more than they had Walter’s flapjacks this morning.
The sun was dipping low in the sky by the time he arrived at the ranch, and the weight on his shoulders pressed a little harder as he wondered what he could muster up to feed the men who were washing up at the barrels beside the bunkhouse.
As he climbed off his horse, he spun around to take another look. Why were they washing up at the barrels? “What’s happened?” he asked as Leroy grasped the reins out of his hands.
“Always said you’re the best boss a man could hope for,” Leroy said while his long and gangly legs almost tripped over themselves in his rush to lead the horse to the barn.
Confused, Steve stared at the rest of his men. The ones who weren’t splashing water on their faces were combing their hair back with their fingers or tucking in their shirts. Normally they didn’t even take the time to wipe their feet before stomping into the house to eat.
“You outdid yourself, Boss, and we thank you,” Wyatt said, slapping the dust off his pant legs with both hands. “Thank you kindly.”
“Outdid myself with what?”
“That new cook you hired,” Henry said, using his hat to get the dust off his britches. “She sent us out here to clean up before we eat. But that’s all right. We don’t mind.”
A shiver tickled Steve’s spine as he turned to gaze toward the house. “She? What new cook?”
“The one you had Brett drive out,” Henry replied. “Can’t wait to taste those vittles. If they taste half as good as they smell, I’m gonna think I died and went to heaven.”
Still confused, Steve asked, “Brett Blackwell?”
“Yes, sir,” Leroy said, slapping him on the back as he walked past. “And here I was thinking we’d have to eat Walter’s salty flapjacks again for supper.”
“They weren’t that bad,” Walter said while smoothing his mustache back in place after his hearty scrubbing.
“Yes, they were,” several others answered in unison.
Steve started for the house along with the rest of them, until Jess laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You might want to wash up, Boss,” Jess said. “Henry was the only one who made it inside the door. She snapped him with a towel and told him to go wash up before stepping foot in the kitchen again, and that went for the rest of us, too.”
Steve had no idea who this woman was, but if she was half the size of the blacksmith, it was no wonder the boys had all washed up. However, it was his house and he didn’t take orders from anyone.
His men, trying to get through the opening two at a time, dang near broke the door off its hinges. He followed them over the threshold once the ruckus settled down, and then wasn’t exactly sure what stopped him dead in his tracks. Her or the aromas.
The house hadn’t smelled this good in so long—actually it had never smelled this good. Cinnamon. And apples. Baked apples. Apple pie maybe? He treated himself to a slice of pie every now and again while in town, but not often enough.
She stood at the stove, with her back to him, and was nowhere near the size of Brett. She was about the size of the gal who’d fallen onto his lap back at the train station, the one he couldn’t get out of his mind.
Tiny and slender, with one cloth tied around her waist and another over her hair, she spat, “For heaven’s sake, close the door before that wind covers everything with dirt.” And, “Hats are not to be worn at the table.”
While hats hit the floor all around the table, Steve shut the door, hung his hat on a hook and then took a seat next to Brett. The blacksmith’s grin was bigger than his biceps. Steve was about to turn around, to get a good look at the woman, when she barked out another order.
“Start passing the bread around.” A second later she set a huge bowl next to him. “Fill your plate with potatoes then pass the bowl on.”
As soon as he did, she set down another pot. “Now cover your potatoes with this.”
The thick gravy looked more like stew, but he did as ordered, as did everyone else, ladling the stew over the potatoes.
Setting another plate of sliced bread atop the one that was already empty, she said, “Eat up. There’s plenty.”
Appreciative groans echoed throughout the room, and his could easily have joined the others, but Steve held it in. Not only because the mouthful of potatoes and stew was delicious and the delectable smell of apples still filled his nose, but because he sensed something familiar about her, yet couldn’t say what. Other than... It couldn’t be her. She was on her way to Denver.
Once again squeezing between him and Brett in order to do so, she set a large baking pan in the center of the table. “Once you’ve had your fill, there’s apple cobbler for dessert.”
Steve had a great desire to twist about and get a good look at her, but the appreciative groans from his men had him leaning toward Brett. “I owe you, my friend. Where did you find her?”
“At my place, waiting for a ride,” Brett answered.
“Hey,” Jess said. “Didn’t I see you get off the train with the other women today?”
Steve’s spine stiffened as he spun about. As their eyes met, his and her sky-blue ones, he knew she was the woman he’d seen at the train station—she knew he knew, too.
She quickly turned toward Jess and leveled a glare that could have sliced the cowboy in two. “No.”
Jess nodded. “Yes, I did. I saw you.”
“You couldn’t have,” she said. “I did not get off the train with the other women.”
“I’m sure—”
“That would have been my sister,” she said, cutting Jess short. “We look alike.” Setting a smaller kettle on the table, she said, “This is caramel sauce for the cobbler. It’s best eaten warm.”
The men needed no further invite than that, even Jess, and though Steve wanted a piece of that cobbler so bad he could taste it, his mind couldn’t get off why she was in his kitchen. Why she’d claimed she was going to Denver. His gaze settled for a second on each one of his men, wondering which one was responsible. Jess had been the only one he’d seen at the station, and was also the only one who’d been remotely taken with the idea of a bride.
“You sure—”
“Eat,” Steve told Jess, cutting short whatever the other man had been about to say. He’d get to the bottom of it, but feeding his men came first.
“You want cobbler, no?” Brett asked.
“Yes.” Steve took the dish, spooned a large portion onto his plate and then took the smaller pan and poured the thick brown syrup atop the cobbler. It was even better than the meal had been, and that shouldn’t have been possible.
Silence other than satisfied moans and groans surrounded the table again—and polite requests for more.
Once
