Mail-Order Bride Switch

by Dorothy Clark

  “Hold on, Garret...”

  Mitch Todd dropped to his knees, untied the bundled logs and dragged one to his left. He stared at the butt end of the log as Mitch shoved it into place at the bottom of the wall and heaved. The rough bark snagged at the wool of his jacket, but stopped as Mitch pushed the log higher.

  “Ready, Tom...” Another log was dragged by, maneuvered into place at the bottom of the wall on his right, the angled end hefted.

  “Brace yourself, Garret. I have to...lean against you to...fit the logs together.”

  He stiffened his legs and listened to Mitch’s huffing and puffing as the sawmill owner leaned against his shoulders, reached overhead and shoved the angled ends of the logs into place against one another.

  “Got it! ’Nother log, Tom.”

  “Right here...”

  He watched the men’s boots, the ends of the logs being set in place, and ignored the increasing weariness in his body. Mitch moved in front of him.

  “We’re...ready to set the next log. When I tell you...lower your shovel and...step back out of the way.”

  He nodded and unlocked his knees, waited...

  “Hold the snow, Lord. Hold the snow.”

  Konrad Karl’s prayer floated to him, brought a rise of irritation. Did the man really think God answered prayers?

  “Move, Garret!”

  He lowered his shovel and stepped back, rolled his cramped shoulders and watched Mitch align the slanted tops of the opposing logs. Tom had another timber already in place. The snow was holding.

  Garret rubbed the stiff muscles at the back of his neck, shoved his hand back in his glove and resumed shoveling. Blake had gained a lead on him. He quickened his pace, cleaned the wall and bottom on his side of the tunnel. The gathering box filled to overflowing. He leaned his shovel against the wall and grabbed the pull rope, slung it over his shoulder. The other men gave the box a shove, and he started for the tunnel opening, Blake pushing the long, narrow sled box from behind.

  Lanterns flickered outside. Horses loomed out of the darkness, stomped and tossed their heads while their handlers hurried to unhook the chains wrapped around the logs they’d dragged in. Men stopped sawing timbers and rushed forward to help overturn and empty the gathering box.

  How much farther? He looked at the massive mound of snow left by the avalanche, but could see nothing but the dim light of the tunnel entrance. There was no way to tell how close they were to their goal. The snow was so deep they couldn’t set any markers to indicate their progress. He glanced to where Ivy Karl sat on a log, holding the folded blanket...waiting. His heart squeezed with pain for her.

  If You do ever answer a prayer, Lord, please answer hers and return her child to her. Let Minna be all right.

  He frowned, chided himself for being caught up in the foolishness of Pastor Karl’s constantly murmured prayers. He knew they were useless. He’d learned that when he was ten years old. He would serve Ivy Karl better by getting back to work on the tunnel.

  The men thudded their fists against the bottom of the box to loosen any clinging snow.

  “That’s it. Box is empty.”

  He nodded to Blake. They tipped it upright, grabbed the pull rope and dragged it back into the tunnel.

  * * *

  Virginia turned from staring at the darkness outside the window and cast another look at the clock hanging on the lobby wall. The ticking of a clock had always been a friendly sound. But not tonight. Tonight it made her stomach churn.

  Ten minutes until five o’clock, and no sign of Garret. No sign of anyone. There wasn’t even a light glowing in a window at the church or parsonage. She closed her eyes and rubbed at the ache in her temples. Supper was to be served at six o’clock. What should she do? She couldn’t send their guests elsewhere. There was no elsewhere.

  “You look troubled, dear.”

  The soft words tightened the pressure in her chest. She opened her eyes and looked at Mrs. Fuller. Tears clogged her throat at the kindness in the woman’s eyes.

  “I wish I could help, but—”

  “Would you?” The words popped out, needy and irretrievable. Where were her manners and her pride? Her cheeks burned. She bit down on her lower lip and looked away from Mrs. Fuller’s startled expression. “I’m sorry. Please forgive my ill manners. I—”

  “There’s no need for you to apologize, Mrs. Stevenson.” Mrs. Fuller set her book aside, rose and came to stand beside her. “I don’t understand how I can ease your worry over your husband’s absence, but I’ll be pleased to do what I can.”

  “It’s not that I’m worried about Garret, Mrs. Fuller. It’s—”

  Snort! “Harrumph!”

  She glanced at Mr. Anderson, asleep in a chair with his legs stretched out toward the fire. The portly man blinked, smacked his lips, then crossed his hands on his ample stomach. She held her breath and waited. Soft bursts of air puffed from the man’s mouth, and his relaxed lips fluttered when he drew in more. His snoring resumed, punctuated by the crackle of the fire.

  She looked back at Mrs. Fuller and lowered her voice. “If you will come into the dining room with me, I’ll explain.” Please, Lord, let her agree.

  “Of course, dear.” The older woman nodded. “There’s no point in interrupting Mr. Anderson’s nap with our chatter.”

  With my begging! The thought flooded new warmth into her cheeks. She led the way into the dining room, stopped by the fireplace and added another small log to the fire. The wood should last until suppertime. “I told you this morning that I am newly married and that there are many household chores I do not know how to do.”

  “And that there is no maid to do the work.” There was a question underlying Mrs. Fuller’s soft words.

  “Yes.” She pushed back a strand of hair and rose, smoothed down her skirt. “And now Garret is gone. And I don’t know where he is or when he will return. And it will soon be suppertime and I—I—” She choked on the humiliating words.

  “Do not know how to cook?”

  She nodded, squared her shoulders. “Would you be willing to help me? To show me what to do? I’m sure Garret will pay you for your—” She halted her plea, caught her breath and stared at the older woman. There was an odd expression on her face. Panic struck. “You do know how to cook?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Fuller pulled a handkerchief from her long sleeve, held it to her face and coughed. The clock struck the hour. “Time is running short. We’ll have to hurry. If you will show me to the kitchen...”

  Her held breath gushed from her lungs. “Thank you, Mrs. Fuller! This way.” She lifted her hems and hurried to the double doors, stepped through into the kitchen and stopped. There was a definite chill in the room. She looked back at the older woman, mindful of her cough. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fuller, I didn’t realize how cold it is in here.” A soft sigh escaped her. She motioned toward the ashes in the fireplace. “I don’t know where Garret keeps the wood outdoors, so I’ve been using this wood to feed the fires in the lobby and dining room. Perhaps you had best go back and sit by the hearth. I don’t want your cough to worsen.”

  “I’m fine, dear. It’s a nervous condition.” Mrs. Fuller gave a distracted nod, looked around. “I’ve never seen such a kitchen! Why, there’s everything a woman could want in here.” The rustle of the older woman’s long skirts blended with her awed whisper.

  “I suppose...” She tried to see the kitchen through the older woman’s eyes, but it was simply confusing to her.

  “Well, standing here admiring things won’t get supper on the table. Though I may not have to do that much cooking, supper being a light meal. The ham and bread from dinner are still here on the worktable. I can use them...” Mrs. Fuller bustled to the cookstove. “The first thing I have to do is get a fire started.”

  She rushed to the woman’s side. “Tell me what to do.”

  Aston
ishment swept over Mrs. Fuller’s thin, lined face, but was quickly erased. “Well, we need kindling and stove wood. That box under the window looks a likely place to find them.”

  “All right.” She lifted the slanted lid of the large box, eyed the newspapers, twigs and different sizes of wood contained in compartments.

  Mrs. Fuller reached up and twisted a handle in the stovepipe, then opened the firebox. “Now, wad up a piece of newspaper and place it just inside the door. Pile some of the kindling on top and then lay on a few small pieces of wood. And here are the matches.”

  She averted her gaze from the awkward angle of Mrs. Fuller’s hand and struck a match. The paper caught fire, the kindling flared. “What now?”

  “We’ll leave the firebox door open until the wood is burning hot. Meanwhile, Mrs. Stevenson, I will have a look in the refrigerator. And then, if you will show me the pantry, I’ll see what there is on hand that I can fix to go with the ham. It will have to be simple. There’s no time for the oven to get hot enough for roasting or baking.”

  “Please call me Virginia, Mrs. Fuller.” Where was the pantry? She opened a door and peered inside then moved on to the next cabinet.

  “That’s a lovely name, dear.” The refrigerator door squeaked open. “Hmm...well, there’s some meat. And a bit of cheese...” Mrs. Fuller glanced her way. “What is in that small room, Virginia?”

  She moved beyond the sink and opened a door, stepped into a small room lined with shelves. “It’s the pantry. There are some potatoes and onions and carrots in here. And quite a few tins of food.”

  “Good. I can make potato pancakes. I’ll need three or four potatoes and a small onion. Is there a can of pineapple? And a bottle of vinegar?”

  “I’ll see.” She lifted potatoes and an onion out of baskets on the floor into a large bowl, scanned the shelves, found a tin of pineapple and the vinegar, and carried them to the worktable. Mrs. Fuller was carrying the dirty dishes from dinner to the sink. The day was holding one humiliation after another. She sighed and hurried to the sink. “I didn’t know how to clean the dishes. I’ll do it now if you will show me.”

  “We’ll do them all after supper, dear. Time is too short to do them now. I need your help with the cooking.” The woman smiled, bustled back to the worktable, opened a drawer and peered inside. “One of the first and most important things to learn about preparing a good meal is the timing. So, if you would please add more wood to the stove, then close the door and adjust the draft so it burns hot, we’ll get started on your first lesson—peeling and grating potatoes. If I can find—ah, there you are!”

  Virginia glanced at the object Mrs. Fuller pulled from the drawer, then hurried to the stove. The draft was similar to those on the heating stoves in the bedrooms. At last, something she knew how to do! She made quick work of her assigned task and hurried back to the worktable. Light from the oil lamps overhead flashed on the small knife Mrs. Fuller slid around a potato. A thin strip of brown skin curled off and fell onto a small pile.

  “I found a grater. That will be your part—like this...” Mrs. Fuller rinsed the peeled potato in a bowl of water, set a piece of curved metal full of holes on the table and slid the potato from the top to the bottom. Small shreds of the white flesh fell onto the table. “Now you try it, dear.”

  She copied Mrs. Fuller’s actions, smiled when potato shreds dropped onto the others. “I did it!” She slid the potato down the grater again.

  Mrs. Fuller smiled back and reached for another potato to peel. “Mind your fingers, dear—that grater is sharp.”

  Peeled potatoes piled up in front of her. She finished the first and began grating the others. The pungent odor of onion stung her nose. Her eyes smarted and burned. She blinked and glanced over at Mrs. Fuller, met her watery gaze. The woman chuckled, stopped chopping at a pile of small pieces of onion and wiped away the tears running down her thin cheeks turning her wrist to compensate for its limited use. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Virginia. I should have given you this task.”

  “Indeed. Thank you for your kindness.” She laughed, grabbed the last potato and continued her grating.

  Mrs. Fuller finished the onion, scooped it into a bowl with the grated potatoes, then carved slices from the ham. “We want to brown this meat a bit before we add the sauce. A bit of the fat will serve.” The older woman placed a thick lump of fat she’d trimmed from the ham in a cast-iron frying pan and carried it to the stove. “Bring the slices of ham and come watch, dear. Timing is one of the most difficult things to learn about cooking. It depends on so many things. Because our fire is new, without hot coals, we must use the flames.”

  She watched carefully as Mrs. Fuller rested the edge of the skillet on the stove, removed the cast-iron circle above the firebox and lifted it aside. Flames shot up out of the opening. She gasped and jumped back.

  Mrs. Fuller shoved the frying pan over the hole, stuck a fork in the fat and wiped it around the bottom of the pan. The fat sizzled. “Time for the ham. Put those slices in the pan, Virginia. And mind the fat doesn’t spatter up on your hands.”

  She stared at the fork Mrs. Fuller held out to her.

  “Turn the slices when they get a nice color to them. I’m going to open the pineapple tin and see if I can find some spices.”

  She caught her lower lip in her teeth to keep from calling the woman back. The fat popped. She tipped the plate until the ham slid into the pan, then poked at the slices with the fork to spread them. The smell of the browning meat made her stomach growl.

  “Ah, here they are! And I found the sugar and flour and such in these crocks.”

  She kept her gaze fastened on the meat, pierced one of the slices of ham with the fork and turned it over. Brown. She hurried to turn the rest of them.

  Mrs. Fuller bustled back and emptied the contents of her arms onto the small table beside the stove. “Time to add the sauce. Slide the meat to one side.”

  “Me? But—”

  “Hurry now, we’ve potatoes to make.”

  She caught her breath, pushed the ham into a pile.

  “Now, pour in the pineapple chunks. And be careful, the juice will spit and steam when it hits the hot pan. Good. Now we’ll add a little sugar...a splash of vinegar...some cinnamon and a pinch of cloves...”

  Her mouth watered. “That smells wonderful!”

  Mrs. Fuller smiled. “Stir it up, spread the ham out, then slide the pan back a little so the sauce will cook but not burn—we want it to be like a syrup. Then add a couple small pieces of wood and cover the fire with this griddle. We need it hot for the potato cakes. Come to the worktable when you finish.”

  She did as she was bid, then stared at the bowl of grated potatoes and onion Mrs. Fuller shoved in front of her. Her shoulders tightened.

  “Sprinkle some flour over the potatoes and add some salt and pepper. That’s good. Now give them a stir and we’ll add this egg...”

  Mrs. Fuller brought an egg down sharply on the edge of the bowl, emptied the contents onto the potato mixture, tossed the shell away and picked up a tin pail. “Stir the egg into the potatoes, then bring them to the stove. You have to stir the sauce and turn the ham so it doesn’t burn.”

  She caught sight of a colorful bird and the words PURE LARD on the pail before Mrs. Fuller snatched a wood spoon from a crock bristling with utensils and headed back to the stove. Her stomach clenched. She couldn’t do all these things! Tension traveled from her shoulders down her arm and drove the spoon she held in swift circles. Done! She gripped the bowl, spun about and hurried back to the stove, her skirts swirling around her. “Mrs. Fuller, I—”

  “Set the potatoes here, dear, while you stir the sauce and turn the meat.”

  She fought down the urge to run to her bedroom and cry, grabbed the fork and turned the ham slices over. The sauce clung, sliding off in strings. “It’s thick, like syrup...”

 
“Exactly as we want it. Slide the pan to the far side to stay warm, and we’ll start the potatoes. Put a bit of lard on the hot griddle and spread it around. When it’s melted, add four good spoonsful of the potatoes and flatten them out a bit with the spoon. When they’re nicely browned turn them and cook the other side—add more lard should you need it. I’ll slice some bread and find some preserves.”

  The clock donged. She glanced at it. Her stomach sank. Fifteen minutes until six o’clock, and she still had to set the tables! Please make Mr. Anderson sleep until everything is ready, Lord. She checked the potatoes, flipped the cakes over and tapped her foot.

  “Here are serving plates for the potato cakes, dear. And more for the ham and pineapple. Keep the food up here in the warming oven until you’re finished cooking and ready to serve. It’s time for me to join Mr. Anderson in the lobby. I’ll delay him a bit, if possible.” Mrs. Fuller touched her arm briefly, then walked from the kitchen.

  She was alone. Panic swelled. Help me, Lord! Please help me!

  * * *

  His shovel blade hit something solid, the shock of the blow vibrating up Garret’s arm. Hope swelled his chest. He scooped up another shovelful of snow, grabbed the lantern and stared at the dark spot he’d uncovered. He caught his breath and brushed at the surrounding snow. The rock went off to his left. “Konrad, I’ve uncovered some rock over here. We may have to change our direction a little.”

  All sound stopped. Silence filled the narrow white tunnel. And then there was a rustle of clothing, the thud of boots. Konrad Karl fell to his knees beside him, tears sliding down his cheeks, his gloved hands digging at the snow around the stone. Blake and Trace crowded in behind them.

  He laid his hand on the pastor’s shoulder. “Easy, Konrad, we don’t want to make a mistake now. Use the probe.” He handed Konrad Karl the long, thin metal rod they’d been using to try to stay on the right path to the cave.