She frowned. “Of course not.” Where were her brothers?
“Everyone’s gone to their cabins, miss.”
She and Tom were out here alone? Not possible.
“Sven?” She scanned the rapidly darkening yard. Ghostly lamplight bobbed along in the direction of the cabins.
“I asked him to walk Ruth and her sisters home. Gave him my lantern to use.”
A full moon hung overhead, gently illuminating the yard but as one moved back into the woods it would be too dark to see without a kerosene lamp.
“Oh.” She ran her tongue over her dry lips.
“Your brothers are still down playing cards with the Everetts.”
They’d left her. A swirl of emotions began in her belly—outrage that they’d forgotten to walk her home, gratitude toward Tom, resentment at his constant badgering of her, and shock that he’d dismissed her friend Sven. And somehow, freedom to make her own choices blew away the other concerns like a Mackinaw gale.
“Let me escort you home, Miss Christy. I believe your father took to his bed early tonight.”
“Yes, thank you.” What was happening here? She sounded like her true self, not the shrew she’d turned into whenever Tom came around.
Jo rose and he offered her support. She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and he pulled her close to his side, the warmth of his body sending shivers through her. She slowed her steps and pulled free, clasping her arms across her abdomen. The evening chill made her tremble. Tom removed his wool jacket and settled it around her shoulders. To her surprise, the soft coat brought her a sense of comfort. She looked up at him. No one, other than Pa, had ever offered his garment to her.
“Sorry I sent your beau on his way, Miss Christy. But Ruth’s sisters were running in all directions and Sven seemed to know just what to say to get them to mind.”
Jo laughed. “I think they’re afraid of him, even though he’d never harm a fly.”
“Hmmm, I think if something riled him up you’d see some action out of Sven.”
In the twilight she observed him chewing his lower lip. Something within, the nudging of her conscience perhaps, loosened her lips. “Sven and I have known each other for years. We’ve been great friends.” There. That should help Tom understand. But why did she need him to know?
She was so tired, she wasn’t thinking straight.
“Oh!” Stumbling, she almost sank to her knees, but Tom caught her beneath her arm and pulled her up.
“Are you all right?”
What a question. Her mother had died, her brothers had chased away any possible beaus, Sven had gone off with Ruth, and her father seemed lost in his own grief.
“I’m fine.”
“Good.” There was a softness in his voice she hadn’t heard before.
They walked in silence beneath the full moon until they reached what was the closest thing to a “home” as she’d ever had and stopped in front of the shack she shared with her Pa.
“Here you are, miss.”
Had the checkered curtains parted by Pa’s bed or was it her imagination?
Tom lifted her fingertips upward, toward his lips.
He was going to kiss her hand! And she’d not yet rubbed lanolin into her rough skin. She pulled away. Her cheeks heated. After all, why should she care if he kissed her chafed hand?
“My apologies, Miss Christy. And good evening.”
Tom held his tongue for three long weeks after the embarrassing episode when Jo had yanked her hand from his, like he was some gypsy peddler come to carry her off. Every day he tramped to the logging site and then back the miles to the camp. Today, after seeing Sven and Ruth together, he couldn’t resist a jibe. He swaggered toward the lunch counter, behind which Mrs. Peyton and Jo were peeling potatoes and laughing.
“Where’s your little helper?” Tom grabbed an apple from a big bowl on the nearest table.
Jo and Mrs. Peyton exchanged a sideways glance.
The auburn-haired beauty arched a brow. “If you mean Ruth, her sisters are home from school, ill.”
“They’re no more ill than you or me, Miss Christy.” Tom bit into the apple.
Her glare was no worse than the shanty boys were when he stopped spinning a yarn halfway through and made them wait for the rest of a story. “Sven will tell you the same.”
“I just came from their house. Sven was out back playing catch with them.”
Jo wiped her hands on her red and white checked apron as she stood. She sure was pretty, with tendrils of hair wisping around her face. She drew closer and his cheeks warmed under her scrutiny. “Mr. Jeffries, what business is it of yours what Ruth’s sisters do?”
“I just thought you might want to know that your beau is spending time with your helper. Just trying to help is all.”
Jo’s rosy lips parted, the full lower lip hanging open. Her hazel eyes scanned his face as her brow furrowed. “I think it might be more worthy of your time to find out why the girls are not wanting to go to school.”
When his own mouth gaped open, he knew she had him. He’d come in here hoping to stir up a reaction out of Jo, to see if her tale about only being friends with Sven was true. He pressed his lips closed, turned on his heel, and left. Behind him the ladies cackled like the hens out back clucked whenever Tom came near. They didn’t like him either. But, today he scored a victory when Blue Dog followed him out of the cookhouse as Jo hollered for her pet to come back.
Chapter 3
Aching everywhere, Jo’s body screamed that she was too young to feel this old. She settled gingerly onto her work chair in the kitchen. Even Ruth looked peaked sitting slumped over a bowl of potatoes, peeling slower than Jo had ever observed her doing. Yesterday, Jo and her assistants had prepared a late October Harvest festival feast—enough to feed the fifty single men and all the families, too. They’d had little extra help, save from the wives who’d offered their assistance to the kitchen crew.
The door opened then slammed behind “Mr. Cocky” himself, as the lead axman, Tom Jeffries, entered the cookhouse.
“Here comes trouble,” Jo murmured.
She and her kitchen crew ceased cutting biscuits on the flour-dusted table. Although she already knew Tom had no business in her domain at this time, a glance at the clock confirmed his too-early arrival for dinner yet again. The hall was empty save for her and the other cooks, which was just the way she liked it. Soon enough every table would be filled with rowdy lumberjacks who’d inhale their food in minutes, and probably without so much as a “thank you” or “that was good.” Never mind that she and the other ladies had labored almost all day to prepare their meal.
At least Tom was polite and he had complimented them often on their cooking skills—she’d give the handsome devil that.
As he neared the table, her annoyance and her heart rate increased. Why was he always so smooth? Why did Tom Jeffries, with his gentlemanly manners, rub her as raw as a pair of new shoes? He tucked his thumbs inside the waistband of his dun-colored work pants and squared his broad shoulders.
“Good day ladies. I thought I’d let you know about my special announcement.”
Jo eyed the wooden spatula directly on the counter in front of the man. Although he stood a head taller than she was, she’d like nothing more than to pop him good on the forehead and see if that put some sense in him.
Mrs. Peyton stood and sighed. “Whatchya got to share, Thomas?”
His syrupy smile made Jo want to roll her eyes. But the single dimple in his cheek begged her fingertips to smooth a wayward lock of maple-colored hair away from it. He stretched his arms wide. The man just wanted to show off his big shoulders and broad chest, which had filled out even more in the months since he’d arrived. This man was stirring up feelings in her that Jo didn’t need. She’d give him till the count of ten and then she’d throw him out of her kitchen.
Tom puffed out his chest like a banty rooster. “I have decided that I’ll marry any gal…”
His luminous
eyes met hers. “…who can bake a fruitcake just like my mother makes every Christmas.”
“Dontcha say?” Jo’s relief assistant, Irma—a woman who looked a decade older than her seventy years—laughed.
Jo choked on her own spit. Ruth patted her back.
Tom tugged at his shirt collar. He unbuttoned the top button, freeing his bulky neck and a tuft of golden-brown hair. “It’ll be Christmas before you know it and I’m yearning for fruitcake. I figured this would be a way to quell that urge.”
Quell his urge indeed. The only thing she’d quell was the headache he was giving her—and she’d do that by grabbing her broom and chasing him outside. Quell his urge—who spoke like that anyway? No lumberjack she knew.
She stared at him for a moment, flummoxed—a big word she knew well, for Tom caused her to feel that way much of the time.
Tom’s full lips bunched, then twitched. “I mean it, Miss Christy. I keep my word.” He placed a wide hand over his heart.
Apparently she was supposed to have jumped at his offer. Of all the nerve.
A plan began to bubble up inside her, chasing off her anger and making her want to laugh. All she had to do to bring the cocky axman down a notch or three was to meet his challenge and then refuse his proposal. Yes, that was exactly what she would do! Why, with her baking skills there was no doubt she could prepare a mouth-watering fruitcake that would put his mother’s to shame. After all, hadn’t she won every blue ribbon in the county for baking since they’d set up this frozen God-forsaken logging camp three years earlier? Before that, Mama had set records back home in Kentucky for her cooking—God rest her soul. Moisture pricked Jo’s eyes. If only Ma was here now to help her put this man in his place.
Tom stepped closer, his toffee-colored eyebrows joining together beneath the wavy bangs on his forehead. Behind Jo, Mrs. Peyton cleared her throat as she returned to rolling her biscuits. Jo turned around and caught the wink she gave her. The middle-aged woman rubbed her hands together and stepped toward the counter.
“Now, Tom, see here—I think yer gonna be creatin’ a dad-burned problem in the camp.”
Jo grabbed potholders and then lifted the two trays of steaming cornbread and set them on a rack to cool. She turned around to face Tom, again. He’d stepped closer, and one side of his mouth twitched as though he was stifling a laugh.
“How do you mean, Mrs. Peyton?” He smiled at the woman. “And may I say, you look fetching today in that blue dress?”
“Pshaw, I’m not havin’ none of your sweet talk, Mr. Jeffries. You see here!” She shook a pudgy finger at him. “Why once all the ladies hear about your offer, they’ll be trying to cook up a fruitcake for you and then they’d divorce their husbands when they win.”
Tom’s lips formed an “O.” “Hadn’t figured on that, Mrs. Peyton.”
“Might give you pause to consider your offer.” The cook tapped a moccasined foot. “Why, what would my husband say?”
Jo chuckled. She grabbed a sugar cookie left over from the night before and tossed it to Tom before she could even stop herself. Why was she giving a treat to this infuriating man? He nabbed the cookie without hesitation. Blue Dog rose from his bed in the far corner and ambled toward them.
“Good catch.” She wasn’t reluctant to bestow praise when it was due.
The thing was—Tom Jeffries never received a good word from her lips. Which was wrong. Jo knew her Bible and her Lord well enough to know what God thought about such behavior. Surely it wouldn’t be wrong, in fact it would be the correct way to act, to be more polite and attentive to him—just like she was with all the men in the camp. Except they didn’t all aggravate the tarnation out of her. Still, the good Word said she should be kind and considerate. Which meant she could toss him an occasional compliment without it meaning she was chasing him.
Tom gave her a slow grin. “Um-hmm,” he replied around a mouthful of the sweet cookie, her specialty.
Shanty boys, after eating her rich fudge sauce and whipped vanilla crème on top of one of her huge sugar cookies, claimed they’d died and gone to heaven.
Blue stopped beside Tom. When the man made a slicing motion with his hand, her dog sat. Then to her astonishment, Tom broke his treat into quarters and offered one to her pet, who gulped it down and panted for more, his long black tail thumping the floor.
The little traitor.
Tom made a smoother motion with his outstretched arm.
“Down,” he instructed Blue and her dog sank to the floor, his big pink tongue hanging out as Tom bent and gave him another piece of cookie. “Good boy.”
He was spoiling her companion and stealing his affections.
“I finally got Garrett and Richard trained to not give Blue food from their plates and then you come along.” Jo stomped her boot on the wood floor, causing a bowl on the table to wobble. She grabbed it.
Tom straightened and quirked an eyebrow at her.
Warmth like melting butter slid from the top of her head all the way to her toes. Even her body was betraying her now. She rubbed one foot against another. Maybe soon Pa would give her enough money to purchase a new dress and boots. With winter coming on she’d soon need to wear something extra, even in the kitchen—the floor boards often allowed frigid air to gust up once snow started. Even gussied up, she’d probably not look as pretty as all the gals Tom used to call on in Ohio. And she sure wasn’t as educated.
Jo exhaled more loudly than she intended. Tom might be the handsomest, smartest, and strongest axman Pa had ever had in his camp, but he also had arrogance enough for three lumberjacks, all strapped together high atop a log pile about to be floated down river. This latest stunt of proposing such a challenge irked her. And getting her dog to obey him? She was gonna fix him but good.
Blue Dog remained glued to Tom’s side. “Who are Garrett and Richard?”
“My brothers.” They weren’t going to like Tom knowing that information.
“I see.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She needed to get him out of her kitchen before that cute grin of his made her knees wobble again.
“Well, Tom, I’m real glad you’re enjoying my sugar cookies but we’ve got work to do before dinner is served. Anything else we can do for you?” She affected a soft Kentucky accent like her mother’s and met his gaze dead on. She didn’t flinch—not even when his eyes softened.
Tom averted his gaze from the lovely cook, considering. Jo Christy still couldn’t stand him. No doubt about it. So why did he delight in tormenting her? Maybe the accounting he’d done that morning had freed his tongue. Since his time in the camp, he’d made enough money to send some home plus keep plenty back for his own savings. His mother’s letters recently took a turn and she’d expressed a cockamamie idea of starting a business. If Father weren’t already dead, the notion would have put him in the grave. Times were changing. His broken engagement to Dr. Eugenia Musgrove was proof of that. The love of his life had found a better offer than a poor schoolteacher could provide—one that included a husband and a medical practice in New York.
Two long years had passed and his heart had finally begun to mend.
“I’ll bid my adieu.” He nodded at Jo and she turned away to her cook stove.
He’d give Jo Christy one thing—she was the first woman he’d met who’d not batted her eyelashes at him and encouraged his attentions. Of course she was the first young lady he’d met since becoming a lumberjack. Before his father had died, the girls back in Ohio flirted, coming up with one excuse after the other to have their fathers drive them by his family’s farm. Of course that was before the years with Eugenia, while he waited for her to finish her medical training.
He gritted his teeth and rubbed his jaw.
Tom closed the cookhouse door behind him, and then trotted across the yard. The muck portended a moderate Christmas ahead. He frowned as he entered the bunkhouse, anticipating the stench of single men who didn’t see the need of regular bathing. Being a family camp me
ant there were a large number of families with a lumberjack father. Those people lived in cabins clustered near the cookhouse. And Tom was fairly sure those cottages smelled as good as Jo Christy’s kitchen did.
From across the long rectangular building, the bulky Christy brothers looked up from where they bent over a pine log framed bunk.
“What are you working on, Garrett and Richard?” Which one was which?
Ox shoved a broad hand through his thick black hair. “Reckon this is a long enough bunk for you, Thomas?”
Only his mother called him Thomas, and then only when angry with him. He stiffened. “Don’t call me Thomas.”
The man popped his giant fist into his hand. “Then don’t call me Garrett—it’s Ox.”
The taller brother stood from the end of the bed, a hammer in his hand. “And I’d best not hear you calling me Richard. Call me Moose, like I told you. Especially if you want me to finish up this extra-long bunk. Then your big old feet will fit in your bed—like mine do now.”
“All right, Ox.” Then to the other. “Moose.”
The younger brother gestured overhead with his tool. “Won’t put no jack hanging overhead, either.”
With his new lengthier bed at the end of the row, Tom might even be able to pull it nearer the wall to get a little more privacy. To what did he owe this favor by the Christy men?
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Tom grinned, but the brothers only grunted. “I’m obliged to you.”
“You speak like you got yourself a teacher’s education.” Ox’s dark eyes narrowed. “I’ve bet fifteen dollars you went to one of them special schools.”
“Maybe I did.” The Ohio Normal School, where he’d shared a room for the first time in his life.
Moose wiped his forehead with a meaty hand. “Our sister won’t be marrying any shanty boy.”
“Nope.” Ox agreed.
“And why is that?”
With her father and brothers lumberjacks, why wouldn’t she?
The brothers exchanged a glance and then attempted to stare him down. “If you were an educated man. A teacher, though—we might let you court her.”
The Fruitcake Challenge (Christmas Traditions Book 3) Page 3