by Kaki Warner
Magic words, as far as his children were concerned. The test of wills instantly forgotten, they scrambled into chairs around the table.
It was a tense meal, although that didn’t seem to put a damper on his children’s appetites, Declan noticed. Brin’s complaint that Thomas had fed them nothing but pemmican must have been right. He wondered why Chick hadn’t fed them as he usually did, then realized he hadn’t seen either Chick or his other ranch hand, Amos, since he’d gotten back.
“Where’s Chick?” he asked.
“Joe Bill burned his leg,” R.D. said through a mouthful of beans. “Trying to make smoke signals. Went to cut a new one.”
“It was just laying there in the barn,” Joe Bill defended. “How was I to know it was his leg?”
Declan was wondering what else Joe Bill might have burned other than his front hair and Chick’s leg when he caught the looks of horror on the ladies’ faces. “Chick McElroy,” he explained. “Cooks and helps out some. Lost his leg to snakebite and now wears a peg leg.” Turning back to his eldest, he asked, “Amos with him?”
R.D. shook his head. “Drunk. Tried to baptize Thomas.”
Joe Bill laughed out loud, spewing bits of cornmeal onto the table. “Uncle Thomas baptized him instead, ain’t that right, R.D.?”
Brin hooted and waved her spoon, slinging beans on Prudence Lincoln’s apron. “You shoulda seen it, Pa! Amos kept hollering and sputtering every time Thomas shoved his head under. Looked like a giant fish the way he flopped around.”
Declan stared morosely at his plate rather than face the looks of disgust he was sure the ladies were aiming at him and his children. Not that they didn’t deserve it, but he was too weary to deal with his children’s behavior or his wife’s complaints right then. He still had a wagon to unload, horses to unhitch, and three days of chores that had piled up while he was gone.
He sighed and spooned more beans onto his plate. Since that odd moment in the bedroom when Miss Priss had given him a friendly smile instead of her usual condescending smirk, he’d been hoping things might yet work out. But ten minutes in his children’s company had likely shot that hope to hell. Finishing off his beans, Declan reached for the last corn muffin. At least the food was good.
After the merriment over the river scene died down, when Declan was thinking the rest of the meal might pass without further incident, his wife finally chose to speak. “Are you enjoying your meal, children?”
“Oh, dear,” Prudence Lincoln muttered.
Declan looked up.
As did the children, eyeing their new ma with expressions of belligerence, laced with distrust and a trace of wariness. Smart kids.
“I hope so,” Miss Priss went on in a friendly tone. “As it will be your last in this house. Unless . . .” Letting the word hang like an executioner’s ax, she paused to take a dainty bite of muffin, set it back on her plate, dabbed at her mouth with a napkin—where had she found a napkin?—then looked up with that terrifying smile. “. . . you improve your table manners.”
Silence. The children looked at one another, then at Declan. He saw expectation in their eyes and knew they were waiting for him to do something to show he was solidly in their camp and ready to send this usurper fleeing. He wasn’t surprised his children and Miss Priss would butt heads; he just hadn’t thought it would happen so soon.
“Pa . . . ?”
Chewing slowly so as not to aggravate the headache thudding behind his temples, Declan looked at his daughter’s bean-smeared face. “Yes, Brin?”
“She can’t do that, can she? Starve us?”
Declan shifted his gaze to his wife’s determined face and realized how thoroughly he had underestimated this woman. She was definitely not a coward. He admired that, even though it rankled that she had forced this little showdown without giving him prior warning. “Apparently, she can.”
“That’s not fair!” Joe Bill slapped his spoon onto the table so hard beans flew up to catch on the crinkled ends of his singed blond hair. “Pa, tell her!”
“I have no intention of starving you,” Miss Priss said calmly. “You will be fed as you deserve.” That smile again. “Slops in the barn.”
“Slops?” Joe Bill looked at Declan. “Pa!”
Brin turned to Lucas, who sat beside her, watching the exchange in silence. “What’s slops?”
“Pig food.”
“Pig food? Pa!”
With a sigh, Declan stepped reluctantly into the fray, hoping to hell he was picking the right side. “Act like a pig, eat like a pig.”
“Pa!”
Then things really got loud, and everyone started shouting at once, and the pounding in Declan’s head built to a deafening thud against the inside of his skull, until finally with a bellow of exhaustion and frustration, he shot to his feet. “Enough, damnit! You sound like a pack of wild dogs!”
Stunned silence.
Hands on hips, he scowled down at the slack-jawed faces gaping up at him. “You children shame me with your mean-spirited bickering. I raised you better than that. And you”—he glared down the length of the table at his wife—“you’re supposed to bring order to my home, not chaos!”
His wife opened her mouth, but Declan cut her off before she could speak. “You’re right. They need better manners. And schooling, and whatever else you can teach them. I’m not sure this is the way to go about it, but I’ll back you up . . . to a point. I’ll send them to the barn if you say so. I’ll even take them to the woodshed if need be. But don’t you raise a hand against them, or belittle them, or turn them against one another. And don’t come crying to me if it all blows up in your face. I’ve got no time for it. You started it, you finish it. I’ve got a ranch to run.” And turning on his heel, he stalked from the room.
Edwina’s sense of triumph lasted until the door closed behind him and Brin wailed, “But I don’t wanna eat pig food!” and burst into tears.
Joe Bill sent Edwina a look that promised retribution. “Now see what you did.”
R.D. reached over and patted his little sister’s shoulder. “Quit crying, Brin. It’ll be all right.” Rising, he took Brin’s hand and motioned to his brothers. “Come on. We got to help Pa unload the wagon.”
With a final knife-edged glare at Edwina, Joe Bill followed his older brother and little sister out. Lucas, bringing up the rear, paused to give Edwina a puzzled look, then trailed after them.
As soon as the door closed, Pru pushed herself to her feet. “That went beautifully.”
“Do you think so?” Edwina had her doubts. If it went so beautifully, why did she feel like casting up her lunch?
“No. I don’t know.” Pru gathered spoons and plates. “Something must be done. Those children are in desperate need of guidance.”
“You don’t think I can give it?”
Pru chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure you can.”
Rising, Edwina carried a pile of dirty plates to the sink. Resting her hands on the counter, she looked out the window to see R.D. disappear with a sack of potatoes into what she guessed was a cool room or root cellar beneath the house. “You think I was too harsh with them?”
Memories burst into her mind—the switch rising and falling, blood flecks on the rug, her big sister’s arms holding her while she wept. A prickle ran through her. Then she thought of her husband’s warning not to raise her hand against his children, and the prickle became a shudder of disgust. “He thinks I was. But I would never use a cane on them, Pru.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not like my mother.”
“No, you aren’t.” Her sister’s arm slid around her shoulder. “And you never could be, dearest.”
As always, her sister’s reassuring words and gentle touch drove the suffocating memories back into the shadows. It frightened Edwina how much she needed that touch still, and how terrifyingly alone she would feel if—when—Pru took it away. Had she truly become that weak and dependent? Angry with that notion because she feared there was truth in it, she
pulled away from her sister’s grip.
“But something has to be done, Pru. It’s not fair to us or the children to allow such behavior to go on.”
“You’re right.” Pru began scraping the plates.
“Then why are you upset?”
“I’m not upset. I’m worried.” After dumping the food scraps into the slop bucket by the back door, Pru pulled a rag from the sink and began wiping down the counter. “I fear you’ve got a battle on your hands. Mannering these children won’t be easy. Things will probably get a great deal worse before they get better.”
Edwina thought of Declan’s warning about Joe Bill being a trickster, and the boy’s hard glare before he left. She didn’t doubt that even now the battle lines were being drawn.
“Declan stood up for me, though.” And Edwina was still a bit surprised that he had. “At least there’s that.”
Pru stopped wiping and looked at her, a smile teasing her lips. “Declan? When did you start using his given name?”
“What else should I call him?” Feeling heat in her cheeks, Edwina turned away to finish clearing the table. “Mr. Brodie sounds so . . . subservient . . . so docile.”
Pru laughed out loud. “Docile? You?”
Edwina paused, a sudden mental image capturing her mind. Her husband, standing in the doorway with his children, his damp hair tumbling over his furrowed brow . . . lots of hair, as dark and glossy as that Indian fellow’s, except with a slight wave, rather than stick straight. She bit back a smile. That rascal.
Shaking the image away, she turned back to her task. “And you should quit ‘sir’-ing him all the time, Prudence. It sounds too—”
“Subservient?”
“Oh, hush. Or I’ll tell the children the pig food was all your idea.”
By suppertime, Edwina had come up with her “mannering” strategy; simple and direct, easily understood, and with only a few rules to follow. To encourage cooperation, she helped Pru prepare a sumptuous stew with items gleaned from the now fully stocked root cellar below the kitchen, and as a further inducement, they baked three loaves of bread and a rhubarb cobbler. To make sure the message reached them, Edwina set the loaves to cool in the open window above the sink so that the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread could drift on the warm afternoon breeze.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Pru said as Edwina set beside each plate a folded napkin with a crocheted edge, part of a stash of musty-smelling linens she had found in the back of a china cabinet built into the staircase wall. “You can’t go at them with everything at once.”
“I don’t intend to.” Edwina surveyed the table—cups, plates, tableware, napkins—everything in place. Satisfied, she positioned the slop bucket, which she had thoroughly washed just in case, in full sight on the counter by the sink. “Today we’re only concentrating on table manners.”
“Only.” Pru sighed.
“Are we ready?”
“As we’ll ever be.”
The inducements apparently worked. When Edwina stepped out onto the front stoop to ring the bell, she found her new family already converging on the house like carnivores drawn to a fresh kill. A disturbing thought. But she held fast to her position blocking the doorway, hands clasped at her waist, a smile of welcome masking her steely resolve.
Unable to get past her, they stopped before the stoop, staring at her in restless confusion.
Edwina noted two new faces in the group—the ranch workers, no doubt. “I hope everyone is hungry,” she said cheerfully. “We have a wonderful dinner prepared, as I know all of you have worked hard this afternoon.”
Faces relaxed somewhat. Except for Declan’s, whose dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. Already, the man knew her too well.
“If you don’t mind,” she went on pleasantly, “there’s just one teensy little thing I’d like to ask of you before you go in.”
The children shifted impatiently. The newcomers—a limping, wheat-thatched, freckled young man who she assumed was Chick, and a bleary-eyed middle-aged man with a look of defeat, who was probably Amos—regarded her with befuddlement.
After pausing to be sure she had everyone’s full attention, Edwina said, “Wash. Faces, necks, hands front and back. I left soap and toweling beside the trough out back.”
For a moment, there was so little reaction she wondered if she had only thought the words, rather than spoken them aloud. Then Brin—whom Edwina recognized by her short stature and the tattered slouch hat that almost covered her eyes—held up a hand and said, “Both hands? I only use this one.”
How does one wash only one hand? “Both,” Edwina answered, trying not to smile. The child was certainly a character, irregular ways and all.
“Seems a waste.”
Other mouths opened, but before arguments erupted, Declan waved his offspring toward the trough outside the barn. A moment of resistance, more milling, then the children filed past, mumbling and glaring at Edwina.
“You, too.” Declan motioned to the two newcomers. With a considering look at Edwina, he turned to follow them.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Edwina said to his broad back.
He stopped and turned, his expression showing impatience.
“No hats at the table, please. If losing hair is a problem, I will be glad to loan you a scarf to prevent it from falling into the food.”
He blinked. Then understanding dawned. Edwina wasn’t sure how she knew that, or knew that he was amused—there was little change in his usual stern expression—yet the laughter was there, hiding behind his expressive eyes. Perhaps she was getting to know him better, too.
“And the flies?” he asked, deadpan.
Masking her own amusement with an off-hand gesture, Edwina said, “Since I doubt you have fresh mint, I’ll hang cotton balls at the window.”
“Try mountain elder. I think there’s some blooming by the creek.”
“Why, thank you so much for the kind suggestion. Perhaps I’ll stroll down there later.”
“Watch for cats if you do. R.D. said he saw a big one on the ridge.” He must have seen her confusion. “Big cats,” he clarified. “I don’t know what they call them in your part of the country—cougars, pumas, mountain lions, whatever. This one is full grown. If you see it, don’t run or it’ll get you for sure.”
“Lions? You have lions?”
“Sometimes.” Looking pleased to have shaken her composure, he flashed that startling grin and continued on around the side of the house.
Stepping back inside, Edwina closed the door, giving it an extra tug to make sure the latch fell. Round one to Declan. Yet, despite her unease over lurking mountain lions, she couldn’t help but smile in anticipation of her next battle with her clever husband.
“Don’t start ladling the stew into the tureen,” she instructed Pru, who was adding final seasonings to the big pot on the stove. “Wait until they’re seated, so they can see what they’ll be missing if they don’t cooperate.”
“You’re mean.”
“I’m determined. Here they come.”
She had just taken her position in the chair at the foot of the table, smile in place, hands folded in her lap, when her damp-faced family trooped in the back door.
While the children scrambled into their seats, Declan introduced the women to his workers, Chick McElroy and Amos Hicks. Then pointing the stammering, red-faced gentlemen to empty chairs, he hung his and Brin’s hats on hooks by the door, and took his place at the head of the table opposite Edwina.
As soon as everyone had settled and all eyes were pinned on Prudence as she spooned stew into a chipped porcelain tureen, Edwina said, “Before we begin, children, there are a couple of things we need to address.” She said it in a friendly way but wasn’t that surprised that the young faces turning toward her didn’t return her smile.
Undaunted, she pressed on. “First of all, your father”—she paused to direct an especially bright smile at Declan, who watched her warily from the other end of the table—“
has asked that I not turn you one against the other, which I assume also means I should not favor one over the other. Is that right, Mr. Brodie?”
A pause, as if sensing a trap, then a slight dip of his head, which sent that errant lock of glossy black hair sliding down over his forehead. Edwina watched him absently reach up to push it out of his eyes, and realized again the man had the loveliest hair, and the biggest hands, and a way of looking at a person that almost made her feel—
“Go on.”
Jolted out of her momentary lapse, Edwina cleared her throat, then acknowledged his reluctant nod with a gracious one of her own. “Therefore, children, be advised that when a rule is broken by one of you, the consequences will fall on all of you.”
Brin leaned toward Lucas. “What’s consequences?”
“Punishments,” Lucas whispered back.
Smart boy, Lucas.
“That’s not fair,” Joe Bill muttered.
“What rules?” R.D. asked.
“They’re quite simple, really.” Edwina counted off on her fingers: “Chew with your mouth closed. Don’t speak when your mouth is full. Don’t gobble your food or slurp your soup. No shouting, kicking, arguing, cursing, hitting, belching, shoving, or hats at the table. Keep your napkin—that’s that folded piece of cloth beside your plate—in your lap when it’s not in use, and whenever possible, use your utensils rather than your fingers.”
Brin leaned toward Lucas again. “What’s utensils?”
“Eating things. Knives, forks, spoons, and suchlike.”
Brin sat back. “I’m not allowed to use knives,” she told Edwina. “Pa consequenced me after I cut Joe Bill.”
Edwina choked, then clumsily covered it with a cough. “Then we will see that your food is cut into bite-sized portions until your punishment is lifted.”
“What if you’re eating peas?” Joe Bill looked to his brothers for support. “The only way to get them in your spoon is to push them with your finger, right? What do we do then?”
“Push with the flat side of your knife, instead of your finger.”
“I’m not allowed to use knives,” Brin said again.
