“What dress are you wearing? I like the moss-green one, the one with the gold rosettes around the sleeves,” Birdie suggested as she rose from the vanity to get her dress out of her bag.
“I don’t know if I have time to change, I have to go back down to check on our supper. The chickens should be almost done, as well as the squash,” Jo murmured, removing from her closet the green dress Birdie liked.
When Jo started to leave the room, Birdie stopped her. “You will come sit down right here on this bed. Maybe even lie down. Take off your shoes and remove that awful dress. You have a half-hour to rest. You might try putting a cool cloth over your eyes, witch hazel, if you have some. Mother says there’s nothing like witch hazel to deflate the puffies under the eyes. Mother is always right. At least that’s what she tells me. I’ll see to the chicken. I promise I won’t let them burn.”
Jo balked and turned toward the door, saying, “But the tomatoes and the cucumbers still need to be sliced and….”
Birdie whipped the dress out in front of her to get the wrinkles out, ducked her head under the skirt of the dress and worked her way up to the neck until her arms found the short sleeves. “I’ll get it done,” she said, her head appearing at the neck opening. The dress slid down far enough for her to adjust the waist over her bosoms and tuck in her chemise. “Even I know how to slice tomatoes.” With one hand she smoothed out the wrinkles over the skirt and with the other, she tugged at the neckline and picked at the puffy sleeves as Jo buttoned up the seed-pearl buttons in the back. “Maybe I won’t do them exactly how you would do it, but I know how to cut up a cucumber. How hard can it be?”
Birdie turned to give her friend a closer look. “You look worn out, Jo. Splash some water on your face, close your eyes. I’ll come get you before I call everyone in to supper. We have to entertain your brother’s fiancée and future mother-in-law this evening. You’ll want to look your best.”
Jo plopped down on the edge of her bed and blinked. “Who are you? And what have you done with my crazy friend Birdie-Alice? Why aren’t you upset Gabe brought home a fiancée? Why aren’t you in tears? I expected to find you stomping mad, getting ready to set off at a gallop across country on the run. I came up here to talk you out of doing something horrible to Miss Millican before you took off.”
Birdie giggled and waved her hand dismissively. “We all want Gabe to be happy. If Miss what’s-her-name makes him happy, then that’s what I want too.”
Jo put her hands to her cheeks. “Birdie, please, Edditha, her name is Edditha. And you don’t fool me, Birdie-Alice Bollo. You’re making all the right noises, sounding reasonable and understanding and accepting. I don’t trust you when you’re reasonable. You’re plotting something.”
Jo sighed and lay back on her pillow. “I’m too tired to think about it right now, but I have an uneasy feeling there will be no relaxing this evening. So yes, I believe I’ll lie down for a few minutes, close my eyes, and try to think peaceful thoughts.”
On her way out of the room, Birdie said, “I have no plans, other than to make Miss Millican and her mother feel welcome.”
He arm over her eyes, Jo groaned.
Birdie exited the room with her lips tightly pressed together to keep from giggling. She skipped down the stairs, taking note her bosoms jiggled deliciously.
Chapter Seven
Birdie congratulated herself, first on finding two relish plates and second on placing the sliced tomatoes and cucumbers in an artistic pinwheel design. The table was set with two butter servers, two sets of salt and pepper, and two baskets full of bread placed at each end of the table, and everything appeared under control.
She heard the screen door open, and then Van appeared in the kitchen doorway. “There’s a buggy comin’ and a rider. I figure your folks are coming after you, Birdie. Can’t see who the rider is, could be Cornell. They’re comin’ from the canyon.”
The news spun Birdie completely around, her arms flying out in a panic. “We don’t have enough food.”
Behind her, she heard the screen door bang shut. She sprinted for the stove, flung open the oven door, and stared helplessly at the four chickens roasting and the eight halves of Hubbard squash. Baffled, she couldn’t decide what to do—how could she tell if they were done, how should she serve them? Everything looked done, the chickens nice and brown and crusty, and the squash, well, who could tell when squash was done? She poked a half with a fork and the fork sunk into the meat of the squash. She nodded and made the call—they were done. But would it be enough for…she counted on her fingers, ten people? Ten. Not ordinary people, but hungry men people. She doubted it.
Thinking fast, she dashed to the pantry where she found a basket of dried bread and a covered bowl of chicken livers, gizzards, and necks already cooked, sitting in their own stock. She turned up her nose but carried the disgusting parts out to the stove. She diced up some onion, celery, and mushrooms from the pantry, added the chicken livers, but set aside the gizzards and necks, unable to stomach the sight of them.
After a frantic search, she found the sage, seasoned everything with salt and pepper, tossed everything together with a liberal amount of bacon fat, and let it sizzle in the skillet while she crumbled up the dried bread in a big bowl. Once she had the ingredients from her skillet added to her breadcrumbs, she moistened the entire mess with the chicken stock. She pulled out the pan of roasting chickens and spooned the dressing all around the edge and in between and then stood back, amazed at her resourcefulness.
Before she shut the oven door, it occurred to her she would need to make gravy. You couldn’t have dressing and no gravy. She couldn’t do gravy—gravy took skill and patience, and she had neither. Her attempts at making gravy either turned out like wallpaper paste or lumpy like oatmeal, in both cases unappetizing and inedible.
Like the wind across the prairie, Doreen Bollo burst into the room in a swish of energy. Angry, hands on her ample hips, she marched up to her daughter. “Birdie-Alice Bollo, I’m getting sick and tired of running you down. I’d like to know what maggot has gotten into your brain. Why do you keep haring off like a wild colt?
“Last night you told me you had to be at the church at seven this morning to help Mrs. Gainnor arrange flowers for Mr. Gainnor’s funeral this afternoon. I believed you,” her mother said and stomped her foot. “I don’t know why I did, but I did. When I saw Mrs. Gainnor heading for the church at nine this morning, I knew you’d flown the coop again. She, of course, knew nothing about you helping her.”
Huffing and sweating, Birdie flapped her arms in frustration. “Never mind all of that, Mother. I need help here. Jo’s been cooking all day. She’s upstairs resting. I told her I could take care of things down here. Gabe is home, he’s brought with him his fiancée and his future mother-in-law, and now you and Daddy show up…”
Brows drawn together, her mother scanned the room and sniffed the air. “And Cornell, Cornell is here too. We insisted he come along to sort out this misunderstanding.”
Her mother stepped around her and peeked in the oven, then ran a finger across the counter next to the stovetop. She bent over the empty mixing bowl and wrinkled her nose.
Birdie ignored her mother as she picked up the skillet to take it to the wash-pan. “There’s enough food for six or seven people, but I don’t know about ten. The chickens are done. They’re brown anyway. And I can put a fork in the squash. I made some stuffing. I’ve never made stuffing before. I think I put everything in it I should. No matter, it’s in there cooking. But if we have stuffing, I think we have to have gravy, and I don’t do gravy. I need help.”
Brought up short, her mother stood before her, her eyes round in disbelief and wonder. “Stuffing? You made stuffing?” she said reverently. “I didn’t realize you even knew what it was.” Taking a fork, she opened the oven door and sampled a bit of the concoction. After giving it another taste, she declared, “I’m proud of you, Birdie. Let’s see what we’ve got to make the gravy. Do you have any of the
chicken stock left?”
Birdie found her mother an apron and then gave her a rundown of events so far. As her mother helped her prepare the chicken gravy, and make it without lumps, her father poked his head into the kitchen to see his girls.
“We figured you’d be out here,” he said, placing his big paws on Birdie’s shoulders while she methodically stirred the gravy in the saucepan. “What are you making there, wallpaper paste?”
Her mother jabbed her father on the shoulder. “Hush, Raphael, Birdie’s cooking. She’s made the stuffing, and now she’s preparing the gravy.”
This her mother disclosed in much the same reverent tone she’d used upon learning Birdie had made the stuffing. The way her mother said it, it sounded like she’d performed some complicated experiment, invented a way to turn mud to diamonds, or discovered a cure for baldness. Birdie resented it. She’d promised herself she would not succumb to childishness, not tonight. She resisted the urge to abandon the field, give over all the cooking duties to her mother, and ride the heck out of here. Run and hide.
Behind her, her father muttered, “Ah,” and then patted her on the shoulder. “Forewarned is forearmed.” He kissed her on the cheek before pulling back. “Well, the men are going out to the office.”
Birdie glanced over her shoulder and stuck her tongue out at him. His back to her, he headed back outside. He hadn’t caught her defiant gesture, but her mother had, and she shook her finger in Birdie’s face.
“The office? What office?” Doreen asked her husband’s retreating backside.
“The barn, Mother,” Birdie explained and tapped her spoon on the side of the pan before she tasted the gravy coating the utensil. She nodded, pleased her gravy had begun to thicken without lumps. It smelled right and tasted right. She set the pan aside, afraid it would scorch. All she needed now was a gravy boat. She shouted to her father before he went out the screen door. “Dinner will be on the table in fifteen minutes. You tell the boys in the office I expect them to come when I call.”
Birdie heard her father chuckle. He winked at her and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before the screen door slapped shut.
Chapter Eight
They all heard the squawk of the barn door. But Van pounced on him first. “What the hell are you doing back here, Cornell? We sent you home.”
The light behind him, Cornell Norquist moved forward, staying a half pace behind Rafe. His twitching lips and the sheepish tilt of his head gave him away. He’d taken a blow to his ego, and his uncertainty was showing.
Corney headed for Buck and Gabe. He ignored Van, whose balled-up fists and jaw sticking out a mile showed he was clearly itching to fight. Gabe stood with his back against a stall post, all easy and relaxed and a sly smirk on his face, waiting, like Buck, to hear the explanation.
Before Cornell could give his excuse, Rafe intervened. “Doreen and I were on our way to retrieve our errant daughter and met Cornell on the road. He told us what happened up in the canyon. I convinced him to turn back. I thought we should talk this over before the situation gets out of control.”
Buck retrieved a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from an old saddlebag, removed the cork, and poured Rafe a shot of whiskey. “And which situation would that be, Rafe, the situation between you and your runaway daughter, or Cornell setting a charge of dynamite where he had no business blasting?”
He handed Rafe his glass and then turned to Van and offered him a glass. Van refused. Buck shrugged and kept on talking. “Since I doubt you’d listen to any advice I could offer about letting your daughter make her own choices, I assume the situation to which you refer concerns young Norquist. But you see, my sons and I took care of Cornell. We explained to him he had misplaced his dynamite and told him to get. The contract is null and void—no situation to discuss.”
“But that’s just it, Buck,” Cornell said in protest. “Pa gave me written instructions to stay clear of the markers. I did. I set the charge on the opposite side of the canyon away from the markers.”
Gabe pushed off the post to get in Cornell’s face. “Your father told you to stay away from the markers? You sure that’s what he said?”
Buck started to refill Gabe’s glass, but Gabe put a hand over it to stop him.
Cornell greedily extended his glass and nodded gratefully when Buck refilled it to the brim. He promptly downed it in one swallow and then smacked his lips and wiped them with the back of his hand. Fighting for his breath, he assured them, “I’m sure that’s what the instructions said. I don’t understand. If you made it clear in the contract, why would Pa give me the wrong instructions? I can’t figure it. My Pa doesn’t make mistakes.”
They all heard the dinner chime. Buck gave a nod to all gathered and called the meeting adjourned. He tucked the whiskey back into the saddlebag hanging on the wall and placed the glasses upside down on the brace between the studs.
On the way out the door, Buck, Van, and Gabe exchanged speculative glances, and Buck heard Van mumble under his breath, “No, Nils Norquist doesn’t make mistakes.”
»»•««
Everyone gathered on the porch and stood around the dining table outside the opened kitchen doors. The heat and the savory aromas from the kitchen escaped into the cool evening air.
Gabe, obligated to make the introductions, introduced Edditha as his fiancée. He was about to introduce Mrs. Millican to Raphael and Doreen when Mrs. Millican astounded them all by throwing her arms around Raphael’s neck. “You don’t remember me, do you, Sheriff?” Pulling back a little, she cocked her pretty head and smiled up at him. Eyes shining with mischief and delight she said, “No reason why you should, I’m not young and skinny now. I’ve wanted to thank you for so long for giving my brother Pete a job after our folks passed away and seeing to it we had a place to stay. We both might’ve come to a bad end if not for you.”
His hands on her shoulders, Rafe stared into her upturned face and managed to sputter, “Adella? Adella Ridenhour?”
“I know,” she gushed, giving his ruddy cheeks a pat. “Isn’t this the darndest thing? I’ve come close to busting my buttons in anticipation of meeting up with everyone. First, with the famous Buck Hoyt, alias Matt Buxton. Now you, my hero, Sheriff Raphael Bollo.” She dabbed at the tears at the corner of her eyes with her lace kerchief. “I thought I’d have to go into Baker City during our stay to locate you, but here you are. This truly is serendipitous.”
»»•««
Birdie kept in the background out of the way. Although sheer torture, she couldn’t stop watching Gabe. It nearly killed her to see him paying court to Edditha, pulling out a chair for her to the left of the head of the table where Buck sat. Although she took note he didn’t touch the girl. He didn’t put his hand on her back like her papa did her mother. He didn’t smile or speak at all, he simply gestured, and Miss Millican followed his direction. None of their actions struck her as very lover-like at all.
Her mother’s startling announcement fresh on everyone’s ears, the poised Miss gorgeous, her cheeks aflame and lips pulled back in a tight little smile, dipped her pretty head, and fussed with her mismatched silverware. Birdie, as an observer of human nature, suspected Edditha found her mother’s revelations embarrassing and disquieting. The young woman actually stumbled a bit before settling herself at the table.
Buck guided the still-tittering Adella to the chair to his right. Birdie found it interesting Buck had his hands all over the lady. Not all over, but on her arm and her back, and he even took her hand when she lowered herself into the seat.
Buck was flirting…outrageously.
The very idea caused Birdie to press her lips together to hold back the giggles. She wondered if Jo noticed her father’s blatant attentions toward the lovely Mrs. Millican.
Jo had come downstairs the moment she’d heard the dinner chime. She’d arrived in time to help Birdie set the main dishes on the table. Catching Jo’s attention and interpreting her startled expression, Birdie surmised, yes, Jo noticed her father’s fawning at
tentions toward the lovely Adella all right. But she appeared more confused than disgusted, her chin pulled in and eyes blinking.
Rafe, his hand on Doreen’s back, held out the chair next to Mrs. Millican for her.
Cornell hadn’t waited to be invited to sit at the table, nor had he held out a chair for Birdie. He simply took the convenient chair at the end of the table, which left Birdie no choice but to accept the only vacant chair left, the chair next to Gabe. With Gabe on her right and Cornell on her left, Birdie felt pinned, hemmed in, outflanked, and decidedly uncomfortable.
“How is Pete?” Rafe inquired, placing his napkin in his lap.
“He’s fine,” Adella said. “Living in Olympia. He became a judge, you know. After we left Baker City, we went to live with our mother’s cousins in Tacoma. Pete went to college, got a law degree. He’s thinking of going into politics.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Rafe said. He nodded to Doreen. “I don’t think Gabe got the chance to introduce you to my wife, Doreen.” He nodded down the table to Birdie. “You’ve probably already met my daughter Birdie-Alice. Birdie practically lives out here at the hot spring. And seated next to her is my daughter’s fiancée, Cornell Norquist. Cornell’s father, Nils and I are in business together, mining and road building.”
Adella touched Doreen’s arm and gave her a direct smile. “Lovely to meet you, Doreen.” Smiling at Birdie down the length of the table, Adella said, “Yes, we were introduced to Birdie-Alice upon our arrival. I’m pleased to meet you, Cornell. You’re a lucky young man. Your daughter, Rafe, is a lovely young woman.”
Birdie made herself smile and nod, although she wanted to jump up and scream at her father. How dare he tell everyone she was engaged to Cornell?
She was not engaged to Cornell. She would never be engaged to Cornell. She would die first.
Her heated gaze flashed from her mother’s tight-lipped, unsympathetic demeanor to the head of the table. Buck put his chin up and sent her an all-knowing, gentle smile. For a split second, she seriously considered telling her father, and everyone gathered to go take a flying leap off the nearest cliff. She managed to swallow down her ire. Taking a moment to compose herself, she reasoned it would be cowardly of her to leave the battlefield after the first volley of cannon fire.
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