“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking down, obviously still embarrassed.
A surge of masculine energy gave him unexpected boldness and made him long to touch one finger under her chin and raised her face so their eyes could meet. “Don’t be sorry, darlin’,” he said in his best cowboy drawl. “For I certainly am not. It’s not every day a man like me gets to assist such a pretty lady. Anytime you need helping in or out of a wagon, you just give me a holler,” he said in a teasing tone. “I’ll be right there.” Hoping you’ll fall into my arms again.
Even as he reassured her, Howie wondered what stranger had just taken over him. But he couldn’t bring himself to mind, especially when his outrageous flirting chased the embarrassment from her face and drew an upward glance and a shy smile from her.
He moved his hand away from her arm and stepped back to let the Morgans come to her.
Glad of the darkness and hoping his body would quickly cool down, Howie hurried to the back of the wagon to begin unloading. But he carried with him the memory of Bertha’s smile and the tempting feel of her body in his arms.
CHAPTER SIX
In the dimness of dawn, Bertha silently walked down the stairs of the Morgan house, intending to make breakfast for everyone. She felt surprisingly refreshed given her long journey yesterday that had culminated with falling into Howie Brungar’s arms. Somehow, he’d managed to turn the embarrassing incident into a romantic encounter, taking away the sting of embarrassment.
Bertha hoped she’d see him today and wondered what he’d look like in the daylight. Last night, sitting on the wagon bench, she’d been too preoccupied to note much about his appearance beyond that he was tall and lean. But the feel of his strong arms around her would be forever engraved on her memory. She wondered if he’d ever have another conversation with her, flirt with her again, and if she’d find the courage to respond. She sent up a prayer. Please, God, may I not be tongue-tied around him!
Once downstairs, she moved past the dining room, looking forward to working in Prudence’s quiet kitchen, with all new items. But she saw lamplight through the open kitchen door, heard someone moving around, and realized one of the other ladies must be awake, probably Trudy or Lina or maybe both.
Knowing she’d enjoy cooking with her friends, Bertha quickened her steps and prepared to call out a good morning. But then, she saw Prudence pulling a tray of biscuits from the oven of a new black stove.
Dismayed, Bertha stopped in the doorway. Not knowing whether to go forward or retreat, she froze.
The kitchen was big and airy, leading out to a back porch. An oblong sink sat in the middle of a counter, which ran along the outer wall with cabinets above and below. A white rectangular table stood in the middle of the room, with a chair on each side. A pie safe and an icebox stood against the inner wall.
Bertha cleared her throat.
Prudence looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Bertha.” She wore a simple blue-and-tan striped dress covered by an apron, as unlike her other fine clothes as could be.
Although Bertha had seen the woman act friendly last night when everyone was around, the greeting astonished her. In the past, Prudence had pointedly ignored her in the mornings unless Mrs. Seymour was present. Actually, she’d ignored everyone before breakfast, aside from making a nasty comment to or about one of the other brides.
“Gutten Morgan.” In her shock, she automatically spoke in German, then cringed, waiting for the criticism the woman was sure to hurl her way.
Prudence smiled again and set the tray on a hot pad, crocheted in blue-and-black stripes, on the counter. “I thought I’d start breakfast. Well…” She hesitated. “I really wanted to see what you thought of my biscuits.”
Oh, no. Bertha wondered if she could sidle from the room. She had no desire to be around if Prudence threw the tray—a repeat of her snit at the agency when her biscuits weren’t the best. She imagined the hot metal striking her. And unfortunately, there was no Mrs. Seymour to keep Prudence in check, Bertha thought in sudden fear, glancing around and twisting her apron. In fact, since the woman was married to the owner of the whole town, Prudence had no one holding her accountable for good behavior. Maybe I’ve made a disastrous mistake in coming here.
Prudence didn’t seem to notice Bertha’s nervousness. She picked up a wooden spatula and lifted one biscuit onto a small plate. The rest she deftly shoveled into a breadbasket lined with a white linen napkin. She extended the plate toward Bertha. “Here you are.” She tilted her head, indicating a small gray crock on the table. “The butter is there. Made by Mrs. Tuccio, who’s the only one in town with a cow, although the ranches hereabouts have theirs. I think you’ll find the butter is quite good.”
Reluctantly, Bertha took the plate.
“No matter what, I won’t throw anything,” Prudence said, her mouth twisting into a wry smile. “I promise.”
You don’t need to throw anything. Your tongue is as sharp as a knife. You can just stab me. But Bertha kept quiet, not wanting to upset this amiable Prudence. After all, I work for her now.
A knife lay by the crock of butter, and she used it to gingerly open the biscuit. Steam puffed out. She pulled apart the two halves and spread on a generous amount of butter, watching the pats melt and sink into the fluffy insides. Although the biscuit looked perfect, so, too, had Prudence’s other less-successful attempts.
Bertha waited another minute in awkward silence for the biscuit to cool, butterflies making a mad dance in her stomach. She didn’t dare make eye contact with Prudence, because then the silence would become even more uncomfortable.
Finally, she placed the two halves back together. As she lifted the biscuit to take a bite, her hand trembled. To focus on the flavor, she closed her eyes. As she chewed, Bertha savored the taste, the texture. She swallowed and let out a slow, relieved breath. The butterflies in her stomach stilled, and she opened her eyes.
Prudence stood opposite her, her expression anxious and her hands clasped together—a vulnerable pose.
She’d never seen Prudence look so defenseless, and in that moment, Bertha knew she could hurt her nemesis as deeply as the woman had so many times wounded her. She started to take another bite, not to prolong Prudence’s anxiety, but because a lump had risen in her throat, and she couldn’t speak.
Then Bertha realized she wouldn’t be able to eat, either. Instead, she lowered the biscuit to the plate and squared her shoulders. She took as deep a breath as her corset allowed and smiled. “This is wonderful, Prudence.” She tapped the top of her biscuit. “Even better than mine.”
Her eyes widened. “Really? You’re not just saying that to please me?”
“They were good before,” Bertha said softly. “Now they are truly excellent.”
“I tried…” Prudence’s lips trembled into a small smile. “I tried to put so much love into them today.” Tears welled in her eyes. One spilled over. “At the agency, I couldn’t have added that missing ingredient, because I didn’t have any love to give. The only person who’d ever loved me was my older sister, and she died when I was ten.”
Stirred by compassion, eyes blurring with moisture, Bertha experienced a wave of gratitude sweeping over her for her loving family. She couldn’t even imagine growing up in the lonely state the woman had just described.
Prudence’s confession explains so much. I understand her more, now.
A second tear dripped down Prudence’s face. “Since coming to Morgan’s Crossing, I’ve…I’ve opened my heart.”
With her red nose and eyes, Prudence looked even more plain than usual, and yet love transformed her into a woman of beauty.
A small scuffing sound made the two look toward the doorway.
Michael was watching. He’d obviously been there a while and had heard Prudence’s confession, for he gazed at his wife with a tender expression of love on his handsome face.
She covered her mouth with her hand and let out a sob.
“Oh, Pru.” He took three big steps a
nd gathered her into his arms, kissing the top of her head.
Seeing them together made Bertha’s tears spill over. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.
Prudence raised her head, sniffed, and looked at Bertha over Michael’s shoulder. Tears continued pouring down her face. “I was such a horrid person to you, Bertha. Well…to everyone, but especially to you.”
Michael looked from Prudence to Bertha, not with an I-don’t-know-what-to-do panicked look that many men show when their womenfolk cry, but one of understanding.
She waited for him to say something to comfort his wife, but instead, he kept his gaze on Bertha, seeming to encourage her.
He wants me to respond. He’s not going to step in.
Clasping her hands together, she reached deep inside to find the courage to speak her truth. “You really hurt me, Prudence…almost every day. Sometimes, I even cried. You made me afraid of you.” Even as she spoke, Bertha became aware of the trembling in her knees.
Prudence nodded several times. “I understand you can’t forgive me.”
“I didn’t say that,” Bertha corrected with a shake of her head. “I can forgive you. I do forgive you.” She smiled. “In fact, I joyfully forgive you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be wary of you for a while—perhaps a long while.”
Prudence nodded. “That’s only fair.”
Bertha let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Well, I have to admit, something good came out of your bad behavior at the agency. I…” She looked away and took a breath before gazing at Prudence again. “Being shy, I might not have made friends with the other women, or at least not so quickly, if not for you. Your attacks made the rest of us band together. They protected and supported me. I was so grateful, I felt obligated to extend my friendship in return, especially to help everyone with improving their cooking and baking skills. As I became more comfortable with the other brides, our friendships deepened.”
“Oh.” Prudence sniffed and teared up again.
Michael stepped back, his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “Let’s try those biscuits,” he said, using a jovial tone in an obvious attempt to lighten the heavy emotion in the room. He kissed Prudence’s cheek. “I’ve heard there’s an awful lot of love in them,” he drawled. “And I’m a hungry man.”
His wife laughed and swiped at her wet cheeks.
“Let me.” Michael pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and gently dried her face.
Although Bertha heard no sound, something pulled her attention to the back of the kitchen, where a silent figure stood motionless on the porch in front of the partly-opened door. Howie Brungar. Once again, she remembered how she felt in his arms last night, and how she’d carried thoughts of him into her dreams. A blush heated her cheeks, but she didn’t lower her eyes or look away.
Howie gazed at Bertha as if he really saw her—not her fat outsides, but her heart. He smiled and nodded in approval before stepping back out of sight.
She gazed at the empty doorway, wishing he’d return.
* * *
Bertha remained quiet all through breakfast, her thoughts on the encounter with Prudence and the exchange of looks with Howie Brungar. The memory made her think of the strength of his arms last night. Her body flushed with heat. She glanced over at the fireplace, which was surrounded by small squares of blue tile, the mantle piece displaying some of Prudence’s blue willow china, and wished she weren’t sitting so close.
Around the table, the gentlemen were scattered among the women. When Howie joined them in the dining room for the meal, he took a seat cattycorner across the table from Bertha between Darcy and Lina, who held Adam on her lap.
From time to time, Bertha shot covert glances Howie’s way from underneath her eyelashes. He looked to be about thirty and had a nondescript appearance, not handsome or ugly, but somewhere in between, with shaggy brown hair and intelligent blue eyes. A few times he met her gaze, and her temperature spiked.
In the light of day, she decided the man looked far too thin and could use some fattening up, although his appetite seemed hearty, for he tucked into his food—scrambled eggs, bacon, and pfannkuchen—with relish. He’d chosen to eat the crepe-like German pancakes rolled with only butter, rather than adding either of the available huckleberry or strawberry jams.
The pfannkuchen were a hit with everyone. While at the agency, she hadn’t thought to teach her friends how to make them, and even Trudy with her German heritage hadn’t known of the dish.
This morning, Bertha enjoyed showing the other women how to coat the bottom of the frying pan with batter of just the right thickness—thin, but not so thin that the pancake would tear when taken from the pan. They’d all had fun taking turns using Prudence’s three frying pans, with varying results—Darcy and Prudence, of course, producing the worst ones. But the men didn’t seem to mind the lumps, tears, and uneven shapes, for they ended up eating three each.
Michael set down his fork and folded his napkin, setting the utensil next to his plate. “Thank you, ladies. I can’t say when I’ve enjoyed a breakfast more. I’ve eaten wonderful food off fancy new dishes.” He tapped the edge of the blue willow plate. “Well, Prudence’s grandmother’s, but new to me.” He picked up his teacup and saluted Prudence. “I’m sitting at my new dining table across from my bride—”
She dipped her head in response.
“I’m entertaining guests in my almost-new house.” Michael made a circling gesture. “I have broken my fast with an old friend—” he nodded at Howie “—and new ones. I am richly blessed.”
“‘A noble heart is a thankful heart that loves to acknowledge whenever it has received any mercy,’” Gideon quoted.
Bertha hid a smile at everyone’s puzzled glances.
“Jeremiah Burroughs, Contentment, Prosperity, and God’s Glory.” Darcy patted Gid’s arm. “You’ll find my husband is fond of literary and philosophical quotations,” she told Howie.
Bertha couldn’t resist. “He’s not the only one,” she teased, looking at Howie. “Darcy was always stumping us with her quotations.” She glanced around the table. “One of these days, we should give them a test to see which one knows more.” Only after silence fell and everyone stared at her did Bertha realize how naturally she’d just responded. She sent everyone a mischievous grin. “I can talk,” she informed them as if making an announcement.
“You can, indeed,” Howie murmured, looking at her in obvious admiration.
Bertha flushed with pleasure.
Darcy motioned between her and Lina. “We knew that about you. But I doubt the others realized how much you come out of your shyness when you’re feeling comfortable.”
Michael cocked an eyebrow at Prudence. “I believe my wife has plans for the ladies today?”
“Cooking for the party tonight.” Brows drawn, she glanced around. “I know it’s terrible to invite you out here and then put you to work. But I could use everyone’s help.”
Oh, no. “A party?” Bertha blurted out.
“A welcoming party for you. No one mentioned it out of fear you might refuse to come to Morgan’s Crossing.”
Bertha stared at her lap. She couldn’t imagine anything she’d like less.
Prudence saw her expression and laughed, but not in the unkind way she used to. “I’m teasing you, dear Bertha. I know you’d hate to be the reason for the party. You are, but no one else knows that. We’re calling it a Harvest Festival.”
That doesn’t sound nearly as bad.
“The meeting hall is all ready except for decorations. I thought we could take a walk so you could see the town and meet the other women.” She glanced around the table. “We can go farther afield and gather some flowers and other foliage. Then we’ll need to return and cook. All the ladies in town will be cooking. We’ve provided supplies for everyone, so no one has to skimp.”
“But what about the boardinghouse?” Bertha protested.
Prudence set down her teacup
. “I’d like us to have a day where we don’t have to worry about that place. Confronting the cook as well as cleaning and organizing the space won’t be easy tasks. I’d rather we focus our efforts on the party. Tomorrow is soon enough for you to start your job.”
“I agree,” Michael said. “If you men would like to accompany me to the mine, I’ll give you a tour.”
They all looked interested and nodded.
“Good.” Prudence tapped her finger on the edge of the table. “Now that’s settled. We just have to clean up the breakfast dishes.”
Trudy folded up her napkin. “We’ll all help.”
Prudence cast a smile around the table at the women. “The cleanup should be easy. We had plenty of practice, working together at the agency.” Her wry expression showed she was poking fun at herself.
A laugh bubbled up in Bertha. Not once had Prudence worked together with them. If anything, she’d evaded chores, or impeded their efforts, and they’d had to work around her.
The gleeful smirks of the other women told her they had the same memories.
Another thought struck her. Prudence had never displayed self-deprecating humor. Even more than their earlier encounter in the kitchen, this conversation assured Bertha her nemesis really had changed.
If Prudence can change so much, maybe I can, too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
That evening, when the Morgans and their visitors entered the meeting hall for the Harvest Festival, Howie, like every other man present, focused on the ladies. He didn’t know what they’d done with themselves, but wearing fancy gowns, with curls frizzed across their foreheads, and long, white gloves covering their hands and arms, they seemed like different creatures from the women in work dresses and aprons who’d labored all day so the party could take place.
Miss Bucholtz had stepped inside the room, and Howie thought she was the most magnificent sight he’d ever seen. Her pale pink silk gown was edged with lace, but lacked the swags of material draping to the bustle like some of the other fashionable women wore. Instead, narrow velvet stripes in the same color ran from her waist to the hem. She looked plump and pretty—a delectable peach.
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha: A Montana Sky Novella (Montana Sky Series) Page 6
