Unending Devotion (Michigan Brides #1)(20)
She tromped behind him as he led the way back to the camp clearing. She stopped him once to admire several cardinals perched in a leafless shrub, pointing out how their flaming red contrasted with the dull gray branches among a backdrop of snow.
Another time she halted him so that she could watch a gray squirrel forage through a pile of dead leaves. She tossed it half a cookie and then laughed when it grabbed the piece in both front feet and began nibbling it. The tinkle of her laughter was like the warmth of a fire after a long cold day in the woods.
They crossed the cleared yard, still littered with stumps, and passed Duff’s pen of pet porkers next to the cookshack. Connell ignored the raised brows and hidden grins of the shanty boys but couldn’t prevent strands of embarrassed heat from weaving up his neck. No doubt he’d be the talk of the bunkhouse later—he and Lily.
“Duff,” he called as he ducked into the shack.
Through the haze of the smoke rising from the fry pans, Connell nodded at the old cook already hard at work on the noon meal. With one hand wielding a long iron fork, Duff moved thick slices of sizzling salt pork around the fry pans. With his other hand he used a cake turner to flip the chopped potatoes he was browning. He nodded back at Connell without missing a move.
“Don’t let me bother you. I’ll just help myself to the coffee.” Connell sidled past a tub of lard, sacks of cornmeal, and crates of potatoes. He dodged the iron skillets and assortment of cooking utensils that dangled from hooks in the center ceiling beam. And he sidestepped the pork barrel, with its salt-encrusted meat hook hanging from the side. He attempted to avoid the puddle of slimy brine pooled around the base but stepped in it anyway.
He wanted to tell Duff to get his cookee to take better care at cleaning up and keeping the shack organized. But he clamped his mouth shut. He couldn’t afford to irritate Duff. Good camp cooks were in high demand. He’d had several over the past couple of years who had nearly caused mutiny among his men with their unappetizing meals.
And with the way things were going lately with the statistics, he couldn’t afford for his men to get upset about anything, including the camp fare.
A dozen dried-apple pies were cooling on the long worktable, and a half a bushel of cookies sat next to them. Spicy cinnamon lingered in air that was now thick with the scent of grease and pork.
“Last I looked, the thermometer read thirty-seven degrees,” Duff said as Connell neared the cast-iron stove with two big kettles on the back burners.
“Thirty-eight now.” Fresh discouragement slithered through Connell. He grabbed a couple of tin cups and a dish towel.
“Day or two more like this and the roads will turn to mud soup,” Duff added.
Holding the hot handle with the towel, Connell lifted the coffeepot and poured two cups. He didn’t need a reminder of the changing weather. He’d seen the sunshine and felt the growing warmth all morning. An early thaw was the last thing he needed now, when he was working hard to figure out a way to increase production.
Even with all the advances the narrow-gauge railroad had brought to their lumbering efforts, he still needed the frozen roads for the teams to drag the felled logs out of the forest to the railcars. It would be too early to pull out the big wheels they used for the summer lumber season. The ten-foot wheeled skidders would only get stuck in the mud.
“Well, let’s just hope the temps drop back down tonight and stay that way.” Connell glanced out the grimy window of the cookhouse. Melting snow dripped from the roof like spring rain. “And let’s pray the sun shrivels up and dies.”
“Oh, how can you say such a thing,” Lily cried behind him.
He spun, surprised she’d followed him through the cookshack instead of waiting by the door.
Her eyes widened with dismay.
At the sight of Lily, Duff’s ambidextrous flipping came to a halt. He stared at her as if she were the first woman who had ever stepped foot in his kitchen.
But she had fixed her big eyes on Connell. “With as little sun as we’ve had this winter, how can you possibly wish it away?”
“Because we depend upon the ice and snow for production.”
“You would begrudge us all the bright and beautiful sunshine so you can earn a bigger profit?”
Was he destined to clash with this woman on every issue—even something as insignificant as the sunshine? He sighed and handed her the hot cup of coffee.
She took it and wrapped both hands around it. “Not all of us are used to the dreary dark winter days of the north. New York winters weren’t a picnic either, but they were never quite as cold and dark.”
He took a swig of his coffee, savoring the dark roasted flavor.
She blew on hers and took a tiny sip. “Ahh. Now, that’s good coffee.” She gave Duff a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
He beamed at her. But the blackened smoke rising from the skillets drew his attention back to the burning food, and he began flipping faster than before.
“If you dislike Michigan winters so much,” Connell said, “why did you move here? Why didn’t you stay in New York?” At least there she’d be away from wild lumber camps and towns.
The sunshine in her face disappeared. She took a longer drink of coffee before looking at him.
The heartache in her expression socked him in the stomach.
“I wish we could have stayed. Then maybe Daisy wouldn’t have gotten herself into this predicament.” Her voice was soft.