“I’ll be resigning my job as axe man soon.” He dropped his gaze.
Jo’s serving spoon clattered to the floor. “What?” He’d promised. He’d set up this challenge. He’d almost kissed her. Almost. Maybe almost didn’t count. No, she wasn’t letting him off this easy. If he left, he left with her. But she’d already written a note accepting a job herself. She drew in a slow breath.
“I intend to hold you to your promise.”
“Promise?” He raised his dark eyebrows. “Oh, you mean my fruitcake challenge. Yes, ma’am, I plan to keep that wager—but you’ll have to produce a cake that meets or exceeds the quality of my mother’s.” His lips compressed, making them appear thin.
Ma’am? Jo’s chin began to twitch. She turned away and untied her apron. Blinking back tears, she headed toward the rear door.
A blaze of black fur brushed against her skirts and then Blue trotted to the door. She pushed through the exit, letting it slam shut. Her breath caught when she spied Pa sitting on the bench, as he whittled a small figure. He’d not taken breakfast with the men this morning but sat outside in the chill. Blue Dog pressed his head against Pa’s knee and her father paused to pet him.
“Good boy.” He continued to stroke the dog’s head as Jo wiped away tears. “I could use some help this morning, Jo—if’n you’ve got a mind to help your old man.”
“Sure, Pa.” She sniffed as a headache started at her temple.
“Need some mail to go out. It’s on my desk. Can you make sure they take it all—every piece?” He resumed whittling the replica of a tiny Labrador retriever.
Tears streamed down her face. He’d not whittled her a gift for Christmas in over a decade—since she was still a girl. Blue Dog sniffed it, as though he knew the image emerging was of him. Jo wiped away her tears—Ma always said Pa had no stomach for them.
“I’ll go over there now if you want.” Had he seen her letter to the Bakery in St. Ignace? Was he trying to get her to pull it back before it went out? What a coward she was—she’d not even told him yet.
“Here, Josie.” Pa hadn’t called her that nickname in years and her tears renewed as he pulled a red handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.
“Thanks, Pa.”
She bent and kissed his forehead before heading to the office. Inside, a neat stack of letters awaited mailing. Jo sat on her father’s high backed oak chair, elaborately carved with acorns, squirrels, and leaves. Pa and Ox had spent many days constructing the beautiful piece.
Jo glanced at the top letter in the stack addressed to Mrs. Horace Jeffries in Tom’s even script. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. Pa’s new fountain pen lay atop a pad of paper, inviting her to write down the woman’s address. And immediately next to the paper was an envelope. Was this not about the job? Was her father tempting her to write Tom’s mother? She drew in a deep breath. A decision had to be made.
God help me.
Before she knew it, Jo had written Mrs. Jeffries a short introductory letter, addressed the envelope, sealed it and handed her missive over with all the others as the postal carrier delivered their mail. She sat in her father’s chair for a long while wondering if she’d done the right thing.
But it was too late now.
Chapter 8
Guilt over her decision to send the acceptance letter out on the morrow niggled at Jo all day. The men lingered in the dining hall of the cookhouse, as though too weary to enter back out into the cold and blue-black night. She cast a glance at Tom and was glad he’d not caught her. Somehow she felt he’d know by the look on her face what she had done. She lifted the hinged countertop and entered the kitchen to join her crew as they cleaned up.
“You all right, Jo?” Pearl briskly dried a cast iron skillet and then hung it from a hook overhead.
“Fine.” Except she’d snuck and sent a letter to Tom’s mother.
“How you findin’ time to get ready for Christmas, dear?” Mrs. Peyton stacked the plates.
I need to finish knitting my brothers some new socks. She mentally reviewed every Christmas gift she had begun, but hadn’t yet finished. “I haven’t.”
Ox and Moose stomped up to the counter in their heavy soled boots. Ox jerked a thumb back toward the table where their father was speaking with Tom.
“He says your fruitcake isn’t quite as good as his mama’s.” Ox laughed. “That’s a joke.”
She wasn’t surprised. That exasperating man had called her ma’am, like she was some matron.
Moose leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Of course he’s lyin’. Question is—why?”
Did he have a wife back home? A sweetheart? For all she knew, Tom may have a girl in town. But when would he have time since he almost never went to town? Jo nibbled on the inside of her lower lip. It didn’t matter. What did count was that by Christmas she’d make Tom admit that she’d prepared a fruitcake even better than his mother’s. She’d not backed down from a challenge yet. Why then did this one trouble her so much? Especially after she’d spent time in the Word at night.
Because God wanted her to walk in love—that was the message of Christ’s birth.
And now she’d sent the note to Mrs. Jeffries. No taking it back now. But she could pray that God showed her how to turn this mess around. Her hope was ahead of her now—she just needed to get clear on which of the two job offers she preferred. She’d thought it was the bakery. But something, maybe God, made her hesitate today. But once she was sure, then she needed to pack her trunk and have Mr. Brevort drive her into town.
“Thanks, Richard. I mean, Moose.” How had that scrawny little boy grown up into such a big hairy man?
He patted her cheek then reached into his jacket pocket. “Hey, I have a letter here from a lady looking for work as a camp cook, preferably the manager.”
“That’s my job.” She punched playfully at the thick muscles in his upper arm.
She wasn’t ready to tell any of them yet that she intended to accept one of her job offers. But she’d held back the letter of acceptance for the bakery for a few more days. Maybe she’d hear something about the hotel in Newberry, which was a good sixty or more miles from St. Ignace. And farther from her family. An ache began in her chest.
Her youngest brother grinned and held the envelope out of her reach. “Do you want me to show it to Dad?”
She blew out a puff of breath. “Sure.”
Ox cocked his dark head at her. “You’re not thinking of running off and leaving us, Sis?”
She averted her gaze and spied Tom glancing in her direction. By raising her voice, he should be able to hear her from the front table, where he sat beneath one of the dangling kerosene lamps.
“Why, yes, Moose, I imagine I’ll be married this Christmas once I’ve won Mr. Jeffries’ fruitcake challenge. So I expect we’ll need another cook here. I’m sure as Mrs. Jeffries I’ll be living the high life.”
The men in the front quarter of the room quieted and turned to look toward Jo. From the way her face heated, her cheeks must be as red as the cherries in her muffins. Instead of Tom looking as mortified as she now felt, the aggravating man had the nerve to wink at her and grin.
He stood and snapped his red suspenders. “First you have to win the contest, Miss Christy!”
Scotty McNear called out, “The lass willna marry up with the likes of ye.”
His tablemates guffawed and whacked the Scotsman on his back. Someone in the back yelled, “She ain’t marryin’ no polecat.”
Jo laughed.
Mr. Brevort stood. “Josephine wants a mature homme like moi. But I am already taken.” He tugged on his long white beard for emphasis. Low chuckles commenced, followed by a loud sneeze from the Frenchman.
Bandy-legged “Rooster” Rawlings hopped up from his spot next. “Anybody knows I’m the best dancer hereabouts and Jo loves to waltz.” He nodded as though agreeing with his own statement. His comrades clapped.
“That’s right!” several lumberjacks called out. “And w
e need some reels and jigs tonight if Tom’ll get his fiddle out.”
There was so much commotion the lamps began to sway overhead.
Her father rose, stifling the whistles and guffaws. “I never gave my consent for any special purchases to be bakin’ different recipes of fruitcake every night till my Jo hits on one that pleases Mr. Jeffries here. So as far as I am concerned, the contest is off.”
A collective groan resounded. Jo sank to her stool behind the counter as tears pricked her eyes. Twenty-five years old and yet unmarried. Not that Tom really intended to honor his bet.
About that time Jo heard shouts, rustling, banging, and much conversation echoing up but she couldn’t make out the words. Pearl laughed and pulled her apron up to cover her mouth.
Jo sighed. Only three more weeks till Christmas day.
Ruth sat down on the floor beside her. “They’ve taken up another collection to purchase whatever you need to keep baking your recipes, Jo!”
“And the men are going to bring you their mother’s recipes.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Christmas and love—goes together perfectly, don’t you think?”
Finally the cookhouse was clean for the night. The other ladies had retreated to their cabins to freshen up, in case there was indeed a dance that evening. Although they’d encouraged her to do the same, Jo had wanted to ensure that the kitchen was clean first. She untied her long apron and folded it—no time to wash it tonight. She’d have to do laundry tomorrow morning after the lumberjacks tried out her ginger pancakes. She grinned at the idea of how their faces would contort in surprise when they got a taste of spice in her flapjacks. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea—as soon as they’d gotten a taste of the gingerbread pancakes they’d likely start demanding gingerbread cake for dessert in the evenings. And there was no extra money for cream to go with the treat.
She rubbed her lower back. All alone in the building, she imagined what their Christmas celebration would look like this year. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of Ma not being with them. The door opened then and a gust of wind accompanied Tom Jeffries into the building.
Brushing away tears, she took several steps toward the counter. “What do you need now, Thomas? You got another contest going?” Hopefully one that would put brains back in his head.
He slammed the door behind him and secured the latch. She swallowed as he strode toward her.
“You should unlock that door—what will my brothers think if they try to get in here?”
Tom’s cheeks, already pink from outside, reddened further. He twisted his hat in his broad hands. “There’s a stiff wind out there—I simply secured the door so it didn’t blow open. Besides—your brothers are playing pinochle with the Drake family tonight—said they don’t dance.”
“What do you want?” She secured her hands on her hips. The closer he came, the harder her heart beat.
“I’ll be happy to play the fiddle.”
“What?”
“For dancing tonight.”
She pressed a hand to her chest in relief. “Oh, yes, that would be wonderful. The folks will enjoy it. Thank you.”
He dipped his head slightly. “Was that so hard to say?”
“No, and the ladies will be so happy to return and find you all dancing.”
He gazed up at her, eyes flashing. “You’re not staying?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Don’t you like me, Jo?”
She stomped her foot. “When did I ever say I didn’t like you, Tom Jeffries?” She glared at him. Problem was she liked him too much. She wasn’t about to risk her heart on a lumberjack who was about to light out for parts unknown. So what that he loved all the same books she and Ma had enjoyed together. So what if he loved the camp children as much as she did. So what if being near him twisted her insides into knots and made her want to throw herself into his arms.
“You have a funny way of showing your feelings, Josephine.”
Jo scowled at him. He’d be gone soon. “I hear you’re planning on leaving your job.”
He raised his eyebrows high. “Why, Jo—I thought you knew I had to.”
Scotty was right—Tom was a polecat. Jo grabbed her apron, whipped it open and snapped it at him. “Get out of my kitchen.”
Backing up, he raised his hands. “See what I mean about your distaste for me.” But he laughed. “Mother used to chase me out of her kitchen, too—except ours was a much smaller kitchen house.”
“Well, is it any wonder? You have a way of getting under foot.”
He grinned and her heart did a strange flip-flop. Lord have mercy she needed to get this man out of her domain and right quick. He set his violin case down on the table nearest him.
Moving closer, Tom’s direct gaze was filled with longing. She fought the desire to flee yet at the same time she wanted him to pull her into his arms and kiss her like he was about to do when Pa had come out.
“Jo, the men said you love to dance. There’s no reason for you to leave just because I’ll be here.” He cocked his head to the side. “Besides which I’ll be playing my fiddle and I won’t be able to dance, anyways, so you don’t have to be afraid of me asking.”
“I’m not afraid of you!”
“Good.” He took two steps closer and lifted the hinged countertop to allow himself entry to the kitchen.
After her pronouncement, she couldn’t very well back away from him, so Jo stood her ground, a tremor beginning in her knees. She tried to make it stop, to no avail, and now her hands were shaking, too, as Tom took them in his.
“Josephine, I may not have anything to offer you or any other woman…” His thumbs brushed the tops of her trembling hands.
Pa paid the men good wages, better than many. And since he didn’t allow carousing, most were able to have a family, if they chose. So what did he mean, by acting poor? Was that going to be one of his excuses for not honoring his challenge? She bit the inside of her lip and averted her gaze.
Tom dropped one hand and gently grasped her chin, turning her face toward his as he leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Would you care to dance with me now, Miss Christy? In the privacy of your kitchen?”
She was having difficulty breathing, much less making her legs move, but Tom pulled her into his arms, one hand resting on her waist and the other holding her hand high, in position for the waltz. He hummed as he led her in the three steps of the dance, but keeping her in a tight circle so they didn’t bump into the stoves and work tables. Every other thought seemed to be swept away, so consumed was she with the feel of his breath on her cheek, his warm hand at her waist, his strong fingers guiding her in the movements. Dizziness threatened to topple her but she drew in slow breaths, feeling his flannel-shirted torso pressed against her, while her heart tried to hammer its way out of her chest to join his. She loved him. She was more certain of it now than she had been before. Then, how could she leave?
One-two-three, around and around they went.
“You’re an excellent dancer, Miss Christy.” The timbre of his voice and Tom’s perfect diction had the effect of chilling her and bringing her to her senses.
He came from a different world than she was from. Both Ox and Moose confirmed that his father was a professor. And his former fiancé was a physician. None of her fruitcakes had pleased him. And none would. Jo stopped moving and pulled back. Tom stumbled and released her.
“What’s wrong?” He shoved a hand through his thick hair. “Weren’t you enjoying yourself?”
Maybe a little too much. “I’m tired. I’m going home.”
“Miss Christy,” he said hurriedly, “might I accompany you to the church service again this week?”
She sucked in a breath. “I—well—yes, I’m going.” There could be no harm in him going with her to the camp church meeting. Even her brothers couldn’t argue with her agreeing to have Tom walk her to church and sitting by her.
Tom grinned. “It’s a date, then.”
> She raised her hands. “No. Going to church is not a date—it is simply worshipping together.”
He winked at her. “Whatever you say, Miss Christy.”
Jo gritted her teeth.
Banging on the door made her jump. “Jo! Whatya doin’ in there?” Ox called out.
“What did I tell you?” Jo heaved a sigh.
He sprinted to the door and threw it open, admitting both brothers.
“Ox?”
Ox pushed past and Tom headed toward Jo. “He botherin’ you?”
She was tempted to snap her brother with the apron, too. “Of course he is—I swear he’s worse than you two are!”
“Came to walk you home—the wind’s picked up out here.”
“Thank you, Ox. Mr. Jeffries failed to offer to see me to the cabin safely. No doubt hoping flying debris would knock me senseless so I’d forget his wager.”
Ox laughed and faced Tom. “No chance of her forgettin’—you did it in front of her Angel crew.”
“Her Angel crew?”
“The camp cooks. She’d never live it down if she didn’t make the best fruitcake ever—you wait and see!” Ox threw his head back and guffawed.
Heat flowed up her neck and Jo shook her head. “Garrett, you’re not helping things.”
Chapter 9
Fifteen days till Christmas.
Daylight and the rooster crowing woke Jo just as she dreamed about adding Cardamom to a fruitcake recipe. The one spice she didn’t have yet. In her dream, Ma was right there with her, helping. She rubbed her eyes and looked around the cabin. Pa was already gone to get the fires going in the stove, so she rushed through her morning ablutions.
As head cook, and with more help, Jo had been able to delegate the prep work to the other ladies. She opened the door to the cookhouse but spied neither hide nor hair of her assistants. But everything was laid out in readiness for breakfast.
“Pa?”
“Yup?” his voice rose from behind the counter, where he was bent over the stove.
“Where is everybody?”
“Don’t know.” He stood. “But you tell them I’ll dock their pay if they make it a habit.”
The Fruitcake Challenge (Christmas Traditions Book 3) Page 8