From the first moment he arrived in camp, Paul’s height had made him stand out. With the help of the logging trade, the breadth of his chest, along with the way the muscles bulged in his arms made him a man only the foolish would challenge or even speak to if Paul’s mood was wrong.
Generally he was well-liked in camp. He could drink with the best of them, and he never cheated at cards—parting with his hard-earned money better than most. His living habits were clean, and he always pulled more than his weight on any job.
Paul was careful in not getting too close to anyone. The men he worked with knew nothing about him, so they had no way of knowing that this morning’s mood stemmed from a dream about Corrine—not the smiling, beautiful Corrine of the first few days of courtship, but the Corrine of the last days, pale as the sheets she lay on, so still and near death....Paul shoved the thoughts aside and continued on into the trees.
Paul’s family would have been hard put to recognize the man he had become. His hair was long, obviously having not seen a barber since he’d left Baxter, and a full, dark beard covered his face. But the biggest change was in Paul’s personality. Gone was the carefree youth with the sparkling blue eyes with whom they had grown up. Gone was the dedicated man of God they had watched him become. In his place was an angry, bitter man who believed his life was over because he felt dead inside.
There wasn’t a day that passed when Paul did not hear the voice of God beckoning to him. Paul was fast becoming proficient at pushing such thoughts aside and going about as he pleased. However, he had promised his grandmother he would stay in touch. So upon arriving and getting work in the logging camp, he had written her a brief note.
“Gram,” it stated simply, “I’m on a logging crew in Hayward. Please do not watch for me. It’s going to be a long time, if ever, before my road leads home again. Paul.”
Paul had no way of knowing that his grandmother held that letter in her hand every day and prayed for him, and that many nights as the moon flooded through the window in her bedroom, she would fall asleep looking at it on her bedside table.
In the back of Paul’s mind he was quite sure God would grow weary of his willful behavior. When this happened, he assumed God would end his life upon the earth. As hard as his heart was, the thought was a sobering one. But Paul, in his own strength, could not bring himself to deal with the seriousness of his sin, and he refused to call on God for help.
Paul, in his sureness of how God would deal with him, was totally unprepared for the severe blow about to be dealt him that very day.
Sweat ran freely from every pore of Paul’s body several hours later as he and his partner worked in perfect rhythm on either end of a crosscut saw.
Paul’s partner slowed near the end of the cut and, as the men moved away from the falling tree, Paul rounded on him in a burst of angry impatience.
“Were you taking a nap over there? I’m sick of doing all the work. If you’re going to cut logs with me, then you...”
One instant Paul was shouting and the next he was being pitched through the air as the top of the tree they just felled lashed back and caught him below the knees.
He awoke not many minutes later to shouts and agony. Both legs were broken and his arm was twisted beneath him at an odd angle. He was lying facedown a good ten feet from where he had been standing. Even through the pain, he knew he wasn’t going to die.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to die—not get hurt and crippled. God’s plans had been different than his own. Paul told himself he had been betrayed again.
“Nooooo.” Paul’s scream of agony was directed at God.
Getting ready to lift him onto a horse for the ride back to camp, the men ignored him. When a man was busted up, the pain could make him crazy. They all breathed a sigh of relief when five men dropped him facedown over the horse’s back and he passed out.
13
Abigail stood on the train station platform and surveyed what she could see of Hayward. It looked to be a small but busy town. The dirt streets were alive with activity, and Abby was a bit disheartened to see so many men. She had half expected as much when she found out she was headed into the heart of logging country. Well, she told herself, she had a job to do and God was with her. Nothing was going to keep her from her task.
Abby held her small bag a little closer as she thought of the letters within. There were two of them. One to a Mr. Sam Beckett and the other from Mr. Sam Beckett. He was the man who had written to Amy’s father. Amy had written on behalf of her father in case Abby arrived before his letter did. Silas had suggested she bring the original letter as a way of introducing herself to Mr. Beckett.
It was at that moment that Abby was distracted from her reflections to realize she was attracting attention. Disheveled and dusty as she was, she was still drawing quite a few looks—or rather, her hair was. Too late she realized her bonnet was hanging down her back.
Once the strings were tied and everything back in place, Abby felt safe. But one bold young man—Abby guessed him to be about 16 or 17—sauntered over and stopped directly in front of her.
He bent slightly to peek beneath the brim and spoke. “I don’t suppose you’d care to take your hat back off, would ya?”
Abby did not even disdain to answer him, but leveled him with a disapproving look. She would have liked to box his ears for accosting a decent woman in broad daylight. But her look did not phase him. He pinned on his most winning smile and spoke again.
“Now ma’am, I can see you’re suspicious of my request, but the truth is, your hair is the color of my own sainted mother’s back home, and it makes me feel a might comforted just to look at it.”
Abby had the urge to laugh outright. He was a charming liar. Abby took a closer look. He was nice-looking and his clothing was well-cut, making her think his family probably had money. The face watching her so intently was smooth and boyish. His hair was a nice sandy brown, and even in his teens he topped Abby by many inches. He probably thought her younger than her 23 years.
“I don’t suppose you could help me with my trunk?” Abby said sweetly, trying another tactic.
The boy’s smile stretched to his ears. “Oh yes, ma’am, I’d be glad to help.”
Abby caught movement beyond the young man and noticed three other boys of approximately the same age watching every move of their exchange. She was sure the one before her had come over on a bet.
“I’m headed to Mr. Sam Beckett’s home and I need some help....”
“Sam Beckett?”
Abby smiled to herself. She had hoped Mr. Beckett was a man of at least some importance in this town, and judging from the boy’s reaction, her wish had come true. The boy looked almost ill. All smiles were gone, and he was casting apprehensive looks over his shoulder to his comrades.
“Yes,” Abby continued, all sweetness and light, “Mr. Sam Beckett. If you could just get my trunk and show me to where he lives, I’d be very grateful.”
“Actually, I just remembered I can’t. That is, I have something else I need to do.” Gone was the lazy drawl he had been addressing her with earlier. Here stood a frustrated and embarrassed young man. Jamming the hat he had been mutilating back on his head, he nearly ran to escape her.
Abby ended up leaving her trunk within the tidy little station office for safekeeping and, after receiving directions to the Beckett home, started on her way.
Standing on the street outside the Beckett home, Abby thought her heart would hammer through her skin. It was an imposing structure: two stories of fresh paint and gleaming panes of glass. She prayed for strength and wisdom as she approached the door.
Abby had half expected a servant to answer, but somehow she knew immediately that the kind-looking woman before her, in a well-cut dress and lovely hairstyle, was Mrs. Beckett.
“I’m looking for Mr. Sam Beckett. Would he be at home?”
“Are you looking for work?” the woman asked.
“No, I’m here on a perso
nal matter.”
The woman looked at her strangely, and Abby didn’t blame her. How would she have felt if some woman had come looking for Ian on a “personal matter”?
Nevertheless, she was allowed to enter and asked to wait in the foyer. Abby’s eyes skipped quickly over the large entryway. The walls and woodwork were painted white, and the rug, in golds and browns, looked imported. It wasn’t long before she heard heavy footsteps approaching.
“Mr. Beckett,” Abby spoke as he approached and at the same time dug in her bag for the letters, “my name is Abigail Finlayson, and I’m here about a letter you wrote to Grant Nolan.”
Abby gave him a moment to recognize the letter, and then handed him the one addressed to him from Amy. She studied him silently as he read. He was of medium height with a robust frame. She figured he was in his mid to late 40’s. He looked very much like the serious businessman he must have been to be a mill owner—and a successful one at that—if his home was any indication.
“Please, Mrs. Finlayson, come in and meet my wife.” He broke suddenly into Abby’s study of him and led her into a lovely parlor where she was introduced briefly to the woman who had opened the front door: Lenore Beckett.
“Will you excuse us for a moment, Mrs. Finlayson?”
Abby was not given time to answer before both husband and wife left and took the two letters with them.
As in the foyer, the walls of the parlor were painted white, making everything look immaculate and elegant. Abby’s chair was near the fireplace where above the mantle was a portrait of a stern-looking woman.
Two doors led off the room and, knowing one led back to the foyer, Abby couldn’t help but wonder where the other one led. As always, in the back of Abby’s mind was the wish that Ian could be here sharing in all of this. But then, she reminded herself, she probably would not be here if Ian were still alive.
Abby felt suddenly tired of being alone. To think he had only been gone a few short weeks, and she had the rest of her life to think about and picture him at her side. She may have talked herself into a good cry, one she had not yet indulged in, but the lady of the house entered the room from the mystery door and Mr. Beckett was with her.
After they were seated, Mr. Beckett spoke. “We’re very glad you came to us, Mrs. Finlayson. The truth is, my wife knew nothing of the young man I saw out at the camp until I just now told her. She is very softhearted, and we would have a constant stream of injured men here if she knew of all the incidents.
“We’d like to help you in any way we can. It’s true that Grant and I go back a long way and, according to Amy’s letter, you’re just about family. Can you tell us what you had in mind?”
Abby wanted to sing, her heart was so full of thanksgiving to God and the way He was taking care of her. He was providing friendship and support in these people when she felt so alone. Surely they would help her find a place to stay and men to help her move Paul. She carefully mapped out her plan to the Becketts.
“I have my doubts that Mr. Cameron is going to want to come with me, so I plan to hire men to take him from the bunkhouse. He is still there?” Abby asked, afraid of the answer.
“Yes, he is. I couldn’t get him off my mind, and I was over to check on him just this week.” Mr. Beckett ignored the look his wife sent him that said she felt he was as soft as she.
“Good. I plan to find places for us to stay this afternoon. I can get myself settled in and have him moved to his place tomorrow.”
“We want you both to stay with us,” Mrs. Beckett interrupted in a rush. “The letter said you are a nurse and that you’re here to take care of Paul Cameron and get him back on his feet. Well, I think you can do that right here. There is an empty bedroom right here on the first floor off the kitchen where Mr. Cameron can stay. Our daughter is grown and moved out, and you can have her room upstairs.”
Abby could only stare at the woman. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but she knew she had to be honest with these people. “Your offer is more than I could have hoped for, but I think you need to know about Mr. Cameron. His family was afraid to come up because the last they saw of him he was very angry and bitter.
“I don’t think he’s going to react appreciatively in his helpless state to my coming in and moving him, probably causing him a lot of pain, to someplace I can take care of him when he hasn’t even asked for my help.
“I’m not afraid of the task, but I want you to be aware of the possible interruption to your home.”
To Abby’s surprise, they were both smiling at her. Mr. Beckett’s voice was cheerful as he spoke. “I’m not surprised to find you’re not afraid of the job ahead of you. My guess is you’re not afraid of anything,” he said with approval.
“We’re not worried about any disruption in our home. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” Mr. Beckett was tempted to ask her what her husband thought of all this, but kept the question to himself.
They continued to talk for a time and make plans. Abby and Mrs. Beckett were on a first-name basis within minutes. Lenore assured her she would have their son, Ross, pick up the trunk from the station.
Abby discussed with Mr. Beckett the best way to move Paul. Before she had time to think, they were headed out to the camp with four extra men to bring Paul Cameron into town, with or without his approval.
14
“Maybe you shouldn’t come with us, Mrs. Finlayson. It’s not very clean.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beckett, but I’ll be fine.” Abby nearly regretted her words a few minutes later.
Bunk beds lined the walls of the empty building. It was obvious the men had been gone for a good while, but the stale smell of smoke and unwashed bodies lingered.
The six people skirted the stove in the middle of the room and moved toward the rear. Paul Cameron was on a lower bunk at the back, and Abby was horrified at his condition of neglect. His beard and hair were matted with food, and his body and union suit reeked of sweat and human waste. Abby was sure the blankets he lay on had not been cleaned or aired since he had been placed upon them. A hand to Paul’s bearded cheek told Abby there was no fever. He didn’t stir when she touched him.
Directing the men to take the four corners of the blanket, Abby had them lift him carefully from the bunk. It was enough to bring Paul around, and the first person he spotted was Abby.
“What are you doing? Put me down!” His voice was a bit rusty from lack of use, but he spoke with force.
Abby had decided long ago she was not going to have an argument with this man, and an explanation now would surely cause one. She ignored the question.
The men began to walk now, and Paul realized he was being moved from the building. “What are you doing? Put me down!” Paul spoke with enough command to check the men in their stride.
“Put him in the wagon.” Abby spoke in a no-nonsense voice that propelled the men forward without question.
Paul opened his mouth to tell this woman what he thought of her high-handedness, but the men at the foot of the blanket moved wrong and Paul felt nauseous from the pain.
Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming when they put him in the wagon, Paul didn’t recognize any of his bearers and never caught sight of Mr. Beckett, who was driving the wagon.
Paul’s entire body convulsed in agony as the wagon dropped into the ruts in the road. As spots danced before his eyes, he knew he couldn’t take much more. His last thought before darkness invaded was that he wanted to murder the redhead bending over him.
Paul’s bedroom had obviously been a servant’s quarters, so furnishings were simple. The bed was large and sat in the middle of one wall. There were two windows, and Abby could see the shadows lengthening with the setting of the sun.
A washstand stood in one corner along with a small wardrobe. Wooden pegs on the wall held Paul’s few things which Mr. Beckett had carried from the bunkhouse. On the far side of the bed was a small table with a lantern and on the other side was a rocking chair in which Abby sat, wat
ching her sleeping patient.
Washed now and with fresh splints, Paul lay in a clean bed. Abby couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired, but the sense of accomplishment more than made up for it.
Even though the temptation was overwhelming, she had not cut his hair for fear of igniting his fury. He had been angry enough as it was. Coming to from time to time, Paul ordered her hands off him or swore at her. Abby had ignored it all and scrubbed him from head to foot.
Movement beyond the door reminded Abby that the Becketts had a cook who lived in town and came each day to the house. She knew it was getting close to supper. Abby only hoped she would be able to stay awake.
“I can’t think what has become of Ross. He dropped your trunk off and I haven’t seen him since.” Lenore was more than a little upset with her son at the supper table later. “I wish you would speak to him, Sam. He knows when we eat supper.”
“I’ll talk to him, dear.”
“Abby, did you get a chance to settle into your room?”
“No, I didn’t get more than a quick peek. It is really lovely, though.”
“If there is anything you need, just ask.”
Abby smiled and thought that the only thing she needed was sleep.
The dishes were being cleared when the front door opened. The dining room door that led to the parlor was open, as was the door leading out into the foyer. The absentee son didn’t stand a chance of entering unheard.
“Ross, come into the dining room, please.” Sam Beckett’s voice carried easily to the entryway.
Abby’s mouth nearly dropped open and some of her exhaustion disappeared when the young man from the train depot walked through the door.
Abby listened with only half an ear to the exchange between father and son as she recalled how upset he had been at the mention of the Beckett name. Her attention returned at the sound of her name.