A Hero in the Making (Brides of Simpson Creek Book 7)

by Laurie Kingery

  “Good. That means he’s letting Doc Walker check his leg as he’s supposed to,” Ella said. The sheriff had told her of the Lampasas doctor’s instructions.

  “It’s early yet,” Maude said in her cheerful way. “Surely he’ll come in for supper before he starts working in here.”

  Ella shrugged, trying to appear as if it was no concern of hers. She’d told Maude what had happened when Nate had returned from Lampasas, and Maude had insisted pain had made him irritable after his trip and that pride was now keeping him away. “Men can be incredibly stubborn, can’t they? He’ll come around, full of sweet apologies. That man loves you, Ella. I’m sure of it.”

  Ella allowed herself a disbelieving sniff. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “If he wants to stay angry, I’m sure there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll be content if he just finishes those cabinets and the countertop like he said he would.” But that was not all she wanted, and she knew it.

  “Oh, I imagine he’s going to keep his word on that. Haven’t you seen the boards stacked up out back?”

  Ella stared at Maude, then went to the back window next to her stove. Sure enough, freshly sawn boards were neatly stacked there. “They must have come when I was so busy cooking at noon.”

  She hoped Maude was right, and Nate would come early and have supper with her before he set to work. Surely, if she apologized for her shrewish words, all would be well between them again.

  But when it came time to close the café, Nate had not shown up.

  Lighting her lantern—for it was now October and fully dark—she pulled her shawl off its hook, put the closed sign in the window and shut the door behind her. Knowing Nate was going to come during the night, she didn’t lock it. No one would bother to steal furniture.

  Her footsteps echoed hollowly over the bridge as she crossed Simpson Creek, and a cool gust of wind blew up her skirts. She started as a stray cat, no doubt hunting night creatures for its dinner, crossed her path as she stepped off the bridge and onto the road that led past the church.

  Perhaps she should get a dog, Ella thought, a big dog that could walk home with her on these dark evenings so she wouldn’t feel so alone. She imagined Mrs. Meyer would fuss about the idea, though, even if the creature spent its days at the café and only returned at night when Ella did.

  Perhaps in time she would have made enough money that she could have a cabin built behind the café, and live there, and she could have as many pets as she wanted—and chickens, too, she thought, thus saving the cost of eggs. And perhaps a milk cow, as well. She’d still have to buy meat at the butcher’s, though, for she knew she would not be able to slaughter the creatures she spread feed for every day.

  But Ella knew instinctively that however nice it would be to have her own house, she could not exist in such solitude, with only animals to keep her company. Her interactions with the others who lived at Mrs. Meyer’s boardinghouse fed some need within her.

  Ella wondered if Maude would be willing to come live with her if she had the cabin built big enough. Such an arrangement had worked very well for Prissy and Sarah, she’d heard, until Sarah married Dr. Walker.

  But Maude might get married someday, too. It had always surprised Ella that her pretty friend was one of the last unmarried members of the Spinsters’ Club. What if Maude agreed to share the cabin with her, then got married and left? Ella would be happy for her friend, of course, but she’d be just as lonely as she had been before.

  She was getting way ahead of herself, Ella thought as she turned down the alley that led to the boardinghouse. Her café had only been open for one day, and while she’d made a handsome profit, she knew many of her customers had come only to encourage her. She’d have to see what her average daily take would be before she could think about anything further.

  * * *

  Nate watched Ella walk past from his room above the saloon. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would be returning from her café alone in the dark, and he didn’t like the fact one bit. Maybe he should get her a dog—a big, fierce but loyal dog—as a parting gift. Then at least he’d know she had a protector once he was gone. He had no idea where he’d obtain such a beast... But wait—when they’d been riding after Salali, hadn’t Jack Collier mentioned that his ranch dog had had pups a while back? Maybe he’d check with Collier. Ella probably wouldn’t accept any gifts from him, but if he left the dog tied to one of the trees beside her café...

  But he’d better stop woolgathering and get going now that she was safely back at the boardinghouse. He had a lot to do during the night. He was going to start with one of two sets of shelves built against the wall. He’d have to be sure to be gone before she got there in the morning. If he knew Ella, she’d probably be there before the sun rose.

  “I’m going to the café,” he called to George Detwiler as he passed through the half-full saloon.

  Detwiler looked up from the glass of whiskey he’d been pouring for a customer and waved. He’d already expressed his opinion twice since Nate had returned from Lampasas, after Nate had explained why he’d be building Miss Ella her cabinets and countertop at night rather than during the daylight hours.

  “You two are the most prideful pair I ever did meet,” Detwiler had said only this morning. “Why don’t you be the bigger person and go tell her you’re sorry for what happened and for what you said? You know you want to, and I’m telling you, she’d forgive you. Miss Ella ain’t one t’ hold a grudge.”

  “Says the confirmed bachelor who’s never spoken to a woman long enough to get her mad at him,” Nate had mocked. “Maybe I’m just not the type to settle down any more than you are, George.”

  Detwiler had rolled his eyes at him. “Oh, I’m plenty settled down, all right. Been livin’ in Simpson Creek all my life, haven’t I? I just haven’t found a woman who’d put up with me. Go apologize, and at least then you wouldn’t have to be eating meals at the hotel.”

  Nate had shuddered at the memory of the food the old cook at the hotel had set before him last night. All grease and gristle. And the woman herself was getting odder and odder. There was something in her eyes that wasn’t quite right.

  “I could explain the situation to Ma and you could stop in at the house for meals till you get things patched up with Miss Ella,” Detwiler had offered then. “She’d be right glad of the company.”

  “Thanks, but one of you nosing into my business is enough. I’m going to get done for Miss Ella what I said I would, then I’m heading for California like I planned—after I testify at Salali’s trial, that is.”

  Detwiler had shrugged. “You’re both making a big mistake, but I guess it’s yours to make.”

  As Nate made his way down the darkened road toward the café, carrying a heavy canvas bag containing a saw, a hammer and a sack of nails, he figured Detwiler was probably right. It was a mistake to let pride stand between him and Ella. But he didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

  Lord, if you want Ella and me to be together, show me the way.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “So he didn’t come after I left yesterday?” Maude asked the next morning while she cracked eggs into a big bowl at the café. She’d come along this morning to help Ella with breakfast, “just for something to do,” as she called it.

  “No, he didn’t,” Ella said, keeping her voice even. “That’s probably enough eggs to start with for now.”

  Helping out at the café was evidently Maude’s way of ensuring Ella would be a captive audience today while Maude nosed into her business. Ella had avoided her last night at the boardinghouse, going straight to her room while Maude was still helping Mrs. Meyer with the dishes, so now her friend evidently meant to make up for lost time. Ella hated to reprove her friend, but perhaps she needed to make it clear that the subject of Nate Bohannan was off-limits.

  There had been shelves on the far wall
this morning, all of them varnished. These would be for the supplies that would go there—flour, sugar, salt, cornmeal and canned food—though she couldn’t put those things on them just yet. Bohannan had left a note scrawled on a scrap of paper—Let these dry today. OK to use tomorrow—N

  “You know what you should do...?” Maude mused aloud.

  “What’s that?” Ella responded, assuming her friend was about to make a suggestion about serving breakfast.

  “If Nate doesn’t come today while you’re still here, you should go back to the boardinghouse, put on your prettiest dress—that burnt-orange one with the dark green trim—brush your hair out loose on your shoulders and put on some of that rosewater perfume that you’re always saving for a special occasion, and come back here. Oh, and save a piece of that pie you’re planning to make today,” Maude said, her eyes distant and dreamy. “Bohannan will be here tonight, working away, but then you’ll come in, all prettied up... With the two of you alone, it’ll be the perfect time to kiss and make up,” Maude concluded, a grin spreading from ear to ear. “Isn’t that a good idea?”

  “No,” Ella said in what she hoped was a quelling tone. “I declare, Maude, you must have been borrowing romantic novels from Caroline Collier or Violet Masterson again.” Both women were known for their collections of books.

  “Not at all,” Maude retorted in a breezy tone. “I draw my inspiration from the book of Ruth, in the Bible. At least you wouldn’t have to go to the lengths she did to show Boaz how much she cared.”

  In spite of herself, Ella felt a blush creeping up her neck, remembering the story of how the biblical heroine had covered herself with Boaz’s robe on the threshing floor at night. “Nate Bohannan is hardly ‘kinsman redeemer’ material like Boaz,” she told Maude. “I know you mean well, dear friend, but enough meddling, all right? As president of the Spinsters’ Club, shouldn’t you be setting up social events to enable matches to be made?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been doing that, too,” the irrepressible Maude said. “There’s to be a harvest festival later this fall, the date as yet undetermined. We’ll talk about it at the next meeting.”

  “All right, then. But now we’d better get down to business,” Ella said. “Here comes Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Wallace, and we don’t even have biscuits out of the oven yet.”

  The morning became very busy after that. Even as she flew around the kitchen, taking orders, removing biscuits from the oven and putting more in, scrambling eggs and flipping pancakes, Ella could not banish the image Maude had placed in her mind of her returning to the café in her prettiest dress, her hair loose on her shoulders and smelling of rosewater. Nate would be there, hammering or sawing away on a piece of wood. He would look up and behold her standing in a circle of candlelight, and be unable to resist the appeal in her shining eyes....

  Why not? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? But she didn’t tell Maude that she’d decided to go along with her suggestion, just in case she lost her nerve.

  Her friend left in the early afternoon, after the crowd at midday had thinned down to a customer or two, and it seemed that she took Ella’s courage with her. She’d been silly to listen to Maude’s romantic fantasies, Ella thought as the day wore on and fatigue stole her optimism.

  There was no guarantee that Maude’s idea would result in the romantic reconciliation Ella hoped for. Indeed, it might make things immeasurably worse! What if Nate took one look at her and uttered scornful hoots of laughter at the idea that he could ever think of forgiving her, let alone having tender feelings for her again? Or what if he forgave her, and they declared their feelings for one another, and she got anxious and afraid when he started to kiss her again, as she had that night at the mill? No man would want to commit himself to a fearful woman like that. Or worst of all, what if he got the wrong idea about her coming to him like that, and took advantage of their solitude?

  Suddenly she was back at the asylum again, and Mr. Antoine had taken her into the pantry on the pretext of finding the rye flour that he claimed was there, but which Ella had been unable to find...

  “No!” she cried as someone took hold of her arm.

  George Detwiler let go of her arm as if it burned him. “Miss Ella, are you all right? Why, you’re pale as a sheet! Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wanted to point out your pot is boiling over.”

  Yanked out of her nightmare, Ella stared at Detwiler’s familiar face as the present time surrounded her with reassuring familiarity, then she whirled around to see that, unattended, the pot of homemade noodles was indeed boiling over onto the black surface of the oven top. “Oh! Thanks!” she called over her shoulder, and flew to wrench the pot away from the heat with the aid of a dish towel.

  Detwiler studied her, his face concerned. Please, Lord, don’t let him ask me what I was thinking about.

  “Just didn’t want you burnin’ my chicken and noodles,” the saloonkeeper said with a grin.

  “How is it you’re here asking for supper to take back to the bar?” Ella asked. “Is your mother out of town?” She knew Detwiler always ate supper at home.

  “No, Miss Ella, I just miss your cooking, and I didn’t make it over here at noon... Be sure and make that a big helping, will you? You can charge me double, I don’t mind.”

  Ella was suspicious. Could George be secretly taking the food back to Nate? Very possibly. After all, with the way things stood between Nate and her, he didn’t have anywhere else to eat except the hotel, and Mrs. Powell’s current odd behavior was the talk of Simpson Creek.

  The idea that Nate still preferred her cooking rather appealed to her. “George Detwiler, why won’t you come right out and admit you’re buying this for Bohannan. I won’t charge you if you fess up—as long as you don’t tell him I figured it out.” They were alone in the café, so no one else would tell Nate, either.

  Detwiler looked sheepish. “It is for Bohannan, Miss Ella. He just couldn’t stomach Mrs. Powell’s vittles no more.”

  “So he put you up to fetching his food from my café without me knowing about it?” She assumed an arch tone.

  Detwiler looked uneasy. “He told me not to tell you it was for him, Miss Ella.”

  “I have no objection to feeding Mr. Bohannan,” she said. “After all, he is performing a job for me.” She pointed at the new shelves behind her. “It can remain our secret, if you like.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Detwiler agreed, looking relieved at her easy acquiescence. “Miss Ella...I purely don’t like the way things are between Bohannan and you. Isn’t there some way—”

  She shrugged. “I think that’s up to him, George. If he doesn’t even want me to know he’s eating my food, he apparently isn’t ready to make amends for the way he spoke to me that day he returned from Lampasas. I admit I was a bit...tart with him, too, but he evidently isn’t ready to forgive or ask for forgiveness.”

  Now Detwiler looked as miserable as he’d looked relieved a moment before. “Yes, Miss Ella. I won’t tell him that you know. I’ll be sure and bring your dish back,” he added as she served up a generous portion of the chicken and noodles and put a glass cover over it. Then he made his escape.

  Well, that settled it. She wouldn’t act out Maude’s suggestion. If Nate Bohannan was too proud to make the first move, it shouldn’t have to be up to her. He had time to change his mind if he wanted to.

  As soon as the last supper customer had left and she had finished washing the dishes, she put the closed sign in the window and headed for the bridge. Perhaps she’d heat some water for a bath once she got back to the boardinghouse. Tomorrow was Saturday—it would be interesting to see how much busier she’d be on a day when folks from the outlying ranches came into town for supplies. While she soaked, she could plan her menu for Sunday, too. Now that the café was right across the creek from the church, business was sure to be brisk. She’d better ask M
aude if she’d help her later today and tomorrow—for pay, of course. If her profits continued to be good, she could offer her friend a permanent job.

  Yet she couldn’t help remembering when Nate had helped her, and how much fun that had been. Shoulders drooping, she headed up Main Street to the boardinghouse.

  * * *

  Nate had left his tools in the large bag in the back of the café that first night, so all he had to carry were the extra lanterns he needed to use, along with the ones already in place in the café. One thing was for certain, he’d never take daylight for granted again.

  Tonight he planned to start on the first of the two cabinets. With any luck he’d get it done by the time he left in the morning, varnish and all, since she hadn’t asked for anything fancy.

  It had taken all of his self-control not to come out and call to her an hour ago, when she’d come up Main Street heading for the boardinghouse. He could have used the pretext of complimenting her on her chicken and noodles, he told himself. Ladies liked to be complimented on their cooking, didn’t they?

  But that would mean admitting that he’d been the one eating her food, not Detwiler. He might have actually gathered his courage and done so anyway, but just then Sheriff Bishop rode by on his last patrol of the streets before heading for home and leaving the care of the town to his deputy, and stopped to chat with Ella for a moment.

  None of us will stand for you breakin’ Miss Ella’s heart, the sheriff had said. He didn’t want Bishop to see him approaching Ella, especially if she wasn’t ready to talk to him.

  Suddenly a knock sounded at the café door, startling Nate so badly he hammered his thumb. He smothered a yelp.

  Who could it be? Ella? By some heaven-sent chance, had she decided to forgive him, and come to tell him when there would be no one to interrupt them?

  The notion evaporated as soon as the caller knocked again. Fool—why would she knock at the door of her own building? “The café’s closed,” he called. Had some cowboy, too intoxicated to remember how late it was, seen the light and figured the place was open?