Rugged and Relentless (32 page)

“If that’s the case, what makes you think they’ll accept these men you two have hired, Mr. Creed? They’re bound to protest some sort of favoritism. Particularly as I assume you’ve promised them competitive wages to convince them to uproot burgeoning families and come here. None of the others are paid.”

“The men will accept them for the sake of the women.” Evie answered Miss Higgins in a blink. “McCreedy isn’t bound by the same deal as he’s already married, and no one would oust a woman in the family way. That ensures Lawson’s tolerated presence. If he’s the engineer, they won’t be able to object his salary.”

“Well done, Miss Thompson.” Creed’s nod told them Evie assessed the situation correctly. “Those are the reasons I chose McCreedy and Lawson before I knew about his sister.”

“That, and to increase your pack of watchdogs,” Lacey accused her brother. “It doesn’t change the fact we need husbands. The security I spoke of isn’t just for ourselves, Braden. It’s to hold our property and defend against claim jumpers who’ll try and take what we build once it’s of value.”

“Not to mention expansion,” Cora tacked on. “More men mean more claims, and married women are allowed to own property now. The more land we hold, the stronger our position against those who discover our success and seek to move in on it.”

“Besides”—Naomi waited a breath behind Cora to speak her piece—“there’s the issue of propriety. If we aren’t married, people will assume that the only sort of single women to live in a logging town are of … loose morals. A house full of us won’t be secure indefinitely with dozens of men around—particularly as time wears on and the business grows to include more workers.”

“That leaves only one option.” Evie made up in certainty what she lacked in enthusiasm. “A husband.”

A wife. Corbin Twyler couldn’t believe he’d sunk so low as to need a wife. Worse still, he’d returned to his roots in logging.

He’d sworn never to come back to this sorry, scrape-bait existence. Little more than a boy, he’d seen no opportunity in the muzzle-loaded bunkhouses of the lowest logging outfits back in New England nor in the flasks of cheap ale passed around to pass time.

Until the Game.

At first, he’d ignored even its call, blind to the beauty of battered cards dealt and flipped until their marks faded to fond memories. The young Corbin lost his pay and his pride with capricious dice he now knew had been weighted against him. But the Game didn’t take luck so much as patience. And skill.

The annoying habits that so irritated him about his fellow loggers suddenly served a purpose other than to send him straight to a book after supper. Tapping fingers, a blink too many, a red nose or itchy neck—they signaled a change in fortune when Corbin tried his hand at the Game. Winning too often raised suspicion, so he lost occasionally, enough to placate the roughest workers. A few beatings taught a man awfully fast.

All the while, he saved his cache in a hinged flask. Men searched his boots, his bunk, his bedroll, and his laundry, but none found his freedom flask. Then one payday, he left to try his luck elsewhere. Without the familiar mannerisms, against other cardsharps, he fared worse. Better bluffs, more experience, marked decks, and his own desperation stacked against him more than the cards themselves ever could.

For a good bit, he steered clear of other inveterate players of the Game. Corbin could read common folk and fleeced them regularly while he cultivated the skills used against him. It worked its way into his dreams, his very soul. The Game called to him. The thrill of the stakes, pulse pounding as he turned a card, the exhilarating fear of being caught with a marked deck … nothing pumped the blood like the Game.

Nothing made the Game better than a worthy opponent. That’s why he needed the stake for big games. He couldn’t test his
worth anywhere else. Without the shared passion, the consuming drive to win at any cost, the honed senses precisely tuned to determine the other player’s thoughts and moves … the Game withered. And without the Game, Corbin had nothing.

So what were a few petty thefts, a minor robbery here and there, if it kept a chair open for him? Cheating didn’t count as a matter of dishonor but as the best sort of bluff, the ultimate level of conning another player. Either they knew the score when they sat down, or they’d learn. Even when a man suspected he’d been cheated, he usually had too much pride to announce the fact. Corbin counted on it when he underestimated a mark. That didn’t happen too often now.

It happened just over five months back. He chose the wrong mark, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. If the Granger boy hadn’t caught on, or had kept his mouth shut, he’d have lost a bit of walking-around money and that funny coin he flipped around. No more harm done. But he did catch on, showed every sign of raising Cain right in front of the men Corbin fleeced two nights prior. From there, things went bad. Real bad, real fast.

He’d been running ever since. And when he ran out of funds and friends, he found that ad and headed for Hope Falls. Corbin Twyler could live through logging for a little while. He’d survived worse for less. After all, who needed Dame Fortune when a man nabbed a wealthy wife?

The Game waited.

     TWENTY-THREE     

E
vie needed a miracle to keep up with the ravenous appetites of two dozen hardworking men who put away enough food to feed a small city, and enough coffee to wash all of it down. Sure, Cora helped out as she’d done ever since Evie judged her old enough to boil water, and Naomi could manage basic tasks and even a few more complicated skills, but that wasn’t enough.

So she prayed for a miracle—and God sent Martha McCreedy. A sturdy Irishwoman whose lilting speech patterns closely mimicked those of Mr. Riordan, Martha no sooner rode into town on the iron horse than she took a post behind one of Evie’s iron stoves.

God bless the Marthas of this world
, Evie rejoiced time and time again over the next few days as Martha’s name proved no mistake. Not that Mrs. McCreedy in any way lacked a heart for resting in the Lord’s will and teaching, but Martha’s busy hands and servant’s spirit made her a welcome addition in Hope Falls.

Mrs. Nash, the grieving widow expecting her firstborn, made for a more cumbersome, if no less welcome, addition. She stepped from the train with a watery smile and gracious, “Thank you for your kind welcome. I’m so pleased to be here,” before subsiding
into the sort of gut-wrenching sobs best indulged in private.

Of course, it made the transition far easier for Mr. Lawson and the McCreedys. One whiff of a weeping woman and almost every timber beast made for the forest. Or, at the very least, the luggage. In either case, they swiftly maintained a wide berth between themselves and the new arrivals. By the time the men realized a single man had been included in the bunch, even the most curmudgeonly didn’t bother to grump about the situation.

Evie highly suspected Mr. Creed threatened them with spending time looking after the good widow if they made trouble, which would have been a violation of their agreement not to create or enforce punishments without first consulting the women. As she wholeheartedly approved of the results, Evie made it a point not to question this particular method. It worked.

Better yet, it kept the men from upsetting Arla Nash. Or getting close enough to discover a lovely and more even-tempered young woman than she initially appeared. After a difficult day rounded off by a porter bearing an uncanny resemblance to her deceased beloved, Arla withstood a poorly timed warning from her brother about the uncertainty of her welcome in Hope Falls.

Apparently he hadn’t seen fit to concern her with the detail earlier for fear of oversetting her, so he sprang the news upon her mere moments before she faced dozens of now-unfriendly faces. It seemed Braden Lyman and Jake Creed weren’t the only men incapable of exercising good judgment.

In any case, Arla made herself as useful as possible. She swiftly volunteered to peel any vegetables needed, freeing Lacey from the monotonous task she so often deplored. Since Lacey proved herself adept in only two other areas, she managed beverages and baking bread. Not biscuits. Not muffins. Not corn bread nor cakes. Bread, and bread only, came out correctly when Lacey took to baking. No one could explain it, but they accepted it after a while and their days settled into a rhythm.

Evie woke up earliest, used to sunrise hours from getting up
at dawn to head for the café. Once she washed up and dressed, she nudged Cora until her sister emerged from beneath the covers like a disgruntled hedgehog from the zoo, fine wisps of ginger hair spiking around bleary eyes.

By the time Evie carried the tea and chocolate upstairs, Cora had accomplished the unenviable task of coaxing everyone else awake. Cups of warm fluid braced the women before they wrapped themselves in cloaks warm enough to ward against the biting chill of each spring morning.

Mrs. McCreedy somehow managed to meet them en route to the diner. “I canna believe that Mr. Draxley o’ yourn still hae not managed to obtain proper milking cows.” Mrs. McCreedy tsked a familiar lament as she scrambled panful after panful of eggs.

“The men didn’t mind an extra team of oxen to pull logs away from the felling site.” Naomi tried to look at the silver lining. “And everyone enjoyed the fresh meat from butchering the others. Besides, it gave Evie a reason to request a smokehouse.”

“We’ll be ordering more condensed milk, I take it.” Lacey looked up from where she diligently worked bread dough. “Those cows arrive by tomorrow, or Mr. Draxley pays for them himself.”

“My babe fancies a glass of fresh milk,” Arla admitted as she peeled another mound of potatoes to tax the patience of Job. “Tea and chocolate are all well and good, but some days there’s nothing like a fresh bit of milk alongside your breakfast.”

“I fancy some of whatever it is Evie’s up to at her stove.” Cora looked up from where she cut long, even slices from a wheel of cheese before dividing them into squares. “Fried corn mush?”

“That’s it exactly.” Evie took two loaves from the oven and slid two others inside. A few moments, and she tapped the cooling loaves from their pans and refilled them with more batter before slicing the baked mush and lightly frying each side in a hot, buttery skillet. She filled platters with them.

“Since I’ve never heard of it, I’ve never eaten it.” Lacey wiped an errant strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her
hand. “But I do know it takes twice as long to bake this bread with you using all of my loaf pans, Evie Thompson!”

“Your
loaf pans?” Evie cocked an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“I use them at least three times a week.” Lacey gestured toward the six loaves cooling on the windowsill. “Although, come to think of it, why is it that I bake so much bread these days? It seems as though that’s all I do when I enter this kitchen.”

Evie exchanged guilty glances with the other women. Truth be told, they all conspired to make sure Lacey did precious little besides bake bread. “You also take care of the coffee and help serve, same as the rest of us.”

“For the most part, all I do is peel potatoes and such.” Arla sounded downright cheerful. “It’s good to have something to occupy your hands and ease the burden for everyone else.”