Note: These sample illustration are early drafts and may be subject to change.
Chapter One
Sawmills and Shenanigans
New Tacoma, Washington Territory, July 1880
The wharf at the Timberland sawmill reeked of saltwater, pitch, and churned-up earth. Logs and rafts of timber bobbed in the boom, stretching across Puget Sound as far as twelve-year-old Jenny Grant could see. More logs arrived each week, hauled from the mouth of the Puyallup River by tugboats and crews working double shifts.
On lazy summer afternoons, Jenny liked to sit on the edge of the wharf and daydream. With her legs dangling over the water, she counted the logs and imagined their jobs—Douglas fir for beams to hold up a roof, western redcedar for shingles to keep out the rain, and western hemlock for framing all the new houses popping up around Tacoma.
She knew them all.
But Jenny wasn’t counting logs—or daydreaming—today.
Instead, she stood ankle deep in wet sawdust and silty mud, anxiously eyeing the boiler shed from across the wharf. The crew swarmed around the newly repaired boiler, while the engineer hovered over the steam engine.
“Better get ready to jump off the wharf,” thirteen-year-old Micah whispered as he stepped up beside her. “The way Papa’s fussin’ over that boiler, you’d think the whole works might blow sky high if somebody blinks.” He grinned—his gray eyes bright with mischief—and gave her a sideways nudge.
Jenny shot her brother a withering glare. Blow sky high?
How could Micah say such a thing? The boiler powered the steam engine, which was the heart of the sawmill. Without the two working together, the saws couldn’t slice, the log carriage wouldn’t roll, and the jack ladder could not haul a single log from the boom.
The timber would keep floating, useless and soggy—just as it had for the past month.
Micah laughed softly. “Don’t worry, Jenny. If the boiler blows, I’ll protect you. I’ll push you off the dock myself.”
Ooh! That Micah! Always full of teasing and high spirits but—she bit back a scalding reply—he was often right.
And that’s what scared her.
Jenny drew a breath and spoke words meant to convince Micah as well as herself. “The crew has been all over the boiler, checking for leaks and tightening bolts. I’m sure it’s tight as a tick.” She elbowed her brother—hard. “And we both know it. So stop teasing me.”
Oof! Micah winced at the jab but kept talking. “I’m not teasing. A boiler can blow without warning. One bit of rust lodged in a safety valve. One hairline crack in a seam—”
“Stop it!” Jenny burst out. She knew the dangers, but Micah couldn’t be right about this boiler. “You’ve been reading far too many accounts of boiler accidents lately,” she accused.
“So what if I have?” Then he winked.
The sparkle in Micah’s eyes told Jenny he was only trying to rile her—most likely to pass the time while Papa made his final inspection before giving the “Let her rip!” order.
And she had fallen for it. Again.
Simmer down, she ordered her whirling thoughts.
But still. Micah ought not to be so off-hand with his comments. “Hasn’t our family seen enough trouble this summer?” she asked, blinking back tears. “If the boiler bursts and the mill can’t start up, how will we ever make it through the summer?”
It had been nearly a month since the cliff beyond the waterfront—saturated by relentless spring rains—had collapsed. Dirt and rock had buried the Northern Pacific railroad tracks and slammed into the Grants’ sawmill like a giant’s fist.
Since then, the mill had gone silent.
Micah’s playful expression turned serious. He dropped a friendly hand on Jenny’s shoulder and said, “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know the mill being shut down upset you so much.”
“I reckon I’ve been too busy making sandwiches, running errands, and fetching tools to think about it.” She sniffed. “Until now.”
“Cheer up.” Micah waved a hand to take in the mill wharf. “The debris is cleared away, new machinery installed, and the wall that nearly buried Caleb is finally rebuilt, stronger and better than before. The start-up whistle will blow any minute now. You’ll see.”
“I hope so.”
Their nine-year-old brother, Gideon, hurried over just then lugging a pail brimful of slightly used—but straight—nails. “Look how many I found and pounded out!” He beamed.
Jenny cracked a smile at his enthusiasm over helping with the cleanup. “Good job.”
Gideon set the tin bucket down and edged closer to Jenny and Micah. “When is the mill starting up?”
“Any minute now.” Jenny waited on tenterhooks for the start-up signal, every nerve tingling.
The boiler belched steam. Pipes hissed. But the whistle stayed silent.
Jenny and Micah exchanged anxious looks. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
Before Micah could answer, Papa stepped away from the boiler and wiped his hands on a rag. “Hold up,” he called to his crew.
The men’s chatter died away. “What’s up, Boss?” Swede Lindstrom asked.
“I’m hearing a faint rattle in one of the valve stems,” Papa said. “We’d best look over the gauges a second time and double-check those feed pumps. Then we’ll run the tests again.”
“It’ll take time,” one man grumbled. “We’re wastin’ daylight.”
“If the boss says, ‘hold up,’” Mr. Harlan, the foreman, barked, “then we hold up.”
Silence, followed by a few “yes, sir’s.”
Papa nodded. “This isn’t unusual for a first run after repairs. Let’s give it all the time we need. Better safe than sorry.”
Most men nodded. Some murmured about exploding boilers.
Jenny shifted her feet and sighed. It felt as if she’d been standing here all morning, waiting to celebrate the mill’s reopening. But now? “I wonder how much longer it will take.”
Micah shook his head. “I dunno.” He whirled around and eyed the log boom. “C’mon. I’ve got an idea to pass the time.” He headed toward the bay side of the wharf.
Puzzled but interested, Jenny followed. Where Micah went, adventure was never far behind. She could use a little adventure right now to get her mind off the mill.
“Wait for me!” Gideon called, scurrying to catch up.
“Where to?” Jenny asked.
Micah glanced around before answering. “Nobody’s paying us any attention. They’re all watching the boiler.” His eyes gleamed. “What do you say to a quick log-rolling contest? You know, just for practice. I want to enter the loggers’ rodeo at summer’s end.”
“Really?” She stopped short. “You think you can compete against all those grown-up lumberjacks and sawyers?”
“You bet I can.” He grabbed her arm to hurry her along. “I can win too. I just need somebody to practice with.” He eyed her. “For a girl, you’re pretty good at log rolling. You’re light on your feet, and you can balance like a cat.”
Glowing inwardly at Micah’s unexpected praise, but annoyed at his for-a-girl remark, Jenny quickened her steps to keep up. She scowled inwardly. Girl or not, she was not just pretty good. Their older brothers Josiah and Eli boasted that Jenny could walk any log in the boom, hop back and forth between them, and keep her footing when the slippery logs dipped without warning.
A sly smile curved Jenny’s lips. She would teach Micah a thing or two about log rolling. Next time, he would think twice before adding “for a girl.”She chuckled and raced ahead.
“Hey, not so fast!” Still toting his bucket of nails, Gideon stayed at her heels.
Soon, all three Grant kids stood at the edge of the wharf. Just below, the boom spread out, its timber held in place by long, heavy “boom sticks” fastened to the pilings. Dozens of loose logs gleamed with bay water, slick as grease and bobbing gently in the swells. Others were enclosed in smaller log corrals, sorted by size or type.
Gideon set the nail bucket aside, sat down on the wharf, and peeked over the edge. His blue eyes widened. “I think I’ll watch.”
“Good idea,” Micah said. He plopped onto his belly and lowered himself feet-first over the edge. He hung suspended by his fingers for a few seconds then let go. Thud! He landed on a fir log, his arms raised slightly for balance. “Come on, Jenny. Hurry up.”
Jenny hesitated. It was a long drop to the nearest log—at least eight or ten feet. One misstep, and she’d find herself in deep, icy water. It might be better if she and Micah waited for high tide, when the logs floated nearly level with the wharf.
But the look in her brother’s eyes and the sting of his for-a-girl remark sent her scrambling to find a different way down.
She spied the wharf’s rickety wooden ladder nailed to the pilings and scurried down the rungs. With practiced ease, she stepped onto the nearest log, bending her knees to absorb the bounce. A dozen steps and four logs later, she joined her brother.
The log bobbed gently beneath her boots, its surface dark with saltwater and age. Deep cracks split the fir bark, each crevice wide enough to catch a boot toe. “Good choice, Micah.”
Twelve feet long and a good fifteen inches in diameter, there was plenty of room to maneuver, and just enough grip to stay afloat. The slap, slap, slap of water against the pilings matched Jenny’s pounding heartbeat. Arms loose, and one foot slightly ahead of the other, she found her spot as close to the center of the log as she dared—without bumping Micah.
Far overhead and across the wharf, the boiler hissed, and men’s voices rose in frustration. No start-up whistle yet, Jenny thought. She had time to show Mr. Micah John Grant who ruled the Timberland log boom.
I do! Miss Jennifer Caroline Grant.
Micah positioned himself just out of reach. The log rocked beneath them, but neither sibling flinched. Jenny’s auburn-red braid swung back and forth behind her back. She eyed her brother.
“Ready?” Micah asked.
“I was born ready,” Jenny shot back, relaxing as her boots found toeholds. “Anything you can do, I can—”
“I know, I know. You can do too,” Micah finished with a snort.
“I was going to say do better.”
Micah rolled his eyes but made no comment. Instead, he shifted his weight and the log began to roll—slowly at first, then faster.
Jenny countered instantly, her feet pattering in quick, practiced steps that sent water fanning out in a silver spray. She leaned into the rhythm and nudged the log into a faster roll, her boots tapping in a blur.
Then she planted her feet in toeholds and shifted her weight. The log lurched into a sudden reverse spin.
Micah yelped, windmilled wildly, and shifted position. Two seconds later, he was backpedaling as hard and fast as he could to stay upright. When he regained his footing, he panted, “Thought . . . you had me that time . . . didn’t you?”
Jenny just smiled.
From his perch on the wharf above, Gideon shouted encouragment, “C’mon, Jenny. You can do it! Micah, don’t let her dump you. Stay with her!”
Jenny focused all her energy on toppling Micah. She surged forward—her boots tap-tap-tapping in rapid-fire motion. Micah set his jaw and matched her pace.
Then—quick as a cat—Jenny reversed direction a second time, spinning the log backward.
Micah’s eyes widened.
Jenny laughed. She was faster than Micah, her steps light and nimble. True, Micah had power, but he wobbled trying to match her shifting steps. “Getting . . . tired?” she teased, breathless.
Micah didn’t answer. Sweat prickled his forehead. Or was it sea spray? He scrambled for a toehold and nearly tipped when he missed. He backpedaled, but one boot skidded across the slick bark. His arms pinwheeled.
“I’ve got you now!” A triumphant laugh bubbled up in Jenny’s throat.
“You kids cut out those shenanigans before you bust your heads!” Mr. Harlan’s shout cracked across the water like a whip.
Jenny’s laughter died mid-gasp. So did her feet.
The log lurched. Micah flew sideways and hit the water with a splash that sent seagulls shrieking and flapping from the pilings.
“Oh, no!” Jenny flailed her arms, trying to stay upright. No use. She lost her footing, slipped from the log, and plunged into the bay.
Cold slammed her with an icy fist. Darkness swallowed her. Salt stung her eyes.
Then something brushed against her legs.
Not a log.
Not seaweed.
Not a buoy’s anchor rope.
Something alive.