Love Finds You in Bridal Veil, Oregon

by Miralee Ferrell

  Love Finds You

  in

  Bridal Veil

  Oregon

  Love Finds You

  in

  Bridal Veil

  Oregon

  BY MIRALEE FERRELL

  Summerside Press™

  Minneapolis, MN 55438

  www.summersidepress.com

  Love Finds You in Bridal Veil, Oregon

  © 2010 by Miralee Ferrell

  ISBN 978-1-935416-63-0

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Scripture references are from the following sources: The Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV).

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but the story is entirely fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental, or else used by permission (see author’s note).

  Cover and interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group www.mullerhaus.net

  Back cover photo of Bridal Veil Falls taken by Miralee Ferrell. Interior photos of Bridal Veil taken from The Cowling Collection, © Tom Cowling.

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in USA.

  Dedication

  This book is gratefully dedicated to Stephen Bly, whose

  three-sentence brainstorming suggestion over two years

  ago led to the storyline for Bridal Veil. Thank you,

  Stephen, for your willingness to help another writer.

  Acknowledgments

  There are so many people who’ve blessed and supported me while writing this book. First, my husband, Allen, who patiently listened to my brainstorming, my rejoicing, the times I complained when nothing seemed to be coming together, and the hours I spent just wanting to talk about my writing in general. You’re a saint! The rest of my extended family has cheered me on through each book I’ve written and enthusiastically waited for news on the next one, as have so many of my friends and church family members. A special thanks to Debbie Fluit, who committed to praying for me through the writing of the entire manuscript.

  My heartfelt thanks go to Tom Cowling, historian extraordinaire. Tom grew up in Bridal Veil, and his interest in and love for his community continued on into his later years. His book, Stories of Bridal Veil: A Company Mill Town (1886–1960), comprises a wealth of firsthand accounts gathered from residents living there all the way back into the eighteen nineties, along with marvelous historical facts about Bridal Veil Lumbering Company and the town of Palmer, also depicted in this book.

  Summerside Press and each member of their team deserve special mention. I’ve so appreciated their support and belief in me and willingness to publish a second book. Thank you, Carlton, Jason, Rachel, and Ramona; you’re the best!

  I couldn’t have gotten through this book without the members of my critique group and editor friends who supported and worked with me at different points along the way. Thank you, Kimberly Johnson, Teresa Morgan, Sherri Sand, Barbara Warren, and Susan Lohrer. Also, I so appreciate three very special ladies who take their time to act as advance readers and offer their impressions—Tammy, Kristy, and Amanda!

  I pray this book will bless my reading audience. My primary goal is to reveal the Lord and show ways He can impact an average life if we allow Him to. And second, to entertain and encourage through the stories I weave. I’d love to hear from you if this story ministered to you. Meeting my readers’ needs and bringing glory to the Lord are my main objectives.

  A special thanks to everyone who’s taken the time to read the words that God has placed on my heart!

  THE TOWN OF BRIDAL VEIL, OREGON, WAS FOUNDED IN 1886 in the heart of the beautiful Columbia River Gorge. The town began as a paper mill and soon evolved into a lumber and planing mill. Its sister sawmill lay in nearby Palmer, where the timber was broken down into lumber and transported by flume to the lower mill. A thriving community grew up in both Bridal Veil and nearby Palmer, with the two towns’ commerce and social lives intertwined. For over fifty years the towns worked together—until 1936, when fire consumed some of the planer buildings in Bridal Veil. The timber supply was almost depleted, and the company moved out of Palmer. The Kraft Company purchased the existing buildings and equipment and produced moldings and boxes. World War II brought yet more change when women were hired to work at the mill, which produced ammunition boxes. After the war, Kraft expanded its operation, and by 1955 the company and town were booming. The end of the nineteen fifties saw a huge downturn in sales, and in 1960, Kraft made the decision to shut down. Homes and buildings were slowly abandoned, and the mill was never reopened.

  Miralee Ferrell

  Prologue

  Bridal Veil, Oregon

  July 1898

  Yes.

  The simple word staring up at Jacob Garvey from the piece of white paper hit him so hard it nearly knocked him to his knees. He’d been afraid of something like this for weeks. The note tucked in the wooden box lying under the tree confirmed his fears.

  Maybe this wasn’t what it seemed. Jacob turned the piece of paper over, hoping to find an explanation. His hand trembled as his gaze slid over the words printed in the bold handwriting.

  Margaret. I’m leaving town this evening and not coming back. I want to marry you. I’ll come for your answer after work. If I find the word Yes, then I’ll meet you here after dark. Only bring what you need. I love you and can’t wait to make you my wife.

  —Nathaniel

  P.S. If I don’t find your reply, I’ll know you can’t go through with it.

  A soft groan passed Jacob’s lips, and he rocked on his heels. His eyes returned to the answer written in his daughter’s clear script—willing it to change, willing it to disappear. Yes. Margaret was everything to him and had filled the awful void after his dear wife died. His sweet girl deserved so much better. There had to be a way to protect her from her own immaturity.

  Why did Margaret persist in seeing Nathaniel Cooper? To Jacob’s way of thinking, the man had no prospects and even less ambition. The Garvey family might not have much in the way of money, but they had history—their roots extended back to some of the hardy pioneers who helped settle this land.

  What did that young man have? Hopeless dreams and no family—at least, none that Jacob knew of. A drifter with no prospects whom Margaret had met only a scant six months ago. From what he’d heard, Cooper jumped from one job to the next, with no thought for the future. He’d lasted less than a year here and was already moving on. Margaret could end up destitute if that ne’er-do-well wasn’t careful. Besides, she was only sixteen.

  Jacob placed the paper back in the box and stood. He’d hide the box with the note inside until he was sure Margaret’s future was safe. When Nathaniel came back, he’d think she didn’t want to marry him and leave town. Jacob snapped the lid shut and hurried back down the trail, anxious to get home.

  The gate hinges squealed when he pushed through into his yard. He paused with a glance at the house, praying Margaret hadn’t heard. Now, where to dump this box? Starting a fire might raise questions, with the forest so dry this time of year. His gaze lit on his shovel lying next to an unplanted rosebush bound in burlap. He’d prepared the hole but hadn’t unwrapped the roots or set the bush. He glanced at the box in his hand, then back at the hole.

  Hurrying over to the small rosebed, he peered over his shoulder, praying Margaret wouldn’t offer to help. When no movement showed through the windows on the south side of the house, he bent to his task.

  He withdrew a sha
rp knife from his pocket and cut away the burlap from the roots of the rose, then wrapped a strip around the box and laid it aside. Quickly he enlarged the hole, creating a side pocket at the base, then slipped the box and its message into the cool grave. The rose took its place in the hole, then he tamped in the soil and watered the rose. Another glance at the house assured him of success. Margaret would never know. His daughter’s future was safe.

  Chapter One

  Four years later

  Late May 1902

  Margaret hurried to the two-story house set against the base of the tree-clad hill, anxiety dogging her steps. Papa had been tired when he’d left the house early this morning, but he’d been working at the mill long hours of late. Nothing to worry about, he’d assured her—he just needed the Sabbath to catch up on his rest, and he’d be right as rain. But she didn’t believe it. He looked peaked and moved as though weights were attached to his limbs. Best to keep an eye on him, in case he was coming down with the grippe.

  “Papa? You home yet?” She flung off her sweater and dumped her books on a nearby table. She’d not meant to stay so long at the school, but little Mark James had thrown one of his temper tantrums and needed a talking to. Then the chores had to be done—the floor swept, the board erased, her desk straightened—all things that didn’t normally take much time, but Gertrude Graham had stopped by on her way home from the Company store and slowed Margaret down further. Gertrude was a sweetie, but everyone in town knew her propensity for gossip ran as deep as the nearby Columbia River.

  Margaret had at last made her excuses and headed home. Part of her hoped Papa had kept his promise to leave work early and rest, while the other part wanted to light the stove and get supper going before he arrived.

  Dusk wouldn’t settle in for another hour or so, but she lit one lamp just the same, wanting a cheerful glow to penetrate the gloom when he made his way down the trail.

  An hour later she glanced out the window again, hoping to see his familiar figure trudging up the path. Nothing. She dusted the flour from her hands and finished mixing the dough for the chicken and dumplings, then dropped globs of dough onto the steaming mixture in the pan and covered the large cast-iron skillet with a domed lid. At least the house was warm. In a few minutes the dumplings would rise, filling the room with their fragrance. Her mouth watered at the thought, and her lips tipped up at the happiness that would light Papa’s eyes when he stepped through the door.

  Just then the front door rattled, and her hand flew to her throat. Papa wouldn’t shake the door handle or knock; he’d stride in with his booming greeting and big smile. Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen frozen by uncertainty—but only for a moment. Could it be a neighbor in need of help or one of the unsavory characters riding the railroad cars of late? Hobos had been increasing in number, and her father had warned her not to open the door to a stranger if he wasn’t home.

  She reached for the heavy wooden rolling pin resting on the painted countertop Papa had built and gripped it tight. “Who’s there?” She took a step toward the door in the nearby living room.

  No reply. The knob moved again but this time with less energy. What in the world? She gripped her makeshift weapon tighter and crept to the door.

  A quick twist of the round metal knob and a jerk of the door brought her face-to-face with Papa slumped against the doorjamb, his head lolled to the side. Margaret dropped the pin, and it clattered to the floor. She grasped his shoulders and gave him a small shake. “Papa? Are you sick? Papa!” She ran her gaze over his body, trying to find any sign of what might be wrong.

  A low groan escaped his pale mouth, and his head rolled like a broken-necked doll. His eyes opened, and he raised a shaking hand. “Not. Feeling well. Help me. Inside.”

  She slipped her arm around his waist and tried to support his sagging weight, stumbling as his feet barely cleared the threshold. Somehow she managed to half carry, half drag him to the worn couch against a nearby wall. He settled down with a groan and started to shake. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and his breath came in shallow gasps.

  “What’s wrong, Papa? Where does it hurt? Should I go for Doc Albert?”

  Margaret leaned over her prone father and clutched his hand, willing her own to stop trembling.

  His eyes fluttered open, and the stark pain in them revealed the effort it took to speak. “Chest. Hurts. Shoulder. Jaw. It’s bad. No time.”

  “Hush, Papa. You’ve been working too hard, that’s all. Let me go for the doc.”

  He gripped her hand with a sense of urgency and persisted. “No time. You need…to listen.”

  “No. Don’t talk, just rest. You’ll be fine.” She bit her lip, wanting to race down the path to the doctor’s home a quarter mile away but was terrified to leave him alone. Instead she lifted the knitted afghan off the back of the couch, spread it over his shaking form, and smoothed back his hair.

  A movement outside the window caught her attention, and she squeezed his hand. “Hold on, Papa. I’ll be right back.”

  She flew to the door and jerked it open in time to see eight-year-old Harry Waters swinging up the path with a fishing pole over his shoulder. “Harry?”

  The boy halted midstride and turned toward her. “Yes, Miss Garvey? You need somethin’?”

  “Yes. Run as fast as you can and get Doc Albert. Tell him my father is ill, and we need him to come. Hurry!”

  The black hair flopped on his forehead as he nodded in assent. “Yes, ma’am.” A flick of his wrist tossed the pole into the nearby brush and the boy was off, racing along the path on the shortcut back toward town.

  Margaret rushed inside and sank to her knees next to her father. She drew in a deep breath, suddenly frightened by his face drained of color and his tightly closed eyes. “Papa? Are you awake?”

  There was a slight movement of his head. Then something resembling a frown crossed his face, but it could have been a spasm of pain. “Sorry, Beth.” His pet name for her slipped out as his eyes struggled to open. “Forgive me.”

  “Shh, it’s all right, Papa. There’s nothing to forgive. Rest now.”

  “No. Shouldn’t have done it,” he panted. “Tried. To fix it. Forgive me.” The words trailed off, but his imploring eyes didn’t leave her face.

  “Of course I forgive you. Hang on, Papa. Doc Albert will be here any minute.”

  A deep sigh escaped, and his eyes closed again. Margaret grasped his hand tighter and prayed. God couldn’t let her father die. She wouldn’t allow it. Mama had died twelve years ago, and her grandfather just last year. Between that and losing Nathaniel… That was enough for one person to bear. Papa had the grippe. He’d be back on his feet soon, laughing and teasing about her temper matching her auburn hair and living up to Mama’s Irish heritage.

  That moment her father’s body convulsed. The muscles around his mouth tightened, then suddenly relaxed, and the already weak fingers grew limp in her hand.

  “Papa?” She gently disengaged her grip and stroked his forehead. “Papa, can you hear me?”

  He lay still with not even a twitch of his eyelids.

  Panic sucked the breath from Margaret’s lungs, leaving her dizzy and faint. She shook her head, drew a deep breath, and forced the reaction away. No time for foolishness. Papa needed her strong.

  She drew close to his face, praying for movement, hoping for another breath. “Papa. You can’t leave me alone.” A sob tore at her throat and slipped out in spite of her effort to quell it. “I need you, Papa. Please, please stay with me.” She lifted a shaking hand and patted his cheek, hoping and praying he’d respond.

  All of a sudden, realization struck her with its deadly truth, and she moaned. Frantically she searched for some sign of life—breathing—a flicker of his eyelids. But there was nothing. Papa was gone. He’d never smile or tease her again. Never enjoy the meal she’d prepared or sit in a church pew beside her on Sunday mornings.

  How could she stand it? What would she do now? Oh, why had God
seen fit to take him when he was still young and she had no one else in her life? She dropped her head on his shoulder and sobs welled up from a place so deep, a place terrified of the pain and loneliness she knew would come. Just like it had with Mother. Just like it had with Grandpa. And just like it had with Nathaniel. No. She’d not wallow in that now.

  A knock sounded at the door, and the knob turned. She only vaguely felt gentle hands stroking her hair and a strong arm wrapping around her shoulders, drawing her away from the still figure on the couch.

  Chapter Two

  Early July 1902

  Margaret still hadn’t figured out what her father had needed her to forgive. She wracked her memory but couldn’t imagine what had plagued him so close to his death.

  She tapped the nails into the wooden crate, then brushed the drooping lock of hair from her eyes and dusted off her hands. That was the last box, and just in time, too. The wagon would arrive in an hour. One more walk through the house, and she’d be ready to go.

  Everything had happened so fast. One day her father was here, the next he was gone. His sudden death had ripped a hole in her life. So many losses these past years. Her battered emotions had begun to heal after Mama passed, and then Nathaniel disappeared. Now this. Grief swamped her again, and she choked back the need to cry. All she’d done this past five weeks was mourn. No more tears today. She must concentrate on the gift the Lord had given her by allowing her time to tell Papa good-bye.

  Margaret shook her head and continued her inspection. The past three years she’d stayed here to help take care of Papa, even though the town fathers preferred she live next to the school. The house belonged to the owners of the Bridal Veil Lumbering Company and would be leased to another tenant now that Papa was gone, leaving her free to occupy the teacher’s cabin.