The Measure of Katie Calloway,: A Novel (3 page)

He knew he couldn’t be so lucky. Even if she was telling the truth, there was little chance she would want to work in a lumber camp. The few women who did were usually wives of the owner or foreman. Still, those work-roughened hands told him that the woman wasn’t allergic to hard labor. And he was desperate enough to take a chance on a complete stranger.

Robert turned to the boy. “Is she a good cook?”

“The best.” The boy’s eyes were innocent and without guile. “Just like our mother.”

“Are you married, ma’am?”

She gave a small shake of her head.

“Widowed?”

She hesitated then nodded.

A widow, just as he suspected. It explained a lot. The woman probably had a farm she couldn’t keep up, and the hope of something better in town had drawn them here. It happened.

In spite of his earlier gloom, his mood lifted at the possibilities. If this woman truly was a good cook, and if she was willing to live in the deep woods for a few months—that
plus
the novelty of a beautiful young widow living in camp would attract some of the finest woodsmen in the business. Women were scarce in the north woods. Beautiful young women were even scarcer. The men would travel miles on foot just to get a glimpse of her. The fortunes of his camp might hinge on this one woman.

Of course, he had no intention of firing Jigger. The old, seasoned cook would stay. Even with a broken arm, Jigger could teach her plenty about lumber camp cooking. The boy was not a problem. Many camps employed “chore boys” to fetch and carry, and this one seemed sturdy enough to at least tote a bucket of water.

“I’m curious, ma’am,” he said. “What is your specialty? As a cook, I mean.”

She pursed her lips while she thought. He noticed they were full and well-formed.

“I make an excellent apple pie, sir.”

Apple pie. He hadn’t had a decent apple pie in months. Suddenly, he was ravenous for one. He waved the owner over. “Do you have any fresh apples in your kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Flour? Lard?”

“Of course.”

“If the lady is willing, I’ll pay you the equivalent of ten meals if you can talk your wife into allowing this woman access to your kitchen for the next two hours to make one apple pie. If she makes it to my satisfaction”—he glanced her way—“I’m going to offer her a job.”

“Ten meals?”

“Yes.”

“For one apple pie and the use of an oven?”

“That’s my offer.”

“Come along with me,” the waiter said to the woman. “I’ll talk to my wife.”

She stood, her forehead creased in puzzlement. “You have a job for me?”

“Yes,” Robert said. “If you’re as good a cook as you say.”

He saw desperation warring with integrity in her eyes.

“Is this a respectable job?”

“Very respectable, but very hard work.”

Again the small lift of her chin. “I am not afraid of hard work.” She turned to her brother. “You be a good boy while I’m gone.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The boy drained his water glass and then looked around the room, eyeing the various diners and their food.

“Do you want this?” Robert pushed the plate of overcooked food away from him. “Bring your bags over to this table. You can eat while we wait, if you want. It’ll make the owner happy if we leave that table to other customers.”

The boy obediently moved their belongings. Robert noticed that his homemade britches were several inches too short. Even though the meal was unappetizing, the boy bowed his head and silently gave thanks, then methodically polished off the food.

“Is your sister truly a good cook, or were you just saying that because she was here?”

“She’s very good.” The boy laid the knife across his empty plate. “When she has something to cook with.” His clear-eyed gaze spoke volumes.

This boy and his sister had known hunger. Perhaps, if things worked out, they would not have to experience it again. At least they wouldn’t if he could stay in business.

3

She’s tall and slim, her hair is red,

her face is plump and pretty.

She’s my daisy Sunday best-day girl,

and her front name stands for Kitty.

“Bung Yer Eye, Boy”
—
1800s shanty song

It was not easy preparing food in another woman’s kitchen while that other woman scowled, but Katie managed to find the necessary ingredients and a clear space to lay out her supplies.

It felt good after all she had been through to fall into the comforting rhythm of slicing apples and rolling out pie dough. Unlike Harlan, she had not come from a wealthy family. Her father had ministered to a church outside of Pittsburgh while running a small horse farm. Her mother had been a gifted gardener and an intuitive cook.

Although there had never been an abundance of money, there had always been plenty of food in their home. Her mother had managed to fill her family’s bellies with tasty meals, and as a minister’s wife, she hosted frequent guests at their table. She had taken care to teach Katie everything she knew.

For the first time since she had run for her life, Katie felt a measure of peace just being inside this heat-filled kitchen. She reached for the tin of cinnamon and sprinkled it over the tart apples. Then she added just enough sugar to offset the tartness, yet not enough to make the pie sticky sweet. Several pats of good butter to melt over the apples. She was delighted to find two lemons in a bowl and scored a few strips of zest into the mixture as a small surprise to the tongue. After contemplating the height of the pie, she decided to create a fancy latticework for the crust. If this man truly had a job for her, she wanted to do everything possible to impress him.

Fortunately, the oven was already heated. In slightly over one hour from the time she entered the kitchen, she pulled a golden-brown apple pie out of the stove.

“Thank you,” she said to the woman as she folded two dishcloths into heat-resisting pads and carried the still-sizzling pie through the customers to the table where her brother now sat. The waiter brought a dessert dish and a serving knife to the table.

“It looks delicious.” The man eyed the pie hungrily. His dark brown hair was cut short, and unlike most of the men she saw here in the restaurant, he was clean-shaven.

“It should cool first,” she said.

“I don’t care.” He cut a large wedge and slipped it onto his plate.

She stood, waiting, as he blew on a forkful of pie, still so hot it was dripping butter. He put it into his mouth and chewed. He closed his eyes, and a low moan escaped his lips. Then he ate another bite, rolling it around in his mouth. He swallowed and sighed with pleasure.

She felt a thrill shoot through her body at his obvious enjoyment. It had been a long time since Harlan had acknowledged her cooking with anything more than a grunt.

In the meantime, she saw the harassed waiter fending off orders from other patrons for apple pie—which he didn’t have.

She waited for the man to compliment her on the pie. Instead, he cut a thick piece and laid it in front of her brother, saying, “Eat.”

Then he tipped back in his chair and gave her a calculating look.

“I’ll give you two dollars a day to cook at my lumber camp. The boy will get a nickel a day to keep the wood box filled and do any other chores you might have for him. You’ll have a private room inside the cook shanty. It won’t be fancy, but I’ll have one of the men build you a private privy.”

He let her absorb all this while he wolfed down another piece of pie. Her mind struggled to grasp the fact that the man was offering her two dollars a day! That was more than a good male laborer made back home—those few who could find work.

“You might go months without seeing another woman.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “There is no town nearer than a hard day’s ride on horseback. My camp is well run. I’ll make certain you’re safe and that the men treat you with respect. If you think you can abide those conditions, I’ll pay you two weeks’ salary in advance. You’ll need it to purchase enough warm clothing for you and the boy to survive the next seven months.”

His speech finished, the man tucked back into his pie.

Shocked, she plumped down into the seat beside him, her mind whirling. If the good Lord had picked her up and set her down on the other side of the moon, she couldn’t have been more surprised. This was so much better than she had dared hope. Even the isolation of the camp would be a gift from God—a perfect place to hide from Harlan.

“What is your name, sir?” she asked.

The man glanced up from his pie, which he seemed intent on consuming in one sitting. “Robert Foster at your service.”

His eyes, she noticed, were a light hazel rimmed with black. His lashes were thick and dark. They were handsome eyes, but she didn’t give a fig about the man’s looks. Harlan had been the most handsome man she had ever known. No, it was kindness that she was looking for, and it was kindness she saw there.

“And your name, ma’am?”

It occurred to her that it would be a mistake to give her real name. She cast about for a made-up name. Unfortunately, she wasn’t good at lying, and her mind went blank. Then her eyes caught on a Smith Brothers Cough Drop advertisement on the wall.

“Smith,” she said. “My name is Katie Smith. And this is my brother, Ned.”

“It’s good to meet you.”

She felt so guilty about lying that she expected Mr. Foster to see straight through her—ferreting out the lie she had told about her name, seeing the still-living husband looming in the background. She held her breath, waiting for him to withdraw his offer.

Instead, he seemed impatient to be finished with their conversation. He plucked his bowler hat from a vacant chair. “Do we have a deal, Katie Smith?”

She released her breath. The job was hers. She had no idea if she could trust the man or not, but she needed a job and she
was
a good cook.

Two dollars a day! She made some quick calculations. For seven months of work, she would receive nearly four hundred dollars! It was a staggering amount of money.

“Yes, sir. We have a deal.”

“My men call me Robert, and you will too.” He laid thirty Union greenbacks on the table in front of her. “The hotel across from here is clean and safe. You should be able to do the shopping you need to do this afternoon. I’ll come for you with the supply wagon tomorrow morning at dawn.”

“But tomorrow is the Sabbath.”

“The men will start showing up by Monday evening. Some may already be there. I’m already behind schedule. It will take us the bigger part of two days to get there. If we start early tomorrow, we might be at the camp in time to feed them. I hope you won’t change your mind. I’m depending on you.”

“I won’t change my mind,” she said. “You have my word.”

He stared hard at her, as though evaluating her.

“Your word is good enough for me.” He paid up, set his bowler hat firmly on his head, and departed, leaving one slice of pie untouched. She wondered if he had known she was hungry and had deliberately left it behind for her. She doubted that Robert or any other man would be so thoughtful. In spite of the kindness she had read in his eyes, her faith in men was not high.

It occurred to her that she had just agreed to live in the middle of the woods with a camp full of them. Goodness.

She picked up her brother’s fork and took a bite straight from the pie plate. Yes, the pie had turned out very well.

“Do you trust that man?” her brother asked.

“No. I don’t trust anyone except you and me.” She laid her hand over his. “But we will work hard for Mr. Foster. I don’t want him to regret his decision to hire us.”

Ned toyed with his napkin, avoiding her gaze. “Will you ever marry again?”

“No.” The question shook her. “I’m still legally bound to Harlan.”

“But what if he dies?”

The idea of Harlan dying had never crossed her mind. He had made it unscathed through four years of war. He seemed immortal. But even if he did, she would never remarry. Never again would she give another man control over her mind and body. Never again would she put herself through seeing the disgust on a man’s face each month when he found out she was not with child.

“No.” She shook her head. “Never.”

Her brother released a sigh. “I’m glad.” He captured a stray crumb and licked it off his finger. “You lied to Mr. Foster. More than once.”

“I know.” She folded up the money he had given her and tucked it deep into a pocket of her cape. “I’m sorry I had to do that.”

“Aren’t you afraid of going to hell?”

She gave his question the weight it deserved. “I think that is where I have been for a very long time.”

Harlan stared at the massive beam balanced above where Katherine set her milk pails every morning and evening. The beam—balanced just so—was heavy enough to crush her. The death he had arranged would have appeared to be an accident. Now that she was gone, he was in legal purgatory. No wife, but no legal right to remarry.

This was highly inconvenient. There was only one way out of the heinous poverty in which he found himself. Carrie Sherwood, a local widow, had managed to hang on to a few loyal servants and was reported to be quite wealthy. Her elderly husband had possessed the foresight to invest in Northern textile mills before the war. That woman’s money, which would be under his control were they to marry—would help him turn Fallen Oaks back into the paradise it had been before Sherman destroyed it.

The problem he had was that he knew absolutely that Carrie would never consent to marry him until he was, in truth, a grieving widower.

It was imperative that he find Katherine, bring her back here, make his terrible “grief” a reality, and accept the rich woman’s condolences very soon.

He had not fought a war only to come home and live like a pauper.