And he didn’t want to count that woman. He’d prefer to think the typical citizen of Simpson Creek was more like the ones he’d met after church, willing to forgive and judge for themselves what sort of man he was, based on his current actions. Willing to give a fellow a fresh start, a clean slate.
Why that mattered to him when he wasn’t going to stay, he couldn’t say.
Just as he and the Detwilers parted ways, his stomach rumbled for the dozenth time. Sneaking a look at his timepiece, he saw that it was nearly one o’clock. He’d better get a move on, or he’d miss dinner entirely—and the chance to thank Ella for taking his side this morning.
Was this the start of smoother dealings with the prickly girl? He certainly hoped so.
Chapter Eight
Ella hoped Bohannan wouldn’t come, hoped that the Detwilers or someone else had taken him under their wing and asked him to Sunday dinner. She didn’t want him to think that inviting him to sit with her and Maude meant everything was different between them. She’d never set out to champion a snake-oil peddler—former snake-oil peddler, she corrected herself—but neither could she allow him to be verbally torn apart by the likes of old Zeke Carter and Mrs. Powell.
She began to think her wish had been granted when the café filled up and none of the eager, expectant faces was Bohannan’s. Dinner was ready to dish out. Folks were lined up at her counter, with the queue stretching out into the alley behind the saloon. Her three tables were occupied.
Most of her customers on Sunday afternoon wanted something that was easy to eat on the road as they travelled home from church, so she had made sandwiches ahead that she could wrap in brown paper and sell along with jars of cold tea. But her tables were always full, too, for others wanted to eat before they set out for their homes, and more cheaply than they could at the hotel. It was a challenge to keep those at the tables satisfied with refills of their tea or coffee and keep the sandwich line moving at the same time.
I’m just one person, she wanted to protest when a mustachioed man huffed impatiently at a table, holding aloft an empty coffee cup. It wasn’t as if she could afford to hire a helper. She needed every penny she could earn if she was ever to break out of this tiny back room of the saloon and have her own establishment. Sunday noontimes always left her feeling as though she’d been trampled by a herd of stampeding cattle. Her apron pocket was considerably heavier with coin, though, by the time she returned to the boardinghouse. At least on Sundays she didn’t get the rowdy, drunken customers from the saloon.
She heard a stir of air and a rustling among the queue of waiting customers, but she was too busy wrapping sandwiches to look up. Then suddenly Bohannan stood at the head of the line, next to the woman who was paying for her order.
“Miss Ella—”
“Now see here, Mr. Bohannan, you can’t just jump to the head of the line like that,” she snapped. “I know you’re entitled to a meal, but those in line have been waiting patiently—”
“I’m not trying to ditch the line, Miss Ella,” he told her, his tone mild as milk. “I can see you need help, and I want to offer it. We can get everyone served faster if I help you. Do you want me to take the money or serve the food?”
Neither, she started to say. There is no “we.” I can handle this myself, as I always do. But before she said it, she realized how foolish it would be to refuse. Already those in line were looking hopeful that their hunger could be satisfied more quickly.
“Take the money, please,” she said at last. “Two bits for a sandwich, ten cents for a jar of tea, a nickel if they’ve brought a jar back.” Surely she could manage to keep coffee cups refilled and sandwiches made and wrapped up if he was taking the money. At least she could if the little Harding boy would stop dropping his fork and spilling his glass of milk.
Soon she and Bohannan had established a rhythm, and before long the line at the counter had evaporated. Those who’d occupied tables were leaving with satisfied smiles.
He pushed a pile of coins over to her across the counter. “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to keep any sort of tally,” he said, “but—”
“I’m sure it’s correct,” she said. Her tone came out more prim than she had intended, as if only her presence had kept him from diverting some of the money to his own pocket. Feeling guilty, Ella softened her voice. “Would you like some dinner, now that you’ve been kind enough to help me?” She would fill his plate extra full to thank him.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he said with a grin, “though I’d begun to worry there wouldn’t be anything left. You were busier than a barefoot boy on a red-ant hill in here today.”
She smiled at the image. “There’s plenty of fried chicken and biscuits and mashed potatoes left, as you can see,” she said, pointing to the big platters. “Yes, I do quite a good business in here on Sundays—much to Mrs. Powell’s dismay,” she said with a triumphant grin. “Before my café opened, Simpson Creek folks used to have to wait for a table at the hotel restaurant or eat at home.”
He watched as Ella heaped his plate. “Will you sit down and have some, too? You’ve got to be hungry, yourself,” he said.
“I’ll eat later,” she said. The idea of sitting right across a small table from him and sharing a meal felt much too intimate. “Right now, there are dishes to do.” She pointed to the stack of soiled dishes, silverware and cups on the back counter.
“I’ll help with those, too. Get some food, Miss Ella, and keep me company.”
Ella knew she shouldn’t. She should continue to keep some distance between them. She was about to decline politely, when her stomach betrayed her with a growl. She tried to smother it, but she was too late. She blushed.
He grinned. “Sounds like you need some dinner, Miss Ella. Please join me.”
She gave in. “All right. Since you were kind enough to help me instead of merely taking your food and leaving.”
“It was my pleasure to help,” he said as he held her chair for her.
No man had ever held her chair for her. It was ridiculous that he did so here, in her own establishment. Nevertheless, she felt a flush of pleasure as she sat down.
“Besides, it wasn’t as if I had to rush off anywhere,” Bohannan continued, “since the saloon is closed.”
Ella couldn’t help smiling at that. “I don’t know what saloonkeepers do in other towns, but George Detwiler’s mama made him promise to respect the Lord’s Day.”
“And the mill’s closed, too, so I can’t even work on the furniture,” he said with a shrug.
Goodness, she couldn’t remember when she’d had a free afternoon stretching out in front of her like that. Now that she was in business for herself, as soon as she finished cleaning up the dishes from a meal she’d just served, it was time to start working on the next one—day after day.
She wondered what Bohannan would do with his time. It was a beautiful early-fall day, cooler than it had been. Would he take a stroll around Simpson Creek since he didn’t have a horse? Or perhaps he’d go upstairs after she left and take a nap. How nice it must be to be able to choose how one spent one’s leisure.
If she were the one choosing, a nap would be her choice. It sounded like an unbelievable luxury to just lie down in the middle of the day and let the world go on without her participation.
She wasn’t aware she had sighed out loud until he said, “What’s the matter, Miss Ella? Is my company that dreary?”
His tone was teasing, not hurt. She didn’t dare look up. His blue eyes saw too much.
“Not at all, Mr. Bohannan.” She thought about making up something that she had sighed about, but that wouldn’t be right. She gathered up their empty dishes and silverware and added them to the pile left by the customers.
“If you must know, I was envying you your leisure this afternoon,” she admitted as she brought over the big kettle full of wate
r she’d left heating on the stove for washing the dishes.
“My leisure?” He pulled a length of toweling down from a hook on the wall and stood poised to do the drying.
“Sure. You can do anything you like, but I need to figure out what I’m going to cook for supper. I don’t get too many customers on a Sunday evening, but there are always a few.” Including cranky old Zeke Carter, the man who had given Nate such a hard time this morning, she thought with a twinge of irritation. Zeke took Sunday dinner with his married daughter, but he turned up hungry, regular as clockwork, every Sunday evening. “It doesn’t look as if there’ll be enough chicken left, though I suppose I could fry those chicken livers...” She eyed the bowl full of chicken innards she’d left in a covered dish at the back of the stove, but the idea held little appeal.
“Are there catfish in the creek?” he asked.
For a moment she could only blink at him in confusion. His question seemed like a complete non sequitur. But he must have a reason for asking it. She remembered a time when she’d seen a pair of boys walk past, coming from the creek, with a trio of fish on a stringer. She’d recognized them as catfish from the characteristic barbels around their gaping mouths.
“Yes, I think so, but what does that have to do—”
“What about fried catfish for dinner? Wouldn’t that taste good, with some breading and seasoning, maybe some biscuits to go with it?”
“But I don’t have any catfish,” she said, gaping at him. “Or even a fishing pole, for that matter, and I only have a few hours before—”
“Time enough,” he said. “How about we go fishing as soon as we get done with these dishes?”
She could only stare at him. “Me? Go fishing with you? But you don’t have any poles,” she pointed out.
“George told me he’d stashed some cane poles in the shed out back,” he said. “He keeps them in case he ever feels like fishing.”
“We don’t have any bait,” she said, fighting the dangerous appeal that an hour or two spent sitting on the shady bank of Simpson Creek with this man held for her. And the thought of fried catfish, breaded, seasoned and hot off the griddle made her mouth water. There was something so compelling about this man—it made all her common-sense resolutions to avoid him fly out the window.
“Chicken livers are the best catfish bait in the world,” he told her.
“But I’m wearing my Sunday best,” she said thinking of the grass stains and mud that she’d have to scrub out over Mrs. Meyer’s washboard.
If she thought her continued objections would discourage him, he proved her wrong. “Go back to the boardinghouse and change,” he told her.
“But by the time—”
“By the time you go change, I can have these dishes redded up and ready to go for supper, and I’ll be ready and waiting with the poles. Now, scoot,” he added, grinning, brandishing the towel as if he meant to snap her with it.
She scooted, fighting an uncharacteristic urge to laugh as she ran out the back door.
* * *
Ella was back, dressed in a dark skirt and waist and carrying a folded bit of cloth that she held out to him as he emerged from Detwiler’s shed, poles in hand.
“Mrs. Meyer sent this old shirt of her late husband’s for you to wear so you wouldn’t have to get yours dirty,” she said.
“That was right thoughtful of her,” he said, taking it from her.
“She says she’ll take any fish we—that is, I—” she looked flustered as she corrected herself “—have left over after supper.”
The garment was musty smelling, as if it had been put away in a trunk for a score of years. Mr. Meyer must have been a bit wider than him, too, he thought, studying it, but he couldn’t afford to be too particular.
Two minutes later, they were walking down the main street of Simpson Creek, poles slung over their shoulders, with Nate carrying the pail full of chicken livers.
“We have to be back by five so I can be ready to serve at six,” Ella said, looking slightly anxious. “It was two-thirty on the grandfather clock in the boardinghouse parlor when I left. I don’t suppose you have a pocket watch? Oh, no, I’m sorry—I forgot Salali took all your things, Mr. Bohannan,” she added quickly. “Forgive my question, please.”
He felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of the gold pocket watch that after church he’d hidden away under a loose floorboard in his room above the saloon. If anyone knew he still had a valuable gold pocket watch and chain, they’d wonder why he didn’t sell it to repay Detwiler and Ella for the damage to the saloon and café, and he’d have no source of investment money for when he reached California.
“Don’t worry, I can keep track of what time it is by looking at the sun,” he told her. “But we’ll probably catch a mess of catfish in an hour or so and leave the creek in plenty of time.”
She still looked doubtful. Evidently his confidence wasn’t catching.
“I always heard it was best to go fishing at dawn or dusk,” she said as they passed the mercantile. She waved to Mrs. Patterson, who was sweeping the dust from her doorstep.
“It is, but catfish like chicken livers so much they won’t mind,” he assured her. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? If we don’t catch anything, you could always serve eggs and pancakes, couldn’t you?”
“I suppose so...”
They had passed the church and walked another quarter mile downstream so as to be away from a trio of noisy boys who had fishing lines in the water but who seemed to be accomplishing little but skipping rocks and horseplay.
“No more doubts,” he told her firmly as they descended the shallow slope of the creek. He pointed at the water. “The fish can hear you, you know.” He winked.
Just then, a hungry bluegill jumped out of the water, going after a horsefly that had hovered too close to the surface. Her heart leaped the same way.
His charming ways are a danger to me. What am I doing here, alone with a man I know I have no reason to trust? He was a drifter, a jack-of-all-trades, who’d stay in Simpson Creek until it suited him to be elsewhere. It would be foolish of her to depend on him, and she had never been a foolish girl.
She wouldn’t let herself become accustomed to his presence, Ella resolved as he cut up the bait into smaller pieces and baited their hooks. Men never stayed. Still, she couldn’t deny it was pleasant having nothing more to do for the next couple of hours than sit on the bank, appreciating the bright, clear day and watching the creek flow by, for Bohannan apparently held to the fisherman’s dictum that one couldn’t be chattering and expect to catch fish.
Just as well. She had been afraid that with no one else around, and nothing else to do but feel for a tug on his line, he would give vent to curiosity and ask her where she had come from, about her people, her home, her schooling. That was information she shared with no one, not even her friends in the Spinsters’ Club. She was always vague when anyone inquired about these things. Why would she want to admit that she had no people and no home, and had been raised in an orphanage, with only the barest, catch-as-catch-can sort of education? Most of the Spinsters’ Club members had been living in Simpson Creek all their lives, and had never had to make up stories about who their parents were because they had been loved and sheltered by them since birth.
But maybe Nate Bohannan had a past he wasn’t proud of, too. Maybe, in addition to his shady medicine-show partnership, he’d been involved in things even worse, things that might have put his face on a wanted poster.
She stole a glance at him as she pondered these things. He seemed intent on watching the spot where his fishing line met the water, so for a moment she studied his high, angular cheekbones, his long, slightly aquiline nose, the way his lips tightened as he watched the water.
“Ella...” he murmured, not taking his eyes from the creek.
She
yanked her gaze away from him, and pretended she had been studying the way the sun peeked through the cottonwoods and live oaks to dapple the shade at her feet.
“What?”
“I think you have a bite.”
Chapter Nine
Ella gave a little shriek and yanked the pole upward as the line traveled out into the creek. He thought the fish might come off the line, but it had apparently swallowed the hook well, for in a moment the fish, flopping wildly, was hoisted free of the water.
“I caught a fish! My very first one!” she cried.
She was laughing and squealing at once, and he couldn’t help grinning at her excitement as he helped her swing the pole toward them and land the big cat. He figured it had to be three pounds if it was an ounce.
“You’ve never caught a fish before?” he asked. “Well, it’s a very big fish for your first catch. Must be beginner’s luck that you caught one before I did,” he teased. He saw that she looked away, shuddering, as the fish flopped on the bank, its gills flapping in and out. To spare her, he unhooked the fish and put it on the stringer, then resubmerged it in the creek after tying the other end to a bush.
“You didn’t have any brothers or a papa who took you fishing?” he asked.
“No.” Her one word sank between them like a heavy stone dropped straight down into water.
Even though she avoided his eyes, Nate knew by the way her lips tightened that he’d strayed on to dangerous ground.
“Well, now I have to catch up to you,” he said, keeping his tone light. “My honor as an experienced fisherman is at stake.”
He caught one within minutes, and by the time they left, they had a stringerful of catfish as well as four greedy bluegills. After her promising start, Ella had caught a fish for every two he reeled in, and she’d laughed and enjoyed herself more than he’d imagined her capable of. Had no one ever shown her how to have fun?
“Well, it looks as if I have my work cut out for me,” she said, eyeing the day’s catch as they reached the back of the saloon. “Goodness, I hope I can get them all ready to fry by the time I’m supposed to open for supper. The alley cats will have a feast tonight, as well as my customers. Thanks for taking me.” She reached for the stringer. “I guess I’ll see you later...”
A Hero in the Making (Brides of Simpson Creek Book 7) Page 8