When Love Comes My Way

by Lori Copeland

  André shook his head. “Perhaps you could arrange for Bernice or Alice Waterman to put her up if she won’t be here very long.”

  “I gave that some thought, but it’s impossible. Bernice lives with her husband in one room. Alice has her husband and three children in two rooms. I could hardly ask them to sacrifice what little privacy they have in order to accommodate the new schoolteacher.”

  “Then why don’t you keep her!” Ray grumbled.

  It was the second time someone had suggested she stay with him. That wasn’t going to happen. “She’s fine where she is.”

  “It’s not fittin’ for a single woman to live with a bunch of men,” another man complained.

  “She is not ‘living’ with you. Her room is private, and you’re not to go near it.” His eyes traveled the men. “Not one of you, if you value your jobs. André, I expect you and Fred to enforce this rule. Chances are she won’t make it a week in the schoolhouse, and then, weather permitting, she’ll be out of here.”

  “She won’t be outta here if she can’t get outta here. The snows are getting deeper now,” a jack said.

  A renewed chorus of complaints erupted.

  “There has to be somewhere she can stay besides the bunkhouse,” Jim argued.

  “You tell me where it is, Jim, and I’ll arrange it. I’m open to suggestions.”

  The men murmured among themselves, but as he knew, neither Jim nor anyone else was able to come up with an alternative. The jacks were stuck with her.

  Jake faced his crew, trying to keep his voice low. “I don’t want to hear any more about the matter. The woman stays where she is. And if I hear of anyone stepping out of line, he’ll answer to me. If anyone thinks he can’t abide by the arrangement, then I want him to pack his gear and see me in my office first thing tomorrow morning.”

  The men quieted. Silence indicated that no one was willing to lose his job over the dispute.

  “Any questions?” Jake noted a few disheartened grumbles persisted, but no questions.

  “By the way, while I have you all together, there is one other thing I might mention.” He had their full attention. “I understand that some of you are having a hard time remembering the correct names of the neighboring crews.” His gaze directly pinpointed one or two in the crowd. “I hear trouble’s brewing because you’ve been referring to our good friends to the north as the ‘Shadow Pine Prissies.’” Jake knew who the rowdies were and watched as a few of them shifted stances.

  “Who’s been complainin’?” Ed Holman challenged.

  “The Prissies have, and I want you to knock it off before a brawl breaks out. You know the rules. If you’re looking for trouble, you look for it on your own time. Do I make myself clear?”

  The men’s enthusiastic compliance shot frosty plumes in the cold night air, and the “Yes, sirs” and affirmative nods were enough for him. “Good.” He glanced at André, who had remained quiet during the last exchange. “It’s cold and late. I think we’d better all turn in. Four thirty rolls around early.”

  The crowd began to break up, and André fell into stride with Jake as the foreman returned to his room. “Are you insane, my friend?”

  “She stays where she is.”

  “Yes, but I fear this will not work.”

  “It’s up to you to see that it does.”

  “Having Miss Yardley in the bunkhouse is going to make it difficult for the men, Jake. Why would you do this? It makes no sense. I have known and worked with you for…what? Nine years? I have never seen you be so disrespectful to a woman, a woman who has no memory of her prior life. Could not we build her something small, perhaps next to the schoolhouse?”

  “Disrespect? You know good and well I have no place else to put her. We haven’t had time to get the telegraph installed. How do you think we could build a cabin?” His head was a jumbled mess and he needed some rest. “It’s late, André. Get some sleep. You’re not going to change my mind. I know it will be hard on the men, but it’ll only be for a short while.”

  André’s footsteps slowed when they approached Menson’s store. “Why do you do this?”

  Jake shook his head and shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”

  “Do you know something I do not?”

  Jake’s gut feeling told him the woman in the bunkhouse was Tess Wakefield, but did he know it for sure? No. “Only that I’m going to bed.” Jake nodded curtly. “And I suggest you do the same.”

  Tess sat straight up in her cot. There was that horn again. The long, doleful wail filled the darkness, shattering the silence of the cold Michigan night. Groaning out loud, she threw her hands over her ears. Why must they eat so early on Sunday?

  The hours last night had dragged by endlessly. She’d tossed and turned on her cot, listening to one hundred and twenty-five men snore in various keys, discords, and harmonies. The heavy wooden door failed to block the sound of constant whistles, wheezing, and snorting. The concerto had left her ready to scream.

  Sometime in the night she had climbed out of bed and rummaged through the valise for something, other than the shoe, to stuff under the crack of the door. Her effort had been in vain, and the symphony had gone on and on and on. Now there was the horn, or was it a snore in a different key?

  Slipping off her bed, she cracked open the door to peek out. The men were getting up. Some were pulling on heavy pants, while others sat on the sides of the bunks, scratching their heavily stubbled faces and yawning in a sleepy stupor.

  Fred noticed the door ajar and cleared his throat to alert the others. André glanced up and grinned when he saw her peering out.

  Pulling his suspenders over his shoulders, he walked toward the door, smiling. “Bonjour, mademoiselle! Good morning!”

  Easing the door open a fraction farther, she asked, “What’s all the racket?”

  “Racket?” André’s expression turned blank for a moment. “Ah! You mean the chuck horn?”

  She stifled a yawn. “Yes, that horn. Why must they blow it so early?”

  “It is four thirty. Cookee is blowing his tin Gabriel. It is time to get up and eat.”

  She slumped against the door frame. It sounded as though Gabriel were trying to blow down the walls. “Is it morning already?”

  “Oui. I hope you slept well.”

  She turned tired eyes on him. There was no need to complain about the men’s sleeping habits. It was nothing they could help. “Like a log.” Surely God would forgive her for such a small fib.

  “Then you must be hungry.” André leaned closer to the doorway and winked. “I have yet to meet a woman who can dress in ten minutes, but you will try? Big Say likes his crew to be on time.”

  “Oh…well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint Big Say, would we?” She yawned again and turned back to grab the water pitcher on the stand beside her cot. “Would you be so kind as to bring me fresh water?”

  “Fresh water?” The smile on André’s face faded.

  “Yes… water.” Seeing that her request had taken him by surprise, she added, “So that I may wash.”

  “Wash?” His grin returned. “Now?”

  “Yes. Is there something wrong?”

  “But it is Sunday. We do not take baths on Sunday.”

  “We don’t?” She glanced at the other men, who were all shaking their heads. They never washed on Sundays. “Well,” she was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Exactly when do we wash?”

  “On Saturdays.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Only on Saturdays?”

  “Every Saturday,” André bragged. “Lannigan likes his crew to be clean!”

  She handed him the pitcher. “Then Lannigan is going to love me. I shall be washing more often. Would you please see that I have a pitcher of fresh water outside my door every morning?”

  “Every morning?” André said, clearly alarmed by such excessive bathing.

  “If you don’t hurry, I shall never make it to breakfast on time.” She started to close her door but then suddenly turned
back. “And tell that man to stop blowing that infernal horn!”

  She closed the door and heard the men chiding André. She smiled at their teasing.

  “Oh, André. Tell that terrible ol’ man to stop blowing that horn!” a man mocked in a high, feminine pitch. The others broke into guffaws, and she stifled her own giggle. “Do not laugh,” he warned. “We will take turns getting Miss Yardley’s water.”

  The men were still snickering when he opened the door and marched out into the cold to fill her pitcher.

  10

  Tess lit a candle and then placed a piece of wood in the small heat stove that rested in the corner, hoping it would hurriedly heat the room. She was brushing out her hair when André returned.

  He handed her the pitcher. “I am sorry for the ice floating on the top.”

  Eyeing the water, she shivered before murmuring a polite, “Thank you.”

  As she splashed the freezing water on her face, she could hear the men moving around in the other room. Trying to still her chattering teeth, she hurriedly slipped into a clean chemise and then pulled a blue wool dress over her head. She sat on the side of the cot and buckled her shoes, and then she quickly grabbed her hair and pinned it loosely on top of her head. She heard the men start to file out of the building as she reached for her coat and bonnet.

  André was waiting by the outside front entrance when she emerged from her room a moment later, still tying the strings of her bonnet. Because it was still dark, he carried a coal-oil lantern to light their path.

  Extending his arm cordially, he smiled. “You look lovely this morning, ma chère.”

  “You’re much too kind,” she said, taking his arm. She knew she looked as though she’d dressed during a buffalo stampede.

  Snow was beginning to fall. Large puffy flakes clung like white cotton to the bushes and tree limbs. The air was so frigid it stung her lungs. She snuggled deeper into her coat and recalled the long walk the evening before. She couldn’t imagine why the men who built this logging camp would have put the crew’s quarters so far from the cookshack.

  Rounding the corner of the bunkhouse, she spotted Doc Medifer coming out of his office. The doctor glanced up to the sky before turning up his collar and heading for breakfast.

  Her footsteps slowed when realization struck her. She glanced at André. “That was Dr. Medifer, wasn’t it?”

  André smiled. “Oui. He lives behind his office.”

  “His house is this close to the bunkhouse?”

  “Oui. Why do you ask?”

  Eyes narrowing, she picked up her pace. What kind of game was Jake Lannigan playing? He’d marched her around in the cold for what seemed like miles yesterday, and now she learned that Doc Medifer’s house wasn’t more than spitting distance from the bunkhouse! Why had he put her through that when it wasn’t necessary? She didn’t know, but she was going to find out.

  Men swarmed through the doors of the cookshack. Tess clutched André’s arm tighter as she was jostled back and forth by men of all descriptions and nationalities. There were short men, fat men, tall men, handsome men, less-than-handsome men, grizzled veterans, men who smiled at her, and others who didn’t. She recognized two of her “neighbors”: Fred and a man called Joe.

  She was grateful that André steadied her when she was propelled into a large room with row upon row of tables covered with oilcloths. Two big cookstoves with roaring fires lined a wall, and three burly-looking cooks were busy frying large skillets of potatoes.

  Her pulse quickened when she saw Jake enter the room with two other men. Glancing briefly in her direction, he barely nodded in greeting before he walked to the head of the nearest table and sat down.

  She was nearly knocked off her feet when four energetic, hungry young men scrambled frantically for a seat. She wanted to confront Jake right then, but it wasn’t the time. She sighed, striving for patience. Her answers would come in due course.

  André motioned for her to sit, and she claimed a place at the end of one of the long benches and watched wide-eyed as one of the cooks stirred pancake batter in a fifty-pound lard can. Clouds of smoke billowed from the grill through an open flue in the roof.

  Tess had never seen so much food. Platters upon platters were piled high with potatoes, pancakes, sausages, and bowls of stewed prunes. There were also enough pies, cakes, and cookies to feed a small army.

  Two wizened chore boys moved up and down the rows of tables, pouring cups of tea and coffee. The clatter of dishes being passed back and forth filled the room as the men heaped monstrous portions upon their plates. Tess was amazed at the sheer complexity of the operation.

  “May I offer you some morning glories?”

  She looked at André and saw that he was holding a platter of pancakes. “No, thank you.” She passed the platter on, realizing she had no appetite. She watched with horror when the men poured bacon grease and heavy maple syrup over their stacks of hotcakes.

  In scant seconds, the room grew as quiet as a church. She glanced up, wondering what had caused the lull. Except for the creaking of a bench or an occasional cough or the clatter of steel utensils against tin plates, not a sound was heard.

  Leaning toward André, she kept a close eye on the jacks at her table, who went about eating seriously but silently. “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” She noticed André was whispering. Jake gave her a stern look from his place at the head of the table. Deliberately ignoring him, she leaned closer to the Frenchman and lowered her voice. “Why is everyone so quiet all of a sudden?”

  “Talking is not allowed during meals,” he murmured.

  No one was allowed to talk? That was bizarre. The men had been chattering like magpies moments before. “For heaven’s sake, why aren’t they allowed to talk?” she blurted out in a voice that ricocheted like a stray bullet through the room.

  At least a hundred heads turned, and the cook standing at the grill shot her a sharp glance. She fumbled for her fork, scooped up a small bite of potatoes, and nibbled for a moment, trying to make sense of such a ridiculous rule.

  Jake glanced down the long row of plates. Why was André sitting beside Tess this morning? He wasn’t her keeper. Ordinarily, the ink slinger took his place at the head of the table the same as the foreman and scalar did.

  His frown deepened when he saw André lean over to silently encourage her to take another serving of potatoes. She shook her head, but moments later he saw her lean over to whisper to André and then she stifled a laugh.

  The man should know better than to let her talk! And he shouldn’t be sitting with her, either. Jake forked another bite of hotcakes into his mouth. Was he jealous? His irritation grew when he saw the Frenchman place a cookie on Tess’s plate and then move closer to respond to something she’d whispered to him.

  Jake’s voice roared from the head of the table. “No talking at the table, schoolteacher!”

  Heat rushed into her face, and she was sure it turned a thousand shades of red. She reached for the cookie and obediently brought it to her mouth.

  Why, the nerve, scolding me in front of all these men!

  André said quietly, “It is his job to see that the rules are obeyed.” He returned his attention to his breakfast.

  She sat through the remainder of the meal in silence. In doing so, her ears turned to the language of the jacks. If they did speak, it was to ask for something, and usually in one or two quiet words. Salt was called “gravel,” ketchup was “red lead,” pepper was “Mexican powder,” pancakes were “morning glories,” and sugar was “sand.” It wasn’t much, but she figured if she ever regained her appetite, the knowledge would help.

  She pointedly ignored Jake Lannigan when everyone left the cookshack twenty minutes later. Giving him what could only be considered a snooty look, she hoped to convey the message that she didn’t appreciate the way he’d yelled at her as though she were an unruly child. His humiliating tone still rang in her head.

  If he understood her silent dispatch, he
gave no indication it bothered him. When they exited the building, he brushed past her without a word.

  She took André’s arm again on their way back to the bunkhouse. “Why is that man so rude?”

  “Big Say?” André chuckled. “He has a lot on his mind. The company is about to be sold, and he does not care for the new buyer.”

  “Is he concerned about his job?”

  André threw his head back and laughed. “Lannigan worried about a job? Oh, non! His father owns a logging camp. And there are many outfits that wish to have him running their operations.”

  “Then what’s he so prickly about?”

  “He would like to see Tess Wakefield keep her grandfather’s business and replant the trees we harvest. He has been concerned for years that the pines will run out and nothing will be left in these forests.”

  “Tess Wakefield?” The name sounded familiar.

  “Oui. She is Rutherford Wakefield’s granddaughter. Rutherford died a few months back, and she’s the sole heir. Jake has written many letters to Mademoiselle Wakefield, urging her to keep the business at least until he can get a program of replanting underway.”

  “The request sounds reasonable enough. Why won’t she go along with it?”

  “Who knows?” André shrugged. “All I know is that she plans to sell to Sven Templeton.”

  “And that would be bad?”

  André nodded. “Templeton is not a good man. He cares nothing for the land, only the money. Mademoiselle Wakefield is expected to arrive soon, and Jake is not happy. I think he wishes the worsening weather will delay her until spring. If so, the sale would be postponed.”

  She turned to peer over her shoulder at the camp boss, who had paused to speak to one of his men. “Why doesn’t he like me?”

  “He likes you, ma chère.” André smiled down at her. “Jake may be slow to warm to you, but once you know him, there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you.”

  She found that hard to believe. The man she was getting to know seemed cold as steel. “Is there a particular woman in Mr. Lannigan’s life?”