The Fruitcake Challenge (Christmas Traditions Book 3)

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  What about their father? Mr. Christy’s deep sorrow seemed to make the boss’s step drag slower each day. He didn’t want to upset the man, but from everything he’d heard, he was a feisty and jolly fellow before he lost his wife. And he wanted nothing but his daughter’s happiness—and so did Tom.

  He cocked his hip and pulled off his gloves, then removed his jacket and hung it and his hat on nearby pegs in the wall. “I’ve already declared a fruitcake wager, gentlemen. A challenge to your sister.”

  “What?” Moose swung the hammer one last time, attaching the bunk legs to the frame.

  Tom flinched from the loud reverberation in the bunkhouse.

  Ox yanked on the leg, which held firm to the frame, but pulled the bunk from the wall. “Pa frowns on gambling—as long as he doesn’t catch us at poker.”

  “You know, gents, we have lumberjack games all the time. Did it ever occur to you that your sister might enjoy a sporting event?”

  Again the Christy brothers exchanged a glance, but this time they moved closer. “Jo ain’t one for games.”

  Ox gripped Tom’s collar but he didn’t flinch, not even as the unmistakable odor of chewing tobacco threatened to overpower him. “Are … you … an … educated … man?”

  Moose squeezed Tom’s upper arm. “You’ve got the arms of a lumberjack now but if you want to avoid a thrashing you better answer Ox’s question.”

  They meant it.

  “Yes. I am.” Would their father have him thrown out of the camp? Or did they believe he was toying with their sister’s affections?

  The brothers exchanged a long glance. And then Moose released him.

  “We have a proposition for you, then.”

  Outside, behind the cook shack, Jo plunked herself down on the wooden bench, in the frail November sunshine, and splayed her legs in front of her. One toe tried to push through the torn stitching in her worn leather work boots. She heard the door swing open behind her. The newest cook, Pearl—a handsome woman in her sixties—handed Jo a white and multi-colored striped Hudson Bay blanket. With Pearl on board, Jo finally got some relief in her work.

  “Here. Cover up, girlie.” Pearl bent and arranged the soft cover around Jo’s legs.

  Unbidden tears pricked Jo’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ anybody with eyes wouldn’t have brought out to you. Problem is you got a hen house full of gals all stirred up over that big galoot, Tom.”

  Vigorous scratching sounded on the door. Blue Dog. Pearl let him out.

  “Miss Josephine, if you don’t think everybody notices how distracted you are when Tom is around then you aren’t using those pretty eyes of yours.”

  Blue whined and flopped down on her feet. “Poor dog has had to eat my burned biscuits two nights in a row.”

  “And I’m new out here, but I reckon your Pa wouldn’t be allowing those Avery brothers nor about another half dozen of those single men to be chattin’ you up and eyein’ you if he weren’t mournin’ your Ma. Am I right?”

  Jo shivered as a gust of icy air blew toward them, stirring piles of leaves beneath the tall oaks. “My brothers normally put a stop to any of that nonsense, but lately…”

  “The way I see it, miss—and mind you, I’ve only been here a few days—is that if you make this here Tom believe you really want to win his contest, then maybe some of those other fellas will back off.”

  “Pearl, if I don’t win his challenge all those lumberjacks will laugh me out of this camp—I guarantee it. I will be humiliated.”

  “They sure do like their jokes.” Pearl blew out a puff of breath.

  “I’m gonna get him good. You just watch and see.”

  “I believe ya girlie—and all of us are gonna help you.”

  Chapter 4

  Mid-November

  Sven swiped three fruitcake muffins from the tray with one pass. Jo smiled as Ruth wagged her finger at him. “How are we going to make him pay for those, Jo?”

  “Refill the kerosene lamps before you leave, Sven. We’ll need to light them all soon.” Why hadn’t Tom snuck in before dinner, like Sven had, to talk with them?

  “The days sure are getting short.” Sven walked through the kitchen, Blue Dog trailing him, sniffing his pocket for treats. But he came up empty unlike with Tom’s, which always held a biscuit or two for her pet.

  Kerosene and the like were kept in a shed separate from the tinned goods they kept in the other building.

  When Pa went into town, Jo was going to go with him to make sure she had everything for the Thanksgiving feast and to see what dried fruit they had in stock. Just making this recipe of Ruth’s had exhausted all their supply of raisins and thankfully all of the rye flour she’d wanted to use up. And making this hearty fruitcake was one way to accomplish her aim. Plus she was pretty sure from what her brothers told her that Tom was from an English background and would prefer a sweeter and lighter recipe in keeping with English tradition.

  Ruth took a small bite of one of the muffins. “Jo, I think my mother’s recipe tastes wonderful.”

  The Swedish recipe wasn’t one Jo liked, with its dense texture. She laughed. “So did Sven.”

  The golden-haired man returned and set about refilling the lanterns.

  Pearl and Ruth began wrapping the muffins to be packed into the men’s lunches for the following day. Good thing those men made coffee all day at the camp because by this time tomorrow the cake would be like hardtack, and would need to be doused in the steaming brew. She’d have to tell Pa. But she’d still been harboring some anger toward him that she’d have to let go. Part of her wanted him to bite into the hard bread and get an unpleasant surprise.

  After Ma had died, she’d kept waiting for Pa to give her the inheritance Ma had said she’d set aside just for her. But when she’d asked him, he’d simply chewed on his tobacco and said nothing. She’d planned on using that money to get herself situated somewhere besides in the logging camp. But from Pa’s lack of response, it was clear she’d have to find another way.

  “Thank you for the recipe, Ruth.” If she started out with one Tom really hated, then she’d have sent him a message about what she thought of his challenge.

  “Mine are all gone.” Sven patted his stomach.

  The pretty blonde blushed. “Thank you, Sven.”

  She turned aside and whispered to Jo, “This is supposed to help you, not me.” When the girl sighed, Mrs. Peyton shook her head.

  Blue, right up under the big Swede’s feet, wagged his tail to beat the band, begging for a treat. Jo tossed him half of a dried up biscuit. He leapt up and caught it mid-air, then slumped onto the floor with a loud thump.

  Pearl waved her wooden spoon. “We’ll make sure Jo beats Tom at his own game—you’ll see.”

  Jo searched her heart. She wanted to embarrass Tom by turning him down. She had no intention of marrying a lumberjack and continuing this life. She had taken over her mother’s job to help her father. But it’d been months now. And she’d just borrowed her friend’s recipe not to help procure herself a husband, but to aggravate him. She needed to apologize to Ruth and tell her the real reason she’d used the old-fashioned recipe. Of course it hadn’t helped that she’d also used up their oldest stock of dried fruit and nuts.

  But a sudden thought flashed through her mind. What if Tom loved this cake? What if, when he learned it was Ruth’s, he said she won the challenge? Picturing pretty blonde Ruth with handsome Tom made Jo’s stomach churn.

  She wanted out of the kitchen, which suddenly felt too crowded. “I have to go sit down in the back and make up my shopping list for town. Anything you all want to add?”

  “Vanilla,” Irma called out.

  Mrs. Peyton stopped mashing potatoes. “Lots of sugar, both brown and white if they have it, and plenty of molasses, too.”

  “Cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and mace.” Ruth blinked her pretty blue eyes.

  Pearl pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket and handed it to Jo. “Oats,
oat bran, wheat flour, rye, and corn meal—fresh ground from that mill by the river. You’ll need to go there and please do not get it from Mr. Cooper at the store—his is old.”

  Jo tucked the slip of paper into her apron pocket. “It seems to me, ladies, that you only have one thing on your mind.”

  Irma nodded. “Making more fruitcake.”

  Sven looked up from carefully pouring kerosene. “I think you will have to try another recipe.” He had a look on his face that he always got when he had a secret. Had Tom already announced the whole thing was a prank?

  Pearl wrapped an arm around Ruth, whose face had fallen. “Now Ruth, lest you think we don’t believe your recipe to be a winner, I want you to consider—who, of all those big strappin’ men—do you wish to please with your baking?”

  The young woman looked down at her boots, just as worn as Jo’s. “Not Tom.”

  Tears filled her eyes as she turned and hugged Jo, her head barely reaching her shoulder. She whispered, “I want Sven to make me an offer like Tom made you.”

  Relief coursed through Jo. Tomorrow when she went to town, she’d get everything she needed to make the best fruitcake ever.

  Tom trailed the other lumberjacks into the cook building. He was in such a jolly mood from sleeping in his new bunk that he didn’t mind being last in line. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he smelled something sweet—cake.

  As she served him, Pearl leaned over and whispered to Tom, “Where can I get my hands on your mother’s recipe?”

  Tom chuckled. His mother would never surrender her prized “fruitcake receipt”, handed down for generations.

  “Miss Pearl, I apologize, but she’ll hand that recipe over her cold dead body and maybe not even then.”

  The older lady’s eyes widened. Jo turned from the huge black stove, holding a tray of muffins. The unmistakable scent of fruit and spices emanated from the baked goods. She offered a tight smile.

  “Mr. Jeffries, you might want to try a sample of our fruitcake.”

  “Fruitcake in November?” He inhaled deeply. “Looks like you want to make sure you get plenty of opportunities in case you fail. Good planning on your part, Miss Christy.”

  Jo scowled at him, her wooden spoon now held like a scepter in her capable hands.

  He quirked his eyebrows at her and her lips twitched as though fighting a smile. “Not that I am complaining, mind you.”

  “You better not be.” Pearl laughed.

  The scent of Christmases from long ago ran through his mind. His sister being courted by the man who would become her husband. He and his brother flanking Mama and Papa at the church services after Rebecca had wed. Mama slicing out thick slabs of fruitcake and covering them with creamy custard sauce. His mouth watered. The Christmas tradition of fruitcake was one of his favorites.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’d welcome a try.” He reached for a muffin but she made a threatening gesture with the wood spoon.

  Jo Christy fluttered her eyelashes and bobbed a curtsey. “Why, Mr. Jeffries—have you had time to get to town to procure a ring already?”

  His mouth dropped open. He wanted that fruitcake badly and he didn’t want to offend the beautiful young lady who’d captured his heart.

  “I have an heirloom that might suffice.” If she didn’t mind it being a rusted horseshoe nail ring he’d made for Rebecca, and returned to him by his brother-in-law after her death, along with a trinket box full of gifts he’d given his sister over the years—ear bobs and such.

  “Well then—here you go.” She placed a muffin on his plate, to the side of the turnips, mashed potatoes, gravy, and roast pork that covered the rest.

  What had he gotten himself into? Tom headed to the Christy’s table, where he’d been invited—or rather ordered—to sit. Maybe that was why he didn’t mind being last in line.

  Boss Christy inclined his head toward a seat between Ox and Moose, but the two men had pushed their seats in on the vacant wooden chair so that it was lodged too tightly between them for Tom to get in. A slow burn began in his gut.

  He leaned forward. “Gentlemen, give way so I can sit down.” He slid his plate onto the unvarnished pine table. Seemed strange, after growing up in a house full of Mother’s antiques, to use furniture that would likely be thrown in a fire as soon as the place logged out.

  When the two men continued to eat, Mr. Christy set down his fork. Tom hated to do it, but these two young men were acting like recalcitrant schoolboys. His action wouldn’t hurt Ox and Moose, but it would get results. He wedged his thumbs down into a tender spot on their necks. Both yipped and Jo’s black lab popped out from beneath the table, giving a mournful howl.

  Mr. Christy laughed and waved for Tom to sit, as his two sons pulled their chairs apart and Tom took his place between them. Their ruddy cheeks looked just as embarrassed as the tough boys in Ohio he’d had to convince to behave after numerous warnings.

  The boss winked at him. “Welcome, son.”

  Son? Had the camp owner just approved him? As a professor, his father had saved that term only for his favorite students—the ones he’d bring home to visit at the farm. Tom swallowed hard. What had started as a bit of fun with Josephine had become complicated by her family’s involvement.

  He closed his eyes, bowed his head and said a blessing over his meal. Dear Lord, may I survive this meal and the Christy men and know what to do about that beautiful Christy woman up front. Amen.

  Blue Dog licked Tom’s leg. As was their custom, wherever Tom found him, he slipped him a little bite of his food. In this case, the muffin Jo had made—its texture so hard he feared he might lose a tooth if he bit into it.

  Moose elbowed him. “Saw you do that.”

  On his other side, Ox palmed his dessert and passed it to the dog, too.

  Mr. Christy scowled. “A fair bet is a fair bet.” He buttered his muffin and brought it to his lips.

  “You know about it, Pa?” Ox asked around a mouthful of turnips. “About the fruitcake challenge?”

  “Pa!” Jo hurried toward the table, her hands clutching a massive bowl of whipped potatoes. “Don’t eat that muffin.”

  Ruth followed her, placing a platter of sliced pork by her employer. “I’m so sorry … but Mother’s cake … it—it’s meant to be dipped into your coffee first.”

  The big man plunked half of the muffin in his blue and white enamelware cup.

  “Hold it there for a minute.” Ruth chewed her lower lip as she looked first at Mr. Christy and then to the other end of the table, where Sven lifted his complete muffin out of his coffee mug and set it back onto his plate, coffee flowing from every crevice onto the plate.

  Sven pulled back from the table, stood, turned and clasped his hand to his chest. “Det är bra. It’s good, Ruth. Just like my mother made. Let it swim in the good strong coffee first. ” The cacophony of men slurping, banging utensils, and laughing ceased as the blond man whistled.

  Sven raised his arms. “If you want to keep what’s left of your teeth you need to soak den goda fruktkaka—your good fruitcake before you eat.”

  Color drained from Ruth’s face. Jo plunked the bowl of potatoes in front of Ox and then moved to Ruth’s side, taking her elbow.

  A grin split the Swede’s face as he swiveled back toward Ruth. She had tears rolling down her cheeks and his tawny eyebrows rose. He cleared his throat and faced the men again. “Tom Jeffries isn’t the only man to issue a Fruitcake Challenge this winter. I declare that Ruth has made a cake just like my mother’s and, if she’ll have me, I’ll marry her this spring!”

  The hall erupted in hoots, hollers, and Frenchman’s caps being thrown in the air. Sven ran to Ruth, picked her up and swirled her around in the air.

  “Yes!” she cried out.

  Tom frowned. Would Jo shed tears of joy if he claimed her fruitcake the best ever? His eyes found her as she patted at the moisture on her face then turned and strode through her calico skirts toward the kitchen.

  Had Jo lied to him? Was she in lov
e with Sven and he’d never acted on his feelings for her? Tom stared at his plate of food, wanting to toss the contents and leave the table, but Ox nudged him and pointed to his father.

  Mr. Christy’s obsidian eyes met Tom’s. “Mr. Jeffries, I need a favor of you tomorrow.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re gonna take my daughter into town to get supplies.” He pulled a note sheet from his pocket and handed it to Ox, who passed it to Tom.

  On it was written a monetary amount. “Sir?”

  “Make sure she doesn’t exceed that budget for our food supplies.”

  Moose pressed in and whispered. “She ain’t good at figures.”

  The woman had a fine figure, but Tom knew her brother meant that Jo had difficulties with ciphering and sums. “I’ll bring an accounting book with me, sir, if you wish.”

  The man nodded curtly then resumed eating his mashed potatoes. Tom followed suit, lost in his thoughts of Jo pining over Sven.

  Mr. Christy pulled a newspaper out from inside his wool shirt and tapped at a headline. “Price of fruit has gone up.”

  Chapter 5

  The two dray horses bobbed their heads as though trying to decide if they’d let Pa’s choice of driver take the reins. Today, toothless Mr. Brevort wouldn’t drive—Tom would. Jo pulled her coat more tightly around her body as a gust of wind spiraled dirt up from the ground.

  Her father, still handsome at forty-six, possessed a full head of dark curls, flashing black eyes, and the muscular build of a man half his age. He patted the horses and murmured encouragement to them as Tom came around to where Jo stood, on the side.

  “Up you go.” Tom lifted Jo onto the wagon as though she were a sack of down.

  Before she could thank him, he’d turned, pulled a folded woolen blanket from a nearby tree stump and draped it across her lap. He handed her another folded blanket.

  “In case it gets any chillier.”

  Pa nodded in approval. “If you’re not back by dinner I’ll send my boys looking for you.”