footsteps thumped against the puncheons of the kitchen floor. The door was yanked open. “Ain’t ya got a hand?”
“Not an empty one.” He thrust the burlap bag at the scowling cook. “Here are the things you ordered.”
“’Bout time.” The cook folded a meaty fist around the neck of the bag, kicked the door shut and limped his way over to the worktable.
“What are you grumbling about, Smiley? You’re still alive, aren’t you?” He grinned and shrugged the keg of molasses off his shoulder onto a long plank shelf on the wall. Heavy boots thumped against the floor in the other room. “You’d better get the coffee going if you plan to stay that way. The men are coming in.”
“I’m lame, not deaf. I hear ’em.” The cook tugged open the strings on one of the sacks of coffee beans, dumped some in the grinder and turned the crank. The beans popped and crackled, the fragments whispering down the chute into a bowl and releasing their tantalizing fragrance to blend with the smell of the beef stew simmering in the iron pots hanging in the fireplace. Loaves of fresh-baked bread piled on a table by the dining room door added their tangy sourdough aroma.
Daniel tugged the shoulder of his coat back in place, turned and took a deep sniff. “Smells good in here, Smiley. Feels good, too. It’s turning nasty outside. The temperature’s dropping fast.”
“Then, was I you, I’d stop jawing and get some heat in the dining room.”
“My exact intentions.” He grinned and clapped the scowling cook on the shoulder, strode by the table loaded with bread and into the dining room. “Irish, come help me carry the woodstove in from the pung.”
A roar of approval rose from the snow-covered loggers stomping in from outside to find a place on the plank benches alongside the sawbuck tables.
“Ja. Und be quick about it, Irish!” A ham-sized fist landed on the thin Irishman’s shoulder as he turned back toward the door. “Get those jigging feet moving so ve can have some heat in here, ja? It’s bad enough ve freeze—”
“Thump me again, Hans, an’ you’ll not be warmin’ yourself by any fire.” Irish scowled and pulled his coat collar up around his neck. “’Tis eatin’ an’ sleepin’ in a snowbank you’ll be doin’.”
The stocky German wobbled his knees and shook his arms, pretending to quake in his boots. A burst of laughter filled the room.
“An’ that—” Irish yanked the rolled brim of Hans’s hat down over the German’s face “—will get you the joy of helpin’ me fetch in an’ set up the stove, while Danny-boy-o tends to his horses.”
The crowd of laughing loggers parted, making a pathway to the door. Irish gave Hans a friendly shove and followed him outside.
Daniel grinned at their antics and stepped back into the kitchen. “Save me some supper, Smiley. I’ll be back when I’ve stabled Big Girl.”
“I ain’t yer servant. Come before the victuals are gone, or feel yer stomach pressing against yer backbone all night.” The cook grabbed a pair of gloves off the table and waved them in his direction. “What am I supposed to do with these—add ’em to the stew?”
“It might improve it some.” He laughed at the cook’s growl, took the leather gloves from his meaty hand and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. “Guess those got tossed in the bag by mistake. I’ll take them back next time I go to town.” He tugged his collar tight around his neck and headed for the door. “Don’t forget to save me some supper—a crust of bread will do. As long as it’s followed by some of that dried apple pie I see on the warming shelf.” He yanked open the door and hurried to the pung to unhitch. There didn’t look to be an abundance of those pies, and Smiley was only one man against all those hungry loggers.
* * *
“C’mon, Big Girl, that’s enough.” Daniel tugged on the reins and the mare obligingly lifted her muzzle from the creek and followed him to the stable. Soft whickers from her barn mates greeted them. The Belgian’s hoofs thudded against the puncheons, the vibrations quivering beneath his feet. He opened the stall door and led the mare inside, slipped her bridle off and stroked the white race that flowed from her poll to her muzzle. “Good job, pulling the pung through those deep drifts, Big Girl.” The Belgian lowered her head and nudged him in the chest.
“So you want food instead of praise, huh? All right, don’t push. I’ll get out of your way.” He stepped aside, and the chestnut stretched out her thick neck and grabbed a mouthful of the clean hay in the rack. He patted her shoulder, hung the bridle on a peg and grabbed a grooming cloth. The mare’s contented munching accompanied his long sweeping strokes as he dried her huge body.
Being a teamster wasn’t a bad life. He worked hard hauling logs and caring for the horses—not as hard as when he’d been a logger, of course. Still, he was tired enough at day’s end to sleep without dreaming most nights. The tightness in his gut told him this wasn’t likely to be one of them. His unexpected meeting with Ellen was too fresh, the images of her too strong, the sound of her voice too recent, for him to block them from his mind. It was always that way when she came home. A residue of his childhood love for her.
He frowned, swapped the wet cloth for a dry one, smacked the mare’s hip to let her know he was going behind her and crossed over to wipe down her other side.
He disliked teasing Ellen to the point of anger. Not that it took much teasing with her flash temper. But when he was face-to-face with the spoiled, selfish woman she’d become, disappointment stung him like a slap to the cheek and sharpened his tongue. She’d been so sweet, so kind and loving— He sucked in a deep breath, tugged his thoughts from what had once been. It was good for him she had changed. A grown man would look mighty foolish carrying around the sort of crush he’d had on her when they were kids. Especially since she wouldn’t give him a passing thought as a beau. Not with his life. And she was right not to. He had nothing to offer any woman, let alone a woman like Ellen who lived a life of ease.
The mare nickered, swung her head around and butted his shoulder. He shot out his right leg to brace himself. “Sorry, Big Girl. I didn’t mean to ignore you.” He tossed the wet rag over the stall wall beside the other one and picked up the comb to take any tangles out of the chestnut’s flaxen mane and tail. One thing about working with horses—you couldn’t waste time feeling sorry for yourself too long.
“You’re all set, girl.” Daniel tossed her blanket over the Belgian’s back, pulled the hold strap snug against her broad chest so it wouldn’t slide askew through the night, fastened the buckle, then strode to the feed bin. He shoved a pail beneath the hopper chute, lifted the door and let the grain flow until it was full. “Here’s supper, Big Girl.”
The gelding in the stall on his left whickered, tossed his massive head and thudded his front hoof against the floor.
“I’m coming, Big Boy.” He dumped the oats and bran into the mare’s manger, closed the stall door and returned to the feed bin for another pail of grain.
* * *
Ellen turned back a page and studied the dress in the picture. “Mother, have you any shaded velvet material at your shop?”
“Why, yes, I do.” Her mother glanced up from the feathers she was sorting. “I don’t recall any velvet dresses in that magazine. Why do you ask, Ellen?”
“I
