“What would I have done without you beside me?” he asked.
“I sure hope you never have to find out,” she said with a smile.
*****
First thing on Monday morning, Harvey headed to the sawmill at the edge of town. His boots crunched on the gravel as he strode up to the sawmill, the sun casting long shadows over the stacks of freshly cut lumber. The scent of pine was strong in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of sawdust and sweat. He pulled the worn leather pouch from his pocket, its contents more precious now than ever before.
“Morning, Amos,” Harvey greeted the sawmill owner, a wiry man with a face weathered like an old saddle.
“Harvey.” Amos wiped his hands on his apron, leaving streaks of sawdust on the fabric. “Heard about the fire. Mighty sorry.”
“Thanks. I’m here to buy lumber. All I can get for...” Harvey paused, his fingers tightening around the pouch. “This is what I have.”
Amos didn’t bother to count the coins. “I already told you that I’ll donate what I have sitting around. I will give you a fair price for the rest. We take care of our own here.”
“Much obliged,” Harvey replied, the words tight in his throat.
As the men shook hands, a cloud of dust rose from the road. One by one, wagons creaked into view, each laden with timber. Herbert Jensen, the blacksmith, with his broad shoulders dwarfing the wagon seat; Roy Williams, whose laughter could lift spirits as easily as his strong back lifted bales; Melody Appleby, her gray hair escaping its bun—they all came.
“Looks like you may have enough without buying more,” Amos remarked, nodding toward the newcomers. He pressed the pouch back to Harvey. “Save this for feed for your herd for the winter. I think we can rebuild without more lumber than what is being donated by the looks of things.”
“Seems so,” Harvey managed, his voice rough with emotion.
“We’re all putting our lumber together and seeing if more is needed,” Herbert called out, jumping down from his perch. Laughter and chatter filled the air as the community gathered, their hands ready to work, their hearts invested in the rebuild. “We’ll get it all out to your place on Saturday.”
“Stronger. Better,” Harvey murmured to himself, rolling up his sleeves. The mantra wasn’t just words—it was the very sinew and spirit of Clover Creek. With every plank unloaded from the wagons, he felt his dream taking shape again. This was the miracle he’d needed so badly.
No one left until every wagon was unloaded and the planks had been counted.
“Thank you,” Harvey said at last, his voice carrying over the sounds of the mill. “For all of this.”
“None of us would be here if it weren’t for folks like you, Harvey,” Mr. Jensen replied. “We’re all planting seeds for the future, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are,” Harvey agreed.
Chapter Nine
The rooster hadn’t even crowed when Harvey Bedwell’s boots hit the cool floorboards on Saturday morning. He was excited to get started on the barn and said a silent prayer that the community hadn’t forgotten they had promised to help him. His fingers fumbled with the threadbare suspenders as he shrugged into his work clothes. The fabric was worn thin at the knees and elbows, but his oldest work clothes were what he needed to wear for the day he had ahead of him. Today marked a new beginning. He stepped out into the dim light, where the soft lowing of the cows awaited his hands for the morning milking.
It was still before sunup when a line of wagons rumbled into Harvey’s yard. Each wagon was laden with timber—pine and oak—and crates teeming with provisions. Neighbors, their faces set in lines of determination, arrived alongside the goods, ready to roll up their sleeves and rebuild what the fire had so mercilessly taken from him.
Barbara emerged from the house just as the first wagon pulled to a stop. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical bun, and her gray eyes surveyed the scene with a mixture of resolve and gratitude. She stepped purposefully toward the ladies congregating around the food, leading them inside with the efficiency of someone who knew the importance of a hearty meal to fuel a day’s labor.
Her cabin wasn’t big enough for the sheer number of people who were there, but no one complained. She would be sure to build a fire or two outside for them to cook over for the later meals in the day, as she knew they would be cooking three meals for the working men.
“Best get these eggs and bacon started,” Barbara called over her shoulder. “We’ll need plenty of sustenance for everyone.”
Harvey glanced towards Barbara, his heart swelling with a blend of pride and something sweeter, more tender. She moved among the men with a tray of biscuits and slices of salt pork, offering sustenance with a smile that never failed to reach her eyes.
“Here you go, fellas!” she exclaimed, balancing the tray expertly as she maneuvered between the buzzing crowd of workers. “Eat up! You’re going to need your strength!”
Her sister, Emma, wife to Jared Appleby who lived on the nearby hill, followed suit. In her hands, she cradled a pot of coffee, steam rising like a prayer into the cooling air. Men reached out for the warm cups with nods of thanks, each of them putting their empty cups in a specific place for refills later.
“Much obliged, Mrs. Appleby,” one of the men said, tipping his hat.
“Keep it coming,” another added, his voice gruff but eyes twinkling with appreciation.
Harvey took a biscuit which had been formed into a sandwich with salt pork from Barbara, their fingers brushing momentarily, a silent exchange passing between them.
