A Bride in the Bargain (18 page)

She and Leon hung over the porch rail shouting and waving. Mr. Cheatham turned and smiled, but Papa looked straight ahead without giving them even a glance. When the regiment disappeared round the corner of Pleasant Street, she’d raced upstairs to Mama’s room, anxious to talk of the parade and her father’s strange behavior.

But Mama wasn’t at her window. The shutters were closed and she lay on the bed, her eyes dry, wide, and unseeing. The patriotism and excitement Anna had felt dimmed. Little had she known, she’d dashed into that room a girl, but silently tiptoed out a young woman, who would, from that moment on, be forced to shoulder the responsibility for her mother’s care and her little brother’s well-being.

Six months later, she’d accidentally hit Mama and upset Leon so much he ran away. She’d spent hours looking for him. Only when night had fallen had she returned home.

Mama stood in the entry hall, a new letter from Papa in her hand.

Anna had closed the front door, tears clogging her throat. “I looked high and low all day, then ran in to Mrs. Evers a few moments ago. She said Leon rode out of town with Daniel August. They were heading to Amherst to sign up.”

What little color Mama had in her cheeks drained. Dropping the letter, she grabbed the hall tree for support. “No.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

The anger in Mama’s eyes was the most emotion she’d displayed since Papa left. “This is all your fault. I was depending on you. Your father was depending on you. And now you’ve gone against both our wishes and sent your brother away. You’ve killed him, Anna. And you’ve killed me, too. I’ll never forgive you for this.”

The chattering of the crickets and trilling of grasshoppers penetrated Anna’s consciousness, bringing her back to the present. The temperature had dropped and night had fully descended. Taking a deep breath, she swiped her eyes. The best thing to do would be to keep busy. Keep her mind occupied.

Returning inside, she rolled up her sleeves and began to scrub Joe’s kitchen from top to bottom.

Circumventing the house, Joe went straight to the barn. Sir Francis Bacon plodded through the pigpen and snorted a greeting, but Joe ignored him, wrestling instead with his conscience.

He was going to have to lie to Anna about Bertha. And in order to cover it up, he’d most likely have to tell even more falsehoods. Still, if she knew why he’d gone to town, and that he was once again desperate for a wife, she’d throw up barriers he didn’t have time to topple.

So he’d lie by omission about his betrothal. He checked on his cows, expecting them to be miserable this late in the morning, but they’d already been milked, and a quick inspection of the hen house showed the eggs had been collected. So either Anna had done it, or Red hadn’t gone into town with everybody else.

He’d told the boys before he left about Mrs. Wrenne and that he was going to marry Anna instead. None had seemed overly surprised. It was when he’d told them not to discuss it with Miss Ivey that they’d raised their eyebrows.

Still, it was none of their concern.

Tucking a package of veal he’d purchased under his arm, he headed toward the house. He wondered what Anna had made for supper last night and how she’d spent her morning off. Had she slept late? Found his shelf of books? Gone on a walk?

The chairs out back had been turned upside down and now rested on the long table. A swirl of smoke trailed from the chimney. He glanced up at the sky. The weather had been beautiful, an unbroken string of sunny days. With July now upon them, it would only get better.

Climbing the porch steps, he asked God to forgive him his subterfuge and then entered the kitchen.

Anna squealed and spun around, iron in one hand and the other pressed against her throat. More pitiful looking undergarments he’d never seen in his life. He mumbled a quick apology and immediately backed out of the room, but his mind had captured a great many details.

The tub full of still water. Anna’s wet hair loose and falling about her waist. The stark corset that hugged her figure without a single bit of frippery to decorate it. Drawers so threadbare they hid absolutely nothing. Well-formed ankles extending out from those drawers. Bare feet. And her blue dress flattened against the table. Did she not have a petticoat?

He could hear her scrambling inside.

“Don’t rush, Anna,” he called, embarrassment for them both making him self-conscious. “I’ve plenty to do in the barn. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. Will that give you enough time?”

Silence.

“Anna?”

She opened the door, her face flushed. And though her dress was on, he couldn’t clear the image of her in a state of dishabille.

Nor how very nicely she’d filled out her corset.

He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Her hair still hung free, curling at the ends. She touched the button at her collar. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“I didn’t think to warn you. I’m sorry.”

Biting her lip, she widened the door. “You can’t be expected to knock on your own door.”

“Yes, I can.”

She glanced at the package under his arm. “What’s that?”

“Some veal I picked up from the butcher.”

“You can set it over there.” She pointed to the table she’d been ironing on.

He glanced at her skirt, half ironed, half wrinkled, and dragging the floor. Was she still barefoot?

He cleared his throat. “Not just yet. Perhaps in about thirty minutes? Will that give you enough time?”

She blushed again, then gave a hesitant nod.

Turning, he retraced his steps, listening for the click of the door’s closing, but it never came. And then he knew she’d watched him until he was safely out of sight.

This time he knocked.

The door immediately opened. “You needn’t knock.”

He refrained from comment. The tub was gone. Her dress was pressed. Her hair was still wet but caught up in a ribbon at the back.

Both of them blushed.

“Come in, Joe.”

He surged across the threshold and tossed the meat onto the table she’d first indicated. Peeling off the brown paper, he kept his back to her.

Don’t ask about Bertha. Don’t ask about Bertha.

“How’s Mrs. Wrenne?”

He grabbed a cleaver out of a jar and began to chop up the tender beef. “Fine.”

“And her teeth? Will they be ready soon?”

Blast.
“Looks like things will be delayed a bit.”

“Oh my. Not too long, I hope?”

“That remains to be seen.” At least that much was true.

“Well, I’m sorry. I know you’re anxious to see this whole thing through.”

He said nothing.

She glanced at the meat. “Did you have something particular in mind for that, because it’s not going to be quite enough for the crew, I don’t think.”

“It’s for the two of us.”

“The two of us?” She crossed her arms. She wasn’t wearing her watch pin. She must not have had time to put it back on. “But don’t you think that’s a bit too much for two people?”

He slammed the cleaver into the veal. “If I say it’s for the two of us, then it’s for the two of us.”

Her eyes widened.

Sighing, he laid down the cleaver. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of sorts, I guess.”

She nodded. “Understandable, all things considered.”

She didn’t know the half of it. “I’m going to cut this into small segments. You can salt it, cure it, smoke it, make a stew, whatever you want. But it’s for you and me on Sundays only. All right?”

“Yes.”

Taking a deep breath, he returned to his task. “Thank you.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

“I’m going into camp and file the saws,” Joe said, poking his head in the parlor.

Anna sat with her feet tucked up underneath her, reading
The Taming of the Shrew
. She looked up, still smiling over the last line she’d read.

He leaned against the archway. “What part are you at?”

“Everyone is pretending to be something they aren’t in order to win the fair Bianca.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.”

“I’ve never seen so many books in all my life.”

Glancing at the breakfront holding his collection of literature, he shrugged. “I like to read.” He pulled away from the doorframe. “I need to file the saws.”

“File the saws?”

“The crosscuts have to be kept sharp, straight, and clean. That means setting, swaging, filing, and hammering the kinks out.”

She gave him a blank look, unable to decipher his logging vernacular.

“Would you like to come along?”

She told herself it was the idea of doing something different that appealed to her, not the thought of spending the afternoon with him. Closing the book, she set it on the table and reached for her boots. “All right. Should I make us some sandwiches?”

“Either that or we need to eat before we go.”

Half an hour later, lunch bucket in hand, they headed down the path the men took every morning.

“That chestnut by the house looks as if a strong wind might knock it over,” Anna said, pointing to it.

Joe glanced back at it. “It’ll be all right. Besides, I like chestnuts and that’s the only one in the area.”

“You’re sure it’s safe?”

“It’s been fine for over ten years. No need to start worrying now.”

She wasn’t so sure, but meanwhile she could make something with the chestnuts, now that she knew he favored them.

She turned her attention to the forest. At first it was similar to what they’d traveled through on their way in from Seattle. But the farther they walked, the larger the trees grew until she stopped, awestruck by the sheer size of the tall, tall evergreens. Some of the trunks were so huge, an entire horse and buggy could fit inside.

“What are these?”

“Douglas firs. The redwoods are even bigger.”

She cast him a doubtful look before shielding her eyes as she once again looked up. “Surely you don’t chop these down?”

“We do. Its wood is straight-grained, tough, and can withstand tremendous stress. It holds nails and screws even better than oak.”

“But how? How do you chop them down?”

“We work in pairs.” He continued down the path.

“But it would take months. Years.”

He chuckled. “I’ll admit, I could fell half a dozen white pines back in Maine in the time it takes us to conquer one of these fellows.”

Picking up her skirt, she followed. “With an ax? You chop these down with an ax?”

“And crosscut saws.”

“But, they would have to be more than twenty feet long.”

“They are. They also need to be sharp. That’s why I have to file them. Watch your step.”

She skirted around a large root protruding above the ground, then hurried to catch up with him. As they walked, Joe pointed to the different trees, explaining what each was particularly suited for.

The spruce made the best ladders. The hemlock was excellent for flooring and furniture. But it was the redwoods he favored most.

“They are unsurpassed in their resistance to weathering and rot. That house we’re living in?”

She nodded.

“It has redwood shingles and siding and foundation. Make no mistake, it’ll still be standing a hundred years from now.” His face held a fierce pride, as if he were somehow responsible for the trees’ exceptional qualities.

A few minutes later they stepped into a clearing filled with gigantic stumps, two stories high. Littering the ground were trees a hundred feet long and over twenty feet in diameter at their base. The scent of fresh-cut wood still lingered in the air.

Anna gasped, partly in awe at the sheer magnitude of the trees, partly in admiration of the men’s ability to fell them, and partly in distress over the hill being stripped bare. How many centuries had it taken to produce those monstrous redwoods? And how many hundreds of years would come and go before any young growth could transform into majestic full-grown trees to replace the ones lying prostrate before her?

Joe slid down a steep slope on his feet, stopping near a redwood whose undercut had been started but had yet to be felled. He picked up a long saw with huge teeth and dragged it back up the hill.