The Measure of Katie Calloway,: A Novel (2 page)

She secreted the coin pouch, along with a hastily wrapped chunk of cheese and two small loaves of bread, in her cape pockets without the slightest pinprick of conscience. She had earned the money many times over, and she had made the bread and cheese with her own hands. She could buy or scavenge what she needed later. With any luck, Harlan wouldn’t be home until after dark. Hopefully, she had hours ahead of her in which to escape.

And she wasn’t going on foot.

Harlan had made the mistake of leaving behind Rebel’s Pride, the horse that had safely carried him through four years of war. Rebel was fast, well-rested, and had the endurance of an ox. It was she who fed and curried him, she whom he nuzzled for windfall apples.

Ned’s weight combined with hers was half of Harlan’s, and she and her brother rode well. Her father, who had loved horses almost as much as he had loved his church and children, had made certain of that. This fine horse would carry them far.

“Harlan will kill us for this,” Ned said as she saddled up.

“He’ll have to catch us first.” She gave the saddle an extra cinch and swung her leg over Rebel’s back. There was no way she was going to ride sidesaddle on this trip. Wearing Harlan’s britches beneath her clothing had been a decision calculated for endurance, not style. She had lost all vanity long ago.

From on top of the powerful gelding, with an autumn rain now pelting her, she surveyed the home she was leaving. The mansion was a pile of burnt timber. Every treasured material possession she ever had was gone. The cabin in which they now lived was a sagging wreck.

The only thing she regretted abandoning was her meager livestock and the crops planted with her own hands. The yams would be ready to dig soon. The winter squash needed to be put in the root cellar.

But she would not be the one doing it. She was sick of the South. Sick of Georgia. Sick of rationalizing the slavery that had supported her husband’s family. She was especially sick of enduring her husband’s anger. Like the slaves who had left Fallen Oaks before her, she was headed North—and God help the man or woman who tried to stop her.

She reached a hand down to Ned and hoisted him up. “Let’s ride, little brother.”

2

Come all young men, and you attend,

and listen to the counsel of a friend.

If you ever seek another land,

don’t ever come to Michigan.

“Don’t Come to Michigan”
—1800s shanty song

Bay City, Michigan

October 5, 1867

The massive locomotive moaned as the brakeman slowed the iron monster to a reluctant, huffing crawl. As the train came to a full, shuddering stop, Katie peered past her brother through the soot-filmed window at the street scene beside them. Buggies, horses, and pedestrians vied with street vendors. Women with fluffy plumage attached to brightly colored hats walked about in small gossipy groups. Ferocious-looking men bearing axes, with sacks slung across their backs, strode across the sawdust-covered roads. She saw what appeared to be an Indian wearing buckskin and entering a general store.

This bustling city was a different world from the war-ravaged country from which Ned and she had fled, hiding in haystacks and empty barns until they could access a railroad. Determined to put as many miles as possible between Harlan and herself, she rode the train as far north as the tracks went. This was, in every way, the end of the line for her.

“That horse reminds me of Rebel’s Pride.” Ned pointed at a sturdy gray gelding. “Do you suppose Rebel is all right?”

“The man we sold him to seemed kind,” Katie said.

“Rebel was a good horse.”

“He saved our lives.”

Parting with that valiant animal had just about killed her, but she had sold him the minute she could access a train going north. A locomotive was so much faster than a horse, and there couldn’t be enough speed to take her away from Harlan.

The travel-weary occupants of the train came to life around her, collecting their bundles while Katie gathered her courage to face the grim reality of her decision to flee to this raw town.

She knew no one here. There would be no support from any quarter.

It was exactly as she had planned.

During those long hours on the back of Rebel’s Pride, she had come to the conclusion that the best way to escape her husband’s vengeance was to do the exact opposite of what he might expect—even if it meant cutting herself off from the remnants of her own blood relatives. Her cousins’ modest homes in Pennsylvania would be the first place Harlan would look, and there was always the possibility that, seduced by the façade of his practiced charm, they would turn her over to him. It had certainly blinded
her
at one time.

No—it would be dangerous to rely on anyone except herself. Survival rested entirely in her own two hands.

She glanced down at those hands. Unlike the other women on the train, she wore no gloves. Once elegant, her hands were now calloused and rough. Her knuckles wore permanent scars from scrubbing Harlan’s lye soap–soaked clothes. She closed her eyes, remembering how he had stood over her, making her wash those clothes over and over again until her hands had bled. Harlan liked to look good.

She brushed at the skirt of her dress. Cinders from the engine had scorched small holes in it.

“We’ll be all right.” Ned looked up at her—already trying to be a man. “I’ll take good care of you.”

“Of course you will.” Her heart melted with love for the boy. “We’ll take good care of each other.”

Once again, she looked out the window at the unfamiliar scene. What had she done? This was such an alien place. For a moment, her heart failed her.

“We’re the only ones who are still on the train,” Ned pointed out.

“You’re right.” She squared her shoulders. “It’s time to begin our new life.”

She had prayed long hours as the train swayed over hills and valleys, begging God to show her the way to provide for their needs when her remaining coins were gone. She had prayed so many times before, when Harlan had been hurting her, that her faith was quite low, but a smidgen had begun to return with each mile that took her farther from her husband. With all her heart she prayed that God would lead her to honest work and make it possible for her to care for her brother. Nothing would be too hard. Nothing would be beneath her. At twenty-eight she was as strong as she would ever be. She would do whatever it took.

In spite of all she had endured, she felt a lifting of spirits as they stepped off the train into this bustling city. She was no longer the shy, innocent girl who had said yes the moment Harlan Calloway had proposed marriage. Her struggle with shyness had faded along with the bruises. Whatever it took, no matter how hard she had to work—she would survive.

“I want a beefsteak. Rare,” Robert Foster instructed. “And vegetables that aren’t boiled to a pulp. I’d like them sometime this week if you can manage it.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter scurried off. From what Robert could tell, the man was both waiter and proprietor. As the restaurant filled up, he noticed other patrons becoming impatient as well. He wondered if there was anyone in the kitchen besides the unkempt woman he had glimpsed. From the way the two bickered, he assumed they were husband and wife. He had some sympathy for the couple. With Michigan turning into the lumber capital of the world, Bay City was a busy town, and it was difficult to find good help.

He picked up a fork and absentmindedly drew numbers onto the white tablecloth. The spring river drive had been a nightmare. Logjams had backed up the Saginaw River and its tributaries for miles. Many peaveys, one of the most expensive tools a lumber boss provided, had been jerked out of the drivers’ hands into the swirling waters. Valuable logs had been lost as the river sprawled out into the surrounding areas, dumping precious timber far from the stream when the waters subsided. He had needed to put down two of the camp’s mules because of hoof rot.

Even though the price for lumber was holding high, he had managed to do little more than break even. If his luck didn’t change this coming season, everything he had invested to establish an independent lumber company would be lost. He would be cutting timber for someone else for a living.

His father, who had run lumber camps in Maine, had made it look easy. It wasn’t. Owning a lumber camp involved one worrisome detail after another. Still, it was better than the years he had spent in the Union army.

He had been at Gettysburg.

He shoved the memory of that nightmare away. Much better the clean, frozen forests of Michigan, where he owned the rights to 680 acres of the finest timber he had ever seen.

A young woman entering the restaurant with what appeared to be a son caught his attention. Her shabby dress was plain black like her bonnet, and there were a few holes burned into the skirt—he suspected from train cinders. Her cape was threadbare, and a corner of it was torn, but the unfashionable clothing didn’t mask the graceful lines of the woman’s figure. He wondered if she was yet another war widow. There were so many these days, eking out starvation livings on backwoods farms.

The woman and boy stopped as they entered, as though unsure of what to do next. In spite of the obvious poverty, there was a simple dignity about them.

The pair distracted him for only a moment before the endless march of numbers began to once again crawl across his brain. Board feet, payroll, tonnage of fodder, teamsters carrying flour, salt pork, and dozens of other supplies. Making the numbers balance out was like a vicious game of chance playing in his head day and night.

The biggest headache he had right now was the loss of his camp cook. Old Jigger, a scrawny, scrappy man, had challenged the biggest woodsman in the saloon to a brawl. A busted nose and broken right arm later, Jigger had learned his lesson, and the lumber camp was in need of a new cook—at least until Jigger could once again heft fifty-pound sacks of flour and thirty-pound cast-iron Dutch ovens.

Without a decent cook, Robert didn’t have a prayer of attracting the skilled woodsmen who made life so much easier for a camp owner. These knights of the woods could choose any lumber company they wanted—and the ones they wanted to work for were those with the best food. Unfortunately, good camp cooks were as scarce as hens’ teeth. Finding someone willing to live in a damp log shanty in the middle of the deep woods seven months out of the year while shoveling out food for thirty or more hungry men was not an easy task.

Without a good cook, he would be ruined.

The woman and boy seated themselves at the table next to him, once again distracting him from his worries. He noticed that they were carrying only two small bundles.

“Just water, if you don’t mind . . .” the woman said when the waiter came for their order.

He could tell she had intended to say more, but the waiter hurried off before she could finish. The boy looked around the room with open curiosity. “Have we enough money for a sandwich, sister?”

“We do,” she answered, “but I don’t want to spend it here. We’ll find a store soon and get some crackers and cheese. Best to fill your belly with water while I try to talk to the owner. It appears they are understaffed. I’m feeling hopeful.”

“Tell him I’m a hard worker too,” the boy said.

“Yes, you are.” She smiled at the boy, and Robert was taken aback. The woman, in spite of her unattractive garb, was exquisite. A heart-shaped face and dark blue eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. A tendril of copper-colored hair peeped out from beneath her nondescript bonnet. He glanced at her work-roughened hands. She was wearing no wedding ring, but of course, many farm wives couldn’t afford one.

His meal arrived and was shoved beneath his nose. The beefsteak was overcooked. His potatoes and carrots boiled to a near mush. It was futile to send the food back to the kitchen. Considering the way the restaurant was filling up, there was a good chance it would be another hour before he would see anything edible again. Resigned, he toyed with the food, trying to force himself to eat it. He reminded himself that he had endured much worse in the war.

The waiter put glasses of water on the table in front of the woman and boy. “I’ll be needing this table soon,” he said pointedly. “For paying customers.”

The woman flinched at his words. “I didn’t come here to eat or drink. I wanted to see if you might be in need of some hired help.” She swallowed hard. “I’m—I’m handy in the kitchen.”

Robert laid his knife down and folded his arms. This was getting interesting. He expected the man to jump at the offer.

“Sorry.” The waiter glanced at the kitchen door apprehensively. “My wife doesn’t like anyone else in her kitchen. We prefer to take care of things by ourselves.”

“I understand.” The woman lowered her gaze. “Thank you anyway.”

The waiter hurried back to the kitchen.

“Let’s leave, Ned,” she whispered. “I’ll look for work somewhere else.”

“Excuse me.” Robert’s curiosity got the better of him. “Where are you good folks from?”

A look passed between the woman and boy.

“Ohio.” The woman’s astonishing blue eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Are you going to be in Bay City long?”

Again the look passed between the woman and the boy.

“If I can find work.”

“What sort of work are you looking for?”

“Anything respectable.” The tone of her voice informed him that her morals would not be compromised. “I can clean. I can do laundry, and”—her chin, which he noticed had a tiny cleft, lifted a quarter inch—“I’m a good cook.”