Authors: Jillian Hart
The men looked at Dakota and he looked back at them.
Finally, the other man shrugged. “She told me her husband saw your Allison down in Denver last week when he was there on railroad business. She goes by Alice now, but it was her all right. Mr. Barker told her you were getting yourself a new bride. Mrs. Barker said it didn't sound like Allisonâor Alice, I guess â was too happy about that.”
“I'm sure she was only making some polite response. You know how Mrs. Barker likes to add to the truth to make the telling of something more dramatic.”
“I don't know,” Dakota muttered. “I can still hear Allison complaining. The table was too rough. The sun was too hot. No one came to visit. The cows had flies. The flowers didn't grow.”
“She hoped for more out of life than me,” Noah said ruefully. “She knew how much land I owned and she pictured herself entertaining governors and other important people. The only one who ever came out to see us was Mrs. Barker and I am grateful to her for that.”
“Ranch women know what to expect,” Dakota said firmly.
Noah nodded. “That's just it. Maeve lived in Boston for most of her life, except for a few years in Ireland when she was young. She hasn't even had a chance to think of what life here would be like.”
It was quiet again as the men considered that.
“I'd sure hate to lose her,” Bobby said.
“We don't even know for sure that she can cook,” another ranch hand said philosophically.
“With hair like that, I'm not worried,” a different cowboy said. “Irish women are born cooking.”
“I know she can do better than Dakota,” Bobby said with a look at Dakota.
“I'd like to see you make a flapjack worth eating,” the older ranch hand retorted with no rancor in his voice.
Noah knew a lot of bickering went on in the bunkhouse and he usually turned a deaf ear to it. He'd had a long day himself and was looking forward to slipping into bed and sleeping.
“The Reverend Olson might be talking to some of you.” Noah didn't have to look around to know he'd caught their full attention. The reverend was respected around here. “He says you're to be my chaperones. Make sure I sleep in the room off the bunkhouse and don't go to the house at night.”
Bobby grinned. “So the preacher is worried you might want to be more married than you think.”
Noah felt the tension shoot through his jaw. “He's not meaning me particularly. He just knows the value of a woman's reputation in these parts. For that matter, I should make sure none of you leave the bunkhouse for long periods of time at night, either.”
“You can count on us,” the men chorused in unison. “We'll take care of her.”
Noah looked at them skeptically.
“Do you think she should be cooking for us tomorrow at all?” Bobby asked then, his hand going up to scratch his head. “She looked pretty tired.”
“As far as I'm concerned, you can treat her like a lady of leisure tomorrow,” Noah said. “She doesn't need to cook. Show her we're friendly around here. Fix her up a cup of tea in the afternoon.”
The men nodded their heads and Noah reached up to feel his beard.
“Whoever gets up first, fill the washbasin with water and set it on the stove to heat,” he said. “We're all shaving our beards off tomorrow morning before we leave the bunkhouse.”
“What?” the men protested in near unison.
“You want us to freeze our faces?” Dakota demanded to know. “It'll be a hard winter if I read the signs right.”
“The little girl is afraid of men with beards,” Noah said. “That's why she screamed.”
The men were silent for a moment.
“That was the worst scream I ever heard,” Bobby finally said. “I've heard trapped animals show less terror. I guess I can give up my whiskers.”
The other men nodded.
“Thank you,” Noah said with no small satisfaction. He'd done what he could to help his guests. Tomorrow was another day.
He walked over to the door that led to the private room and went inside, closing the door behind him. Even though he was tired, he couldn't resist looking out the window facing the house. He saw a faint light in his bedroom. Maeve must have the lantern with her as she went to bed. If Maeve was going to learn that ranch life wasn't for her, it would be good if she did it soon. It would sure ease his mind to have his hopes cut down before they started to grow inside him.
Chapter Four
H
ours later, Maeve lay in bed, the darkness all around her, and gave thanks for the warmth of the blankets. Her daughter was curled up beside her and she could no longer hear the wind blowing outside. Dim light, the kind that came just before dawn, was starting to shine through the frost-covered windows. She was going to get up in a few minutes. She planned to show the men what a good cook she was and she knew they ate early. Sliding away from Violet gently so she wouldn't wake the child, she reached for a spare quilt that was sitting on the chair by the bed.
She pulled the quilt to her and then sat up, wrapping it around her. She'd never known the luxury of having a spare blanket and she marveled at the bounty found in this house. The bedroom had none of the discord of the parlor. All of the furniture here, from the bed with its peeled log frame to the wide dresser made of walnut, had been built by a craftsman, but it wasn't made for show. There were no carved vines to gather dust and no inlaid marble. She doubted the desires of his wife had influenced Noah to buy any of the furniture in this room.
Last night, she had explored the kitchen and realized that cooking for the ranch hands took place in the main house. A solid plank table, the boards pressed together so they met perfectly, stood in a large room off the work area. At least twenty people could sit up to the table with the benches and chairs arranged around it. At the end of the room, a shelf held stacks of heavy white plates and bowlsâthe kind of dishes the servants used back East. In the center of the table, a jar of honey and several sets of salt and pepper shakers were grouped together.
Maeve stood and bent over to light the lantern on the stand by the bed. She kept the flame turned down so she wouldn't waken Violet. She did not need much light anyway.
She walked over to the side wall and opened the lid of her trunk before slipping her hands down to where she kept her two work dresses. They were black cotton dresses with full white aprons, freshly washed, starched and ironed each week. The lady of the house where Maeve had done most of her heavy work insisted that all the women on her staff wear black dresses with white aprons. Not that she paid for the clothing, of course. Fortunately, the cook had outgrown a couple of dresses and offered them to Maeve. She was grateful even though they had been washed so often the dye was faded in spots and the cuffs on the sleeves were frayed.
The lady had given Maeve a critical look when she first saw her in one of the dresses. The woman didn't refuse to let her wear them, although she had added the requirement of a white cap to cover Maeve's copper-colored hair. Her employer would have bleached the freckles from Maeve's face and the pink from her cheeks if she'd been able. A servant, the woman had said that same day with her lips pressed together in disapproval, shouldn't look too colorful since a proper maid blended into the background so her betters would be the ones to gather the admiring glances.
Maeve pulled a dress and an apron out of the trunk and set them on the chair by the bed. She wasn't going to wear a cap. She would pull her hair back and put a net around the bun she made, but she wasn't going to be a servant in this house. Or anywhere else likely. After she'd lost her job, no other house in Boston would even talk to her when she called at the servant's door to ask for employment. The newspapers had ensured that the whole city was aware of the shame her husband had brought to their name.
That was all in the past, though, Maeve told herself as she washed, fixed her hair securely and dressed. She had hung her gray dress up last night and she checked it to be sure it was drying. While she was thinking of it, she took the sprig of mistletoe out of the dress pocket and set it on the low dresser. Even if it didn't result in any kissing, the sprig would be a fond Christmas decoration for her.
Violet turned over a few times, but she stayed sleeping as her mother quietly moved around the room doing a few other things. Maeve had heard the back door to the house open a few minutes ago and now a board creaked as someone walked on the kitchen floor.
She went over and kissed Violet on the forehead.
“Mommy's going to be close by,” she whispered, thinking how she'd dreamed of being able to say those words to her daughter as she headed off to work. She could be a proper mother for the first time in years, able to hear any call Violet might give.
Maeve left the lantern burning low when she exited the room. The kitchen was only a few feet down the side hall from the bedroom and she'd heard more sounds. She'd put on her leather shoes because they were still damp and she didn't want them to shrink as they dried. The heels clicked on the plank floor so she knew Dakota, who was likely the one who was in the kitchen, would be expecting her.
The door to the kitchen was closed so she gave a soft knock. She didn't want to startle the older man.
She didn't wait for an answer before she pushed the door open.
“Oh.”
It wasn't Dakota.
The blaze in the cast-iron cookstove gave off some light because the firebox in the front of the stove was wide-open. Maeve had to step closer before she could truly see, though.
“Noah?” she asked.
The man stood there with his shirt unbuttoned and a towel draped over his shoulder. His hair was tousled and his beard was covered with what looked like white soap. He stood by the stove with a kettle in one hand and a bucket in the other.
“I'm boiling water,” he whispered. “I didn't want to wake you up. You should be in bed asleep.”
“I got up to make breakfast.” She squared her shoulders so she'd look ready to work and took a step toward him. “I plan to make coffee so I can do that for you.”
Noah shook his head. “The water's for washing up.”
Maeve looked down at the top of the stove then and noticed that several pans and kettles were boiling. Steam was rising up from them into the cold air of the kitchen.
Noah moved a kettle on the stove and uncovered the open circle where a burner usually was. A golden light flared as a piece of wood snapped and she could see Noah clearly in the surrounding darkness. His eyes were watching her and there was a kindness in them that she hadn't seen before. Maybe he was getting used to her, she thought hopefully.
“I wanted to have this all done before you got up,” he explained.
“I can help,” Maeve offered as she reached for handle of one of the pans.
“You have a child to take care of,” Noah said as he took the handle from her. “That's work enough for anyone.”
Maeve hesitated. “Violet will be fine. She just needs a little time to get used to where she is.”
Taking a deep breath, Maeve continued, “Sometimes I think it might help to have another child around. Someone for Violet to play with.”
Noah shrugged. “I didn't have any brothers or sisters and I did fine.”
“So you don't like lots of children?” Maeve whispered, her heart sinking.
Noah didn't answer because the back door leading to the kitchen opened again and a dark shape came into the room.
“That'll be Dakota,” Noah said to her and then turned to the ranch hand. “What do you think? Does Violet need another child around to play with?”
The cowboy stood still in the darkened doorway.
“I know more about calves and any kind of animal than I do a little girl,” Dakota finally spoke. “But most young'uns like to have another young'un to race around the corral with.”
Noah shook his head. “I can't see Violet racing around the barn so I think she's fine being just one child.”
Maeve wished she'd never asked.
“I can handle breakfast by myself,” Maeve told the older man. She wanted to show Noah she could do the job. Her friend, the cook in the house in Boston, had shown her how to make some elegant dishes just in case Maeve ever landed a better position in another house. If they had the ingredients, she could make eggs Benedict, a recipe from Delmonico's Restaurant in New York City.
“He's not here to cook breakfast,” Noah said as he gestured for the ranch hand to come closer to them. “He's taking water back to the bunkhouse. They can't boil it fast enough over there.”
Maeve adjusted her assumptions about how clean the cowboys were. Maybe they were taking baths.
“Isn't it awfully cold?” she asked.
“The blizzard ran itself out in the middle of the night,” Dakota said as he walked up to where Maeve and Noah were standing. “I think today is going to be nice enough. Might even get the supplies delivered if the mercantile can spare Jimmy.”
Dakota's face was easy to see, too, when he was close enough to the fire. The years had taken their toll on him. She wondered if Noah had assigned him to be the cook to give him some relief from the harder work outside. He was spry enough, though. The cowboy wore suspenders as he stood there. They were loose and hung down to his sides instead of being tight upon his shoulders. She noticed he had a bar of soap in one hand.
Just then Maeve heard Violet calling her.
“Mommy,” the girl repeated herself with more volume. She sounded afraid.
“I have to go,” Maeve said as she started toward the door. “She was asleep last night when I put her to bed and she'll wonder where she is.”
“Might as well get some more sleep yourself,” Noah called after her. “Breakfast will be late this morning.”
Maeve stepped into the bedroom and rushed to her daughter.
“It's all right,” she assured the child as she bent down to hug her. “We're safe here. And I've got you.”
Maeve took off her dress and apron, draping them over the nearby chair. Then she lay down on the bed and cuddled Violet close to her. She could feel the beat of the girl's heart slow as she relaxed. Noah was right. It wouldn't hurt to lie here for a few more minutes. The sight of him standing there by the stove had her flustered anyway. It was likely the darkness that added the feeling of intimacy, but it was disconcerting anyway.
She listened to the sounds of Noah and Dakota talking as she watched Violet fall back to sleep. Maeve couldn't hear what the two men were saying, but the sound of their voices quickly lulled her to sleep, as well.
* * *
Meanwhile, Noah almost burned his fingers on the handle of the latest kettle. He drew his hand back with a soft hiss and shook it before reaching for a kitchen towel.
“It's going to blister,” he said to Dakota, who was pouring water from the bucket into another pan.
Noah held out the towel to the ranch hand. “Put some cold on this.”
“You got to pay attention when you deal with hot water,” the cowboy said as he did as asked.
Noah took the wet towel and wrapped it around his finger to stop the throbbing.
“Got to pay attention about other things, too,” Dakota added.
Noah looked up at him. “What other things?”
The ranch hand jerked his head toward the hallway that led to the main bedroom. “Reverend Olson is going to be asking us if you're keeping to your word and staying in the bunkhouse.”
“I don't think the reverend meant I couldn't come into my own kitchen to boil some water,” Noah protested. “Besides, I thought she would still be asleep. It's chilly being up this early in the morning and I know she had a hard day yesterday.” Noah realized he was talking too much, but he couldn't seem to stop. “I had no reason to think she'd be anywhere but asleep.”
Dakota shrugged. “All I'm saying is that a man can start out innocent enough and land into trouble.”
“Not me,” Noah said emphatically. “I know better than to lose my head.”
This time the ranch hand turned to look at him. “Is that right?”
The question hung in the air, but Noah didn't argue any further. All he said was, “Allison is long gone from here.”
“I wasn't talking about Allison,” Dakota said as he set the empty bucket back on the cupboard by the door.
Noah figured as much. He wasn't sure what he felt about Maeve, but his men probably saw the confusion on his face.
“We're running a ranch here,” Noah finally said. “We have enough to worry about.”
Dakota grunted, but he didn't say anything more as he picked up a boiling kettle of water and walked toward the door.
Just before the other man left the kitchen, he said, “If all we were worrying about was the cattle, we wouldn't be scraping our faces this morning. They don't care about our beards.”
With that, the ranch hand stepped outside.
Noah was left alone in the kitchen. He hadn't paid any attention to this room for months and now he saw that it had grown a little shabby. Dakota had used the towels to grab too many skillets off the stove when the eggs or biscuits were burning. Scorch marks stained every one of the five towels he could see. By his recollection, another three had burst into flames at one time or the other.
He'd taken the curtains off the windows last winter when some of the hems had come out and they'd started to sag. As he recalled, Allison had liked to keep jars filled with wildflowers on the table. Those jars now held bullet casings on the bottom shelf in the supply room. The ranch hands almost always milked two or three cows, but no one had bothered to make butter in a long time and there was dust on the churn that sat in the corner by the broom.
He walked over to that corner and decided the broom needed replacing, as well.
He felt the lather stiffening in his beard, but he sat down anyway. He did not know when he had let his house fall into disarray. He had been upset when Allison left him, and his pride had stung even worse when she'd divorced him. But long before that he had known she had married him with false impressions in her mind. Little of her heart had made her decision to marry him or leave him. He was a plan that hadn't worked out for her.
On his part, he had been ignorant, he supposed. Allison was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and it had seemed wrong to question his good fortune when she'd hinted she would marry him if he asked. Like he had told Dakota and Maeve, he had been an only child. His parents had both died in a carriage accident when he was eight years old. He had been passed back and forth between two elderly great aunts until he had been judged old enough to make his own way at sixteen.