Rugged and Relentless (15 page)

The second in line—a regal lady whose raven hair bore a shock of white—spoke in a low, melodic voice. “Gracious of you to say so.”

“Before we share our names, we want to clarify that the ad was correct—only three of us seek husbands.” The frilly one spoke again. “My brother claimed Miss Thompson long ago.”

Discontent surged through Jake.
I knew from the start she’d be spoken for, at the very least—a woman like that
.

“I’m Lacey Lyman,” she continued. “Sister to Braden Lyman, who owns the now-defunct mine and town of Hope Falls—in name only. My brother holds portions of the land and businesses in trust for myself and my friends. The ad mentioned a sawmill. With the mine collapsed and inoperable, we seek to plumb the other treasure of these mountains. That’s why you’re here, gentlemen, to begin the Hope Falls Sawmill. Three of you will become husbands. It’s our hope the rest will stay on as members of the company. Time will tell.”

“I’m Naomi Higgins—cousin to the Lymans.” The black-haired beauty kept her words short. Something a man could appreciate.

“I’m Cora Thompson.” Probably the youngest of the four and third in line, the last name of the ginger-haired woman caught Jake’s attention.

Thompson? Did she say Thompson?
If he could, he would’ve perked his ears to hear the rest, on the off chance she was the—

“Fiancée to Braden Lyman, and sister to …”

Jake didn’t know if she actually trailed off or not. He’d stopped
paying attention when relief surged through him.
Another man hasn’t laid claim to the feisty chef
. Then reality hit him like a felled sugar pine.
So she wrote the ad along with the other two women—and not a single hairy lip nor hatchet face to be found among them
. Sudden, unfounded rage darkened the room and folded his fists.
What was she thinking?
Well, that much seemed obvious. Nothing. None of them recognized the danger they’d placed themselves in. Four comely women alone in a town full of men they’d
advertised
for?

“Evelyn Thompson.” His incomparable cook flashed her dimple to the crowd of men. “It seems silly to say I’m Cora’s sister, so I suppose that’s all for now. We’ll be getting better acquainted in coming weeks. For now, we’ll serve your supper. Each night we’ll sit at the same table and a different group of you will join us.” She gestured toward one of two empty tables, where Jake planted himself without further prompting, putting his back against the wall so he could face the room. “Tonight, we hope each of you will stop by and chat with us for a while.”

Jake eyed the men in the room—fourteen of them, all looking pleased as punch. Except the one who’d done himself out of a fine supper by filching a biscuit, of course. None would leave willingly—even if Jake could convince the women to abandon their scheme.
Which would also mean losing my only chance at Twyler
. The evaluation he came up with became more grim by the moment as everyone around him carried on, supremely unconcerned.

Clump reverentially set his pie atop the table and lowered himself in front of it as the women spread throughout the room, distributing pies to each man. Pitchers of hot coffee sat atop each table, alongside sugar bowls.

The engaged Thompson sister placed dishes of carrots and peas on each table for the men to help themselves once they’d dug enough room into their pie tins. She also slid familiar baskets, heaped with fluffy biscuits, onto the tables for the men to pass around. Good thing she doled out four baskets per table of six, or fights would’ve broken out on the spot. As it was, it came to a near
thing. The younger Miss Thompson—the one clearly labeled as “taken”—finished first and joined them at the table first.

Wish the others would hurry up
. Jake eyed where a burly logger held up the other Miss Thompson—and her pies—with conversation. Apparently the table with the ladies would be served last, and see the women last. He understood the reasoning behind it. He understood the fairness of it.

I also understand the others will be finished and invading the table the minute the women sit down, and we won’t get a moment’s peace
. Jake squelched a surge of irritation. By the end of the evening meal, he’d know who to look at more closely and which husband-hopefuls couldn’t possibly be Twyler.

He couldn’t have manufactured a better scenario to scope out the men—or stay close to the women.
Because that’s the only thing I can do. I can’t stop the foolishness now it’s been set in motion, but I can stay here and protect them from the worst of the danger
. Jake cast a glance at Miss Evelyn Thompson, who walked toward his table at long last.
Even if they never notice
.

Aside from those first few moments when she first spotted him, Evie made special effort to ignore the stranger from Charleston. Well, he’d been a stranger in Charleston instead of a regular, but he’d visited her café, so that’s the only way she could think of him for now.
I need to stop thinking about him!

Then Dodger showed the nerve to try to oust the one man she knew she wanted to stay. Evie didn’t know why she wanted the tall, rangy stranger with his easy smile to stick around. She didn’t have to. All she knew was that the weasely man who’d dared snitch a biscuit and think she wouldn’t notice also dared to act like he owned Hope Falls. Her eyes narrowed in preparation to set the upstart in his place—the men needed to know who ran things and respect it. From the very beginning.

Rabbitty Mr. Draxley made it painfully obvious he wouldn’t
speak up on their behalf, as he hunched in a corner. The man visibly shrank. Evie noticed that, in his fear that he might be called upon, even his mustache seemed to have lost the will to twitch. A sad sight, to be sure.

The genial Gent spoke up, wisely making the point for her and earning himself an extra piece of shortbread later. Pity for Dodger he didn’t take the words to heart—the slight troublemaker still sneered at the late arrivals.

Evie had thought to turn a blind eye toward Dodger’s offense. Creating a confrontation on their first night, before they’d established order and the men had a taste of their incentive to make the deal work, seemed a poor idea.

I shouldn’t have forgotten this is business. Meals for logging and even courting count as transactions. The others look to me as the businesswoman, and we can little afford to leave a single loophole or let anyone else take a stronger position to negotiate. We’re already outnumbered
.

So she caught him in his lie and gave away his pie. But not to the stranger. Evie kept very busy being unaware of his presence at the head of the newcomers. She didn’t even think about him—thinking about not thinking about him didn’t count—until they’d introduced themselves to the men, served supper to everyone else, and headed to their own table.

Where he sat. Directly across from the only seat left.

Cora
. Evie narrowly avoided elbowing her sister in payback for the nudge Cora served her earlier. The one that effectively nudged her out of her gaping and brought her back to her senses.
Cora knew about the stranger from the diner, saw my reaction to this man’s gesture. Even if she doesn’t suspect he’s the same one, she’s still meddling. Little sisters have no right to meddle
. She took a deep breath and slid onto the bench.
That’s reserved for big sisters!

“The men wanted to wait for you,” Cora said, explaining the untouched, cooling plates Evie eyed with some concern.

“Now we can pray together.” The somewhat nondescript man
she’d given Dodger’s pie to gave an undeniably sincere smile.

“We’d be honored to have you bless the meal, Mr. …” Naomi groped for a name and came up empty-handed.

“Klumpf.” Without further ado, he bowed his head, signaling the others to follow suit. “Dear Lord, we thank You for everyone’s safe arrival and ask Your blessing on the food before us smelling so good and the hands that made it. Amen.”

“Amen,” Evie chorused along with the others. She’d taken note of which men bowed their heads before picking up their forks and which didn’t bother. Though she allowed some might have prayed before she reached them—particularly the last few.

“Thank you, Mr. Klumpf.” Cora passed Evie the vegetables.

“Thank you, Miss Thompson, Miss Thompson, Miss Higgins, and Miss Lyman.” Mr. Klumpf raised his fork, heavy with seasoned beef and mashed potatoes, to his mouth and paused in appreciation before chewing. He gave a sigh. “Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome, Mr. Klumpf.”
I like him
. Klumpf showed a wholesome appreciation for the Lord and good food—qualities she looked for in a potential husband.
He also
, she acknowledged, comparing him to the enigmatic man at his side,
isn’t so handsome he’d look for great beauty in his bride
.

While she considered the two men occupying the bench on her half of the table, the other two introduced themselves. Evie heard and forgot them both just as quickly. She’d ask the other women to remind her later that night, when they compared their impressions of the men. To be honest, most of the names hadn’t stuck with her so far. Her memory, so fine for recalling the finest details of any recipe she read even once, always failed when it came to putting names to faces. Almost always.

“Now, sir, you have us all at a disadvantage.” The way Lacey eyed the stranger from Evie’s café didn’t sit well.

“Jake Creed.” The same slow smile she remembered crept across his face, softening a jaw too strong for most faces. “I’d tip my hat, but I already took it off in honor of the chef. Miss
Thompson—the elder, that is—made it clear she expected a man to bring his manners to her table the first time we met.”

So he remembers
. Not overly surprising—the female owner of a restaurant was enough of a rarity to stick with most people, and she’d encountered Mr. Creed a scant week ago.
But he also remembered to take off his hat, and his decision that I’m worth it. Or
, she allowed,
that at least my cooking is worth that respect
.

Either way, that fact overshadowed being labeled “elder.” Mostly.

Only one thing bothered her.
Creed
. The one thing that saved her when it came to her abysmal memory for names was that, more often than not, people somehow fit their names. Long ago, Evie came up with a theory that, since people couldn’t change the names given them at birth, they grew into them. Much the way muffins or jumbles baked into the shape of the tin or mold they were poured into, people adjusted to reflect their names.

So as Evie got to know a person, she knew the name. Take Klumpf, for example. With a broader build, he boasted a low-slung walk, distinctive for its heavy tread. She’d noticed it in the few steps he took to the table and attributed it to the thick-set soles on his heavy boots. Klumpf clumped. Evie matched the man to the name and wouldn’t struggle for it again.

Creed?
A sense of purpose emanated from him, but the name didn’t fit.
After all, aren’t creeds statements of belief? The sort of thing usually handed down by those in positions of wisdom or authority?
Chills prickled down her arms as his gaze met hers with the intensity Evie convinced herself she’d misremembered. Somehow, the man before her seemed the sort to create his own system, not wait to be given what he wanted.

     TEN