A Promise to Love (28 page)

They were far enough away that their boat was somewhat protected from the flaming debris that was raining down upon the people in the water. Ingrid could hardly bear to watch the desperate plight of the villagers. In addition to having to stay underwater as long as possible to keep their very hair from catching fire, they had to watch out for clumps of burning debris that kept falling out of the sky.

How naïve she and everyone else had been, thinking that they were safe, that if the fire came, all they needed to do was wade out into the water. This fire was not like anything they had ever seen. It was a living monster devouring everything in its path. She, who dealt with small, domestic fires on a daily basis, coaxing flames out of kindling inside her stove box and fireplace, could never have imagined a fire so intense, so huge, so all-encompassing that it could reach right out into the water and grab the fragile lives trying to flee.

How long could it rage with this kind of intensity? How long could she fight against the hurricane winds the wildfire produced?

“I'm going to throw out the anchor now,” Hazel shouted against the howling wind, carefully feeding the weight and rope into the water. “We can't risk going out any farther.”

Ingrid was grateful that the boat had an anchor. Hazel had told her that there was rarely a season in which a ship did not disappear. How much easier it would be for a small boat to be swallowed in this terrible darkness?

She-Wolf lay low and steady on the bottom of the boat, her weight distributed evenly in the middle. Agnes was lying curled around Bertie, both of them somewhat cushioned by the blankets Hazel had thrown in the boat. Ingrid could see that the baby was crying, but she could barely hear him, his cries blending in with the eerie wail of the wind. Ellie, Trudy, and Polly were a tangle of arms and legs, and they held tightly on to one another beside their grandmother's feet. Every so often, Mary would bend down and pet them, trying to be reassuring, but Ingrid could see the terror in her eyes.

She continued to be staggered with the immensity of the fire. Not only was there a wall of flame at least a hundred feet high, that wall blazed for miles along the shoreline—as far as she could see in either direction. It seemed as though the whole world was on fire, and she wondered if the end of the world had come.

As the waves tossed her boat about, as the wind howled like a living thing, as her shoulder and arm muscles began to give out, she wondered—despite her brave words to Trudy—if any of them would get out alive.

The anchor turned out to be useless. The rope was old and rotted from years of disuse.

It snapped within minutes of Hazel throwing it overboard. As strong as she was, Ingrid did not have the strength to fight against the wind forever. When her muscles began to tremble and her arms went numb and she could no longer grasp the oars, she bowed her head in defeat.

“I cannot do it,” she said. “I am so sorry.”

There was nothing that could be done except to allow themselves to be blown off into the vast darkness. With no fire for illumination and smoke like a blanket of fog all about them, their visibility was practically zero. Joshua had once told her that Lake Huron was over two hundred miles long and nearly two hundred miles wide. Without being able to see the shore or the sun for direction, there was a strong possibility that they could be out here for days—assuming that they did not capsize first.

“We need to stay on a sharp lookout for ships,” Hazel said.

“Do you think they might rescue us?” Mary's voice was hopeful.

“No,” Hazel said. “I'm afraid they'll run over us. They can't see any better than we can.”

Ingrid's back muscles felt as though they were on fire. She had temporarily lost the ability to even lift her arms.

I tried to save them, Joshua. I tried so hard to save your family. I did everything I could do.

If they drowned out here, he would never know what happened to them. He would never know how hard she had tried. She wished she could see him just one more time. Then a terrible thought struck—something that had not occurred to her during the crisis of escaping the fire. She did not know exactly where the Foster lumber camp was in relation to the forest fire. For all she knew, the entire state of Michigan was burning. There was no guarantee that Joshua was even still alive.

“I'm cold,” Ellie said.

From the chilliness that was beginning to develop, Ingrid guessed that they had now been blown several miles out toward the middle of the lake.

“We're all starting to get cold,” Hazel said, “except for She-Wolf, who is wearing a warm fur coat. Why don't you girls snuggle up against her?”

“Will she let me?” Ellie asked.

“She-Wolf!” Hazel said.

The dog lifted her head and looked at her.

“Let the little girls lie beside of you.”

Ellie scooted over and carefully snuggled up against She-Wolf. Trudy and Polly followed suit.

Hazel threw a blanket over all of them. “Better?”

“Better,” Ellie answered.

She-Wolf licked the top of Ellie's head as though giving her a reassuring kiss, and then lay still once more, allowing her body heat to warm the children.

Hazel handed the remaining blankets to Agnes, Ingrid, and Mary.

Ingrid's dress had gotten completely soaked while she was cutting the horse loose. Now, with things cooling down, she started to shiver. The dry blanket was the single most comforting thing she had ever been given.

“This might be a very good time to pray, Mother,” Ingrid said as warmth seeped back into her body.

“Oh goodness, child,” Mary said. “I've never stopped.”

 27 

It normally took the best part of two days to go from the camp to Bay City, especially for the teamsters, who were limited by how long their mules could pull the wagons without giving out. It was common to stop and camp out halfway there, but a healthy man in his prime could walk it in one very long day. A man alone on horseback could make it in less.

Many of the younger loggers simply melted into the woods and kept going. Joshua was torn. Part of him wanted to abandon the group and go straight home. On the other hand, he had confidence that Ingrid would have the wisdom to get their family to safety if it became necessary. Hans and he discussed it and decided that it would not be wise to travel all that distance, when it might rain within a few days. The chances were that while they were gone, the camp would roar back into operation without them. Neither man wanted to jeopardize his job.

Hans, having lost a year's wages, was not anxious to lose another day. He needed money to help fuel his dream of creating a fine farm. He said he would write Ingrid a letter as soon as he got to Bay City, letting her know he was alive and well. He had every intention of purchasing land nearby, where they would spend their lives in and out of one another's homes. Nothing would be gained by leaving at this point.

As they hiked along the logging trail, he and Hans enjoyed talking about what a reunion it was going to be come spring! His brother-in-law asked about each child, memorizing their names and little details about them—practicing to be a good uncle, he said.

Although it was customary for the wagons to stop for the night, the feeling of urgency was so great that they all kept going, pushing through, only stopping at intervals to allow the mules to rest.

It was the hardest on Jigger. The old cook clung to the wooden seat, wincing with every bump. At times, he would get out and walk alongside the wagon until his strength gave out and then he would climb back on and endure another few miles.

Bay City was a welcome sight. Katie and the children accompanied the teamsters on to her house, where she would direct them where to put the supplies. Hans went with them to help unload. Jigger, she insisted against the old man's halfhearted protestations, would stay in her and Foster's extra room.

While Katie and the teamsters went one direction, Foster stopped on the street to talk to a middle-aged woman dressed in a blue silk dress and enormous hat. This did not seem like a random meeting. She had apparently been alerted that they had arrived in town and had come specifically to talk to Foster.

“If you ever want to make money in this business, Foster”—she placed both hands on her ample hips—“bringing your men out of the woods six months early is a very stupid move.”

Based on her age and her familiarity with his boss, Joshua jumped to the conclusion that this must be Robert Foster's mother or a bossy aunt. He was wrong.

“This is Delia, my business partner,” Foster said. “Delia, this is my bookkeeper whom I told you about, Joshua Hunter. He'll go over all the records with you.” He slapped his hat against his knee, knocking the dust off. “I know it wasn't a wise business decision, but you weren't there in the woods with us in '67. You don't know how fast a forest fire can move. Frankly, I'd rather live in a leaky tent with a clear conscience the rest of my life than a mansion with the knowledge that I gambled my family's and my men's lives just to dig more money out of the woods.”

“And that”—Delia's voice softened—“is the very reason I wanted to be your business partner. You might just be the only lumberman in the Saginaw Valley who values his men's lives over the almighty dollar.”

To Joshua's surprise, she then tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “Come with me, sweetie,” she purred. “We'll have us a nice cup of tea, something good to eat, and then we'll go over those books together and see if there's any way we can keep this fine man from bankrupting himself . . . and me.”

Her voice grew suddenly businesslike. “Robert, have one of your men bring over your records and logbook as soon as you get home.”

It was disorienting to come straight out of the forest and find himself suddenly on a plank sidewalk, strolling along with a woman he did not know on his arm, a woman who made him distinctly uncomfortable. Delia was quite a force. How in the world had she and Foster gotten to be business partners?

They entered a large, ornate house, the front of which was almost directly on the sidewalk. Inside, it was like entering a different world. Every inch was covered with bric-a-brac. Layers of expensive-looking carpeting cushioned the sound of his boots. Velvet-covered upholstered chairs sat near an ornate fireplace where a small fire was laid out against the chill of an October day.

“Please have a seat, Joshua.” Delia picked up a small bell and rang it. A young woman wearing a dark, long-sleeved dress appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, ma'am?” the young woman said.

“Mr. Hunter has just arrived from a long trek through the forest. I'm certain he is famished. Would you please assemble a tray of sandwiches for him?”

Delia was a study in contradictions. He placed her in her late fifties, but her face beneath the makeup had deeper grooves around her mouth and eyes than what he judged her age to warrant. He was surprised to see what appeared to be a knife scar on the left side of her cheek, cleverly disguised but visible when viewed close up. She was dressed in the kind of clothes that Millicent might have chosen if she were Delia's age and size, but in her eyes, he did not see a shallow woman. Instead, Delia had the seasoned, wary look of certain veterans he knew who had experienced the deadliest battles. He would wager a guess that there was at least one weapon on her person.

“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Hunter.” She settled herself on the comfortable-looking chair directly across from him, extracted a wicked-looking hat pin from her hat, lifted the hat from her head, and gently placed it on the side table at her elbow. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray.

“I have a strong suspicion, ma'am, that your own life would be infinitely more interesting than mine.”

“You would be correct in that assumption, but I have no intention of getting into that discussion today. I don't get many visitors these days, Mr. Hunter,” she said, “and I live a very quiet life. I would very much enjoy knowing where you come from and a little about you.”

“There isn't much to tell.” His hat, which he had been holding in his hand, he now sat on the floor. “I'm a farmer working in a lumber camp to make enough cash for spring planting. It's a common story.”

“The story is common, but you are not, are you, Mr. Hunter?”

The young housemaid arrived at that moment and sat a small tea tray upon the table. “I'll be back with the sandwiches soon.”

“Thank you, Lizzy,” Delia said.

She busied herself pouring the tea, making certain that he had the right amount of sugar and milk. Then she settled back with her own cup, took a sip, and regarded him over the rim. She reminded him of She-Wolf the one time he had seen her lying on the porch, tracking with her eyes a field mouse scurrying across Hazel's yard. He could almost read the dog's mind as she debated whether or not it was worth her time to pounce.

Delia decided to pounce. “It has been my experience that if you dig deeply enough, people are almost always more interesting than they appear. I'm certain there is more to you than a farmer who found his way to a lumber camp.” She took another sip. “Perhaps you would like for me to tell you your story.” She smiled sweetly, but her eyes had narrowed. “I'm rather good at telling other people's stories.”

“Please,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“You are a military man,” she said.

“True, but that is a fairly safe guess these days,” he said evenly. “Most men my age have seen service.”

“Cavalry, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“More tea, Mr. Hunter?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “Were you guessing?”

“I almost never guess, Mr. Hunter. You hold yourself like someone who has spent a large portion of his life in the military. Cavalry from your boots, which have seen better days. Your speech is more educated than most, so I would think that you were an officer.”

“I'm impressed.”

“Then let me impress you even further.” She put another dollop of cream into her tea. “You live approximately two miles west of White Rock, although that is not where you grew up. You moved there because of your wife's family—with whom, through no fault of your own, you are no longer on speaking terms. You were widowed in the early spring, and there is still some cloud of suspicion amongst some members of the community that you may have poisoned your wife. You remarried a woman you do not love. You have five children, a mother whom you and your new wife recently took in, and you have expended enormous energies trying to create a cherry orchard. Your farm is paid for, primarily with your military pay, and although you barely make enough money on your farm to keep body and soul together, you have a reputation in the community as someone who pays his bills and is scrupulously honest in all his financial dealings.”

“You had me investigated,” he said. “Why would you even bother?”

“Ah.” She held up a finger. “Now that is an interesting question. Robert Foster took me on as a business partner when no other decent person in this town would speak to me. I ran a bordello, Mr. Hunter, and I ran it well—but I prayed daily for a way to get out. Robert gave me a chance when I hit bottom. He saw potential in my ability to read men and run a profitable business. He is one of the very few truly decent men I have ever known. He does not and will never know how carefully I watch over him and his family. When he told me that he had impulsively hired you to be his bookkeeper, I sent someone to White Rock to ask some questions.”

She set her teacup down on the small table that sat between them. “By the way, a woman there by the name of Millicent truly despises you—even more so than your mother-in-law.”

“That is not a surprise.”

“You will be happy to know,” she said, “that your family was fine one week ago. I'll make a final decision about your character after I inspect the ledger that Robert will be sending over. I order the supplies for that camp,” she said. “And I know every single item in that store. If there is so much as an ounce of chewing tobacco missing, I'll know.”

“Some people might think that you are joking.” He studied her face. “But you are dead serious about this.”

“I lost my sense of humor a long time ago, Mr. Hunter, when I was twelve.”

“What happened when you were twelve?”

“My stepfather sold me.”

Those four words hit him like a physical blow. Agnes was twelve, and he would gladly kill any man who touched her. “I am so sorry.”

“So am I, Mr. Hunter. So am I. That is why I value the few men I have known who have integrity. I hope you are one of those men.”

He had no doubt that she knew every item in Foster's camp. He also knew that he had been meticulously honest in all of his work. There was nothing to hide.

There was a knock at the front door, and the maid answered it. She arrived a few seconds later carrying two ledger books, one for the store and one for the men's hours and wages. “Mr. Foster sent this,” she said.

“Thank you.” Delia reached for the books. He saw the young woman lean over and whisper something into her ear. Delia nodded. “How are those sandwiches coming, Lizzy?”

“They're ready. I'll bring them in now.”

Delia had lost interest in him. She carried the ledger over to a small round table covered with a fringed brocade cloth. It was one of the few surfaces in the room that was devoid of knickknacks.

He watched as she took a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses from her pocket, placed them firmly upon her nose, opened the first book, and began to peruse the numbers.

The maid brought the sandwiches. Without even glancing at him, Delia waved her hand. “Go ahead and eat, Mr. Hunter,” she said. “And please don't try to be polite. You may have the whole tray if you wish. I know how hungry men can be when they come in from the camps.”