The Fruitcake Challenge (Christmas Traditions Book 3)

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “How can we help you, Mr. Jeffries?” Mrs. Peyton asked.

  “Ma’am, for starters you can call me Tom.” Even with her back turned, Jo could hear the man rocking back and forth in his hard-soled boots.

  Mrs. Peyton sighed. “Did you have a question about dinner tonight?”

  “Again?” Ruth added, her tone sweet, and her voice soft. But Jo knew what she thought of Tom’s presence.

  “No, ma’am. I heard we’re having roast pork and potatoes. And I can smell those fresh strawberries and your sisters, Ruth, are bringing up the cream to be whipped soon. I helped them some, too.” From his tone, Jo surmised he was wheedling a compliment from their senior cook.

  Instead, silence hung in the dough-scented air.

  “What do you want then, Mr. Jeffries?” Ruth’s voice held an edge sharper than the knife Jo just lifted from the counter—one her brothers had scraped on the stone the night before. The blade glinted in the sunlight.

  “I had a question about Miss Christy.”

  Jo stiffened, almost dropping the sharp implement in her hand.

  “I just keep wondering…”

  The door slammed shut as someone else entered. Blue Dog’s nails clicked over the pine planks. Split firewood rattled and banged against each other as it was dropped into the box. Must be her friend, Sven. Jo’s brothers hadn’t even brought kindling in for their afternoon cooking or for the evening meal.

  “What were you wondering, Mr. Jeffries?” Ruth’s voice had turned sweet as the maple syrup that had topped the men’s flapjacks that morning. Yup, that had to be Sven who’d walked in.

  Jo turned and looked directly into the piercing eyes of the too-handsome axman.

  Now her mouth went dry as she faced their newest lumberjack. “Too pretty for his own good” Pa had said about him. With light brown hair and changeable green and gold eyes, Tom’s presence was palpable.

  “Why is a lovely gal like you still unmarried?” Although he didn’t say it, she heard the unspoken “at your age.” Under his left arm, he clutched a thick book against his side. Right now, Jo wanted to grab it and whack his head with it.

  Every day, Jo wondered the same thing Tom had asked. Why hadn’t she found a mate?

  Anger popped through her like a pine branch thrown in a fire. Blue Dog trotted up to the counter, Sven right behind him.

  “Jeffries?” Sven’s blue eyes lit briefly on Ruth before he fixed his attention on Tom. As their longest serving lumberjack—despite being one of the youngest—Sven often assumed the “take charge” attitude Jo heard in his voice. “Are you daft, man? Didn’t Ox and Moose tell you to stay out of here? They told you to stay away from Jo, just like they’ve told every other man who has come through this camp.”

  Jo cringed. Was that true?

  Tom swiveled toward Sven. Although Tom stood a couple of inches taller, Sven possessed a good stone’s weight muscle more than Tom. But Sven was gentle as a kitten. At least with Jo. And, the Good Lord knew, especially with Ruth and her sisters.

  Sighing, she hung her head. She’d heard her brothers had kept the men away from her but she hadn’t been sure. Until now. Sven would never lie about that. And if her brothers told Tom to stay away, they must have thought the new lumberjack had some kind of interest in her—other than having his belly filled. A sick feeling started in her gut.

  Sven bent over and rubbed Blue’s head. “What a good boy you are.”

  “Doesn’t like me,” Tom mumbled.

  Jo snickered. “Shows he’s a smart dog, too.”

  Tom’s gold-flecked green eyes pierced hers and she immediately regretted her words.

  Beside her, Mrs. Peyton and Ruth chuckled.

  The door flew open again and Ox and Moose lumbered toward them. The room measured over sixty feet long, but her brothers crossed it in a flash. Jo threw up her hands to halt Ox’s final charge but he and Moose strode forward, their heavy footfalls causing the unlit kerosene lanterns overhead to swing, until they came alongside Tom.

  “You bothering our sister again?” Ox slammed one of his meaty fists into his open palm.

  “Yes, I am. And I intend to persist in speaking the truth about her many lovely attributes.” Tom cocked his head to the side and grinned at Moose, as though he was a woodpecker about to get himself some bugs.

  Mrs. Peyton brought a wooden spoon down on the serving counter. “Now listen here. Pestering a gal with questions and then telling her she’s an old maid hardly count as good courting behavior. You young folks need to take a lesson or two from your elders.”

  Color washed Tom’s high cheekbones. “Yes, ma’am, but haven’t I told Miss Christy every day how pretty she is? How her hair is lovelier than the oak leaves?”

  Protest she might, but all those little compliments of his had, truthfully, lifted her spirits during these past dark weeks. Ordinarily the vibrant autumn colors cheered her. But not this season. Not without Ma.

  Thinking back over Tom’s many comments she realized something. Until today her brothers had been nowhere nearby to hear Tom’s frequent flattery.

  “Miss Christy, I believe I have your problem figured out.”

  “My problem?”

  “I know precisely why you’re in your predicament and they are standing right behind me.”

  Jo felt her eyes widen at his bravado. No one ever stood up to her brothers.

  Ox shoved Tom’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

  Tom pushed her brother’s hand away and leaned in closer to him, pointing his finger in Ox’s face, like a teacher scolding a pupil. “Your sister is slaving away back here, unmarried, because you two threaten to pummel anyone who comes near her.”

  He rocked back on his heels as her brothers exchanged glances.

  “So?” Ox didn’t sound the least bit concerned.

  Tom frowned. “Doesn’t it bother you that she could be happier if she were allowed to be courted?”

  The scent of sugar, strawberries, and dough accompanied the two other cooks as on either side they pressed closer to Jo. Each placed a hand on Jo’s back, like two guardian angels protecting her. Across the counter, Sven stared at the plank floor.

  Moose squared his shoulders. “Pa did let her be courted—he told Sven here he could spend time with Jo.”

  Grinning, Ox slapped Sven’s back. “Heck, we’ve all known Sven since he was fifteen. He’s like another brother.”

  Sven’s cheeks grew red as his chest pushed out from Ox’s wallop. “Tack. Thank you. Yes, many years ago Mr. Christy bestowed his förtroende, his trust in me.”

  Jo’s jaw flexed. Pa had given his trust to Sven, yes, but only as her friend. Lately, Pa was too grief-stricken to even respond to card-playing requests from his closest friends.

  Ruth gave Jo’s back a gentle pat; unlike the whack Ox had given Sven, then turned and took Jo’s former place by the strawberries. Clunk, clunk, clunk; she sliced her knife through the fruit onto the wood board with a vengeance.

  Sven frowned at Moose and Ox.

  “And you two still haven’t tied the knot.” Tom’s voice held a question.

  Jo felt like grabbing the rolling pin from Mrs. Peyton and clobbering her brothers with it. “Gentlemen, I have dinner to get ready. Sven, you’re welcome to stay—the rest of you be gone or we won’t feed you tonight and I mean it.”

  Tom stared slack-jawed at Sven then returned his gaze to Jo. “Miss Christy, I apologize for my egregious behavior. Please forgive me.”

  Egregious? What did that mean? Sounded like a disease. She gave a curt nod to dismiss him, and Tom and her brothers departed.

  And not a moment too soon.

  What on earth had gotten into him since entering this logging camp? Tom ran a hand back through his thick hair and perched, slumped over, on the end of his wood-framed bunk bed. Maybe it was the long hours of physical labor or the lack of sleep. He needed to make himself a new bunk, like the big Christy brothers had done, adding extra length so he didn’t have to sleep with his feet
hanging off the end of the thin mattress. He’d shared a room once before, at Ohio Normal School for Teachers, but that was much different than sharing a huge bunkhouse with fifty snoring shanty boys. The stench proclaimed the number of those who failed to groom themselves properly. Regardless of his own efforts to keep himself presentable, he’d had no luck getting Miss Christy’s attention. And after tonight, he likely never would.

  Who’d have thought that Jo Christy had her cap set for quiet Sven? And what had prevented them from marrying? It all seemed so clear to him now that her brothers had told him. Jo and Sven walking together. Jo and Sven watching Ruth’s young sisters when the girl needed privacy. When she wasn’t helping in the kitchen, the eighteen-year-old blonde watched over her siblings while her father worked in the camp. Often, even after work, Ruth’s widowed father would run off and play cards and visit at other cabins. Mr. Christy frowned upon gambling and ran a clean camp, but the boss mourned his wife too much to notice the problems.

  Heavy footfall lumbered toward him.

  “What you got there?” Moose grabbed Tom’s copy of Adventures of Tom Sawyer but he held fast and pulled it back.

  “A good book by Mark Twain.”

  “Can I borrow it sometime?” The big man ran his hand across his square jaw.

  “Sure.” Tom handed the novel to him.

  “Thanks.” He opened the cover, his mouth slackening in surprise. “This is signed.”

  Tom’s face heated. He resisted the urge to grab the tome back. Twain had signed the copy and presented it to Tom’s father, a professor, when the author had visited Western Reserve College for a lecture.

  He shrugged. “It was a gift.” His statement was true; the volume had been a gift—to his father.

  “Oh.” Moose cocked his head. “The men have a betting pool going on. We’re wagerin’ on how much schoolin’ you have, Tom.”

  He laughed. “They’ll bet on anything, won’t they?”

  “It’s up to ten dollars now.”

  Tom whistled. No wonder Ox had been peppering him with questions recently, about what he did before working in the woods. He’d told Jo’s brother that if his father needed that information he’d be happy to share it. That quieted him for a while.

  “Hoping to bring some of my collection to the school house.” Tom ran a hand over the rough wool blanket that covered his bed, then bent and tapped the wooden side of his crate of books.

  “Where’d you get all those?”

  “Here and there.” What did it matter?

  Moose arched a black eyebrow at him. “The kids might enjoy nighttime stories after dinner, if you’re of a mind to read to them.”

  Anticipation shot through Tom, and he worked to squelch the sensation. He was a lumberjack now. But he’d seen how the kids, with the days being so long during the summer, were sometimes at a loss for what to do. “Would your father mind?”

  “Nah. He loves to read. Used to read to the kids himself before Ma got sick.”

  For some reason that image touched Tom. He could picture the burly man, with his animated features, offering a compelling read to the tykes.

  Would Jo approve? He rubbed his chin. Not that it mattered. The lovely young woman was taken. Still, the idea of such a strong-willed beauty paired with the quiet Sven didn’t match up. Such relationships sometimes worked out, if that was what each preferred. But why then, did he think she might care for him? Maybe because her fair skin often blushed a pretty pink, beneath her auburn curls, when he came near her.

  Moose snapped his suspenders. “As you know, all of us lumberjacks can tell a tall tale—but I feel pretty certain the kids have heard them all by now. We’ve been in this camp three years now. Probably have to pull up stakes sometime in the next year or so.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll do it.” Tom pulled the wooden box further out from beneath the bed, and selected a story for that night. “For the kids.” Maybe Jo would come and listen, too.

  A grin split Moose’s ruddy face. “I’ll go tell Ruth. She’ll let the others know.”

  Ox and Sven entered through a nearby door.

  Sven headed to his bunk and Jo’s younger brother joined them. “What are you two cookin’ up?”

  Moose jerked a thumb toward Tom. “He’s gonna read to the kids like Pa used to do.”

  To Tom’s surprise, Ox smiled and smacked Tom on the shoulder. “That’ll make Ruth happy.”

  Moose nodded. “Yeah, she’s always looking for a way to keep her sisters out of trouble at night.”

  Ox tapped the front of Moose’s red and black checked shirt. “We’ll announce it at dinner tonight.”

  Tom’s stomach growled. “Think Jo will let us eat?”

  “Yeah. She will.”

  Moose frowned. “Someone has to go round to the cabins and let the families know, too. And I was just gonna take a lie down, like Sven.”

  From the other end of the room, snoring announced that the lumberjack was fast asleep.

  Ox yawned. “Me, too.”

  “I’ll make rounds.” Tom couldn’t sleep in the afternoon, like some of the men did. If he napped, he’d be awake all night listening to the cacophony of noises in the room. Besides which, thoughts of a certain auburn-haired beauty already kept him awake.

  Chapter 2

  Late September

  Jo lowered herself to the rough plank bench behind the cook shack, bent over, and cupped her hands in the fresh spring water. She drew it up and splashed her face over and over again. If only doing so would help her recall her purpose—that she had to tell Pa she needed out of the camp and into the real world beyond the forest.

  Although her lashes, beaded with water, obscured her view, she heard Tom’s jaunty whistling before he rounded the corner. She closed her eyes and hurriedly blotted her face with a clean kitchen towel.

  “Miss Christy?”

  “Yes, Mr. Jeffries?”

  “I have a conundrum.”

  “What?” She didn’t need to hear about his personal problems or whatever that was. Probably another disease like egreeg-something-or-other was.

  He pulled off his Frenchman’s cap. “You see, I visited the cottages…”

  It pleased her that he didn’t call them shacks the way everyone else did. Like she, herself, did.

  “And, at every stop the lady of the house extolled your virtues and gifted me with so many items for you that I am uncertain where to put them.”

  Jo blinked up at the man. Sven rounded the corner, pulling a child’s wagon piled with an assortment of goods, ranging from what looked like a pair of knit slippers to a crate marked “Apples.”

  “Everyone said they miss seeing you.”

  Since Ma died and Jo had assumed her position, she hadn’t had the energy at night necessary to visit around the camp as she had when she was just a kitchen assistant. Instead, she now fell asleep almost as soon as her head settled on her feather pillow.

  Tom gestured toward the cart. “They wanted to thank you for all the help you used to give them—before your mother passed.”

  “I …” Unbidden tears overflowed and she dabbed at her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  Sven pulled the wagon toward the kitchen storage shack. “Why don’t I put this in here until after dinner, Jo?”

  She sniffed. “Yes, but bring the crate of apples in for tonight, please—the men will like the extra fruit.”

  Tom saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.” He grabbed the box and hoisted it onto his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. “And may I say the ladies have sung your praises far more prettily than I ever could.”

  Not sure what to say, she simply stared at his broad back as he departed. Then curiosity got the better of her and she went to the kitchen shack and began to pull items from the wagon. The small gloves would be perfect for Ruth, as were the slippers. Mrs. Peyton could use the blue wool scarf. So many lovely gifts, all which could be shared.

  After dinner had been served, Jo and her crew quickly divided the contents in
the wagon. The women hugged and thanked her for their goodies. After they’d gone, all Jo wanted to do was rinse off in the river and go to bed. But she dare not go down alone, so she walked around to the front of the cook shack to listen to Tom read.

  Frogs’ ribbits competed with the noise of the fire crackling in the clearing. Children ringed the circle, most nestled on their mother’s or father’s laps. Seated on a stump, Tom Jeffries raised his index finger to his mouth, licked it, and then used his damp fingertip to turn the page of his book.

  Jo crossed her arms and listened from the stoop. Tom’s deep melodic voice carried across the hard-packed dirt yard where the humusy smell of earth competed with wood and tobacco smoke.

  He was reading one of her favorites—Pinocchio.

  There was a good moral lesson in that story. Lies always resulted in problems. She frowned. Was it a lie to let Tom believe that Sven still courted her or had any interest in her other than as friend? They had come to the conclusion years earlier that they were suited only as companions. Besides, she’d seen how Ruth looked at him, and Sven at her.

  Pinocchio was a puppet. Well, sometimes she felt like one too—at Ma’s bidding for so many years, helping her in the kitchen. And now at Pa’s, at least until he found someone to take over the kitchen. But being there made her feel close to Ma. Her eyes filled with tears. This Christmas Ma had promised she could talk with Pa about leaving the camp. Ma had said she would support her. Now, instead, Christmas would be another chore and a reminder that Ma had died.

  Jo sat on the split log bench beside the lunch hall and rested her back against the unpainted wood building. Sunlight faded above the hundred-foot treetops.

  Her eyelids grew heavy. And before she knew it, she had fallen asleep.

  A gentle shake of her shoulder woke her. The touch was too gentle to be her brother’s, but firmer than Sven’s. She looked up into a handsome shadowed face, not sure if she was dreaming.

  Tom Jeffries bent over her, bringing with him the pleasant scent of hair pomade. He rested a book against his thigh.

  “Miss Christy, it isn’t safe to be sleeping out here on the bench.”