A Bride in the Bargain

by Deeanne Gist

  Red reached his position. Joe jumped into the air and did an about-face on the springboard, then sprinkled oil on the saw. The two men settled into a crouch and began to work the blade back and forth.

  “Do you see that stake out there, sort of to the left?” Ronny asked, pointing.

  She scanned the hill.

  “Waaaaaaaaay down there,” he said.

  Squinting, she put her hand over her eyes. “Yes! Yes, I see it.”

  “Joe put it there. He bet Red that when the tree comes down, the upper end of the trunk will fall on the stake and drive it straight into the ground.”

  She looked at Ronny with shock. “How could he possibly know that?”

  “Our lives depend on him being accurate, Miss Ivey. A tree that twists and slides backward off its stump has made many a wife into a widow.” He grinned. “Still, hitting a stake that far out is gonna be tough.”

  She turned her attention back to Joe. They’d stopped their sawing while Red oiled the saw. Joe slipped his suspenders from his shoulders and peeled off his shirt, tossing it to the ground. He wore no undershirt. Snapping the suspenders back in place, he nodded at Red, his golden torso shining with sweat.

  “Why are they so high up on the tree?” she asked. “Why don’t they stay on the ground to chop it down? Wouldn’t that be safer?”

  “Well, for one thing, it’s a whole lot thicker down at the base. That’s also where all the pitch settles.”

  “What’s pitch?”

  Ronny whipped his head around, his expression horrified. “What’s pitch?” He let out a snort. “I thought even city girls knew what pitch was.”

  Joe flipped his ax backwards and hammered a wedge into the cut of the tree. Wiping his forehead, he took up the saw and the men resumed their cutting.

  “Pitch is the sticky stuff inside the tree that snags the saws,” Ronny said.

  “Sap, you mean?”

  “Not exactly, but kind of like that.”

  Rapid popping sounds, like corks shooting out of a hundred champagne bottles, came from the unsawed part of the redwood.

  “Here she goes,” Ronny whispered, pulling her back.

  For the first time, Anna realized the havoc the gargantuan tree could wreak if it fell anywhere other than the direction Joe was aiming for. Terror gripped her, squeezing her breath. The top of the redwood quivered and swayed.

  “Joe needs to get down!” she exclaimed. “He needs to get away!”

  But he and Red were already jumping.

  “Timber-r-r-r-r-r!” Joe bellowed, landing on the ground with a roll and a run.

  A piercing, cracking noise reverberated through the glen. The tree leaned to the east, leaned some more, and then it was falling, crashing to the ground with a roar rivaling any sound she’d ever heard. The earth shook. The bowls in her wagon rattled. She grabbed Ronny for support.

  Dust and debris exploded into the air, masking the sunlight that pierced into the newly forged opening. And then all was still. The men. The animals. The very earth. As if in respect for the death of one of the forest’s royalty.

  A bloodcurdling shout rent the air.

  Anna gasped. “Someone’s hurt!”

  Ronny grabbed her arm, stopping her.

  She whirled around, slapping at his hand. “Let me go! Let me go! It was Joe! I know it was!”

  “Miss Ivey. Miss Ivey!” Ronny bracketed her arms, giving her a gentle shake. “You can’t run over there. Not unless you want everybody to know you’re in love with him.”

  She stilled. “What?”

  “If you make a big fuss, everybody will know you’re in love with him.”

  “In love with him?”

  “Well, sure. Besides, he’s not hurt. He hit the stake, that’s all. See?”

  She glanced down the hill. Sure enough, the stake had disappeared beneath the tree’s corpse. “What makes you think I’m in love with him, Ronny?”

  He smiled, the action lighting up his entire face. “I got me a sister. You’re just like her, too. She didn’t want anyone to know about her feelings toward the fellow she liked, either. So don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Something well beyond her shoulder drew his attention. She turned. Joe stomped out of the brush, dirt streaking his chest. He locked eyes with Red, then held his fists in the air, threw back his head and let out another warriorlike scream.

  Sinews and veins tried to burst free of his skin. A golden patch of hair curled at the pit of each arm. His massive chest jutted out above his solid, rippling waist while legs and knees locked in an unyielding stance.

  Her lips parted. Cheers from the other men filled the glade and they ran to congratulate him.

  “Pardon me, Miss Ivey.” Ronny raced down the hill, reaching Joe and Red in time for a round of back-slapping that would have felled lesser men.

  Turning her back on the scene, Anna picked up the wagon’s handle and headed to the house. She knew without having to look too deep that Ronny was right. She was in love with Joe Denton.

  She didn’t know how it had happened, but she did know nothing could ever come of it. And he must never find out. Ronny would keep her secret. She had no doubt about that.

  The question was, could she keep it or would she do something to inadvertently give it away? The best thing—the only thing—was to stay away from him. Not only in the evenings, but in her thoughts as well.

  She determinedly tried to wipe the image of Joe’s victory stance from her mind. Her efforts were doomed to failure.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Joe opened his eyes and smiled. Sunday. He’d have Anna all to himself for the entire day. First, he’d shave in the kitchen; then he’d take her fishing.

  Leaping off the cot, he pulled on his trousers, then made his way to the house. He’d placed all his shaving equipment by the washstand after she’d gone to bed last night. As fastidious as she was, though, he was certain she’d notice it this morning.

  He opened the backdoor, then stopped short.

  Anna was wearing a new dress made out of the blue gingham. She was busy at the stove and hadn’t heard him come in.

  He could only see the back of her, but could tell the gown was all one piece. Snug at the top. Nipped in at the waist. Flared out at the skirt.

  The sleeves were long and form-fitting, but not so tight she couldn’t move with ease. She’d made cuffs out of the maroon fabric.

  She laid some bacon in the skillet, jumping when the grease popped. Her apron’s bow bounced against her back end.

  Deciding to enjoy the view, he leaned on the doorframe, crossed one ankle over the other and watched. After a minute or so, she turned around.

  He gave her a lazy smile. “Morning, Miss Ivey.”

  She faltered. She blushed. She fluttered her hands around.

  The collar matched the maroon cuffs and was trimmed with the ribbon he’d bought. Tiny little buttons marched from her neck to her waist, then disappeared beneath the apron. Her watch pin held its coveted place, resting against the swell of her right breast. She’d even done something different with her hair. It was all gathered to one side and tied with a ribbon, then cascaded in curls over her left shoulder.

  “You did a fine job with the fabric, Anna. You look beautiful.”

  The sharp sizzle of bacon filled the kitchen. She opened and closed her mouth but said nothing.

  His grin deepened as he watched her fret over where to settle her gaze. He was bare from the waist up and bare from the ankles down. That left only his trousers.

  Her white, creamy throat exposed by her banded hair revealed the rapid thumpity-thump of her heartbeat. The invitation was almost more than he could resist. But he couldn’t kiss her. Couldn’t even nuzzle her neck. Not as long as she thought he was betrothed to someone else.

  She whirled back around to the stove.

  Taking a deep breath, he closed the door, then moved to the washbasin. Picking up his razor, he pulled it back and forth across
the strap several times, then tested its edge.

  The clinks and clatters that usually accompanied her cooking had ceased. The bacon continued to pop and hiss. It needed turning, but he didn’t say a word or glance her way. Simply whipped up his lotion and began to lather his face.

  “What are you doing?” she squeaked.

  “Shaving.”

  “Why?”

  “Beards make me itch.”

  “No. I mean, why in here?”

  He angled the mirror until he caught her reflection. “Bacon’s burning.”

  Her gaze flew to the stove. “Good heavens.”

  She busied herself with breakfast, but he could feel her surreptitious looks as he held his jaw with one hand and dragged the razor up his neck with the other.

  When he’d finally finished, he ran his fingers across his cheeks, chin, and neck, checking for stubble. Satisfied, he scooped water from the basin and buried his face in it.

  He continued with his toilet until he’d washed and rinsed off his chest, his arms, his pits, everything he could reach. By the time he was through drying off, the flimsy little towel he’d used was sopping wet.

  He hung it carefully on the rail, then turned around.

  Anna leaned against a chair, one hand hovering above the table while holding a platter of fried biscuits.

  He winked.

  She jerked herself to attention, the platter making a ka-plunk on the table.

  “I’m going to grab a shirt. I’ll be right back.”

  Once in his room, he allowed himself a wide smile. She’d be his by the end of the month, maybe even by the end of the week.

  The same rush of accomplishment that came with felling trees coursed through him. He refrained from giving a shout of conquest, though. There’d be time enough for that when the deed was done.

  Joe hammered two boards together, making legs for the trellis supporting his log chute. Each strike of the hammer landed harder than the last. He still couldn’t believe Anna refused to go fishing with him. Said she’d rather sew instead.

  He shook his head. When he’d given her the fabric, it never occurred to him he’d have to compete with it for her attention. But that’s exactly what was required, and not only on Sundays, but every evening after supper.

  He formed a T with two boards. Maybe the sewing was just an excuse. She’d not been able to look him in the eye all during breakfast. He’d not been able to keep his eyes off of her in that dress.

  Wiping the sweat from his face, he took a deep breath. Could be that if he pushed her any further, she’d think him dishonorable because of Bertha.

  He picked up two nails and put one in his mouth. Maybe it was time to tell her the truth—or ease her into it. They’d be sharing some of that veal tonight. Perhaps he ought to bring up marriage again. Tell her he’d been thinking about dissolving his agreement with Bertha.

  He pounded the brace into place. At least he had all night to do it, since it would be just the two of them. The men wouldn’t be back until late. Of that, he was certain.

  Joe had just said the blessing when Red’s voice came from the yard. His spirits wilted. So much for a quiet dinner with Anna.

  Pushing her chair back, Anna smoothed down her skirt, then opened the door as Red climbed onto the porch.

  “Good evening, Miss Ivey.”

  Tamping down his frustration, Joe offered Red a smile, but Red wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead, he gave a slow whistle. “Miss Ivey, you look just beautiful. Did you make a new dress?”

  She lowered her gaze. “I did. Thank you.”

  He hooked his hat by the door, leaned back his head, and sniffed the air. “Mmmmm. Something sure does smell good.”

  “It’s veal. Joe brought it back from town.”

  Red’s eyes widened. “For all of us?”

  “Well, actually, there’s not enough for the whole crew.” She glanced at the window. “Are the others here, too?”

  “Nope. Just me.”

  “Well, there’s certainly enough for three. Would you care to join us?”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Ivey. I don’t mind if I do.”

  Joe bit back a groan. “What are you doing back so early? Is everything all right?”

  “Fine, fine.” Red patted his chest. “Things in town were a bit slow, so I thought I’d come back early and see if you were up for a round of cards.”

  Joe brightened at the prospect of a game, then remembered his intent to come clean with Anna. “Well, I had actually thought to spend the evening reading.”

  Red snorted. “Shoot. You can read any ol’ time. Besides, I came all the way back. What will I do tonight if we don’t play?”

  “You could try one of my books.”

  “No, thanks. I can’t think of anything more boring than reading a book.”

  “What if you read out loud to us, Joe?” Anna set another place. “You should hear him, Red. He has quite a flair for it.”

  Red lifted his orange eyebrows. “He does? I didn’t know that.”

  Grabbing a roll, Joe broke it apart. A puff of sweet-smelling steam ballooned up.

  “We’re reading The Taming of the Shrew,” she continued.

  “No foolin’? Well, I suppose I could be talked into a scene or two—especially since Joe’s doing the reading and all.”

  Sighing, Joe cut into his veal. “Actually, I’m no longer in much of a mood for reading. Cards is fine.”

  “You sure?” Red asked. “I hadn’t been read to since I was nothing more than a tyke. Sounds like fun.”

  Joe gave his friend a pointed look. “I said cards would be fine, Red.”

  Chuckling, his friend pulled out Anna’s chair, then sat down beside her. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

  As soon as supper was over, the men headed for the barn. Anna washed and put away the dishes, but it was still too early to retire. Locating the tin she’d stored her seashells in, she scooped up a handful of shells and looked at the colorful and varied shapes she held.

  She wished she knew which ones she’d found and which ones Mama had found. Collecting them was a passion they shared and they always evoked poignant memories.

  But lately those memories had been overshadowed by less pleasant ones. Ronny’s resemblance to her brother constantly reminded Anna of Leon. And more recently, of the blame she carried over her brother’s flight and subsequent death.

  She ran her finger over a smooth shell whose brown color was so rich it looked almost liquid. It was the same color as Leon’s eyes. The same color as Mama’s.

  She wondered if at the end of his young life Leon’s eyes had lost their luster, for Mama’s had dulled to the same faded brown as the shirtwaist she wore. Papa had loved that shirtwaist. He’d tease her, squeezing her side and whispering in her ear until she turned all red in the face.

  If he’d seen Mama then, he wouldn’t have teased. The hems of her sleeves and the button placket had long since frayed. It hung in loose folds around her skinny shoulders and scraggy waist. And her face had dried up like old widow Nash’s. But Mrs. Nash was a grandmother, and Mama was just, well, Mama.

  The only life—real life—Mama had shown since Papa joined up was the night Anna confessed that Leon had left for good.

  “It’s your fault! Your fault!” her mother had screeched.

  And, indeed, it had been. Tamping down her shame, Anna had slipped an arm about her mother’s waist, led her to the parlor, and settled her in a high-backed chair.

  Mama had picked up her needle and thread, the vacant look already back in her eyes. Never again would they shine. Her husband had left, her beloved son had left, and her daughter had betrayed her. She became as fragile and empty as the shells Anna now held in her hand.

  Anna closed her fist around them, their edges sharp against her palms. With a force of will, she pushed the memories aside, moved to the floor, and began to sort the shells, concentrating instead on what she might create once she had them all organized.


  She’d make something for Joe. Something special. Some little piece of herself to leave behind once her debt had been paid off.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  He didn’t tell her about Bertha. Not after Red’s unannounced arrival, nor on the following three Sundays. Instead, Joe continued to woo her. If Cupid had pierced her heart, though, she kept it well hidden. He, on the other hand, found himself well and truly smitten.

  “He drank the entire bowl of sugar!” Anna said, her eyes filled with horror.

  She wore her yellow calico, providing a bit of sunshine at the end of a rainy week. He’d spent most of the day inspecting his newly completed log chute. While he was gone, Anna had entertained her first Squamish Indian.

  “He kept saying ‘kabi, kabi’ and pointing to the coffeepot. But every time I warmed some for him, he filled his cup with sugar, then poured on just enough coffee to saturate the sugar.”

  Joe smiled. “He was only drinking the coffee for the sake of the sugar. Next time, you can sweeten it for him.”

  She shook her head. “He was very polite, though.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  She turned back to an assortment of seashells spread across the floor in front of the fire. Every night after dinner, she’d pour more out and sort them by size and color and type. She was close to the bottom of her collection, and he imagined she’d finish her task before the evening was through.

  He pulled off his boots and stretched out his legs. It was his custom to read while she worked, but tonight he couldn’t concentrate. Closing the volume of poems by Wordsworth, he set it aside and watched her instead.

  The yellow gown billowed out around her, its skirt trimmed with a design she’d made with both ribbon and fancy stitches. Her booted toes peeked from beneath her hem.

  Clutching the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she turned a cylindrical brown-and-white-striped shell in her fingers, then dropped it in a bowl with other like-minded shells.

  His time was running out. Only two weeks left before he lost his land. Joe needed to make his move and he needed to make it soon. He wondered again if his attempts to woo her were working. Not just because of his deadline, but because he was undeniably attracted to her.