After setting the metal pot back on the stove, she carried the jar of applesauce to him. "Mr.—I mean— Roy said you liked this on your flapjacks."
He accepted the jar without touching her fingers. "That's a fact."
He poured a liberal amount on his stack of cakes while she watched. He glanced up to find her observing. "It's even better if you sprinkle a little powdered sugar over the top."
"Do you have any?"
"Second shelf," he replied. She spooned powdered sugar into a cup and handed it to him.
After sprinkling it on his food, he took a bite. Linnea had backed away, but watched him warily. He chewed, then looked up and nodded with apparent satisfaction.
Why that nod seemed like applause in her mind, she didn't know. Her heart soared as though she'd received the highest praise. The man was not going to make anything easy for her, and he was not free with a compliment. But she'd managed her first morning as an employee of the Double T without incurring his wrath. And that must be an accomplishment for anybody, she was sure.
After the men thanked Linnea, they stomped off toward their chores. She scraped and stacked plates.
"Eat, girl," Aggie ordered. "Put some meat on your bones."
Linnea glanced from Aggie to the food left on the platters. She heated two flapjacks and a slice of ham in the oven, then seated herself at the table.
Hesitantly, she glanced at the jar of applesauce.
"Go ahead," Aggie urged.
Linnea spooned a small portion on her flapjacks, sprinkled them with powdered sugar and tasted the concoction. The tantalizing combination of sweetness melted on her tongue. She closed her eyes to chew and swallow. The salty ham complemented perfectly, and she savored each bite. Nothing had tasted this good for a long time. Maybe never.
This was a good day, a good day indeed. If the rest of her days could be this rewarding and go as smoothly, she'd be in heaven. But after making her employer's acquaintance and experiencing his cantankerous mood, she knew better than to set her hopes too high. The way Will Tucker disliked her, nothing was certain.
Chapter Four
Linnea paused in wringing out the last shirt and admired the basket of well-wrung clothing. At the Double T every chore went more smoothly than she had ever known possible. Will Tucker owned an amazing roller wringer that squeezed water from clothing and sheets with the turn of a crank.
She'd been at it so long that she was having to use two hands on the crank now, but it was still easier than doing wash by hand in a cold river, which was all she'd ever known.
Carrying the full basket to the clotheslines strung between the house and a wooden beam, Linnea straightened slowly, realizing that whatever her employer had given her to drink that morning had assuaged her aches until this past half hour.
After hanging his clothing and Aggie's bedding, Linnea studied the drying garments and sheets, a sense of pride at a job well-done filling her now. She'd never gone to school, never learned to read or do numbers, except to count money, but she was smart and capable. All she'd ever needed was a chance to show her usefulness. She dumped the wash water and stored the tubs.
The house boasted a modern kitchen range, wall lamps, a wall-mounted coffee mill, cast aluminum ware, a box churn with a crank, sturdy furniture, rugs and various gadgets for which she had yet to figure a purpose. Linnea had grown up in a tiny two-room cabin, the youngest of three sisters and a brother. There had never been enough room or enough food. She was just another girl, another mouth to feed, and when her father had seen a way to get rid of her, he'd done so without blinking an eye—and made himself a profit at the same time.
Even though her father had called her a no-account runt and constantly accused her of being useless to him, he'd punished her severely whenever she'd tried to sneak away to school.
Many mornings Linnea had hidden on the Kentucky hillside and watched the small square school-house, hungry for a glimpse of the smartly dressed children carrying lunches and schoolbooks, the girls wearing tight braids, the boys' hair parted and slicked to their heads. At noon a bell rang and the students ran out-of-doors to skip rope and play marbles and share lunches in the shade of a sycamore tree. Oh, how she envied them their freedom to learn, to join in activities, to live with families and grow up with mothers.
But their life was never to be hers, and wishing hadn't made it so. With pruny fingertips, Linnea brushed wrinkles from the neatly hung sheets and headed for the kitchen.
The busy sounds of hammering and laughing men echoed from the corrals as she checked on the beans she'd been soaking for the noon meal. Within minutes she had a fire built in the stove and the kettle simmering on top, then added chunks of salt pork and onion.
"Where you from?" Aggie asked from across the room.
Linnea stirred the pot slowly. "I grew up in Kentucky. Moved around some since then."
"I have a drawer full of aprons you might as well put to use. Go on into my room and look in the bottom drawer of the bureau. Take yourself a stack."
Linnea glanced down at her damp skirt, then turned to study the woman. She wasn't certain how to reply. She didn't have any aprons, which undoubtedly seemed foolish for someone hired on as a cook and housekeeper, but she didn't feel right about accepting gifts from a woman she barely knew.
"Go on. They're not doin' anybody any good layin' in a drawer, now, are they?"
"No, ma'am, I guess they're not." Linnea followed her directions and entered the old woman's room. Earlier when she'd stripped the bed, she had picked up Aggie's beautiful wedding ring quilt in shades of lavender and yellow, folded it carefully and laid it on a chair. Linnea admired the spread again, along with the rose-painted hurricane lamps and the silver comb and brush set on the bureau.
The aprons were just where Aggie had said they'd be, neatly pressed and folded and smelling of cedar chips. Linnea sorted the stack, deliberately taking three that appeared the oldest, and closed the drawer.
"Thank you," she said to Aggie, dropping one with a bib over her head and tying the sash loosely behind her back. "This will keep my clothing clean."
"How long ago did your husband pass on?"
Unprepared for the question, Linnea's fingers froze on the bow momentarily. She caught herself and finished tying, turning to brush butter on her risen loaves of bread dough. "It's been a while," she said noncommittally.
"You're not wearing black, so it's been over a year?"
Fact was, it had been less than a year, but Linnea didn't own a black dress. She gave a brief nod, placed the heavy loaf pans in the oven, and set about mixing corn bread.
"I remember when my husband died," Aggie went on. "Jack owned a sawmill and did business with everyone in the county. They all turned out for his funeral. Your husband have a nice funeral?''
Three hungover men and Linnea pushing Pratt McConaughy into a shallow grave somewhere between the raging muddy waters of the Missouri River and the jail in Chillicothe, Kansas, in a frog-strangling downpour wasn't her idea of nice. But then, in her opinion, Pratt hadn't deserved anything better. "It rained," she said simply.
Aggie pushed her rocker into a steady rhythm. "Seems like the heavens open up and God cries tears when there's a death, doesn't it? Ever notice how many burials are performed in the rain?"
Linnea didn't know about God, but she surely hadn't shed a tear over Pratt's passing. He'd been the most sour-tempered and demanding man she'd ever met, not that she'd known that many, but even her father's neglect and contempt had been easier to abide than Pratt's abuse. His death had given her a profound sense of relief, followed quickly by the fear of being alone with no place to live and no means of support.
As long as she could keep this job, her life had taken a turn for the better. She had the use of a comfortable bed with clean sheets, a variety of plentiful foods to eat and even a measure of peace. After being on the run, sleeping on the ground in all weather and doing without the most basic necessities, this place was like a dream come true.
Her position here wasn't guaranteed, however. She had twenty-nine days left to prove herself to Will Tucker. She was used to catering to a demanding man. She could follow his instructions and take orders. Aggie seemed to be on her side, and the ranch hands approved of her, but the owner of the Double T was the one she had to please.
"Does Mr. Tucker have a favorite meal or a dessert he's especially fond of?" she asked.
Aggie picked up an embroidery hoop and squinted at the needle. "Don't know much about Will's likes and dislikes, 'cept he was never too fond o' me. Feeling was mutual."
Linnea stared at her in surprise. "But you're his mother!"
Aggie laid the embroidery on her lap and looked Linnea in the eye. "I am not that uncivil man's mother."
"But you're here. Living with him. I'm sorry, I just assumed."
"I married his pa. Will never approved of me or the marriage."
"It's none of my business. I didn't mean to pry."
Aggie's head seemed to teeter on her neck for a moment, while she gathered her words to speak. "Did the boy an injustice, I did. He was pretty much grown when I married his father. Will didn't want me for a mother any more than I wanted him for a son. And we didn't work at gettin' along." She twisted a thimble on her bony finger. "I should have tried, but I didn't. Was glad to see him take off on his own."
The way she'd heard Will speak to the old woman, it was no secret that things hadn't changed much between them. But still, she was here, living on his ranch. "Was this his father's place?"
"Lord, no. Jack had a real house in Indiana. A beautiful home with carpets on the floors. Oak banisters and velvet furniture. There was a big clock in the front hallway that chimed every hour."
"Oh." This was the nicest house Linnea had ever stayed in, but she didn't want anyone prying into her past, so she wasn't going to ask personal questions of Aggie. She returned to her tasks.
At noon, as if a silent bell had rung, the kitchen filled with hungry men, smelling of horses and fresh air. "Storm clouds off to the west," Roy said to no one in particular. Linnea scooped beans onto his plate. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Roy," Will directed, "you and Clem ride along the riverbed and send any strays back this way. We'll keep 'em tight on the east side of the ridge until this passes."
"You got it, boss."
"Cimarron, you and I will check on the mares and foals in the east corral. We'll bring the skittish ones into the barn."
Linnea frowned, thinking of her laundry on the lines. She hoped the rain didn't come before dinner was finished and she had a chance to run out and bring in the clothing and sheets.
"You saving that corn bread for something special?"
At Will Tucker's question, Linnea started. Confused, she glanced toward the worktable where the golden-crusted corn bread sat cooling, then hurried to cut it into squares and serve it.
"We've got work to do. No time to dawdle," he said.
A sinking sensation dropped in her chest at the chastisement, and she hurried to serve the men and fill their cups. She accepted their thanks halfheartedly as they finished and left.
Will Tucker stood and took his hat from a hook at the back door. He turned and glanced from Linnea to his stepmother. "If the wind comes up fierce, you see she gets to the storm cellar, you hear?''
Linnea nodded. "I will."
He turned and strode out the door.
Cimarron and Nash were finishing their fourth pieces of corn bread. Linnea had never seen men who could put away as much food as these ranch hands. But then, she'd never been around men who worked hard for a living, either.
"Foul weather gets him in a pucker," Nash explained, almost apologetically. "He piled on the agony when I first hired on, too, Miz McConaughy, but don't get huffed. He's not the mean critter you might think."
"You're a fine cook, Miz McConaughy," Cimarron seconded. "Thanks for the meal."
Linnea thanked him and ran out to bring in the laundry before the rain broke.
The storm was upon them within the hour, the sky turning dark as nightfall and jagged spears of lightning splitting the heavens in all directions. Thunder shook the windowpanes and rattled the tin pans in the cupboards. Linnea lit the lanterns, saw to Aggie's comfort and went about her chores.
Will came early to supper, hanging his dripping slicker inside the door. "You're not in the storm cellar."
"It wasn't windy," Linnea replied. "I asked Aggie if she was afraid or wanted me to take her and she said no."
He arched a dark brow. "You're not afraid?"
"It's just some rain and thunder," she replied. He had expected her to be afraid. It probably seemed to him that she was afraid of everything, but that wasn't so. She'd never found the weather as terrifying as people.
The storms lasted for two days, but other than bad weather and bad moods, the week passed uneventfully. Linnea grew accustomed to the kitchen and the variety of food and supplies she had to work with, and enjoyed preparing meals and desserts.
At least Aggie seemed to be on her side, offering a cookbook and suggestions for ingredients Linnea had never had the luxury of using. The recipes endeared her to the ranch hands even more than before. Everyone except her employer had a kind word or a smile for her at each meal.
But he didn't have to smile at her. And he didn't have to compliment her. She didn't expect appreciation. She didn't need it. What she needed was money, and he paid her on Saturday. Her wages were worth all the dark looks and disapproval he could dish out.
That night she counted the coins carefully, placed them in a sock in the bag she stored beneath the mattress and prepared for sleep. A hard-won glimmer of hope warmed her from the inside. She'd made it a week.
Hair brushed and braided, dressed in her worn sleeveless cotton gown, Linnea crossed the room in the yellow light of the lantern. As she had every night, she studied the flimsy piece of wood that masqueraded as a lock, then moved beside the chest of drawers and leaned all her strength into it, pushing the piece of furniture in front of the door.
The barricade wouldn't hold back an angry man for long, but at least it would slow down anyone who tried to get in. Padding back to the bed, she reached under the pillow for the curved handle of the Smith & Wesson .32, the only useful thing her miserable husband had left behind, checked the full chambers, and tucked the gun back into its hiding place.
Security measures in place, she blew out the light and lay down.
She didn't think she'd been asleep more than an hour or so when a terrible racket from outside woke her. A high-pitched screaming accompanied snarls and growls and the frantic neighs of the horses in the nearby corrals.
A loud thump sounded overhead, followed by heavy footfalls on the stairs.
Linnea peered out the window into the darkness, her heart beating skittishly. Events that happened in the middle of the night meant trouble and usually ended in someone's death. Her stomach turned over at the thought.
Finally, she made out Will Tucker's huge form as he ran from the house carrying a rifle.
A shot was fired, followed quickly by another. Horses neighed in fright. Linnea ran back to bed, grabbed the gun in shaking hands and huddled in the center of the mattress, her limbs quaking.
The house shook with the slamming of a door.
"Mrs. McConaughy!"
She started at the sound of her name shouted through the kitchen and down the hall.
"Dammit, woman, where are you?" Pounding sounded on the door to the room she occupied. The doorknob twisted and the door hit the back of the bureau with a resounding whack. "What the—Linnea!"
The man didn't push the door open farther. She aimed the barrel of the gun at the door. Her breathing eased a little and she managed to force out a reply. "Wha-at?"
"Will you get your butt out here and heat some water? Fast! I need some bandages, too. Use sheets. Ask Aggie which ones."
Someone was hurt. Tucking the .32 under her pillow, Linnea sprang from the bed and grabbed her shawl. Had
Will Tucker shot a ranch hand or an intruder?
She shoved the bureau away from the door and ran out into the hallway. "Who's been shot?"
The broad-shouldered man stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned back to look at her, a scowl on his face. "No one's been shot. A coyote got one of the foals. I need to wash the wounds and wrap him. Nash is carrying water for you to heat."
She nodded numbly.
His dark gaze took in her disheveled hair, then dropped to the shawl and the thin white cotton gown that left her lower legs and feet bare. Outlined by the dim light from the kitchen, she noticed he hadn't taken time to put on a shirt. His chest was broad and thicketed with black hair. The sight gave her a tight panicky feeling in her chest.
"Cover yourself before he gets here," he ordered, his voice deep and gruff.
She nodded, then turned and fled back to dress. When she returned, Aggie was poking kindling into the stove. Linnea touched her misshapen shoulder. "I'll do that."
Aggie moved aside and Linnea had a fire roaring by the time Nash brought the third and fourth pails.
"How much water does he want?" she asked.
Nash shrugged. "I'm just doin' what I was told. I'll carry the buckets to the barn for you."
While the water heated, he helped her tear two sheets into strips and quickly roll them. He carried the buckets and she followed with the bandages.
A mare, obviously the injured foal's mother, neighed pathetically from where she'd been confined in a stall at the far end of the barn. Two of the hands held lead ropes taut to keep her from hurting herself. She snorted and strained against the impediment, kicking the wooden enclosure.
In another stall, Will and Roy were bent over a writhing long-legged foal, the straw bedding covered with bright red blood. The young animal suffered from a long gash down the side of its neck to its shoulder point and several cuts around its front legs.
The Tenderfoot Bride Page 4
