wondered if there was another girl helping you.”
Lucy’s nerves danced in accompaniment to his chuckle. She sniffed in air heavy with the smell of bacon and fried potatoes. He was like a hundred others she saw every day.
Only he wasn’t. She wished she could put her finger on what made him different—besides the fact he made her nervous and excited all at once.
“I’ll have a good-sized breakfast, please and thank you.”
Please and thank you. Well, that was different. “Eggs? Sausage? Bacon? Steak? Hash browns?”
“Yup. The works, if you don’t mind. I’m feeling just a mite hungry.”
She chuckled. “Better bring a pocket full of bills if you ever develop a big hunger.”
He favored her with another white-toothed smile. That was different, too. Most cowboys neglected their teeth, allowing the tobacco so many chewed to discolor them in a most atrocious way. “And coffee, please.”
Lucy left the table, walked over to the pass-through window and called, “Starving Bachelor’s Special.”
Hettie snorted. “Pile it high?”
“Man says he’s a mite hungry.”
“Gotcha.”
Lucy reached for a fine-china teacup and saucer. She loved the way so many of the men sputtered when she handed them the dainty things. She’d chuckle and leave them struggling to figure out how to hold the tiny handle. She filled the cup with scalding coffee and took it to the cowboy who picked it up with perfect calmness. Yes, that was different, too. This man was beginning to interest her. Who was he and what was he doing in the Dry Creek dining room?
She refilled a few more customers coffee cups before returning the coffeepot to the stove.
“Bachelor breakfast ready.” Hettie wiped her sweaty brow on her wide, white apron.
Lucy grabbed the waiting plate of food and took it to the quiet cowboy.
He dropped his gaze to his plate. She could practically hear the rush of juice in his mouth. He held his fork and knife, poised as if ready to do battle with the teetering pile of food.
She sensed his reluctance to eat while she hovered at his side. “I’ll bring more coffee.”
“Much appreciated.”
Still, she hesitated wanting…she knew not what.
But she had other things to attend to and she took the coffeepot and began to refill cups on other tables.
“Lucy gal, order up,” Hettie called in her beefy voice.
“Oh, Lucy gal, you can order me up whenever you want.”
Lucy filled the leering man’s cup and ducked out of reach.
“Lucy gal, Lucy gal.” A row of patrons—all male, all ranchers and rough cowboys—hoisted their cups and leaned over, begging for refills.
Lucy hurried down the line, dancing out of reach, laughing at their teasing. There was a time they had scared her, made her tense and anxious. She soon learned the best way to deal with them was to turn it into a game. That way they all had fun. And if anyone got rowdy or out of line, Harry, Hettie’s husband and owner of the dining room, would hustle them out the door so fast they dug ruts in the polished wooden floor. Harry tolerated no unruly or rude behavior, and Harry was brawny enough that no one argued with his rules.
She took the coffeepot to the hungry cowboy and refilled his cup.
“You’re Lucy?” he asked.
She tipped her head to one side and planted a finger in the middle of her chin. “Now, I can’t imagine how you’d know that. Oh, unless it’s because the name has been hooted, bandied about and generally abused for the last ten minutes.”
He nodded, his eyes suddenly watchful, guarded even. She couldn’t think why he should look at her in such a way. But she didn’t have time to wonder for long. Duty called and she got back to work.
After she’d been back to his table to refill his cup a fourth time she stifled a giggle as she glanced at his ears. It wouldn’t surprise her none to see twin spouts of brown liquid gushing from each side of his head.
By now, only the coffee-swilling, no-longer-hungry cowboy and an older couple remained in the dining room. Lucy began to wonder if someone had smeared his chair with glue before he sat down. Wouldn’t Harry have a conniption if they had?
His presence trickled along her nerves, making her very aware of him as she put fresh white cloths on each of the tables, and set out china and silverware in preparation for the customers who would come for the noon meal.
Harry charged into the room and glanced around. He took note of the lone cowboy before he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to read some papers.
He glanced again at the cowboy and slid Lucy an inquiring look. She read his silent message. Is this fella bothering you?
She shrugged. How did she explain the way she felt drawn to him? Hoping…for what? That he’d hung about waiting for a chance to speak to her? Lots of the patrons waited for such a chance. If he had something to say, best he come right out and say it.
Not one to play coy games, she grabbed the coffeepot and headed in his direction. He was no different than any of the other cowboys who came and went. Most of them she didn’t give a passing glance. A few she favored with a walk out, or accompanied to a play or some activity put on by the cultural society. If this one asked, would she agree to go? Yes, she would because there was something different about him. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She only knew there was something in the way he didn’t look at her. His stare was not openly curious and measuring like so many of the cowboys—as if they were checking her for conformity, estimating her hardiness—judging her like she a good beef animal.
“Another refill?”
He pushed away his cup. “No, thank you, ma’am. Mighty fine it was, though.” He edged his chair back and looked at her, a hard glint in his eyes.
Lucy hesitated. What had happened to change the softer, kinder look she’d first noticed? But what did it matter? He was only one of hundreds of cowboys she served.
Wade Miller struggled to get his mind around the discovery that this was Lucy Hall—Scout’s daughter. At first glance, he had been mesmerized by her bubbly personality that had every pair of eyes in the full dining room following her with amused appreciation. Who would know from the way she acted that beneath the surface lay a heart as cold as river ice? What kind of girl would return her father’s letters unread and refuse continued invitations to visit?
He was here to change that.
She hovered at his side with the bottomless coffeepot. He planted his hand firmly over the top of his mug. His eyeballs were already drowning.
“I’m done. Thank you very much.”
She nodded and told him the total for his breakfast.
He
