HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Cover by Left Coast Design, Portland, Oregon
Cover photos © Shutterstock / Yuri Arcurs, Nejron Photos, Kotenko Oleksandr
Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
WHEN LOVE COMES MY WAY
Copyright © 1990/2012 by Copeland, Inc.
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Copeland, Lori.
[Fool me once]
When love comes my way / Lori Copeland.
p. cm.
“This is an expanded and rewritten edition of Fool me once (1990).”
ISBN 978-0-7369-3021-5 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-4285-0 (eBook)
I. Title.
PS3553.O6336F67 2012
813'.54–dc23
2011047653
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 / LB-SK / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Acknowledgments
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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18
19
20
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24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
About the Publisher
To Sharon Kissiah Holmes—I love you, girl.
To my Harvest House family, especially Kim Moore, who makes my stories stronger.
And to the lumberjacks of old. All the Jakes, Andrés, Shots, Jims, Herbs, and Rays who replanted pine trees so that my children and grandchildren could experience God’s goodness.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writers are dependent upon research they have either read or experienced, so I wish to gratefully acknowledge four sources I relied on in creating the background for When Love Comes My Way:
Incredible Seney, by Lewis C. Reimann
The Story of Logging the White Pine in the Saginaw Valley, by Irene M. Foehl and Harold M. Hargreaves
Memories of the Minor Lumber Camps, by Carl B.J. Minor
When Pine Was King, by Lewis C. Reimann
When I was writing the book, my husband and I spent time in the beautiful Upper Peninsula of Michigan, visiting the old logging towns and researching how lumberjacks lived in the 1800s. I came away with a new respect and gratitude for those courageous men.
1
Michigan
Winter 1873
The front door of the office flew open, and Wakefield Timber camp foreman Jake “Big Say” Lannigan stepped outside. Sunshine blanketed the camp but did little to warm Michigan’s biting winter air. Heading north, he strode down the planked sidewalk.
The blacksmith dropped his hammer on the anvil in front of him and stood up straight. “Mornin’, Big Say. Got time for a cup of coffee?”
“Not right now.” Jake’s refusal was sharper than intended, but his mind was on other matters. Tess Wakefield—that woman had his undivided attention.
Heat crept up his neck as he walked to the camp store. It was a sorry day when Rutherford Wakefield was foolish enough to leave his vast logging empire in the hands of a willful, misinformed, spoiled brat! But that was exactly what the old man had done. He’d left Wakefield Timber, and everything else he owned, to his granddaughter, Tess.
The familiar jingle of harness filled the brisk air as wagons pulled into camp loaded with men looking for work. Jake made his way across the busy street, paying no attention to the commotion.
A new timber season had begun, and with it the merciless slaughter of white pine. Jake knew that half the greenhorns coming here today had no idea what they were getting into. Come summer, most of them would move on until the next cutting season.
Greed caused his headache. The Gazetteer, a popular tour book of Michigan, had sounded the news that stands of white pine on the Penobscot and Kennebec Rivers in Maine were being depleted and dry lumber was in great demand.
Maps of the mysterious western lands were being passed around to encourage the brave to seek their fortunes. An acre could be bought for sixty cents up to a dollar and a quarter. White pine was desperately needed for houses, barns, sheds, wagons, fences, bridges, boardinghouses, saloons, steamboats, railroad ties, and trestles. There were fortunes to be made in timber, and many opportunists were taking advantage of the windfall.
Jake stepped up onto the porch of Menson’s store and opened the door. He glanced around, searching for André Montague. The burly Frenchman was not only a good lumberjack, but he also wore many other hats in the camp, including being Jake’s pencil pusher and good friend. The man was off shift, but Jake needed to talk to him. He spied André smoking a stogie at a table drawn close to the potbellied stove, playing poker with three other men. Jake closed the door and entered the warmth of the building. André glanced up from his hand and lifted a dark brow expectantly in Big Say’s direction.
“Well?”
“She’s going to sell.”
André shrugged and stared down at his cards. “This does not surprise me.”
Drawing a deep breath, Jake tried to tell himself he no longer cared what Tess Wakefield did with the business. He’d done all he could. The land was hers to do with as she pleased. Other than quit, he had no choice but to accept her decision, but there was no rule that said he had to like it.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a wad of crumpled paper. His anger flared anew when he thought of the time he’d spent corresponding with Tess over the last few months, trying to persuade her to replant the forests and refrain from selling her grandfather’s timberlands. Her timberlands, he corrected, but the thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
With a flick of his wrist, he snapped open the first letter.
Dear Mr. Lannigan,
My, my, the budget increase you suggested for planting seedlings seems rather substantial. Couldn’t you cut the seedling purchase in half and plant them farther apart?
You are running a business, not a charity. While planting little trees sounds like a worthy cause, we must show a profit or sell. I have recently opened a hat boutique here in Philadelphia, a dream that has always been close to my heart, so it’s crucial that we trim the waste at your end, don’t you agree?
Sincerely,
Miss Tess Wakefield
Jake opened the cast-iron door of the little stove and pitched the letter inside. With a great measure of satisfaction, he watched the fine-grained parchment with its ornate handwriting writhe for an instant before turning into ashes.
Charity? She
dared to call planting trees charity?
The word grated on him. Jake Lannigan had never asked anyone for charity in his life. Replanting the forests was not a philanthropic venture. It was a necessity, pure and simple.
He knew that if life wasn’t given back to the land soon, the time would come when nature would refuse to provide. And he had written this to Tess Wakefield on three different occasions, but what did he get for an answer?
Dribble. Pure, unadulterated dribble!
He slammed shut the stove door and straightened the second letter.
Mr. Lannigan,
How nice—and unexpected—to hear from you again. My new boutique is causing quite a stir in Philadelphia! Everyone is commenting about my lovely creations. The replanting you keep suggesting will have to wait because, you see, I need to raise the capital to enlarge my thriving business by building more shops. And I simply must import lovely French lace and expensive Chinese silk, which, as you must know, is quite the rage in ladies’ hats.
Tess Wakefield
Jake jerked open the stove door once again and tossed the missive into the greedy flames. His intense gaze circled the room. This store was where the camp folks gathered to socialize. The women would buy their wares and the men would play cards and tell tall tales about lumberjacking. Here were folks who had dedicated their blood and sweat to Wakefield Timber. Now Miss Wakefield wanted to forfeit their futures for some French lace? How thoughtless of him! Why should future generations possibly matter when the little woman in Philadelphia only cared about hats? Every lady simply must have hats made of lace and Chinese silk!
He angrily flipped open the third letter he had received this morning.
Mr. Lannigan,
Your plea for more time is compelling, but my shop is simply booming, whereas Wakefield Timber is presently nothing but a drain on my resources. Although you’ve insisted that Grandfather’s business will show a profit at the end of the season, I think my fiancé is right. I should cut my losses and reinvest in something more profitable.
Therefore, I am writing to inform you that I am selling my logging business to Mr. Sven Templeton. I will be arriving soon to sign the papers and settle accounts with you. I’m sure you will join me in making this a smooth transition for all concerned.
T. Wakefield
With every letter the woman had grown more curt. He should have seen this coming. He wadded the sheet of paper in his fist and flung it into the fire. With a shove, he closed the metal door with the heel of his boot, the angry clank echoing throughout the store.
Sven Templeton—the most ruthless competitor in the timber industry! That merciless jackal would speed up the destruction. There would be no pine replanted. Tess Wakefield obviously didn’t care a whit about anyone but herself. She was nothing but a coddled, willful, selfish brat. And Talbot Wellington-Kent, that fancy-talking, highbrow carriage maker she was engaged to marry, told her she needed to sell? How could the man know anything about the timber business when he’d probably never left the city of Philadelphia? Jake half growled under his breath with disgust.
André glanced up from his hand of cards.
“Miss Wakefield is not only selling the company, but she is also coming to pay us a visit.”
“Oh?” André grinned and laid a full house on the table. “You are mighty touchy this morning, Big Say.”
Jake ignored the good-natured jibe.
“When is our little flower from the East arriving?” André asked as he shuffled the cards. Cocking an eyebrow at Jake again, he proceeded to deal a new hand.
“The little flower didn’t say.”
“Maybe we ought to throw some sort of a welcoming party for her,” the Frenchman suggested.
“Go right ahead and do that, André, but don’t expect me to show up.”
Two large store cats began racing around the store in a heated brawl. Yowling and spitting, they bounced off the shelves, sending canned goods clattering to the floor.
“They’re fighting again! Somebody put those cats outside!” Henry Menson called and bent closer to the light, squinting at a piece of paper. “I’m trying to read Florabelle Melton’s handwriting so I can get her grocery list filled. These varmints aren’t helping.” When the big calico hurtled past and Jake reached to grab it, the other feline was not far behind. It sprang headlong into the flour barrel, sending up a large puff of white fog. The cat Jake held hissed and clawed at him while he gently tried to calm it.
“Somebody, please, help me get that animal under control!” Henry swished his hand at the flour in the air. “This is the second mess this week I’ve had to clean up. If they didn’t keep the mice out, I’d put them over in the bunkhouse with Old Sweets.”
Chairs scraped against the wooden floor and bedlam broke loose when the men scrambled to catch the black-and-white streak darting wildly around the room. Jake all but smiled at the thought of the two pesky animals, in the middle of one of their outbursts, jumping atop the sleeping men.
The door opened, and into the midst of the fracas marched Bernice Trunksmore. She was the last person Jake wanted to see at that moment. Someone handed him the other squirming cat, and he walked to the front of the store, past Bernice, and released them.
The tall, heavyset woman was filling in for the last schoolteacher, who had abruptly left a month ago without taking her personal belongings with her. Bernice had stopped teaching a few years back and stated she never wanted to do it again. However, each time she was needed she temporarily, though reluctantly, took on the job, and Jake appreciated it. Right now, though, he knew she wasn’t happy with how long it was taking him to find a replacement for the last woman.
Bernice turned and sailed toward him like a clipper ship in a high gale, and he braced himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing.
“Have you heard from the new teacher?”
“Now, Bernice, settle—”
“Don’t ‘now, Bernice’ me, Jake Lannigan! When is Fedelia Yardley arriving?”
“Soon.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Soon? Monday? A week from Monday? Two weeks from Thursday? And what have you hooligans done to those poor cats?”
Flour still clogged the air. He would regret the fib he was about to tell her, but he loved to pull her leg. “We put clothespins on their tails to see what they would do.”
Bernice rummaged in her purse and pulled out a handkerchief. “No wonder the children of this town are such heathens!”
Jake exchanged an amused glance with André and tried to hide a smile. Bernice promptly returned to the subject clearly uppermost on her mind.
“When is Miss Yardley arriving?”
“Can’t say. With winter setting in this early, it’s hard to predict when the train will run and when it won’t.”
“It’s your job to say. Are you incapable of doing your job?”
“I know it’s part of my job, but—”
“I don’t want excuses!” she snapped. “I want out! Is that clear, Jacob Lannigan?”
“Bernice.” Jake swallowed his resentment. He didn’t like being talked to as though he were a willful child. “I have made arrangements for a new teacher, but you’re going to have to be patient long enough for her to get here.”
“Hogwash. I’ve been patient for as long as I’m going to be. The party’s over. There had better be a teacher here Monday morning, or you’ll be up that well-known creek!”
“Now, Bernice—”
“Stop with the ‘now, Berniceing’!”
Jake glanced again at André, but from the way his friend was grinning, like a mule eating green grass, he knew he wouldn’t be any help. “Monday?” He couldn’t believe the woman had just given him an ultimatum. The camp needed her to teach the children until Miss Yardley arrived. He needed to calm her down, but he doubted anything he said would do the trick.
He took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Like I told you, I’m sorry, but I don’t know exactly when Miss Yardley will arrive. Her le
tter said she would be here within the month. This is the middle of the month, so it can’t be long now.” He watched her jerk the strings of her bonnet as if they were her enemies, and her snapping blue eyes riveted him to the spot.
“I’m giving you fair warning. She’d better be.”
Because Jake valued his life, he squelched the urge to grin. Why did he all of a sudden think the situation was funny? “Are the children giving you trouble again?” He knew he was in for it when hot color crept up the old schoolmarm’s neck. Then she blew up like a load of dynamite.
“They’re nothing but ill-mannered heathens!” She edged closer to wag her finger under Jake’s nose. “I will not—listen to me—I will not spend another day past the end of the month in the classroom with those fiends, do you hear me? If Miss Yardley is not here by then—the end of this month” she emphasized, “the school will be closed. Do I make myself clear?”
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