see annoyance in his features although she suspected that he was trying to hide it. Iris, however, was not so cloaked.
“I’m eating, Rudd. I’m hungry.” Iris took a soft, warm sourdough biscuit from the basket at the center of the table. “If they can’t be on time, I’m not waiting for them!”
Giving her a pained look, Rudd said nothing. He tried to smile but failed. “Kamaria, if you want to start eating, go right ahead. Sometimes, my family arrives late. We don’t want the food to go cold.”
Kam nodded and took a biscuit. She slathered butter, hand-churned from their dairy-cow herd, across the fragrant, steaming surface. Iris proudly told her they had sourdough starter a hundred years old. Kam knew her mother Laura just loved baking with sourdough starter. She made a mental note to ask for a jar of it and transport it back to Laura, who would be thrilled.
“Starting without us?”
Kam looked up at the dripping, husky voice at the entrance. A woman in her mid-forties, her hair dyed blond, stood there with her hands resting imperiously on her thick hips. She was dressed like a Hollywood goddess, Kam thought as she put the biscuit down on her plate. This had to be Allison Dubois-Mason. She was short and shapely, her breasts as ample as her hips and thin-waisted. She had the coveted hourglass figure from a bygone era. Her blond hair was coifed and swept up on her head and glittering diamond earrings and necklace set it all off. Her green eyes were heavily made up and Kam thought the false eyelashes looked more like caterpillars crawling across them. Her rouge was too bright, making her resemble one of those Kewpie dolls at carnivals.
“Come in,” Rudd said, standing. He moved around to the chair at the opposite end of the table. Pulling it out, he waited for his wife to approach. “Allison, I want you to meet Kamaria Trayhern. We’ve just hired her as caregiver to Iris. Kamaria, this is my wife, Allison.”
Kam nodded in the woman’s direction. She walked like a queen gliding down an invisible red carpet. The dress she wore was out of place for this rugged Western setting. It was a ball gown made of gleaming gold silk that showed off her considerable cleavage and swathed around her ankles. Her heels were a good three inches high and Kam winced inwardly. The woman obviously didn’t care about her feet.
Kam felt the glare from the mascara-framed green eyes. It was not a welcoming gaze at all and her gut tightened.
Halting at the chair, Allison flashed daggers at Rudd.
“And just what is she doing at our table? Hired help does not eat with us. Ever.”
The venom seemed to drip from her mouth like acid. Kam started to rise.
Iris clamped a hand over her arm and stopped her.
“Stay right where you are, Kam,” Iris growled. And then, the senior shot a poisonous look at her daughter-in-law. “Since when do you care who sits at this table, Allison? On most nights, we wait a half hour for you to appear. Your children never show up. Regan’s too busy to sit down with us, and Zach has his head in computer games. So don’t go getting high and mighty saying who can or can’t be at our dinner table.”
Laughing liltingly, Allison waved her bejeweled hand toward Iris. She batted her eyes at Rudd and smiled. “And here I thought you were the boss, Rudd.” She sat down with aplomb and Rudd pushed the chair toward the table.
Iris glared at Allison. “Maybe you need reminding that I’m the owner of this ranch, Allison, and I’m not dead yet. Until I am, I’m the one who decides who will have dinner with us or not. Rudd has nothing to say about this and you know it.”
Allison took her white linen napkin and smiled fully. Becky came over and poured her some red wine. “Oh, you never allow me to forget that you’re the boss, Iris.”
Kam watched the maid pour the red wine and thought that blood had been drawn symbolically between Iris, the matriarch, and Allison, the upstart. What a group! She couldn’t believe the rage behind the words of the two women. It made her evening meals with her parents in Montana look alien in comparison to this family.
Iris said nothing. Becky gave her a pained look.
“Miss Iris? Should I serve dinner? Or wait?”
Iris addressed Allison. “Are Zach and Regan comin’ or not?”
Shrugging, Allison said, “They’re busy.”
“Would have been nice to let Hazel and Becky know ahead of time,” Iris growled. “They aren’t slaves to do our bidding around here.”
Kam couldn’t believe the drama around Allison. Gulping, she realized that if Rudd was her father, this woman was her stepmother. Not exactly a great package. And nothing like Laura, who was the epitome of grace, good manners and kindness. Kam searched the woman’s heavily made-up oval face to see if she could find generosity or kindness. She could not.
“Please serve the meal,” Rudd requested of Becky. “And thank Hazel in advance for her help in makin’ our dinner.”
Kam found Rudd’s sensitivity toward others positive. Becky rushed out of the room, through the swinging oak door. Shortly, she came back with squash soup, which smelled wonderful.
“Now this,” Iris told her, pointing to the yellow soup in front of her, “is from my garden last year, Kamaria. Hubbard squash from last fall’s crop. The best squash in the world to give a nutlike flavor to soup. Hazel always puts on bacon bits and tops it with a tad of sour cream. Makes for a wonderful beginning to our meal.”
Kam waited until Rudd picked up his soupspoon and then she followed suit. “Are you going to plant Hubbard squash in your garden this year?” she asked Iris. The soup tasted heavenly. The salty bacon enhanced the nutty flavor of the squash. The sour cream melted and swirled in the golden contents and reminded her of an abstract painting. It was a beautiful presentation.
“Absolutely,” Iris gushed, excitement in her voice. “In fact, I’m going to add another squash this year, a Lakota squash. This kind has orange and green vertical stripes. Some of my friends tell me it has the same firm consistency as Hubbard. You need a good, meaty flesh for a good squash soup.”
“Good to know,” Kam said, finishing off her soup. She glanced over at Allison who seemed bored, her soup untouched.
“Just because Ms. Trayhern is here you trotted out your squash soup. You know I hate squash, Iris,” Allison said defiantly.
Rudd sighed. “Allison, Hazel always cooks one soup a day and you know that. And we have squash soup at least once every two weeks.”
Kam could feel Rudd’s concern that his wife’s petulance would ruin the festive atmosphere. Iris slurped down the soup with relish and seemed content, her appetite clearly in place. Kam felt she had to speak up. “I thought the soup was wonderful, Becky. Thank Hazel for me. I’d love to get this recipe.” She almost added that her mother would love to have it. She certainly didn’t want them to get entangled in her family background. At least not until the time was right.
“Thank you, Kamaria,” Becky said, adroitly moving around the table and removing soup bowls. “Hazel loves to have feedback on her meals. She wants to make people smile over her creations.”
Iris smacked her lips, drank a bit of her red wine and patted her mouth with the white linen napkin. “Now, that’s a great start to a great meal, Kamaria. You see?
