She and Walker had taken a moonlight walk one evening, and they’d stopped at the barn to check on his personal stock. Diamond—Sarah’s favorite—was Walker’s prize mare, and Walker was anxious to see the foal delivered safely.
Flo shooed her out of the kitchen and into the midday light. Sarah savored the heat of the warm earth in the fields. A dozen ranch hands would be planting hay tomorrow. Walker had talked about it all week long, hoping that the rain would hold off until they could get the crops into the ground. Clutching the apples to her, Sarah sauntered toward the barn.
It took a moment to adjust to the dim light of the moist interior. Mares stuck their noses over their gates to sniff at Sarah’s treats as she walked by. The breath from their big, round nostrils stirred up dust when they snorted.
She offered an apple to the first animal, a large roan. Long lips felt around the treat and enormous teeth split it in half with a crunch. Sarah jumped, laughing as the mare withdrew to chew with noisy satisfaction. She held up the second half of the apple and the animal made soft nickering sounds in her long, sleek throat. Patting her head, Sarah offered the other half and moved to the second stall.
Diamond’s stall was larger than the others. The horse raised her muzzle from the water bucket when she heard Sarah approach. Diamond was a full sixteen hands high, coal-black with white markings on her forelock and front fetlocks. Sarah could see why she was Walker’s favorite. She had enormous brown eyes that kindly asked what Sarah had brought.
“Here you go, girl.” Sarah lifted an apple. The horse sniffed and took it from her hand in one bite, leaving a trail of water and saliva in her palm. Sarah wrinkled her nose.
“It’s very unladylike to drool. If I couldn’t see that you obviously have found a mate, I would remind you that men don’t appreciate this kind of thing. Of course, horses may be different.” Balancing on tiptoes, she stroked Diamond’s mane while the mare crunched contentedly. She ran her hand up and down the long nose. “Now, Diamond, you are a lucky lady. You don’t have to cook or clean or worry about not being able to cook or clean, right, girl?” Sighing, Sarah stepped back to move across the aisle to the next mare suddenly overcome with guilt. These beautiful creatures reminded her of home. Papa had been ecstatic when he’d given her Samson.
“You shore nuff are a purty one,” a kindly voice said from behind her.
Sarah started, dropping the remaining apples into the hay. Leaning around the stall, she spotted a small, grizzled-looking man, holding a bowl of potato peelings. Potster. She’d seen the bunkhouse cook around, but they had not spoken
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.
“Sorry. I wasn’t expectin’ to find a little redheaded filly in the barn.” He turned and spat into the hay. “I was enjoyin’ your speech to Diamond there. And it sounded like Diamond was enjoying it, too, wasn’t ya, girl?” He moved to the mare’s stall, reaching into the front pocket of his vest for a lump of sugar.
Color sprang to Sarah’s cheeks. “You shouldn’t have eavesdropped. That’s not polite.”
A tobacco-stained grin widened. “Sorry if I offended ya, Mrs. Walker.” Removing his battered hat, he made an old-fashioned, sweeping bow, dislodging some of the potato peels. “But I always speak my piece.”
Sarah relaxed. “You’re the bunkhouse cook.”
“Potster. Bunkhouse cook and all-around maid. Closer to a mother hen sometimes.” He wheezed a dry laugh and returned the hat to his head. “These boys need lots of lookin’ after.”
Sarah held out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Potster, sir.”
He frowned. “Mr. Potster, sir? You must be from the East. Round here I’m just Potster or Potsie.” He bent down and picked up the scattered apples. “I believe you was in the process o’ feeding the girls?”
Sarah took the remaining apples and tossed them into the stalls. “I should get back to the kitchen. Flo’s teaching me how to bake pies, but I’m having trouble with the crust.”
Potster threw his head back and laughed, slapping a thick thigh. “Flo’s crust cain’t hold a candle to mine. You come with me and I’ll teach ya how to make a pie that will make Flo cry.”
The last thing she wanted was to make Flo cry. “Thank you, Mr. Potster, but—”
“Just plain Potster, honey. No ‘mister’ to it.” Potster spat into the hay and rubbed his chin. “No offense, ma’am, but from what I hear, Flo don’t want you underfoot in her kitchen.”
Sarah bristled. How dare he insult her…her…her what? Her rights? Actually, she didn’t have any yet. Nobody had given her run of the house, especially Flo. Face it, Sarah McKay. You can’t boil water without burning it. Potster’s rough honesty disarmed her.
“It’s not that I haven’t tried. Honestly, I have. I just don’t know how to cook.”
“People ain’t born knowin’ how to cook. Ya gotta learn the skill.”
“I’m trying. Flo’s been working with me, but I’m afraid I’ll never be able to make a decent piecrust or pan of corn bread.”
“Why, corn bread’s th’ easiest thing on earth. Here.” He reached for her arm. “Help me scatter these potato peelin’s to the chickens, and we’ll go back to the bunkhouse and make corn bread for the hands’ supper.”
“I’d better not.” Sarah shook her head, thinking about the last pan of corn bread she’d tried to make. Walker had to beat the fire out with a dishcloth. “The men would starve if I cooked for them. Besides, I promised Flo I’d be right back.”
“If I know Flo, she’s doing fine without ya, and I could use yer help. I got thirty-five hungry men to feed! You’ll learn a thing or two about fixin’ vittles, an’ I’ll have a pretty face in m’ kitchen for a change.”
Sarah considered the request. She supposed any advice would be helpful. “I should tell Flo where I am in case she needs me.”
Potster winked. “You do that, an’ I’ll meet you at the bunkhouse.”
He chuckled a few minutes later when Sarah told him that Flo seemed relieved that Sarah would be spending the next few hours in his kitchen instead of hers.
Chapter Fifteen
Sarah settled on a tall stool and watched Potster slice potatoes with deft precision. In front of her was a large bowl and an assortment of cornmeal, eggs, flour, a mixture of cream of tartar, baking soda, and clabbered milk, buttermilk, salt, and bacon grease.
“I mix all of this together?” Sarah asked when Potster urged her to get to work. “How do I know how much to add?”
Potster winked at her. “Just start mixin’. I’ll help when you get stuck.”
Sarah lifted a dollop of bacon grease and flipped it into a heavy iron skillet. It seemed very odd to her that she should be taking cooking lessons from one of Walker’s ranch hands.
“Enough?” she asked.
Potster glanced up from his potatoes and craned his neck to peer at the skillet. “Good enough. Now stick the skillet in the oven and let the grease get good and hot afore you add the cornmeal mixture. Remember, yer cookin’ for hungry men. We’ll need four skilletfuls.”
Nodding, Sarah carried the pan to the woodstove.
Potster’s laugh rang out. “You got spunk, girl. Ain’t no doubt about that. I can see why Walker hitched to your wagon.”
Sarah’s cheeks flamed when the ranch hand slapped his knee with his free hand. “Can you open the oven door for me?”
“You gotta do this yourself or you’ll never learn.” He wiped his hands on a cloth and set the potatoes to boil.
She eased the skillet to a table and then opened the oven door. “I’m planning our first party as man and wife. There will be around fifty guests. How much meat do I need?” She slid the pan in and closed the door.
“Fifty, huh? That’s purty small for a McKay gatherin’.”
“I don’t want to overstep my bounds, especially on my first event.”
“Well, then I’d say five turkeys and four hams, and you’ll need a pan of dressing for every five folk.”
Sarah’s face brightened. Arithmetic was her best subject. The numbers began ticking in her head. She quickly scooped another thick lump of grease from the can. “So cooking is all about math!”
He chuckled. “Never thought of it that way. My ma taught me. There were fourteen of us young’uns, and we all had to pitch in and help or we didn’t eat. Ma was a pinch and smidgen cook.”
“A what?”
“A pinch o’ this, a smidgen o’ that.” He grinned. “That woman could cook for a king—imagine she is right now. She died ten years ago.” He paused. “I suppose a body could write all these things down, but I never took the time.”
“Just a pinch and a smidgen and you can produce edible meals?”
“Never had a man leave my table complainin’ or hungry. As for learnin’ to cook? After a while, you’ll do it without thinkin’.”
Sarah set to work. “Potster, you’ve worked for the McKays a long time, haven’t you?”
“Since I was a knee-high to a grasshopper.”
“Then you knew Walker when he was a little boy?”
“Helped deliver him.” Potster poured water over cut potato chunks. “It was rainin’ cats and dogs that day.”
“What was my husband like when he was a small?”
She saw glimpses of “boy” still in him. The way he loved cookies and milk, and how he’d find humor in the oddest things.
“Oh, he was the typical little boy. Had more energy than a kid ought to have.” The cook chuckled. “Got his backside tanned real often.”
Sarah glanced up. “His father was a strong disciplinarian?”
“He was when you set his hayfield on fire.”
Sarah grinned. “Walker did that?”
“Twice. Both times when he wasn’t supposed to have a match anywhere near him.”
The afternoon flew by as Sarah ladled yellow batter into heavy iron skillets and talked about Walker’s youth. The more she learned about Walker McKay, the more she loved him.
“Now,” said the cook with a grand flourish, “the secret of making corn bread is…” He slid the pans into the hot oven and closed the door.
“Putting them in the oven?” Sarah peered over his shoulder.
“No,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Taking them out at exactly the right time. The Potster’s secret.”
Sarah grinned, thankful she’d accepted this delightful man’s invitation. Walker would be surprised!
Along with stories about Walker, Potster shared his cooking secrets and kept Sarah transfixed with tales of the West—the outlaws, cowherds, dust, and ponies that dotted the beautiful, wide-open land. Before she knew it, supper was ready, including four beautiful batches of perfectly browned corn bread.
She jumped when she realized the late hour. Flo would think she’d gotten lost! Throwing her arms around a startled Potster’s neck, she squeezed. “I must leave now, but thank you so much.”
Potster nodded. “Time shore got away from us.”
She smiled. “Thank you for the cooking lesson. May I visit again?”
“Yer welcome as rain. It’s been a real pleasure, Mrs. Walker.”
“Call me Sarah.”
His features turned bright red. “Yes, ma’am. Sarah.”
“And you will be at the party this weekend?”
Potster frowned. “Would I have to wear my fancy duds?”
“Others will, but if you’re more comfortable in your ordinary duds, then wear them.” She had yet to adjust to these folks’ peculiar vernacular.
A smile lit the cook’s face. “Then I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
Chapter Sixteen
Wagons, horses, and guests eager for another McKay event crowded into Spring Grass on Saturday. News of the latest gathering had traveled faster than Sarah’s invitations. Mild breezes and blue skies greeted the guests.
Walker leaned against a porch railing, keeping away from the party-goers filing through the house and out into the yard. In the midst of the attendees, his wife made sure that everyone had punch as they drifted around, chatting before retiring outdoors. Flo and Sarah had the place shining. Walker had been so busy planting the past two days that he had barely seen his bride.
Toward the end of the week, she had been up earlier than he was, preoccupied with the party and cooking lessons. He had heard Potster was tutoring her culinary skills. Cooking lessons from Potster. The two seemed an unlikely pair.
Music from guitars and banjos filled the air as guests mingled. He watched Sarah carry trays of smoked ham and cheese to the table. She suddenly turned from her task and met his gaze. “Why, Mr. McKay, what a pleasure to see you here. I’m so glad you could join the festivities.” She playfully curtsied.
Walker conceded his absence with a nod. “I know I’ve been scarce lately. Planting season is a busy time.”
“Hey, McKay, nice party,” a voice called out.
Acknowledging the comment with a wave and a smile, Walker moved to join a growing group of ranchers on the opposite side of the porch. Sarah melted back into the crowd.
“So, Walker, how’s ranching been treating you?” Blake Slayton asked.
“Looks to be a bumper year, Blake.”
The remark brought a low, appreciative whistle from the other men. Every rancher there knew the pitfalls of a bad year, and they were quick to rejoice when one of them pulled off a good profit. Walker searched the faces of the men around him, many of whom were close friends. Rusty Johnson and his family had been on the same wagon train with Walker’s parents. He and Rusty’s sons had grown up closer than kin.
“Looks the same way over at the Circle J,” Rusty offered. “We shore need it after the last few.” Every man nodded in agreement.
“Maybe Walker should have married sooner.” The men turned to see Caleb Vanhooser approaching. The accountant looked small and out of place among the ranchers. The men parted and welcomed him into their circle. He smiled nervously at the group.
Walker clapped the accountant on the shoulder affectionately. “I’d venture to say that this man and the good spring rains are partly accountable for the encouraging outlook.”
Caleb removed his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “I think Walker’s hard work deserves the praise.”
Walker didn’t know how he would have made it through his parents’ deaths if Caleb hadn’t been there to help him with the financial end of things. Walker was better with cattle than figures.
The group moved on, leaving Walker and Caleb alone on the porch. They spoke about the ranch and cattle prices until Sarah approached with punch. Caleb nodded and accepted a cup. “Lovely party, Mrs. McKay.”
“Thank you.” She extended the tray to Walker, who also accepted a cup. Inside, the first few notes of “The Missouri Waltz” drifted out.
“Very nice gathering,” he commented. Was she aware of the song? Did it bring back memories of her wedding day?
“Thank you. I hope it isn’t too large?”
“No.” He took a sip of punch. “Looks to be about right, but I’m going to have to excuse myself. I have work to do in the barn before it rains.”
“Today?” Her expression fell.
“I expected to be free, but unfortunately—”
“Can’t your ranch hands do it?”
“No, Sarah. They’re busy attending a party.”
A strained silence formed. Caleb lifted his cup and swallowed some punch.
When she stiffened her back and walked away, Walker frowned. “What’s wrong with her?”
Smiling, Caleb said, “You know women.”
No, Walker didn’t know women, but this one was starting to seem different. As he watched his wife walk away, he found himself wishing that he could stay a bit longer.
Chapter Seventeen
It was rare for Walker to take a day off, but the hay was taken care of, fences restored, and the push of work before and after the party left him needing a day of rest. Leaning close t
o the mirror, he slowly ran his razor down a cheek as he wondered what Sarah was up to this morning. She’d left the bed earlier than usual, murmuring something about baking biscuits.
He grinned when he thought of her in the kitchen. Potster had worked a miracle. His wife could now cook a skillet of corn bread that even Flo admired.
Sobering, he faced his image. Was that contentment he saw on his face? How could that be? He’d been married less than a month, and the tight lines around his eyes were gone. He studied the change, surprised at the transformation.
Whistling, he dressed and went downstairs, sniffing the air, which was laced with the smell of burning bacon. Potster couldn’t change a moth into a butterfly overnight. Sarah’s voice drifted to him from the kitchen.
“I don’t think we should wake him. He was up very late last night.” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared into the pantry.
Walker paused for a moment at the top of the stairs. Through the front window he saw Flo working in her early vegetable garden, so whom was Sarah talking to?
“What do you think, Brownie?” Sarah’s voice came from the pantry, and Walker realized that she’d lured one of the cattle dogs into the kitchen. His grin widened as he pictured the old coonhound a captive audience, head cocked to one side, trying to decide what the female was saying. “Should I use white napkins or the blue ones? White is more practical, but blue matches his eyes…” Sarah started as Walker entered the room.
“You’re awake. I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.” She crossed the room and kissed him good morning. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
Walker merely shook his head before sitting down at the table and watching her put the finishing touches on a breakfast tray, which she then carried to the table. He surveyed the damage before him and lifted a fork to run through undercooked eggs. Jagged pieces of eggshell floated in the gelatinous whites. Black specks dotted the heavily buttered toast. Four charred strips of what appeared to be bacon took up the rest of the plate. Please, God, let “breakfast cooking” be on Poster’s agenda.
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