“Nope, the deal was only for your skill and willingness.” He headed toward the kitchen. “Come see if I’ve forgotten anything.”
Relief flowed through her that her small savings wouldn’t be tapped for this meal. She stepped into the room and saw an onion, four carrots, three potatoes, and a paper-wrapped square that she figured was the beef. Several labeled bottles stood behind the produce. To the left sat a rectangular metal tin marked ‘flour’, a smaller tin marked ‘sugar’, and a jar containing brownish-gray contents and a layer of murky liquid at the bottom.
Leaning close, she read the labels: pepper, salt, paprika, bay leaves, dried parsley. Cooking with real spices will be fun. “Just one question.” She pointed toward the jar. “What’s that?”
“You haven’t used yeast slurry before?”
Cinnia shook her head. Never even heard of it. “Only fresh yeast from the butcher’s shop.”
“Are you ready to start?” He glanced at her with an arched eyebrow. “Because I can show you how.”
“Sure, let me wash my hands. Oh, that reminds me, you were going to show me where the well is.”
“Good idea. I can fill my crock at the same time.” He hefted the jug onto his shoulder and then headed toward the back door.
Cinnia caught the sight of Torin moving among the mustangs in the rope corral. She followed Nic then dashed into the lavender wagon to get the metal pail, idly wondering where Dorrie and Nola were. The walk to the well by the boarding house and back lasted only fifteen minutes or so, but Cinnia marveled at how at ease she felt in Nic’s company. They talked of inconsequential things—the cooling nip in the air, the brilliant yellow leaves clinging to the quaking aspens, and the silvery undersides of the black cottonwoods near the river.
Back in his kitchen, Nic demonstrated scooping a measure of the slurry into a big bowl and then replenishing the mixture remaining in the jar with water, flour, and a dash of sugar. “I’ll set this in the direct sun for an hour or so. What’s in the bowl starts your bread dough.”
“Nic Andrews, I don’t believe I’ve ever met a man this accomplished in the kitchen.” She leaned over the bowl and smelled the tang of yeast. “Now, scoot. Go back to whatever you were doing.”
“You’re only saying that so I’ll finish your table.”
Her words had come out a bit selfishly. “No, that’s not what I meant.” Here he was, supplying all this. She reached out a hand and pressed her fingers to his arm. “I haven’t cooked or baked in a real kitchen in so long that I wanted to enjoy the experience. Truly, Nic, I don’t mind if you want to stay.”
Shaking his head, he grinned. “Cinnia, I was teasing. I’ll leave you, because I know in a few hours I’ll be tasting and enjoying the delicious results of your efforts.”
When she was alone, she took a couple of deep breaths. That man’s grin had the ability to make her heart race. She only needed to ask once for an item he hadn’t set out. After that, she went into a flurry of activity—mixing and kneading the dough before chopping the vegetables and browning the meat. By the time the stew bubbled, the dough was ready to be shaped. She found only one loaf pan so free-formed another inside a cast-iron skillet, and had enough dough for a tray full of rolls.
Even washing up the dishes was a treat, because of Nic’s special soap powder. She’d have to ask where she could get some for her own kitchen. As soon as she owned enough dishes, pots, and pans to get dirty.
“Sure smells good already.”
Hands deep in the wash tub, she let out a gasp and whirled. “You like sneaking up on people?”
“Just you. Your eyes go wide, and then your cheeks get pink.”
“In my experience, most men like the smell of cooking beef and onions.” A laugh escaped. “In fact, my Mama used to say that all she had to do was fry up onions to get Papa to come into the farmhouse.”
“Can’t argue that statement.” He leaned a hip on the counter. “That’s the first time you’ve mentioned parents. Where do they live?”
The pain bit at her chest, but fainter than the last time she’d had to acknowledge their passing. “They don’t. They died over a decade ago.”
His brows crinkled. “Sorry.”
A knock sounded and then the door opened. “Cinnia? We see the men walking down the hill from the mine.”
“Coming.” She quickly rinsed the last spoon and left it on the towel-covered counter. “Those can air dry. I must fulfill my obligation and meet with a Mr. Bemeere. Do you know him?”
Nic’s expression stiffened, and he shrugged. “Only as a poker partner. Decent enough guy, I guess.”
Nodding, she dried her hands and flashed him a smile. “Thank you for this opportunity. I will look forward to cooking each week. You should make me a list of your favorite meals. I always like learning new recipes.” She gave the kitchen one last look, spotting the cloth-covered bread pans. “I will be back at the end of the hour to put the bread in the oven. Bye, now.” She moved across the kitchen toward the front door.
A little part of her listened for him to call her back. She’d known for a while that the only man she wanted to socialize with was the man she’d just left scowling in his warm, fragrant kitchen.
****
The late afternoon chill in the air didn’t warrant working in his shop with the front door wide open. But, Nic wanted to be within earshot if anything untoward happened during Cinnia’s meeting with Hugh. Not that he thought the man wasn’t forthright, but Nic had seen a belligerence in the miners’ confrontation that put his defensive instincts on alert.
She was smart to set up a chair and a stool on the boardwalk in front of her shop. Right in plain view, so no suspicions would be aroused. In fact, if he sidled up beside the window, he could…He clamped his jaw tight and moved back to his workbench. The sight of the soldering iron reminded him of the other part of their agreement. He hurried up into his loft to gather the shirts he’d told her needed mending. In a flash, he was downstairs and crossing the boardwalk to where she sat.
Her head was facing away, angled toward the boarding house. But she turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Nic?”
Giving her the shirts at this time meant she’d have something of his in her hands while she met with the miner. Petty, definitely. A primitive way to mark his territory, probably—but he couldn’t stop himself. He thrust out the three shirts gripped in his fist. “The mending I told you needed doing.”
“Oh, good. I can start that right away.” She stood and moved into her shop.
Unable to resist, he followed, glancing around at a pile of miscellaneous stuff below the window. The dog act props were recognizable, but not the rest. He watched her move to a small table where a wooden box rested. Propped against the tables were bolts of fabric. She was right—not much here to set up a business. He didn’t see a lamp or a lantern. She must still have that in the wagon.
Movement caught his eye. He spotted Nola walking her dogs at the edge of the street, and at her side was Emmett Michaels. The private meetings were starting. Not much time remained to have Cinnia all to himself. “I thought your table might go along the same wall where my workbench sits.”
She stood with a shallow basket braced on her hip and looked toward that corner. “I agree, but first, I’m hoping you’ll help me hang one of my backdrops along that wall.”
“Backdrop?”
“A painted canvas that goes behind me when I do my recitations. I never got to perform last night, but it contained a scene of an open-air forum with columns in the background.” She spread her hand in an arc. “Might as well add some color to the shop.”
A throat clearing sounded. “Uh, Miss York? I believe this is my time to meet with you.”
She turned toward the voice and smiled. “Mr. Bemeere, I presume? Mr. Andrews here, whom I believe you know, is my landlord. We’re discussing how I’ll arrange the furnishing in my new shop.” She nodded at Nic as she passed by. “I thought we could sit out here on the porch and talk.
”
Her landlord? Accurate, but the term sounded so much less than the relationship he wished for. He stalked out the door and over to his shop. Nic looked around for the task that would make the least amount of noise so he could monitor their discussion. He grabbed a sanding block and bent over the plank table.
Listening with only one ear, Nic made plans for the evening ahead. The meal Cinnia cooked would be plenty for the same group that had gathered the previous night. If he had to, he’d use the guise of discussing the floor plan of her shop in his invitation. But he thought she’d be eager to taste what she’d created.
The lack of voices from outside finally settled into his thoughts, and he moved to stick his head out the door. Only Cinnia remained on the porch. Her head was bent over one of his shirts, and, for some stupid reason, the sight hit him right in the chest. “Done already?”
“No, but when Mr. Bemeere saw me mending your shirt, he went to collect his own that need fixing.” She looked up and grinned. “Nic, I have a paying customer on the very first day my shop is open. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“You bet.” Seeing Hugh hotfooting down the street made Nic move back inside his shop. His grip on the sanding block tightened. Hopefully, the rest of her clients wouldn’t have the privilege of sitting with her while she worked. He inhaled the scents of yeast and stew, and he immediately calmed. The evening is not yet over.
****
“This is a disaster,” Nola hissed from behind the curtain, as she peeked at the mostly empty benches. “I count only eight men in the audience.”
Cinnia leaned around Nola’s shoulders and grimaced when the stiff horsehair wig she’d donned for her performance scratched her neck. I’m glad this is the last time I have to wear it. “I wonder who spread the word about the final performance.” She untangled the beaded fringe on the sleeve of her deerskin dress.
“Oh, no.” Nola whirled, wide-eyed. “We were busy with the miner meetings and moving stuff to your shop.” She hurried over to Arney, who practiced his juggling. “Did you circulate in the town today talking about the performance?”
He turned a look of surprise on her, and one ball dropped to the floor. “I was busy tightening bolts on the wagons. And I saw Flynn greasing the axles and moving his belongings into the equipment wagon.” His lips flattened. “He won the contest of coin tosses.”
Dorrie moved close to Cinnia and gestured at the pacing woman. “What’s Nola upset about?”
“No one made announcements about tonight’s show.”
Eyes wide, she covered her mouth. “We didn’t, did we?”
“All we can do is hold our heads high and do our best.” She scratched a finger behind her ear where the wig was rubbing a sore spot. “Then The H.P Thomas Traveling Entertainment Company will close its final curtain.” And I’ll take up Nic’s invitation to share the meal I prepared.
Moments later, the show started, and the acts flowed one to the other.
As soon as she saw Flynn and Arney had the forest scene backdrop in place, Cinnia stepped center stage. “Tonight, I’ll be performing the tenth part of “The Song Of Hiawatha” titled “Hiawatha’s Wooing.” She struck a pose like she nocked an arrow into a bowstring and started her recitation:
“As unto the bow the cord is,
So unto the man is woman;
Though she bends him, she obeys him,
Though she draws him, yet she follows;
Useless each without the other!”
As she continued the epic poem, a little part of her wondered why she’d chosen this particular portion tonight. The part that dwelt on how well matched were Minnehaha and Hiawatha.
The following seventy minutes were satisfying, in that the performers worked their hearts out, and exasperating in the fact they played to such a small audience.
At the point when she watched the last audience member leave the hall, Cinnia couldn’t swallow past a lump in her throat. Now to say goodbye to these people who had been her family for several years.
Everyone stood, arms at their sides, seeming unsure of what came next.
“Thank you again for staying to put on this last show.” Nola dug her hand into the cracker tin and walked among the performers, distributing the coins. “You who are setting out for Denver tomorrow probably need these more than we three do.”
Without being directed, the group formed a circle and linked arms, whispering best wishes and goodbyes.
Twenty minutes later, all the props were stowed in their places—either the wagon or Cinnia’s shop. The three friends hurriedly changed clothes, grabbed their folding stools and mugs, and walked toward Nic’s shop.
Cheery whistling came from behind, and Cinnia looked over her shoulder to spot Torin walking toward them.
“Ah, good evening, ladies. Out for a stroll?”
Nola stopped to let him catch up. “No, we just finished the troupe’s last show. Which was a dismal event.”
Torin moved forward to open the door and let the ladies precede him. “Another performance happened tonight? I heard nothing about one.”
Cinnia breezed into the shop, eager to help put out the food she’d made. The air was scented with fresh baked bread, and she inhaled deeply. Before her, the table was set with its mismatched items, and she added their three mugs.
Nic rose from his workbench and laid down his tool. “I’m glad you’re all here. Ten more minutes, and I might have started eating without you.”
Everyone found their seats and complimented the chef about how good the food smelled.
With pride, Cinnia carried out the tray of rolls and waited while Nic set the pot in the middle of the table. “I can serve traveler-style with the roll under the portion of stew. Or, I can wait until everyone serves their stew and then hand you a roll.”
Nic held up a big spoon. “Maybe the fact there’s no butter will help your decision. I forgot it when I went to my springbox this morning.” He shrugged. “I apologize.” He scooped out a portion, filled his bowl, and held it out. “Put mine on top.”
The next few moments were punctuated with only a minimum of conversation and lots of blissful sighs.
Cinnia was glad to see everyone enjoying the tasty food. A meal she’d prepared on a stove in a kitchen within a building with a roof. The feeling that settled over her was the closest one she’d had of a home in a really long time.
Nic set down his spoon. “How was the show? I had to tend the bread baking.”
Nola lowered her chin onto her upraised palm and shook her head. “The performance was excellent, the audience inadequate.” She waved her other hand around the table. “None of us earned a penny. The fees were distributed among the rest of the troupe. Only a dime apiece.”
Torin grabbed another roll and broke off a piece. “I may know why your audience was, shall we say, on the small side?” He looked around the group. “I initiated a big poker game at Rigsby’s right after the mine’s quitting time in hopes of finding a man with cowboy experience. A more accurate term might be a poker tournament that involved at least a dozen men.” He popped the rest of the roll in his mouth.
Narrowing her gaze, Nola crossed her arms. “Why would you do that?”
“Let me start at the beginning. I got my wrist looked at by a man with doctoring experience named Rawlins. He applied a salve containing essential oil of yarrow and rewrapped it.”
“That’s good to hear about your wrist, but why did you want a cowboy?” Dorrie speared her last carrot and chewed.
“Because I have to start my trip for home tomorrow.”
Frowning, Nola glanced at Nic before turning toward Torin. “But your wrist isn’t yet healed. How will you handle the herd?”
“In the short time since this afternoon, the swelling’s down a bit and it feels better. Driving the herd alone just means I’ll go slower, but I’ve got to head out.” Eyebrows raised, he glanced at Nic and tilted his head.
Wonder what that gesture means? Out of the corner of her eye, Cin
nia thought she caught the movement of Nic shaking his head.
“Earlier this afternoon, I talked with your performer friends, hoping to hire away one of them. That comic, Flynn, is a big man and looked like he could handle the work.” Torin shook his head and blew out a breath. “But he’s got his sights on heading south to Denver.”
“Would you consider hiring me?” Nola sat stiff, her hands in her lap, but her chin remained high, her gaze set on Torin’s face. “That first day we met, you said yourself I’m good with animals.”
Cinnia gasped, hearing Dorrie’s echo hers. She thrust a hand across the table, but too many things were in the way. “Nola, what in the world are you saying?”
“Well, you’re dead set on making that shop work.” Nola waved a hand at the connecting wall. “My management skills are inadequate. The troupe has disintegrated. I thought about taking Dorrie and going to Sweetwater Springs to hold performances, but how many people would come to see only a dog act?” She cast a look at the woman at her side and twisted her lips. “Dorrie and I even talked about leaving with the rest of them.”
Covering her gaping mouth with a hand, Cinnia slumped in her stool. She recognized the guilt in her sister’s eyes and realized why Nola had been so agitated the last day or so. Decisions more than on behalf of the troupe had been on her mind.
“I see this opportunity as a new challenge.” She leaned toward Torin. “I’ve worked since the day our parents died— either at the orphanage, because I was one of the older ones, or after we left.”
Torin crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “Who’s the challenge—me or the horses?”
Nola gave him a curt nod and smiled, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “Undoubtedly, both.”
Tightness burned in Cinnia’s chest. “I know we don’t have the same opinion about ladylike behavior, Nola. But you can’t just go off across the countryside”—she flung a hand toward the smirking cowboy—“with him.” What about me? What about the agreement to make a home together? She swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry.
Montana Sky: Laced By Love (Kindle Worlds) (Entertainers of The West Book 1) Page 14
