Bowls of raw, chopped onions complemented the beans. Platters were piled high with wedges of crusty cornbread that had been baked in iron skillets coated with copious amounts of bacon grease. Baskets filled with spicy molasses cookies as big as dinner plates sat side-by-side with raisin pies—one of his all-time favorites.
He was beginning to suspect that everything Katie made was going to become his all-time favorite. After slathering a hot wedge of cornbread with brine-preserved butter, he sprinkled a spoonful of onion on top of the beans and dug in.
Robert was delighted both with the meal and with the woman who had prepared it. Unlike this morning, she was neat and tidy. Her dress was fresh, and she was as businesslike as any camp boss could hope for. He was proud of her and proud of hiring her.
In spite of the morning rain, things had cleared during the day, and the skeleton crew had gotten a lot accomplished. With Skypilot’s help, Ernie and Cletus had managed to smooth some of the worst spots on the tote road while Sam went back into town for more supplies.
Tinker had finished Katie’s outhouse and a sturdy new lock had been installed on the cabin door. Perhaps now she would relax and not be so skittish around him.
Horatio Barnes, a tall, thin man known to the camp as “Inkslinger,” had arrived this afternoon to set up the office and camp store. Real names weren’t important in a lumber camp. It was a rare man who didn’t get some sort of nickname before the winter was over. Inkslinger was a Michigan dirt farmer with a gift for numbers. He left a family of six daughters and a wife behind to run his farm each winter while he ciphered lumber camp numbers and kept track of the board feet the loggers cut each day.
Inkslinger was the kind of person who tended to see the dark side of things. Robert had never seen the man smile. He couldn’t help but wonder if the wife and daughters weren’t a little relieved when Inkslinger tramped off to the camps each fall.
Two skilled axe men, one from Canada, the other from Maine, had hired on today. They were happily slurping bean soup at their assigned places at the table. They had heard about the new cook, they said, and had decided to check things out at the Foster camp. They didn’t seem to be the least bit disappointed. He hoped Katie could continue to keep up when the rest of the crew arrived.
Katie didn’t know what she was going to do.
The kitchen was clean, the tin plates and cups washed and replaced, facedown on the table. The sourdough sponge Jigger had insisted she use for tomorrow’s flapjacks was setting up. She’d sliced the bacon and readied a kettle of oil for doughnuts to add to the men’s breakfast. She had swept out the entire cook shanty and rinsed out the dishcloths and hung them to dry. Ned was in bed, as were all the men. Everything was ready—except her.
She had no idea how she was going to go to sleep and wake up promptly at 2:00 a.m. On her father’s farm and at Fallen Oaks, she could at least depend on a rooster crowing to awaken her before dawn. But there were no roosters here, and even if there were, they wouldn’t be doing any crowing in the middle of the night.
After lighting a candle, she cupped her hand around it and made her way through the darkness to her cabin. It was a little eerie being alone in the dark in this wilderness. But it was a short walk to her cabin, and there was a light glowing in the window—the lamp she had lit when she had put Ned to bed.
When she stepped into the cabin, she entered a room filled with warmth and light. The lamp and her little brother’s sweet, sleeping presence made the cabin feel like an oasis. She stuck the candle into an empty candleholder on the bureau and hung up her cape.
She had come up with a plan to make herself wake up in the middle of the night. Before leaving the kitchen, she had drunk two large glasses of water, and with any luck at all, that water would start nudging her
He was beginning to suspect that everything Katie made was going to become his all-time favorite. After slathering a hot wedge of cornbread with brine-preserved butter, he sprinkled a spoonful of onion on top of the beans and dug in.
Robert was delighted both with the meal and with the woman who had prepared it. Unlike this morning, she was neat and tidy. Her dress was fresh, and she was as businesslike as any camp boss could hope for. He was proud of her and proud of hiring her.
In spite of the morning rain, things had cleared during the day, and the skeleton crew had gotten a lot accomplished. With Skypilot’s help, Ernie and Cletus had managed to smooth some of the worst spots on the tote road while Sam went back into town for more supplies.
Tinker had finished Katie’s outhouse and a sturdy new lock had been installed on the cabin door. Perhaps now she would relax and not be so skittish around him.
Horatio Barnes, a tall, thin man known to the camp as “Inkslinger,” had arrived this afternoon to set up the office and camp store. Real names weren’t important in a lumber camp. It was a rare man who didn’t get some sort of nickname before the winter was over. Inkslinger was a Michigan dirt farmer with a gift for numbers. He left a family of six daughters and a wife behind to run his farm each winter while he ciphered lumber camp numbers and kept track of the board feet the loggers cut each day.
Inkslinger was the kind of person who tended to see the dark side of things. Robert had never seen the man smile. He couldn’t help but wonder if the wife and daughters weren’t a little relieved when Inkslinger tramped off to the camps each fall.
Two skilled axe men, one from Canada, the other from Maine, had hired on today. They were happily slurping bean soup at their assigned places at the table. They had heard about the new cook, they said, and had decided to check things out at the Foster camp. They didn’t seem to be the least bit disappointed. He hoped Katie could continue to keep up when the rest of the crew arrived.
Katie didn’t know what she was going to do.
The kitchen was clean, the tin plates and cups washed and replaced, facedown on the table. The sourdough sponge Jigger had insisted she use for tomorrow’s flapjacks was setting up. She’d sliced the bacon and readied a kettle of oil for doughnuts to add to the men’s breakfast. She had swept out the entire cook shanty and rinsed out the dishcloths and hung them to dry. Ned was in bed, as were all the men. Everything was ready—except her.
She had no idea how she was going to go to sleep and wake up promptly at 2:00 a.m. On her father’s farm and at Fallen Oaks, she could at least depend on a rooster crowing to awaken her before dawn. But there were no roosters here, and even if there were, they wouldn’t be doing any crowing in the middle of the night.
After lighting a candle, she cupped her hand around it and made her way through the darkness to her cabin. It was a little eerie being alone in the dark in this wilderness. But it was a short walk to her cabin, and there was a light glowing in the window—the lamp she had lit when she had put Ned to bed.
When she stepped into the cabin, she entered a room filled with warmth and light. The lamp and her little brother’s sweet, sleeping presence made the cabin feel like an oasis. She stuck the candle into an empty candleholder on the bureau and hung up her cape.
She had come up with a plan to make herself wake up in the middle of the night. Before leaving the kitchen, she had drunk two large glasses of water, and with any luck at all, that water would start nudging her
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