Rocky Mountain Redemption

by Lisa J. Flickinger

  “Let’s get you back to the cook shack, Auntie.” Isabelle urged her aunt up the incline. “We both need to find dry clothes.”

  Preach followed them up the slippery stones. “Are we agreed then, Miss Lou? You’ll forgive me for my perceived indiscretion with your niece, and I won’t tell Joe you’ve hidden a temptation away in the kitchen.”

  A temptation? Could a healthy, strong man like Preach be attracted to Isabelle, thin and pale as she was? She looked back at him. His face held no expression. Perhaps he was referring to how the other men at the camp would perceive her.

  “I will only agree if you will not mention Isabelle’s presence to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, she does not exist.”

  They reached the top of the bank, and Preach held out his hand to shake Aunt Lou’s. “Agreed.”

  She hadn’t met Preach more than half an hour before, but the thought of him forgetting about her pricked Isabelle’s heart.

  Aunt Lou ignored Preach’s outstretched hand as Isabelle retrieved her socks and boots. After motioning for Isabelle to precede her, Aunt Lou puffed her way down the path several steps before speaking. “Go on ahead and check the camp, Preach. See if it’s clear for us to return. We need to finish preparing supper. You know how the men will grumble if it’s late.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As Preach passed Isabelle, the sleeve of his shirt brushed her shoulder. The path was wide enough to avoid the encounter. Perhaps, as far as Preach was concerned, Isabelle did exist.

  Isabelle stepped from the path to fetch the pail from the moss and then fell in behind her Aunt’s wide back to continue toward the cook shack. Before they left the cover of the forest, Preach waved a signal—all was clear.

  The door of the kitchen shack had barely squeaked closed before Aunt Lou barked out orders. “Remove your wet things immediately, young woman, and put them in the washtub. You will scrub all of our garments after supper. And while you do, think about the trouble you’ve caused. A little more thought for others, and you wouldn’t be in the predicament you’re in.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was against the rules for me to work at the camp? If I’d have known I—”

  “Why didn’t you do what you were told to do?”

  Perhaps Aunt Lou was right. Isabelle hadn’t listened to her parents in the weeks preceding the May Ball. And now that she was at the camp, her misbehavior had caused Preach trouble, too.

  “After you’ve changed,” Aunt Lou said, “see the table is set and then return to the kitchen. We’ve some apple pies to make before supper.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ten minutes later, dressed in a plain cotton dress with tiny blue flowers, Isabelle set one enameled plate and mug after another on a clean, white oilcloth. Twenty-one men would assemble around the half-log table lining the center of the windowless dining room. The structure was built of logs with moss stuffed in the gaps to keep out the chill. Although the floor was rough sawn lumber, Aunt Lou insisted it be swept spotless morning and night.

  After setting the table, Isabelle rolled out pastry for ten pies before mixing a batch of bread for tomorrow’s lunches. Aunt Lou kept busy preparing beef hash, mashed potatoes, carrots, and stewed prunes for the evening meal. She served the men’s supper alone while Isabelle hid in the kitchen, nibbling at the food on her own plate.

  After supper, Isabelle and Aunt Lou washed the dishes before making sugar cookies, molasses cookies, and a pound cake. Isabelle washed their clothes and hung them to dry next to the double cook stove dominating the kitchen before gathering the lamps from the dining room.

  With a soft piece of cotton, she polished each lampshade to a shine. The day had finally come to an end, and Isabelle could hardly keep her eyes from fluttering to a close. Perhaps Father had been right. The unaccustomed chores left little time to dwell on the past.

  Her heart quickened as she remembered Preach’s strong jaw and dimpled chin, the way he’d grasped her hand in his own large one to help her from the creek. The way he’d protected her from Aunt Lou’s broom, with no fear in his eyes, warmed her to her center. More than likely, Aunt Lou would make sure the improbable preacher didn’t cross Isabelle’s path again.

  Chapter 2

  Moisture filled the bunkhouse from the wet clothes hanging from cross-shaped poles above the stove.

  Preach rolled the piece of dry aspen on his palm and drew the tip of his knife blade down the bend of one carved wing. It created a fine curl which fell to the rough sawn floor and collected with the other shavings. Forcing his shoulders back, he arched his spine to stretch out the kinks and cracked his neck from side to side. The thirty-foot bunkhouse was warm, too warm. Perley had thrown several logs in the stove minutes before. Sitting in the heat after a hearty meal of beef hash and potatoes followed by apple pie, Preach’s energy waned.

  Lou had been her usual, ornery self at supper, and Preach hadn’t managed one peek of Isabelle. Not that he had expected one, but a man could hope. He wouldn’t have known about Isabelle’s presence at the camp if he hadn’t come in early to meet with Joe and go over some figures in the office. Ever since he’d met the sweet little thing, she’d been on his mind.

  Lou had stopped Preach short when he’d offered to refill the water jug from the pail in the kitchen. She’d snatched the jug from his grip and muttered something about keeping his word if he knew what was good for him.

  The meal had been a silent one, as usual—boss’s orders. It kept the men from bragging and fighting during the meal. Whenever the men compared log counts for the day, there was no end to the arguments, and it usually ended up with one of the lumberjacks sporting a black eye worth writing home about. There was no fighting in the bunkhouse either. All fisticuffs were decreed to happen out of doors.

  “Preach, you going to stop your moping in the corner and come and join the game?” Will yelled from the far side of the bunkhouse where he, Horace, Perley, and Mack sat on narrow half-log benches around a crudely built round table.

  Preach wasn’t brooding. He hadn’t felt this hopeful in months. “You boys go ahead. Perley’s got the bunkhouse so warm I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  Preach rose from the edge of his bunk and crossed the floor to open the door of the bunkhouse several inches. It would help with the heat and the ripe scent tearing at his nostrils. The men would have to wrangle Alvin down to the creek before long.

  Preach smiled at the memory of Lou rolling down the bank and making a splash. It would’ve made for a good story in the bunkhouse if he could tell it.

  “You know, Preach,” Snoop said to Preach’s back, “watching you handle that purty little sparrow you’ve been whittling, I’d almost swear you were love sick.”

  Preach’s hand stilled on one of the thick, pine slabs of the bunkhouse door. Snoop could ferret out a story from even the smallest of details. Preach laughed, hoping it sounded natural, before turning to face his fellow logger. Shirtless, scars crisscrossing his chest, the whip-thin man reclined on his bunk mending a wool sock.

  The trick was not to let Snoop know he might be on to something. Preach stared Snoop straight in the eye before speaking. “Are you surmising I found your wood nymph from the other night?”

  Snoop glared right back. “Did ya?” he asked, his brown eyes daring Preach to lie.

  “You mean that short, hairless woman you claimed to see in the dark when you were half asleep?” Forgive me, Isabelle, but I did promise your Aunt Lou.

  “That’s not what I said,” Snoop snarled, “and you know it.”

  “Pretty sure it was, Snoop.” Will, the youngest man in the bunkhouse, joined the conversation. “I recall distinctly. You said you saw a wee thing with her hair all shorn dancing near the cook shack. She was carrying a lantern and whistling.”

  Whistling?

  “I remember, too,” his bunkmate Mack piped up. “Only, there wasn’t just one of them, there were twenty—one for each of us.”

  The other men in the bu
nkhouse began hooting and jeering. Some of them called out even more bizarre descriptions of the women they hoped existed.

  “I know what I saw.” Snoop turned his back to the others and continued his mending.

  Thank you, boys. That should keep Snoop off the scent for a long while.

  Preach returned to his bunk and picked up the sparrow sitting in a nest he’d been carving since he returned to camp in the fall. It was almost finished. Running his thumb across the beak and over its head, he traced the finely detailed feathers. This was some of his best work. Ever since he’d been prayed for, he didn’t have the same desire to spend his money playing cards or betting on the latest wager Perley offered up.

  If only Preach could say the same about his other desires. Isabelle’s milky white calves came to mind, and his heart picked up its beat. What she and Lou didn’t know was that he’d been watching Isabelle from a bend in the creek while she’d soaked her feet. He’d gone down to fetch one of the sarsaparillas he kept chilling in the cool water before meeting with Joe when he’d seen Isabelle standing in the stream, skirt hiked up around her knees. As she stood, head back, eyes closed, and lips moving soundlessly, the curve of her long neck had brought to mind another neck, where Preach had trailed kisses and pushed back long tresses to nuzzle the hollow behind an ear. The vision of Isabelle was one he would not soon forget.

  Forgive me, Lord. Isabelle deserves better than these coarse thoughts of mine. He looked at the nest in his palm. She’s one of yours, Lord, and You care for her like you care for each sparrow.

  Preach dropped his knife into his pocket and slid the sparrow and nest under the end of his bunk before shedding his overclothes and climbing under the red woolen blanket. Horace would make sure the lanterns were snuffed out at nine o’clock. Preach’s eyelids drooped. He couldn’t keep them open much longer. After folding the blanket to his waist, he rolled onto his good shoulder. The spruce boughs he’d woven into a spring mattress snapped under his weight. He rolled back onto his spine and sighed.

  “You’re doing a fair bit of fidgeting over there, Preach,” Snoop said from his perch three bunks over. “You got a guilty conscience?”

  Sure Preach did, but it had nothing to do with not telling Snoop his wood nymph was real.

  Preach had promised Lou he wouldn’t tell the men about Isabelle, and that was the part of the promise he would keep. There was no way he could pretend she didn’t exist. Perhaps in time, Lou would trust him and he could pursue a relationship with her niece.

  “You’re seeing intrigue where there isn’t any, Snoop. Better get some sleep.”

  “There’s something going on all right,” Snoop muttered under his breath. “I just haven’t figured out what it is—yet.”

  “Good night. The morning’s coming early.” Preach yawned and turned back to his good shoulder.

  Lord, it says in your word “it is better to marry than to burn.” You know I’ve been praying about finding a wife, an innocent woman to lend me some respectability. I never expected to find a possibility so close by. If You could see to it that Lou gives me a chance with Isabelle it would be much appreciated.

  Preach whipped the hat from his head and swiped at the sweat coursing down his forehead. The sun hadn’t shown itself from behind the clouds the entire day, but his shirt had been soaked with sweat within a half hour of cutting. Mack hadn’t spoken a word since they’d begun the trek home through the woods. Normally, the boy wouldn’t stop talking. He’d started complaining of achy muscles before noon, and Preach had figured he was just whining. Mack liked to get away with doing less than his partner if he could, which was one of the reasons Preach had paired with him a couple of weeks into the season.

  As foreman, Preach liked to work with the young’uns so they could learn how to cut without getting beat like Preach had been beat when he first started in the woods. Mack had tried Preach’s patience more than most their first week together before he figured out Preach wasn’t going to let him get away with not pulling his own weight. It was worrisome that the boy wasn’t the usual chatterbox.

  “You feeling any better?” Preach asked.

  “Nope.” Mack swayed on his feet before resting his back against a tree and sucking in two deep breaths.

  Preach reached toward Mack. “Let me carry your tools.”

  Mack surrendered his axe, wedge, sledgehammer, and saw with slow awkward movements. “I think I’m feeling worse, Preach.” The words came out in a rush.

  Five minutes later, they came to the main road. Alvin was skidding a log with Beauty, one of the camp’s mares. Joe had changed her name after she’d tangled with a cougar and survived. She still bore the scars, deep grooves starting at her withers and crossing her flank. Alvin smacked the reins against Beauty’s back as he nodded to Preach and Mack. His upper lip scrunched when he noted Preach carrying Mack’s equipment.

  “Hold up, Alvin. Mack’s not feeling well. You think Beauty would mind if he caught a ride back to the camp.”

  “Whoa,” Alvin said, and the horse slowed to a stop. “You look poorly, son. Let me drop this log.” Alvin unclipped the traces from Beauty’s collar, allowing the whiffletree to drop to the ground.

  Preach helped Mack onto the horse and rolled the reins before handing them up to him.

  Alvin pushed his scotch cap back from his eyes. “ I’ve been meaning to ask you if Joe was having some of the log piles scaled already.”

  Unless he was tight for money, Joe didn’t have his logs counted until spring. “He hasn’t mentioned anything, why?”

  “I saw a fellow measuring our piles the other day. He seemed surprised to learn the logs were Pollitt’s and asked me about Thorebourne Timber. I sent him on his way.”

  The Thorebourne family, owner of the neighboring lumber company, was well off, but rumor had it the women liked to spend money. Mr. Thorebourne could be arranging for a prepayment on his harvest. “Perhaps Thorebourne’s fallen on hard times.”

  “Ya, maybe.”

  Mack nudged the horse, and Beauty took several strides before her rider toppled over sideways and onto the ground.

  Alvin and Preach ran to Mack’s side.

  Mack rolled over and groaned, his eyes squeezed shut.

  “You alive?” Alvin asked.

  “Barely,” Mack groaned again. “Preach, I’m going to need your help.”

  Alvin and Preach maneuvered Mack into the saddle before Preach pulled himself up behind Mack, and they started for camp. The clang of Alvin’s sledge hammer as he removed the U shaped metal dog he used for hauling pine logs followed them.

  Mack remained slumped against Preach’s chest for ten minutes, even though the horse stumbled in the deep ruts and on the sharp rocks of the poor road.

  “Mack, you sleeping?”

  The boy roused and muttered something about his ma’s chicken soup before collapsing again.

  Another fifteen minutes passed before Preach and Mack were back at the camp. Preach steered the horse toward the bunkhouse. Will, Perley, Snoop and several others milled around a small bonfire waiting for the supper bell, most likely talking about the day’s harvest.

  Mack hadn’t stirred for a while.

  “Will, Perley, help me get Mack in the bunkhouse. The boy’s taken sick.”

  The men hurried toward the horse and riders.

  “Take his feet, I’ll hold him under the arms,” Will said.

  Mack lifted his head and muttered “What?” before his head lolled to the side.

  Perley shifted his grip on Mack’s feet. “You’ll be all right, Mack. It’s nothing a shot of whiskey and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

  Nobody knew if what Perley said was true, but hearing it calmed the others. They carried Mack to his bunk and stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes before covering him with his blanket. Mack’s high fever and the rash blotching his cheeks reminded Preach of an outbreak they’d had years earlier at a rival camp.

  Preach pawed through the breeches and Mackinaw
s in the locked supply box in the corner of the bunkhouse looking for another blanket to keep the chill off of the boy. Joe might complain about using new merchandise, but, if he had to, Preach would pay for it with his own earnings.

  He scraped the bottom of the box as he grabbed the last blanket. There should have been several more in the box. Maybe Joe had taken a couple and forgotten to mention it. Preach would have to ask him about the blankets later.

  “Will,” Preach said, “go and tell the boss Mack’s sick. I’ll talk to Lou, see if she has any tablets to help with the boy’s fever.”

  Will rushed out of the bunkhouse.

  After Preach covered Mack with the extra blanket, he sprinted down the path and past the dining hall to the back door of the kitchen shack. With a curled fist he rapped twice before calling out, “Lou, it’s Preach. Open up.”

  No one opened the door and walked in to Lou Franklin’s kitchen without permission. The last man who had tried it had a dipper full of hot water from the reservoir thrown at him. The only remorse Lou had shown for the blisters on the man’s cheek came in the form of camphor oil to the bunkhouse later that evening.

  The door creaked open six inches. The light from the kitchen lanterns accentuated Isabelle’s heart-shaped face and pretty brown eyes. A smudge of flour crossed one of her delicate cheekbones. She was just as beautiful as she’d been in his dreams the night before.

  Preach reached out two fingers to swipe the flour from her cheek. She stepped back, and he swiped the air.

  Good move, Preach. What were you thinking? She doesn’t even know you. “Sorry, I was just going to”—he rubbed at his own cheek—“you have some flour right here.”

  Isabelle turned her head to the side before brushing her long fingers across her cheek, smearing the flour even more.