Love Finds You in Bridal Veil, Oregon

by Miralee Ferrell

  Clara caught Margaret’s hand, pulled her over to a fallen tree, and patted the rough bark beside her. “I don’t need to tell you that God cares about the sparrows. But I’m guessing that includes the chickadees, as well. What makes you think He doesn’t care about all you’re dealing with right now?”

  Margaret lifted a shoulder and grimaced. “I know He cares, but that doesn’t change the hurt and loneliness.”

  Clara squeezed her hand. “But knowing it with your head and letting it find its way to your heart are two different things. You have to turn all the pain over to Him, and ask Him to heal your hurt.”

  “It’s hard.” Margaret sighed. “I’ve got to work at trusting Him more. You headed home?”

  “Yes.” Clara lifted the basket from the pine-needle-carpeted ground and stood. “Mother needs these things for supper, so I’d best be going. Come over and have a cup of tea soon?”

  Margaret embraced her friend. “I’d love that. Give your mother my best. If she’s fixing supper she must be over her cold.”

  “She is, and back to her feisty self.” Clara’s laugh was gentle. “I’ll see you later, and remember: Keep trusting your heavenly Father. He’ll never fail you.” She turned away, the wicker basket swinging beside her skirt. A song drifted back on the still air.

  Margaret drew a deep breath and picked up her pace. Thank the Lord for Clara and her wisdom. She’d store those words in her heart and spend time praying soon. God made the daytime for taking care of chores and responsibilities, and she’d best tend to her business. Papa always said, “We mustn’t slack on what we put our hand to,” and she intended to keep that at the fore of her thinking.

  The fragrant fir trees thinned, and she moved out from under the last row of boughs and onto the path leading past the planer yard. Her heart quickened a bit at the possibility of seeing Andrew among the workers outside. His job off-bearing for the planer and doing some of the maintenance kept him inside most of his working hours, but that didn’t stop her from taking a peek.

  More than one man gave a nod or smiled as she met their eyes. A number of them had children in her school, and she’d grown up with some of the younger ones who’d found work at the planer mill. The sprawling buildings covered a large portion of the long, narrow space of level ground between the far ends of Bridal Veil, backed up against the bluffs of the towering Cascade Range. Rough-cut lumber coming down the mountain flume from the Palmer sawmill two miles above them fed the lower mill’s insatiable appetite.

  As the tangy fragrance of fresh-cut lumber rose on the waves of warm air gusting through the mill yard, Margaret drew in a deep breath. She’d been raised around the noise of the chugging steam engines that ran the massive planer as it turned out the finished lumber sought after by so many builders.

  The blast of a train whistle cut through the air, and the wheels of the nearby engine began to churn. Freight trains ran through Bridal Veil nearly every day, and Margaret rarely noticed them anymore unless she was walking by the mill yard at unloading time.

  A young man leading a fine team of draft horses came into sight, and she swerved out of their path. The man slowed his pace and tugged at the lead horse’s reins. “Whoa there, Stormy. Easy, Samson. We don’t want to trample the lady.” The large black gelding snorted and tossed his head but drew to a stop at the man’s firm touch. “Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to run over you with these beasts of mine.”

  Margaret stroked the horse’s neck. “What a nice team. Are you new in town?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Name’s Arthur Gibbs, Art for short. Come to Bridal Veil to work for Mr. Palmer skiddin’ logs at the upper mill.” He seemed to grow another inch, and his slender frame expanded with his intake of breath. “Got me six of the best skiddin’ horses in the state. I hear the bull whacker don’t think my horses can keep up, but I aim to show him they can.”

  “I’m Margaret Garvey, one of the teachers. Do you have any little ones?”

  “No, ma’am.” A touch of red stained his cheeks. “But I’m gettin’ married next spring, and Glenna, my intended, will be along after we marry.”

  “That’s lovely! Be sure to bring her by the schoolhouse and introduce her. It’s always nice to have another young woman in town.”

  He nodded, then clucked to the horses. “I’ll surely do that, and I thank you for the invite.”

  A shout swung them both around, and Art placed his arm in front of Margaret. “Watch yerself, ma’am.”

  A team of oxen surged around the corner with a perspiring man at their heels. He dragged on the long lines and drew the beasts to a halt. “Sorry, Miss Garvey.”

  “Not to worry, Mr. Meadows. But I haven’t seen your team this close to town in some time.”

  “My new brace of oxen came in on the train.” He frowned at the young man standing silent beside Margaret. “This fella bothering you, Miss Garvey?”

  “Not at all.”

  Meadows narrowed his eyes. “If you’re sure.” He turned his attention back to Art. “Don’t you got anything better to do than block the road? Move them horses outta the way.”

  Art crossed his arms over his chest. “Who might you be?”

  “Dan Meadows. I’m the boss of the teamsters at the upper mill.”

  “Ah-huh. Guess that means I’ll be reporting to you, then.”

  Meadows grunted. “You the new man they brought in that’s supposed to have a team of wonder horses?” He barked a short laugh, then spit and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “They don’t look like any great shakes to me.”

  Art squared his shoulders. “They’ll do.”

  Meadows snapped the lines on the oxen’s shoulders. “They’d better, or you’ll be looking for another job.” He gripped the lines in one hand and tipped his hat at Margaret. “Have a fine day, Miss Garvey.”

  Margaret glanced from one man to the other. “Same to you, Mr. Meadows.”

  One of the oxen bellowed and the team lumbered away. Silence settled around them until Art Gibbs stirred. “Best be gettin’ home. It was nice to make your acquaintance. Good day, ma’am.”

  The horses’ massive hooves kicked pebbles in their wake as they ambled after the man.

  Margaret walked the last few yards to the whitewashed Company store, not for the first time wishing they had more stores than this small one. It carried much of what they needed for day-to-day survival, but there were so many womanly things she’d sorely love to buy. That was one of the drawbacks to the Company owning the entire mill site, homes, and store. They offered what they felt the mill workers needed, and nothing more. Families had to travel by rail or steamboat to nearby Portland for anything more, or send off an order to the Montgomery Ward catalog.

  Margaret walked up the three steps to the covered porch and pushed through the door into the one-story building. “Afternoon, Grant.” As she held on to the doorhandle to let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside the building, a gust of wind nearly jerked the handle out of her grasp. After pulling the door shut behind her, she inhaled slowly. The store smelled of cinnamon and peppermint sticks, with a mingling of new leather and tangy dill pickles. Her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled, reminding her it was almost dinnertime.

  Grant Cowling turned toward her, a smile creasing his ruddy face, and his white, bushy eyebrows rose to touch the wisp of hair on his forehead. “Afternoon, Missy. Haven’t seen you for a while.” He pushed the straggling hair aside. “It’s a mite windy today. I haven’t had time to poke my noggin outside, what with the train bringin’ in freight this mornin’. What might you be needin’?”

  Quiet warmth flowed through Margaret at the childhood name a few of the old-timers still used. Grant reminded her of Papa—the same rugged build and amiable demeanor. Calm poured like oil from his voice.

  She handed him a list. “A ten-pound bag of flour, a sack of sugar, walnuts, raisins, a small bucket of lard, and a slab of beef if you’ve got it. Oh, and do you have any fresh milk and eggs from the dairy?”

&n
bsp; “I sure do. You goin’ to make your raisin cookies? Makes my mouth water just thinkin’ about it.”

  She chuckled and patted his arm. “I’ll bring you a plate the next time I come.”

  “I’m beholden to you, Missy. That’s one of the worst things about being an old curmudgeon of a bachelor. I got to eat my own cookin’.” He wiped his hands down the front of his lightly soiled apron and turned his head. “Donnie! Get yourself up here, will you? Crate these things for Miss Margaret and tote them over to her house.”

  A young man in his early twenties swung up the aisle. Although his stubby legs were dwarfed by his powerful body and muscular arms, he covered the distance in a surprisingly brief time. “Howdy, Miss Margaret.” He grinned. “I’d be more’n happy to help you.”

  Margaret allowed herself a flicker of a smile. Donnie had come to Bridal Veil a couple of years before, but no one knew much about him. He’d always been friendly the times she’d stopped by the store, but something about him set her teeth on edge. The young man turned back to his boss. “What all you needin’ me to fetch, Mr. Cowling?”

  The proprietor lined Donnie out and Margaret wandered off, drawn by the table displaying sewing notions. She picked up a spool of bright blue thread and shook her head. Pretty, but there wasn’t a stitch of material that it matched. Too bad. The more common browns, dark green, black, and white thread nestled together nearby. She’d used her last spool of thread—might be a good idea to stock up while she had the chance.

  Footsteps sounded on the wood floor, and Margaret turned to see Donnie standing with a wooden crate in his arms, his face split by a sappy grin. “Ready to go?”

  “I’ll just be another minute.” She headed to the short, low counter and placed two spools of thread in front of Grant. “Would you mind putting these on my account as well?”

  “Surely will, Missy. Have yourself a good day—and don’t forget those cookies.” He rubbed his hands together and winked.

  Donnie trotted along beside her, matching his short-legged stride to her longer one, while balancing the crate in his arms. They traveled past the mill and headed into the trees in silence, with only an occasional grunt from Donnie. The wind gusts seemed to have died down as quickly as they’d come.

  When they reached Margaret’s cabin, Donnie swung easily onto the porch. “Where do you want these put, Miss Margaret?”

  Stepping past him, she pushed open the door and nodded inside. “On the table, if you please.” She gave him a bright smile as he carefully deposited the box onto the smooth surface. “Thank you for your help, Donnie, it’s much appreciated.”

  The young man beamed and took a step toward her. “I like you, Miss Margaret.” He reached out an eager hand and grasped her fingers, leaning in close to her face and stroking her hand. “Would you let me take you to the ice-cream social?”

  She tried to pull her hand from his clammy grip, but Donnie’s hold tightened. A hard yank and a quick step took her out of his reach. “I’m sure you mean well, Donnie, but please don’t take those liberties again.”

  His visage clouded and the grin disappeared, turning instead to a harsh line darkening his face. “But you’ve been smilin’ at me whenever you come to the store. I figured you liked me and wanted to court.”

  The intensity of his voice started a quiver deep inside Margaret’s stomach, and she backed up another step. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood. I’m going to the social with Andrew—Mr. Browning. I appreciate you bringing my order, but I think it’s best if you return to the store.”

  Donnie jerked the cap from his head and slapped it against his leg. A low growl started somewhere in the depths of his chest. He swung on his heel and stormed out the door, then stopped and peered back in. “I’m a better man than that Browning feller. You’ll see if I’m not.”

  He stomped across the porch and strode across the clearing. As he disappeared into the trees, the sound of an oath floated back to the cabin.

  Chapter Six

  Onboard a freight train in Portland, Oregon

  The swaying train car slowed to a crawl and finally jerked to a stop. Samantha drew a dank-smelling blanket over Joel’s sleeping form and burrowed next to him in the shadowy corner. They’d found an empty car with bales of hay littering the floor and had crawled behind one, tossing remnants of loose hay over and around themselves.

  Outside, a voice shouted something she couldn’t understand, and footsteps drew near. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, and her fingers fumbled at the edge of the blanket. What seemed like an eternity passed as a man with a lantern poked his head into the car. “Don’t see nothin’ in here.” He withdrew the lantern and started to turn.

  At a whiffling snore from Joel, the dim light returned, barely penetrating the blanket. She wanted to slip her hand over her sleeping brother’s mouth but knew he’d probably awake at the touch. Please, God, don’t let them find us and send us back. The prayer screamed from her mind and almost tore from her mouth, but she clamped her lips shut.

  “Hey, Bob, you might want to come check over here. Thought I heard something.” The crunch of gravel under heavy boots sounded clearly inside the now quiet car.

  “Meooww!” A hiss and a sharp cry broke from under the edge of the open door and one of the men scrambled back.

  “Ha! That’s just an old tomcat wanting a free ride. Nothin’ to worry about.” The man slapped his hand against the open door and swung the lantern away. “Best get a move on. This train’s going to be late if we don’t hustle. The boss down at the Bridal Veil mill ordered a car load of supplies for the Company store and wants it before first light.”

  Two sets of feet moved away, and Samantha drew in an unsteady breath. Her heart slammed against her chest, and she placed her shaking hand over it, willing it to calm down. God had kept Joel from waking and sent the cat to save them. She stretched out beside her brother’s still form and closed her eyes again. Bridal Veil. What a pretty name. The man said the train would be unloading supplies for a store. Best get off there before it got light and someone decided to search each car.

  Sometime later, the short staccato burst of the train whistle followed by the long screech of brakes jerked Samantha from her uneasy sleep. She glanced at Joel, still curled in the pile of dirty hay. A quick shake of his shoulder and the boy came awake.

  “What’s wrong, Sammie? Is it time to get up and do chores?” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I want to sleep longer.”

  “Shh.” She placed her fingertip against his mouth. “We’re on an adventure, remember? We’re going to find a new home.”

  He sat up and pushed back the blanket. “Can I have a dog when we get there?”

  Samantha smoothed his hair and plucked pieces of hay from the brown curls. “We’ll have to wait and see. Now I need you to listen. We mustn’t make any noise when we get off the train. Can you do that?”

  “Ah-huh. But how we gonna see to get off the train?” He pushed to his knees and peered outside. “I’m hungry, Sammie.”

  “We’ll find something to eat soon. It’s starting to get light, so we’ll need to hustle after we jump off.” She tugged at his hand and pulled him back onto the hay. “We have to stay away from the door until the train stops. Men will be unloading the cars. We’ll jump down, and we’ll have to run and find a place to hide.”

  The boy trembled as he leaned against her shoulder. “I’m scared, Sammie. And I’m hungry. Let’s go back to Mrs. Stedman’s house and have some breakfast, all right?”

  She placed her arm across his broad shoulders and squeezed. “We’re never going back there again. We’re going to find food and a new home, don’t you worry.”

  He gave a loud sigh and leaned his head against hers. “All right. I won’t worry no more.”

  An hour later Samantha and Joel crawled out from under a dense rhododendron bush as the rising sun stretched its tentative fingers over the gently rolling Columbia River. No breeze stirred the tree boughs, and only the crash of the wate
rfall hitting the rocks a distance away broke the morning calm.

  Joel stretched his long arms over his tousled head and yawned, then patted his stomach. “I’m starving. How far is it to our new home, Sammie?”

  Samantha grimaced, then tried to smile. “I’m not sure, but I think we’re getting close.” She sucked in a breath and patted his arm as her own stomach rumbled in protest. “We’ll get some food first, then try to find somewhere to stay.”

  The boy reached for the burlap bag at his feet. “I’ll tote the bag of clothes. Nothin’ in here I can break.” A smile spread across his freckled face. “Good thing we don’t have no eggs with us, huh, Sammie?”

  She chuckled, then took a step forward and glanced around, suddenly unsure of their surroundings and praying they’d not been heard. It looked like they’d ventured a ways from the railroad tracks, but huge piles of lumber and sawdust loomed not far to the east and down the slope. The whining of machinery and the shouting voices of men above the din floated across what appeared to be a huge lumberyard dotted with buildings. They’d climbed up a hill and into a stand of dense trees a little west of town. Now she heard water tumbling not far away, making her realize how dry her mouth had become the past couple of hours. She lifted the small earthenware jug she’d tucked into her bag and shook it. Nearly empty, and no doubt stale.

  “Come on, Joel, let’s find some fresh water. Maybe we can wash our faces and get a drink.” She grasped his hand and headed up a narrow path in the direction of the falling water, growing louder with each step. They rounded a clump of trees and both gasped at the same time. A cascade of water dropped from what seemed to be the top of the earth, then a second shelf of water appeared and fell from the base of the first. It tumbled into a pool among several large, moss-covered boulders, one rising at least fifty feet in the air. The churning water spread its soothing waves out across a sparkling pool that narrowed into a rushing stream, headed straight for the Columbia River.