A Cowboy Christmas

by Janette Kenny

  “I wasn’t aware my near neighbor was a friend of my intended.” Reid stopped beside her, his shadow falling over the shorter man.

  The sheepherder found his wits first. “Nor was I, but I’ve had good reason not to court a friendship with the area ranchers.”

  “It’s a fact woolies aren’t welcome here,” Reid said, and hoped any trouble that visited this ranch didn’t spill over onto the Crown Seven.

  “Forgive me for neglecting a proper introduction.” Cheryl made the overtures.

  Reid brushed two fingers over his hat brim in greeting. But the introduction was interrupted when a small boy burst out the door and straight into Pearce.

  “Papa.” The towheaded boy extended his hands to Pearce.

  A woman of advanced age hurried out next, wringing her hands in a stark white apron as she took in the visitors. “The scamp got away from me.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Hatch.” Pearce caught the boy up in his arms and straightened, almost in challenge. “Good to make your acquaintance, Mr. Barclay.”

  “Barclay will do in these parts,” he said, taking the man’s measure and judging him to be the forthright sort.

  At least the boy had a father that cared for him. What Reid would’ve given for a moment of his father’s time.

  “As you wish.” Pearce motioned to his open door. “Do come in.”

  Before Reid could say that they had to be getting back, Cheryl had followed the older woman into the cabin. He had damn little choice but to follow her.

  “I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” Pearce said.

  Reid imagined that came from Cheryl, bemoaning the fact she was being forced to marry him. “I trust my fiancée didn’t bore you.”

  “Actually, Miss Morris didn’t talk of you at all. The barkeep at Mallory’s Roost was far more accommodating.” Pearce strode inside, leaving Reid to bring up the rear or stay outside and freeze his ass off.

  He dreaded to think what drivel Ian Mallory had spouted about him, more so since the old sot knew about Reid’s former life. “Cheryl told me about the fix you landed in with Burl Erston.”

  The defiant glint in Pearce’s eyes told Reid it wasn’t by choice. “An untenable situation, for which my only recourse was to disappear.”

  “Best make yourself scarce while Erston is in Wyoming,” he said.

  The truth of it was there were cattlemen out there just waiting for an excuse to go after a sheepherder. If it got out that he’d rustled stock in England, he’d be as good as hanged.

  Pearce inclined his head in understanding. “I intend to stay right here and devote my time to ways to produce a superior fleece that is more resilient to the elements.”

  Reid thought to tell him he’d be wise to create a breed in Wyoming that could pack its own guns, but figured his humor would be lost on Cheryl and Pearce. Not that Pearce was paying him much mind again. While the sheepman took his son in another part of the cabin, the older woman scuttled off to prepare tea.

  Tea. Reid despised it.

  His gaze narrowed on his intended, fussing with her skirts again. She looked right at home on that fancy sofa that looked out of place in this crude cabin.

  Pearce hustled from the kitchen with a tray bearing a pot, a trio of cups, and a tin of shortbread. He made a show of pouring tea, asking Cheryl’s preference for sugar and seeing she sated her hunger, falling over himself with platitudes and never sparing Reid a glance.

  In fact, the room shrunk to just the two of them, with Reid relegated to the part of field mouse in the corner, observing the two chatting about England and the weather and sheep.

  But behind all the proper etiquette and niceties, Reid sensed a stronger undercurrent. A sense of closeness that went beyond friends.

  Reid tapped his fists on his thighs, watching them through slitted eyes. By damn, had Cheryl taken a lover?

  After thumbing through Eliza Leslie’s cookbook, Ellie set to work preparing a beef bouilli for tonight’s supper. Hopefully the fact it was elk instead of beef wouldn’t matter.

  The pot roast was simple, yet elegant. It would be a welcome change from the poor fair the guests likely endured en route to Wyoming.

  She couldn’t imagine embarking on such an arduous journey this time of year. Though Christmas weddings were in vogue in some circles, it was typically the bride’s family who made the arrangements.

  But then as far as she could see this upcoming wedding was far from normal or joyous for the bride or the groom. Neither had any immediate family present, nor had she heard that any friends would be arriving.

  The groom didn’t wish to marry the bride.

  The bride exhibited no interest in her wedding or the groom.

  In fact, they treated each other more like distant relatives than an affianced couple. How had he put it? I didn’t pick the woman or the day, so don’t expect me to get heated up over it all.

  Even she and Irwin showed more devotion to one another than that, which had made her humiliation all the more painful to bear at the time.

  So why was Reid being forced to marry Miss Morris? What was Erston holding over his head to get him to comply?

  Those questions nagged at Ellie far too much. The fact he rebelled about his fate spoke volumes. She wondered now if he hoped to get caught trifling with her so he could get out of a forced marriage.

  Well, she’d not be part of his game, no matter what it was. She was here to spend the holidays with her pa, and talk him out of making a deadly error by hunting down this Slim. And when the opportunity arose, she’d have a nice long talk with Miss Morris.

  Thirty minutes later, Ellie’s stomach fluttered nervously as she took the lid off her kettle and peered into the pot. Chunks of carrot, onion and potato bubbled around a hunk of meat immersed in a rich broth.

  She sighed with relief, confident her first supper for the guests at the Crown Seven would be a success. True, she’d had to substitute elk for beef and potatoes for turnips, but her simmering beef bouilli was filling the kitchen with an appetizing aroma.

  In another hour or so, it’d be perfectly cooked and ready to serve exactly at the precise time for the evening meal. And for once, triumph in the kitchen would be hers.

  Ellie poured a cup of tea and settled onto a kitchen chair to relax. She’d wanted to prove she could manage a household with the same alacrity as she taught her students. But this sense of satisfaction was a surprise.

  This thrill of accomplishment that left her nearly giddy must be what a housewife felt when she cooked a proper meal for her family. Her family. Would she ever experience that now? Would she find a good man who would accept a wife with a tarnished past?

  The questions were ones she didn’t care to examine too closely. She was not one to dwell on what couldn’t be changed. If she couldn’t be a wife and mother, she’d teach young ladies to be that paragon of womanhood.

  There were worse fates that could befall a woman.

  Her dessert was finished. Her entrée was simmering away nicely. And if the cloth ballooning over her crock was any indication, the dough for her light bread was ready for the next step.

  She frowned. What was the next step? She fetched a pan from the pantry and read the recipe again.

  “‘Knead the dough well,’” she read silently. “‘Divide into sixteen equal parts. Arrange the balls on a greased pan. Let rise once and bake until golden.’”

  That sounded simple enough.

  “I say, that is a most appetizing bouquet,” Hubert said from the kitchen.

  “Thank you.”

  She beamed at the compliment. That was a new experience she intended to savor.

  Her smile wavered when she returned to the kitchen to find Hubert peering into her bouilli pot. Her blood ran cold. If he tampered with her meal, she’d be tempted to kill him.

  “I didn’t know you were so interested in cooking,” she said, holding her pan before her like a shield.

  Hubert replaced the lid on her kettle and straighte
ned. “I was trying to deduce the herbs.”

  “I added bay leaf to the parsley and rosemary garni.” She set her pan on the table, relieved to have found bay leaf stored in the pantry.

  “Ah, yes. As that particular strain of laurel doesn’t grow in America, I had to import it for Mrs. Leach.” He helped himself to tea. “The other herbs I grew myself.”

  Ellie paused in turning her dough out. “You did?”

  “Indeed. Gardening is a hobby of mine, though the environs here make it somewhat a challenge.”

  She glanced at the Englishman and knew that very little had gotten past him in the years he’d worked here. “Tell me about Kirby Morris.”

  He frowned, and for a moment she feared he’d wiggle out of answering. “I’m not quite sure where to begin.”

  “What brought him here?” She began kneading the dough into a manageable form and hoped Hubert would continue talking while she worked.

  “Cattle. He wanted to own a genuine ranch and poured much of himself into this place.”

  “It’s a lovely home,” she said and meant it. “Was there a Mrs. Morris?”

  Hubert gave a slow nod. “She died in childbirth.”

  “And the child?”

  “Miss Morris lived, and will marry Mr. Barclay in a few days.” He took a sip of his tea. “I suggest if you have any further inquiries, you ask the lady or Mr. Barclay.”

  That must be his way of telling her that he’d not divulge more on that topic. Which of course made her think there was more to it. And made her want to know the details of this arranged marriage.

  So she pressed him on another matter while she worked out her frustrations shaping the dough into balls. “You never did tell me if a cowboy named Slim worked here.”

  “Americans choose rather descriptive nicknames, don’t you think?”

  She nodded, having certainly heard some doozies. And it was clear he was avoiding answering her again, so she’d try another tactic to continue the conversation. If she was lucky, he’d tell her what she wished to know.

  “From what I’ve read, there are English ones that are just as vivid,” she said, taking a cue from him and alerting the topic.

  “Such as?”

  “Artful Dodger. Or how about Pip?”

  Hubert’s eyes widened. “Why, Miss Cade, I am surprised and delighted to learn that you’ve read Charles Dickens.”

  “He’s a favorite of mine.” She placed the last dough ball in the pan and wiped the dust and bits of dough from her hands. “I have read every book Miss Perry had of his.”

  “Miss Perry?”

  “The headmistress of the Denver Academy for Young Ladies.” She knew the moment the words left her mouth that she’d revealed a detail of her past that wasn’t in keeping with her role as housekeeper.

  “Is that where you learned to cook as well?” he asked.

  “No. I learned how to present a proper table there as well as other social graces,” she said, deciding that bit of truth wouldn’t hang her.

  But if he pressed her about where she’d learned her culinary skills…Well, she’d have to trot out a lie.

  “If you’d like, you may avail yourself of Mr. Barclay’s library. It isn’t well stocked, but there are a few works there that I believe you’ll find enjoyable.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.” Ellie covered her pan of rolls with a towel and met Hubert’s curious stare, holding her excitement in check over the offer of the library. “I’m not one to eavesdrop or bear tales, but I couldn’t ignore Mr. Erston’s standoff with Mr. Barclay. Who does own the Crown Seven?”

  Hubert winced. “That remains to be seen. Mr. Erston acquired Mr. Kirby’s shares in the ranch upon his death, but four others hold claim to the land as well. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must decant the wine for the evening meal.”

  “Thank you for enlightening me,” she said, and was rewarded with a rare smile from the odd little butler.

  Ellie popped her rolls in the oven. She would’ve loved nothing more than to rest, but she needed to set the dining room in order well before the guests arrived.

  It took her longer than necessary to locate the proper plates and utensils. Longer still to position the tablecloth just so, like Miss Perry had taught her what seemed a lifetime ago.

  Ellie had just set the table with the exquisite English Rose china and trimmed the wicks on the candles in the lone candelabra when she heard the scuff of a shoe. She turned, but instead of greeting Hubert, she stared into Mr. Erston’s pale, assessing eyes.

  “May I help you?” she asked, her face hurting from the forced smile of civility.

  “I certainly hope so.” He treated her to a long, exacting perusal that left her tensing from the obvious.

  She would not tolerate this odious man much longer. “What would you like, sir?”

  “Female companionship.”

  “I fail to see why you thought it necessary to tell me that—”

  “Impertinent chit! I have a stake in this ranch, and all employees fall under my orders.” He pushed away from the doorway and ambled toward her, his gaze wavering between lascivious and nasty.

  Ellie didn’t care if he was a president or king. She squared her shoulders and fixed him with a cool look that had never failed to dissuade men from making an unwanted advance.

  “I am the cook and housekeeper, Mr. Erston. Nothing more.”

  “That’s what Barclay insisted, but I’ve learned that everyone has a price.” He gave her a slow, appraising inspection that made her feel dirty. “I’ll pay you handsomely if you’ll entertain me into your bed each night while I’m marooned here.”

  She fisted her hands in the folds of her apron and resisted the urge to slap the arrogant Englishman. “Your lewd proposition is an insult to my character.”

  “A high-brow servant. How novel. Tell me, how much money would it take for you to shun your morals?”

  “That degrading query does not dignify a response.”

  Head high, Ellie spun on a heel and marched back to the door opening into the kitchen. She’d just reached it when a steely hand clamped over her upper arm and jerked her back.

  She slammed into Erston’s chest and fought for balance. “Let me go!”

  He held her tight, his eyes blazing with retribution. “I will not abide intractable servants.”

  “I won’t tolerate a libertine.”

  “Haughty bitch.” Erston caught her chin in his grip and squeezed, his cold smile telling her that he enjoyed hurting her.

  The pain nearly stole her breath away. She feared that if he continued squeezing her face, he’d crack her jaw.

  She tried to twist free, but his hold was unbreakable. His eyes blazed with nothing short of evil intent.

  “Is something amiss?” Hubert asked, his tone curt and loud and the most wondrous sound she’d ever heard.

  “A small misunderstanding with the help.” Erston shoved her away and then gave an abrupt tug on his brocade waistcoat. “Think about what I said.”

  “I suggest you do the same, sir.”

  It was likely the wrong thing to say, for the curl of his upper lip promised more retribution.

  Without a word, Erston stormed past an indignant Hubert and pounded up the stairs. A moment later an upper door slammed shut.

  Good riddance, Ellie thought as she slumped against the wall and gingerly pressed her fingertips to her face. She winced and was sure there would be bruising.

  Hubert rushed toward her, his actions reminding her of a blue jay whose nest had just been attacked. “I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.”

  “Is he prone to forcing his attentions on the servants?”

  “It would appear so.”

  She worked her jaw and winced at the stiffness setting in. It was clear Hubert was just as stunned and infuriated over Erston’s behavior as she.

  “At least now I know to be on guard while he’s in residence,” she said, then frowned as an unpleasant odor wafted her way. It took h
er a moment to place the source. “My dinner rolls!”

  She raced to the kitchen range and opened the oven door. Her shoulders drooped along with her hopes as a charred odor rolled from the cavern and engulfed her.

  Her earlier pride of accomplishment vanished as she pulled out the pan. Blackened hulks greeted her instead of golden-domed rolls.

  “Oh, no!” She longed to lob the pan at Burl Erston’s arrogant head.

  Hubert muttered what sounded like a curse. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “The rolls are ruined just the same.”

  Ellie dropped the pan on the table, then lifted the lid on her beef bouilli. She held her breath for fear of what she’d find. It had cooked down considerably, looking more like a poor man’s stew than the French entrée she’d envisioned.

  The potatoes had split and were about to fall further apart. The onions had turned transparent and had completely lost their shape. And there remained scarce broth to spoon over the beef.

  But it would have to do.

  “It’ll hold until I get biscuits baked,” she said, more to herself than to Hubert.

  “I gather time is of the essence here?” Hubert asked.

  “Yes, supper can wait another thirty minutes at the most.”

  “Ah, and if Mr. Barclay fails to arrive by then?”

  Her gaze slid to Hubert’s. “Then they will be served an interesting version of stew.”

  To her surprise, Hubert smiled.

  Chapter 9

  Reid straddled a rackety chair and crossed his arms on its back, giving the illusion of relaxing when he was anything but. He’d watched Cheryl and Kenton Pearce for nigh on an hour now, trying to spot something that would prove they’d been up to some hanky-panky. But neither of them had done more than exchange brief cow-eye glances after Cheryl had swooned.

  Of course, Pearce had been there to catch her. The sheepherder had acted with the utmost propriety, which was more than Reid would’ve done if it’d been Miss Cade.

  A woman fainting was expected, considering how they cinched themselves up. It was the reason why Cheryl had a fit of the vapors that had spurred Reid’s suspicion.