Ella had been such a good sport all afternoon, throwing herself enthusiastically into the task of catching supper, but he hadn’t missed the little shudder she’d just given as she eyed the fish.
“Tsk-tsk, Miss Ella, did you think I was going to leave you with such a nasty, smelly job after I had the fun of catching them with you? That’d hardly be fair.” Nate told himself his offer to help clean the fish was mere chivalry and not the fact that he wanted to earn one more of her brilliant smiles and spend more time around her. It wasn’t a privilege he deserved, or that he’d have for long, but he wanted to take advantage of it while he could.
She blinked, then gazed up at him as if he was some sort of hero. “You’d do that for me?” she breathed, eyes wide and luminous.
Looking at her, he could hardly catch his breath. “Sure,” he said, his voice sounding shaky to him. “By the time you have some breading mixed up—myself, I use flour, cornmeal and a little oregano, salt, pepper and garlic when I can get it, but you use what you like—I can have these fish ready for the pan,” he boasted. He felt as though there wasn’t much he couldn’t do under the effect of her grateful smile.
“You’ve got a deal, Mr. Bo—”
“It’s Nate, remember?” he interrupted her to say, thinking how much he’d like to kiss that upturned, smiling mouth of hers, then deciding he had surely lost his mind.
“Nate,” she repeated.
* * *
It was one of the best suppers she had ever served at the little café. Ella had used Bohannan’s breading recipe, and though she’d had to dash over to the boardinghouse to borrow some garlic from Mrs. Meyer, the result was well worth it.
“Piscine perfection,” Mr. Avery, the banker, her first guest that evening, called it. Ella had to stifle a giggle at the description, but she glowed at his praise. Since the flow of customers was usually slower on Sunday nights, she took the money and did the serving while Bohannan kept an eye on the fish frying in the skillet. She darted a glance at him to see if he’d heard the compliment.
He had. He was smiling, and she couldn’t help smiling back. For a moment they shared a triumph that echoed in her soul. She hadn’t expected how much fun it would be to experience even such a small success together.
“Then you must have a second helping, sir, on the house,” Ella said, and served it to him.
“That’s right sweet of you, Miss Ella. I’ll be sure and tell everyone I meet what a good meal it was,” Mr. Avery said.
She took that promise with a grain of salt, for Main Street was nearly deserted on a Sunday evening, but she appreciated the spirit of it nonetheless. Then George Detwiler and his mother showed up, and she left the banker’s table to greet them.
“Ella, I told George I was too tired to cook this evenin’, and we’d see what you were fixin’ up,” the old lady announced. “Mmm, fried catfish! I haven’t had that in a coon’s age.” Her gaze roamed the room, and Ella saw it light on Bohannan flipping fish in the skillet. “Got yourself a partner, I see.”
It was plain from Mrs. Detwiler’s broad grin that the older woman thought Ella and Nate had been cooking up something else between them, too. Ella felt herself flush. She was forgetting all her resolve. She had to get hold of herself. But I don’t want to, a little voice inside her insisted.
“Evening, Mrs. Detwiler, George,” Bohannan said from the stove, rescuing Ella from the need to respond. “Yep, I was kind of at loose ends this afternoon, what with the saloon and the mill bein’ closed, so I decided it was a good day to go fishing. Miss Ella very kindly agreed to come along, and thanks to her beginner’s luck—”
“Mr. Bohannan is exaggerating,” Ella said, enjoying the moment in spite of her nervousness. “He caught twice as many as I did.”
“But she caught the first,” Nate said.
Then the mayor and his wife came in, saying it was their cook’s night off. Ella knew they normally patronized the hotel restaurant on such nights—it had been Mrs. Powell’s favorite boast—so their presence at her little café felt like a signal honor.
The evening continued, with new customers replacing the others at her three tables and a few others trickling in for fish sandwiches. Anticipating the end of the evening, she wondered if Nate would offer to help her with the dishes again, or even offer to walk her home. Did she even want him to?
Also, she began to hope that Zeke Carter had eaten elsewhere tonight. Since he’d been so unpleasant to Nate only this morning, she’d thought it only fair to warn Nate that the cantankerous old man usually came on Sunday evenings, but as her usual closing time drew near, she began to think they’d been spared.
Perhaps Carter had remembered she’d invited Nate to sit with Maude and her, and he would shun her café from now on. Well, she hated to lose a customer, but that was up to him.
Just as the last customer left, though, and she was moving toward the door to turn the open sign to closed, she saw the old man outside reaching for the door latch.
Her heart sank. But she pasted a welcoming smile on her face and opened the door for him. A customer was a customer, after all.
“Bet you thought I wasn’t comin’,” Zeke Carter said as he came in the door. “What’s that I smell—fish? That’d be good for a change. You don’t usually have it on the menu.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your meal,” Ella said, gesturing toward a seat that faced the door. With any luck, he might not spot Nate at the stove, at least anytime soon. “The catfish were caught in the creek only this afternoon,” she added, not mentioning who had done most of the catching. If Carter did notice Nate behind the counter at some point, she prayed he wouldn’t renew his unfriendly behavior.
Carter became aware of Mayor and Mrs. Gilmore at the far table, finishing their meal, and after exchanging greetings with them, he began a loud, rambling soliloquy about the town council, which supposedly never performed up to his standards. The mayor listened politely enough, putting in a word now and then when he could, and Ella managed to get the freshly fried fish to the old codger’s table without him noticing who had cooked it. When she had taken the plate full of fish and biscuits from Nate, he’d murmured, “Since he’s your last customer, why don’t I just slip into the saloon and wait. Maybe he’ll never even realize I was here. You can let me know when he’s gone.” The wink he had given her had been conspiratorial and had sent her pulse rate skyrocketing. He does want to wait for me. She could hardly wait for Zeke Carter to leave!
The mayor was fidgeting and obviously wanted to get away from his loquacious constituent. Carter regularly ran against the mayor whenever Gilmore was up for reelection, but he never won more than a couple of votes—his own and Mrs. Powell’s, probably. Maybe she could help the mayor at the same time as she was helping herself.
“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Carter? Maybe a slice of peach pie?” she asked.
“Sure. And you kin get me s’more of that fish. It’s the best thing you’ve offered in a long time.”
Ella wasn’t sure how he had managed to taste it since he’d been so busy talking. Well, if she wasn’t getting the old man out the door as soon as she had wished, she had at least distracted him so the mayor and his wife could make their escape.
“Coming right up,” she said, glad that Nate had left a last serving on the stove. The sooner she served it, the sooner she could bid Zeke goodbye.
Mayor Gilmore assisted his wife as she spread her shawl over her shoulders. Then, as they made their way to the door, Mrs. Gilmore called back, “Ella, dear, be sure and thank Mr. Bohannan for such a delicious catfish dinner. Was that breading his recipe? I’ll have to have our cook ask him about the ingredients. Bye, now.”
As the door closed behind the Gilmores, Carter let his fork fall to his plate with a clatter. His eyebrows shot up to his scalp line and his eyes bulged out as if someone was strangling him.
“Bohannan cooked this?” he demanded, jabbing a finger at the fresh plate she’d just set down in front of him. His face purpled as he jumped to his feet. “That snake-oil salesman? You let that charlatan cook my supper?”
He lurched past her and looked over the counter as if he expected to find Nate cringing beneath it, then rounded on Ella.
The injustice of his words sparked her own ire. “Yes, he cooked it, and your first helping, too, the one you called ‘the best thing I’ve offered in a long time,’” she snapped. “He was cooking when you arrived. And he’s not a ‘snake-oil salesman’ anymore, as you very well know. Do you want this second helping or not?”
“That I don’t, missy,” Carter snarled, throwing his napkin down. “Didn’t know Bohannan was your fancy man, Miss Ella, but since you’ve taken up with him, I won’t be back. You best care about your reputation, or ain’t no one gonna eat at this place!” He stormed out the back door, slamming it behind him.
He’d gotten away without paying for his meal, Ella noticed absently as the tears began to fall, and he was no doubt heading for the hotel restaurant to give Mrs. Powell an earful.
He’d tell the cook, all right, and before noon tomorrow half the town would know that Miss Ella Justiss had a “fancy man,” the same fellow who had helped bilk them of their money. And they too would begin to question whether they should patronize the café. After all, maybe this girl who’d blown into town like a tumbleweed from who-knew-where was no better than she should be.
From there it was easy to imagine the ladies of the Spinsters’ Club, and even Reverend Chadwick and his wife, begin to avoid her. In no time flat, she would be a pariah.
In the midst of her sobbing, Ella must not have heard the door from the saloon open, or the footsteps coming toward her, because she was startled to feel a man’s arm around her. Nate’s arm around her.
“Miss Ella, what’s wrong? I heard the door slam—what did that old coot say to you?”
For a moment she couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t deny herself the comfort of those warm, strong arms holding her as she wept. Then, gradually, she became aware that they were standing in front of the café window, the table lamps illuminating them for anyone who might be standing outside.
She wrenched away from him, feeling the chill on her arms now that she had abandoned that warm refuge. “You m-mustn’t... S-someone could see...”
He shrugged, as if that hardly mattered. “You’re crying. I wanted to help you. What did he say to you?” He looked from her to the door as if Zeke Carter might still be lurking outside.
“He found out you c-cooked his meal...” Ella said, her voice thick as she struggled to get the words out and control her tears. “And he called you my ‘fancy man.’ I can’t... You’d better go,” she said at last.
“Go?” he said as if it was a foreign word. “Because of an accusation from a cranky old fool? If I go, it will be to find him and make him apologize to you, Miss Ella. He can’t talk to you that way.”
“No! You can’t do that! It’ll only make things worse!” she cried. “Don’t you see that I can’t afford to lose my reputation, Mr. Bohannan?”
He blinked. “Lose your reputation? Why would anyone listen to the likes of him? Your customers know the kind of person you are.”
Why didn’t he understand this? Didn’t he know how rumors worked? He’d experienced harsh treatment just this morning because of his previous job, but how could she explain that if a woman lost her reputation, it could be so much worse? She’d already had to leave Round Rock when someone had speculated that she was a soiled dove from some other town, looking to start over among honest folks.
“Please, just go,” she said, weary from the force of the emotions that had swept through her.
“But the dishes—”
“I’ll take care of them,” she said. “It’s always been up to me before.”
“Let me walk you back to the boardinghouse when you’re finished, at least. It’ll be dark.”
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine. I’ve always done it.” She didn’t mention that on summer evenings, when she left the café at dusk, she avoided going right past the saloon to Main Street so as not to call attention to herself from the rowdy, liquored-up customers. This meant walking a ways down the road leading south, then passing the grounds of the mayor’s house, but the journey was safer that way.
For a moment, Nate looked as if he was going to say something but thought better of it. Then he just stared at her, his blue eyes unreadable. At last, he turned on his heel and went out through the door into the saloon, and the next thing she heard was the sound of his steps on the stairs to the upper floor.
Fortunately, there was already hot water waiting on the stove for the dishes. Bless Nate Bohannan for that little courtesy, at least. She did the dishes in silent misery, tears trickling down her cheeks to splash in the warm water below. She left the dishes, cups and silverware drying on the counter. After thrilling the alley cats that habitually congregated at her back door at night with a bounty of fishy scraps, she walked around to Main Street.
Now that it was fall and growing dark earlier, usually the light from the moon and stars—and on other nights, from the saloon—was enough that she could cross the street without any other illumination. But tonight, wary because of her confrontation with Zeke Carter, and because the saloon was dark and the moon was new, she carried the lantern as she crossed Main Street diagonally to the hotel, then walked through the alley between the hotel and mercantile to Travis Street and the boardinghouse.
* * *
Bohannan watched her progress. He had been standing at the window of his dark room since he heard the back door of the café close, and now he watched the bobbing light of the lantern and the figure lit by it until they were swallowed by the alley.
Ella had been so full of joy this afternoon when she caught the first fish, and had seemed to take pleasure in their time together at the creek and in their preparing dinner together. Why had she let a bad-tempered old coot like Carter buffalo her as he had? Why was she so fearful of gossip? No one paid attention to tale-telling bullies like Carter and that cook from the hotel—they just considered the source and went on with their business. Yet the same Ella whom he’d been so close to kissing this afternoon had been cowed by an old man’s empty threats.
Had something happened in her past to cause this overreaction? What was it?
In the space of an afternoon, he’d been so charmed by her he’d been contemplating abandoning his plan to go to California and join his cousin’s elite circle of influential men. He’d been thinking, when he walked her home, of asking if he could court her, and maybe even kiss her. He’d take up roots in Simpson Creek and become a pillar of the community.
Now, of course, there was no point in making such a plan. Any attention paid to Ella Justiss would be as welcome as a rattlesnake in a prairie-dog town.
There was no point in contemplating staying and trying to help Ella overcome her fears. Here in Simpson Creek, he’d always be soiled by his association with Salali. In time they would forget about Salali’s vandalism and only remember that Nate Bohannan had been peddling snake oil. He’d never gain their full respect. He should just stick to his original idea and leave this little town and the troubled Ella behind when his work was done. That would sure be a sight easier.
But he’d never taken the easy path in life.
Chapter Ten
“Ella, are you avoiding me?” Maude asked as she entered the café just as Ella finished cleaning up after serving breakfast. They were the only ones in the place. “You came in last night and went straight to your room before I could catch you in the hallway, and you were gone this morning at the crack of dawn. Mrs. Meyer said she didn’t even see you. I’d ask if I did something to offend you, but I haven’t seen you since church yesterday, so
I don’t see how I could have.”
Ella faced her best friend with a guilty smile. “No, of course you didn’t offend me, Maude. I’m sorry you thought that even for a second. I just didn’t feel like talking when I came back from supper last night.” She’d been afraid Maude would ask about the fishing expedition, and she hadn’t wanted to talk about it—not after the way things had turned out. Instead she had crept into the boardinghouse by the back door, stealthy as a thief, and put her things away in the kitchen, not even pausing to gather what she’d need for the morning.
“Didn’t the fishing go well?” Maude prodded. Her tone was warm and sympathetic, but Ella saw the speculative gleam in the other woman’s eyes.
“It went fine. We caught plenty, and the customers raved about the fish,” Ella said briskly, hoping Maude would leave it at that. It didn’t feel right to be evasive with her friend, but how could she tell her about Zeke Carter’s threat?
“I thought so. I ran into Mrs. Detwiler on the way here, and she said to tell you it was the best catfish she’d ever eaten. Did you and Mr. Bohannan have a fight afterward, then?”
She stared at Maude. “Of course not.” Nor had she and Bohannan exchanged anything but the most commonplace pleasantries when he’d come in this morning for breakfast, but the café had been full. “Now, unless you’re coming to the butcher shop with me while I place my order, I’ve got to get going.”
Maude wrinkled her nose. “No, thanks. It’s bad enough when Mrs. Meyer sends me out to the chicken house to select Sunday dinner.”
Ella grinned. “It’s not so bad. Mr. Flynn’s already done the butchering. Though there is a smell...”
A Hero in the Making (Brides of Simpson Creek Book 7) Page 9
