As soon as the ground leveled out and the hauling got easier, his thoughts eased right back to yesterday and Lucy. He’d give anything to go back to the hard day’s work of two days ago and erase Independence Day from his mind. Erase the taste of Lucy’s kiss, the feel of her in his arms. But it was too late. Her touch was branded into his brain and there was no erasing it.
No, he couldn’t undo yesterday, but he could make sure it didn’t happen again. He’d pick up his pay tonight and be gone by morning. With him out of the way, Lucy would see that Reichart was the man for her, the man who could offer her the kind of life she’d always dreamed of. The kind he never could.
The mules dipped into an incline and started dragging the log downhill, around a bend. But when they turned to follow the bend, the log began to roll. Eli sidestepped but his boot caught on an exposed root. Even as he fell, he knew he wasn’t going to get out of the way in time. The log slammed into him, rolled on top of his legs, and pinned him in place.
He gritted his teeth against the log’s weight, praying his legs weren’t crushed.
Maybe Josiah was still within hearing range. He yelled for help, but the mules jumped and jerked the log, grinding against his leg even more. Groaning, he lay back against the ground, silent. Somebody would come along shortly. They had to.
Nothing to do, but wait. And pray.
Chapter 14
Fighting back tears of frustration, Lucy concentrated on scrubbing the mound of pots and pans. Around her, Maggie and Annabelle tidied up the cook shack, chatting and laughing.
Eli thought he wasn’t good enough for her? She scrubbed harder. He’d probably weighed her, and found her wanting instead. She could barely cook, other than what his mother had taught her. And, unlike Maggie and Annabelle, living in Chicago hadn’t prepared her for life as a lumberjack’s wife. All she seemed good at was decorating, flower arranging, crocheting, and tatting lace.
None of her skills were important around a logging camp, where the work was hard, the hours long, and the men worked from sunup to sundown. . .and the women even longer. Where dainty shawls and pretty flowers were reserved for Sunday dinners. . .if at all.
She sniffed. In his last letter, Deotis had hinted he might like to visit, come Christmas. A man didn’t travel all the way from Chicago to Mississippi just to see the scenery. If she expressed interest, she’d be giving him permission to take their correspondence a step further.
A month ago, she would have been overjoyed. Now, she was just plain-out miserable. Her gaze fell on the blue shawl draped across the back of a chair. Why had Eli kept her shawl but given it to his mother to return to her, the very day after he’d kissed her?
Oh, Eli.
She’d given her heart to a lumberjack, and he’d tossed it back with the same precision he’d toss an axe at a target. And from the pain in her chest, he’d hit the bull’s-eye.
Annabelle handed her a stack of plates, a frown of concern on her face. “Are you all right?”
Lucy nodded, her heart too battered to talk about it. “I’m fine—”
Pounding hooves shattered the morning stillness. The women rushed to the edge of the summer kitchen’s yard just as one of the draft horses raced into view; Josiah rode on the animal’s bare back. He barely slacked up. “There’s been an accident. I’m going for the doctor.”
“Who?” Annabelle yelled after him as he flew past.
“Eli.”
Chapter 15
Lucy ran down the log road, still muddy from yesterday’s rain, fear threatening to overwhelm her.
Eli was hurt, maybe dying.
No, he couldn’t die. She loved him. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. She’d learn to cook. She’d learn to love the woods. She’d learn to not be afraid of snakes and spiders, and dirt and decaying leaves in the forest. She’d learn to endure the gnats and the mosquitoes. Whatever it took, she’d do it.
Mud clung to her shoes, the hem of her skirt, but she ignored the mud and the limbs that reached out and snatched at her hair and her shirtwaist as she searched for the logging crew. She came to a fork. What direction had they taken this morning? Log roads crisscrossed the pine forest, and the men could have gone in any direction.
Please, Lord, show me the way.
She heard the jingle of harnesses deep in the woods to her right, and left the road, running toward the sound, her skirts held high. She stumbled over a root and went flying, landing on the ground with a soft oomph. Biting back a sob, she scrambled to her feet and kept going. She had to get to Eli.
In the distance, she spotted the wagon, easing down the rutted log road, Samuel on the seat, more men in the back, several walking behind, quiet as death. Her heart lurched.
She saw her cousin Jack and called out to him. Jack turned and hurried to her side.
“Lucy? What are doing here?”
“Josiah said Eli’s been hurt.” She clutched his arm. “Is he— Is he—”
“He’s going to be fine. His leg might be broke though. The doctor—”
Lucy wilted against him, and Jack patted her arm. Samuel pulled back on the reins at Jack’s whistle. Jack led her to the wagon, and she barely noticed when he motioned for the other men to hop out. She had eyes only for Eli.
Jack helped her into the wagon, and she scrambled to where Eli lay against its hard-planked bed, his dark hair sweat-stained in the summer heat, his clothes dirty and coated with mud. Lucy cradled his head in her lap. Fingers shaking, she pushed his hair back from his face and smoothed his furrowed brow. “Eli?”
His eyes opened. He gave her a lopsided smile, the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. “Lucy.”
He groaned when the wagon started up again, tossing him from side to side.
“Shh. We’ll be out of the woods soon.” She leaned down and clutched him to her, trying to ease the jolting, but it was no use. “Where does it hurt?”
He grimaced, but didn’t answer. Instead he stared at her so long that her cheeks burned. Then a grin tilted up one side of his mouth, and he captured her hand against his chest, right above his heart. “Here.”
Her own heart thudded against her chest at the way his dark gaze caught and held hers. “Did the tree fall on your chest?” she whispered.
“The tree fell on my leg, but it’s nothing to the pain in here if”—he grimaced and took a deep breath—“if you decide to go back to Chicago.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She brushed his hair away from his forehead, her gaze caressing his face. “Eli Everett, will you marry me?”
“What about your city boy, crystal chandeliers, pretty flowers, and dinner at six?” But even as he questioned her, he caressed her face with the tips of his fingers.
“Who needs hothouse flowers when God clothes the lilies of the field in all His glory, or chandeliers when He uses the morning dew to string pearls on a spider web, and”—Lucy leaned in and whispered against his lips—“who needs a city boy when I’ve got a lumberjack?”
Award-winning author Pam Hillman, a country girl at heart, writes inspirational fiction set in the turbulent times of the American West and the Gilded Age. She lives with her family in Mississippi. Contact Pam at her website: www.pamhillman.com.
The 12 Brides of Summer Novella Collection #3 Page 15