Western Spring Weddings. Lynna Banning

plunked his mug of coffee onto the stovetop. “You are, how you say, playing with the devil, you know?”

      “Playing with fire, you mean?”

      “I mean fire. Yes.”

      “Heck, Ramon, when it comes to Arness I’m not playin’. I’m fightin’ for my life.”

      “Si, that I know. And I am helping, but you don’ need no lady to stir up the hornets.”

      Gray clapped the slim Mexican on the back and headed to the house for breakfast. Hornets he could deal with. He could even deal with Arness when it came down to it, and he guessed it would, sooner or later.

      Emily met him in the kitchen, a crust of bread in her hand. “Mama can’t walk,” she announced.

      “Oh, yeah? Well, that happens sometimes after a long horseback ride.”

      The girl propped her small hands at her waist. “It won’t happen to me, ever! I want to ride your horse, that shiny black one.”

      “No, you don’t, Emily.” Clarissa’s voice came from the staircase. In the next instant she stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the edge. “I may be crippled, but I am still your mother.”

      Gray turned from the stove where he’d set the coffeepot to see a pale imitation of the woman he’d seen last night in a dress that matched her eyes and showed way too much of her chest. “Mornin’,” he said. “You sure look different.”

      “Good morning. I am different. I am dead tired and so sore I cannot bear to sit down. And I have a healthy new respect for anyone who can ride a horse for more than ten minutes.”

      “Can you cook standing up?” he asked.

      She looked stricken. “I cannot cook at all, standing or sitting.”

      “I have a proposition for you, anyway,” he said carefully. Immediately he regretted his choice of words, but she took no notice. Probably never heard a remotely suggestive word back in Boston.

      “Oh? What might that be?”

      “Pretty quick I figure Arness will find out who you are and he’ll come after you.”

      She flinched. “Then I must leave.”

      “Don’t think so. With him sniffing around, you’re not safe anywhere in town, and now that he’s had a good look at you, he’s not gonna give up ’til he corners you.”

      Her hand twitched. “That p-prospect terrifies me.”

      “That’s real sensible of you, Clarissa. So, here’s my—uh, here’s one possibility. You and Emily stay out here at the ranch. You need a job and I need a cook.” A small voice in the back of his brain began yammering at him. Are you crazy? Why offer her a job doing something she can’t do? The truth was he wasn’t exactly sure, but he knew he had to do something. She was just a baby rabbit with a chicken hawk floating overhead.

      “But...but I would be a terrible cook! The only time I entered the kitchen at home was to ask for a fresh pot of tea. However,” she said quickly, “I am sure I could learn. Perhaps you have a recipe book? With instructions?”

      He couldn’t help laughing. She might be hurting, but she wasn’t beat yet. The woman had spirit. Sand his ranch hands would say.

      “Maybe you could learn, like you said. And out here, away from town, you’d be protected. Think about it, why don’t you?”

      “I am thinking about it. I am thinking about how foolish I was to trust that awful man just because he wrote nice letters that said what I needed to hear, that he would provide a home for Emily.”

      “Yeah, well, it’s too late now. You’ve got a real problem on your hands, but how about thinkin’ about my offer over breakfast? Even if you can’t sit down, you’ve gotta eat. So does Emily.”

      “Well...”

      “How ’bout I pay you a salary, say three dollars a week, to cook for me. In a month or two you could save up enough for a train ticket back to Boston.”

      “A month!”

      “Yeah. Somethin’ wrong with that?”

      “Could—could we stay in your attic bedroom? I feel safe there.”

      “Sure.” He stood up, lifted the iron skillet off the hook on the wall and pointed to a red-checked apron hanging on a nail by the back door. “Lesson number one, comin’ up. Emily, you want to help this old cowboy fry up some bacon?”

      “Can I have an apron, too?”

      “Yep.” He handed her a ruffled Maria-sized yellow garment. “And here’s the one for your mama.”

      Clarissa looped the apron around her neck and tied the ruffled part over the dark blue travel skirt she’d put on that morning. Other than the garish green taffeta dress and her bombazine travel suit, she had only three other garments—a striped calico skirt, a white muslin shirtwaist and her nightrobe. Because she couldn’t sit down, she stood by the stove and watched Gray fry bacon and then crack eggs into the pan, then slice bread and toast it in the oven. It didn’t look too difficult, but every step she took made her wince.

      Emily managed to push three blue-flowered plates across the round wood table and plop a jumble of forks and knives at each place. Gray added a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon and Clarissa steeled herself to perch on one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs. When she emitted a little groan as she sat down, Emily brought a soft cushion from the settee in the parlor to pad the hard surface. Very gingerly Clarissa sank onto her backside and picked up a fork.

      Through the window over the dry sink, she watched the sun come up, turning the sky peach, then gold, and then such an intense blue it looked painted. She prayed it was a good omen. She was frightened right down to her knickers, stranded in a strange, wild place she didn’t understand or even like and thinking about agreeing to a job she had not the remotest idea how to undertake. She imagined her brother’s laughter. Cook? Sis, you can’t even boil water!

      Gray ate without talking until the platter of eggs was empty, then he poured them both a second cup of coffee and answered Emily’s endless stream of questions. “What do horses do at night? Does Missus Maria have a little girl I could play with? How far can you see at night? Do you like red flowers better than yellow ones?”

      Finally Clarissa shushed her and asked a question of her own. “Why do you dislike Caleb Arness so much? I know you do, because of the way your face looks every time his name comes up.”

      Gray set his coffee cup down and leaned back in the chair. “Well, for starters, last night you saw the kind of man he is. Then there’s my ranch. I busted my—worked hard for almost twelve years to buy it and build it up. It’s the most important thing in my life, and Arness wants it. My land sits between his spread and the river, so he’s hurtin’ for water.”

      “Go on,” she said quietly.

      “Arness has nasty ways of tryin’ to drive me off. He’s cut fences and poisoned my well so now I’m havin’ to dig another one. My hands find dead cattle on the range—poisoned, the sheriff says. And I suspect the rustlers that plagued every mile on my drive to Abilene work for Arness. Cows disappear from my herd here at the Bar H, too. I’m losin’ stock and money, and I’m getting stretched pretty thin. If I can’t stop it, I’m gonna lose my ranch. And I’ll damn well die before I lose this ranch!”

      She listened in complete silence, not drinking her coffee, just looking at him, her face grave and her eyes soft with understanding. Made him feel kinda warm inside.

      “So,” she said after a long silence, “I could help in a small way by being your cook.”

      Gray stared at her. Yes, it would ease things a bit—maybe a lot—but mostly he was touched by her recognition of how important the Bar H was to him. Even Emily seemed to grasp what was at stake.