Authors: Christine Michels
The noise level rose in direct proportion to the velocity of the wind wailing around the house and each additional person in the room. Now, Sheriff Chambers struck up a conversation with Tom concerning the rustling he was investigating; Mr. Wright and Rattlesnake Joe commenced to arguing about the merits of raising sheep versus cattle; and Fong launched into an impossible to understand diatribe while simultaneously swatting Eagle Shadow's hand with a wooden spoon for dipping into one of his pots before it was on the table. The kitchen became positively clamorous. Only Stone remained silent, standing to one side observing everything silently and, perhaps, with a touch of superiority.
"Delilah, you can sit there next to Mr. Fong," Eve directed a moment later, pointing at a chair. "Everyone else pretty much has their favorite spot."
As the hands took their seats at the table, Delilah noted to her chagrin that the only vacant spot at the table for Sheriff Chambers, who was still in conversation with Tom and had not yet seated himself, was next to her. She tried to catch Eve's eyes to let her know just how unhappy she was with the situation, but Eve was industriously involved in passing fresh bread and bowls of steaming vegetables. A moment later, Matt took his seat.
"Hello, Mrs. Sterne," he said. He sounded weary, a bit pained perhaps, still she could not allow herself to be seduced by sympathy.
Delilah nodded, scarcely sparing him a glance, and carefully adjusted her skirts so that they stayed on her chair. "Sheriff," she murmured with a cool nod.
Plates were served and coffee poured. Conversation quickly settled into a discussion of how many calves were left to brand, which cows were late dropping their young, and how many steers they had available to sell. Tom, in his seat opposite Delilah's was obviously laboring, though he tried to hide it by staying involved in the conversation. Eve aided him as much as possible without being intrusive, but Tom ate little.
Having nothing consequential to contribute to the conversation, and determined to avoid discourse with Matt Chambers despite her complete inability to forget for one second that he sat at her side, Delilah turned to the man on her right. "So, Mr. Fong," she said. "How did Eve happen to find such a wonderful cook?"
"Cook?" the man questioned. "She find diffalent cook?" his tone seemed a touch querulous.
"I meant you, sir," Delilah hastened to explain. "You're a wonderful cook."
"Oh. Is good.” He nodded, accepting the compliment as his due without ever answering her question.
"So, how did she find you?" Delilah asked again.
"I find her. Lose camp cook job. Come here. Tell missy I cook. She say can't pay velly much. I say is okay. I stay.” His story finished, the man shrugged and returned to his meal.
"Well, I'm glad you did.” Delilah looked at her sister sitting next to Tom, letting the conversation flow around her as she pushed food around on her plate, eating little. Her attention seemed to be centered more on getting food into her husband than on her own sustenance. At least the cooking was one responsibility that would not burden Eve in the days to come.
At that moment, a blinding flash of light suddenly eclipsed the feeble light of the lamps as lightning leapt across the sky. The cabin shook with the powerful resonance of the deafening clap of thunder that almost immediately ensued. Yelping with fear, Poopsy ensconced herself beneath Delilah's skirts and refused to move. Delilah felt the small dog's shudders against her legs, and reached down to pat her reassuringly as she stared at the windows. As though the bellies of the clouds themselves had been ruptured, a torrent so heavy that it made conversation all but impossible deluged the small log house. Rain poured down the windows in sheets so thick it was impossible to see. Nervously Delilah returned to her meal. She had never liked storms. Involuntarily, she gave a small shriek of surprise herself as another brighter flash and louder crack reverberated through the house.
"My heavens!" Eve exclaimed. "We don't often get storms like this."
"Are you all right?" Matt asked, looking down at Delilah.
She made the mistake of meeting his gaze. Intense, unreadable, steel-hued, magnetic eyes. Her heart leapt into her throat to perform a staccato dance. As though he could see the pulse pounding there, his gaze dropped for a moment to her throat, liberating her as it did. "I. . . yes," she murmured hoarsely, finding her voice. She hastily lowered her eyes to focus on his mouth. "Of course," she added more strongly. "I was just startled."
He nodded, but said nothing. Delilah noted that he had a full lower lip and slightly thinner top lip. For the first time in recent memory, she found herself wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by a man.
This
man. Would he kiss her some day? Did he find her attractive enough to even try? He'd never given any indication that he did. But, . . .
What was the matter with her? She neither wanted nor needed him to find her attractive! Wrenching her gaze away, Delilah focused her attention on the food on her plate.
"Well, one thing about this here kinda storm," old Rattlesnake commented, "is that they tend to wear theirselves out real quick, ma'am."
"I certainly hope you're right," Eve replied. "If it lasts too long, the house could end up floating down the river."
Tom smiled wearily. "I don't think you need to worry about that my dear. Listen. See, it's already letting up."
And it was, though Delilah was more aware of Matt's elbow inadvertently touching her arm as he cut his meat than she was of anything else. Disregarding the urge to rub at the nagging spot, she took another bite of her supper and focused on the storm that had become the neWest conversational topic.
Contrary to Rattlesnake's prediction, moments later it seemed obvious that the storm had settled in for a time. A good heavy soaking rain continued to pour down while in the distance lightning flashed as the more turbulent vanguard of the gale moved on.
An hour later, having finished coffee and a wonderful bread pudding with sauce that Fong had concocted for dessert, the rain had still not let up. The first to grow impatient was Stone. He pushed back his chair, scraping the legs noisily on the smooth plank floorboards, and said, "Well, I think I'll see if I can make it to the bunkhouse without drownin'. Thank you for supper, ma'am," he nodded at Eve.
"You're welcome, Stone," she responded.
Then he looked to Mr. Fong. "Fong," he said with a nod.
Fong favored him with an imperious wave of his hand and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. You go. Sleep good."
Moments later, the other hands began to straggle out into the pitch-black night. The first to follow was Mr. Eagle Shadow. The last was Rattlesnake who looked out the door at the pouring rain with a decidedly disconsolate expression on his face. He looked at Eve. "If I don't make it in for breakfast in the mornin' will ya be so kind as to have someone check on me? At my age, I could catch my death in that."
"Of course, Rattlesnake," Eve assured him as she rose to begin clearing the table.
Rattlesnake stared at her a moment, then shaking his head in apparent disgust over the density of the youthful mind, clapped his hat on his head and stepped out onto the porch muttering something about
no respect
.
Noting that Fong had set a tub of water on the stove to heat for washing dishes, Delilah rose to help clear the table, thankful to have an excuse to escape Sheriff Chambers' overpowering presence.
"Well, I guess I should be going too," Chambers commented. His chair scraped against the floorboards as he moved back from the table.
"You can't ride all the way back to Red Rock in this downpour," Tom protested, "or you
will
catch your death. Especially when you're already feeling less than yourself from tanglin' with that cougar you were telling me about. If you don't mind sleepin' on the floor, you're welcome to spread your bedroll in front of the fireplace for the night."
"Sleeping on a warm, dry floor has never bothered me," the sheriff replied. "But I don't know.” Moving to the window, he stared off into the distance. In a movement that seemed entirely unconscious, he began rubbing at his bound ribs. Delilah noted that a few spots of blood now marred the shirt that had earlier been clean. And she'd bandaged his ribs tightly with numerous layers of the fabric from her petticoat. It could only mean one thing: The worst of the gouges were still bleeding. Matt, obviously aware of that, was weighing the severity of the weather against his need for a few stitches to close the most serious of the wounds. But, with his body already weakened from loss of blood, would even this amazingly strong man be able to ride through hours of chilling rain without becoming ill? Delilah's instincts told her it would be a poor bet—and her instincts were usually right.
With a sinking feeling deep in her stomach, she made an offer she knew she'd regret. "Sheriff . . . ” He turned to look at her. "If Eve will furnish a needle and some thread, I should be able to stitch the deepest scratches for you."
He stared at her for a moment without comment. Delilah sensed Eve's regard as well, though she didn't turn to meet her eyes. She knew from whence Eve's concern arose, yet Delilah had already tended this man's ribs once. With the additional security of being surrounded by people, she was certain she could do it again.
"Well, of course I will," Eve said finally, drawing Matt's gaze. "It's not like there's a shortage of thread.” She looked at Delilah. "You can just help yourself to what you need from my sewing basket.” She indicated the basket next to the stack of mending sitting before the fireplace.
Delilah nodded. "Thanks."
Matt spoke to Delilah, "You've stitched people up before?"
She nodded, but before she could say anything Eve interjected. "Oh, my, yes. Delilah is quite accomplished in medicine. I cut my palm once—the knife blade slipped when I was carving a roast—and Delilah stitched it up almost as good as new.” She lifted her left hand to display a narrow two inch scar.
Matt's gaze hadn't left Delilah during the entire narration of Eve's brief story except for a fleeting glance at the scar. Standing beneath that potent regard, Delilah was already beginning to regret her offer. "All right," he said finally in a low voice. Then, abruptly turning to look back at Tom, he added, "If you're sure it's not an inconvenience?"
Tom nodded. "I'm sure. Fong will be setting up a small cot in the porch for himself, and Delilah will be in the spare room, so that nice warm spot in front of the fireplace might as well get used. You go on out and collect your bedroll. For my part, I'm gonna head back to bed."
Eve immediately turned to help her husband. "Good-night everyone," she said.
"Good-night, Eve," Delilah responded as she focused on the dishes. "Sleep well."
"'Night, Tom. . . ma'am," Matt said.
Fong said nothing.
Delilah waited for the sound of Matt closing the door as he left to retrieve his bedroll before she risked turning around. Blast! Was she never going to be rid of the man's presence? Now, it seemed that even the weather conspired against her. She finished drying the last of the dishes as Fong threw the dishwater out the back door.
"Missy . . . ?” Delilah looked at Fong as he reentered the house. "You need wata? You get now. Fong go sleep."
"Oh, yes. Certainly.” She was glad to have a task to occupy her thoughts. Taking the basin Fong offered, Delilah entered the back porch to pump some water. She found that the pump needed to be primed quite extensively, with a large dipper of water kept for the purpose, before it began to work. Once her basin was filled, she moved back into the kitchen to place the water on the stove to warm. "You don't happen to have any extra whiskey do you Fong?"
Fong nodded. "Missy Eve use lots. Fong make.” He pulled a bottle from behind the side-board and held it up. The liquid within looked like no whiskey Delilah had ever seen. It had a greenish tinge. Seeing her hesitation, Fong reassured her. "Fong whiskey betta for hu't.” Then, shaking his head and briskly moving an admonishing finger from side to side he added, "No dlink."
"Pardon me?" Delilah asked, not understanding.
Fong mimed, tipping the bottle to his lips. "Not fo' dlink."
Hesitantly taking the bottle from him, Delilah removed the cork and smelled the liquid within. Unprepared for the power of the fumes, she jerked her head back, blinking burning eyes. "Whew! That smells. . . strong!” She carefully raised it again to take a more cautious whiff.
Fong grunted. "Yes. Wo'k velly velly good for hu't."
Well, it would have to do, Delilah decided, though she would have preferred the good old whiskey she knew. "Thank you."
Fong nodded. "You need bandage too?"
"Yes. I was just going to ask if you had anything."
"Fong have.” Going to a chest in the corner, he removed a stack of clean white rags and placed them on the table. "Need many for mista Tom.” Then, without waiting for a reply from Delilah, he added. "Fong cook breakfast now. Then sleep."
"Breakfast!" Delilah repeated incredulously.
He nodded. "Need cook long time."
Delilah observed as he scooped raw wheat kernels into a double-layered cheesecloth bag, rinsed it in a pan of cold water, and then placed it in a large pot of clean water on the wood stove. After adding another log to the coals, he said, "Fong sleep now," and suiting action to words, he moved into the back porch.