by Danni Roan
Prissy’s Predicament
Tales From Biders Clump
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Prologue
“Come on, Sugar,” Priscilla Adams drawled, pointing her almost-white horse toward town.
It was still early, but she knew the chef at the Grist Mill restaurant in Biders Clump would be impatient for her delivery.
As her mount ambled town-ward, she lost herself in her thoughts. Priscilla, or Prissy as she was more widely known, had started offering some of her jams and jellies for sale at the local eatery nearly two years ago to help support her family.
With a natural flair for cooking and for creating new dishes using the readily available bounty of the countryside, Prissy was soon a favorite with the chef, who was always interested in trying something new.
The Grist Mill was a popular stopping point for both the town folks of Biders Clump and hungry travelers who stopped at the small train station on their way over the Rocky Mountains that towered above the tiny town.
At first it had been gratifying to be asked to come up with new dishes for the restaurant and Prissy had poured herself into trying new things with the wild game, herbs, and fruits that grew in abundance around her home.
The fact that each new endeavor brought in a little extra money to her family hadn’t hurt, either.
Now with her family’s financial disaster averted she continued to provide specialty dishes to the Grist Mill and worked closely, if unofficially, with the baker who had joined the establishment in the spring.
Priscilla compressed her usually smiling lips into a tight line and tossed her head of blonde curls in an agitated shake.
Rupert Rutherford had been a revelation. A thin man, with dark blonde hair and slate-blue eyes, he’d captured Prissy’s attention immediately, and his baked goods had her reeling with delight.
Prissy huffed indignantly, making Sugar, her patient horse snort in reply.
“Fat lot of good it does to notice the man,” she grumbled, even as she wondered what new delight he might have whipped up. Heaven only knew how the man did it. Prissy had no patience at all for baking and was as likely to produce a rock as a loaf of bread.
She’d been enthralled by the man, his eyes sparking as he spoke of his newfangled treats in soft English tones. He’d plied her with scones and tarts, pies and dumplings. So many sweet delights, she’d nearly swooned.
Prissy sagged in the saddle, causing Sugar to slow his pace as her corset dug into the soft flesh of her waist line. She’d never been slender. Unlike her willowy sisters, Prissy ran to plump or, as she liked to call it, “fluffy.”
“Not that it matters anyway,” she spoke to her horse, so deep in thought she was barely aware of her surroundings.
She’d been thrilled to chat with the new baker, his eyes glowing bright like a morning star as they talked of cooking and baking and food. Prissy had nearly danced with joy to discover the attractive young man was as passionate about food as she was, and the shared interest sparked something more in her heart.
“Well therein lies the rub,” she said to her horse while giving him a distracted pat. “I’ve spent nearly every day with him.” Her voice was soft. “He doesn’t even notice me.”
Once more she huffed and her mount sighed in commiseration. “I even invited him to family picnics and everything, but all he ever thinks about is food and baking.” She sat upright in the saddle again, her green eyes full of ire.
“I’d like to box his ears.” She ground out in frustration, “give him a piece of my mind.”
She nodded once, completely absorbed in her own thoughts. “Rupert Rutherford, I’d say. I’m a woman you know with real feelings and …” her words died out.
“If he were interested, he would have said something by now.” Her words were defeated as a pain pinched her heart. “More the fool am I,” she quoted, never hearing the approaching footsteps on the road until something hard and round smacked her on the head.
“Ouch!” Prissy squealed, drawing Sugar up short and turning to see what had hit her.
“Toby! Toby! What in the world?” she blazed.
“Sorry, Ms. Adams,” the boy of about seven called, trotting up to her in the road. “I kept calllin’ but you didn’t even hear me a’tall,” he offered apologetically.
“Ooh,” Prissy winched, “you gave me a bump.” She scowled, rubbing her head. “Did you throw a rock at me?”
“No Miss, it was only a crab apple.”
Prissy wrinkled her nose at the ‘Miss.’ She was the last MISS Adams and the way her life was going, she’d be one forever.
“Toby, why on earth would you throw a crab apple at me?” She glared at the boy, who pushed a hank of long brown hair from his eyes.
“I thought you might wan’a buy ‘em,” Toby offered with a smile, scrubbing his scuffed boot in the dirt of the road.
“Why would I want crab apples, their sour and hard, and…” her voice trailed off as she watched the boy’s eyes fall.
“Sorry to bother ya then Miss Adams,” he said starting to turn, a large bucket still in his hands.
“Now wait just a minute Toby,” Prissy’s voice softened. “Let me see what you have before I decide.” The light in the boy’s eyes was enough to make Prissy smile. “I’m sure I can figure out something to use them for.”
Toby trotted back to the horse and lifted the bucket of red gold apples the size of a small egg. “They grow wild back behind my uncle’s place,” he offered, hope bright in his eyes.
“I do like to have wild things for my cooking,” Prissy said, examining the hard-tart fruit. “How much for all of them?”
For a moment, Toby blinked at her dumb-founded. “I don’t rightly know?” he said, rubbing his nose with his sleeve.
“How about I give you fifty cents for this bucket and if I find a good recipe for them, I’ll buy more later?”
“Fifty cents!” Toby yelped excitedly. “That’d be swell.”
Smiling, Priscilla pulled her reticule from one of the large paniers draped across her horse’s flanks and retrieved a silver coin.
“Next time you’re at the Grist Mill with your uncle, you find me and I’ll let you know about the apples. Deal?”
“Deal!” the boy beamed at her, offering the bucket and his hand.
Still smiling, Prissy shook the young rascal’s hand and poured the contents of the heavy wooden bucket into one of the bags at the back of her saddle.
“Thanks, Miss Adams,” Toby shouted, grabbing the bucket and taking off at a run toward home. There was no doubt in Prissy’s mind that he’d have more apples picked before noon.
Chapter 1
The door to the Grist Mill opened before Prissy could swing down from her saddle and she couldn’t help but smile, despite her annoyance with the man.
“ ‘ello Miss Pris,” the young man called with a smile as he stepped off the boardwalk and reaching for one of the heavy bags draped over Sugar’s back.
“Hello, Rupert,” Prissy’s voice was short, “and don’t call me Pris, my name is Priscilla.” She tipped her nose up and headed for the shop.
“Oh!” the man started, turning
to watch her sashay up the stairs to the stoop, “I do apologize, I meant no offense.”
Priscilla’s conscience pricked her and she dropped her head. It wasn’t in her nature to be mean. Turning in place she marveled, not for the first time, at how easily Rupert lifted the heavy panniers from her pony.
Rupert Rutherford was a thin man, but he was very strong and carried the burden with ease. For a moment, she stood on the step admiring the play of muscles along his arms where his sleeves had been rolled back, and his smile zinged straight to her heart.
There was no doubt about it, she was completely besotted with the man, no matter how she looked at it. On top of that, she was starting to use her sister Aquila’s big words. She felt like stomping her foot in frustration, but refrained.
“None taken,” She finally said, continuing into the restaurant.
“Wait till you see what I’ve been working on,” Rupert spoke cheerfully. “And what did you bring us today?” his voice followed her. “You’re far more creative than chef.”
Prissy smiled. Rupert was always saying things like that and it made her feel special. Several people had told her that her cooking was good, but for some reason when Rupert said it, her whole heart sang.
“Let’s see if Chef agrees with you.” Prissy opened the door, letting Rupert enter with his heavy burden.
It all reminded her of the first time she’d met the young man a few months ago.
***
Priscilla Adams walked through the front door of the Grist Mill Restaurant in Biders Clump, the straps of her carefully packed bags biting into her arms.
She’d won several prizes with her jams and jellies and was thrilled when the owners of the Mill had started buying some from her. Now she was branching out into other items.
Prissy smiled. “I guess I’m the cook,” she whispered to herself. “Quil writes, Sara climbs trees and I cook.” Her family was very talented, she thought with a giggle.
The smell of fresh baked bread assaulted her nostrils as she moved through the door and she turned to see a lean man with dark blonde hair laying fresh loaves in a variety of shapes on a long counter near the back of the shop. Drawn by the smell and the slate-blue of the man’s eyes, Prissy moved to the counter.
“ ‘ello.” The blonde man looked up from arranging the bread with a smile, his eyes going wide as he took in the young woman before him. “I’m Rupert Rutherford. How may I help you?”
“This smells wonderful,” Pissy said. “Are you new here?”
“Yes Miss, I’m the baker, just arrived last week.” He smiled again. “And who might you be?” he finished.
“Oh,” Priscilla started, “I’m Priscilla, Priscilla Adams. I make jams and jellies for the Mill.”
“You do?” Rupert’s grin widened, “I’m afraid my skills lay in baked goods only.”
“Miss Priscilla,” a booming voice echoed from the kitchen. “I see you’ve met our new baker.” A short, portly man with gravy stains on his apron called, “Now what did you bring me today?”
Prissy smiled. Tate was a taciturn man and fussy, but deep down she knew he was as soft as a brown sugar dumpling.
***
“Miss Pris, I mean Miss Priscilla,” Rupert’s voice broke through the memory. From the first day she’d met him, they’d put their heads together over his baked goods and they seemed to go together like biscuits and gravy.
“Won’t you look?” he asked, indicating the golden-brown braid of bread sitting on his work bench.
Despite her annoyance at the man, she was intrigued by his work. She hated to bake with a passion but loved anything sweet.
“What is it?”
“It’s called a Kuchen. It’s full of nuts and raisins and cinnamon sugar.”
“Well it looks delicious,” she finally said. “Now I need to settle up with Tate.”
“Oh, of course.” Rupert seemed bewildered by Prissy’s lack of enthusiasm, but didn’t argue. He never argued with Prissy.
Once her business was done, Prissy left the Grist Mill and headed straight to the boarding house, her heart still heavy. Rupert had only wanted to talk about food again. All Rupert ever wanted to do was talk about food. Why in the world had her silly heart fallen for a man with a one-track mind?
Sighing heavily, she made the trek across the street to the boarding house. Her sister Quil would be staying there for the next few weeks to make her mother, Maud, and Cameron, Quil’s husband, happy as she awaited the birth of her first child.
Prissy knew she should be happy for her sister, for both of her sisters, but instead she felt left out and surly.
Opening the door to the two-story structure, her ears were accosted by a loud clickity-clack.
“What’s that noise?” Prissy asked walking down the hall, her blonde curls drooping slightly, as if she’d been somewhere hot.
“Cameron bought Quil a typewriter,” Maud said, her eyes bright. “I think that will keep her out of trouble until this baby comes.”
“Hello Prissy,” Polly offered. “How about a nice glass of iced tea and a cookie?” The boarding house owner was a sweet, older woman and an old friend of Prissy’s mother.
“No thank you, Ms. Polly,” Prissy answered. “I don’t feel like anything right now.”
“Were you trying some of Mr. Rupert’s new baked goods again?” Maud asked, shaking her head at her daughter.
“No, I’m just tired,” Prissy replied, toying with the strap on her large, woven bag.
Mrs. Nelson patted her on the shoulder. “Cooking for others, them what’s not your family, can do that to you,” she said in an understanding tone. Mrs. Nelson had been house keeper to Mr. Dixon, who owned the neighboring ranch.
Again Prissy sighed. Her sister Sara had married Rafe Dixon this very year and now with Quil at the boarding house, she was the last Adams girl left at home.
“Well, we’d better leave you all to it,” Maud said, standing and kissing Quil on the cheek. “Come on, Prissy. Let’s go home. George and Polly have enough to do with so many guests traveling this time of year.”
“Yes, Mama.” Prissy rose obediently, following her mother down the hall.
Chapter 2
“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Maud Adams asked her middle daughter as she guided the wagon toward home.
“I’m fine, Mama,” Prissy said, her usual cheerful tone all but gone.
“You aren’t getting ill, are you?” her mother turned to look at her as she drove their simple wagon toward home.
Instead of riding home, she’d tied Sugar to the wagon and was happy to sit quietly in the wagon with her mother.
“No, I’m just tired and I’ve been working very hard to get all the canning done.”
“Not to mention all the things you make for the Grist Mill. Not that I mind, dear, but I don’t want you to overdo it.”
Prissy smiled. Her mother worried about all of her girls, even more so since their father’s death several years earlier.
“Perhaps after I fill this next order, I’ll slow down a little,” Priss said. “It’s such a beautiful time of year and a little more time outdoors might be nice.”
She looked up at the high peaks of the Rockies, some already tipped with snow. The greens of summer were fading into the robust orange, gold and red of fall, painting the world in a bright pallette of color.
“Speaking of such, I hope you won’t mind that I’ve made plans to go driving with Harlan this afternoon.”
“It still surprises me that you and Mr. Dixon have become friends again,” Prissy said. “I mean after all those years of feuding.”
Maud Adams smiled. “That was all a misunderstanding. Harlan, your father and I were friends for years before that happened.”
She turned her dark eyes to her daughter. “Prissy, if I’ve learned anything from the feud with the Dixons, it is to speak your mind or you’ll have regrets.”
“Do you think it really matters that much, Mother?” Prissy finally ask
ed after several minutes of silence.
“Yes, I do,” Maud replied. “If you feel something strongly, you should say so.” She began. “Perhaps it won’t make any difference, but at least you know you’ve said it and given others the chance to understand.”
They turned into the ranch yard then, their old roan mare, Sadie, coming to a halt in front of the large log home they lived in.
“You’re back early, Mrs. Adams,” a big cowboy called, striding toward the wagon.
“Morning Rock,” Mrs. Adams replied. “We got Quil all settled just fine, so we came back home.”
Prissy climbed out of the wagon, moving to fetch her now empty bags and patting Sugar on the shoulder where he stood tied at the back of the buckboard. When she’d headed to town that morning she thought she’d stay longer, but her heart just wasn’t in it so she’d returned with her mother.
“Didn’t expect you back so soon, Miss Priscilla,” Rock, the boulder-shaped cowhand, said as he helped her mother down. “You go on in and have a little rest,” he continued. “I’ll see to the stock.”
“Thank you, Rock,” Prissy smiled. She did still have the crab apples to deal with, not to mention much to think about.
“I don’t suppose you brought none of them nice baked things back from town with ya’?” the big man mused. He’d gotten used to Prissy returning with new samplings of the items that English baker made so well.
“Not today, no,” Prissy said, feeling a little ashamed of not thinking of the others at the ranch. She hadn’t even picked up any bread. “All I have today is crab apples.”
“Don’t worry,” Maud said, reaching for her daughter’s arm. “I’ll make something for the men and bake some bread tomorrow,” she offered, as if reading Prissy’s mind.
“Thank you, Mother,” Prissy said, walking into the house.
***
A few short hours later, Prissy had the big pans boiling on a hot stove. She’d opened the windows and the back door to let some of the autumn breezes in to the overly warm kitchen.
She loved the sound of the soft rattle of the glass jars in the pots of hot water as they jiggled and danced, heating to the right temperature to seal the metal lids.
