Love Finds You in Bridal Veil, Oregon

by Miralee Ferrell

  Mrs. Stedman’s loud snort sounded like the grunt of one of the hogs. “Joel’s not slow, he’s dim-witted. If I’d a’known he didn’t have a brain in his head when I took you in, I’d a’sent you packin’, even if that orphanage woman said you was good workers.” She raised a finger. “You get it through that boy’s head that he don’t break no eggs or scare the hens, or I’ll ship him back. Alone.”

  Samantha willed her legs not to shake and her feet to hold steady in their place. The hot anger of the coarse woman had lashed out many times in the past, but so far Samantha had taken the brunt of her wrath. Joel had been punished before, but the worst beatings had been reserved for Samantha, probably due to the boy’s almost unnatural growth. At fourteen her older brother was almost the size of a man. However, the woman’s rage had been building toward Joel for days, and one more mistake on his part would push the woman over the edge, regardless of his size.

  Samantha pushed down the hot retort that fairly screamed to be let out and nodded instead. “Yes’m. I’ll see that he does things right.”

  Mrs. Stedman drew her hand away. It hovered in the air, seemingly unsure whether it should settle on her hip. “I don’t want you sneakin’ around doin’ his chores, neither. He’d best learn to do ’em right.” She swiveled her stocky hip away and took a step, then turned back. “I’ve given you kids a’plenty. I expect obedience from both of you, ya hear me, Samantha?” She leaned close to the girl’s face, her brows scrunched over the hard hazel eyes.

  This time Samantha did take a step back. Those pale, washed-out eyes that seemed to change from hazel to an almost sickly yellow had always unnerved her. “Yes, Mrs. Stedman. We’ll try harder. I promise.”

  “See that you do.” She frowned, turned as fast as her bulk would allow, and waddled toward the house.

  “Sammie?” A tug at her hand drew Samantha’s attention around to the oversized boy who’d slipped quietly into place beside her.

  She patted his arm. “Did you finish your chores?”

  A scared shadow chased itself across the wide face looking down into hers. “I think so.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I broke another egg.” He held up the basket of eggs and pointed at the gooey mess smeared across the layer of intact shells.

  “Oh no,” Samantha breathed.

  “Mrs. Stedman’s gonna be mad.” Joel stated the fact so low that Samantha barely heard. His eyes grew wide and his voice rose. “She’s gonna smack me when she sees. Please don’t let her hit me, Sammie.”

  “Shh.” She gave his shaking shoulders a squeeze. “Come on, let’s head to the barn and see if we can fix this mess.”

  The boy’s quivering lip grew still, and he raised a hopeful gaze. “You can fix it?”

  “Yeah. Come on.”

  She took him by the hand and hefted the basket on her opposite hip. The animals’ water trough lay on the backside of the barn, out of sight of the watchful eyes. When they rounded the corner of the building, Sammie let out a sigh. Safe for now, as long as no one came looking. She reached under the hem of her skirt and drew up the corner of her frayed cotton petticoat. Giving it a yank, she ripped off a strip of cloth. The trough was lined with slime, and she hesitated a moment before dipping the rag into the water.

  “Sit down, Joel, and hold still.” She waited till the boy obeyed, then picked up an egg and carefully wiped it down. Each oval treasure was placed in his lap, end to end from his knees down the length of his tightly pressed legs. “There, all clean.” Sammie rinsed the wire basket in the trough, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

  “Will Mrs. Stedman be mad that you washed the eggs in the trough?” Joel touched one of the eggs closest to him, and Samantha gently pushed aside his hand.

  “Don’t touch them, Joel. We don’t want any more broken.” She patted his fingers and smiled. “We’re not going to tell her about washing them, all right?”

  Joel frowned, and troubled eyes gazed into hers. “Isn’t that lying? You always tell me not to lie, Sammie.”

  She bit her lip, unsure how to explain. “If she asks if we washed them, we’ll say yes. But we don’t need to mention we washed them because one broke. We can’t put the broken egg back together again, and there’s no sense in upsetting her. Do you understand?”

  He twisted his mouth to the side and squinted, then nodded. “Ah-huh, I understand. Don’t say nothin’ about broken eggs; just say we washed ’em if she asks. Right, Sammie?”

  “Right.” All she could do was pray that God would somehow keep her brother safe from Mrs. Stedman’s wrath.

  Samantha lay in bed later that night, bone weary and heart sore. She’d kept Mrs. Stedman from finding out about the eggs, but it wouldn’t be the last time Joel would teeter on the edge of a thrashing. The woman’s tongue had harmed her brother enough, and Sammie was determined that no physical abuse be heaped on his body. She’d pondered the problem for weeks. Only one thing scared her about taking Joel and running away, and that was Mrs. Stedman’s no-account son who stopped in from time to time.

  Wallace Stedman was a lazy man who got surly when he drank. Mrs. Stedman never put the same demands on him as she did Sammie and Joel. He’d been by just three days ago, and they didn’t see him but every fortnight—unless he’d already drunk up all the money his mother had parceled out. Drink changed Wallace from a whining nuisance to something worse.

  Sammie never quite figured out why his stare bothered her when he’d been drinking. Mrs. Stedman would send him after them if they ran, unless they could put enough time and space between this farm and themselves before Wallace came around again.

  She rolled over on the hard cot and shifted her weight, trying to find a more comfortable spot for her hip. The thin blanket barely reached from side-to-side and offered little in the way of warmth. A mission barrel at the church they attended on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon, had produced some clothing and coats that almost fit, along with a pair of sturdy shoes, or they’d still be wearing last year’s cast-offs.

  Could they slip out without being seen, and would Mrs. Stedman send Wallace when she discovered they’d gone? How would they travel without food or blankets? Joel would never keep up for long. He didn’t have much stamina.

  Why did her parents have to die and leave them alone? Didn’t they know how much she and Joel needed them? Didn’t God care that they’d been whisked up by neighbors and dumped in an orphanage just minutes after the horse-drawn carriage had taken her unconscious mother and deathly still father to the hospital? The woman in charge told her that both their parents had died. No hugs, no sorrow, just that ugly, hurtful word. Dead. Eleven-year-old Samantha had cried most of the night while clinging to her twelve-year-old brother, lying on the pallet in the corner of the upstairs room.

  Now Samantha knew that somehow they must get away, no matter the risk. Staying here would only get them separated, and she couldn’t take that chance. She sighed and snuggled deeper into the narrow cot. More than anything in the world she wanted a real home. One that cared about children and didn’t scream or stike them. One that had love to share—and smiles and hugs instead of frowns and curses.

  Just then the lonely wail of the train whistle cut through the troubled silence. Samantha rarely noticed it anymore, although it had kept her awake when she first arrived at Mrs. Stedman’s. A rush of excitement jolted her wide awake, and she barely restrained the urge to jump from the bed and dance a jig. The train. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? It stopped for water just a half mile or so up the road every night. If she and Joel were careful, they could sneak onto a freight car in the dark. Many a time she’d seen the train stop at the water tank in the daytime, and several cars always stood empty with doors gaping wide. She’d never understood why they weren’t locked, but now the thought brought hope. They’d only have to endure one more day. Tomorrow night they’d sneak off and ride the train to freedom.

  Chapter Four

  The Columbia River, just past Bridal Veil, Oregon

  Nat
haniel Cooper stood at the rail of the steamboat as the large paddle drove it up the Columbia River past the small town of Bridal Veil. Too bad Sand Island sat so close to the bank and prohibited large boats from docking. His gaze lit on the magnificent, floating mist that hovered over the two-step fall, giving it the look of a bride’s veil—hence the name. It had been four years since he’d seen that sight. The memory of a pair of blue eyes lingered right alongside the one of the falls.

  He’d tried to push the memory of those eyes and the sweetness of that face out of his mind but had never completely succeeded. Why hadn’t Margaret left him a note, instead of taking the box? Would it have been so difficult to let him know she’d changed her mind?

  His gaze traveled out across the swelling Columbia River, and he grabbed his hat just as a gust of wind whipped it off his head. He’d forgotten how fierce the wind howled through this stretch. When an eastern wind blew in the winter, the temperature could drop several degrees in a matter of minutes.

  As he turned away and headed inside, his thoughts returned to Margaret. If she’d shown up that night, would he have a son that he could take fishing? She knew his plans and could have found him. Or maybe she was just too young at the time.

  More than likely she’d married some man who provided a good living, making her doting father happy that she’d escaped the likes of him. He shook his head. No need to harbor ill thoughts. It had been hard to accept the position at the upper mill in the small community of Palmer just two miles above Bridal Veil. If she and her husband lived here, he’d do the honorable thing and treat her as though their paths had never crossed.

  It was time to put the past behind him and be thankful for his new position. It still wasn’t clear why he’d been chosen, but he wouldn’t question such a stroke of good fortune—however mixed it might be.

  “Stand clear!” The booming voice of the boat’s bosun rang out just before ropes lowered the large gangplank. Nathaniel’s musing had taken them on past the town site and two miles upriver to the docking point, not far from Multnomah Falls.

  Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he swung down the plank and onto the grassy shore. He pushed through the knot of people waiting in the docking area and headed toward the team of horses hitched to a nearby wagon.

  A voice at his elbow drew him up short. “Nate Cooper. Well, I’ll swan. What brings you back to our neck o’ the woods?”

  Nathaniel stood close to six-foot tall, but his eyes had to travel up to meet the man at his side. He recognized the voice before he saw Dan Meadows’ broad, heavily whiskered face, split by a grin. His massive hand reached out and gripped Nathaniel’s.

  “It’s good to see you again, Dan.” Nathaniel returned the handshake with as much strength as he could muster. “You still the bull whacker up at the logging camp outside Palmer?”

  Dan nodded his shaggy head. “Yep, sure am. Got me eight new oxen comin’ in on the train tomorrow and a new man comin’ in with a horse team, as well.”

  “Horses? Since when did you hire a horse team to skid logs?”

  Dan grunted. “The boss tells me this young man—Art Gibbs is his name—comes with the best six-horse team in the state and wants to give him a chance. I’ll believe it when I see it: that horses can do a good job without spookin’ and causin’ trouble.”

  Nathaniel set his bedroll down next to his bag and leaned against a post at the end of the wharf. “The mill staying busy? How much timber are you hauling out, up at the Palmer site?”

  “The boss is expandin’ the operation, and with this second team pullin’, we plan on gettin’ out twenty-four thousand feet of timber each trip the train makes back to the Palmer mill.”

  Nathaniel whistled. “Not bad. You’re still pulling them on the greased skid trail to the railroad landing?”

  “Best way to get them to the tracks. Not much has changed since you left. Still plenty of timber to feed the upper sawmill. Martin Jenkins is the new skidder boss now, and he made one change I’m not happy about—we got two donkey engines up in the hills. He thought my teams weren’t doin’ a good job on the steeper pulls.” He shook his head and scowled. “I hate seein’ newfangled machinery come in. Nothing will ever take the place of a good team of oxen.”

  Nathaniel wasn’t so sure, but he kept his thoughts to himself. The big man loved his team and was known to wager bets about the amount of weight the beasts could pull from the forest in one haul. The idea of new technology didn’t set well with many of these old-timers, so Nathaniel had found it best to simply nod and agree. Too many times even a mild disagreement could be taken as an insult and land a man in a ditch with a busted jaw, or worse. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.”

  Dan crossed his arms across his massive chest. “What brings you back to town? Heard you lit a shuck out of here and never planned on comin’ back.” He cast a shrewd glance at the bag and bedroll Nathaniel carried. “Or are you just visitin’ our berg?”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “Nope. I’m here to stay. I put in an application, and Mr. Palmer hired me as the assistant supervisor for the upper mill.”

  Dan’s eyebrows shot up till they disappeared under his bushy hair, smashed down by the brim of his hat. “Assistant supervisor, huh?” He gave a slow wag of his head and glowered. “Always thought I might have that job someday.” One shoulder hunched and his features smoothed out. “No matter. Wouldn’t want to give up my team. How’d you land that job?”

  “Not sure, to tell the truth. Guess someone’s watching out for me.” Nathaniel smiled. “Although God and I aren’t on close speaking terms, so I’m not sure why He’d bother.”

  “Huh. Doubtful God had much to do with it.” Dan’s dark brown eyes narrowed. He hefted his bedroll over his shoulder. “Best be goin’. Got to make sure everythin’s ready for that team comin’ in tomorrow.”

  “See you around.” Nathaniel slung his gear onto his back. Time to find a ride and get settled into whatever house the Company provided. With his elevated status, he assumed it would be better than the shack he’d shared with three other mill hands the last time he’d worked there.

  Dan’s question returned to his mind. He’d not been entirely truthful with the man. The memory of a young woman and what might have been had drawn him back to this town, almost against his will. The new job was an added bonus, but not one he’d keep for long if things didn’t turn out as he hoped.

  Chapter Five

  Bridal Veil, Oregon

  Margaret shut the wooden door behind her, then looked around her new home with satisfaction. Yesterday had been spent unpacking her belongings and placing her personal items on the kitchen table and in nearby cupboards. The cabin boasted only one tiny closet, but her clothing needs were simple, and the limited space didn’t pose a problem. The mattress of soft feather ticking the schoolboard supplied was a luxury compared to the harder one she’d left behind in her old house, and she’d slept more soundly than she’d expected. Now all she needed was some foodstuffs to stock her cupboards.

  The walk to the Company-owned store wasn’t far, but the thought of carrying the heavy wooden crate full of food tins, flour bags, and fresh meat made her arms ache. She’d ask Grant Cowling, the manager, if he’d send over an employee with her goods.

  The day shone with warmth that seemed determined to spill over into her sore heart. She had so much to be thankful for: a classroom of children she loved, a new home close to her work, a young man seemingly intent on courting her, a town she’d grown up in that loved her—but her heart still protested. A gaping spot remained, left there by the loss of her father. Over five weeks had passed, but it felt like yesterday that she’d knelt beside him as he drew his last breath.

  She knew she’d feel his loss for a long time to come, but a small part of her heart felt a sense of wonder at being on her own. No longer would she be bound by others’ dictates and expectations. She could discover who she was and revel in the freedom to choose her own destiny. Papa had loved her—that she knew. B
ut she’d always imagined that she didn’t quite measure up. Not that he scolded too often, but his displeasure was often apparent when her choices clashed with his own. The lack of being accepted for who she was, rather than what she did, sometimes left her feeling hollow inside.

  She walked around the trunk of a giant gnarly pine, inhaling the sharp fragrance. Thankfully these old pine trees weren’t sought after by the mill, or they wouldn’t have many in town. A flash of color showed through the trees ahead, and she spied her friend Clara White coming her way. “Clara!” Margaret drew to a halt and waited for the girl in the commonsense gingham dress and sturdy leather shoes.

  Clara’s broad smile lightened Margaret’s heart, and the inner beauty of the young woman’s spirit shone through. “Hi, Margaret. You heading to the store?”

  “I am. I was hoping for some company.”

  Clara fell into step beside her. “I haven’t seen you since before you moved to the teacher’s cabin. I wish I could have helped you move.”

  “Your mother was sick, and I understood.”

  Clara picked up the hem of her skirt as she stepped around a small bush. “How’ve you been doing?”

  Margaret shrugged. “I was just thinking about something you said the last time we spoke.”

  “About time easing your hurt?”

  “Yes, but I can’t see it. I still ache to hear Mama’s voice after all these years. Then I lost Grandpa, and now Papa. I’m not so sure time will dampen my longing.”

  A pair of chickadees swooped low overhead, chasing a crow away from their nest. Clara shaded her eyes to peer up at the pursuing birds. “See those birds protecting their family?”

  “Yes.” Margaret wrinkled her brow. “So?”