Unending Devotion (Michigan Brides #1)(16)
Where was the little girl that had once snuggled against her in the bed they’d shared at the orphanage?
Lily had always been the one to stop Daisy’s trembling—especially in the early days after relatives had given up caring for them and dumped them on the doorstep of the New York Foundling Hospital. She’d kissed away Daisy’s frightened tears. She’d made sure Daisy was safe and fed—even when she’d had to go without. She’d given Daisy as much of her heart as she possibly could.
So why hadn’t Daisy turned to her? Why had she chosen to sell her body and soul instead?
If Lily slept at all, it was fitfully, and when morning arrived, she had a hard time dragging herself out of the saggy bed to participate in a short worship service that Mr. Sturgis, the grocer, conducted in the dining room for a handful of sober and God-fearing townspeople. As in most of the new lumber communities, churches were scarce. Harrison didn’t have a single one or a reverend.
By the time she and Oren arrived at the first lumber camp and set up the photography equipment later that morning, the usual low gray clouds had dissipated and glorious sunshine brightened the sky.
She turned her face to the warm rays and let the light caress her sun-starved skin. “Oh, beautiful sunshine,” she said with a smile.
“Not half as beautiful as you,” said one of the shanty boys standing in line waiting for Oren to take his picture.
She wanted to throw out her hands and twirl in delight at the rare day of delicious sunshine, but she was already the main attraction for the shanty boys, and they didn’t need any more encouragement to stare at her.
Many of the men were still snoring in their bunks—probably sleeping off drunken stupors. But there were plenty who were taking advantage of the break from their regular lumber duties. One woodsman-turned-barber was giving haircuts near the bunkhouse door. Another man was sitting on a stump cutting patches for his pants from a grain sack. Still others were using the free day to launder their clothes.
Some of the camps had the rule that all crew members had to wash their underwear at least once every fortnight. Even in the dead of winter, boil-up day was a regular Sunday occupation—usually inside the cramped bunkhouse.
But today, with the touch of warmth, the men had dragged the scrub boards, wooden tubs, and yellow lye soap out into the trampled yard. Heaps of dirty clothing lay in piles on the slushy ground.
Steam rose from the hot water, which was already gray—almost black—from the flannel and homespun clothes the men were rubbing against the corrugated tin washboards.
Lily knew her clothes were overdue for a good washing. And Oren’s were too. But the hard task was one she’d never relished, especially in the cold of winter, when the clothes took twice as long to dry and ended up stiff and difficult to put back on.
“Stop all your wiggling and foolish grinning,” Oren called to the man who was posing with a cant hook that was nearly as tall as he was, counting the long steel hook at its end. “What do you think this is? A tryout for the circus?”
The man puffed out his chest and attempted to make his expression more serious and manly. Lily couldn’t understand why smiling was discouraged. Sure, it was difficult to hold the smile for the length of time it took the photographer to capture the pose onto the dry plate. But still . . . if she ever had the chance to have her picture taken, she’d smile as big as she could. If she had to leave an imprint of herself for all time, she wanted it to reflect the happiness of her life, not the heartache.
Oren lumbered to the front of his Centennial perched on a tripod mount. The box camera was made of fine mahogany but had all the scratches and gouges that traveling brought. Oren wiped the glass of the brass lens with a soft cloth. Then he adjusted the faded red leather bellows that were creased and cracked with wear.
At a dollar a picture, he wasn’t making a fortune taking pictures of the shanty boys. But it was good steady work all winter and supplemented the earnings from his photography gallery in Bay City, which he’d left in the capable hands of his partner.
“How much for a picture with the girl?” one of the men called, nodding at Lily.
Another man whistled and others chortled.
Oren stiffened. He tipped up his derby, and his eyebrows narrowed into a scowl. “I’ve got two rules here today, boys.”
Lily stifled a smile. She’d heard Oren’s lecture plenty of times. She could only imagine what he’d say if he found out about Jimmy Neil’s attack of the night before. He’d never let her go anywhere by herself again.
Oren pulled his corncob pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem at the men.
“One—you keep your filthy hands off Lily, and I’ll keep my hands off your puny chicken necks.”
Except for the rhythmic ring of hammer on anvil coming from the crudely built log cabin that served as a shop for the camp blacksmith, silence descended over the clearing.
“Two,” Oren continued, “you keep your shifty eyes off Lily, and I’ll keep from blowing a hole through your pea-brain heads.”
With that, he toed the rifle, which he always laid on the ground in front of the tripod. She saw no need to tell them Oren had never shot anyone, at least not yet.
Even if the men didn’t stop looking at her, at least Oren’s rules kept them from pestering her. In fact, she might even take a chance at going to the cook’s shack to see if he would have a decent cup of coffee that she could have. After surviving on Vera’s bitter brew the past few days, Lily was more than ready for a real cup.