her hands on her hips, her black eyes full of concern.
“Hmmp. Well, it’s funny to me that you just now remembered you were starving.” Her red lips puckered into a frown. “What happened in there?”
There was no need for Cook to explain that “in there” meant the living room where he had been sitting with the Sandbur families and their friends.
“Nothing.”
“Did you spill the tray? Trip over somebody?”
She’d tripped all right, and fallen. But that had happened five years ago, she thought miserably.
“Everything is—okay, Cook. I just feel shaky.”
Closing her eyes, Angela tried to tamp down the panic racing through her. How could she go back in there and serve five courses around a table where he’d be sitting, she wondered frantically.
“Here. Eat some of this while I get the salads ready,” Cook ordered. “Maybe that’ll put some color in your cheeks.”
Angela opened her eyes to see the old woman placing a small plate filled with Texas caviar and several saltine crackers in front of her. Her throat was so tight, she wasn’t sure she could swallow anything, but she forced herself to shovel up some of the mixture of black-eyed peas, onions and peppers on one of the crackers and pop it into her mouth.
After a few more bites of the spicy vegetables, Angela rose to her feet and joined Cook at the long counter. The woman needed her, and now was hardly the time for Angela to allow her emotions to immobilize her. “I’ll finish this,” she assured the woman. “You go ahead with whatever you need to be doing.”
Cook frowned as she glanced at Angela’s still-pale face. “You look like you’ve fallen in a flour barrel. Maybe I’d better call Miss Nicci back here to check on you. Even young people have heart attacks.”
Her heart was full of pain, all right. But not the sort that Cook was worried about. “You’re not about to bother Nicci this evening! Her off-duty time is always being interrupted with medical emergencies. I’m not going to ruin this dinner party for her.”
“Angie—”
Before Cook could protest, Angela placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Cook, don’t worry about me. I—I don’t have anything medically wrong with me.” Deciding it would be easier to confide in Cook than to hide the truth, she added, “I just—saw someone at the party. Someone I haven’t seen in a long time. And I—well, I never expected to see him again. Ever. It was shocking to me. That’s all.”
Instead of plying her with personal questions, Cook tactfully asked, “You want me to call Alida over to take your place tonight?”
Alida was one of the maids that had worked for the Saddler and Sanchez families for several years. At the moment she was at Angela’s house, babysitting Angela’s daughter, Melanie, and as far as Angela was concerned, that was where she was going to stay.
Straightening her shoulders, Angela set her jaw with determination. “No. I’ll be fine. Just fine.”
Out in the living room, Jubal Jamison struggled to focus on the conversation going on around him. Seeing Angie again had shaken the very earth beneath him. Dear God, he’d never expected to see her beautiful face again. Not after she’d left Cuero five years ago. What was she doing here? Obviously she was employed by the ranch, although no one had bothered to tell him. But then why would they, he thought grimly. No one on the Sandbur knew that Angela had once been the love of his life.
So what are you going to do now, big boy? Run? Turn away from her again?
Not this time, Jubal silently swore. After she’d left town, he believed he’d never be given the chance to see Angie again. He wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to connect with her once more. Besides, he’d already moved onto the Sandbur. An animal clinic was currently being constructed smack in the middle of the ranch yard. Costly high-tech equipment, being shipped from Dallas, was scheduled to arrive any day.
Someone announced that dinner was ready and like a zombie Jubal shuffled along to the dining room with the rest of the guests. Moments later he found himself seated to the right of Geraldine Saddler at the head of the dinner table.
The room was long, the ceiling low and crossed with rough-hewn beams of cypress wood. Along one wall, a row of arched windows displayed a view of the backyard where the trunks of Mexican palms were decorated with tiny, clear lights, signifying the coming holidays. Back at the long table, fresh gold and red flowers were arranged at intervals down the center, adding even more vivid color to the scene.
Jubal had grown up in an affluent home, but he had to admit his parents’ social events were modest compared to this Sandbur affair. Even so, Geraldine and her family were very down-home, laid-back people. Too bad his parents couldn’t have been more like them. Maybe then they could have understood his relationship with Angie. But then, his parents weren’t responsible for their separation. Unfortunately, he’d been the guilty party. And he’d been paying the price ever since.
By the time Angela had served after-dinner coffee, she’d worked herself up to a numb fury. Throughout the meal, Jubal had ignored her. He’d not even had the decency to give her a simple hello. It wasn’t like that icky wife of his had been sitting by his side, watching his every move. A polite greeting from him was all she’d expected. But he’d not even been enough of a gentleman to give her that much.
“Damn the man,” she muttered under her breath as she stomped back to the kitchen.
“They’re digging into dessert right now,” Angela said to Cook, who was sitting at a long, pine table, her thin, bony hands wrapped around a coffee cup. In her early seventies, the woman should have looked exhausted. Instead, she looked contented.
“There’ll be some more visiting done before the guests leave, but you don’t need to wait around. Go on home to your little girl. I’ll see that the maids get everything cleared away.”
Frowning, Angela eased onto the bench seat directly across from Cook. “I’m not about to leave this mess with you. And why are you looking so happy? Aren’t you tired?”
The woman chuckled. “’Course I’m tired. But it always makes me happy to put out a good feed for Geraldine’s friends. Those fancy cooks on TV couldn’t have done it better.”
“You’re proud of your job,” Angela said, then added wistfully, “I wish—”
When she stopped abruptly, Cook prompted, “What, child, what do you wish?”
Angela sighed. “I wish that my mother could have been more like you, Cook. In the little town where I used to live, Mom worked as a cook in a restaurant. She always griped about the job and said that cooking was poor folks’ work. But nothing much made her happy anyway.”
“Humph,” Cook snorted. “She must have needed some head doctoring. I feel just as good as anybody out there.” She inclined her dark head in the direction of the living room where the party was still going strong.
“So do I,” Angela agreed. As for Nadine Malone, Angela didn’t know whether her mother was still cooking in the Mustang Café or if her parents even still lived on their farm near Cuero. She’d not seen them since they’d labeled her as worthless and kicked her
