by Amber Stokes
Margaret ran her arm over her eyes but didn’t look up. She had learned it was best to simply mind Gertrude and not take the time to respond to her accusations.
When she had fixed up enough of the flapjacks to fill the large platter, she hefted the dish and slipped into the dining hall. This was the part of the day she both dreaded and anticipated the most. The men’s interactions with her in the morning would set the tone for the rest of the day. Sometimes the woodsmen would hardly pay her any attention except for mumbled, one-syllable words of gratitude for the food. A silent but genuine smile from one of them could keep her head up well into the afternoon, no matter what Gertrude or Dorcas or Anna might say or do.
But then there were days when the men couldn’t seem to stop themselves from having fun at her expense.
When a hand snaked out to grasp her wrist as she set the platter down at the end of one of the long wooden tables, she knew it was going to be one of the bad days.
“Why dontcha stay and talk a while, Margie?”
Oh, how she hated that name. If she didn’t already feel young and lost without her parents, despite being twenty-eight years old, that name could chop her off at the knees and make her feel like a little girl again.
She nodded toward the kitchen and tugged at her wrist, not willing to respond in words.
“You’ll never catch a man that way, sugar,” the tall man sitting across the table said. He leaned in, his gangly arms somehow finding room to sprawl across the surface between the plates and bowls of food. “Say you’ll come to the dance tomorrow night. I’ll take ya if you say my name real sweet-like.”
Her face burned like she’d been resting on top of the stove for the last hour. She never stuck around in the dining hall long enough to learn many of the men’s names, and they often didn’t volunteer them. Add to that the fact she really wasn’t good with remembering names anyway, and she didn’t stand a chance.
That didn’t stop an irrational longing from blooming in her heart. Her father would never have approved, but an invitation to one of the Saturday night dances would be a dream fulfilled no matter who was by her side.
She melted a little, no longer trying to pull away. Maybe today would be different. Maybe she could try…
“Margaret! Have you forgotten the food waiting in the kitchen? These boys have work to get to.”
If her cheeks had been pink before, she was sure they now glowed scarlet. Gertrude’s command brought a round of chuckles from the boys, although the cook’s glare soon made them drop their amusement and return to their breakfast.
A quick glance over the room assured Margaret that Dorcas and Anna were taking their time as they flitted from man to man like the lovely butterflies they were. No harsh words were ever directed at them, probably because the younger girls were so confident and well-loved among the townsfolk of Falk.
Margaret curled up inside herself like a millipede with nowhere to go.
Snatching her hand back from the woodsman and ignoring the silly opportunity she should have never given a second thought to, she headed back to the kitchen.
Her one consolation was that it was Friday, so she’d be sent to the general store later to pick up their orders and restock their supplies. Maybe she’d run into Zachary Taylor. Although the man who ran the town’s cookhouse for the millworkers never said much to her, he was unfailingly polite. Must have been his Southern upbringing. If she had the courage, she would have asked long ago to be transferred to his domain.
Apparently, she just wasn’t very good at catching dreams.
***
Zachary Taylor charged into the general store, unable to remain silent on the matter any longer. “Where is my butter?” He didn’t yell, but there was a rumbling thunder in his words and a storm brewing on his face. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders bunch in agitation.
“It should be here any day now, Taylor.” Lewis, the proprietor, never looked up from where his head was bent over some sort of catalog, but Zachary noticed a slight twitch skim the man’s fingers.
“Our town isn’t that far from a dairy community. How is it possible that you’ve been keeping me waiting three weeks for my order?” His voice gradually grew louder, until he saw someone flinch out of the corner of his eye.
Turning, he spotted Margaret—the plain, quiet server who worked in the lumber camp cookhouse closer to the logging site. She appeared to be doing her best to blend into the shelves on the other side of the store.
Something very much like butter clogged up his airway while simultaneously warming up his blood. She wasn’t the prettiest of Gertrude’s three assistants, but there was something about Margaret that softened him every time he’d run into her since she came to Falk the previous year. Her long blond braid drew his eye down to her waist, where an apron she must have forgotten to remove hugged her hips. It was speckled with flour and grease stains. He almost smiled but caught himself in time before he ruined his stance in the argument with Lewis.
Directing his attention back to the counter, he barked, “If my butter’s not here by Monday, you’ll have a mob of angry millworkers to deal with. I can’t make food fit for a group like that without butter.” He left the store without asking about any other supplies; he had already used up enough words.
He hated feeling stifled in his cooking. The men depended on him, and after his time in the War Between the States, he knew the value of good food for a man’s physical and emotional well-being. This job made him feel fulfilled—but only if he could do his job well. Besides, no one wanted a group of butter-deprived men targeting them, and the cook obviously received the blame for anything lacking in the meals.
Rubbing a hand down his face, his legs ate up the last few strides to his domain. At least it was almost Saturday. The men were more forgiving the day before a dance.
Ready to do battle with his limited supplies and make something magnificent out of the mundane, he walked past the empty benches in the main room and entered his kitchen kingdom.
***
Margaret watched Dorcas and Anna waltz away, their laughter spilling back into the room to haunt her before the door to the cabin slammed shut. How did they always manage to look so spiffy? Margaret wouldn’t know how to find style if someone gave her a map to it.
The quiet swallowed her as she tried to read in the ensuing emptiness, the lamp-lit words blurring before her eyes as thoughts of the dance distracted her.
She closed the book a little more forcefully than necessary, the sound echoing throughout the cabin, making her wince. Any loud sound brought to mind the painful way her father died—the crash of a tree in the woods that signaled the end to the life she once held dear.
Shaking her head, she set the book on the floor and fled into the twilight.
The forest welcomed her, folding her into its wooden arms. The same trees that cost her father his life now offered solace, which confused her mind, but her heart accepted it just the same. She glanced up at the redwood towers as she ran, craving their strength and solidity, wishing she could stand tall in the face of those who wanted to cut her down. Her place had always been beside her father, but when his life ended abruptly seven months ago, she realized she was no longer part of a forest…she was just a single tree who creaked and groaned in the forceful winds of a world that despised weakness. When her father died, she discovered she wasn’t the hardy redwood she once thought she was. She was just a pine sapling, easily bent.
When her heavy breaths began to disturb the quiet, and her legs begged for a rest from her rushing about, she sank to a fallen log. This one hadn’t been claimed by the woodsmen—it had been resting there for a long time, judging by the moss and the small shoots growing out of it. She picked at the spongy green blanket while a shiver made her wish she could pluck up the stuff and spread it over her shoulders.
Little wonder I can’t compete with Dorcas and Anna. Even my thoughts are unattractive.
That didn’t stop her from stretching out on th
e log, resting her head on her arms as tears of self-pity caused the forest to blur around her. The only family she had ever wanted was gone—and even if she wanted to start a new family, there was no one here with eyes for her. She was about as exciting as moss. Boring. Nondescript. What did a girl with so little ambition and sparkle have to offer these brave men? Her parents’ love had once been enough, but she didn’t know what to do now that they were gone.
Dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her pale lavender dress, she caught sight of a spot of color on the dark forest floor. A single purple flower rose from the duff—a dainty thing that seemed to glow in contrast to the brown gnarled roots and dying ferns around it.
She sat up slowly, awed by the unexpected beauty. Reaching out a hand, she cupped the little slipper that formed the main part of the blossom, grinning at the bit of gold at its lip. The shape reminded her of something... Hadn’t her father mentioned seeing a flower like this one day while he was working in the woods? While he never had the opportunity to show it to her, he’d told her about its unique look. Said that he’d heard it was called a fairy slipper.
“You sure look like you’re dressed up for a dance,” she whispered, surprised at the smile blooming on her face. “What a fine shoe, and what lovely purple feathers for your hair.” A giggle burst forth at her silly descriptions of the flower’s appearance.
A verse tugged at her mind, something about lilies and God’s provision. She wished she could remember it. Her mother would have been disappointed if she knew how little Margaret read their Bible, especially since Margaret hadn’t been attending church due to the distance she would have to travel to reach the closest one each Sunday.
She ran her fingers over the fairy slipper one more time, thinking about her mother and the peace she once knew—and God. What would it take to stand out like this flower—to be considered pretty and desirable?
The verse kept weighing on her mind, and she sighed in resignation. She simply had to find it and know what exactly it said.
Leaving the fairy slipper to its task of brightening the dark forest, she ran back to the cabin. When she arrived, she was out of breath from both effort and a growing sense of anticipation. It didn’t take her long to dig out her Bible. She flipped to the New Testament, scanning Matthew until she spotted the word “lilies.”
And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?
Little faith—so little, indeed. Why was she worrying so much about clothes and appearances? But it was more than that… Why didn’t she trust God to provide for her? Perhaps that included such abstract things as purpose and belonging, too.
She set the Bible on her bed, running her finger over its leather cover. I’m sorry my faith is so small. Somewhere buried deep in her soul was a longing to change that.
And some sprouting hope was begging her to give Falk a chance.
Before doubt could take root, she flew out the door once again. What was stopping her from going to the dance? What was keeping her from really getting to know the people she worked with and served—enough to remember their names and learn their stories?
Margaret approached the dance hall a few minutes later, the sounds of a slow tune leaking out into the chilly night air. She made her way inside, her eyes automatically drawn to the dark-haired, shadowed Prince of the South, as she had heard him called by some of the men. Zachary. She had never heard him sing before, but his voice never failed to beckon her—and she discovered that was especially true when he sang.
He looked so wistful as he stood on the small stage, crooning words about a soldier’s homesickness and sorrows. Finding an unoccupied spot along the wall, she settled in, glad she had come. She felt less and less lonely as the evening wore on, and Zachary’s melancholy words and tone only helped her to realize she was not alone.
***
Zachary stepped down from the wooden stage when some young buck eventually came to take a turn in making music. There was always someone waiting to start up a livelier song again after a tragic war ballad. He smiled, glad for the hundredth time that the war was over and he had work he enjoyed in a place far removed from the war-torn South and his boyhood.
He headed for the table where cups of lemonade were set out, planning on picking one up and finding a place to lean back and watch the festivities. But when he glanced around, he noticed someone else with her back to the wall, surveying the large room. Margaret.
He had never seen her at a dance before. At first he had wondered if her father wouldn’t allow her to attend. Then when her father died…he thought perhaps she stayed away for her time of mourning. He hadn’t realized how much he had always hoped to see her there until his gaze landed on her now, and his heart jumped in glad surprise.
Taking two cups, he walked over to her. His face lifted in amusement as he noticed her plain cotton dress—faded purple, streaked with muddy stains, and containing a small leaf or two that clung to the fabric. Did she even know how rumpled she appeared?
Then her gaze flicked to his. Something new—something calm and happy—lit her light green eyes, and her sweetness drew him in. The forest fairy could wear whatever she wanted if she boasted that endearing little smile.
A retained breath swelled his chest as he reached her side and held out one of the cups. He didn’t know what to say—the only words he was ever good with were ones he memorized for songs. But he grunted in acknowledgement when she took the lemonade, and that seemed to be enough for her.
Standing beside her as they drank and observed in companionable silence, he relaxed, feeling the stress of working with limited supplies and fixing massive meals with limited help slip away as he drained his drink. He noticed Margaret taking tiny sips out of the corner of his eye. Like a timid bird, that one.
But maybe she could fly…
“Care to dance?” His words came out even deeper than normal, and he cringed at both his nervousness and his spontaneous offer. What was a dance to a battle? And yet the latter made him stand tall and fight hard while the former made him want to retreat. Since when did he spend time with girls, besides the few who had helped him off and on in the kitchen? He pictured a former woodsman’s laughing eyes. Yes, Myghal would have taken more than his fair share of pleasure out of watching Zachary flounder on the dance floor.
A light touch on his arm caused his muscles to spasm. He looked down to see Margaret smiling. “All right,” she said softly, appearing shy but pleased.
As the next song commenced, he took her hand and headed for the middle of the room. Hot biscuits, but the girl was petite! His palms started to sweat as he thought about how easily he could break the poor thing with too tight of a grip or one misstep.
Holding her as gently as possible, he swung her around as he listened to the rhythm of the music. When he chanced a peek, he found her staring at their feet, her lips moving slightly as she counted. A smile eased the lines of tension on his face—until a voice brought them all back in deeper furrows.
“Margie, dear!” One of the other girls who worked in Gertrude’s cookhouse sidled up to them, effectively halting their swaying march across the room. “What a surprise to see you here.”
Margaret bowed her head, while the brunette gave Zachary what would have been a winning smile, if he were the type to be so easily fooled. He dropped his hands to his sides, wary.
The girl’s eyes widened as she turned back to Margaret and took in her appearance. “Whatever happened to your dress? You look like you’ve been rolling around in the woods!” Her eyes narrowed. “A lovers’ tryst, perhaps?”
“Dorcas!” Margaret whispered on a gasp, her hands clutching at her dirty skirt. Her gaze flew to his, pleading.
He glan
ced between the two, his face warming from more than just the heat of the crowded room. Other dancers had stopped, and the three of them were rapidly becoming the center of attention. A war raged in his chest between the desire to fight back and the urge to respect a woman—even one like this conniving server. His mother taught him when he was very young to never hurt a female, and the only way he was trained to fight was one he had put behind him in 1865 at the age of nineteen. He didn’t know how to combat this sort of attack.
Too late he noticed that the music had stopped, that harsh words were circling around the room like the whine of bullets, that Margaret’s eyes were brimming with tears. He was too late to react, too late to come to Margaret’s rescue.
She bolted from the dance hall, causing Zachary to jolt in surprise. “Meg!” He didn’t even realize he had a nickname for her until it flew from his mouth. She only ran faster, and the talk only escalated.
He directed a scowl at the girl who had brought all this about with just one knowingly false conjecture. She looked uncertain, her brown curls tempering the appearance of the jagged slashes of her lowered brows. “I was only teasing… Margie’s always so dull.” She shook her head as if Meg were a lost cause, then turned and joined another girl at the refreshments table.
His hands clenched into tight fists, but his feet wouldn’t move, even when the music resumed. He watched Meg flee, and he did nothing—more a coward in that moment than he had been as a boy in the War Between the States.
***
Margaret had a new reason for dreading breakfast. Her stomach was still in turmoil from the dance two nights ago. And now she would have to face all those men at the beginning of their work week, her humiliation fresh on their minds and her supposed indiscretion undisputed because she lacked courage to stand up for herself—and apparently Zachary wasn’t the gentleman she had thought him to be.
“What are these sausages still doing here? The men are hungry.” Gertrude glared at Margaret until Margaret finally stumbled through the kitchen door with the bowl of meat. Panic flared in her chest when she noticed that her presence caused quiet to descend on the cookhouse. Rushing to the closest table, she set the bowl down and turned to escape.