A Log Cabin Christmas (30 page)

“But it’s quite sensitive to cold,” she said. She didn’t pull her hand away.

“And to heat?”

“Yes, that, too.”

He folded his hand over her fingers, cupping them in his own. “Mary. I made a terrible mistake—”

“Yes, you did. Those women will be some weeks if not months recovering from your—”

“No, the mistake I made was in thinking of you as an older woman, one set in her ways and devoted to her deceased husband.”

“I am,” she said. “Both older and adoring of my Dale.”

“But you are also a woman willing to try new things like the circuit cart sales, like trusting a stranger to give him a chance, like making a way for the Laird Lawsons and Elizabeth Masons of the world to come together. And your wisdom and gentle spirit found the good things in each of my errors with the women. You reminded them of the eyeglasses, the changed relationships, the business opportunities. They’ll come to see that new things await them. And what kind of a husband would a man who chooses a woman by her stitching skills really make?”

Mary chuckled. “Well, in my house, he’d probably face frustration unending as I’d never meet his test,” she said.

“Nor would you need to. Because I can do all the stitching necessary for both of us.”

“Both of us?” Mary’s voice cracked.

“Indeed. I adore the wisdom of your age”—he corrected quickly—“and I’mnot all that much younger than you, I’d guess. And I adore your hands; your fine mind; your faithful, giving heart.” Mary swallowed. “Those are much more important details in the quilt of life than how many stitches you might make to the inch.”

“What are you saying to me, Mr. Taylor?”

“I’m asking for the winter to see if I can redeem myself in your eyes and that in the spring you might accept my offer of marriage.”

“I’ve met your test?”

“You met it a long time ago; now you’ll have to see if I can meet any test you might have for me.”

“I’m not the testing kind,” Mary said, and then with boldness she added, “Just love me, Richard Taylor. That’s what I’m used to, and that’s all I ask.”

“Ah, that I do. And this old log store and your dog and even the rain that marks the season. I just hope you can forgive me for my … troubling charm.”

He kissed her then, and Mary felt a flutter in her stomach that wasn’t hunger, at least not the kind that would be satisfied with food. She opened her eyes to see the candle glow against the peeled logs, this place of such comfort. It would continue to be whether by spring they found they’d made their way together or not. It had served her well, this log cabin; it would again, and this Christmas there’d be a man to help trim the tree they’d go out and cut together.

Richard blinked over his one blue eye and one brown. “I have an idea,” he said as he stepped back but still held her hand. His voice shook a little.

“Will I wish I hadn’t heard of it?” Mary asked, but she smiled.

“I’m going to stitch those blocks together, Mrs. Bishop, and have the most amazing courting quilt when I’m finished. I’ll give it to you in the spring, if you’ll have it, as a wedding gift.”

Mary thought for a moment. Would she want a quilt made up of blocks stitched by women who’d hoped Richard Taylor would seek their hand in marriage and be reminded of it as they slept beneath it? Yes, she would.

“What woman wouldn’t want a quilt stitched by her husband-to-be?” Mary said. “But I’d want something more.”

“Name it,” he said.

“You’ll have to sew on buttons when they come off my dresses or your shirts, too. I may know how to do it, but I never really liked to!”

“Agreed,” he said and kissed her again. “I’m partial to Rosa Red regardless of the button color.”

“That’s just fine,” Mary said. “It will always remind me that Rosa Red brought me you.”

She saw God in Richard’s words, a loving God who stitched her life withcolorful flax. Red thread through ivory buttons? It was a detail she could live with.

The following spring, Richard finished the quilt, and he and Mary were married in the Presbyterian church in Brownsville. They kept the log store that Mary and Dale had built, rechinking the logs tightly. Mary took up the circuit route soon after leaving Richard to manage the store until she announced they’d have to change the log cabin after all—they’d need another room for their growing family. Regardless of whether the infant was a boy or girl, Richard promised to teach their baby how to sew.

Award-winning author, Jane Kirkpatrick is well known for her authentically portrayed historical fiction. She is also an acclaimed speaker and teacher with lively presentation style. She and her husband live in Oregon and, until recently, lived and worked on a remote homestead for over 25 years.

by Liz Tolsma

To Doug.
Thank you for encouraging me to follow my dream and for loving me and supporting me as it came true. Always and forever yours.

Camp Twelve, Wisconsin, 1875

A
die O’Connell pictured the farm in her mind as if she’d dropped in a thousand times before. In a way she had. The little log cabin would be snug and cozy, with tight chinking and real wood floors. At one end there would be a big stone fireplace and, at the other, a loft with a ladder leading to it. She’d have a red barn, milk cow, a chestnut mare, and lots of laying hens. In the garden she’d plant tomatoes, sweet corn, pole beans, and peas.

“Howdy, Miss Adie.”

She jumped a mile, scolding herself for daydreaming again. She’d been knee-deep in her fantasy and had walked right over to Derek Owens. He leered at her as tobacco juice ran down his dirty brown beard. His perpetual habit of tobacco use had stained his teeth. The husky lumberjack spit a stream onto the floor then raked his gaze over her slender form.

“Got anything for me this morning?” Derek wiped the back of his huge hand across his mouth. A few of the men seated near him at the large U-shaped table in the mess hall tittered, though no one dared to speak. Cookie, busy in the kitchen, ruled the roost around here and tolerated no talking in his dining room.

Drawing herself to her full five-foot-three-inch height, Adie raised her chin and thumped a bowl of sausages on the wood plank table. “Here’s your breakfast. Enjoy.” She hoped her curt reply hid her nerves. If she let him know how much he flustered her, he would come on stronger. She’d learned that much in the years she’d worked in lumber camps.

She scurried toward the kitchen to retrieve more food for the hungry throng, not glancing back at Derek.

Cookie met her near the big woodstove, a plate of flapjacks in his hand. “Sure you don’t want me to deliver these sweat pads for you? Don’t want Owens giving you more trouble.”

She took the dish from the slight man with only wisps of white hair left on his head. His huge gray apron hung past his knees.

“I can handle him.” She smiled, loving this man who looked out for her.

Cookie wielded his spatula. “You let me know. I can give him whatnot, and he won’t bother you.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She chuckled as she pushed the swinging café doors open with her shoulder.

She paid better attention to where Derek was when she stepped into the dining room this time. She walked a wide arc around him and set the plate of pancakes on the far side of the table, not bothering to push them his way.

Derek winked at her, sending a shiver down her spine. “Hey, Adie, I sure could use some of what you got down there.”

Her hands shook, and she wiped them on her white apron, hoping to conceal their trembling. “Boys, please pass Mr. Owens some pancakes and maple syrup.”

Derek sneered. “Why don’t you bring it down here yourself?”

One of the jacks pounded his fist on the table. “Enough, Owens. Treat Miss O’Connell like a lady, and leave her alone.”

Adie recognized the tall, lean man with eyes the color of the syrup. Everyone called him “Preacher Man” because he didn’t cuss, didn’t carouse, didn’t womanize, and wanted to go to seminary. The moniker stuck. In fact, in the two weeks he’d been in the logging camp, she couldn’t recall hearing his given name.

Derek hefted his bulk from the long bench and stood, leaning on his knuckles on the table. “What you going to do to make me?”

She feared Preacher Man’s interference would make matters worse. She had enough experience following her father to the camps in the past seven years to know men like Derek Owens didn’t cater to being told what to do. He might escalate his advances to spite the man.

Preacher Man rose to his feet, a head taller than Derek. “I’m asking you to be a gentleman and mind your manners. Remember what your mama taught you.”

Wrong answer.

“I’ll teach you what I do to a mongrel like you.”

Adie knew fisticuffs would ensue, so she retreated to the safety of the kitchen, desiring not to land in the middle of the melee. If only Preacher Man had kept his mouth shut.

Noah Mitchell steeled himself for the blow to come. He’d heightened Derek’s wrath by opening his mouth to protect Adie and diffuse the situation. In the end, he’d made a mess of things.

He wouldn’t fight back, but he’d turn the other cheek as the Lord commanded. He came here to earn money to go to seminary. Several winters of work might pass before he saved enough, but he would go. In the meantime, he wanted to be a Christian example to the rough, heathen men in the camp.

Around him, the lumberjacks cheered on Derek, their champion. Hoots and hollers echoed off the mess hall’s log walls. Roars of approval swelled around Noah as Derek faced him. He swallowed hard, wishing the bully would get it over with. He closed his eyes. He could smell Derek’s fetid breath. He locked his knees and braced himself for the pain.

Why had he made an enemy of such a man?

All at once the room fell silent. Men muttered, and he heard them shuffle to their seats.

Someone clapped him on the back in greeting. “Morning, Preacher Man.”

Noah dared to open one eye.

Quinn O’Connell stood beside him, his jade-green eyes sparkling, a grin spreading across his face. Old enough to have fathered most of these men, nevertheless he was as broad as any jack and as strong.

Quinn’s wild, unkempt hair made him appear a bit rough around the edges, but Noah hadn’t been fooled. Quinn held a fierce love for his daughter and all that concerned her. The man had a soft heart.

Quinn commanded respect too, as evidenced by the scurrying of the men around them.

“What’s going on? When I came in, Owens looked about to kill you.” Quinn spoke softly as he and Noah took their seats next to each other on the rough benches.

“He may have if you hadn’t arrived.” He sat down, his knees suddenly weak.

“Did he bother my daughter again?”

Noah shrugged, not wanting to see a fight break out between Owens and Quinn. The older man wouldn’t stand a chance. “I took care of it. He’ll leave her be from now on.”

Adie’s father growled. “I’ll make sure he keeps his distance.”

“Please, don’t.”

“I won’t hurt him. Not now, anyway.” Quinn spun around in his seat and clomped to the other end of the long table.

Noah could do nothing more than watch the older man confront the burly lumberjack. Owens spat then nodded. He may have acquiesced for now, but Noah didn’t miss the fire burning in his dark eyes.

Quinn made it halfway back to his place at the table when Adie appeared from the kitchen, a steaming coffeepot in her slender hand. Noah watched, entranced, as she sashayed over to her father, stood on her tiptoes, and planted a peck on his hairy cheek.

The seasoned woodsman squeezed her and whispered in her ear. The wayshe gazed at him caused Noah’s heart to beat faster than two jacks’ sawing.

He’d better watch out. If Quinn knew how Adie affected him, Quinn would send him to the floor instead of Derek Owens. Make no mistake—the man was possessive of his daughter. He tolerated no coarse talk about her and shot dangerous looks at anyone who dared to come within ten feet of her.

Noah couldn’t help but stare at the beautiful young woman. Locks of curly red hair fell about her face as she poured coffee. Her eyes, described by her father as the color of the hills of Ireland, danced in delight as Quinn teased her. Noah would give every penny of his seminary savings if she would smile at him with those full, red lips.

No, he needed a long walk in the crisp November predawn. He jumped from his spot at the table, ashamed of himself. He had no right to be thinking about Adie O’Connell in such a way.

“Thank you.”

He turned and stared into her amazing green eyes.

She smiled her smile at him. “I appreciate the way you stepped in with Derek, but you didn’t need to. He’s not a problem for me.”

“You’re, uh, welcome.” A smattering a red freckles crossed the bridge of her upturned nose. He couldn’t bear the thought of Owens laying a hand on her. “But don’t underestimate him.”

Quinn stepped beside his daughter. “He won’t hurt her.”

Noah peered at Owens from the corner of his eye. The man scowled, and he didn’t need to step into the Wisconsin winter to notice a chill in the air.

Noah and Quinn pulled the crosscut saw between them in an easy rhythm. Around them the music of other saws rang, punctuated by the staccato hammering of axes. The towering white pine they worked to fell had already been notched by an axe on one side. Now they labored at sawing it on the opposite side, a little above the gash. Wedges were inserted from time to time to cause the tree to fall.

“I appreciate the way you took care of Adie.” Quinn wiped the back of his arm across his forehead. Temperatures may be below freezing, but the men worked up a sweat.

“My pleasure.” And Noah meant it.

“I hate what this life is doing to her. I’ve dragged her from camp to camp in the winter and from odd job to odd job in the summer for the past seven years. It’s not been easy. She’s done her share of man’s work without complaining, but I know she’s not fond of it. She’d like to settle down, live in one spot again, but I can’t. Since Claire passed, I can’t stay in one place. She held our familytogether and helped me be a good father. Without her, I’ve been lost.” He ran a hand through his tousled brown hair.

“Adie loves you. I can see it in the way she looks at you. She doesn’t hold any of this against you.”

The lines around Quinn’s green eyes softened. “Adie’s a good girl, especially to put up with the likes of me.”

“She does more than put up with you.”

Quinn shrugged. “We’d best get back to work. If I rest these old bones too long, I’ll never get going again.”

The men put their hands to the crosscut saw once more, working in silence. In a short amount of time they had almost completed their chore. The pine would soon fall.

Then a loud crack split the air.

A long, vertical fracture appeared, traversing the trunk and ruining the lumber. Worse, it destabilized the tree. If the jacks couldn’t wedge it hastily, it would fall. And no one could predict where.

Quinn and Noah, along with other men, worked frantically, driving in wedges. The tree groaned.

“She’s going, boys!” Quinn shouted.

Men scattered.

The tree leaned.

Noah watched it descend to earth.

“Quinn!”