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  Whispered Love

  Kathleen Ball

  Copyright © 2018 by Kathleen Ball

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to all the friends I’ve made along the way.

  To Bruce, Steven, Colt and Clara because I love them.

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  The End

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  Tattered Hearts

  About the Author

  Other Books by Kathleen

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  Love Before Midnight

  By Kathleen Ball

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  Chapter One

  “Please, Da, please wake up,” Patricia Clarke cried as she shook her father’s shoulder. It was no use. His cold, stiff body told her he’d likely been dead since shortly after he’d gone to bed and now the break of dawn threatened. A strong wind blew through their canvas tent-like structure. Even the woody scent of fir needles didn’t bring her the usual comfort. The rest of the company would be up in no time, and once they knew her father was dead, she’d be asked to leave.

  She quickly gave him one last kiss on his cold cheek and set about getting dressed. First, she made sure her breasts were bound, and then she pulled on a grubby shirt and torn pants. A cap on her head, drawn low over her forehead came next. Finally, she took out a jar of ashes she kept under her bed and rubbed some on her face. And with that, the transformation from Patricia to Patrick was complete.

  The lumberjacks thought her to be a weak boy, who was too wet behind the ears to pay too much attention to. Her father had been the cook. The best damn cook there ever was, and she helped him without pay. The outfit had figured it was enough that they allowed the cook’s “son” to stay.

  A bubble of panic rose. Now what? She’d be asked to leave, probably today. It was fall already in the Pacific Northwest. The weather was always a gamble this time of year. If it snowed too early she’d never make it to town in time.

  Turning to her father, she reached down and pulled the blanket over his face. She’d have to make herself useful and maybe, just maybe they’d keep her on. Her hope dimmed as she thought about Samuel Pearce, the foreman. For some reason he didn’t seem to be too fond of her.

  Running out of the tent toward the cookhouse, she almost tripped on a tree root. She quickly regained her balance and found Samuel staring at her. It figured. She’d wanted the coffee on before he got up. She slowed her pace until she stood in front of him. He was such a tall man she had to crane her neck to see his face.

  “Something on your mind, kid?”

  His deep strong voice unnerved her. “My, my Da, he’s dead.” Her heart dropped at Samuel’s silence. “I can make the coffee and feed all the men.”

  “You think so?” Samuel cocked his dark brow.

  She puffed out her bound chest. “I know so, sir.”

  “Not today, kid.”

  “But—”

  Samuel sighed and put his strong hand on her shoulder. “You just lost your father. Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to start. Besides, one day with Callins cooking and they’ll be demanding to have you cook. If anyone gives you a hard time let me know. I’ll get a couple of the men to build a coffin. We’ll bury him in a few hours.”

  Patricia blinked back tears that threatened. Samuel being nice was something she had never expected.

  Three hours later, she stood at the grave, dry eyed. She’d have time enough later to cry. It took everything she had to keep her emotions in, but somehow she managed. Her heart lay shattered at her feet but boys didn’t cry. She didn’t look her age of eighteen. Her da often lamented that she should have been married with wee ones already, but it wasn’t safe being a female in an all-men camp.

  It would be harder to keep up her charade without her father, but somehow she’d have to do it. She’d seen what happened to women who were willing to come into the camps and she wanted no part of these men. They were harsh, ill-mannered timber beasts. Not all, but most. But it wasn’t as though they were near any type of civilization.

  It killed her to look so dirty all the time, but no one wanted to come too near a boy who never bathed or washed his clothes. Even these lumberjacks had their standards. That was why she loved the scent of pine so much. It smelled fresh and clean.

  She had so much to figure out. What about the cabin her da had been building? She’d never be able to finish it herself. She’d have to pay someone to do it, and at a big price, she suspected.

  One by one, the men left the grave until all that was left was her, a shovel, and a mound of dirt. He was her father, and it was her responsibility. Heaving a sigh of resignation, she grabbed the shovel and poured one pile of dirt after another onto her da’s casket. He’d come to love living out here in the midst of tall trees and clear rivers. Things hadn’t always been easy, but she’d had the feeling he meant to stay put this time. Just not in this way. Her heart grew heavier with each shovelful she tossed into the grave until he was buried. She’d make a wooden cross and carve his name into it as soon as possible.

  The giant pines swayed back and forth as though saying goodbye and she swallowed hard against her grief. Carrying the shovel, she trudged to the tool shed. She opened the door and jumped when she saw Samuel inside.

  Ducking her head she quickly put the shovel away and as she was about to leave he grabbed her arm.

  He knows!

  Samuel stopped her and looked at her hands. He shook his head. “Don’t you know enough to wear gloves? Look at all those blisters. You’d best wash them. I know you have an aversion to water but clean them good. There’s salve in the supply cabin. I’ll get it and leave it on your bunk.”

  She stared at the ground and shuffled her feet back and forth.

  “Why is it you almost never look at me when I’m talking to you? Look I know you’re a good kid and all, but you need to toughen up if you plan to make it out here. You father was too soft on you. Clean up, use the salve, and get some rest. Tomorrow you do the cooking. Let me warn you. The men will give you a hard time. That’s just the way it goes. You keep your head down and cook. Understand?”

  She glanced up at him and nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. You know it wouldn’t kill you to clean the rest of you too.”

  Without a word she hurried from the shed. What she wouldn’t give to be clean. Totally clean. She bathed often but afterwards she had to put ash on her face, a bit of dirt in her hair and wear the same old smelly clothes. It was her only protection against the men discovering her secret.

  Samuel sat at the small table in his cabin. As foreman, he had the biggest cabin. He didn’t spend too much time in it. Usually he sat in the cookhouse with a cup of coffee and did his paperwork. Not tonight. Everyone had liked and respected Walt Clarke, and his death had hit some hard. A few of the men were all for throwing Pat out of camp. They thought making him leave would finally make a man of him.

  He’d been concerned enough someone would make the attempt that he had a couple of men standing guard at the boy’s tent. Things would cool off by the morning. H
e just hoped Pat could cook. Foreman or not, there was nothing Samuel could do; if the boy couldn’t do a man’s work he was out.

  The next morning, Samuel washed and got dressed. He tried to set a good example to the men. Not that it worked. Most only had one change of clothes and cleanliness wasn’t too high on their list of priorities. They were a rough lot and there didn’t seem to be a way to change them. They were hard workers though.

  The ground was hidden by the fog and it always gave him an eerie feeling. Shrugging it off, he walked to the cookhouse, hoping all was going well. The guards were gone from the Clarke tent. Hopefully that was a good sign.

  The smell of strong coffee filled the air, and he smiled. He nodded to the many greetings as he entered and sat at his table. His three right-hand men were already seated and eating. Leon Getty, Fred Bean, and Hank Blue were all good, loyal men. He trusted them implicitly, and the men knew to follow their orders. “How’s the food?”

  Leon wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Better than old Walt. That boy has been working like crazy doing by himself but the biscuits are light, the hot cakes are good, and the eggs aren’t brown.”

  Before he could say a word, Pat put a cup of coffee and a plate of chow in front of him and hurried away. Pat still stank, but his hands were clean at least. Samuel eyed his food with interest. He picked up a biscuit, and it didn’t feel like a rock. Next, he tried a bite of the hot cake. It too was light. And when he put a forkful of scrambled eggs in his mouth, he actually closed his eyes at the heavenly taste.

  “Try the coffee, boss,” Fred Bean encouraged.

  He took a swig, and a jolt of surprise widened his eyes. That small boy knew how to cook a damn sight better than his old man had. Samuel realized that all chatter had ceased and everyone was watching him. He glanced in Pat’s direction and read the worry on his face. “You done good, kid. Real good. You got yourself a job.”

  Pat’s smile was bigger than Samuel had ever seen before. His shoulders relaxed and Samuel realized just how much Pat had riding on this one meal. He’d sure pulled it off.

  Hank Blue slapped his hand down on the wooden table. “Looks like we have ourselves a cook!”

  Noise once again took over the hall. And relief filled Samuel. He hated giving workers the boot. He never fired anyone without just cause, but he couldn’t keep someone on just because his pa died either. He’d toughen up Pat in no time. The boy needed to be able to defend himself up here. Some of the men weren’t the most savory characters, but they pulled their weight.

  “Eat up. We have a lot to do before winter sets in. Leon make sure everyone has a place to winter. I don’t want to bury any frozen loggers this year.”

  “Sure thing, boss. I might have to find someone willing to bunk with the boy. His pa never finished the cabin. I’ll figure something out,” Leon said as he stood to leave. “Sad thing about Walt.” Fred and Hank both stood and followed Leon outside. Soon after the rest of the men followed and quiet fell over the cookhouse.

  Samuel watched Pat scramble to gather up all the dirty dishes and pile them on the counter near the stove. The piles were almost as tall as he was. He sure was a puny fella. “Got any family hereabouts?”

  Pat turned. “No, it was just me and my da.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Ireland, County Tyrone. My mum died on the crossing. Da and I have traveled ever since. He was a wanderer, and he never planted his feet. This was the one place he wanted to stay.” He sighed loudly. “He got his wish.”

  “As long as you pull your weight, you have a job here.”

  “Thank you.” Pat turned back and started washing the dishes.

  He was a strange little guy. But he could cook and that was all that mattered. Samuel stood and headed for the door.

  Pat closed her eyes and thanked God when Samuel left. She’d gotten the job. A huge weight lifted off her shoulders. Every bone in her body ached, and her blistered hands hurt, but in light of everything else none of that mattered. Now all she had to do was pay someone to finish the cabin and she’d be set for winter. She refused to think past winter. Right now, it was survival one day at a time. She was strong and tough where it mattered most—on the inside. She was a survivor.

  She finished the last of the dishes but there was no rest to be had. Lunch needed to be started, and they’d be expecting a lot of food. Lunch usually included the great trinity of beans, pork, and bread. The loggers worked hard, and they needed to eat a lot more than the average man. It was hard physical labor the sawdust savages did, and they expected three good meals a day.

  She’d put the pork and beans on, set the bread to rising, and then she’d check on the cabin and see what still needed to be done. This was the time she liked best, when all the men were working. She’d have to be quick about it. She had plenty of cooking to do. She hoped she’d be able to keep up with it all with her father gone.

  Stepping outside, she noticed that the fog had lifted. Sometimes it lingered until afternoon but today it was clearing and a watery sun was trying to poke through the clouds. She walked past Samuel Pearse’s cabin and not too far beyond that was the cabin her father had started. A bittersweet sensation filled her as she approached. The cabin would provide her with the shelter she needed, but her da wouldn’t be there to share it with her. The structure was a one-room log cabin with a loft for her to sleep in. It had a wood stove but no roof. Three of the walls were completed with the fourth halfway up. It seemed like there was still a lot to do, but somehow she’d get it completed.

  Sorrow encased her and refused to let go. It was the way of things, she supposed. She turned and walked out of what would be the doorway when Big Hans stepped into her path. She had no liking for the big blond brute. A shiver of fear went up her spine.

  “You’ll be needing a protector up here now. I’d be happy to do it for a price.” He smiled a sickly almost toothless smile. His beard had food in it, and his breath was fetid. He wasn’t a man to tangle with. He’d even tried to buy her from her da.

  “I work this camp just like any other man. I’m under the protection of the lumber company and Samuel Pearse. You know better.”

  “Your pappy ain’t here no more, so I say you’re fair game. I have an itch that only you can take care of, and I aim to have ya.” His voice was low and filled with malice.

  Pat backed up until she hit the partially built wall. “I’ll scream.”

  “Just like a little sissy boy. I’d enjoy hearin’ ya scream.”

  She quickly dodged his hands, clambered over the half wall, and climbed the ladder to the loft. Then she used all her strength to drag the ladder up with her. Her arms felt as though they’d been pulled out of their sockets.

  His face was mottled red. “Get down here,” he roared. “You’ll be sorry when I get my hands on you.”

  “I’m not going to let you touch me. Find someone else!”

  “Why should I? I’ve got you, and I will have you one way or the other. Now get down here.”

  Leon Getty suddenly appeared. “Hans you’re docked a day’s pay. Any more threats and you’re out of here.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’m the strongest one you’ve got. I’ll get back to work.” He turned and glared at her causing her to shiver.

  “Pat, I need you. Samuel’s been hurt. Just shove the ladder off the edge and I’ll put it up so you can get down.”

  “Thanks, Leon.” She gave the ladder a shove and cringed at the pain in her shoulders. She watched Leon put the ladder up and hold it as she climbed down. “How hurt?”

  “Hurt enough to need a bit of doctoring. Come on.” Leon raced out the doorway.

  She had to run to keep up with Leon’s long stride. Thank goodness, it wasn’t far to Samuel’s cabin. She braced herself not knowing what to expect. Sometimes men came back with missing limbs. She should have participated more when her father doctored the men. She knew a lot but watching wasn’t the same as doing.

  The door to the cabin
was open, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Samuel sitting on a chair holding his arm. No blood poured off him. That was a good start. She hurried over to him.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “My arm got caught between a tree and the dirt,” he gritted out.

  “It could be crushed. Take off your shirt and I’ll have a look.” Her mouth went dry as Leon helped him out of his shirt. The muscles on his chest were chiseled and covered in a sprinkling of dark hair. His stomach was flat and tight and his shoulders… Oh my, his shoulders. She shook her head. It was his arm that was injured, not the rest of him.

  Pulling a chair next to him, she sat down and gingerly examined his arm. He winced only once. He had a dark bruise already spreading over most of his upper arm and a long jagged gash oozing blood.

  “It’s badly sprained and in need of stitches. It’ll heal nicely as long as you don’t use it. I mean it—you’ll have to keep it still. You’re lucky you didn’t crush your arm.”

  “As soon as it happened I was sure that would be the outcome. Thanks, kid. I can still work, though.”

  Men were so stubborn. “No. You can tell people to work, but you’re not to lift a thing. I’m going to splint your arm, and you’ll need to keep it in a sling.”

  He frowned. “For how long?”

  “Four weeks at least. Leon, can you get me bandages?”

  “Sure thing.” He hurried out of the cabin.

  Samuel sniffed the air. “You stink, you know. You’re going to have to take a bath if you’re to help me.” He held her gaze.