by Ginny Aiken
She held her head high. “I, sir, intend to serve supper.”
He glanced at the spider. “Supper.”
Emma stiffened her spine. “Indeed.”
“Tonight?”
“Of course.”
He shot another glance at the pan, shook his head, and then headed toward the door. “Then I suggest you get back to working on it. It doesn’t look one bit to me as if you’ve come up with anything any of us has ever eaten. Or will.”
She blushed. That, at the very least, was true. “I will do that.”
“We are hungry, you know.”
At his terse words of judgment, her bottom lip quivered and her voice quavered. She had to gulp down hard to keep from admitting she was guilty as charged. “I do know.”
With her words hanging in the cabin, she reached for the sharp knife again, determined to fashion something out of the contents of the pan. Fortunately, the man left the cabin once she did. But before she got too far, the cabin door opened again, shattering the deafening silence. Colley paused in the doorway long enough to run her boots across the cast-iron scraper there, an unexpectedly attractive item. Its graceful cast-iron scrolls and curlicues led Emma to suspect it had been one of the late Mrs. Lowery’s purchases.
Colley’s arrival had Emma wishing she could hide all evidence of her failed attempts. The no-nonsense older woman struck her as eminently capable, as though nothing she’d ever faced had bested her. Emma, on the other hand, aside from the success she’d achieved in her schoolgirl days, seemed unable to accomplish anything of significant worth.
That is, anything other than stealing gentlemen’s hearts. But that wasn’t an accomplishment that could help her one bit in her current, peculiar predicament. She sighed, noting the quivery hitch in her exhalation.
Before Emma could speak, Colley stomped inside, dragged her hat off her head, and slammed the door behind her.
“Let’s see here, now,” the ranch manager said, her raspy voice light with what struck Emma as bottled-up humor. “What kind of pickle have ya got yerself into this time, Miss Emma?”
The comment stung straight to the heart, but she knew it came without condemnation. The small smile on Colley’s weathered face was warm, and kindness radiated from her expression. Emma shrugged.
“I’m making supper.”
“I do recollect hearing something just now ’bout time spent with that book the boss doesn’t much fancy, some sticks, Ned, Robby… and you. But nothing much was said ’bout fixin’ to feed none of us.” She shook her head, and the large bun at the crown of her head scarcely budged. A strand of pewter-toned hair did slip down over her forehead. “I reckon I can give you a hand with fixin’ us up some kinda supper. Let’s take us a gander at what-all we’re dealin’ with here.”
Emma didn’t know whether to cringe or to hug the woman and the hope she’d brought along with her. She blinked hard, over and over again, and watched Colley march to the spider, stare at the chicken, jab at it with the spoon, and then turn to face Emma and shake her head. She hooked her hat on a chair stile then went to wash her hands. “Now, then. What were ya after dishin’ up for supper for us?”
Heat filled her cheeks. “Croquettes.”
“Croquettes?” Colley spun to fix Emma with a dumbfounded stare. She gestured toward the hearth with a hand dripping suds. “I ain’t had me any croquettes in an age an’ a half, but I sure as shootin’ don’t recollect ’em looking anything like that.”
“Well, no, ma’am,” Emma answered, mortified. “I know croquettes are lovely little rolls of bits of chicken, not this…” She blinked again. “And I followed the recipe. I really did.” She thought back over her efforts. She frowned. “Well, I didn’t know what on earth a mace—pounded, no less—had to do with a croquette, but I can’t see where that would make it all turn out like that. And there was no white sauce out in the shed or here on the shelves, so I used milk instead—it is white and creamy. I can’t imagine how skipping a handful of minced shallots might have that effect on the mixture…”
Again, Colley’s lips twitched at the corner. Emma appreciated the older woman’s efforts to keep from laughing, especially since she herself saw nothing humorous in her dilemma. “I do need to have something to serve for supper. And I can’t serve this as it is.”
“That you cain’t, missy.” She turned and dried her hands off on a length of cotton towel. “Come on, now, Miss Crowell. Let’s see what we can wrassle up outta that mess you’ve gone and made today. We sure cain’t be throwing out every try that don’t work out right, now can we? We’d cost poor Pete his whole ranch and then some.”
Emma bit her tongue to keep a defense from spilling out.
“Years ago,” Colley said, “back in San Antonio when I was a little bit of a girl, my mama got mace—for a right dear price, mind you—so she only used it for some few special times. It’s a spice, and I reckon they do pound it into a powder, but it sure ain’t nothin’ we need to make us a tasty dish.”
In spite of her mortification, Emma joined forces with Colley, and before long they’d salvaged the concoction she’d made. They cut it into more or less rectangles, broke up leftover biscuits into small crumbs, dipped the rectangles in beaten egg, rolled them in the crumbs, and then fried them in deep, melted sweet butter. Colley even showed Emma how to make a cream sauce from butter, flour, and milk, and with onions added to improve the bland taste of Emma’s chicken creation. When the men came back inside, none of them would have known the neat, golden pieces on the big plate had started life as total failures if Peter and Ned hadn’t seen their first incarnation.
Perhaps by the time she returned home Peter and Colley would no longer view her as a failure. The urge to prove herself capable grew to where it consumed her every thought during the meal.
Later, as everyone finished the more than acceptable dish she and Colley had cobbled together and offered their grunted compliments, Emma studied the faces around the table. At that moment, she reached a decision. The overwhelming urge had now turned into a firm goal. She would prove to everyone she was no one’s notion of a failure. No need for Colley to run in and rescue Emma in the future. Somehow, she would succeed.
Somehow, she would learn to give proper meals to these folks from her kitchen.
How Colley had turned the ugly mix in the spider into something that tasted as good as those chicken things had, Peter would never know. He did, however, know they all would have gone hungry if he’d left Emma to her own devices.
He strode out toward the barn to have a last look around as he did every night. He checked on the cow, the horses, and then looked out over the open meadow where he could make out the occasional sheep wandering toward the pond. As he often did, he waited for a cloud to pass so the gleam of moonlight would dance on the water’s surface. It never failed to bring to mind the words of the twenty-third Psalm.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” he whispered. “I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters…”
The ancient words had grown real when Peter had learned more about the animals he’d chosen to raise. In this rugged land he’d realized sheep would go without water for periods of time, on occasion even die, if the source ran briskly, if it grew agitated, since that kind of unrest tended to frighten them. A still pond, on the other hand, a peaceful spot from which to drink the life-giving liquid, was a different matter. It was up to a good shepherd—in Peter’s case, a rancher—to lead his flock to a peaceful source so they could quench their thirst.
His caring for his animals struck him as like the Father’s love that offered His children peaceful respite. His word said in the twenty-second chapter of Revelation, “a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb…”
Peace… something he’d come to long for more and more after coming out West. Peace… a gift from God. Peace… something he still hadn’t fully grasped, but continued to seek.
Peter would always treasure the closer glimpse his flock had given him into the Father’s love for His flock.
A horse’s whicker broke into the quiet of the night, calling him to the barn. Right off, he thought of the plucky Miss Emma Crowell, who’d come and shattered whatever measure of peace he’d achieved while working toward his goals.
Would he be able to return to even that flimsy layer of calm while he was stuck with her through the summer months?
Peter sighed. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to examine the answer to that question.
As usual, Emma took Pippa out for a constitutional after she’d fed her pet that night. Colley had chased her away, saying she could finish drying the dishes from supper, but Emma should be the one to care for her dog. As before, Peter returned to the cabin before Pippa finished her business in the woods. By the time they slipped inside again, he’d taken his place by Robby’s bed, the black leather-bound Bible in his large hands. His deep voice rang out in the cabin as he read the poetic Scriptures to his son.
Poetic they might be in written form, but in Peter’s voice, they could and had become weapons. Emma braced herself for what she feared was sure to come. She didn’t have long to wait.
“ ‘… She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands,’ ” he read. “ ‘She is like the merchants’ ships; she bringeth her food from afar. She riseth also while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.’ ”
Emma had to wonder if his pause, right after the statement about feeding a household, was due to a need for a breath or to a need for emphasis. A glance at the drowsy Robby told her that Peter’s readings certainly would not do any good to a child who needed sleep.
Or, as irritated as he’d made her, to her.
He resumed his reading after a handful of seconds. “ ‘She considereth a field, and buyeth it: with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard. She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms. She perceiveth that her merchandise is good: her candle goeth not out by night. She layeth her hands to the spindle…’ ”
As his words trailed off, Emma felt his gaze turn toward her. Unlikely though it might be, she felt its weight as though it had been a heavy anvil on her head. Her temper had risen steadily, at the same pace as his reading of his indictment continued, but this latest pause struck her as even stranger than the earlier one. Before she could come up with an adequate question, his voice rang out again.
“ ‘… and her hands hold the distaff—’ ”
The door burst open, cutting off any further reading—or any question she might have posed. “Hey, boss!” Wade cried out, somewhat out of breath. “Colley says to hurry. Ewe’s about to birth that lamb, she says.”
The men ran out, for which Emma was duly grateful. She doubted she could have controlled her fury much longer. The gall of the man! To scold her using something so… so sacred as God’s Word.
She shook her head. Peter Lowery wasn’t her father. How dare he discipline her in such a nasty way? Why didn’t he come right out and take her to task? Face to face? He’d had no qualms before.
Standing, she began to pace the length of the cabin, thinking of things she wanted to say to the disapproving rancher. Before long, though, she stopped. It wouldn’t do her any good to let her temper get the better of her. Peter would likely continue to correct her night after night without end. He’d made no secret of his disapproval. She doubted she could ever change that. Instead of chasing after something futile, she had to keep her mind set on what mattered. She had goals—to prove herself at the very least capable of basic tasks and to get back home where she belonged as soon as possible.
She also had a little boy who needed a woman’s loving care.
She glanced at the bunk. Robby hadn’t budged. He’d fallen asleep during his father’s condemnations, and not even the slamming door had disturbed his sleep. She shook her head. How could Peter think scolding her would teach his son matters of the faith?
As she stood there, unable to come up with a satisfactory answer to her question, something else came to her mind. She still wanted to witness the birth of the lamb. She’d mentioned it to Peter before, and he hadn’t come right out and told her no. She should be getting ready to follow the men to the barn instead of worrying over her latest encounter with her unwilling host. If she gnawed any longer on her irritation with him, she’d miss the intriguing event. She should come up with an argument persuasive enough to convince Wade to stay with Robby in the house, since Pippa, as much as the dog loved the boy, was no one’s idea of a responsible caretaker.
She wrapped herself in her green wool cloak and slipped outside. She hurried in the darkness, headed toward the faint hint of light burning in the barn. A cool breeze pierced through the warmth of the wool wrap, making her pick up her pace.
Inside, Emma was greeted by earthy scents. The spicy tang of what she assumed must be the straw bedding she could see inside the five stalls, and perhaps animal feed of some sort, reached her nostrils, and she was surprised by how pleasant it seemed. She’d always assumed a barn would smell of dreadful things. Underlying the grassy smell was the musk of animals, something she’d grown familiar with while she learned to ride.
A warm welcome drew her in, and she stepped closer to the stall. The scene before her intrigued her, as foreign as it was to her. Wade stood to a side, watching Peter and Colley, who crouched just inside one of the smaller stalls. They were so preoccupied with the ewe lying on the straw bedding that they didn’t notice Emma’s arrival. She hoped to keep it that way.
She sidled up to Wade. “Are you needed here?” she whispered, stunned by her audacity. She’d never been so brazen in her life.
He blinked. “Dunno, miss. Boss might need me to fetch him something. I always help with the lambing.”
“But you’re not needed, right? Not unless something happens.”
“I reckon you could put it that way.”
She drew a deep breath and searched deep for a measure of courage, the brazenness that had begun to flag. “Then there’s something I would appreciate you doing for me.”
The ranch hand’s expression brightened as the light of admiration glowed in his gaze. “How could I help you, Miss Emma?”
“Well, you see… I spoke to Mr. Lowery about watching the birth of the lamb, but since it’s nighttime, Robby’s asleep in the cabin. I don’t think it’s a good idea to wake him, do you?”
Wade dragged off his hat and ruffled his brown hair as he considered her question. “Well, no, ma’am. I reckon the boss wouldn’t particularly like that one bit. But… I dunno what you can do, seein’ as you’re wanting to be two places at once.”
“No, not really. I’d like to stay here to watch something I’ve never seen before.” She took a gulp of air for the courage that again wilted. “I would need you to keep an eye on Robby for me.”
When his gaze flew to Peter, a frown on his forehead, Emma hurried to add, “Not for long, you understand, just enough for me to see the birth. Then I’ll run back to the cabin and fetch you. Colley and Peter—er… Mr. Lowery won’t even notice, I’m sure.”
Wade’s frown deepened. “I dunno ’bout that, Miss Emma. He don’t go ’round missing much of what goes on. But I reckon he can’t get too hot under the collar if I go watch his boy.”
She smiled. “That’s right. It’s to care for his son.” And she could have her way, too.
“He’ll likely not be happy,” the ranch hand said, “but I can see where a body’d want to see what’s happening on the ranch where they’re staying. See? This isn’t something to take lightly. It’s something special to see a life the Lord’s made come to a start.”
A thrill ran through Emma. She didn’t know quite why she wanted to witness the birth of the lamb, she only knew she did. “Thank you, Wade. I do appreciate your help.”
“Sure do hope the boss appreciates my doing it, too.”
Emma winced as he walked awa
y, dreading the moment Peter realized his ranch hand had left and she’d stayed in his stead. She wouldn’t be much help in the event that another pair of hands was needed.
After Wade left, she stepped closer and closer to the stall, until she could clearly see the shorn ewe lying in the straw. She also saw the gentle way Peter touched the animal, even as she heard his soothing, tender words.
Very different from the man she’d come to know.
“Here she goes again,” Colley whispered, as the animal raised her head a bit and the rest of her body tensed, straining mightily against some unseen force.
“Easy, easy…” Peter murmured, his hand light on the distended belly. “It won’t be much longer, now. You’re doing fine…”
Who would have thought? What a change from the stern ranch owner she knew to this gentle… what? Was he a shepherd? No, surely not. She’d always heard those who raised sheep called ranchers out West. She supposed, though, in a fashion, that was exactly what Peter was.
“A shepherd…”
She only realized the words had slipped out when Peter and Colley swiveled and pinned her with questioning stares. They spoke at once.
“What—”
“Is Robby—”
Emma hurried the rest of the way in to just outside the stall. There was no need to stay a discreet distance away now that she’d been found out. “Robby’s fine. He was sleeping soundly when I came outside. And I sent Wade to stay with him, so he’s not alone.”
A thunderous frown lined Peter’s face. “Why would you just walk out on a sleeping child?”
Colley snickered.
The rancher shook his head. “Worse! Why did you send my ranch hand to play nursemaid to my son? Robby is your responsibility. I need Wade here.”
With another soft chuckle, Colley turned back to the ewe, shaking her head.
Emma squared her shoulders. “We discussed my desire to watch one of the ewes give birth earlier, if you’ll remember. I’m here to do just that. I wouldn’t dream of leaving a child alone in the night. That’s why I asked Wade to please sit with him while I’m gone.”
