A moment later the door hinges squeaked.
Coward, thought Eliza, and then turned her attention to Addy, who seemed to have shrunk in on herself in the chair.
Chapter Seven
Damn, thought Trent. Why had he mentioned his mother’s old bag of rags? He hated to see Addy grieve. It just ripped him up inside.
He paused on the front steps. He should go back.
He spun about, retracing his steps until he peeked into the kitchen, where he found Addy sitting on Viola’s lap. At first he thought Addy might be crying, but then he realized she was listening to Mrs. Guntherson. Trent smiled. Was Viola telling Addy another story?
He paused to listen to the lyrical rhythm of her voice, enchanted with his daughter in the magic of the moment.
Astonishing. Viola had a way with Addy and a manner that gave him complete confidence that his daughter would be well taken care of. That was, if Viola didn’t burn the house down making lunch.
Viola glanced up, noticing him. Her eyes widened, but she never faltered in her tale. He tipped his hat and retraced his steps, continuing out the door. He lost his smile somewhere before reaching the jail.
His deputy stretched as he entered and waited as Trent sorted the mail. Joey had learned from experience that Trent did not like to be ambushed with a lot of talk the minute he cleared the threshold.
“Anything happen overnight?” he asked.
Joey nodded. “I walked Mr. Jordan home, drunk again. His wife locked him out, so I had to do some talking.”
His deputy could talk a possum out of a tree. It was why Trent hired him. He was not quick or accurate with his gun, but he was well liked, polite to all, and he showed up where he was told and when he was told, mostly. On more than one occasion Joey had soothed a situation that might have exploded into violence. Trent didn’t always share his methods, but he approved of the results.
“How’s that pretty gal?” he asked.
Trent glared. “Addy’s fine.”
Joey laughed. “Getting under your skin already, is she?”
She was, but he’d not tell that to a man who gossiped more than the old men down at the general store. “She’s not. You are.”
Joey drew on his coat and headed out.
“Well, you tell her I was asking after her, and if she needs someone who can carry on a conversation, she just has to ask me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Women like you to talk to them. They don’t read sign language, like the Apache.”
He let that gibe pass and waved his employee out.
The day was busier than Trent had expected. First he had to ride through a heavy snow to Mr. Mathewson’s spread to see about some horses that had gone missing. His own mount actually got turned toward town once, because he’d been wondering what Viola and Addy were doing, instead of watching where he was going.
Eliza’s first order of business was to retrieve the cake pan from the yard. Then she cleaned up the breakfast dishes, after which she searched every cupboard and sideboard to familiarize herself with the kitchen. She glanced through the cards in the dreaded recipe box, all in German of course, but she also found a copy of The Young Wife’s Cook Book by Hannah Mary Peterson.
Addy showed her the root cellar beneath the house, and they returned above stairs with six fine potatoes, a carrot and one onion.
The morning fled with chores. It seemed no one had bothered to dust or use the carpet sweeper in quite some time. She made Addy’s bed and then wondered if she should also make Mr. Foerster’s. Addy dragged her into her father’s room.
Eliza stilled, feeling she had invaded some sanctuary. The bed was made with a lovely blue-and-white pinwheel quilt. Addy touched it reverently.
“Nana made this. I can thread a needle and sew. But I can’t tie knots yet.”
“Well I can teach you that after lunch.”
Trent’s room was spotless, dusted, with no soiled laundry in evidence. But neither did he have any personal items. The room looked as if it was ready to rent, and had she not known better she would have thought this had been intended for her.
Why did he live like a stranger in his own home?
Ah, but perhaps this was actually his mother’s house and not his at all.
“How long have you lived here?” asked Eliza.
Addy leaned forward and smelled her father’s pillow, then smiled. “Papa brought me home wrapped in a wolf hide all the way from Texas. It took him weeks and weeks because the goat kept getting tired, so he slung that goat over the back of his saddle and it rode behind us all the way here.”
She giggled.
A goat? Eliza stilled. For the milk, she wondered.
She wanted to ask what had happened to Addy’s mother, but thought a child who had only just lost her nana did not need to be reminded of another loss.
“I don’t remember on account of I was a baby, but the wolf hide is in my room. Wanna see?”
“Certainly.”
Addy led the way and Eliza admired the fine pelt.
“Shall we go downstairs and have some lunch?” she asked, extending her hand, which Addy immediately clasped.
“Don’t you want to see your room?” She drew Eliza to the door at the top of the stairs, situated between Addy’s and her father’s. “This one.”
Addy turned the squeaky knob and stepped inside. The room was cold from having been shut up.
“Nana’s room, but we got new curtains and I got the quilt that used to be on Nana’s bed ’cause it smells like her.”
Eliza’s heart ached at Addy’s words.
“Daddy bought this new one for you so you could have flowers on a winter day. But you gotta stay at the hotel so as people don’t talk.”
Eliza peered at a narrow bed draped in a colorful flower basket–pattern quilt. Each of the many squares had been set on point and every one held a different color flower. Above the headboard a sampler showed fine promise and included the saying, Mother’s Love Is Like a Fragrant Rose with Sweetness in Every Fold.
Eliza frowned, thinking of her mother’s harsh criticism. No matter how she tried, she never could make her mother proud.
Addy pointed. “Nana did that when she was eight. She was going to teach me, but her hands were mostly sore.”
Addy rubbed the knuckle of her index finger in a way that Eliza thought might be an imitation of her nana.
How hard must it have been for her grandmother to be faced with raising an infant while she had been in the autumn of her years? Had she known she wouldn’t see Adeline grown?
Eliza ushered Addy out. “It’s a lovely room.”
“I wish you could stay here.”
Together they descended the stairs. After lunch, Eliza headed straight for the bag of rags, but after seeing the girl’s stitches, Elia decided they best begin with a few simple four-patch quilt squares. Addy worked diligently and did improve with practice, transforming the bits of fabric into a very pretty quilt for Penelope.
The afternoon was waning when Eliza turned toward the kitchen. She had not the first notion how to make homemade noodles and had never heard of stroganoff. But she did know what an apple pie looked like and had once made a crust, badly. So she set to work peeling apples. She gave Addy a butter knife and by the time she was through, they had mauled and massacred five helpless apples, added cinnamon and sugar and poured the mixture into a crust that looked more like another quilting project than a pie. She stood back with her floury hands on her hips, studying their creation.
Addy frowned. “It doesn’t look like Nana’s.”
Eliza sighed as she wrapped her hand about the girl’s shoulders. “But it will taste just as good.” She hoped!
A knock at the front door made Eliza jump.
“I’ll get it.” Addy ran from the room, braid flying out behind her. “It’s Mrs. Milward!” she called from the hallway.
Addy had the door open when Eliza entered.
“Oh,” said the woma
n she had met yesterday and who had witnessed her breakfast humiliation this morning. “I’ve caught you in the middle of something.”
Eliza only then noticed she was dusted with flour from elbow to knee.
“Yes.” She tried for a smile but couldn’t hold it.
“I just wanted to see how you are settling in and ask if there is anything I can do?”
Bake a stroganoff, she thought, but she said, “I have it all in hand.” Then she bit her lip and considered asking for help. “Do you, by chance read German?”
Mrs. Milward smiled broadly. “Not a word, but I thought…”
Eliza stared at her folded hands. “Yes…well, I can’t make out Mrs. Foerster’s recipes.”
“Oh, dear. Let’s have a look.” Mrs. Milward headed into the kitchen without invitation and with the confidence of someone who knew the way. She came to a rather abrupt halt when she noticed the misshapen pie. “Oh, my.”
The two women regarded each other. Eliza wanted to slip through the floorboards.
Mrs. Milward lifted the recipe on the counter. “Hmm, I can’t, but my husband can. Would you like me to have it translated?”
Eliza’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Yes, please.”
“I won’t have it until tomorrow. Will that be all right?”
Eliza gave a stiff nod. “Yes, of course. I’d be very grateful.”
“Oh, you were planning to make it tonight. Is that it? Well, just whip up a batch of chicken and dumplings or use the leftover lamb for potpie. That should do.”
Eliza’s smile felt brittle as spun sugar. “Yes, I’m sure.”
The woman made no move to leave.
It was dark already and Eliza had no notion of when Trent might come home. She wanted to show Mrs. Milward the door, but did not wish to be rude. But the woman just stood there staring.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” asked Eliza, reluctantly extending her hospitality.
“Love some.”
Eliza pressed her lips together to stifle a groan.
Trent spoke to Mathewson, who had been quick to call it theft and blame his neighbor. The two former partners now hated each other. Trent promised to look into the incident, which he did, but, not surprisingly, found no stock with Mathewson’s brand at Adkins’s spread. Hell, he wasn’t sure the creatures didn’t just wander off, as stock did, before a big snowfall. The weather made it impossible to track them, so he headed back to town around sunset to discover that Joey had been called in during his absence to arrest a drifter who had intentionally broken a window to get locked up so he could have a hot meal and a warm bed. Amazing what desperate people would do.
Trent warmed his hands at the stove as Joey got the prisoner stowed.
“You got some telegrams waiting at the office,” said his deputy.
“How do you know?”
“Well, Henry told me, is how.”
“But he wouldn’t give them to you?”
“Well,” said Joey, scratching beneath his hat. “I reckon he would have, except I didn’t ask him. You said I was to do it only when you was away, and you’re here.”
“For the love of…” He raked his hand through his hair and then pushed his hat down low over his eyes. Trent pointed at the prisoner. “Feed this one and then go pick up the telegrams. Open them. If they’re important, bring them to me at home. Otherwise leave ’em on my desk.”
Trent got half a dozen telegrams a week now from other law enforcement officers around the state. But today he’d never gotten over to the office to check.
Joey nodded. “Sure, sure. I’ll get right on it. So, easy night. Only one prisoner.”
Trent tugged on his Stetson. “Yeah, but it’s early yet.”
“You think about what I said yesterday?”
“No,” he lied.
Joey’s eyes danced as if he knew, but he didn’t smile. Instead, he turned serious. “You promised your mom, boss. I was sitting right there beside her when she gave you her ring.” Joey’s expression was one Trent had never seen. He almost looked stern.
Trent narrowed his eyes. Most men would have shut up, but not Joey.
“She wanted your bride to have the ring your daddy gave her. I seen the ring. It’s got red—”
“I know what the damn ring looks like. I told you, I don’t want to get married.”
Joey pursed his lips, and for a minute, Trent thought he’d hush up.
“But it ain’t just about what you want, now, is it Trent? That little gal of yours needs a mother. Seems like Mrs. Guntherson might fit that bill.”
Trent held his scowl, despite the fact that Joey had struck a nerve. He knew his deputy was right. Had he really thought he could just hire a mother for Addy? Somehow his plan had gone badly wrong. His housekeeper was lovely, kind and wonderful with his little girl, plus she made his skin tingle whenever he got within sight of her. Damn, he’d thought of Viola all day long!
Trent cast Joey one final glare, then headed out, slamming the door behind him.
Joey sighed. His boss was respected, tough, conscientious and fair to a fault. Every eligible woman in town, respectable and otherwise had let the sheriff know they were interested. They’d only grown more insistent since he’d buried his mom. But he’d stayed solitary as a grizzly bear, and Joey would bet his bottom dollar that the reason lay somewhere back in Texas.
The deputy had been in town when Trent had arrived carrying a newborn in his arms. Speculation about the girl’s mother swirled, but neither Trent nor his ma had a word to say on the matter. Gossip continued, with some folks assuming that the gal’s ma had died, but not Joey. He recognized a man who’d been hurt and hurt bad. Dying just didn’t do that to a fella. He had a theory that the gal’s ma was still alive.
He was eaten up with curiosity, but the only time he’d asked, Trent had near torn his head off.
The deputy grabbed his coat and buttoned up the front. The snow crunched beneath his feet as he crossed to the telegraph office. Benjamin had closed shop and he had to track him down at the Longhorn Saloon. He collected two messages and then he had to pick up the supper plate for his prisoner.
Once back in the jail, he fed his charge and then sat by the stove to read the telegrams. The first was a description of the female thief from Bozeman. Five two, dark hair, blue eyes, petite, name: Eliza Flannery. Well, Joey thought, he’d be on the lookout for her. If she passed through Early, he’d be waiting. After all, Sheriff Foerster had given this one to him, his first real case, and he intended to do his very best. He used his penknife to open the second message.
Unexpectedly delayed until next Sunday STOP
Apologies STOP
Mrs. V. Guntherson STOP
Joe stared at the date—December 14, 1888. Well that made no sense at all. She’d arrived yesterday just as expected. She must have gotten this off and then made the train after all. He crumbled the page and tossed it into the woodstove.
Eliza washed up, then poured two cups of coffee and a teacup of milk for Addy.
“My oldest is watching the boys. They should be fine, if they don’t burn the house down…oh.” Her smile faltered, and Eliza was certain she was thinking of what she had witnessed this morning. “I take mine black.”
Eliza set the cup before her guest and then took her own seat. Thankfully Addy jabbered away and kept Mrs. Milward from learning every blasted detail of Eliza’s past. Finally, after two cups, the woman left.
Eliza stifled a sigh of relief. Her moment of peace was fleeting as she realized she still had nothing to serve for dinner.
Having no other recourse, and with time running short, she made one of the few things she knew how to cook—a shepherd’s pie. She ground the leftover lamb she found and made yet another piecrust. Then she layered crisp slices of potato with the meat and loaded the top with heaps of mashed potatoes.
The shepherd’s pie was half-cooked when she lifted the dessert out of the oven, its golden crust showing each imperfection. She stood back, fro
wning at the offending dish when the front door opened and Mr. Foerster called from the hallway.
Addy charged from the room and a moment later the two appeared, Addy riding on her father’s hip. His cheeks were pink from the cold and he wore a smile that made her insides tremble.
“How’s my girl?” he asked her.
Eliza’s heart gave an unexpected flutter, as if he had been directing the question to her. Wouldn’t that be heaven, to have this man and this child for her very own?
Woolgathering, that’s what her mother called it. Also stuff and nonsense.
He lowered Addy to the floor and inhaled deeply. “Something smells good.”
Trent made a sound of pleasure that made Eliza’s stomach jump. But his smile faded when he noticed the apple pie. It did have a nice domed shape, but bubbly apple mixture had seeped out of the numerous fissures in the surface.
“Mrs. Guntherson let me help!” chirped Addy.
His smile returned, and he glanced up at her with a knowing look as if it was all clear to him now. Of course no grown woman would have created such a monstrosity. She held a tight smile as her stomach roiled.
He searched the stove top. “No stroganoff?”
“Hmm, well, no. We had some trouble with that.”
“Trouble?”
“Well, I didn’t know, that is I wasn’t certain about…”
“Oh, I see. We don’t have any cream in the house, do we?” he finished.
Relief flooded her. “Not that I could find.”
“I have a tab at McVane’s. I forgot to tell you that. You can get what you need there.” He looked around. “Well, I smell something cooking.”
Eliza used the hook to open the oven and two dish towels to retrieve the shepherd’s pie. The mashed potato was golden and gravy dribbled from the sides.
Mr. Foerster stood just behind her, leaning in, as she slid her handiwork onto the stovetop. He inhaled, then sighed. His chest brushed her shoulder as his warm breath fanned her. She let her eyes drift closed for just an instant to savor the contact. When she opened them, he was beside her, staring down at her. The mirth was gone from his gaze, replaced by a riveting heat that bored into her.
Western Winter Wedding Bells Page 14