Joel stood drinking in the sight, then clapped his hands and whooped. “Can I go swimming, Sammie?” He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, then bent over and unlaced his boots.
Samantha gripped his arm. “Wait. We don’t know how deep it is or if it’s safe. You can roll your pants legs up, sit on the edge of the stream, and put your feet in the water, but that’s all. We’ll get cleaned up as best we can and fill our water jug, but we can’t swim in the water yet.”
Joel’s face drooped, and he heaved a sigh. “But the sun’s been hot, and I’m all sticky.” A wise look crossed his face, and his eyes twinkled. “You don’t smell so good either, Sammie.”
She wrinkled her nose and laughed, then swatted his arm. “Thanks a lot, Joel. Guess we’ll do the best we can, but I sure wish I’d thought to bring soap.” Samantha looked around, but this area didn’t seem to be occupied. She’d watched the ground as they’d approached the stream and seen no tracks other than those of deer. The next several minutes passed in silence as they peeled off shoes, socks, and outer clothing, and scrubbed as much of themselves as possible.
After slipping her dress back on over her petticoat and tugging on her socks and shoes over still-damp feet, she stood and shook out her calf-length skirt. While she waited for Joel to finish, she took a small notebook and pencil from her pocket and began to write.
O Lord, thank You for bringing us to this nice place. Please keep us safe and help us find a real home.
She slipped the book back into her pocket, feeling better now that she’d taken time to write down her prayer.
Joel plunked down beside her and laced his boots. Sammie held out her hand and helped him rise. “We’re going to head back through the trees and up this hill a ways. I want to look over the area and find a place to stay.”
They tramped through the brush, ducking under low-hanging limbs of mixed fir, larch, and other leafy trees that she didn’t recognize. How pretty it would have been a couple of months ago when the sprinkling of rhododendron bushes that dotted the hillside were in bloom. They’d been her mother’s favorite flower, and the sight of the bushes, with blooms already spent, brought a sadness she found hard to push away.
Joel tugged at her hand and drew her to a stop. “You’re awful quiet, Sammie. Somethin’ wrong?”
It never failed to amaze her how sensitive her brother was to her moods. He might not be smart when it came to book learning, figures, or commonsense things, but he understood people and animals more than most people she’d met. “Just thinking about Mama and how much I miss her.”
He nodded, a faraway look on his face. “Me too. I think she’s still out there somewhere, Sammie. God wouldn’t a’took her to heaven when we needed her so bad. I just know He wouldn’t a’done that.”
Samantha hugged his arm. “God didn’t mean nothing bad when He took her home to heaven, Joel. I think maybe it was her time, that’s all.”
“Can we go see their graves after we find a new home? I want to tell them good-bye.”
She shook her head and tried to smile, not wanting to upset her brother any more than he already was. “We’re too far away from the town where they’re buried, but we can remember them in our hearts.”
Memories from the day they’d been put on the train to Mrs. Stedman’s rushed back. It hadn’t felt right, leaving without saying good-bye to her parents, even if only at their graveside. They’d been told she and Joel were too young to see bodies laid out for burial after their parents’ wagon had wrecked, but Samantha had also known Mrs. Stedman was anxious for her new charges to arrive.
Samantha reached for Joel’s hand. “Come on, we need to find a place to sleep and hide for a while.” She led the way on a narrow trail that wove up the side of the hill, panting as she neared the top. A vista opened up before her that took her breath away.
Down below, a long, winding, wooden snake-like apparatus rose above the ground, held up on tall stilts. Water gushed down the trough, carrying what looked like long sticks—no, it must be lumber—all the way down near the mill yard. The entire flat area appeared covered by large buildings, lumber piles, and scurrying men. The railroad tracks lay beyond, between the buildings and the river. Up the hill from the mill buildings a number of houses were scattered through the trees.
What a strange town. She didn’t see any stores or businesses and not even a city street winding through the area. It was nothing at all like Salem. This looked more like someone built the huge sawmill first, then decided to tuck homes and maybe a school and a store wherever they’d fit. She could see horses pulling wagons through the lumberyard down below, but no sign of buggies, women, or children.
“We need to be quiet for a while, Joel. Let’s pretend everyone else is sleeping, and we have to be little mice, slipping around trying to find our cheese.”
Joel clapped his hands and grinned. “Goodie! And we don’t want no cats to come gobble us up, huh?”
Samantha nodded, glad the boy didn’t realize how close he’d described their situation. “That’s right. Now come on. Follow me close, and don’t say a word.”
They spent the next ten minutes slipping through the woods, skirting away from the braces holding up the flume. The last thing Samantha wanted was some passerby noticing two children sneaking from tree to tree and turning them in. Of course, with it being summertime, most people would suspect they were locals out playing in the woods, but she couldn’t take the chance that word of their disappearance had made it this far.
A sound up ahead brought her to a halt, and she held her arm out in front of Joel’s belly. “Shh. There’s a house up ahead. Remember, we don’t want that hungry cat to find the little mice.”
Joel put his finger to his lips and mimicked her action. “I’m very quiet.” His whispered words barely reached ahead of him.
Samantha turned and gripped his arm. “I want you to stay there.” She pointed to a large hemlock tree about twenty feet away, its drooping limbs hanging down nearly to the ground. “I’ll be back soon with some food. Do you promise to stay put and not make any noise?”
Joel allowed her to lead him under the canopy of branches and settled down with his back to the trunk without protest. “I promise. No noise. Stay put. Don’t let the cat know we’re here.”
“Good boy. I’ll hurry.”
Samantha peered out between the fir needles for a moment, then slipped through and walked toward the small, weathered gray house in the distance. The fact that no smoke rose from the chimney and no sound emanated from an open window convinced her that no one was home. But when she reached the door, she hesitated as a chill crept over her body and set her arms and legs to shaking. What if she were caught? What would happen to Joel? Surely the law would put her in jail and send her brother back to Mrs. Stedman. She almost turned and fled back to Joel’s hiding place, but her stomach’s loud protest and the aroma of fresh bread stayed her retreat. Her mouth watered and her fingers trembled as she gently turned the knob. The people in this town must not be as fearful as the city dwellers in Salem.
The small kitchen at the back of the house appeared deserted, but a cloth-covered lump sat in plain sight on the rough wooden table several feet away. In two strides she reached the source of the fragrance and slipped off the cloth. Three loaves of fresh bread lay gleaming in a row, their tops freshly basted with butter, the rivulets now cooled on the sides. Nearby a chunk of yellow cheese snuggled under a glass-domed dish and a sharp knife rested beside it, as though someone planned a picnic but got called away before they could satisfy their hunger.
Samantha reached for the food, then stopped. Stealing was wrong. Her mother had taught her that as a very young child. Even when they were hungry and Joel was crying, Mama had told her they must trust God. So even now, when her fingers itched to grab the food and run—her brother was hungry—she couldn’t disappoint Mama, even if she was dead. A low groan slipped out of Samantha’s mouth and she quickly stifled it with her fingers. Please help me, God. We’re
hungry.
Then a thought flashed through her mind: Leave them a note. She slipped her hand into her apron pocket and pulled out the small notebook and pencil. She ripped out a piece of paper and placed it on the table, then leaned over it, biting her lower lip and concentrating on the words.
I’m sorry to take your food. We’re hungry. I’ll pay for it as soon as I can.
She tucked the note under the edge of a bowl and reached for the knife, the bread, and the cheese. Money would be better, but since she didn’t have any, she’d keep track of what she took. Someday she’d come back and pay the people whose food they’d eaten. Surely they’d understand.
Minutes later she pushed back the limbs of the tree and found Joel leaning against the coarse trunk, head canted to the side and eyes closed. She tiptoed over and knelt beside him. “Joel?”
“Huh?” His eyes flew open, and he looked wildly around, something he’d done when awakened since arriving at Mrs. Stedman’s house. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, I promise.”
Samantha placed the bag on the ground, then reached to stroke his hair. “Shh. I know, Joel. It’s all right. You were good to stay quiet and not move. I brought food.”
A smile lit his face, chasing away the cloud of confusion. “No cats came, Sammie. I did just what you said and didn’t make a peep.” He looked at the loaf of bread she drew out of the bag, and his eyes grew round. “Hmm—that smells good. You’re a nice sister, Sammie. Thank you for taking care of me.”
A lump formed in her throat that threatened to choke her, but she swallowed it. Please, God, may I always be here to care for my brother.
Chapter Seven
Martin Jenkins swung his lunch pail in his hand and whistled. The sun shone, the wind wasn’t blowing, and work was over for the week. Time for a hearty dinner, and then he’d sit on the porch and smoke his pipe for an hour. Maybe he’d even swing over to his friend Joe’s house and have a pint in celebration of the coming weekend.
A gray squirrel raced across the path a few feet ahead and then stopped, sat up on his haunches, and commenced to chatter as though his life depended on it. Well, maybe it did. The little fellow scampered up a nearby tree and disappeared into a hole, probably bent on protecting his winter store from the marauding stranger tramping through his kingdom.
Martin slowed his pace and frowned, then spit into the bushes, irritation swelling in his breast. Life would be so much better if it weren’t for that good-for-nothing scoundrel—the gall of the man, thinking he could destroy another person’s life and get away with it. Martin kicked at a pinecone, sending it flying across the clearing and pinging off a nearby tree.
His thoughts shifted as he neared home. No warm food on the table tonight, not with his Jenny in Portland these past few days. What a good girl his Jenny was. No man could ask for a better daughter. She didn’t deserve to be hounded by someone like—No! He’d not even think the man’s name. He’d expose him soon enough—the nerve of the man, pretending to care about the town. He needed to be tarred and feathered and run out on a rail. Then his Jenny wouldn’t have to worry anymore, and the town would be safe. Not to mention the money.
Two hours later Martin woke with a start, his pipe dangling from his hand, ash scattered across the porch floor. He grunted and lifted it, peering into the bowl. Dead. Just as well. He stood and stretched, glad for his dinner and nap but ready for something more. Not too late to head over to Joe’s for a quick game of cards and a nip or two. He hitched up his pants and adjusted the suspenders, then scratched a spot on his side.
Hmm. Guess I should a’taken a bath, but a clean shirt’ll take care of the problem. ’Sides, Joe won’t smell much better.
Just then hair prickled on the back of Martin’s neck. He swung away from the door he’d pulled ajar and stared out into the gathering gloom. An owl hooted, but nothing else stirred that warranted his attention. Must be not having Jenny home that made him so touchy. If only his wife hadn’t died when his girl was just a toddler…
Life would get back to normal when Jenny returned.
Martin sauntered into the house and gave a sharp pull to the door. It bounced against the frame but didn’t latch. No matter. He’d be gone again in a matter of minutes. Gettin’ dark in here. He grabbed the tin of matches lying next to the lantern on a shelf near the kitchen door. Lifting the glass chimney, he lit the wick and then settled the chimney securely in place.
His Journal perched on the mantel caught his attention, and he grasped it as he passed by. He’d been writing down the things he’d discovered lately, lest he forget. Not that he would, but having these things in writing could help, if push came to shove. Now where had he put his fancy pen? He spotted it on the seat of a chair drawn out from the wood table parked in a corner, not far from his bedroom door. Good. He’d hate to lose that gift from Jenny.
He tossed the book on the table, and it slid almost to the edge, tottering and holding its balance right at the last. What was he doing? He scratched his head. Oh yes, a clean shirt. He trooped into his bedroom, grabbed a blue-checked shirt, and tossed his dirty one onto the floor by his bed.
A board creaked in the kitchen. Or was that the wind scraping a branch across the tin roof? No. The day had been still without a breath of wind. Should a’lit a lantern in the front room, instead of just dependin’ on the light from the kitchen.
“Someone in there?” He stepped into the side room and waited, listening for another sound. Nothing. Must be his imagination working overtime, or the sleep hadn’t cleared from his brain. He grinned. Jenny always teased him about talking in his sleep, loud enough for her to hear him through the bedroom door. Maybe he was dreaming now and didn’t know it.
Another board creaked, and the hair rose again on the back of his neck.
He peered into the dark but couldn’t see so much as the outline of a man. Blast it all, he needed light. “Who goes there?”
An indistinct form moved away from the light cast from the kitchen and deeper into the shadows.
“Who are you?” A shiver passed up Jenkins’ spine, and he straightened his shoulders. “What do you want?”
The man didn’t move, and the air in the room crackled with unanswered questions.
“Get out of my house.”
The shadowy figure moved two steps closer, and the dim light fell across his face.
Martin curled his hands into fists. “You.” His breathing quickened, and he took a step forward.
The intruder dropped his voice and hissed through clenched teeth, “I don’t want to hurt you, but you got to keep quiet.”
“I don’t think so. Now get out.”
The man’s head jerked up. “Not going to happen.” He raised a fist and took a step closer. “Maybe we ought to settle this right now.”
Martin crossed his arms over his chest and raised his voice. “No sir. I ain’t fightin’ you. But I’m warning you: I know what you did not long ago.”
“Ah-huh.” The man paused and the moment seemed suspended somewhere between reality and nightmare. He took another step forward and slightly to one side, stepping into full view. “You got to keep quiet.”
“I’m tellin’ the sheriff. You can’t get away with what you’ve been pullin’.” Martin crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied at the flicker of fear he’d seen in the intruder’s eyes.
The man jumped forward and swept up his arm. Too late Martin saw the cast-iron skillet grasped in the man’s fist that he’d held behind his back. He tried to duck, but the heavy pan bounced hard off the side of his skull. He felt himself falling into the table—heard a chair smash into the wall and objects hitting the floor.
Jenny. He couldn’t let Jenny find him here. Not like this. That man mustn’t win; he couldn’t allow it. His journal. Had to get his journal. He groaned and struggled to rise, but sharp pain drove him back to the floor, and merciful darkness covered his mind.
Margaret folded the letter she’d picked up from their post office earlier that afternoon an
d slipped it back into its envelope. Poor Jenny. Her friend’s homesickness poured out between the lines, even though she’d tried to disguise it with lighthearted accounts of her cousin’s escapades in the big city of Portland. Jenny thought she might return home in another fortnight, but she was worried her father might not be eating properly.
An idea flickered through Margaret’s mind. Mr. Jenkins must be the reason she’d made such a large pot of venison stew earlier this morning. The father of one of her students had brought a roast as a thank-you for tutoring his son during the school year, and she’d used part of it for the stew. She’d eaten it for dinner and again for supper, and had wondered what she’d do with all that was left.
Humming, she dipped a generous portion into a bowl, covered it with a cloth, and headed out of her cabin. It was well past suppertime, but maybe Mr. Jenkins would appreciate a bite, just the same.
When she reached the Jenkins’ cabin, she placed the bowl on a porch chair and rapped on the door. A soft light shone from the kitchen window, but no footsteps sounded inside. She knocked again and waited. Nothing. What to do now? Leave the bowl on the chair and hope Mr. Jenkins found it when he came home? But what if it lured a skunk or raccoon, and the animal tipped the bowl and made a mess?
She pondered for a moment, then picked up the bowl and turned to go. A sudden crack in the woods not far from the porch stilled her movement and she waited. The muscles of her stomach clenched, and her breathing quickened. “Is someone there?” She peered into the darkness and lifted her lantern, wishing for more light than what the half moon cast.
Something stirred close to the porch rail. Prickles ran down her arms and she clutched the covered dish, torn between bolting off the porch and beating on the front door.
“Is anyone out there?”
An owl hooted. The rushing of its wings lifting from a nearby tree filled the air.
Love Finds You in Bridal Veil, Oregon Page 5
