by Caroline Lee
He made a little noise that could’ve been surprise, or could’ve been agreement, and she wondered if she’d accidentally muttered that last thought aloud. Again.
But he took a deep breath, his voice sounded a little choked as he asked,“An’ yer Nana Rose? What does she want fer ye?”
It was a surprising question, and Briar glanced up at him. “I’m not sure. She used to be a famous performer on the stage back east. She was disappointed Ma married a farmer, but…”
“So she thinks ye should marry a rich man too?”
Was that bitterness she heard in his tone? She saw his amber eyes had lost their usual teasing glint, but she couldn’t tell for sure how he felt, otherwise. “She thinks it would be the best for me.”
He shrugged, then looked back toward the stream, his expression curiously blank. Shoving the last of the éclair in his mouth, he picked up one of his apples and held it out to her without looking. “Apple?” he offered, his mouth still full.
Briar took the fruit, careful this time not to brush her fingers against his, but not sure why. When she bit into it, the juices ran over her tongue in their special combination of sweet and tart, and she longed to mix them with cinnamon and sugar and all the good things in the world. She could do wonders with fresh apples…but had to admit that a juicy one, shared beside a cool stream on a hot day with company, was special too.
“What about you?” She wasn’t sure why he’d closed himself off, but she’d been enjoying the feel of his undivided attention up until then. “What about your family? Do you have any special names, or funny grandmothers, or annoying younger brothers?” She’d known him for months, but didn’t really know him at all. This was their first real conversation, after all.
He didn’t reply for a long time. Instead, he fell back against the grass, his head pillowed by one long forearm, his hair trapped under his shoulders, and his eyes staring up at the autumn-tinted leaves above them. He took a bite of his apple, and after a long moment, finally said, “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, to all of your questions. I don’t have any special names, or funny grandparents or brothers,” he answered curtly.
Briar was a little taken aback by his abruptness. He’d been so open earlier. “I’m sorry.”
Another bite of the apple, and then a shrug. “Don’t be.” He swallowed and she watched some of the tension leave his shoulders. Not that she was still staring at the way his shirt seemed plastered to his chest or anything. “I shouldn’t be rude. But no, I’ve got no one.” His accent seemed thicker, somehow.
“You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Ye had every right to, after I pried into yer family.” He sighed, but still seemed intent on the leaves above him. “I came here with Vincenzo.” Vincenzo Bellini was a world-renowned violinist who’d retired here last spring and fallen in love with the town bookseller, Arabella Mayor. “An’ I’d been with him for years, travelin’ all over the world, makin’ sure he was fed and dressed, and not so lost in his music he’d forget about the rest of us.” Everyone knew that he’d been a sort of combination companion, chef, and valet to the eccentric musician; but she’d seen them interact over the last months, and knew that there was a deep friendship there as well.
“I’ve often admired your devotion to him.”
He snorted and took another bite. “Have ye? Well, there’s good reason fer it.” He paused long enough to make her wonder if he’d continue. But then, “I was fifteen or thereabouts when he caught me pickin’ his pocket in Edinburgh. I figured he was an easy target, being blind an’ all. But he grabbed me by my jacket an’ towed me back to his hotel room.”
Briar shifted so that she could see him better, her lunch completely forgotten in the face off this astounding information. Gordon MacKinnon had been a thief? “What happened?” she barely breathed, resting her arms on her knees, eager to hear the story.
“He offered me a job is what happened. No, told me he was givin’ me a job, an’ that I’d be a fool to pass it up. All I had t’ do was be devoted t’ him, an’ I have been, ever since.”
“That was it? You just…became his manservant, just like that?”
“No.” His rumble of laughter was welcome, after his earlier withdrawal. Maybe he was more comfortable with her now? “No, not just like that. We butted heads all the time. He had to teach me…well, everything. How t’ dress, how t’ talk, how t’ be a gentleman. An’ then how t’ disregard all o’ that so that he could keep on appearin’ as eccentric as he wanted.” He took another bite of the apple. “But I was devoted to him, no denyin’ it. He was my closest friend.”
She caught the hint of wistfulness in his expression then. “Was?” From what she’d seen of the two men, they were still close friends.
But Gordon seemed surprised by what he’d said, and shrugged. “Well, he still is. But since he married Arabella, an’ she and little Eddie moved in, things’ve been different, haven’t they?”
“I guess they would be, yes.”
“An’ don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled fer all of them to have found each other. An’ grateful that Vincenzo’s given me a place in his home, but…”
But it was still Vincenzo’s home. Just like her home was really her parents’, and she had to do what they expected of her. “I think I understand.” Her confession was softly spoken, and he didn’t seem to hear it.
“Arabella cooks fer him now, which is how it should be. An’ makes sure his trousers aren’t on back-t’-front or whatever mischief he gets himself into when he gets lost in his music. An’ me? I took the job at Spratt’s because I miss cooking, an’ because I needed the money.”
The same reason he hired on to do hours of back-breaking labor at her family’s farm in the spring and the fall. She knew that he did other jobs during the summer too, to fill the daylight hours before going to work at Spratt’s. He worked hard, and it showed.
“Why?” His questioning glance told her that he’d been thinking of something else, and wasn’t sure what she was asking. “I mean, why do you need the money? You work so hard, sometimes I wonder… I mean…” She was getting flustered. “You have a nice home with your friends and a job doing what you like.” If only she could be so lucky. “Why do you do so much other work, too?”
He stared at her a long moment, before resting his head on his forearm again and looking back up at the changing colors of the leaves above him. He took a last bite of the apple, then tossed the core into the stream without looking. “Because I’m not going t’ work fer Yacob Spratt fer the rest o’ my life. Or even Vincenzo, bless him. I’m going into business fer myself.”
The firm surety in his voice made her heart pound for some reason. She sat forward a little. “Doing what?”
“Ye won’t laugh?”
“Never,” she breathed the solemn promise. Could she really be sitting here in the shade having a deeply emotional conversation with Gordon MacKinnon? The man she’d been dreaming about for months? Someone pinch me!
“I’ve been all over the world. I’ve eaten things most people can only imagine, an’ I’ve been keepin’ the recipes down in a little book, ever since Vincenzo taught me t’ read an’ write. I can make all o’ those dishes, an’ sometimes do.” He took a deep breath, and she loved the way his shirt stretched. “I’m going t’ open a restaurant, Briar. It’s going t’ be the best Everland’s ever seen. The best thing between St. Louis an’ Salt Lake, I promise. As fancy as the day is long, with proper white tablecloths, an’ waiters all dressed in uniform, an’ a wine list as long as yer arm.”
She sat back again, her breath whooshing out of her as she imagined his grand vision. “And a menu?”
He chuckled. “Aye, a real menu. Not like Yacob and Martha’s ye-get-whatever’s-been-boiling. No, at my place ye’ll get to choose yer own food, an’ enjoy yer wine and company while it’s bein’ cooked just fer ye.”
“And a dessert menu?”
That�
�s when he sat up, suddenly enough to surprise her, and laughed. She’d heard his laugh before, in passing, but this was the first time she got to see his face transform from his usual wry smile into pure, relaxed joy. This close, she could see that his jaw was speckled with stubble, and on his head a few strands of hair had worked loose from their binding and floated around his eyes when he laughed. “Aye, a dessert menu. Yer desserts would bring diners all the way from Cheyenne, Briar Rose. Together—”
She never did find out what he was going to say for all that she was holding her breath and leaning forward to hear, because at that moment her youngest brother burst into their little haven of shade and laughter, and threw himself down between her and Gordon. “Ma asked where you were, Briar, but I told them you’d packed your own lunch. We had the leftover noodles from last night, in case you cared. Pa said that we had to finish half of this field today if Gordon wants payin’, and Nana Rose says to tell you to smile.”
It was remarkable how much the boy could say on one breath of air. “I am smiling.” It was all she could think of to reply, still a little shocked at Thorn’s sudden arrival and the way Gordon had immediately sat up and shifted so that there was more space between them. “I don’t see why she thinks…”
She met Gordon’s eyes over her brother’s head. When he slowly lifted one blonde brow, she realized that no, she wasn’t smiling. Was in fact frowning over her family’s high-handed dictates and her brother’s interruption. But when his second brow joined the first, and one half of his lips pulled into a wry grin, that’s when she felt herself smiling for real. “Fine. Yes, I’m smiling. Happy?”
Briar wasn’t speaking to her brother, or even to her absent grandmother. No, she was asking Gordon, and he understood, judging from the laughter that danced in his eyes at her challenge. He nodded and her smile grew, and then her brother jumped to his feet.
“Alright then! I told Pa we’d try to get more than half done, but Gordon and I are way faster than Briar, so I dunno. Come on. Get up, get up.” He bounced impatiently from one foot to the other. “Let’s get started!”
Briar groaned a bit at the thought of getting back to work. She wasn’t built to work in the fields, and she knew it. Working in the kitchen, with its softness and scents and comfort, that was more her style. But when Gordon reached down to pull her to her feet, and when his thumb brushed against the back of her hand once, twice… well, she decided that maybe cutting wheat wasn’t so bad after all, as long as he was beside her.
Gordon smiled at her and she returned it with one of her own, before they both collected their lunch bundles to follow after the over-enthusiastic Thorn. Maybe if she was lucky, she’d be able to find time to bake something special tonight to bring for lunch tomorrow. She liked the way he’d enjoyed her éclair, and found she wanted to bake him all sorts of treats.
They’d only had a little while together, but suddenly Briar wanted very much to make Gordon smile again. His smile made her heart light…and she spent the rest of the afternoon pondering on that realization. There was something about him that made her breath catch and her heart speed up. She wanted him to be happy, wanted him to fulfill his dream.
Wanted to help him fulfill his dream…somehow.
CHAPTER THREE
“There’s enough stew to last the evening, and you’ll do up your biscuits like always?”
“Aye, Martha.” Gordon had no sooner walked through the door to the kitchen behind Spratt’s Eatery than Mrs. Spratt began untying her apron strings. “And yes, I’ll put my hair up.”
The rotund woman made a clucking noise and rolled her eyes at his teasing tone, as Gordon began to twist his long hair up on top of his head in a style he’d learned in Japan. Sometimes he got odd looks for it here in America, where it did resemble a woman’s sloppy bun; but in the Orient the topknot was a symbol of strength and virility, and he figured that he could live with that. Besides, it kept his hair out of the stew, and he’d long ago learned the benefits to that.
“You think I can’t hear your sarcasm, young man?” Martha scowled at him, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. “You just do your job and leave the sass at home. Yacob will open in twenty minutes for dinner, so you just mind your bread and the tables, and everything will be fine.”
Gordon sighed and finished knotting his hair into place with a leather cord. “Aye, Martha.”
Mind the tables, Gordy. It was galling that this was what he’d be reduced to; serving the same bowl of Martha Spratt’s stew to the same patrons, day after day. The single men and the working couples who didn’t have the time or talent to cook their own dinners. Every day, he worked hard doing whatever back-breaking job he could find, only to wash up and arrive here at five o’clock. And every day, Mrs. Spratt would give him the same reminder—the only difference was an update on whatever filling, plentiful, and unimaginative dish she’d decided to cook that day—and then waddle out the door to her own home and daughter.
He forced a smile and wished her a good evening as she left with her own covered dish of stew. But as soon as the door shut behind her, and he began to pour the flour on the clean counter to make the biscuits, Gordon’s irritation grew. Spratt’s Eatery was what passed for “dining” in Everland, and it was irritating. Oh, the food was good enough, he supposed, but— Gordon released some of his frustration by pounding the dough into submission—it was just so damn boring. The same stews, roasts, and biscuits, night after night. Everyone ate the same thing, for the same price.
And he, who’d visited the great cities of five different continents, had dined in palaces, and had learned to make elaborate dishes created by the world’s premier chefs? He was reduced to serving this same simple fare, night after night, to the same simple, unimaginative neighbors.
At this rate, the biscuits would be hard as rock, so Gordon stopped pounding the dough and began to roll it out, efficiently slicing it into smaller pieces to go into the oven.
It wasn’t that Martha’s food was bad, which was a good thing, since Gordon had eaten it most nights since the spring. And maybe it was enough for some people; unimaginative people who were fine with a menu that was decided by someone else, who were willing to take what they could get, and happily pay for it. People who valued quantity over quality.
It was just that Everland deserved more. There was a fancy restaurant over in Haskell, sure, but that was a distance away, and even then it was part of a hotel. No, the people of Everland deserved their own fine restaurant, where they could choose what they wanted to eat based on a real menu. Where the wine selection matched the meats, and yes—as he’d told Briar—there’d be an actual selection of fresh-baked desserts.
Briar. Briar Rose Jorgenson had been in his thoughts—and in his dreams—almost continually since that lunchbreak last week. The following day they’d been working opposite ends of the fields, but she’d brought him cinnamon cookies and they’d talked some more. And again the next day, and the next… No wonder he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
Heck, he’d been thinking about her for months, but had never managed to…well, to make her see him. The galling way he’d become tongue-tied around her—which had never happened with any other woman—had resulted in him being no more than a stranger to her. When he wanted her to treat him as something much more.
But last week, there on the banks of that stream, something different had happened. For the first time, he’d felt like he’d seen the real her…and was suddenly able to let her see the real him. Gordon never claimed to be deep or mysterious. Sure, he had plenty of friends, thanks to Everland’s welcoming community, but none of them had asked the questions Briar had asked. None of them had seen the value in his dreams and aspirations.
Briar had.
And he’d realized, there beside her family’s wheat field, that he wanted her to be a part of that dream. No matter what her family thought of her gifts, she really was the most talented baker this side of Cheyenne. As a restaurateur, it only made sense to hire her
onto his staff.
But as a man—a strong and virile man, Gordon corrected, thinking of the topknot—he wanted her for more than just her baking talents. He wanted her to be part of his dream, his future, because…well, because she was special. She understood him. She was friendly and kind, and had an air about her that made him want to take care of her, for all that he’d never been able to say more than a few words to her. After their conversation last week, he knew his protective instinct was because her family didn’t appreciate her, and she felt trapped. And he’d never been one to ignore someone who needed help, which had landed him in trouble more than once.
But she was more than just someone who needed help. She made him feel special too. And as he wiped down all the counters, he had to admit the truth; she was the most desirable woman he’d ever met.
In Greece he’d met dark-haired women who tasted of honey; in China he’d watched exotic beauties who’d smiled demurely behind lowered lashes; in Rio de Janeiro he’d lounged beside dusky-skinned goddesses who’d fed him ripe fruit off golden plates… and not a single one of them made his blood pump like Briar Rose Jorgenson. Her hair was as thick as the Greeks’ but silkier, with hints of cinnamon—like her. Her manner was as polite and refined as the Chinese girls’ but with the spice that they lacked. And her taste…? Well, Gordon knew that if he was ever lucky enough to taste her, she’d be more delicious than all the fruits and women in the world. Her apple-and-cinnamon scent suggested as much.
She was gorgeous, she was delicious, and she would never be his.
While the first batch of biscuits baked, Gordon began arranging the stew-bowls he’d serve the evening’s offerings in and checking all the spoons to make sure they were clean. It was mindless work and didn’t help his mood.
