Rosemary nodded. “I’ll just make it half and half with cream, instead.” She sat at the table, the events of the morning overwhelming her, as she considered the job she had taken on.
“Mr. Tanner hired me to be his cook, but I think he’ll probably expect me to do more than that, don’t you?”
Mama Pearl nodded. “You got that right. There’ll be sweepin’ and dustin’ and the like. And if you want the eggs from the chicken coop, you’d do well to gather ’em up yourself. Otherwise, they’re liable to be a hodgepodge of fresh and old, all together. Those men don’t do but a halfway job sometimes when it comes to the chores.”
“Who milks the cow?” Rosemary asked, pouring a dab more of the rich, yellow cream into her coffee.
“Whoever gets out there first, I reckon. They cart the pail to the milk house and Tanner lets the cream rise till night, then pours it off and brings it in.”
“Do you make butter?” Rosemary asked.
“Some weeks I get a chance to. Others, I don’t. Tanner does it sometimes himself.” Mama Pearl lifted a full boiler of water to the top of the stove. She settled herself at the table and lifted her big mug of coffee, her look pensive as she scrutinized Rosemary.
“It’s hard gettin’ a woman to work a place like this, and Tanner’s had his share up and quit when they found out what a job it is, tendin’ to all the cookin’ and keepin’ up with the house.” She eyed Rosemary with curiosity. “Sure you don’t want to marry him? You’d be better off thataway. He’d probably get you somebody to help out with the heavy work. You’re just a little bit of a thing, Miss Rosemary. I don’t see how you can handle this big house.”
Mama Pearl sipped at her coffee and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were so dark a brown they were almost black, Rosemary noted. And her skin was like sleek mahogany, not a wrinkle marring its surface.
“I don’t know why I can’t,” Rosemary said. “It needs catching up with the sweeping and dusting, but I can do that.”
“Well, folks are not gonna cotton to you bein’ here with Tanner, and no chaperon person to look after you, child.”
Rosemary felt a flush stain her cheeks. It seemed to be a perpetual condition this morning. “I don’t think I’m in any danger from Mr. Tanner.”
“Well, you didn’t notice the way he was lookin’ at you, then.”
Rosemary looked up to meet Mama Pearl’s wide grin. “What are you talking about?”
“I think he’s taken a shine to you, honey. I heard that he asked you to marry him last week. Why didn’t you snap him up?”
“How did you know that?” Rosemary asked. “I certainly didn’t spread the word.”
“He was braggin’ that he’d saved himself payin’ the Bachelor Tax.” Her dark eyes gleamed. “I was sure enough hopin’ you’d take him up on it. That man could use some civilizin’.”
“He’s treated me quite nicely,” Rosemary said quickly. Except for sniffing her neck and plastering himself all over her front, out there in the yard.
“He’s a man,” Mama Pearl announced. “And puttin’ it bluntly, child, he’s rarin’ to go. He needs himself a woman of his own.”
“Well, he took his proposal back the day he hired me.”
“I don’t think he can do that.” Mama Pearl’s brow furrowed as she considered the idea.
“That’s what I told him. But then, I’d just about decided it wasn’t a good idea anyway.” Rosemary swallowed the last of her coffee and pushed away from the table, her mind filled with the memory of Tanner’s lips touching hers. “I think I’d better find something to cook for dinner,” she said hastily, carrying her dishes to the sink.
“There’s a ham hangin’ in the pantry,” Mama Pearl told her, nodding agreement. “Brought it in from the smokehouse last week, but it doesn’t look like anybody had a mind to stick it in the oven. You’ll want to wash it off good first, maybe cut off some of the fat, and then put it in that big roaster that’s on the pantry shelf. It’ll take a good five hours or maybe more to bake up nice and tender.”
Rosemary nodded. She’d never cooked a whole ham before, and the prospect was a bit daunting. “Tanner has a smokehouse?”
“Out beyond the barn. There’s slabs of bacon and hams out there, and sausage, too. You won’t find anything lackin’ in this house. I helped can up the garden last fall, and there’s still some of that left. If it wasn’t for the Bachelor Tax, Tanner’d still have the last housekeeper he hired. Fella in town asked Lulu Cox to marry him, and she figured it was easier to tend one man than seven.”
Mama Pearl hoisted her bulk from the chair and stretched her back. “I reckon I’d better set up my washtubs out in the yard. My water’s gettin’ hot, and I’ll bet you there’s a porch full of dirty duds.”
“I thought you asked Miss Gibson to marry you,” Cotton said, peering back over his shoulder at the tall figure of his boss.
“Changed my mind.” Tanner shot him a glare and reached for a pitchfork. Some good hard work ought to erase the memory of Rosemary with that white nightgown plastered over her in the middle of the night.
“Can you do that?” Cotton asked dubiously, then jumped to one side as a forkful of manure-caked straw landed on his feet.
“I reckon.” Another load of smelly stuff sent Cotton into the next stall.
“You want me to do that, boss?” he asked, looking over the partition as Tanner sent the contents of the standing stall flying into the aisle.
“Go work those yearlings,” Tanner said, the words erupting between grunts of exertion as he completed the stall he’d begun only moments past.
He moved on to the next, eyeing the mess with a jaundiced glare. He’d worked up half a sweat already, and the picture of Rosemary Gibson was still there, her breasts outlined faithfully by the clinging gown, her belly button indented and a hint of…Damn! He should have stayed in the hallway and let her get her fanny off the floor by herself.
He surely didn’t need a woman in the room next to his, certainly not one with a sweet shape that invited his hands to measure her waist and…
Cotton trudged down the aisle, looking back at the furiously working man. “I’ll send someone in to clean up the aisle, boss.”
Tanner’s only reply was a muttered curse as he stepped up his pace.
He finished up the row of stalls quickly, reaching the last one as Bootie trundled in the wide doors, shoving a wheelbarrow before him.
“You sure are makin’ a mess, boss,” he called out cheerfully. His shovel made short work of the residue from the first stall, and he headed for the back of the barn with his load.
Tanner followed him, hanging the pitchfork on a handy nail. His gloves tucked into his back pocket, he wiped his forehead with the red bandanna that he’d tied around his neck first thing upon arising. It came in handy throughout the day, and by nightfall it would be ripe with sweat.
He’d managed to work off the horny mood he’d been nursing all morning. Ever since the middle of the night, to tell the truth, he admitted glumly. Having Rosemary around might not work out as well as he’d thought. Not if he kept getting in a state every time he thought about her.
He’d give a nickel to see that wad of hair all untwisted from the back of her head. The dark braid hung all the way down her back, heavy and thick. His fingers itched to tug at the assortment of pins she’d probably anchored it in place with this morning, and he ground his teeth.
Maybe he should have just married her and had it over with. Then that white nightgown would lay beside his bed every night.
Chapter Six
By Saturday, Rosemary felt she’d cooked enough food to supply a small army. Mama Pearl was right. They were a hungry bunch. Every bit of food deposited on the table disappeared within minutes. Somehow it seemed a shame that all her hard work vanished so quickly.
Sunday morning set a slower pace. Tanner had said the men got up a little later, probably because they’d gone to town the night before, she suspected.
By
the time she arrived in the kitchen, the sun was shining brightly and Tanner had made coffee. He sat at the kitchen table, a pencil stub in his hand, painstakingly writing figures in a ledger.
His slow glance swept her from top to bottom and she looked down at herself, wondering if she’d left a button undone or her hair unkempt. One hand brushed back a wisp from her forehead, the other surreptitiously counted her buttons in a quick survey.
“Morning, Miss Gibson.” His eyes lingered on her hair, and she patted the twisted bun self-consciously.
“Is something wrong? Do I have pins sticking out?”
He shook his head slowly, his grin appearing. “No, ma’am.” One hand motioned to the stove. “Coffee’s made. Pour yourself a cup, why don’t you, Rosie.”
“Rosie?” Her voice escalated as she repeated the word. “I don’t answer to such an abbreviated version of my name, Mr. Tanner. I’ve never been one for nicknames, I’m afraid.”
“I kinda like it,” he answered softly. “It suits you, I think.”
Ire rose to envelop her as she considered the man at the table. He was determined to get under her skin this morning, it seemed, with his teasing and that way of examining her, as if he would expose all her flaws to his view.
She turned to the stove, determined that he not sense her exasperation. “I’m late starting breakfast as it is,” she said firmly.
“Take your time. The boys’ll be another half hour or so. Couple of ’em drank a little too much last night.”
At least he hadn’t called her Rosie again. Her lips firmed, and she looked back at him. “Did you go to town?”
It had been quiet once the horses set off before dark, and she hadn’t been quick enough to see how many riders made up the group.
Tanner shook his head. “I don’t usually. Didn’t want to leave you here alone anyway.”
“I’d have been all right. I’m used to being alone.”
“Not on a ranch, a mile from the nearest neighbor, you aren’t,” he countered. He leaned back in his chair, the pencil stub stuck behind his ear. “I had things to do in the barn most of the evening. Your room was dark when I came in.”
Somehow the thought of Gabe Tanner passing her room after dark and entering his own right next door sent a shiver up her spine. “I read my Bible for a while,” she told him. “But the candle didn’t give a lot of light.”
“Take a lantern up next time.” He closed his ledger and rose from the table. “I wouldn’t want you to miss a minute of your psalm singin’.”
“You’re not a religious man, are you, Mr. Tanner?”
“Nope.”
And that seemed to be that. One more reason why his marriage proposal had been made to the wrong woman.
She turned from the stove, her hands greasy from the bacon she’d arranged in the skillet. A dish towel lay on the sink board and she snatched it up, dampening it in the pan of water there. “I want to talk to you for a minute, please.”
He halted in the doorway. “I’m listening, Miss Gibson.”
“I need a ride to church this morning. Could I use your buggy?”
“I’ll have one of the boys take you,” he offered.
“Do any of them go to church?”
His grin curved one side of his mouth. “Not often.”
Probably never, she thought privately. Oh well, atleast one of them would this morning. And then she smiled sweetly. “Perhaps you’d like to take me, Mr. Tanner?”
“Not likely.”
Rosemary turned back to the stove, long-handled fork in hand as the bacon sizzled in the pan. From the yard a shout caught her ear, another answering from near the barn. The men were up, after all. And she hadn’t even begun biscuits.
Seven uncovered heads showed evidence of Rosemary’s newest edict. Headwear would not be worn at the table, she’d announced on Saturday morning. Three wide-brimmed hats had been deposited on appropriate hooks near the door as soon as she delivered the rule, and this morning, the headgear had been left in the bunkhouse or barn, she was pleased to note.
Six pair of eyes watched her eagerly as she delivered twin platters heaped with bacon and fried eggs onto the table. A basket of biscuits followed, and a crock of gravy was lifted from her grasp by eager hands.
“Stop!” The seventh pair of eyes surveyed her lazily, and Tanner allowed his lips to form a slow grin as she spoke the single word.
The six ranch hands halted, one with his fork upraised, another half out of his seat, the better to reach the platter of eggs. They eyed her and settled down in their chairs.
“I’ve watched you gobble your food for five days now,” Rosemary said, a slight tremor betraying her firm stance. “I don’t know where you were raised, but I’ll guarantee more than one of you learned how to say grace before you ate at your mother’s table.”
Six pair of eyes focused on her, their owners frowning, and casting long looks at Tanner, who appeared blissfully unaware of the hassle his new cook was creating this morning. “From now on, you will fold your hands until thanks is given for the food,” Rosemary said, her words breathless as she made her stand. She knew her cheeks were crimson, and her eyelids fluttered as she clenched her jaw.
“Who’s gonna say the words?” Cotton asked.
“You can take turns if you like,” she suggested. “Or I will, if none of you is capable.”
Tanner rose, shoving his chair back, and her eyes flew to his tall, imposing figure. Perhaps she’d gone too far. First inquiring as to his religious leanings, then asking for a ride to church. And now, demanding that grace be spoken over the meals from now on.
She met the dark eyes with trepidation, but tilted her chin. “Mr. Tanner?”
“This is my house. I’ll do the honors.” His glance at the men on either side of the long table sent a message they understood, and six heads bowed as Gabe Tanner spoke a brief prayer. His chair scraped the floor as he sat down, and then he met Rosemary’s gaze once more.
“You find any jam in that pantry, ma’am? I’m partial to strawberry on my biscuits.”
She inhaled deeply. At least he hadn’t called her Rosie. It was going to be all right. He’d backed her up. She couldn’t have lasted one more meal with these heathens gobbling their food without even being grateful for it.
Her plate was in the warming oven, and she pulled out the empty chair at the end of the table opposite Tanner, sliding onto the seat gracefully.
The men all stopped eating to gape at her. For the first time, their cook was joining them for a meal.
“Now,” Rosemary said cheerfully. “I’d like to hear all your names, first and last, please. Tell me where you came from and about your families while we eat a nice meal together.”
“I never saw so many dropped jaws in one place in my life,” Cotton told his boss. “Tipper pret’ near swallowed his tongue when that pretty little gal nodded at him. He’s so damn shy around women, we never even been able to get him upstairs at the Golden Slipper, no matter how drunk he gets.”
“He’ll find his way up those stairs when he’s good and ready,” Tanner said harshly. “Leave him be.”
“Well, I figured he’d be the best one to take Miss Rosemary to town this morning,” Cotton said with a nod. “She’s pretty safe with him, anyway.”
“She’d better be safe with every one of you,” Tanner warned bluntly. “Pass the word. If anybody says so much as a word out of line, I’ll beat the livin’ daylights out of him. And that’s a fact.”
“She sure looks different than she did the first day she got here, don’t she?” Cotton asked. “She quit wearin’ that ugly black dress anyway. Seems to me that awful hat oughta be burned though.”
“If she’d left it here, I’d have considered it,” Tanner told him. “But she wore it to church. I think it’s the only one she has.”
Rosemary had apparently decided that her mourning clothes weren’t suitable for the heat of the kitchen. She must have dug deep in that valise of hers and found other dres
ses to wear. Although far from stylish, they were at least lighter in color and fabric, and halfway fitted to her narrow waist, he’d noticed.
He’d watched the buggy leave the yard, Tipper holding the reins, his smile eager as he spoke to his passenger.
“I can drive the buggy,” she’d assured Tanner, emerging from the house. “I truly don’t need an escort, Mr. Tanner.”
“I say you do,” he’d said firmly, offering his hand to help her atop the seat.
She’d mumbled something he ignored as he stepped back to watch her arrange her skirts, then fold her hands in her lap. That abominable black straw hat perched squarely on her head, and he shook his head at the sight.
Now, he wished for just a moment that he’d taken her himself. That he’d made conversation with her during the ride to town, escorted her into the church where a pew bore the Tanner name on a small brass plate.
He’d ignored the church and the pew since the day his father died. The old man had been a hypocrite of the very worst sort, sitting beneath the roof of that sacred place on Sunday and living like a demon the rest of the week.
Damn. He hadn’t thought of Walt Tanner in the better part of a week. Not since the evening of the day Rosemary Gibson had driven down the lane and announced that she was ready to be his cook, rather than his bride.
The Reverend Worth clasped Rosemary’s hand in his and shook it with vigor. “I’m so happy to see you in church, Miss Gibson. And who is this fine young man?”
Beside her, Tipper Henderson removed the hat he’d just deposited on his head. “I’m one of the hands at Gabe Tanner’s place, sir.”
“Miss Gibson? This is a permanent situation?” James Worth asked with a frown marring the fine line of his forehead.
“I’m the cook there.”
“She does pret’ near everything, but the washing,” Tipper volunteered. “Mama Pearl comes on Wednesdays and does that and helps out in the kitchen. Course, now that Miss Rosemary’s there, we don’t hardly need no one else.”
The Bachelor Tax Page 7
