Never Love a Logger Read online

  NEVER LOVE A LOGGER

  by

  Edna Curry

  NEVER LOVE A LOGGER

  by

  Edna Curry

  Copyright © 2011 by Edna Curry

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. All events and names in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to any event or any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without written permission of the author, except for short excerpts for reviews.

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  This novel was previously published by Whiskey Creek Press.

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  Smashwords Edition.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Credits:

  Cover by Bev Haynes

  Chapter 1

  Taylors Falls, Minnesota, June, 1886.

  “Is it ever gonna rain?” Lumberman Will Tellers asked, sipping his mug of beer. He rubbed at a weary shoulder, trying to ease muscles still sore and tight after a winter cutting logs in the woods.

  “Sure don’t look like it,” his foreman, Sven Petersen, agreed. “The river’s the lowest I’ve ever seen it. If we don’t git those logs to the sawmill pretty soon, we’re all going broke.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Will gazed around the crowded room. The mixed smells of sweat and beer hung thick in the heavy air.

  They sat at a table in the rear of the hot country tavern. More of their crew lounged at another table. The noise level rose. “Our men are getting restless,” Will said.

  Sven nodded. “They ain’t in the best of moods, that’s for sure.”

  “Can’t say as I blame them. They’re more than ready to get those logs to the boom and go home to their families.”

  “Yeah. Winter is long enough, without having to wait out a spring drought to finish your season’s work.”

  Will jumped as a chair crashed to the floor near the front door.

  “This beer’s as warm as piss.” Sweat poured off of the out-of-work logger in the hot tavern as he stood, kicked away the overturned chair and slammed his fist on the plank table. “Get me a fresh mug, woman!”

  The sturdy, gray haired waitress stopped wiping the bar with her wet rag and glared at him. “’Tis not warm. My man brought me a fresh block of ice from the ice house just down the street and the beer’s been sitting on it for hours.”

  The big man stepped toward her belligerently. Though unsteady on his feet, he thrust a frowning face forward. “Well, I said it is. And I ain’t paying your high prices for warm beer. Bring me a fresh mug, I say.”

  The waitress moved closer, placed her hands on her hips and glared at him, narrowing her eyes. “You’ll get another mug only if you pay for it, mister.”

  “I said, get me another beer, woman!”

  The other three loggers at the table rose, ready to back up their drunken buddy. Flies buzzed around the men’s heads. One man swatted them away with a tanned, beefy hand.

  Will jumped up, ready to ward off trouble. Sven rose beside him. Tension swirled through the summer air and all talk abruptly ceased as everyone turned to watch the confrontation.

  Knowing Sven would follow, Will pushed through the crowded room, determined to quiet his crewmen.

  Some local men rose from a nearby table to confront Will’s men and one said, “No lousy logger talks to our women like that.”

  “Yeah. Go back to the woods ’til you learn some manners,” a second townsman put in.

  “Go to hell,” the first logger said. He raised a beefy fist and threw a punch at the townsman, making blood spurt from the man’s nose.

  From the corner of his eye, Will saw the waitress hastily retreat behind her bar. Shoving men aside, he fought through the crowd to get to his men. Fists flew and men yelled. A table overturned and the disputed beer spilled onto the saw-dust-covered pine floor. Others in the crowded room rose to join the fray.

  “Stop this, now!” Will hoped his men would recognize his voice as he shoved another man aside and pushed toward them, desperate to quiet them before more damage was done.

  If they had heard him, Will’s men weren’t ready to be controlled. He dodged a flying fist and grunted when he failed to dodge another large fist and it burned against his ear and bounced off his shoulder.

  Will had almost reached his men when several burly townsmen, objecting to someone putting a stop to their fun, grabbed him. They shoved Will out the open door and down the steps onto the boardwalk outside.

  Will put out his hands, trying to catch himself as he fell, but the momentum carried him forward so that his face smacked the hard wooden sidewalk, nose first. Pain radiated from his nose through his body.

  Cursing, he caught his breath, drew in a mouthful of dust and rolled to a sitting position. Lifting a hand to ease the tenderness in his nose, he found it was bleeding. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to his face. Confound those men. They got rowdier every year. And less respectful.

  “Goodness, Sir!”

  He looked up to see a pair of neat, black high-buttoned shoes below a long black skirt on the sidewalk next to him. The indignant feminine voice apparently belonged to their owner.

  Raising his gaze, he ran it up a tall, slim figure until he met the loveliest pair of hazel eyes he’d seen on a woman in a long time. Angry eyes set nicely above a pert nose and stern jaw. Her face was flushed with annoyance.

  They stared at each other for a long moment in mutual surprise and apprehension. He noticed smooth, clear skin and neat brown hair held back with combs. A slim hand held several envelopes. She’d dropped a couple others and bent to pick them up.

  “Brawling in a bar in broad daylight,” the young woman scolded him in a prim and proper voice.

  Will smothered a laugh. Hell’s bells if she didn’t sound like his old schoolmarm back home. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Next time I’ll try to do it at night when I’ll be less likely to offend pretty ladies.” He reached to pick up the envelopes for her but stopped as she scolded again.

  “Don’t touch them. You’ll get them dirty.”

  That wasn’t so funny. He cringed inwardly. Who did she think she was, anyway? He’d only been defending himself and trying to control his men. That was hardly brawling. But he supposed he couldn’t expect a woman to understand that.

  He drew back his hand and again pressed the handkerchief to his nose to staunch the flow of blood, sending a scowl her way. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Oh, you’re bleeding. Here, let me help you.” She quickly drew a handkerchief from her reticule and bent toward him to help stop the bleeding.

  “It’s only a bloody nose. That’s nothing, Ma’am.” Wincing, Will struggled to get to his feet, bruised muscles screaming.

  By the time he’d succeeded, she’d stepped back and held out the handkerchief to him.

  Staring at her in surprise, he took it, noting that she was taller than most women. In fact, she looked only a few inches shorter than his own six foot, two inch height. He found himself thinking how well her long, slim body would fit against his own. Most women were much too short f
or his liking.

  Fascinated by the sudden concern in her lovely eyes, Will almost didn’t see the danger behind her. Just in time, he saw men come piling out of the bar and pulled her out of the way, shouting, “Look out!”

  His men came hurrying out down the steps. The angry waitress followed close behind, waving a butcher knife. She stopped in the doorway, shouted some parting obscenities, and then went back inside the bar.

  “Oh, my goodness.” Red-faced, the lady stared after the waitress.

  Will couldn’t help grinning at the lady’s apparent shock at the waitress’ language.

  With a sniff, the pretty lady pulled free of Will’s grasp, picked the envelopes up from the dusty boardwalk and brushed them off with another lace-trimmed handkerchief. She seemed to have an endless supply of the things in her reticule.

  Seeing his stare, the woman lifted her nose, stepped daintily around him, and walked on down the street toward the post office.

  Will shoved her now bloody handkerchief out of sight in his pocket and dusted off his clothes. “What are you staring at?” he asked his men. “It’s time for you to go back to camp.” They nodded sheepishly and headed down the street to their wagon.

  Casting another glance at the attractive figure striding stiffly down the street, Will sighed. She obviously had no time for rough and rugged logging men like him. She was way too prim and proper, but she sure was pretty. And she’d seemed really nice when she saw that he was hurt.

  * * * *

  Carrie Banks gripped her letters tightly in an attempt to rein in her feelings as she hurried to the corner and across the street.

  Her heart still pounded from the shocking encounter with the big stranger. The town was full of loggers and this man was dressed in woolen clothes like a logger, so she felt sure he was one of them.

  She bit her lip, resisting the urge to look back at him, to see if he still watched her. Was he really all right? There had been quite a bit of blood.

  She’d been walking along minding her own business when he’d come tumbling out of the bar, landing in front of her in a huge red and black plaid wool mound. It was enough to set any girl’s heart to beating double time. Why, she’d almost walked into him.

  Then he stood, taking her breath away. He was tall and powerfully built. She guessed he was good looking, though how anyone could tell behind all that unruly black hair, she didn’t know.

  Still, she felt sure he was. His eyes were sky blue and the parts of his face not covered by the black beard were weathered and brown from the sun. And then he’d pulled her into his arms and out of the way of those other men running out of the bar. She could still feel the pressure of his strong hands on her arm. She shivered at the delicious, forbidden pleasure.

  She’d been appalled at first. But when he held her close and she smelled his manly scent of wool, pine and something she couldn’t put a name to, Carrie had thoughts a minister’s daughter shouldn’t have.

  Gracious, what would Aunt Louise say if she knew? Carrie stepped into the post office. If she told Louise, of course, which she certainly wouldn’t. Louise didn’t approve of local girls seeing or talking to loggers.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Banks,” the postmaster greeted her.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she answered with a smile. She laid the letters on his counter and opened her reticule to pay him. “I’m sorry if some are a bit dusty. I dropped them on the boardwalk.”

  “Yes, I saw you almost get knocked down by that logger and his herd of ruffians. There must have been another brawl going on in the bar. It’s a crying shame what we have to put up with from those barbarians.”

  “Aunt Louise says they do bring business to town, though,” Carrie said, wondering why she felt inclined to defend the rough man she’d just encountered. She rubbed her arms where his large hands had touched her. The warmth of them still lingered on her skin. She pushed the memory away. All her life she’d fought against having to be the proper preacher’s kid. She still resented it.

  “That they do.” He peered out the front window. “Ah, I see Will Tellers is sending his crew out of town, so the excitement should die down for today, anyway.”

  “Who’s Will Tellers?” Carrie questioned.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “Why, he’s that lumberman you almost fell over, of course. He owns one of the biggest outfits that have been cutting pine a few miles upriver this winter. He usually keeps his men in line pretty well until to-day. I suppose they’re all getting antsy waiting for rain.”

  “Oh.” She was unreasonably pleased that now she knew his name. Though it didn’t matter, she had no need to know it since she’d probably never see the man again. It would hardly be proper. And loggers didn’t stay around very long.

  “Here’s your aunt’s mail. Say hello to her for me.”

  “Thanks. Can you give me Uncle Joe’s mail, too? His rheumatism is acting up too much for the walk downtown to-day.”

  “Sure thing. You tell him I hope he gets to feeling better soon. And tell him I said for him to try that new salicylic powder they’ve got at the pharmacy. I hear tell it helps.”

  “I will.” Carrie took the letters and walked back to her aunt’s boarding house, disappointed to see that Mr. Tellers and his men had indeed disappeared.

  She dropped off her aunt’s mail, promised to be back in time to help her serve her boarders their supper, then walked on down to Joe Carter’s newspaper office.

  She stepped inside the wooden frame building, stopping a minute to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The familiar smell of ink and paper was a balm to her still shaken nerves and she smiled. Someday, she’d have a real job as a reporter at a newspaper office and could spend her days writing. Then she could give up waiting tables for leering men.

  Uncle Joe sat at his desk, pen in hand, bent over his work. A small, skinny man, he was nevertheless a powerful force in town. His words often stirred up a lot of controversy and people were leery of raising his ire.

  He looked up as she laid his mail on the side of his desk. “What took you so long? It’s only a couple of blocks to the post-office.”

  Her uncle was fifty with steely gray hair and a face lined with pain. He spent most of his days in the office, grumbling because he could no longer get around to search out stories for his newspaper. He hated relying on others. It made him grumpy and argumentative.

  Carrie loved him and understood his frustration. She also knew he was a softie under all his bluff, so she paid no attention to his bluster. “I stopped to give Aunt Louise her mail, too,” she said. “And I ran into some loggers brawling at the bar.”

  His head snapped up and his gaze raked her face anxiously. “Ran into? They didn’t dare accost you, did they?”

  “Of course not, Uncle. One of them was thrown out of the bar and landed at my feet on the sidewalk is all. Nothing to worry about.”

  “You weren’t hurt?” He looked her over carefully, a frown making his bushy brows dip.

  She shook her head.

  “Well, the buggers will be gone soon. A change in the weather is coming. My rheumatism is acting up something fierce and it’s never wrong. That means it’s going to rain and the sooner the better. Then they’ll have enough water to float their logs and they’ll all go back to Stillwater ‘til next winter.”

  And life in Taylors Falls will go back to its usual boring routine. Carrie sighed. “The postmaster sends his best wishes. He thinks you should try that new salicylic powder they have at the pharmacy now. He heard it helps rheumatism.”

  “Humph. I already tried that stuff. It’s the bitterest tasting medicine I ever put on my tongue. Whiskey helps too, and it tastes better.”

  Carrie sighed. Uncle Joe’s drinking was not her favorite topic, though she knew it dulled his pain. She turned away. “I’d better get back to finishing that story on the Johnson wedding.”

  Her uncle nodded. “Yeah. I’m almost done setting up Hank’s article on the new book Mr. Folsom is writing. So I
’ll need your story next.”

  “I’ll finish it right away,” Carrie said.

  As she walked through the stuffy room to her worktable in the back, she cast an envious eye toward the printing press in the rear. The smell of ink and the thrill of telling an important story called to her. With a sigh, she laid her reticule to one side and sat down to work.

  Her best friend, Martha, worked for Mr. Folsom. Carrie had tried desperately to get Uncle Joe to let her write that story. Instead, he would only let her report the local society news. While that was important to the local women who liked reading about who had visited whom this week, it was not what Carrie wanted to write. She wanted a chance to do serious reporting.

  After all, what choice did she have for a life in this town? Waiting tables at the Falls House wasn’t her cup of tea and hardly qualified as a career. She had a young brother to raise and no prospects for marriage because of it. Not that she minded of course. She hadn’t met a man yet she’d have anyway. And those who had claimed to want her had changed their mind fast enough when they heard about Tom. They hadn’t wanted a ready-made family.

  Later, as Carrie hurried on back to the Falls House, thunder rumbled and lightning cracked in the evening sky. The summer air felt heavy and damp. Uncle Joe’s rheumatism had predicted correctly. It was going to rain at last.

  Several of the wealthier loggers had taken rooms at the boarding house to wait for rain. Her tiny Aunt Louise was busy fixing supper when Carrie walked into the big kitchen. The delicious aromas of roast beef and dried apple pie filled the air, making her stomach rumble with anticipation. Louise was a wonderful cook, almost as good as her mother had been. Life had been so simple and good before her parents died. She’d felt safe, and her life had been so carefree then. She pushed away the memory of her childhood home and family.