by Deeanne Gist
“Yes, please. If you don’t mind.”
Placing the ax in the corner, he wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, then went to retrieve the book.
She braced herself against the pastry table and took two deep breaths. Impersonal, Anna. You must keep things impersonal.
At the sound of his return, she grabbed an egg and began to separate out its yolk.
“Where did you leave off?” he asked, settling into his chair.
“The beginning of Act Two. The disguised schoolmasters had just left, and Petruchio was asking Signior Baptista what Katharina’s dowry was.”
He thumbed through the book, then flipped back and forth between a few pages. “Here we are. Petruchio is speaking.” He cleared his throat. “ ‘Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love, what dowry shall I have with her to wife?’ ”
Joe’s voice was so full of expression and life that Anna soon lost herself in the story. She beat the eggs into her mixture, then dropped it a spoonful at a time into the boiling lard.
“Everyone exits but Petruchio,” Joe said. “ ‘I will attend her here, and woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say that she rail; why then I’ll tell her plain she sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly wash’d with dew.’ ”
Anna chuckled, watching the fritters rise into balls, then flipped them when the first side turned a light brown. Katharina entered, and the sparring between her and Petruchio quickly escalated, each constructing new metaphors from the other’s comments until Katharina became so furious she hit him. Hard.
“ ‘I swear I’ll cuff you, if you strike again,’ ” Joe said, dropping the register of his voice.
Spooning all but two of the fritters onto a drying cloth to drain, Anna placed the ones she’d held back onto a plate, sprinkled them with sugar, and sat at Joe’s feet.
Watching him read was like watching the actual play. A myriad of expressions crossed his face. Coupled with the dialogue, it pulled her deeply into the story. When Petruchio told Katharina she was mild, gentle, and affable, Anna threw back her head and laughed. And on some finite level, she realized she hadn’t laughed, really laughed, in years. The realization sobered her.
As if sensing her mood, the character Petruchio also turned serious.
“ ‘Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine.’ ”
Anna took a bite of her fritter.
“ ‘Your father hath consented that you shall be my wife; your dowry ’greed on.’ ” Joe lifted his gaze and looked directly at her. “ ‘And, will you, nill you, I will marry you.’ ”
She couldn’t swallow, her bite of fritter sticking in her throat. The rain continued to tap against the windows. The sweet smell of fried pastries filled the room.
Lowering the book, Joe removed the other half of her fritter from her hand and placed it in his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he swallowed, stood, then slowly placed the book on the chair. “Good night, Anna. I’ll see you in the morning.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The kitchen was empty. The fire cold. The oven untouched. Joe stood in the doorway. Usually when he first came from the barn in the morning, he’d find Anna bustling about.
He glanced at the staircase. Was she ill? Or had she merely overslept?
He crept up the steps and placed his ear to her door. Nothing. He tapped against it lightly. No response.
With great care to make no noise, he turned the knob and cracked the door open. The white-and-blue bed hangings had not been drawn but were still tied back at the posts with heavy tassels. Anna lay on her stomach in her nightdress, the cotton covers tangled in her legs, her thick honey-colored braid draped across her pillow.
He wanted to touch her to check for fever, but he didn’t quite have the nerve to enter her room without permission. Squinting, he was able to determine her cheeks were neither too flushed nor too pale. Perhaps she was simply worn out.
The smell of twinflower prickled his nose. He scanned the room, spotting several of the wild flower’s blooms tied to a string and hanging upside down from her mirror. She was drying them?
He looked at her again and hesitated, tempted once more to go closer while he had a chance. Was her nightdress as threadbare as the rest of her meager wardrobe? But his conscience kicked in, and he, instead, eased the door closed.
Crossing to his room, he opened a drawer and found his clothing laundered, ironed, and folded neatly inside. He’d only expected Anna to cook, but never had his home looked so fine or his clothes so fresh.
Pulling on his drawers, he smiled to himself. She couldn’t possibly handle such intimate apparel without thinking of what he might look like wearing them. Even coming into his room and opening his dressing chest was an extremely personal thing to do.
But she’d certainly been skittish since he’d read to her the other night. Perhaps he’d been too direct. Too obvious.
It had barely been a week, after all. He had time to slow things down some. Give her a false sense of security.
Picking up his razor, he scraped it against a strap. He’d offered to read to her again, but she’d politely declined.
“No, thank you. I think I’ll just listen to the rain.”
He’d bit back his smile and decided to let her have her way. Still, he wondered if she had proceeded with the book on her own.
He’d searched out Shrew and found the volume tucked safely back in his breakfront. Had she put it away because she didn’t wish to finish or because she’d been too busy with her stitching?
She hadn’t said anything about the fabric, but she worked with it every evening, sometimes quite late. Just last night he’d left her sewing while he retired. Perhaps she’d burned the midnight oil and that was why she was still abed.
Lathering his face, he considered his next strategy. Maybe he should shave in the kitchen. Anna had either become used to his washing up or by virtue of will kept her attention diverted. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to introduce something new into the mix.
But not yet. Perhaps on Sunday, when it would be just the two of them. Until then he’d mind his p’s and q’s. Let her think she could drop her guard.
He finished his toilet, pulled on the rest of his clothes, and hastened downstairs.
Safely back in the kitchen, he quickly grabbed some jerky and a few lunch buckets. He wanted to catch the men before they reached the house, because once they did, Anna would wake and he didn’t want her disturbed.
He set off toward the bunkhouse, remembering the profusion of raspberries close to their logging site. The boys could pick those as a supplement for their jerky. They’d be sorely disappointed about missing breakfast, but they’d manage.
Still, Joe would go back before noon and check on Anna. Once he established she was all right, he would tease her a bit, then help her put together a cold lunch and bring it to the men.
Yawning, Anna rolled onto her side, then sat up with a jolt. It was light outside! She flew from the bed, jerked back the curtains, and gasped. Not just light, but well past dawn. A robin with its jaunty cheerily-cheery-up-cheery-o swept from one tree to another.
How on earth had she slept through all that and why hadn’t Joe woken her? Flinging off her nightdress, she dropped it on the floor and scrambled into her clothes. She took no time to wash her face, comb her hair, or straighten her room.
The kitchen was just as she’d left it the night before. Her gaze darted to the clock. Eight-thirty! Those poor men. They must be starved.
She wasted no time in lighting the oven and starting on the bread. Working feverishly, she whipped up potato pancakes, boiled eggs, crispy bacon, and dandelion dressing. She sliced up tomatoes from the garden and washed several more.
Never in her life had she slept late. Even on board the ship, she would awaken before dawn. Would Joe be angry? He may like her well enough, but she was first and foremost his cook and she had a debt to pay. Setting the bread dough aside, sh
e ran to the barn in search of a wheelbarrow.
She flew past the chicken coop, the pigpen, and the milking cows. The wheelbarrow was way too cumbersome and smelled of animals. But in the stall where Joe slept was a barrel, two chairs, a deck of cards, and a child’s wagon. Briefly wondering why Joe would need a child’s wagon, she pulled it behind her, its bed jumping in protest to her rapid pace.
Once back at the house, she glanced at the mantel again. Almost ten o’clock. No time to repair her person. The men had been in the forest for hours now and needed something to eat.
Leaving the bread dough to rise, she lined the wagon with cloths and filled it with her trappings. It wouldn’t all fit. Spinning in a circle, she searched for another container, gave up, then dashed to her room for a pillow sack.
Packed and ready, she forced herself to walk at a reasonable speed so as not to topple the wagon or damage the eggs and tomatoes slung in the sack across her back.
The closer she came to the logging site, the more embarrassed she felt. And all because of that silly gown.
She’d wanted so badly to see it complete. So she’d stayed up. But nothing went as it should, and the next thing she knew, it was only a couple of hours before she’d need to rise again and the gown still wasn’t complete. She sighed. She’d thought to catch only a little bit of rest, not sleep all the way through breakfast.
As she topped the rise her thoughts came to a halt. The bowl-shaped area in which the men worked was rife with activity. Fish and Wardle sliced up felled trees into logs. Ronny used a long pole with a blade at the end to strip bark from the cut logs.
Gibbs, in floppy hat and galluses, poked a pair of oxen with a stick. “Hump, you, Shelley! Move, Keats!”
The giant animals towed a pair of logs to the skid road. Already a pile of them were lined up end to end waiting for their journey to the sawmill.
Young Milton—whom the boys called Bunny due to the size of his two front teeth—ceased trimming the ends of a log to help Gibbs with his load.
Thirsty worked an ax into a pine tree. A man called Pelican was overseeing construction of the chute.
In the middle of the site, Red and Joe stood high up on springboards, each opposite the other and sawing a mighty redwood with the crosscut Joe had sharpened on Sunday.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Sweat poured from both men, but it was Joe who drew her attention. His back and shoulders bulged with each pull of the saw, his knees bending in rhythm to their movements.
She wondered where the stairway of springboards was. Red had one board below him. But Joe had none. He stood on a solitary plank two dozen feet above the ground. How on earth had he gotten up there?
“Miss Ivey!” Thirsty tossed down his ax and jogged up toward her.
As a group, the men stopped what they were doing and looked her way. She glanced at Joe in time to see him leap into the wedge of the redwood, jerk his springboard free, toss it to the ground, then jump.
“You all right, Miss Ivey?” Thirsty asked, taking the wagon handle from her.
She looked again to assure herself Joe had landed safely, then turned her attention to Thirsty. “Am I all right? What about you? You must be practically dying of hunger. I’m so, so sorry I overslept.”
“Oh, now, that’s all right, miss.”
Ronny sprinted up the hill. “Is that food you got in that wagon, Miss Ivey? I surely hope it is. I’m so starved my belly thought my throat was cut!”
Thirsty rounded on him and laid him out flat with one punch.
Anna gasped. “Thirsty! What on earth?”
Before she could get to Ronny, he jumped back up like a jack-in-the-box and touched his jaw. “What was that for, Thirst?”
“You were talking when you should’ve been listening, so I reached you one.” His tone was mild. Affectionate, even. “If you don’t mind your manners, I’ll finish this conversation with my hands.”
Ronny said no more, just worked his jaw back and forth to be sure all was intact. A goodly portion of the crew had caught up and acted as if nothing at all had happened. They simply unpacked the wagon and pillow sack, then started passing around the food. Whiffs of their repast unfurled and blended with the smell of fresh air and wood shavings.
“Are you all right?” Joe’s voice was low and very close to her ear.
She glanced up over her shoulder, then ran a hand over her braid and the mess of tendrils that had escaped it. “I overslept. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m just glad you’re all right.”
“It won’t happen again.”
He hooked some hair behind her ear. “No harm done.”
She didn’t know if it was the touch or the tenor of his voice, but a rush of bumps skittered up her arms. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked so peaceful, I didn’t have the heart.”
Her breath caught. He saw me? In my bedroom?
She bit her lower lip. “You’d better get something before it’s gone.”
He tapped her on the chin. “Oh, I plan to, Miss Ivey. I definitely plan to.”
Clasping her hands in front of her, she pretended not to understand his implication. But she did understand. And the anticipation that sprung up within her terrified her more than his words.
He’s pledged to another, she told herself. So long as he stayed that way, she should be safe.
Joe helped himself, then again took up his place behind her. He bit into a potato pancake wrapped around a boiled egg. “Mmmmm. You want some?”
She shook her head.
“Go on. I’d wager you haven’t had a thing to eat yet.”
Her stomach chose that moment to growl.
Grinning, he brought the rolled pancake within inches of her mouth. But he didn’t offer her the end that hadn’t been bitten. He offered her the end he’d eaten from. She hesitated. He waved it under her nose. Holding his hand still with hers, she took a bite. He gave her a hooded look, then popped what was left in his mouth.
The rest of the men had settled in a circle on the sawdust-covered ground. Several tawny-striped chipmunks rushed out from the brush and gathered at their feet, darting from one booted foot to another.
Anna backed up and bumped into Joe’s solid mass. “Won’t they bite?”
“No, those are our pet chipmunks. They come every day. They’re particularly fond of Thirsty. Watch.”
She looked Thirsty’s way just as one of the furry creatures ran up his back, onto his arm, and helped itself to the boiled egg he held in his hand. The seasoned lumberjack lowered the critter to the ground.
Sitting back on its haunches, the chipmunk finished the egg, wiped its mouth with its tail, then licked its tail clean. Never had she seen such a tender expression on Thirsty’s face.
She wondered suddenly if he had family or if he was alone in the world. Just like her.
“How did Thirsty get his nickname?” she asked.
Red threw Joe a tomato she’d not had time to slice. He caught it, then took a bite as if it were an apple. Dark red juice dribbled out of the tomato. Placing his lips against it, he caught the juices with his mouth, closed his eyes, and sucked, his cheeks inverting.
Inside, her stomach felt like a ball held long underwater that finally shot up to the surface. She placed a hand against her waist but could not suppress the buoyant commotion.
“Several winters ago,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “we ran short of grub. So I sent Gibbs and Fish to town to buy us some supplies. When they returned we were near starving.”
She took a calming breath. “What does that have to do with Thirsty?”
“Well, when we went to unpack the goods, we found several cases of whiskey and only two loaves of bread. We all stared in shock until Thirsty snorted and said, ‘Now what’re we going to do with all that bread?’ ”
She blinked. “You’re teasing me.”
“I’m not.” His eyes shone with amusement. They were dark green today, like the leaves in the forest.
“No dessert, Miss Ivey?” Ronny asked, then leapt out of Thirsty’s reach.
She moved away from Joe and to the men’s circle. “I’ll make some extra tonight. I promise.”
The men began to clean up, but she shooed them away. “I’ll take care of this.”
The chipmunks receded back into the forest, and all the men but Ronny returned to their work. The boy refused to leave the cleaning to her, insisting on helping her. Acquiescing, she stacked two bowls in the wagon and chanced to look up.
Joe had just stepped onto his springboard, which he’d anchored only a few feet above the ground. He drove his ax deep into the trunk above him, grabbed tightly to the ax handle with one hand, and hung suspended from it while pulling the springboard free and inserting it into the notch above him.
The muscles in his arm bunched. Once the board was firmly in place, he put both hands on the ax handle and hauled himself up, swinging aboard the plank with ease.
He repeated the action over and over on his way up to the place he and Red had been sawing before. Arms, shoulders, back, and legs all stretched and flexed beneath his shirt.
When he reached his final position, he looked down at her, winked, then leaned a shoulder against the tree and waited for Red—who stood on one board while inserting another above him, then pulled himself up that way. Impressive, but not anywhere near as stirring as what Joe had done. And the impossible man knew it.
Ronny stepped up next to her. “He can jump farther, spit straighter, kick higher, run faster, and shout louder than anybody I ever saw.” His tone held some of the awe she was feeling.
Seeing Joe out here today was much different than when it had been just the two of them on Sunday. Then, he’d been tinkering. Today he was in his element. The vastness of the forests he invaded, the forces of nature he had to combat and control, the sheer size of the trees he brought down, all helped define the man.
And if challenged, she had no doubt that he’d channel that strength and resolve with single-minded ferocity until he’d proven himself and achieved his goal. The thought gave her pause.