Between helping her find things and placating Rex, Brett had carried in her bag and trunk and put them upstairs, in one of the bedrooms. The house had six, and after all the work she was doing, Steve Putnam better not refuse to allow her to use one. While showing her the outdoor ground cellar, Brett had pointed out a long and narrow building that the hired hands slept in—a bunkhouse, he’d called it. From the state of its porch, it needed scrubbing as badly as the kitchen had.
Where all the dirt came from was beyond her. The ground was rock-hard, yet the crazy wind that hadn’t stopped blowing since she’d stepped off the train was full of dirt. Luckily she’d found a cloth to put over the bread dough while it was rising. She’d folded another cloth into a triangle to cover the top of her head and tied it beneath her hair at the nape of her neck since her braid had long ago separated. A scarf tied so was how Da had liked her to keep her hair contained. He’d never wanted her or Maggie to cut their hair, so they hadn’t, but he’d insisted they keep it contained while cooking, especially over an open fire. Said he didn’t want it or them catching fire.
“What are you looking for?” she asked Brett when he started opening cupboard doors. The man’s size and rough voice no longer intimidated her.
“Something for Rex. His leg hurts. Steve must have a bottle around here somevhere.”
“Let me finish putting this bread in pans so it can rise one last time and I’ll get something for him,” she said.
“Vhere is it? I’ll get it,” Brett replied.
“No, I’ll get it,” she said firmly. “Go tell Rex I’ll be in with something that’s sure to make him feel better in a few minutes.”
Steve had stopped at every farm and ranch between his place and Oak Grove, and though his neighbors were willing to give him food out of their larders, not a one was willing to hire on as a cook for his men, or part with an employee to do so. He couldn’t blame them. This time of year was busy for everyone. He’d thanked them for their offers just the same and headed for home empty-handed.
His mind kept going back to the woman at the train station, contemplating if he should have asked her if she wanted to earn a few dollars before heading west again. Yet, he knew that would have been a bad idea. A woman that pretty would cause a stir like no tomorrow at the ranch. Furthermore, any man who had a wife that fine would be searching her down when she didn’t arrive as scheduled, and that would leave him in the same predicament. Perhaps a worse one.
He’d have to rustle something up for his men to eat on his own tonight, and lacking a better idea, would head to Dodge tomorrow. Or he could take Fred Matthews’ advice and send a telegram to the newspaper down there, place a want ad for a cook. Either way, it would be days or even weeks before he’d have the help he needed. He could cook enough to get by, but his men wouldn’t like what he made any more than they had Walter’s flapjacks this morning.
The sun was dipping low in the sky by the time he arrived at the ranch, and the weight on his shoulders pressed a little harder as he wondered what he could muster up to feed the men who were washing up at the barrels beside the bunkhouse.
As he climbed off his horse, he spun around to take another look. Why were they washing up at the barrels? “What’s happened?” he asked as Leroy grasped the reins out of his hands.
“Always said you’re the best boss a man could hope for,” Leroy said while his long and gangly legs almost tripped over themselves in his rush to lead the horse to the barn.
Confused, Steve stared at the rest of his men. The ones who weren’t splashing water on their faces were combing their hair back with their fingers or tucking in their shirts. Normally they didn’t even take the time to wipe their feet before stomping into the house to eat.
“You outdid yourself, Boss, and we thank you,” Wyatt said, slapping the dust off his pant legs with both hands. “Thank you kindly.”
“Outdid myself with what?”
“That new cook you hired,” Henry said, using his hat to get the dust off his britches. “She sent us out here to clean up before we eat. But that’s all right. We don’t mind.”
A shiver tickled Steve’s spine as he turned to gaze toward the house. “She? What new cook?”
“The one you had Brett drive out,” Henry replied. “Can’t wait to taste those vittles. If they taste half as good as they smell, I’m gonna think I died and went to heaven.”
Still confused, Steve asked, “Brett Blackwell?”
“Yes, sir,” Leroy said, slapping him on the back as he walked past. “And here I was thinking we’d have to eat Walter’s salty flapjacks again for supper.”
“They weren’t that bad,” Walter said while smoothing his mustache back in place after his hearty scrubbing.
“Yes, they were,” several others answered in unison.
Steve started for the house along with the rest of them, until Jess laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You might want to wash up, Boss,” Jess said. “Henry was the only one who made it inside the door. She snapped him with a towel and told him to go wash up before stepping foot in the kitchen again, and that went for the rest of us, too.”
Steve had no idea who this woman was, but if she was half the size of the blacksmith, it was no wonder the boys had all washed up. However, it was his house and he didn’t take orders from anyone.
His men, trying to get through the opening two at a time, dang near broke the door off its hinges. He followed them over the threshold once the ruckus settled down, and then wasn’t exactly sure what stopped him dead in his tracks. Her or the aromas.
The house hadn’t smelled this good in so long—actually it had never smelled this good. Cinnamon. And apples. Baked apples. Apple pie maybe? He treated himself to a slice of pie every now and again while in town, but not often enough.
She stood at the stove, with her back to him, and was nowhere near the size of Brett. She was about the size of the gal who’d fallen onto his lap back at the train station, the one he couldn’t get out of his mind.
Tiny and slender, with one cloth tied around her waist and another over her hair, she spat, “For heaven’s sake, close the door before that wind covers everything with dirt.” And, “Hats are not to be worn at the table.”
While hats hit the floor all around the table, Steve shut the door, hung his hat on a hook and then took a seat next to Brett. The blacksmith’s grin was bigger than his biceps. Steve was about to turn around, to get a good look at the woman, when she barked out another order.
“Start passing the bread around.” A second later she set a huge bowl next to him. “Fill your plate with potatoes then pass the bowl on.”
As soon as he did, she set down another pot. “Now cover your potatoes with this.”
The thick gravy looked more like stew, but he did as ordered, as did everyone else, ladling the stew over the potatoes.
Setting another plate of sliced bread atop the one that was already empty, she said, “Eat up. There’s plenty.”
Appreciative groans echoed throughout the room, and his could easily have joined the others, but Steve held it in. Not only because the mouthful of potatoes and stew was delicious and the delectable smell of apples still filled his nose, but because he sensed something familiar about her, yet couldn’t say what. Other than... It couldn’t be her. She was on her way to Denver.
Once again squeezing between him and Brett in order to do so, she set a large baking pan in the center of the table. “Once