The Fruitcake Challenge (Christmas Traditions Book 3)

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “Those tramps said they came for the teacher.” Sven rubbed his bristly jaw. “Problem is—your brothers say they might have meant Tom. And you know poor excuse of a schoolteacher, Mr. Arnold, doesn’t come into camp. So we’ll need to talk with him today.”

  Chapter 6

  Late November

  No work for him today. The bunkhouse had never been so empty—or so lonely. Recovered now from a brief bout of the ague, Tom rose from his bunk and quickly dressed—the chill of November winds rattling the windows in their frames. He’d go check on Ruth, too, who had suffered from the same illness—both of them missing out on the Thanksgiving feast. Not that either of them could have kept it down. Today, he’d missed breakfast and his chance to get a glimpse of Jo. Truth be told, her indifference during his illness cut him deeply. But her brothers said if she stepped in that bunkhouse to check on him, that she’d never have heard the end of it—especially since he’d issued his fruitcake challenge. Camp driver, elderly Frenchie Brevort said she didn’t come feed him broth herself because then the men would claim she was buttering him up for his mother’s fruitcake recipe. So, maybe she wasn’t indifferent, but afraid. But true love—God’s love—cast out fear.

  Right?

  After washing his face at the pitcher and basin stand, Tom dried off with a clean cloth. The scent of castile soap reminded him of Jo—the way it clung to her unlike the sweat that permeated the bunkhouse. Today, instead of work boots, he slipped his feet into lined moccasins that Jo had insisted he needed and set off down the pine-needle strewn trail toward Ruth’s cabin. She might need a hand with something, what with her father out at the logging site and all those sisters to care for. They loved listening to his stories and the youngest—six-year-old Amanda—was learning to read primers. Of course her teacher may have had something to do with that, too, but Tom liked to think his reading with the children had helped.

  Tom approached Ruth’s door, drawing his collar closed around his neck to keep out the wind. A tiny blonde whirlwind flew out, dressed only in a nightgown. Amanda shrieked when she saw him and then covered her mouth.

  The little girl tilted her head back to stare up at him. “I thought you were that bad man, Mr. Tom.”

  “Nope.” Tom knelt on one knee, bringing him face-to-face with the child and pulled her close to shield her from the wind. “What bad man do you mean?”

  She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered in Tom’s ear. “Go to the school and see.”

  A shiver worked his way up his back. Did she mean the teacher? They’d still had no word if the vandals on the road were seeking Arnold.

  Ruth appeared in the doorway, her cheeks pink with health.

  Rising, Tom pulled Amanda up with him and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “You look like you’re feeling better, Ruth.”

  “Yes, thank God.” She exhaled a huge sigh. “But Mandy won’t go to school today.”

  Hadn’t his father said all children complained about their schoolmasters? But Tom’s students hadn’t. Rather it was he who chafed at the saintly requirements he had to keep. Because he’d not been able to find a position in his own community, he’d been forced to take a position elsewhere, which meant he had to board with one of his student’s families. At least he’d had his own room, albeit usually in a frigid attic. And he’d had to obtain permission to even take a weekend away to visit his mother. He’d not chafed at the rules about attending church because he firmly believed God had called him to be a teacher. And since he didn’t smoke nor drink spirits, he’d had no difficulty with that rule. Since he was already engaged, he’d been given some leniency when Eugenia had come to visit. But after she’d discarded him like a spent bucketful of ash, the school board treated him differently, questioning his every move. It had become intolerable, and he’d felt that God’s blessing on his profession had been lifted. Additionally, the low wages were insulting. Maybe Mr. Arnold also struggled with similar constraints, although Mr. Christy seemed to be quite lenient in oversight. Nothing about the little contact Tom had with the teacher seemed to suggest that Arnold perceived God’s call on his work, though. If anything, the man seemed downright antsy whenever faith was mentioned.

  Amanda tugged at his hand. “Promise me you’ll go.”

  The men were already out at the site, well beyond here. They were so deep in the woods he’d not be joining them this day.

  “I’ll go.”

  She pulled again. “Right now?”

  He exhaled a puff of air that caused the child’s bangs to ripple on her rounded doll-like forehead. “All right.”

  Tom stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “I’ll drop back by later.”

  “Thanks, Tom.” Ruth took her sister’s hand and led her back to a rudimentary bench made of smaller tree stumps topped by a board that rested against the side of the cabin.

  His gut rumbled as he cut through the pine needle strewn path toward the makeshift schoolhouse. The square building resembled the family cabins but was situated farther into the woods. Smoke puffed from the short chimney. The door swung open and Mr. Arnold pulled Ruth’s sister, Gretchen, by her long blond braid to the side of the structure. In his right hand, he held what looked like a leather whip. So intent was he on his task, that he didn’t notice Tom standing there.

  “Bend over!” the schoolmaster barked at the cowering girl.

  Through the open school door, Tom spied the children’s mortified faces. He ran toward the man just as Arnold raised the whip and grabbed it from his hand.

  “Why, you!” Arnold whirled on him, his countenance dark with rage.

  Gretchen’s tear-streaked face reflected fear and relief.

  “You interfering, barbarian! I am the schoolmaster here.” Arnold lunged toward Tom.

  When he raised his fist, Tom punched him in his gut, bringing the monster to his knees in the dank earth. The children swarmed from the schoolhouse.

  Tom gave Gretchen a quick hug before turning to the other children. “Who else has been hurt by the teacher?”

  They all glanced at each other. One by one they clustered around Tom.

  “I told Papa,” Gretchen whispered. “But he didn’t believe me. Thank you for coming, Mr. Tom.”

  Arnold stood and pointed behind Tom. “They’ll kick you out of the camp, you fool. Who do you think you are, coming in here and stirring up trouble?”

  Tom heard the rustle of dried leaves beneath large feet and turned to see Ox and Moose amble out from the woods. What were they doing back so early? When the two brawny brothers got to the schoolhouse they paused, both of them tucking their thumbs into their red suspenders.

  Arnold took three steps toward them. “This shanty boy just punched me.”

  Ox spit a wad of tobacco juice just past Arnold. “That true, Tom?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Gretchen ran to Moose. “Teacher was gonna whip me and Mr. Tom didn’t let him.”

  Tom bent, retrieved the leather whip and displayed it for the brothers, knowing full well that if they let this man keep teaching he didn’t want to be part of this camp. His stomachache rallied again, and churned within him.

  Ox raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and appeared to stare straight ahead at Tom and the teacher. “You’re relieved of duty.”

  Arnold smirked at Tom. “What did I tell you?”

  Moose moved forward and grabbed the back of the brute’s neck. “Not him—you! You’re out of here! Now, Arnold.”

  The brothers linked arms with the man. “Besides, we think your true name might be Arnault, not Arnold, and that the police in Traverse City have reason to want to talk with you.”

  They bodily hauled him away from the school and toward the camp.

  Gretchen wrapped her arms around Tom as a gust of wind sent dead leaves scurrying. “What are we gonna do about school, Mr. Tom?”

  Inside her cabin, on a brief respite from kitchen work, Jo bent over the washing bucket by the window, scrubbing her good d
ress, readying it for church. She prayed Tom would be well enough to sit beside her again. Last week, she’d prayed the entire time that he’d cover her hand with his or hold her hand during the brief service. She’d watched him tap his fingers on his knee and then creep his fingers closer to her, but then he’d stop, clasp his hands together and stare intently at the preacher. She sighed at the recollection. At least he’d offered his arm on the way back to her cabin. And Pa allowed him to sit with them and chat during the lunch meal. What a blessing to have yet another new cook, Mrs. Lehto, a pretty brunette widow in her forties, to help so Jo could have a respite.

  She rinsed out her dress, which needed to dry. Tomorrow night she would starch and press it. She looked through the window and spied Ruth as she ran across the clearing, looking well and like herself again.

  The younger woman tapped on the door and then came inside. “Jo—guess what? Tom stopped Mr. Arnold from hurting Gretchen.”

  “What?” Jo dropped her dress back into the rinse water and rose.

  “That’s all I know. Come on outside.” Ruth turned and went back out. Jo grabbed a heavy shawl and followed her out into the cold breeze. At least this year the winter was beginning mild.

  Emerging from the tree line, Jo’s brothers practically dragged the schoolteacher over the dirt yard and then past her and Ruth. With a black eye and a split lip, the teacher appeared to have been pummeled.

  Cringing, Jo watched with Ruth from the stoop. They wrapped arms around each other as a gust of wind carried dirt up from the hard-packed ground.

  “Miss Christy,” the man croaked as he passed. Blood dripped down his chin and the front of his cream-colored shirt.

  Moose jerked the man forward. “She ain’t gonna help save your worthless hide when she hears what you did.”

  Stiffening, Jo wiped her hands on her apron. “What happened?”

  Ox spat into a little patch of brown grass. “Tom caught him about to whip Gretchen and he stopped him.”

  Teachers had been known to take a rod to misbehaving pupils. Had Tom overreacted?

  “Tom did what?” How could he have beaten up the schoolmaster?

  Ruth linked her arm through Jo’s and leaned in. “Sven says his real name is Arnault, not Arnold, and he’s wanted by the sheriff in Traverse City.”

  “What?” Had this man harmed other children? What had this Mr. Arnold or Arnault done?

  “Those men who came to camp were part of his gang.” Ox’s dark eyes flashed in anger. “That’s what the sheriff thinks.”

  “Pa!” Moose called out as they pulled the man toward the office shack.

  Ruth’s sisters raced across the clearing, so close together as they ran that their calico skirts swished against each other’s. None wore their coats. Jo cupped her hands around her mouth. “Come over here, girls.”

  Gretchen panted as she stopped before Jo. “Mr. Tom saved me.”

  Wrapping an arm around Gretchen and Amanda, Jo pulled them into the cabin as Ruth followed with her sister, Edith. After serving them hot cocoa and sugar cookies, Jo played a game of charades with them all. Jo’s favorite was twelve-year-old Edith’s portrayal of Tom as a banty rooster, strutting about the cabin and then pointing at Jo, then back at herself and winking. Ruth had burst into laughter and called out, “That’s Tom.”

  Jo had laughed, too, but recently she’d seen the godly man Tom could be, as she’d spent time with him. And his braggart ways had lessened. Still, he’d not affirmed that any of the fruitcakes she’d concocted were worthy of him.

  Bidding the girls goodbye, Jo couldn’t shake the image of Mr. Arnold’s bloody face from her mind. Pa and Tom had accompanied the accused man into town. If Tom could be so violent with his fellow man…the thought gave her pause. Now she understood why Pa and her brothers kept constant vigil over her. Theirs was a family lumber camp with few single men. And as such they didn’t have the fighting and brawling seen in some of the other places, such as a few they’d visited near Traverse City. Her tentative imaginings of a growing romance with Tom shook like geese wings as they prepared to take flight high above the pines. She was left feeling like the lonely loon who bobbed on the lake by herself, waiting, but never joined by her mate. Watching the bird, some nights, made Jo feel so sad, with an emptiness she’d not recognized until Tom had arrived in camp.

  Why had he come? This ache in her heart was a burden she couldn’t bear.

  Jo retrieved the note from the bakeshop across the straits in St. Ignace. And she penned a hasty reply. She could take one of the railroad cars, pulled across by barge. With her savings, she’d have enough for the passage and at least a month’s worth of supplies. The position came with room and board.

  Now, to tell Pa.

  Tom strode across the mucky yard in his heavy boots. In a box, tucked under his arm, were Arnold’s punishment tools, including what looked like a cat of nine tails. Men like Arnold should be locked up forever.

  He was almost to the Christy’s cabin when Jo stepped in his path, her hair as fiery as her cheeks. “How could you?”

  Tom pulled himself up to his full height. “He deserved it.”

  “To be beaten up like that?”

  Tom pulled the box from beneath his arm and displayed a vicious looking horsewhip. “What do you think about this being cracked on a student’s back?”

  “He wouldn’t…” Her pretty lips quivered as frosty air blew in across nearby Lake Michigan.

  Longing to pull her into his arms, instead, he removed his mackinaw jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

  Ox and Moose exited the office. “You got more of Arnault’s stuff there, Tom?”

  “Sure do.”

  “You’re violent, too.” Jo’s low petulant words pierced him. She crossed her arms over her chest, pulling his coat tightly around her.

  One punch to the gut? She thought his hit equated with a man who beat children? She was one mixed up lady. What kind of mother would she be if she allowed her children to be mistreated by someone like Arnold?

  “I beg to disagree, ma’am.”

  Moose and Ox trudged toward them, both rubbing their fists. Ox had streaks of red on his knuckles. So did Moose. Apparently neither bothered to wash the so-called teacher’s blood from their hands.

  Tom snorted in disgust, understanding what had happened. He turned to Jo. “Let me guess. Did Mr. Arnold arrive back here with a busted up face?”

  Jo glanced between Tom and her brothers. “You should know he did, Mr. Jeffries.”

  Ox gave a quick shake of his head and jerked his thumb toward Tom. “Nah, he didn’t see it.”

  Moose placed himself between Jo and Tom and grabbed the box full of Arnold’s disgusting paraphernalia. “You have no idea what kinda man would take out his frustration on a child using this stuff, Sis.”

  Ox smacked one fist into his palm. “He deserved what he got and if he had another face, I’d rearrange that one, too.”

  Jo’s face went slack. She must have realized that her brothers had inflicted whatever damage Arnold sustained.

  “We better wash up before dinner.” Moose examined his fists, spitting on one and rubbing it against his thigh.

  “But who is going to teach those children now?” Jo stepped forward and stomped her foot. He couldn’t help smiling at the fact that she was wearing the boots he’d bought for her.

  Although she didn’t apologize to him for thinking he’d done the damage to Arnold’s face, Jo was chewing her lower lip, which meant regrets might be forthcoming.

  “Pa had a horrid time finding this supposed teacher.”

  “She’s right.” Moose frowned. “Pa couldn’t get anybody but that bit of scum to come this far north.”

  “I can keep tutoring them at night.” Tom had kept his agreement with the brothers, reading to the children every night and instructing those who struggled.

  Jo rocked on the balls of her feet, her mouth fixed in a grim line of agitation. “What are the mothers supposed to do when p
art of the reason they agreed to stay in this camp was because we had a teacher?”

  “Miss Christy…”

  Moose raised his hand. “We had an agreement, Tom, and I expect you’ll honor it.”

  “Proposition you accepted freely.” Ox repeatedly flexed his fingers and then fisted them.

  Tom got their message. But if he took over the teaching job, how was he to help his mother? He’d pulled in a good paycheck week after week. Was that to now end? And what would that mean for his chances with Jo?

  With the whispering of the pines came a soft assurance from God—He had a plan for both of their lives.

  Jo removed Tom’s jacket and shoved it at him. “Thank you for the loan.” Her tone of voice was anything but grateful and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  Crossing her arms, Jo ran back into her cabin.

  Was the rumor true? Mr. Brevort had told him that the new bakeshop owner from St. Ignace sent inquiries to the merchants in Mackinaw City about Jo. Tom looked up at the quaking boughs of the pines in search of an answer. Surely God didn’t plan for him to lose her when he’d only just realized what a treasure she was.

  Chapter 7

  December, 1890

  Would the brand new bakeshop in St. Ignace have dainty curtains like Ma had made for her hope chest? Jo hoped the building looked like the white clapboard-sided pastry shop for sale in Mackinaw City. Maybe the owner was taking his business to the Upper Peninsula because of all the lumber camps opening up there. Patting the letter, with its offer for employment, Jo eyed the serving counter. The leftover fruitcake—one of Mrs. Peyton’s recipes—seemed to taunt her from its perch. “Not good enough, not even close.”

  Another week closer to Christmas and still no fruitcake that Tom would approve. The previous evening, after dinner, Pa spent a long time talking with the handsome lumberjack, but Jo hadn’t heard what they’d said. However, she had felt Pa’s, Tom’s, and her brothers’ eyes on her as she and her ladies cleaned up. Afterward, Tom had walked her home, telling her stories about growing up in Ohio. Not that it mattered what she learned about him, since she obviously couldn’t please the finicky man. Besides, she was most definitely getting out of the lumber camp.