The mare settled into a comfortable walk, and Becky bent forward to pat her neck and whisper a few praises. The mare twitched her ears back and preened. Saucy little thing. Becky smiled.
Soon she was lost in the beauty surrounding her. The trees towered above them all around, getting taller and taller, wider and wider. It seemed as if they were reaching into the sky and blocking the light. They’d entered a secret underworld—one of fragrant pine needles and cool mountain air, air that snuck in through the seams in her coat and dress. The smell of pitch and earth was soothing, and she felt a sense of belonging that surprised her. This was a land she could come to love.
The far-off noises of wood cracking and men yelling out were the only signs of logging she’d heard along the way, but it was quiet here.
“What kind of trees are these?” she asked in a hushed voice, not wanting to disturb the peace.
Isaac looked around, pride of ownership evident in the straight set of his shoulders. He seemed so at home in this place. “That’s red cedar there. White pine, Sitka spruce, hemlock.” He pointed each out to her and then paused at the base of a giant trunk. His head tilted way back, an expression of awe crossing over his features. “And this is a Douglas fir.”
Becky stared at its huge base, wider than her father’s store front. She let her gaze travel up the trunk to the prickly limbs hanging above them at a staggering height. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He gave her a quick smile and nudged his huge bay gelding up the path. The skid loaded with her trunks skipped along behind him, making clunking noises as it went over the rocks and roots.
Finally, they came to a weathered shack in a clearing. She peered more closely at the building as Isaac pulled his mount to a halt and dismounted. There were two little windows flanking the front door. What looked like curtains on the inside.
Her stomach dropped.
Was this his house?
She hadn’t expected anything grand, but this? Her sense of majesty crashed like a felled tree. He must have caught her look of disappointment for his cheeks reddened. Becky felt a twist of shame at her reaction—this was his home after all.
Isaac grasped her waist and swung her down from her mount. Becky stood on legs that trembled from the effort to stay on the unfamiliar sidesaddle and watched as Isaac led the horses to a lean-to. He tethered them, removed their saddles, and gave them a quick brush down. After shaking a helping of hay out for them and filling their water trough, he swiftly unloaded the skid, stacking her trunks in a neat pile on the cabin’s porch. All the while Becky had itched to help with the horses. She could have at least helped with brushing down her mount, but she hesitated to offer and then the opportunity had slipped by.
The quiet was broken by the sounds of hens clucking in a chicken coop off to one side of the lean-to. They must keep them for eggs, she thought, as there didn’t seem to be enough hens to supply them with roasters as well. She also heard the sound of hammers thudding and the rasp of saws, coming from the rear of the cabin.
Isaac approached her with an uncertain-looking smile.
“Here we are,” he announced simply. Was that a sigh of resignation?
She forced a smile. It wasn’t what she’d expected, but she’d make the best of it. Big houses with fancy stoops had never meant that much to her anyway.
“Pop’s got a crew of loggers out back finishing up the addition,” he said, talking over the noise. He led her inside and pointed out a newly hung door at the back of the cabin. “That’s what all the racket is.”
An addition.
He meant a new bedroom. Theirs.
“Oh.” Her voice was barely a squeak.
She stared around the cramped one-room cabin with dismay, and corrected herself: two-room cabin. A huge black stove in the corner consumed much of the kitchen area. The air was close and warm, and smelled of burnt pine pitch. A small table with three ladder-backed chairs hugged one wall. On another wall stood a pair of twin beds made of rough logs, with an old wooden trunk separating them. Pieced-together potato sacks hung from the ceiling, and a loop of leather cord held the simple makeshift curtain against the wall. They must close it at night when one of them is sleeping, she thought.
This was to be her new home? It made her parents’ cramped apartment seem like a palace. She was all too aware of Isaac standing at her side, his expression guarded, yet a little expectant.
“It’s—it’s nice,” she stammered lamely. “Cozy.”
“It’s small, I know,” he apologized miserably and cast a disgusted glance around the room.
The door to the addition opened behind him and a tall, wiry man ducked through. He was much older than Isaac, but the square jaw was much the same, as was the nice straight nose. He had the most startling white hair Becky had ever seen, pulled back into a queue at the back of his neck. His skin was deeply tanned, and when he smiled at her, crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. It was clear he was accustomed to long hours in the sun.
“Rebecca, this is my father, Sam Jessup,” Isaac introduced his father with what seemed like an air of relief.
Becky looked up at the man. His silvery-blue eyes sparkled as they met hers, and he thrust out a large hand toward her. She took it in both of hers and smiled in delight. He was a character from a Western dime story, complete with fringed, leather shirt and a pair of faded denim trousers with a hole in the knee.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jessup.”
“That’s Sam to you, gal.” He patted her hand, as if pleased at her welcome. Then he spoke in an aside to Isaac. “I can sure pick ’em—right, Son?”
“Pop,” Isaac said, dragging the name out, his tone filled with exasperation.
Becky watched their interchange, puzzled at Isaac’s look of warning and Sam’s expression of wounded innocence. And what did Sam mean by “pick ’em”? What a peculiar thing to say. Pick what?
“So, tomorrow’s the big day,” he seemed to take great pleasure in the announcement.
“Right, Pop, tomorrow.” Isaac was wearing that slightly sick look again, the same look she’d spied on his face that first day in the Pearsons’ parlor. He hustled her away from his father, leading her by the elbow to the back corner of the cabin. “This is the kitchen,” he pointed out the obvious, with what she took to be a hint of desperation in his voice.
“Yep, and it’s time to eat,” Sam announced. He approached the great, black stove with a sense of purpose.
When he lifted the lid on the pot, Becky almost fainted at the smell. Boiled beans. She’d had enough boiled beans on her voyage to Seattle to last ten lifetimes. The smell alone was like a slap. She closed her eyes briefly to steady herself, then swallowed as the floor began to pitch like the decks of the ship beneath her feet. Her head felt too light, as if she were falling.
“You look right peaked.” Sam glanced over at her with a look of concern.
Peaked? He must mean hungry.
“No, sir, not really.” She was frantic now, but feared offending him. “I ate before we left the Pearsons’.” Five hours ago, she added silently. Isaac had arrived several hours after breakfast to lead her up the mountain, and she’d felt a few hunger rumbles on the way, but now all her stomach did was churn.
“Nonsense. You’ll eat with us. There’s plenty.” Sam shoveled out globs of thick, brown mess into three wooden bowls. “Now, make yourself at home.”
Isaac held out a chair for her, and she sat, biting back a groan. She was doomed.
Sam set a plate of salted pork in the middle of the table and scooped a helping onto the top of her beans—just like every meal she’d been served aboard ship. Her stomach rocked. Her lips pressed shut of their own accord. Staring down into her bowl, she shook her head in an imperceptible refusal.
She couldn’t eat it. She just couldn’t.
The men took their seats and, after Sam gave the blessing, they both tucked into their meal with enthusiasm. Isaac’s eyes were filled with
question as they met hers. She smiled back grimly and lifted a tiny portion to her mouth. She forced her lips open and tried to imagine a feast of roasted wild turkey and new potatoes as she clamped down on the fork with her teeth. The undeniable taste of boiled beans and salted pork met her tongue—waxy, briny, slippery...
Every night she’d spent with her head hanging off her bunk over a pail came back to her, making her eyes water. She bit her lip in despair, pushing away from the table with a jerk. The hot air in the cabin thickened. She couldn’t get a breath. Suffocating. She hurried desperately toward a door off the kitchen area and hoped it led outside. Swinging it open, she spied the privy and stumbled across the yard toward it. She escaped inside, promptly losing her breakfast. As she sagged to the floor, too weak to stand, the miserable smell of the place assaulted her.
What must Isaac and his father think of her, tearing out of their home without even a word of apology?
She moaned and pushed against the door. It wouldn’t budge. As she pounded on the rough boards with her fists, a marble of panic lodged in her throat. She was stuck in the privy. The foul air choked her. She pressed her nose into a long crack in the door and tried to snuffle in some fresh air. With renewed energy, she heaved her body against the door and fell out onto the ground in a flurry of skirts and petticoats. When she raised her head, she saw a pair of men’s work boots—Isaac’s boots. Funny she would recognize them.
“Are you all right, Rebecca?” he murmured. His deep rumble of a voice sounded concerned.
Her cheeks burned. Her face was likely a bright shade of red. His hand appeared before her face, and she stared at it a moment, undecided. She swallowed her embarrassment and took it.
“I— The door was stuck,” she mumbled, refusing to look up at him.
“It does that sometimes. You’ve got to give it a good push.” He lifted her easily to her feet, his dark brown eyes searching hers, evidently trying to decide if this was a one time thing or if she was a sickly sort of person in general. She thought she detected a sense of awkwardness in him, as he stepped back to lead her into the cabin. Probably wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
And here she’d always prided herself on her sturdy constitution.
Becky sighed as she watched his back, brushing the dirt off her skirt and trailing after him.
Sam had a glass of cold water ready, which she accepted gratefully. They were both truly kind, not questioning her about her hurried dash out of the cabin. Isaac seemed almost overly kind. She caught his concerned gaze sweeping over her face several times. He was likely thinking her a complete hoyden. After she finished her drink, Isaac retired to the back room, saying he had some work to do. As she sat with Sam listening to his stories of the frontier, she relived her race for the privy in her mind, burning with mortification.
So much for all her efforts to appear the perfect lady.
***
While Pop kept Rebecca company, Isaac helped the crew finish nailing down the roof over the addition. When they were done, he waved them away, back to the logging camp, and set about a thought-provoking task—building his marriage bed. As he adjusted the support ropes for the mattress, his nerves tightened with each twist and pull. He knotted the rope and sat back on his heels, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. Tomorrow he was getting married, to a woman who was more a stranger than a bride. He groaned. Indecision tugged at him. Why had he committed to marrying her?
He lifted the new feather-tick mattress and tossed its cumbersome bulk onto the rope webbing. It was a good bed, he decided, giving it a look of satisfaction. He tucked in the white linen sheets he’d bought at the general store in town this morning before fetching Rebecca from the Pearsons’. At least he had money to provide for a wife, if not a lovely home. As a logger in this wild mountain country, all he could offer Rebecca was a hard life and lonely days.
Why, it wasn’t even safe up here in the mountains with the wild animals and all...
He rested one hand on the headboard—gripped the wood.
What was he doing? She obviously couldn’t take care of herself, could barely stay in a saddle, and from her strange behavior at lunch, she had a delicate constitution to boot. And yet he couldn’t imagine backing out now. He couldn’t imagine letting Pop down either. His father’s wishes were simple, and when Isaac was being honest with himself, he admitted he’d always wanted a family someday. He just hadn’t pictured it coming together this way.
There had been times he’d thought about it. Usually he pictured himself going into town, maybe having a place there, which made no sense. Why would he do that? But in his scenario it had somehow made sense. He’d imagined courting a woman there, maybe. They’d fall in love. They’d eventually marry. They’d know each other. But that wasn’t an option now—never had been. It had been a dream. Nothing more. His wedding was tomorrow afternoon, and he’d committed to it.
TEN
As Jem approached the Jessups’ logging camp, a mixture of wariness and optimism built in his chest. He’d heard tell of Isaac Jessup being a fair boss. Evidently, he knew the business and had risen from the bottom of a logging crew to owning an operation in a matter of years.
That’s where Jem needed to be.
He’d learn the business from the top man firsthand, and with a little sweat and a lot of luck, he’d be someone of consequence someday too. If only to show Pa he weren’t no “good for nothing.”
Jem cussed under his breath at the thought of his pa. He tried to forget all about him as he strode with purpose toward the Jessups’ camp cookhouse. The place looked deserted, which was odd for this time of day. Usually the loggers would be getting ready to sit down to their chow about now. Forcing his impatience down, he took a calming breath. No matter. He’d wait. He had all the time in the world.
Restless energy prevented him from sitting on a fallen log outside of the cookhouse, so he paced back and forth.
All the time in the world seemed too long to wait.
Jem smacked his palm against the huge tree stump taking up a good deal of space in the camp clearing. He liked the pounding feeling going up his arm and through his entire body. He’d been so numb for years, feeling anything was a nice change. The rough bark under his skin felt good and right—like he was connected to this place.
This was his future all right.
He could almost taste it.
Even so, his goal loomed before him like an insurmountable peak. He had to climb it was all. He had to find a way—any way—to be better than his beginnings. And Pa need never know what he made of his life. No, not ever.
Jem never wanted to be in the man’s company again. Not even for one more day.
All that mattered was seeing it for himself.
That’d prove Pa wrong.
ELEVEN
The wedding the next day was simple and quick. Becky felt more like a spectator than a bride as she clutched her simple bouquet of wildflowers. Isaac had surprised her with them just before the ceremony, making her blush. He stood beside her, reminding her again of a great oak towering over her. Before them was a weathered old miner, who also served as a preacher to the logging camp. Their vows were simply and quietly spoken, but felt strange, committing their lives and love when they scarcely knew one another. In the blink of an eye, she was a married woman, complete with a simple gold band.
A group of loggers with droopy handlebar mustaches and red suspenders jostled together in the tiny cabin. At first, the men seemed to hang back a little, nodding respectfully to Becky and looking at Isaac as if he were every inch the boss-man he appeared. At one point, they collectively appeared to gather their courage and took turns punching Isaac in the arm and whispering into his ear. He laughed with them ruefully and occasionally glanced in Becky’s direction. He looked uneasy to her, which didn’t inspire much confidence.
A burly man with red hair took his turn punching on Isaac’s arm. He had a great booming voice that carried like a carnival leader’s, so it caught Becky�
�s attention from across the room. “Should’ve had old Sam fix me up with a bride too. She’s a looker—sure you won’t change your mind? I could use a wife—”
She grew absolutely still, transfixed on the man’s face, and yet trying desperately not to let anyone know she was watching him. Listening.
That she’d heard.
But she had.
“Brody.” Isaac wasn’t speaking nearly as loudly, and his voice probably wouldn’t have carried to her across the room if she weren’t looking directly at him, watching his lips move. She also saw how he tried to silence Brody with a stern look.
“I wouldn’t mind getting a surprise like that one day,” another one of the men said, thrusting a jug of whiskey into Brody’s hands and spilling some of the golden brew onto the floor in the process.
Becky watched as Isaac grabbed the jug and shoved the dangling cork in place. He tossed the jug back to one of the laughing loggers and growled at them. “Save it, men.”
She scarcely registered the events going on around her. An image of Sam teasing Isaac yesterday came to mind and claimed all of her attention.
I can sure pick ’em—right, Son?
That’s what he’d said. It hadn’t made sense at the time.
Sam’s words whirled in Becky’s head.
And then everything fell into place.
The room tilted around her in the heat. The heady smell of spilt whiskey was nauseating. She’d nearly bent her bouquet of wildflowers in two she’d gripped them so hard. They were ruined now, wilting anyway. She might as well throw them out...
Isaac’s father came right up to her then. Maybe he’d been watching her all this time. “You all right?” he asked.
“Just tired, I guess. I think I’ll—” She gestured weakly to the door at the back, the one that led to the new addition they’d built. For her. And Isaac.
The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1) Page 5
