Unending Devotion

by Jody Hedlund

  She glanced at Connell, and his attention flicked back to his book. Maybe he didn’t want to fight against the evil, but at least he wasn’t joining the other shanty boys in their debauchery. He seemed content to spend his evenings hiding behind his books doing whatever it was he did with them.

  “You could always dance with Connell,” Vera said, following Lily’s gaze.

  It was Lily’s turn to feel embarrassed. “Oh no, I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Vera smiled, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “I’m sure Mr. Heller won’t mind playing another song. And I know Connell wouldn’t say no to the chance to put his hands on your waist and twirl you in his arms.”

  She wiggled, her insides blushing. She highly doubted Connell would want to twirl her.

  Connell lowered his head further into his book.

  “And don’t you dare contradict me, Connell McCormick.” Vera wagged her finger at the man.

  “What?” He sat up straighter and arched his eyebrows at them, as if it were the first time he’d noticed them in the room all evening.

  Lily smiled at the feigned innocence on his face.

  “Now, young man,” Vera scolded, “you’ve had your eyes on Lily all week. Don’t you deny it.”

  “I’ve been doing what I always do—sitting over here minding my own business and doing my work.”

  Vera shook her head. “You’re in trouble now, boy. I was going to give you a couple more cookies, but”—she pushed the plate of treats toward Lily—“now only Lily gets more.”

  The sugary sweet scent of the freshly baked molasses cookies had bathed the room, driving out the lingering acridness of burnt coffee. Lily had already indulged in several in place of the usual fare of beans and salt pork.

  She picked two more from the plate. “You’re a dear, dear woman.”

  Connell snorted.

  Vera’s lips twitched with a smile she was holding back. “That’s enough from you, young man. If you stopped all your nonsense, got up and danced with Lily like a real man, then maybe I’d give you the rest.”

  Connell sat up taller and eyed the plate that was still heaped with cookies.

  Lily wanted to giggle but hid the smile behind her hand.

  Then his eyes lifted to hers, the mirth within them turning the green into the same shade as summer leaves fluttering in a warm breeze.

  The warmth captured her and drew her in. For a long moment she basked in their private exchange of amusement over Vera’s audacity. But then the green of his eyes darkened and the jollity of his expression faded, replaced with a determination that sent Lily’s heart chugging forward like a locomotive.

  Without breaking his eye contact, he pushed back from his spot and stood.

  Would he really listen to Vera’s silly challenge to dance with her?

  Her heart picked up speed.

  Everything in his expression said he would—that he wanted to dance with her more than anything.

  Although she’d been in plenty of situations where she’d had to rebuff the advances of shanty boys, she’d never met one like this man—one she didn’t want to rebuff.

  Did she actually want his attention?

  A tingle of fright pushed her off the bench and to her feet.

  He stopped.

  “I’d best be heading up to bed,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze. Oren had long since gone up to his room. “I’m sure Oren will want to get an early start in the morning to one of the camps. For our first day of picture taking . . .”

  Connell didn’t say anything, and he didn’t move forward to stop her when she said good-night to the Hellers and started toward the stairway.

  She could feel the intensity of his gaze lingering upon her as she took each narrow step. She held herself rigid, hoping she wouldn’t trip on the hem of her skirt or do something else that might embarrass her further. And when she turned the corner of the stairwell out of his sight, she leaned against the cool wall and took a deep breath.

  What was wrong with her? Why was she reacting so strangely to Connell’s obvious interest?

  Of course he was very good-looking, having an odd combination of earthy and intellectual at the same time.

  But she’d seen plenty of handsome and charming men that winter, and none had affected her quite like Connell just had.

  The stairs creaked near the top, and she pushed away from the wall, flustered once again at the trail of her thoughts. She’d always kept herself pure, had prided herself over the years for her ability to stay away from boys when so many of the other girls in the orphanages had fallen into temptation.

  She kept her head down and ascended with more speed. The clomp of boots coming from the other direction neared her, and she caught the acidic reek of whiskey.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the little spitfire herself.”

  Lily glanced up with a start and found Jimmy Neil standing two steps above her. A slow grin spread across his face, and the black gaps where he was missing parts of his top teeth seemed to stare at her.

  He’d leered at her several times that past week during the meals he’d taken in the dining room. But she’d made a point of ignoring him. And that’s exactly what she planned to do this time too.

  He moved one step closer, and the stench of the alcohol on his breath filled the space between them. He’d likely already been out at the taverns long enough to drink too much but would continue with the drinking as long as he was conscious. So why was he back at the hotel?

  “Ran out of money,” he said too softly, as if he’d seen the direction of her thoughts. “The night’s still young, and I aim to get my fill of women.” His eyes glistened with brittle lust.

  A man like Jimmy Neil didn’t deserve a response, not even the briefest acknowledgment that she’d heard his lurid words. She turned her head and pushed past him in the narrow stairwell.

  But before she could get by, his arm shot out and blocked her path.

  “Where you goin’ so fast?”

  “Get out of my way.” She shoved his arm, but it didn’t budge. She tried to duck under it, but he stuck out his knee.

  He leaned into her. The sickly heat and sourness of his breath fanned her neck. “Maybe I don’t need to go back out, not when I can have a little spitfire right here, right now.”

  She stifled a shudder and the shiver of fear that accompanied it. She might have broken free of him last time, but he was drunk now, and there was no telling what he was capable of doing.

  Better for her to play it safe.

  She spun and tried to retreat the way she’d come, but his other hand slapped against the wall, trapping her into an awkward prison within the confines of his arms.

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere except up to my room with me.” He pushed himself against her in such a carnal way that she couldn’t keep from crying out in alarm.

  His hand cut off her cry, covering her mouth and smothering any chance she had at calling for help. A rush of fear turned her blood to ice.

  For an instant Daisy’s sweet face flitted into her mind. Was this the way men treated her sister? How could she possibly withstand such abuse day after day?

  As if seeing the fright in Lily’s eyes, his gap-toothed smile widened. “It’s always more fun when there’s some scratchin’ and clawin’.”

  His hand against her mouth and nose was beginning to suffocate her. She swung her head, struggling to break free and jerked up her knee, trying to connect it with his tender spot. But he was pressed too close, and he only strengthened his grip.

  She tried to scream and then bite him. But she was quickly losing strength in the dizzying wave that rushed over her.

  Suddenly his smile froze and fear flitted across his face.

  “Let go of her. Now. Or I’ll shove this knife in all the way.” Connell’s voice was low and menacing.

  Slowly Jimmy’s grip loosened.

  She caught a glimpse of Connell, one step down, his face a mask of calm fury.

  Relief swelled
with such force it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  With a renewed burst of energy, she freed her mouth from Jimmy’s grip. She sucked in a deep breath and then bit into his hand, digging her teeth into his flesh.

  He cursed and released the pressure against her. The slackened hold was just enough for her to break away from him.

  She scrambled up the steps, tripping and slipping, her heart racing too fast for her feet to keep up. It wasn’t until she reached the top that she finally stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

  Connell shoved Jimmy down the steps. “Go on. Get out of here.” He held out a hunting knife and pointed it at Jimmy.

  Jimmy half fell, half stumbled to the landing.

  “And don’t come back,” Connell called.

  Jimmy’s eyes flashed with threats of hatred and the promise of retaliation.

  “I’ll have Vera clean out your room and put your bag outside.”

  Jimmy struggled to his feet. In a matter of seconds he was gone, and all that remained was the lingering odor of whiskey.

  Connell straightened and looked up at her, his face full of concern. “Are you okay?” Somehow his knife had disappeared, almost as if it hadn’t existed.

  She swallowed the last traces of her fear and nodded.

  He put a hand on the rail and took a step toward her.

  With trembling fingers she brushed the loose curls from her face. There was a small part of her that wanted him to come to her, to reassure her. But there was another part of her that warned her against trusting him. After all, other than a few brief encounters, she barely knew him.

  As if sensing her thoughts, he didn’t make a move to draw any nearer. “I’ll make sure Jimmy doesn’t come back.”

  “Good.”

  “Even so, if I were you, I’d make sure I slept with my door locked every night.”

  “I do.” But was a locked door enough to keep her safe?

  Connell shifted, started to say something, and then released a gust of breath.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, praying she really would be.

  For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Instead, his questioning gaze penetrated her.

  Somehow she managed to say good-night and walk to her room without shaking. But once inside, she crawled into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and shook uncontrollably.

  She couldn’t rid herself of the memory of Jimmy’s body pressed against hers. And the thought of how close she’d come to ending up defiled . . . like Daisy.

  Oh, Daisy. Her heart cried with all the torment of the past months. What had gone wrong? Why had her sister done the unthinkable?

  Where was the little girl that had once snuggled against her in the bed they’d shared at the orphanage?

  Lily had always been the one to stop Daisy’s trembling—especially in the early days after relatives had given up caring for them and dumped them on the doorstep of the New York Foundling Hospital. She’d kissed away Daisy’s frightened tears. She’d made sure Daisy was safe and fed—even when she’d had to go without. She’d given Daisy as much of her heart as she possibly could.

  So why hadn’t Daisy turned to her? Why had she chosen to sell her body and soul instead?

  If Lily slept at all, it was fitfully, and when morning arrived, she had a hard time dragging herself out of the saggy bed to participate in a short worship service that Mr. Sturgis, the grocer, conducted in the dining room for a handful of sober and God-fearing townspeople. As in most of the new lumber communities, churches were scarce. Harrison didn’t have a single one or a reverend.

  By the time she and Oren arrived at the first lumber camp and set up the photography equipment later that morning, the usual low gray clouds had dissipated and glorious sunshine brightened the sky.

  She turned her face to the warm rays and let the light caress her sun-starved skin. “Oh, beautiful sunshine,” she said with a smile.

  “Not half as beautiful as you,” said one of the shanty boys standing in line waiting for Oren to take his picture.

  She wanted to throw out her hands and twirl in delight at the rare day of delicious sunshine, but she was already the main attraction for the shanty boys, and they didn’t need any more encouragement to stare at her.

  Many of the men were still snoring in their bunks—probably sleeping off drunken stupors. But there were plenty who were taking advantage of the break from their regular lumber duties. One woodsman-turned-barber was giving haircuts near the bunkhouse door. Another man was sitting on a stump cutting patches for his pants from a grain sack. Still others were using the free day to launder their clothes.

  Some of the camps had the rule that all crew members had to wash their underwear at least once every fortnight. Even in the dead of winter, boil-up day was a regular Sunday occupation—usually inside the cramped bunkhouse.

  But today, with the touch of warmth, the men had dragged the scrub boards, wooden tubs, and yellow lye soap out into the trampled yard. Heaps of dirty clothing lay in piles on the slushy ground.

  Steam rose from the hot water, which was already gray—almost black—from the flannel and homespun clothes the men were rubbing against the corrugated tin washboards.

  Lily knew her clothes were overdue for a good washing. And Oren’s were too. But the hard task was one she’d never relished, especially in the cold of winter, when the clothes took twice as long to dry and ended up stiff and difficult to put back on.

  “Stop all your wiggling and foolish grinning,” Oren called to the man who was posing with a cant hook that was nearly as tall as he was, counting the long steel hook at its end. “What do you think this is? A tryout for the circus?”

  The man puffed out his chest and attempted to make his expression more serious and manly. Lily couldn’t understand why smiling was discouraged. Sure, it was difficult to hold the smile for the length of time it took the photographer to capture the pose onto the dry plate. But still . . . if she ever had the chance to have her picture taken, she’d smile as big as she could. If she had to leave an imprint of herself for all time, she wanted it to reflect the happiness of her life, not the heartache.

  Oren lumbered to the front of his Centennial perched on a tripod mount. The box camera was made of fine mahogany but had all the scratches and gouges that traveling brought. Oren wiped the glass of the brass lens with a soft cloth. Then he adjusted the faded red leather bellows that were creased and cracked with wear.

  At a dollar a picture, he wasn’t making a fortune taking pictures of the shanty boys. But it was good steady work all winter and supplemented the earnings from his photography gallery in Bay City, which he’d left in the capable hands of his partner.

  “How much for a picture with the girl?” one of the men called, nodding at Lily.

  Another man whistled and others chortled.

  Oren stiffened. He tipped up his derby, and his eyebrows narrowed into a scowl. “I’ve got two rules here today, boys.”

  Lily stifled a smile. She’d heard Oren’s lecture plenty of times. She could only imagine what he’d say if he found out about Jimmy Neil’s attack of the night before. He’d never let her go anywhere by herself again.

  Oren pulled his corncob pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at the men.

  “One—you keep your filthy hands off Lily, and I’ll keep my hands off your puny chicken necks.”

  Except for the rhythmic ring of hammer on anvil coming from the crudely built log cabin that served as a shop for the camp blacksmith, silence descended over the clearing.

  “Two,” Oren continued, “you keep your shifty eyes off Lily, and I’ll keep from blowing a hole through your pea-brain heads.”

  With that, he toed the rifle, which he always laid on the ground in front of the tripod. She saw no need to tell them Oren had never shot anyone, at least not yet.

  Even if the men didn’t stop looking at her, at least Oren’s rules kept them from pestering her. In fact, she might even take a chance at going to the cook’s shack
to see if he would have a decent cup of coffee that she could have. After surviving on Vera’s bitter brew the past few days, Lily was more than ready for a real cup.

  She glanced around the camp at the scattering of log buildings. In addition to the bunkhouse and blacksmith shop, there was a log barn that housed the teams of oxen. The cook’s shack connected to another large log building that was likely the dining hall. A smaller hut sat off to one side, and Lily guessed it was the van, the office and home of the camp foreman and his scaler.

  The door of the van swung open, and her heart did a flip of surprise when Connell McCormick stepped out, deep in conversation with an older lumberman whom she guessed to be the foreman.

  For a moment she stared at Connell, at the gold strands of his hair that the bright sunshine highlighted, the fresh cleanness of his mackinaw in comparison to the foreman’s, and his purposeful stride.

  The lines of his forehead wrinkled with seriousness as he talked with the foreman. There was a refined, educated look to Connell’s face. And yet the strong lines of his jaw and nose defined him as a man worth reckoning.

  Would he be surprised to see her? She swatted at the fresh mud splats on her skirt, hoping they weren’t too noticeable. What would he say to her?

  She waited for him to lift his head, for his green eyes to find her as they had in the dining room of the hotel. Her heart pattered faster with the thought of how he’d defended her honor against Jimmy Neil, how he’d watched after her and protected her.

  But without casting even the slightest glance in her direction, Connell and the foreman headed toward the narrow-gauge tracks that ran through the middle of the camp. No longer were the lumber camps solely dependent on the snow and ice for transporting logs. The railroads meant they could carry on their lumbering operations year-round.

  She could only shake her head at the piles of cut logs lining the track, waiting to be loaded and shipped to the main railway track in Harrison, the Pere Marquette line. She’d learned that from there, they were moved to the river-banking ground in Averill to await the spring thaw. Then the logs would be floated down the rivers until they reached the sawmills of Saginaw and Bay City.