the camp.
A now-familiar buzzing tickled Tom’s ear. He swatted, then rested his hand along the back and side of his neck. After battling the pests all the way out, welts covered the area. Should have greased himself up with the stinky ointment one of the Chippewa traders in town had offered him. He slapped at another mosquito, pulling his hand away to find blood smeared along the fingertips. He wiped it off on his new dungarees and then knocked on the flimsy pine door.
No answer. He rocked on his feet, a sweet symphony of birdsong echoing all around, as though they’d come out to serenade him on his arrival. Wood smoke wafted from the squat office’s chimney. A water pump groaned from behind the building. Tom followed the sound, his new work boots squeaking in protest with each step.
The northwoods were indeed a breath-taking sight, but the young woman standing before him, pumping water, was prettier than any vista he’d ever beheld or any belle he’d ever courted—and there had been many.
Until Papa died, anyways. And until his heart had been broken.
Tom exhaled as loudly as he thought proper, but consumed with pumping water, the girl didn’t take note of him. Her bronze hair appeared glazed with copper. The mass flowed down in waves, reminding Tom of the beautiful Tahquamenon Falls—portrayed in painting he’d viewed the previous day. Peaches and cream skin looked the sort to burn if she left her woody bower. And her pink cotton dress strained against decidedly feminine curves with each motion.
“Miss?”
But still, she didn’t hear him. Instead, she carried a bucket to a large metal pot hanging over a fire and poured the water in, curls of steam wafting up.
Footfall sounded behind him as the beauty threw a tattered blanket over a line set at eye level. Four ropes had been tied off to poles in a neat smallish square around a tin trough. Suddenly someone clapped a rough hand over Tom’s mouth while another burly arm pulled, forcing him to walk backward and around the corner of the building. He stumbled but caught himself. Pain seared his elbow as it rammed into a rock hard gut.
“What are you doin’ back here?” The massive hand clasped over Tom’s mouth released as the huge man on his left shoved him toward the one on the right.
“You spyin’ on our sister?”
“No!” But he had been, of course. Tom swallowed. At 6’3” he wasn’t used to being manhandled, nor encountering anyone taller than himself. But the first brother had a good three inches and likely another seventy pounds of solid muscle on him. The giant’s upper arm was as big around as Tom’s thigh, as was his partner’s.
Tom shook his arms hard and the two released him. “No one present at the office when I arrived.”
“And who are you?” Despite his whiskers, this man appeared younger, with the unlined face of a youth. With almost-black wavy hair, dark brown eyes, and ruddy complexions beneath their black beards, the two resembled each other. Together, they created a formidable mass of muscle.
“I’m Tom Jeffries, the new man.”
The bigger man jerked his thumb toward the front of the building. “That your stuff up there?”
“Yes.”
The two exchanged a glance, and then guffawed. “We’ve got a teacher and an early one for once. And here you look big enough to be our next axman.”
Tom averted his gaze. God, why you are taunting me? I thought you’d guided me here. “I’m not here for the teaching job.”
Educators didn’t make enough money to support themselves, much less themselves and their mothers. And they must follow a set of rules designed for saints. And from what he’d heard on his trip north, lumberjacks had a code of their own—of the opposite sort. But with Mr. Christy running a “clean family camp” Tom figured he’d be all right. Then again, with these two barbarians, maybe not.
The shorter man extended a hand. “I’m Ox and this is my younger brother, Moose. We’re Boss Christy’s boys.”
Moose’s eyes darted back toward where the young woman remained and ignored Tom’s offered hand.
Ox slipped his thumbs into his trouser pockets. “Where you think you’re gonna keep those books in the bunkhouse?”
How many men slept in the bunkhouse, this being a family camp? “Under my bed.”
“You the new axman then?”
“Yes.” Tom gritted his teeth.
“Pa’s gone to town. Our ma just died and our sister’s trying to get ready so we can all go talk with the preacher.”
No wonder the men were so irritable. They’d recently lost their mother. “I’m so sorry. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”
Moose glared at him. “That’s why our sister is back there trying to take a bath.”
“Outside?” The word slipped past Tom’s lips before he could stop it.
The taller man inclined his head toward Tom. “Mister, there wasn’t supposed to be anyone out here.”
Ox nodded. “And it’s a nice day.”
No, it wasn’t. It was chilly, maybe in the low 60s.
Tom gestured around the empty circle, edged by equipment, beyond which a string of small cottages or rather shacks extended off into the woods. “Where is everyone?”
“The womenfolk are cooking in their homes and the men have gone ahead out to secure the logging site before we go.” Moose scratched at his beard.
“Maybe you can guard while we’re gone.” Ox pulled on his suspenders. “Most of the folks will go into town.”
Moose pressed a broad hand against Ox’s plaid chest. “Better guard than you were. You were supposed to make sure no one bothered Jo.”
The older brother shoved the younger back. “I had to take care of necessary business.”
“Whatever you say, brother.” The bigger one rolled his eyes.
His acquiescence surprised Tom. The younger brother seemed like a bully, but when the elder held his ground, the bigger man submitted.
Ox buffed his nails against his wool shirt. “Listen, Jo’s our sister and we don’t cotton to anyone bothering her, if you take our meaning.”
The two men glowered at him with fierce, almost black eyes. Tom didn’t need to reweigh in his mind the five hundred or more pounds of solid muscular wall protecting the lovely Jo to steer clear of her—and them.
“I do understand. Perfectly.” What will they do if I stand my ground? Not that he’d ever want to bother a lady, but what if he wanted to take a stand on anything in this camp, such as courting their sister? He needed this job, didn’t need to upset his new boss. No wonder the vast majority of camps didn’t allow women.
Mr. Christy sure was taking a chance with his family camp.
Chapter 1
Late August, 1890
Every muscle in Jo Christy’s back complained as she repeatedly pressed the Mason jar ring into a continuous sheet of biscuit dough, rolled out atop the oak counter in the lumber camp’s kitchen. The only thing that could have made her task more frustrating would be if Tom Jeffries showed up to annoy her with more of his flirtatious questions. In all her twenty-five years, she’d never had a man irritate her the way he did—nor had anyone been so persistent in trying to charm her. Always before, for some reason, they’d given up after only a few attempts.
At the table in the kitchen’s center, Mrs. Peyton looked up from her task of mixing more dough. Only a few of her gray curls peeked out from beneath her head wrap. Jo had a devil of a time trying to keep her thick mane of hair covered and secured, especially without Ma there to help her.
At the en
d of the long rectangular wood structure that formed the cookhouse, the door swung open, admitting additional light onto the far end of the pine floors. From his bed in the corner, Blue Dog raised his hundred pounds of blue-black Labrador flesh and issued a low growl as a man entered the room. Jo wiped the back of her hand over her brow.
Nearby, her youngest cooking assistant at eighteen, Ruth, rested her hand on an aged cleaver in the block while Mrs. Peyton pulled her heavy wood rolling pin into her hand. The hair on the back of Jo’s neck bristled. Blue growled at only one man—Tom. And the occasional peddler who had the poor sense to come to the cook shack first and not the office.
“Good afternoon, ladies!” Pa’s best axman swaggered toward the counter. Blue followed him, still growling, his teeth bared.
The lumberjack ignored him.
How in one short month had Jo’s life been turned upside down? The same week her mother had died, she’d taken on Ma’s job as head cook. That was when this know-it-all Tom Jeffries had shown up in their camp.
Tom removed his knit Frenchmen’s hat and wadded it in his right hand. “May I say—you ladies all are quite a lovely sight for a man to behold in these north woods.”
Jo squeezed her eyes closed. Still angry with God over Ma’s death, she didn’t pray to the Lord about this situation so much as she willed herself to not explode at Tom. She prided herself on being even-tempered. Not so with this arrogant axman.
When Jo opened her eyes, Mrs. Peyton faced her, her knowing expression urging Jo to let her handle the latest question from Tom—one that surely would be posed once he reached them.
Jo turned away as his boots clunked closer. She inhaled deeply and went to the far wall where they’d been slicing strawberries for the evening meal—a real treat and the last of the summer fruit. She sifted sugar over each bowl, stirred, and then waited.
The Fruitcake Challenge (Christmas Traditions Book 3) Page 1
