by Amber Stokes
“Joe, I…” She pushed away from him and spoke, just loud enough for him to hear, “I didn’t know. I thought…”
Running a hand through his hair and glancing about to make sure no one was nearby, he sighed. “Sally, look at me.”
She turned then, and Joe’s heart melted. Tears coursed down her soft face, and she looked for all the world like a lost little girl who’d just had a nightmare. He stiffened. “Sally, do you walk in your sleep?”
She swallowed hard and turned away again. “Sometimes. Sometimes my dreams are so real, and when I wake up I’m no longer in my room.” Tears rolled off her quivering chin.
“Aw, Sally.” He held his hand out to her, but she didn’t even look at him as she tucked her chin lower. He retracted.
Rubbing his arms to ward off the foggy chill, he suddenly wished he’d thought to bring a jacket. He cast another look behind him. He wouldn’t tell Sally, but someone else had been following her. He hadn’t been able to sleep, so when he heard her outside the room he shared with several other men, he quickly got up to investigate. It had scared him to see her running for the woods, a man shadowing her flight. But the man ran off in another direction as soon as he saw Joe, and Joe’s biggest concern was to see to the hysterical Sally, who was well on her way to waking up the whole town.
With one last glance over his shoulder, he took a step toward Sally. “What were you dreaming about?”
She shook her head, her lips pressed tight.
He took another step closer. “My brother Seth used to move about in his sleep. He’d leave the ranch house and wander around outside. I always wondered what sort of dreams caused him to slip out of bed like that without realizing it.”
With a sniff, she turned back to him. He could barely see her face in the moonlight, but he could tell by her posture and the tilt of her head that she had resolved not to reveal whatever dream had plagued her sleep.
She was so close he could have reached down and wrapped her in his arms. Resisting the urge, he instead crossed them tightly over his chest. “Don’t you ever get tired of hiding your heart?”
“Since when have you encouraged me to share it with you?” She hitched her skirt and stalked off toward the home she now shared with a couple of other women who worked at the camp.
Without a word he walked behind her, determined to see her safely back to the house and make sure no one bothered her the rest of the night.
***
The dream haunted Sally as she made her way to the cookhouse the next morning for her first official day of work. The terror of knowing that Jack would be killed, gone forever, still nipped at her heels and prickled her skin. What if he were already dead? What if her dream were her heart’s way of knowing that she would never see him again? The tears that had choked her last night rose up again in her eyes, and she tried to blink them away. It was this dad-blasted fog! No one could be happy when surrounded by this cold, gray mass.
No woodsmen were yet in the dining hall, a fact for which Sally was grateful. Before she entered through the kitchen door, she rubbed the tears away from her eyes and pinched her cheeks. The cook would have no reason to ask her personal questions today.
Stepping through the door, she waited for him to notice her. After a moment, he poked his head up from where he was bent over a mixing bowl. “You can get started on the bacon.”
Then he turned back without another glance her way. So much the better.
Preparing the skillet, she tried to push away dark memories, but last night’s dream brought some unwanted baggage that she couldn’t seem to shake. Jack looked just the same in her dream as he had the last time she’d seen him, but there had been no smile then. Not for her.
“I know some of the men like the bacon burnt, but it’s going to shrivel up to nothingness if you don’t do something soon.”
Startled, Sally quickly flipped the strips of bacon and got out a plate to set them on. She refused to give the cook the satisfaction of seeing her fail her first day on the job.
***
He hadn’t failed. Joe had stayed up most of the night watching over Sally’s new home, making sure she didn’t wander out and no one else wandered in. The sleepwalking business worried him, along with the nagging feeling that someone else had been watching Sally, too.
Bone-tired and half-starved, he made his way to the cookhouse along with dozens of other men, most of them older, and all far more cheerful than they should be at this early hour, with a day full of work ahead. He found a seat beside Myghal on a rough-hewn log bench. A good number of benches filled the room and hugged either side of the long, scarred wooden tables.
Then Sally whisked in from the kitchen, and, though the conversations didn’t die out, they certainly quieted as eyes took in her graceful form. She was wearing a different dress today – probably for the best – that made her resemble the neighborhood gal all the ranch hands used to fight over back in Nevada. Weren’t too many of those respectable gals there, and there certainly weren’t many in this California logging town. Made her all the more attractive, although Sally needed little help in turning heads.
Her bright smile and flirtatious banter had the men practically falling over themselves to converse with her before she floated back into the kitchen. It bothered Joe, although he hated himself for letting it get to him. Sally knew all about men and how to attract them. He couldn’t forget her previous experience.
Myghal nudged him, following the action with a wink. “She sure didn’t need our help in finding herself a job, did she? Now that the men ‘ave seen her, there’s no way she’ll be going anywhere anytime soon.”
The smug, knowing look on Myghal’s face made Joe tense up inside. “Wipe that smile off your face and pass me the butter.”
Myghal obeyed the latter order but ignored the first. “Ya know, I think there’s to be a dance in a few days. Every Saturday night they’ve got somethin’ goin’ on o’er at the dance hall. I’m aimin’ to see if I can borrow me a fiddle and join in the fun.”
Joe made no comment. All he could think about was Sally dancing with this rowdy bunch of men.
Myghal tipped his head to Joe’s plate. “Well, best be finishin’ up there. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
And yet Myghal’s silly grin remained as he slapped Joe on the back and took one last bite of breakfast.
“You fellas the new choppers?” one of the men asked before Joe could swallow his last bite and stand.
Joe nodded.
The man pushed back from the table. “You missed yer train. Those of us who work the mill eat here. The rest of you boys eat breakfast at the camp where you’ll be workin’. The train leaves every mornin’ at five.”
Great. He and Myghal had already messed things up the first day on the job.
A long day indeed.
***
“You know, I don’t know your name.”
Sally plunged her hands into the lukewarm, soapy dishwater and waited, wondering if the cook would address her comment. This man – strong and yet silent if ever a man was – didn’t engage in conversation very often. Her first encounter with him must have caught him off guard, because ever since he expected the both of them to work in silence and leave the other alone. Of course, it had only been one morning…but somehow Sally felt that this was the man’s usual way. Distant or not, though, she ought to know his name.
“Zachary Taylor.”
His matter of fact words spoken into their companionable quiet startled her, and she jerked her head up. “Zachary Taylor?”
He grunted.
Sally generally prided herself on not prying. She knew the pain brought about by someone asking too many questions. Still, she couldn’t seem to stop herself as she scrubbed hard at a frying pan. “Is there a story behind that name?”
With a huff and an exasperated glance over his burly shoulder, he replied with his own question. “Isn’t there always a story?”
That was far enough in Sally’s mind. No
need to learn his story, because she sure didn’t want to feel obligated to return the favor. Instead, she concentrated on scrubbing pans and plates, then stacking them next to the basin. It had pleased her to see the satisfied men out there, their bellies full and smiles on their lips. And she wasn’t so bothered by the flirting here, perhaps because she had a respectable job and the men were just having some harmless fun.
“My ma was from Mexico, and my pa was from the South.”
Startled once again, Sally dropped a plate into the sudsy water, wrinkling her nose as she saw a damp spot form on her apron from the splash.
“My pa, John Taylor, fought in the Mexican War. I was born between the end of the war and Zachary Taylor’s election in 1848.”
Sally snuck a glance at the cook and caught him staring at the carrot he was holding, his hands motionless as he spoke. “If my pa knew what President Taylor would be like in office, he probably never would have named me Zachary after him. My pa always made sure I knew that I was named after Taylor before his presidency, when he was simply a war hero and not the man who betrayed the South with his ideas of bringing in new territories as free states.”
Mr. Taylor returned to chopping the carrot as her own hand slowed its circling on the tin plate she held. It was the most he had said to her all morning. “You mean, like California?”
“Yep.”
“What did yer ma think of all this?”
“Hated it. She fell in love with my pa, not the United States. In fact, she refused to call me Zachary. Called me Juan instead, since my pa wouldn’t let her call him that.”
Sally couldn’t help a giggle at that. “What did yer pa do?”
“Nothing. I’ve always been a man with two names. But Juan was only my name as a child. My ma died when I was ten.”
He quit talking, chopping off his words with the same force he used to dice vegetables, and Sally understood. The story was getting too personal, too painful. Why dredge up memories that hurt? She pondered this man who knew his way around a kitchen, once had another name, clearly loved his mother and somehow regarded his father, and managed to look formidable and innocent at the same time.
Suddenly, one of the mill workers strode into the kitchen. Sally had forgotten that one man was still eating when she had last gathered the dishes. The plate and utensils looked awkward in his rough hands, but he gave her a disarming smile as he handed them to her.
“Thought I would bring these to ya. Looks like the last o’ them.”
“Thank you.”
The man lingered, shifting from one foot to the other and keeping his gaze trained on her. Before he could open his mouth, though – which he seemed to think about doing once or twice – Mr. Taylor stated, “That will do.”
He didn’t turn from his spot across the kitchen preparing vegetables for dinner, but his tone held undeniable authority and a note of hostility. The other man made a quick disappearance.
With a smile, Sally realized that Zachary Taylor was a man who won battles.
Chapter 5
“Look away, look away, look away…”
The words of the song swirled around him, but somehow Joe couldn’t look away. He watched Sally as she danced with one of the men on his crew, twirling and shuffling with some moves he was sure he had never seen before. A smile crept up his face at the thought that perhaps she was making them up as she went along. But the smile fled when he realized how experienced she was and how many times she had danced in the past with filthy miners and the like. Men who had used her and never cared for her.
Why the men had allowed Zachary Taylor, one of the cooks, to sing a melancholy rendition of “Dixie” tonight was beyond Joe. The Civil War had ended over twenty years ago, and perhaps even further back in the minds of these young California men, but apparently they didn’t mind the slower tune or the song of the South. Besides, a crowd had gathered in the dance hall, each hoping to have Sally handed off to them, so few of them cared about the music itself. A couple of other women were being swept across the rather dirty dance floor, but it was Sally that the single men wanted to hold and sway with. Joe clenched his jaw in frustration.
Taylor’s deep voice faded, and the guitar picking came to an end. Taking a deep breath, Joe determined to dance with Sally. Seeing her graceful form, there was no way he could walk away, let alone look away.
***
Sally never tired of dancing. It was a joy, one of the few she had been able to claim over the last three years when horrid guilt and hate had filled most of her heart. Jack hadn’t cared much for dancing, but he had obliged her a couple of times before he was lured away by the West.
Suddenly, Mr. Taylor’s song ended, and Myghal stepped up with his fiddle, a huge grin on his slightly tanned face. Before she knew what was happening, she was in Joe’s arms, and Myghal started up a fast-paced, albeit haunting tune. With sudden warmth she realized that Joe was a wonderful dancer. She felt secure as he gently guided her into each new spin and shuffle. A blessed sense of belonging filled her, so different from the feeling she got when dancing with that bearded logger just moments before.
Refusing to dwell on the man’s leering grin or the way he had leaned in far too close to whisper in her ear, Sally released her anxiety and simply danced. Myghal’s fiddling was magnificent, and soon she was smiling and laughing like she had back at home. If only she was home, and Jack was holding her…
Glancing up at Joe as he confidently maneuvered her across the floor and offered her a genuine smile, Sally found that she didn’t mind being in his arms. She used to pretend, as much as possible, that the men she danced with in the saloons were all Jack, but not this time. Joe’s happiness, something she hadn’t seen since she asked him to take her to California, made her want to embrace the truth of his presence rather than the lie of Jack’s.
***
Never had Joe seen such huge trees. Stories about the redwoods seemed more like fiction than fact – and yet here they were, taller than anything he would have ever pictured. There were other tall trees here, too. And he had to chop them down.
Standing on a springboard held in place by notches in the tree, Joe wondered if he didn’t fear heights when he was younger because he’d never been up in a tree like this one before. One false move and…
“Stop lookin’ down at the ground. Ain’t gonna help ya none.”
Joe grimaced and peered around the solid trunk at Myghal. “Thanks, but I could’ve figured that one out on my own.”
Myghal leaned back, his red head resting on the redwood while he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe away the sweat on his brow. His other hand sat lightly on the crosscut saw, looking for all the world like he was at home in this giant of a tree.
Finally, Joe grabbed onto his end of the saw again, and they resumed cutting into the tree. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Just like Joe’s thoughts regarding Sally.
Two nights ago, he had been proud to hold Sally in his arms. The radiance of her smile thrilled his heart, and he didn’t of Elizabeth once the whole evening. The beautiful sight of Sally dancing was enough to fill his mind – and then some. But now he wished that he could take it all back. Becoming attached to her was the last thing he needed. He had promised himself that no one would have a chance to break his heart again, and if there was one guarantee when it came to Sally, it was that someone’s heart was bound to get broken.
Well, it won’t be mine.
***
Memories of the dream that had been fluttering at the edges of her mind rushed back to the forefront of her thoughts at the boom of a tree falling somewhere in the forest.
Turning her attention back to the chicken she was preparing, Sally felt a tear begin to slide down her cheek.
Why can’t Jack leave me alone? Isn’t it enough that he crushed my heart? Must he keep coming back into my thoughts to stomp on the pieces?
She plucked the chicken with a fury, wishing she could pluck the pride and arrogance right ou
t of Jack Harvey.
“What’d that chicken ever do to you?”
Despite her frustration, Sally couldn’t help the smile that twitched at her lips. “Nothing.”
“I’d hate to see what you’re like when someone does do something to make you mad.”
Mr. Taylor never looked up from the potatoes he was mashing. His movements were sure and purposeful. The man sure had confidence in the kitchen.
“Have you ever been in love, Mr. Taylor?”
His head lifted then. The intensity in his gaze surprised her, and she held her breath as she waited for his response.
“Nope.” He added a splash of milk to his concoction and went back to mashing.
She doubted the veracity of his response, but decided not to push him. He would be likely to push her right back – and right out the door of his kitchen.
“You have, though,” Mr. Taylor said with certainty, his dark eyebrows raised despite the fact that he was no longer looking at her.
“I don’t see how that’s any of yer business,” she huffed.
“Neither is my love life any of yours.”
There was a pause.
“How have you managed to keep from falling in love?” Sally whispered the question, wanting desperately to know his secret.
“I don’t hang around women.”
“None at all?”
“Not until you showed up. You rarely meet single women in the gold fields or in a lumber camp. A man can’t rightly fall in love unless he meets a woman.”
Sally twirled a chicken feather, watching it spin around and around, away from its rightful place. How might her life be different if she had never met Jack? If she had stayed at home with her family instead of running off to the dance hall in town, she might have been safe. But if she hadn’t met Jack, she might never have come to the West. Would that have been a good thing?
“You can’t always avoid meeting someone of the opposite sex,” she finally replied. If it hadn’t been Jack, it would certainly have been someone else.
