Prissy's Predicament (Tales From Biders Clump Book 6)

by Danni Roan

  Ida had been a staple of the Grist Mill since it opened. Although she was usually in the back, scouring pots and pans, she seemed to know everything that was happening in Biders Clump.

  “Oh dear!” Prissy gasped, “Will he be alright?”

  “Doc thinks so,” Ida answered, carrying hot water to the large work sink. “He just needs ta rest.”

  “Speaking of rest,” Rupert picked up the thread, “why don’t you go have a cup of coffee with your mother and Ms. Polly?”

  “I can’t go, Rupert, I have the pork roasts in the oven for dinner tonight and need to start preparing the potatoes and vegetables. Then there’s the chicken and dumplings on the back of the stove for lunch.”

  “Is that what that delectable smell is?” Rupert’s eyes grew wide with interest. “How did you do it?” he was always interested in the dishes Prissy prepared.

  “I’m using my new pickled crab apples with the roast and some wild sage.” Prissy offered, opening the oven door and peeking in.

  “It smells heavenly.” Rupert stooped to gaze at the large pans full of well-seasoned meat.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” Rupert apologized. In the process of standing upright, he bumped his head with Prissy’s.

  A soft giggle escaped Prissy as she stopped moving and looked up to meet Rupert’s eyes.

  Together they stood there, stooped over the warm oven, as the fat on the roasts sizzled and popped, their eyes locked on each other, their faces mere inches apart.

  Only the sounds of the fire crackling and roasting meat seemed to permeate the room as Priscilla gazed into eyes of gray-blue that danced with hints of green and aqua.

  She could see the small beads of sweat that dotted his skin as the heat of the fire reached them, but a different fire seemed to race through her as her heart began to beat faster, her mouth growing dry.

  Rupert froze. He was so close to Prissy, he could see each tiny wisp of hair, plastered to her damp brow.

  He swallowed hard as her tongue darted out to moisten dry lips.

  In his chest, he could feel his heart pounding out a quick beat and he found himself leaning closer.

  The oven door snapped closed with a loud bang, breaking the spell, and Rupert pulled himself back from the precipice he’d come so close to plunging over.

  “Well, that looks lovely,” he said, straightening and tugging at his loose collar that was suddenly to tight.

  How had the last few moments caused the heat in the kitchen to become unbearable?

  Turning sharply on his heel, he picked up his basket of bread, escaping to the cooler realms of the dining room.

  Prissy had never wanted to stamp her feet and wail more in her entire life, but a tantrum would do nothing to sooth the ache in her heart.

  Once again, she’d been fool enough to believe that Rupert was going to kiss her, that he wanted to kiss her, but all he was interested in was her food.

  A silent tear sprang to Prissy’s eye and her heart groaned in her breast.

  “No use crying over spilled milk,” she whispered to herself, and that was exactly what it was. Her heart was already lost and like spilled milk; there was no way to put it back in the pitcher.

  The sound of voices in the front drew Priscilla, and she looked out to see Rupert speaking with the scarecrow of a man from a few nights earlier.

  Mr. Druthers was purchasing several loaves of bread and asking after the specials for the day.

  Straightening her skirts, Prissy moved into the other room and joined the conversation.

  “Well hello, Mr. Druthers, I’m not sure if Mr. Rutherford knows the specials today.” She used Rupert’s surname, hoping it would annoy him as much as he had annoyed her.

  “Tonight’s special is fresh roast pork with pickled crab apples. I believe they even came from the trees on your spread.” She smiled sweetly at the string bean, who looked down his crooked nose, the way a spooked horse looks down on a tossed rider.

  “We also have chicken and dumplings for as long as they last,” she added.

  Beside Prissy, Rupert Rutherford huffed softly and turned back to arranging his display of pastries, pies, and pound cake.

  “Ah, very goot,” the tall man replied. “I believe I will be back after the chiltren come from school. It is nice to get a good meal now and again.” He grinned. “Good-day,” he finished, turning and striding away, his paper-wrapped bread tucked under his arm.

  “Who is that fellow?” Rupert queried. “I mean, what does anyone know about him anyway?”

  “He’s just a farmer, like most everyone in Biders Clump. I understand he’s taken on the care of his niece and nephew after his sister passed,” Prissy said, flouncing back into the kitchen, Rupert close on her heels.

  “Seems Biders Clump draws all kinds,” Rupert grumbled.

  “Well, yes it does,” Prissy said, lifting a small knife in one hand and a potato in the other. “Biders Clump started out in a strange way and I see no reason it shouldn’t continue taking in those who need rest from life’s cares.”

  “Pardon?” Rupert lifted his head as he turned a fresh batch of dough he’d been proofing onto his work station and began to knead it aggressively.

  “Many years ago,” Prissy began, “a man and his family were traveling along the Oregon Trial with a wagon train. As they drew closer and closer to the Southern Pass that leads over the Rocky Mountains, this man felt more and more weary.”

  “Why?” Rupert interrupted.

  “Rupert, you’ve traveled before, you know how tiring it can be,” Prissy snipped. “Anyway, as they reached the foot of the mountains, he felt he just couldn’t go on. How would they ever make it over such slopes?”

  She looked toward Rupert, who was now kneading his dough with a steady hand.

  “When they reached this area the man pulled his wagon aside and told the captain of the train that he thought he’d just bide a while in a little clump of trees and when he was rested a bit he’d come along with the next train.”

  “Then what happened?” Rupert leaned across the table, enthralled with the tale.

  “Well, by the time the next train came along, that man and his family had built a little cabin and were living off the land and preparing for a long winter. Pretty soon as folks came along the trail and felt the need to rest awhile, they stopped at the clump, too.”

  Rupert smiled encouragingly.

  “Next thing you know that little clump became a town that everyone called Biders Clump.”

  “Because the Biders owned it,” Rupert nodded in understanding.

  “Oh no,” Prissy corrected, “Because those who came to bide clumped together for peace, and protection. They shared and helped each other, each knowing how tired a long trek will leave a body.”

  “Biders Clump,” Rupert mused, shaping the dough into a long thin roll, then looping it back on itself in two big hoops on his work board, and turning it toward Prissy with a flip of his wrist.

  “B,” Prissy squealed, laughing at the large letter made of bread dough.

  “For Biders Clump,” the English man spoke, his words punctuated with a bark of laughter.

  Chapter 6

  “Miss Priscilla?” a voice called through the door of the kitchen, competing with the noise of the busy kitchen.

  “Yes.” Prissy stepped to the door, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist.

  “Missy Priscilla, I got more of them crabapples ifn’ you want ‘em,” Toby said cheerfully.

  “You do?” Prissy said with a smile.

  “Well I don’t got them on me, but I picked a whole bushel this time. Can you use that many?” he said, suddenly looking worried.

  “Hm?,” Prissy tapped her finger to her lips and looked up as if considering. “I think I just might be able to.” She stooped a little to look him in the eye. “How much?” she asked seriously.

  “I don’t know.” Toby blinked up at her, his mind working. “You give me a whole dollar for the bucket, but there’s a
lot more in a bushel.” He pushed his long bangs out of his eyes as he thought.

  “Hm, I see your point,” Prissy agreed. “How about five dollars for the whole bushel. I’ll be using more of them here at the Mill, so I think you should have a fair shake for all of your hard work.”

  “Yes ma’am!” Toby practically shouted.

  “Well then, we have to shake on it,” Prissy insisted, stretching out her hand, “and if you can get me two more bushels after that I’ll take them as well, but no skipping school to pick apples,” she added, knowing she’d hear from Grady Gatlin, the teacher, if he did.

  “Alright,” Toby agreed, taking her hand and shaking it. “I’ll fetch ‘em this weekend.”

  He turned and trotted away back to his uncle and little sister, who sat waiting patiently for their meal to be served.

  The dark man looked up and waved with a smile, and Prissy waved back.

  “More apples?” Rupert asked, looking up at her, a strange light in his eyes.

  “Yes. The pickles are popular, if time-consuming to make, and everyone seems to love them with the roasts tonight.”

  “Yes, yes,” Rupert agreed. “It must take a good deal of time to core the bottoms and put a clove in them, they are quiet tart and hard.”

  Rupert was quiet for several moments as he rolled out a pastry crust. “I wonder if I could make pie from them?” he mused, his eye drifting to Prissy again as she whipped fresh mayonnaise in a small bowl.

  “I suppose Mr. Druthers will be happy to have more apple pickles,” he finished, his lips a hard line.

  Prissy wondered why Rupert sounded so miffed. All she had done was agree to buy some apples from Toby, but she was quickly too busy to think of it more.

  “You look beat, Prissy,” Ida commented as the last of the guests exited the restaurant. “You go on home.”

  “Thank you, Ida,” Prissy sighed, removing her apron and hanging it on a peg. “I’ll see you in church tomorrow.”

  The older woman smiled, waving her away as she continued to scrub the dishes.

  “Might I walk you out, Miss Pris,” Rupert offered, shrugging into a light coat and opening the door.

  “Alright,” Priscilla agreed, “but I think Rafe is coming to fetch me tonight.”

  Together they stepped out on the porch, gazing up at a star-spangled sky. “What a lovely night,” the young baker said, his eyes drifting from the deep purple of the night.

  “Yes, but crisp,” Prissy commented, pulling her wrap tight.

  “Do you think tomorrow will be fair?” Rupert continued his small talk, placing his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels.

  “We’ve had very nice weather so far this fall.”

  “I was wondering…” Rupert hesitated, his eyes still fixed on the sky, “well, I was wondering if you’d like to go on a picnic tomorrow after church?”

  Prissy’s head whipped around, even as the sound of a buggy approaching could be heard.

  “A picnic?” she asked in surprise.

  “Well, if you don’t want to,” he said looking down at his feet.

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” Prissy said. “I was just surprised that’s all.”

  “Surprised? But we had a lovely picnic with your family this summer.”

  Prissy shook her head. Was the man intentionally thick? “Yes, a lovely picnic.”

  “Well, I’m not much for eating out of doors but the weather’s been so nice…” his voice drifted off again.

  “I guess if I get up early tomorrow, I’ll be able to manage something of a basket,” Prissy said, watching as her mother and Harlan drew up before them.

  “Oh no!” Rupert started. “It was not my intention that you should prepare it. I’ll bring a hamper along to church.” He seemed truly perplexed and her heart softened toward him.

  “Hurry up and say, yes,” Harlan called, holding the restless horses, who were as anxious to get home as he was.

  “Harlan,” Maud scowled.

  “I’ll go,” Prissy finally said. “I’m sure we’ll have a great deal to discuss about the restaurant,” she finished, then moved to the buggy.

  Moving quickly, Rupert took her elbow and helped her into the four-seated contraption.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” he offered, waving them off as Harlan slapped the reins to the horses and started off at a brisk trot.

  ***

  “From the heart, the mouth speaks,” Pastor Dalton proclaimed at the end of the message. He’d been talking about truth and how speaking truth would set a heart free.

  Prissy thought on the words. Words were just words. It was what people did that mattered. Sometimes she sassed and chivied with her sisters, but her actions showed her love.

  No matter what else was going on or how they might bicker, the Adams girls stuck together.

  “Miss Priscilla,” Rupert’s soft voice met her at the door. “Are you ready?” He looked strange in his gray bowler hat and pinstriped suit after seeing him in his shirtsleeves and apron all week.

  “That was a rousing message,” Rupert said, lifting a food basket from the back of the church and offering Prissy his arm.

  “Yes, it was rather interesting,” Prissy replied

  “Do you think it is true?”

  Rupert’s words surprised Prissy. “Why wouldn’t you think they were true?” she asked

  “I don’t know.” Rupert was pensive. “In my experience, speaking your mind just gets a body into trouble.”

  The young baker stopped, indicating a sun-splashed spot on the top of a knoll. The golden grass of early fall swirled into soft ripples as he tossed a blanket on the ground and settled the basket on it.

  “I hope you like what I packed today,” Rupert stated, effectively changing the subject.

  “I’m sure I’ll like whatever you make.”

  “Good, you’ve been looking a little peaky.”

  “Peaky!” Priscilla bristled, “I look just fine.”

  “No offense intended, but with all the work you’ve taken on, I do feel you should keep your strength up.”

  Priscilla rolled her eyes, but was quickly distracted by the items being unpacked from the basket.

  “I thought we’d have an English tea.” Rupert smiled, his eyes sparking with delight. “I may have made a twist or two in the sandwiches though.”

  Once again, Prissy found herself intrigued by the food that appeared as if from nowhere.

  “I’ve made cucumber sandwiches, but have added very thin slices of your apple pickles.” He handed her a neatly trimmed sandwich with bits of delicate green and red peeking out of the edges.

  “They’re delicious,” Prissy said, savoring the crisp taste of sweet and savory along with the creamy moisture of the fresh mayonnaise. “When did you ever have the time to make all of these things?”

  “I got up early this morning.” Rupert smiled, biting into his second sandwich. “Tea?”

  “Rupert, why did you come to America?” Prissy asked, picking up a new sandwich. This one seemed to have chicken in it. “Surely you could have done well baking in England.”

  She watched as the man slowly chewed his food. The sun caught the golden highlights in his hair and the soft gray-blue of his eyes. There was no denying that she was attracted to him, and not just because of his delightful treats.

  There was a gentle quality about Rupert, a quietness in his presence that appealed to her. True, he was tall and stringy, not bulky muscle like her brothers-in-law, but still there was true strength in him.

  “I suppose I was looking for someplace new,” the young Englishman said, but the smile had left his eyes. “Besides, I get to try all sorts of new treats.” His lips turned up into a grin and he popped a whole pickled apple into his mouth.

  Prissy was sure there was more that the baker hadn’t said, but didn’t push. Instead, she lifted a small pink cake from a plate and took a nibble.

  “Do you like being here in Biders Clump?”

  “Yes.
” He grinned again. “I enjoy being here very much. It’s quaint but lovely, and there seems to be something happening all the time.” He leaned closer. “And with so many weddings, I get ample opportunity to make special cakes.” He chuckled, true humor shining in his eyes.

  Prissy gazed into his eyes. He was so close. Her fingers itched to push the hair away from his forehead.

  “Rupert?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you gonna kiss me or what?” When her words faded on a brisk breeze and the world seemed to grow still as her heart beat in her throat.

  Whatever had come over her to ask such a thing? And yet she hoped.

  “Oh my no! I couldn’t do that.” Rupert’s words were a soft sigh even as his eyes, tumultuous and shadowed, bore into hers.

  Prissy blinked once, shocked, embarrassed, infuriated, as Rupert Rutherford rose to his feet and stalked away.

  “Where is the baker going?” A slightly accented voice behind her had Prissy gulping back her hurt and turning to see the tall, slender form of Mr. Druthers and his little niece standing a few feet away.

  “He remembered an appointment,” Prissy said with a smile that left her heart feeling cold.

  “Toby’s got yer apples,” the little girl piped up, “he brung ‘em in the wagon today.”

  Prissy smiled. “Have you had lunch yet?”

  “No,” the little girl’s voice replied.

  “Sasha, do not be rude.”

  “It’s fine.” Prissy offered. “Won’t you please join me?” She lifted one of the delicate cakes with the pretty frosting. “I have cake.”

  A wide grin spread across the little girl’s face, her bright brown eyes sparkling at the idea of such a treat and in a moment, she was seated on the blanket with Prissy.

  “Come on uncle Willem, there’s cake.”

  “Please Mr. Druthers, you wouldn’t want all this food to go to waste, would you?” Prissy’s smile was welcoming as her humor turned to the delight of the little five-year-old at her side.

  Moving to the other side of the blanket, the bean pole of a man dropped cross-legged before the two girls.