wanted an older woman. Miss Martin is seven years younger than I am.”
“You talk with mad voice. Why? She pretty? Make your head move?” He swiveled his in an exaggerated imitation of a man watching an attractive woman walk past, with his eyebrows doing a ridiculous dance.
James chose not to encourage Quon. “Did everything go all right while I was gone?”
“No trouble here.”
He wiped the mud off the last of the tools he’d sent Bobby to get and suspended the pipe cutter between two nails on the board over his workbench. “I see you and Chung finished plowing the garden plot this afternoon. Good work.”
“Miss Martin will plant soon?”
“I suppose so, but I’ll have to show her how. Since she’s lived in the city her whole life, I doubt she knows one end of a rake from the other.”
Quon thumped his chest. “I will teach her. I good teacher.”
“I know, but...”
“What? She not like Chinese people?”
“I don’t think she’s ever met any before.” James wasn’t sure how she’d react. Many people maligned the Chinese. Some went so far as to threaten them—or worse. He wouldn’t subject Quon and Chung to any mistreatment.
“She seem nice.”
“You’ve met her?”
“She look out kitchen window, see me and... I not know how to say it.” Quon waved.
James supplied the word. “I’ll talk with her about the gardening and let you know.”
Quon jumped to the ground. “I think Miss Martin have supper ready for you soon. It smell good. I go.”
James entered the lean-to at the back of the house minutes later and yanked off his muddy boots. The large washtub they used for bathing sat on the floor with steam rising from the surface of the water.
The door from the great room opened, and Miss Martin stepped inside, lugging a large pail. She sent hot water splashing into the tub. “Did you get everything fixed?”
“I did.”
“That’s good. I figured repairing a water line would be a dirty job and you’d want to bathe. I put clean clothes up there.” She tilted her head toward the shelf over the coat pegs. “I’ll have supper on the table shortly.” She left and closed the door.
She’d anticipated his every need.
“Thanks. I won’t be long.” The mouthwatering scents in the air had set his stomach to growling. He was eager to sample her cooking.
Minutes later he entered the kitchen. Miss Martin bustled about with confidence. A thick brown braid hung down her back, swinging from side to side as she moved, a captivating sight. He forced himself to stop staring.
She must have helped Mutti with her hair because the braid coiled atop his mother’s head was neat and tidy. Such tasks had grown increasingly difficult for her, although she had a hard time admitting it.
His mother sat at the table stirring a creamy concoction. He appreciated the young woman’s consideration. By including her, Mutti would feel as if she were making a valuable contribution.
Miss Martin turned from the stove and smiled. “You look a whole lot better, but...”
“But what?”
She tapped a finger to her head. “You might want to brush your hair.”
“Yes. I’ll do that.” He hadn’t meant his words to have such an edge. It wasn’t as though he cared what she thought of him, but he didn’t like that hint of amusement in her eyes.
“Be quick, Sohn. It is past suppertime.”
“I told you not to wait.”
Miss Martin set a pitcher of milk on the table. “We didn’t want you to have to eat alone.”
He completed the task as quickly as he could and took his place on the end of one of the two benches flanking the rectangular dining table, opposite Mutti. Miss Martin set the dishes before him. Jägerschnitzel and Spätzle with gravy—a good German meal.
She sat beside Mutti, her hands in her lap and her head down. Mutti bowed hers, too. “Would you please give thanks, Sohn?”
James bit back a sigh. Mutti knew he had difficulty praying, but she asked him to say grace every night. She couldn’t seem to accept the fact that he wasn’t on speaking terms with God. But as he had before every other meal, he would do his duty.
“Thank You, Father, for the food we’re about to eat. Please give Mutti a restful night and help Miss Martin’s ribs heal quickly. Amen.”
He heaped generous portions on his plate. The Jägerschnitzel tasted every bit as good as Mutti’s. The veal cutlets were tender, the small dumplings served with them were cooked to perfection and the mushroom gravy he’d ladled over everything was as rich and smooth as buttermilk. Miss Martin smiled when he helped himself to seconds.
“Becky is a good cook, ja?”
“Almost as good as you are.”
Mutti chuckled. “You do not have to humor me, Sohn, but I love you for it. You will soon see that she is the better baker.”
When everyone had finished eating, Miss Martin cleared the supper dishes, opened the oven door and flooded the room with the tantalizing aroma of peaches and cinnamon. She topped each slice of peach pie with a dollop of the whipping cream Mutti had made. He wasn’t going to have any complaints about his food with Miss Martin in the kitchen.
A short time later he shoveled in the last bite of the fruity dessert and tossed his napkin on the table. “Mutti’s right, Miss Martin. The pie was delicious.”
She focused on her plate, but a hint of a smile lifted her lips. “I’m glad you like it, Mr. O’Brien.”
Mutti’s brow creased. “I am glad you two are talking, but I do not like the stiffness. You both call me Mutti, so I think you should call each other James and Becky.”
Miss Martin’s fork froze in midair.
Leave it to Mutti to interfere. She meant well, but he couldn’t let her take charge. “She has a good point. Quon and Chung are my employees, and I use their first names. If you don’t object, I’ll use yours, and you may use mine.”
Calling a young woman by her first name seemed odd. He’d escorted the highly regarded Miss Sophronia Wannamaker to parties in Sacramento City for over a year before she’d given him permission to call her by her Christian name. That was often the case with a cultured lady of society such as Sophie, but Becky was different. This battered young woman with the warm brown eyes would become part of their family for a time, whether he liked it or not.
Becky set her fork down. “You may call me
