by Danni Roan
“What do you call this?” Mrs. Farrow looked down at the simple dish before her with a sneer.
“It’s food, mother,” Lucinda said, lifting her fork delicately.
“Miss Pris’ is a fine cook,” Rupert spoke, his voice firm but smooth. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Something warm and soft trickled into Priscilla’s heart. If only he would say something kind to her, instead of complementing her cooking to others; show her some sign he cared. Her mind went back to the day of the picnic and she flushed. She should never have been so bold.
Turning on silent feet, she made her way back to the kitchen, ready to prepare the night’s special, but she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps Rupert liked dark-haired girls.
***
Hours later Prissy washed her face and hands, pulled off her gravy-stained dress and collapsed into bed, still in her petticoat.
The moon was high when she woke again, stretching the stiffness out of limbs that had too long been locked in the same position.
Rising, Prissy wriggled out of her underthings and wrapped a robe around her before heading to the kitchen.
The oven was still warm and the large kettle on the back of the hob was full of water. Lifting it carefully with a dishrag, she carried it back to the washstand in her room, filling the bowl with the steaming liquid.
The simple act of washing away the grime of the day felt heavenly, but could not quite lift her heavy heart. Her mind drifted back to Rupert; there was no doubt she’d lost her heart to the man with the funny name and funnier accent.
Finished with her ablutions, Prissy pulled on a soft, clean nightgown and knelt by her bed, laying her heart bare as she lifted her voice in prayer.
Visions of Rupert spun in her head. The way he itched his nose with his forearm, when working, the ripple of muscle along his arms as he lifted something heavy or punched down the pillow-like mounds of fresh bread dough.
Bowing her head, Prissy acknowledged just how much she had grown to care for the young man who’d come to Biders Clump. She was comfortable with him in a way she had never been with any man.
“Lord,” she tried to speak, but the words were tangled up in her heart. “Friends,” she finally managed. “If we can’t be more, let us be friends.”
A warm peace settled down into Prissy’s soul as she accepted the path that had been laid before her.
Chapter 9
“What’s for breakfast?” Prissy asked, sidling to the table and stifling a yawn.
“Oatmeal,” Maud replied. “I’m glad you aren’t straight off to the Grist Mill today,” Maud Adams said, placing a large bowl of cooked oats before her daughter.
“It is nice to sleep in a little. With Martha cooking, I don’t have to go in at breakfast now.”
“You seem to get along well with her,” Maud smiled, adding a scoop of brown sugar to her own bowl and passing the container of sweetener to her daughter.
“Yes, but the other two confuse me.” Prissy added two large scoops of brown sugar to the creamy white mixture in her bowl. “Lucinda and Mrs. Farrow are staying in the second apartment over the shop, while Martha stays at Tate’s house.”
“Oh, yes, I think Quil told me that Mrs. Peterson is staying at Tate’s house. Tate should be home anytime now.”
“Uhm hm.” Prissy mused, tasting her oats and adding fresh cream. “I was preparing the porridge yesterday for breakfast and heard something heavy drop to the floor.”
Maud looked at her daughter, confused.
“I got the distinct impression that Lucinda had pulled her mother out of bed.”
Maud’s eyes grew wide. “That makes no sense at all.”
Prissy shrugged her shoulders, savoring her breakfast. “I don’t think Mrs. Farrow is at all accustomed to work.”
“What time will you go in today?” Maud finally asked. “I have to admit that I’m glad I don’t have to come in and help you anymore. It’s nice cooking for the hands, but cooking for all those folks puts me off my own food completely.”
Prissy dabbed her mouth with a napkin, then leaned in and kissed her mother on the cheek.
“I rather enjoy it,” Prissy offered, again reaching for the teapot on the table. “I’m not sure I want to do it forever, but for now I like seeing just how much I can do.”
“And what of you?” Maud’s dark eyes pierced Prissy.
“I’m alright, Mama,” Prissy said softly, knowing the bruises her heart still harbored. “Now what will you do with all your free time today?” she grinned.
“Free time?” Maud chortled. “With you girls scattered, I have plenty to keep me busy. I have housework and cooking to do today.”
“Oh, mother, I didn’t think,” Prissy started, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have stepped in.”
Maud Adams laid her hand on her daughter’s arm. “You wanted to help, and I think in doing so you’ve helped more people than you can know.” She patted Prissy softly. “I know my girls all have to do their own thing.”
“Will you go to visit Quil today?”
“Yes, Harlan’s coming to fetch me later. Perhaps we’ll stop by for lunch.”
***
Rupert lifted the heavy sack of flour from the delivery cart, hefting it onto his shoulder with ease, and moved up the steps of the Grist Mill, but stopped as he saw Prissy talking with the lanky scarecrow by the kitchen door.
For a moment, he stood looking at the lovely young woman smiling at the stick man, and something hard and bitter rose in his chest.
The German farmer looked like a fence post with legs, but perhaps someone with the culinary skills of Priscilla Adams would like the challenge of fattening him up.
Sorrow still bubbled in his chest as he moved toward his work bench and stowed the large sack, returning to the wagon for the next one and studiously ignoring the soft laughter coming from Prissy.
How could he have let himself care for her? He’d been thrilled to discover someone he could talk food with. Tate was a good, solid cook, but he lacked the imaginative flare that Prissy possessed.
Rupert smiled. He’d been shocked to discover she hated baking. She hated the precision needed to ensure that a recipe came out exactly the same time after time. The measuring, leveling, sifting, and mixing that he loved, Prissy found tedious and uninspiring.
Lifting the next sack to his shoulder, he moved back toward the kitchen, half amused that the very things that drew him to baking were the things that fettered her in the kitchen.
The order, the consistency, the scientific refinement of baking had given him a new start after a bad time.
Tossing the bag on the counter with a thump, Rupert’s hand found its way to his left breast, rubbing away the remembered pain.
“Miss Prissy.” A chipper voice made Rupert look up from pulling the stitched tab on the flour sack.
“Hello, Toby,” Prissy said. “What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to know if you needed any more things for your cookin’. I don’t have no more crab apples, but I could look in the woods for stuff.”
“I’ll tell you what,Toby,” Prissy responded kindly. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
The boy of six or seven pushed his overlong hair from his eyes with a grin. “Deal!” he called, dashing off again.
As Prissy turned, her eyes fell on Rupert. His face was serious, his slate eyes sad, and her heart seemed to reach for him. The only problem was that he’d made it perfectly clear he wasn’t interested in her as anything more than a cooking colleague.
There were so many questions she had about the young man whose face had become so familiar, so welcome. His firm jaw, his quirky smile, and sad, slate-blue eyes.
She watched as he slowly rubbed a spot on his chest and she wondered if he’d hurt himself lifting the heavy sacks of flour, but she’d seen him lift the bags with little effort many times before.
“Are you alright?” she asked, moving toward him and making him jump a little, drop
ping his hand.
“Hm?” he blinked up at her for a moment. “Oh, yes, yes. Peachy,” he expounded, his accent making the words hum.
“You didn’t hurt yourself lifting those bags, did you?”
“What these? No.” Rupert smiled, and it zinged to Prissy’s heart.
Prissy had been sure she was putting her feelings aside for the man, but looking at him now brought back the patter to her heart. She was such a little ninny.
Somehow she needed to find a way to be content as friends.
“I’d better get this into the pantry,” Rupert continued, his voice stilted.
“Yes, of course.”
The outer door banging shut drew Prissy back to the dining room, leaving a silent heaviness to linger in the kitchen.
“Just have a cup of coffee with me, Ty,” the booming voice of Sheriff Pike echoed through the nearly empty room. “Jillian and Aaron will have a hoot over at Polly’s.”
Tywyn Nelson strolled into the restaurant, his gray eyes taking in his surroundings. “Pike, I’m not interested in whatever you have to say.”
The sheriff unceremoniously dropped into a chair and lifted a hand in greeting to catch Prissy’s attention.
“Sheriff,” Prissy greeted, “Mr. Nelson.” Prissy smiled at the lean man with the serious face. “What can I get you?” she asked, noting that Lucinda was busy with Mr. Druthers and the two children.
“Just coffee,” Tywyn said, his cautious gray eyes still roaming the shop.
“Rupert, got any of them scones?” Pike asked. “If so, I’ll have two of them and coffee.”
“I’ll be right back,” Prissy replied, turning but catching the sheriff’s words.
“Ty with all these new men roaming around this town, I need another set of eyes just to keep things calm. You know well as me that Ferd’s off trackin’ down facts and one man can’t be everywhere.”
“Rupert are there any scones left from this morning?” Prissy asked,
“Yes, I’ve got a few.” Rupert quickly dusted his hands and moved to retrieve the treats, while Prissy poured the coffee.
She smiled as she carried the items to the table, catching more of the Sheriff’s conversation with the former marshal.
“Pike, I’m not a lawman anymore. I have a wife and son to think about now.”
“I’m not talking’ about taking on any real work, just walkin’ round town and letting everyone know you’re about if needed.” Pike’s face was flushed. “Biders Clump has mostly been a quiet town, but for a while things will be busier than usual.”
“I’ll talk to Jillian.” Tywyn was obviously weakening and Prissy smiled as she left the men to their coffee.
The clatter and rattle of dishes pulled Prissy back to the kitchen with a sigh. She truly did enjoy the work at the Grist Mill, the constant coming and going of people, the banter of the employees as they moved about their jobs, not to mention hearing nearly everything that happened in the tiny town.
“I’m too tired,” Mrs. Farrow was saying to Ida, “it’s just too hard.”
“Ya just give ‘em all a good wipe and put ‘em on the shelf,” Ida said, looking confused.
“I have a headache,” the older woman said again, placing the dish towel on the counter with thumb and forefinger and turning to go.
“Where are you going, Mother?” Lucinda’s voice was soft as she returned with a tray full of dirty dishes and a broken bowl.
“I need a little rest,” Mrs. Farrow said, trying to step past her daughter.
“You do not need a rest,” Lucinda said. “I’ll help you.” She looked about, eyes downcast as she handed the tray to Ida and turned her mother toward the sink of drying dishes.
Rupert looked up at Prissy and she could tell he was as bemused as she was, but neither said anything as they went back to work.
“You finish up these few things, then you can go lay down,” Ida offered, handing the dishrag back to the woman.
Chapter 10
“Martha, you can’t keep doing things for mother.” Lucinda’s voice caught Prissy by surprise. “Those days are over now. You’ve already done so much bringing us to this little town, your brother giving us jobs and letting us live in the apartment upstairs.”
“She’s had a hard time, Miss Lucinda,” Martha offered, “I feel for her.”
Trying not to intrude, Prissy slipped past but still heard the interaction, noticing as Lucinda laid a hand on Martha’s arm.
“Martha, you’ve been with my family as long as I can remember, and mother will adjust.”
Martha patted the young woman’s hand. “You are something special, dear,” Martha finished, patting Lucinda’s cheek, then turned to put a fresh apron on. “Now let’s get to work.”
“What’s for lunch?” Martha asked, walking into the kitchen. “You always have the nicest ideas for meals.”
Prissy smiled, enjoying the complement. “We’re having chicken noodle soup today,” she said. “I asked Rupert to make special rolls to go with it. I only wish he knew how to make buttermilk biscuits.” She smiled cheekily.
“Biscuits?” Martha straightened her shoulders. “Lucinda could make those in a trice.”
“Oh, really?” Prissy was intrigued. “Do you think she would mind?”
“Not at all, I’ll go ask her. I know she’s working as a server for the most part, but she’s handy in the kitchen as well.”
“Whose doing what?” Lucina herself entered, handing off a tea tray to Ida, who put them in the sink.”
“I was just telling Prissy that you make wonderful biscuits,” Martha answered, her eyes full of pride.
“It’s the first thing you ever taught me to make.” Lucinda smiled. “I’d be happy to make them for you,” she added, turning to Prissy.
***
“Prissy! Prissy!” Sara Dixon marched into the Grist Mill, a heavy basket in her hands as she looked around her.
“Sara, what’s wrong?” Prissy hurried to the front of the busy restaurant.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Sara grinned, pushing her rumpled reddish-brown hair back up into the bun on her head.
“Then what do you want?” Prissy huffed like a kettle.
“I’m looking for mother,” Sara said.
“She was supposed to come see Quil later,” Prissy mused.
“Oh, she must be out driving with Harlan again.” Sara hefted the basket onto the edge of a table. “Well, I came across these herbs on the way in from the ranch, and thought you might like them.”
“Thank you,” Prissy said, perusing the contents of the basket. “Were you at the house this morning?”
“Yes, I stopped over to help mother with the housework, but she was already gone. I thought maybe she and Quil were having lunch here,” Sara said with a sigh, then turned back to her sister.
“Well since I’m already here, make me a sandwich,” Sara said, taking a seat and tossing her wrap over the back of the chair.
“I’m not making you a sandwich, Sara.” Prissy shook her head, making her blonde curls bounce. “I have lunch to prepare, you know.”
“Yes, but you’re cooking for a restaurant and I’m a customer,” Sara grinned, laying her napkin across her lap.
Rolling her eyes, Prissy moved back into the kitchen to fix a sandwich. At least the chicken was already simmering for the soup.
The smell of biscuits assailed her nostrils and she grinned. Sara could have ham and biscuits and be done with it.
At least one thing in her life could be easy. Cooking for the Mill was fun in many ways, but in others she was finding she missed her family and friends. She hoped that life would slow down soon.
“Miss Priscilla.” Rupert smiled at her. “The bread is nearly prepared, to go with your soup.” His voice was warm and soft.
“Thank you, Rupert,” Prissy replied, unsure what else to do.
Returning to the kitchen, she smiled a little. Perhaps if she tried very hard, she could truly learn to be his friend and the pain in
her heart would go away as she strove to help him.
She was suddenly sure she could find strength in usefulness.
Chapter 11
“Controlled chaos,” Polly Esther Olson mused, stepping out onto her front porch where her husband stood watching the diggers heading off to work, lunch pails securely clutched in their hands.
“What’s that, Polly?” George asked, reaching back and pulling her to him as she dusted her hands on a dish towel.
“Controlled chaos,” Polly repeated, smoothing the loose bun on the top of her head. “This whole town has been turned upside down, filled up, and cranked into high speed production.”
“Well, things has changed a bit,” George said, his soft brown eyes twinkling. “Kinda fun though, ain’t it?” He squeezed her closer.
“Is that Tywyn along the boardwalk there?” Polly asked, her bright blue eyes studying the lanky man strolling along the street.
“Yep, he took the job with Pike,” George said. “He just sorta walks around, lettin’ people see him.”
“That would be enough to keep me out of trouble,” Polly said, leaning into George’s stocky form. “Those hard eyes could put someone right off their feed.”
George chuckled, remembering the first time he’d met the ex-marshal. “He’s a good sort, that young man,” he commented.
“Yes, he is,” Polly agreed. “I hope he brings Jillian and Aaron into town soon.”
“Miss Polly.” The tall man with the tin deputy’s badge pinned to his vest touched his hat as he paused at their stoop.
“Ty,” George smiled, “you got time for a cup of coffee?”
“I’d be obliged,” Tywyn said, his voice husky.
“Everything nice and quiet?” Polly asked, turning toward the door.
“Yes, the company is more interested in getting this order filled than letting anyone cause trouble. The saloon and good food keeps the men content for the most part.”
“Good, good,” George commented holding the door and letting his wife and guest enter.
