“The man we sold him to seemed kind,” Katie said.
“Rebel was a good horse.”
“He saved our lives.”
Parting with that valiant animal had just about killed her, but she had sold him the minute she could access a train going north. A locomotive was so much faster than a horse, and there couldn’t be enough speed to take her away from Harlan.
The travel-weary occupants of the train came to life around her, collecting their bundles while Katie gathered her courage to face the grim reality of her decision to flee to this raw town.
She knew no one here. There would be no support from any quarter.
It was exactly as she had planned.
During those long hours on the back of Rebel’s Pride, she had come to the conclusion that the best way to escape her husband’s vengeance was to do the exact opposite of what he might expect—even if it meant cutting herself off from the remnants of her own blood relatives. Her cousins’ modest homes in Pennsylvania would be the first place Harlan would look, and there was always the possibility that, seduced by the façade of his practiced charm, they would turn her over to him. It had certainly blinded her at one time.
No—it would be dangerous to rely on anyone except herself. Survival rested entirely in her own two hands.
She glanced down at those hands. Unlike the other women on the train, she wore no gloves. Once elegant, her hands were now calloused and rough. Her knuckles wore permanent scars from scrubbing Harlan’s lye soap–soaked clothes. She closed her eyes, remembering how he had stood over her, making her wash those clothes over and over again until her hands had bled. Harlan liked to look good.
She brushed at the skirt of her dress. Cinders from the engine had scorched small holes in it.
“We’ll be all right.” Ned looked up at her—already trying to be a man. “I’ll take good care of you.”
“Of course you will.” Her heart melted with love for the boy. “We’ll take good care of each other.”
Once again, she looked out the window at the unfamiliar scene. What had she done? This was such an alien place. For a moment, her heart failed her.
“We’re the only ones who are still on the train,” Ned pointed out.
“You’re right.” She squared her shoulders. “It’s time to begin our new life.”
She had prayed long hours as the train swayed over hills and valleys, begging God to show her the way to provide for their needs when her remaining coins were gone. She had prayed so many times before, when Harlan had been hurting her, that her faith was quite low, but a smidgen had begun to return with each mile that took her farther from her husband. With all her heart she prayed that God would lead her to honest work and make it possible for her to care for her brother. Nothing would be too hard. Nothing would be beneath her. At twenty-eight she was as strong as she would ever be. She would do whatever it took.
In spite of all she had endured, she felt a lifting of spirits as they stepped off the train into this bustling city. She was no longer the shy, innocent girl who had said yes the moment Harlan Calloway had proposed marriage. Her struggle with shyness had faded along with the bruises. Whatever it took, no matter how hard she had to work—she would survive.
“I want a beefsteak. Rare,” Robert Foster instructed. “And vegetables that aren’t boiled to a pulp. I’d like them sometime this week if you can manage it.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter scurried off. From what Robert could tell, the man was both waiter and proprietor. As the restaurant filled up, he noticed other patrons becoming impatient as well. He wondered if there was anyone in the kitchen besides the unkempt woman he had glimpsed. From the way the two bickered, he assumed they were husband and wife. He had some sympathy for the couple. With Michigan turning into the lumber capital of the world, Bay City was a busy town, and it was difficult to find good help.
He picked up a fork and absentmindedly drew numbers onto the white tablecloth. The spring river drive had been a nightmare. Logjams had backed up the Saginaw River and its tributaries for miles. Many peaveys, one of the most expensive tools a lumber boss provided, had been jerked out of the drivers’ hands into the swirling waters. Valuable logs had been lost as the river sprawled out into the surrounding areas, dumping precious timber far from the stream when the waters subsided. He had needed to put down two of the camp’s mules because of hoof rot.
Even though the price for lumber was holding high, he had managed to do little more than break even. If his luck didn’t change this coming season, everything he had invested to establish an independent lumber company would be lost. He would be cutting timber for someone else for a living.
His father, who had run lumber camps in Maine, had made it look easy. It wasn’t. Owning a lumber camp involved one worrisome detail after another. Still, it was better than the years he had spent in the Union army.
He had been at Gettysburg.
He shoved the memory of that nightmare away. Much better the clean, frozen forests of Michigan, where he owned the rights to 680 acres of the finest timber he had ever seen.
A young woman entering the restaurant with what appeared to be a son caught his attention. Her shabby dress was plain black like her bonnet, and there were a few holes burned into the skirt—he suspected from train cinders. Her cape was threadbare, and a corner of it was torn, but the unfashionable clothing didn’t mask the graceful lines of the woman’s figure. He wondered if she was yet another war widow. There were so many these days, eking out starvation livings on backwoods farms.
The woman and boy stopped as they entered, as though unsure of what to do next. In spite of the obvious poverty, there was a simple dignity about them.
The pair distracted him for only a moment before the endless march of numbers began to once again crawl across his brain. Board feet, payroll, tonnage of fodder, teamsters carrying flour, salt pork, and dozens of other supplies. Making the numbers balance out was like a vicious game of chance playing in his head day and night.
The biggest headache he had right now was the loss of his camp cook. Old Jigger, a scrawny, scrappy man, had challenged the biggest woodsman in the saloon to a brawl. A busted nose and broken right arm later, Jigger had learned his lesson, and the lumber camp was in need of a new cook—at least until Jigger could once again heft fifty-pound sacks of flour and thirty-pound cast-iron Dutch ovens.
Without a decent cook, Robert didn’t have a prayer of attracting the skilled woodsmen who made life so much easier for a camp owner. These knights of the woods could choose any lumber company they wanted—and the ones they wanted to work for were those with the best food. Unfortunately, good camp cooks were as scarce as hens’ teeth. Finding someone willing to live in a damp log shanty in the middle of the deep woods seven months out of the year while shoveling out food for thirty or more hungry men was not an easy task.
Without a good cook, he would be ruined.
The woman and boy seated themselves at the table next to him, once again distracting him from his worries. He noticed that they were carrying only two small bundles.
“Just water, if you don’t mind . . .” the woman said when the waiter came for their order.
He could tell she had intended to say more, but the waiter hurried off before she could finish. The boy looked around the room with open curiosity. “Have we enough money for a sandwich, sister?”
“We do,” she answered, “but I don’t want to spend it here. We’ll find a store soon and get some crackers and cheese. Best to fill your belly with water while I try to talk to the owner. It appears they are understaffed. I’m feeling hopeful.”
“Tell him I’m a hard worker too,” the boy said.
“Yes, you are.” She smiled at the boy, and Robert was taken aback. The woman, in spite of her unattractive garb, was exquisite. A heart-shaped face and dark blue eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. A tendril of copper-colored hair peeped out from beneath her nondescript bonnet. He glanced at her work-roughened hands. She was we
aring no wedding ring, but of course, many farm wives couldn’t afford one.
His meal arrived and was shoved beneath his nose. The beefsteak was overcooked. His potatoes and carrots boiled to a near mush. It was futile to send the food back to the kitchen. Considering the way the restaurant was filling up, there was a good chance it would be another hour before he would see anything edible again. Resigned, he toyed with the food, trying to force himself to eat it. He reminded himself that he had endured much worse in the war.
The waiter put glasses of water on the table in front of the woman and boy. “I’ll be needing this table soon,” he said pointedly. “For paying customers.”
The woman flinched at his words. “I didn’t come here to eat or drink. I wanted to see if you might be in need of some hired help.” She swallowed hard. “I’m—I’m handy in the kitchen.”
Robert laid his knife down and folded his arms. This was getting interesting. He expected the man to jump at the offer.
“Sorry.” The waiter glanced at the kitchen door apprehensively. “My wife doesn’t like anyone else in her kitchen. We prefer to take care of things by ourselves.”
“I understand.” The woman lowered her gaze. “Thank you anyway.”
The waiter hurried back to the kitchen.
“Let’s leave, Ned,” she whispered. “I’ll look for work somewhere else.”
“Excuse me.” Robert’s curiosity got the better of him. “Where are you good folks from?”
A look passed between the woman and boy.
“Ohio.” The woman’s astonishing blue eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Are you going to be in Bay City long?”
Again the look passed between the woman and the boy.
“If I can find work.”
“What sort of work are you looking for?”
“Anything respectable.” The tone of her voice informed him that her morals would not be compromised. “I can clean. I can do laundry, and”—her chin, which he noticed had a tiny cleft, lifted a quarter inch—“I’m a good cook.”
He knew he couldn’t be so lucky. Even if she was telling the truth, there was little chance she would want to work in a lumber camp. The few women who did were usually wives of the owner or foreman. Still, those work-roughened hands told him that the woman wasn’t allergic to hard labor. And he was desperate enough to take a chance on a complete stranger.
Robert turned to the boy. “Is she a good cook?”
“The best.” The boy’s eyes were innocent and without guile. “Just like our mother.”
“Are you married, ma’am?”
She gave a small shake of her head.
“Widowed?”
She hesitated then nodded.
A widow, just as he suspected. It explained a lot. The woman probably had a farm she couldn’t keep up, and the hope of something better in town had drawn them here. It happened.
In spite of his earlier gloom, his mood lifted at the possibilities. If this woman truly was a good cook, and if she was willing to live in the deep woods for a few months—that plus the novelty of a beautiful young widow living in camp would attract some of the finest woodsmen in the business. Women were scarce in the north woods. Beautiful young women were even scarcer. The men would travel miles on foot just to get a glimpse of her. The fortunes of his camp might hinge on this one woman.
Of course, he had no intention of firing Jigger. The old, seasoned cook would stay. Even with a broken arm, Jigger could teach her plenty about lumber camp cooking. The boy was not a problem. Many camps employed “chore boys” to fetch and carry, and this one seemed sturdy enough to at least tote a bucket of water.
“I’m curious, ma’am,” he said. “What is your specialty? As a cook, I mean.”
She pursed her lips while she thought. He noticed they were full and well-formed.
“I make an excellent apple pie, sir.”
Apple pie. He hadn’t had a decent apple pie in months. Suddenly, he was ravenous for one. He waved the owner over. “Do you have any fresh apples in your kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“Flour? Lard?”
“Of course.”
“If the lady is willing, I’ll pay you the equivalent of ten meals if you can talk your wife into allowing this woman access to your kitchen for the next two hours to make one apple pie. If she makes it to my satisfaction”—he glanced her way—“I’m going to offer her a job.”
“Ten meals?”
“Yes.”
“For one apple pie and the use of an oven?”
“That’s my offer.”
“Come along with me,” the waiter said to the woman. “I’ll talk to my wife.”
She stood, her forehead creased in puzzlement. “You have a job for me?”
“Yes,” Robert said. “If you’re as good a cook as you say.”
He saw desperation warring with integrity in her eyes.
“Is this a respectable job?”
“Very respectable, but very hard work.”
Again the small lift of her chin. “I am not afraid of hard work.” She turned to her brother. “You be a good boy while I’m gone.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The boy drained his water glass and then looked around the room, eyeing the various diners and their food.
“Do you want this?” Robert pushed the plate of overcooked food away from him. “Bring your bags over to this table. You can eat while we wait, if you want. It’ll make the owner happy if we leave that table to other customers.”
The boy obediently moved their belongings. Robert noticed that his homemade britches were several inches too short. Even though the meal was unappetizing, the boy bowed his head and silently gave thanks, then methodically polished off the food.
“Is your sister truly a good cook, or were you just saying that because she was here?”
“She’s very good.” The boy laid the knife across his empty plate. “When she has something to cook with.” His clear-eyed gaze spoke volumes.
This boy and his sister had known hunger. Perhaps, if things worked out, they would not have to experience it again. At least they wouldn’t if he could stay in business.
3
She’s tall and slim, her hair is red,
her face is plump and pretty.
She’s my daisy Sunday best-day girl,
and her front name stands for Kitty.
“Bung Yer Eye, Boy”
—1800s shanty song
It was not easy preparing food in another woman’s kitchen while that other woman scowled, but Katie managed to find the necessary ingredients and a clear space to lay out her supplies.
It felt good after all she had been through to fall into the comforting rhythm of slicing apples and rolling out pie dough. Unlike Harlan, she had not come from a wealthy family. Her father had ministered to a church outside of Pittsburgh while running a small horse farm. Her mother had been a gifted gardener and an intuitive cook.
Although there had never been an abundance of money, there had always been plenty of food in their home. Her mother had managed to fill her family’s bellies with tasty meals, and as a minister’s wife, she hosted frequent guests at their table. She had taken care to teach Katie everything she knew.
For the first time since she had run for her life, Katie felt a measure of peace just being inside this heat-filled kitchen. She reached for the tin of cinnamon and sprinkled it over the tart apples. Then she added just enough sugar to offset the tartness, yet not enough to make the pie sticky sweet. Several pats of good butter to melt over the apples. She was delighted to find two lemons in a bowl and scored a few strips of zest into the mixture as a small surprise to the tongue. After contemplating the height of the pie, she decided to create a fancy latticework for the crust. If this man truly had a job for her, she wanted to do everything possible to impress him.
Fortunately, the oven was already heated. In slightly over one hour from the time she entered the kitchen, she pulled a golden-brown
apple pie out of the stove.
“Thank you,” she said to the woman as she folded two dishcloths into heat-resisting pads and carried the still-sizzling pie through the customers to the table where her brother now sat. The waiter brought a dessert dish and a serving knife to the table.
“It looks delicious.” The man eyed the pie hungrily. His dark brown hair was cut short, and unlike most of the men she saw here in the restaurant, he was clean-shaven.
“It should cool first,” she said.
“I don’t care.” He cut a large wedge and slipped it onto his plate.
She stood, waiting, as he blew on a forkful of pie, still so hot it was dripping butter. He put it into his mouth and chewed. He closed his eyes, and a low moan escaped his lips. Then he ate another bite, rolling it around in his mouth. He swallowed and sighed with pleasure.
She felt a thrill shoot through her body at his obvious enjoyment. It had been a long time since Harlan had acknowledged her cooking with anything more than a grunt.
In the meantime, she saw the harassed waiter fending off orders from other patrons for apple pie—which he didn’t have.
She waited for the man to compliment her on the pie. Instead, he cut a thick piece and laid it in front of her brother, saying, “Eat.”
Then he tipped back in his chair and gave her a calculating look.
“I’ll give you two dollars a day to cook at my lumber camp. The boy will get a nickel a day to keep the wood box filled and do any other chores you might have for him. You’ll have a private room inside the cook shanty. It won’t be fancy, but I’ll have one of the men build you a private privy.”
He let her absorb all this while he wolfed down another piece of pie. Her mind struggled to grasp the fact that the man was offering her two dollars a day! That was more than a good male laborer made back home—those few who could find work.
“You might go months without seeing another woman.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “There is no town nearer than a hard day’s ride on horseback. My camp is well run. I’ll make certain you’re safe and that the men treat you with respect. If you think you can abide those conditions, I’ll pay you two weeks’ salary in advance. You’ll need it to purchase enough warm clothing for you and the boy to survive the next seven months.”
Measure of Katie Calloway, The: A Novel Page 2