Cooking Up Trouble Page 10

  It was something else in her that he discovered himself responding to. She seemed so open, so honest, so much a lady of the west and a child of the soil out here in the pitiless frontier of the United States. She was independent. Forthright. Amusing. Solid. Uncomplaining. She was unlike any other female in his considerable experience of females, and she made him want to smile and tell her things. After they made mad, passionate love for several hours. Which was probably a very bad idea.

  For the love of God, she’d brought a stranger into his house to wash dishes. Without asking. While cattle were disappearing in droves.

  He frowned as he went upstairs to change his boots for more comfortable shoes. He’d been up since before dawn had cracked, and he’d worked like a slave before partaking of the magnificent breakfast Heather had fixed for him.

  Perhaps she could be forgiven that one tiny lapse in judgment. Hell, anyone who could cook like she did could be forgiven almost anything. Almost.

  And Philippe knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that neither Heather nor her bespectacled friend had anything at all to do with cattle rustling. For God’s sake, the very idea was nonsensical.

  Perhaps he was merely reacting to something else. Something dragged out of a past he’d believed he’d left behind, dead and buried, never to reappear to blight his life.

  He hadn’t been fooling when he’d told her the meals had taken him back to his youth. Philippe scowled as he tugged off one muddy boot and set it on the oilskin set out for that purpose beside the door. His youth. In the whorehouse where his mother worked on her back, giving pleasure to rich men so as to support herself and her son.

  He’d learned pretty much everything there was to know about men and women and what they did together—barring rearing children and creating happy homes—before he’d left New Orleans at last and forever, in his sixteenth year. That had been seventeen years ago, and he hadn’t been back since. He wondered if his mother was still alive.

  Not that he cared, naturally, but he did wonder. Occasionally. Or he did now, anyway; now that Heather had dug up the past and flung it before him in the guise of her delicious meals.

  “Stop it, St. Pierre. You’ll be getting maudlin next.”

  His lecture worked. He put on his shoes, brushed his hair, grabbed his hat, and descended the beautifully polished staircase that was carpeted with a beautifully woven Persian rug. When he got to the kitchen, Heather was ready. She’d been prompt last night in the bathhouse, too. Thank God, she didn’t seem to be a dilatory female.

  He was, however, sorry to have remembered the bathhouse episode. Ruthlessly, he drove the image of the nude Heather from his mind.

  As usually happened when he caught sight of her, though, he smiled. The smiles that sprang from Philippe when he saw Heather were different from his run-of-the-mill smiles. Those he had to work to produce, and they came from his head. His smiles for Heather started from inside himself, somewhere in the middle of his chest, and all by themselves. It was very odd. He imagined he’d get over it soon. A woman had never yet roused anything deeper than temporary lust in him. He doubted that Heather Mahaffey, in her provincial loveliness, could do more, even though his case of lust in this instance was severe.

  “Thank you for being ready, Miss Mahaffey.”

  “Of course, Mr. St. Pierre.”

  My, my, weren’t we formal? And after that scene last night. Of course, she didn’t know he’d been watching her, thank God. Nevertheless, her ladylike manners tickled Philippe—again a novelty. He didn’t usually have much to say to proper ladies, not even ones he’d seen nude.

  The wind was, as usual, blowing a regular gale. They both had to shield their faces from flying grit as they walked out to the wagon. Philippe would be glad when the trees he’d planted as a wind break got tall enough to do some good. This was strange country. He loved it, but it was as hard as his own heart, and as tricky besides. Maybe that’s why he got along so well here.

  With a grin, he wondered if Mr. Mahaffey, who was an Irish rogue if ever God had crafted one, liked the trickiness of life hereabouts as well as Philippe did. Philippe wouldn’t be surprised. Men like Mr. Mahaffey didn’t do too well in regular society, but they seemed to thrive in less regulated arenas. Philippe did, too, but for different reasons.

  He helped Heather into the wagon and climbed up beside her. She looked quite at home there in the rustic seat. Philippe thought she was really quite charming. Among other things. He started to click to the horses to get them going but, recalling how scatterbrained women generally were, he thought he’d better settle something first.

  “Do you have your list?”

  “Yes. It’s right here.” She patted a small, embroidered reticule clutched in her right hand.

  “Good.” Philippe urged the horses forward. He was pleased to see Heather clutch the wagon seat without dropping the reticule, anticipating the jerk when the wagon set out. She was matter-of-fact about so many things. There seemed to be no false airs and graces or coy gestures about her. Curious, he asked, “Did you make that bag, Miss Mahaffey?”

  She glanced up at him quickly, as if she suspected a trick to the question. “Good heavens, no.”

  His lifted eyebrow must have embarrassed her, because she rushed on. “I mean, no, I didn’t do this. My sister, Patricia, made it for me for my last birthday. I’m—not very good at sewing.”

  “I see. Your talents are reserved for the kitchen, are they?”

  She sighed. It sounded like a soulful sigh, and Philippe didn’t know why that should be.

  “I guess so.” Her voice came out sounding disheartened, too. Strange, that.

  “Do your other siblings have special talents?” Not that he cared, but he sensed Heather would have to be drawn out carefully if he ever expected to know her better. He experienced a strong urge to do so. That was even stranger than Heather’s being disheartened, actually. He seldom bothered to draw out a woman’s inner thoughts, mainly because he didn’t give a rap. As far as he was concerned, women were good for one thing and one thing only. Hell, his mother had taught him that, if she’d taught him nothing else.

  “Well, my brother Pete likes to play cards and gamble. I guess he’s pretty good at it.”

  Startled by the candor of her revelation, Philippe let go of a bark of laughter before he could stop himself. Then he was sorry, because he could tell his amusement had irked Heather. “I beg your pardon, Miss Mahaffey. I hadn’t—until now—considered card playing in the light of a talent. I can see now, however, that I was wrong not to do so. Obviously, playing cards well requires a good deal of skill.”

  She pinched her lips together. Philippe got the feeling she was trying to hold back an outburst of temper. He’d kind of like to see her in a tantrum. He’d wager—if he were a gambler like her brother Pete—that she had a passionate soul tucked away inside her lush and lovely body.

  Damn. He had to stop thinking about her body, or this would be a very uncomfortable ride.

  “No, you’re probably not wrong to do so,” she said at last.

  Philippe wondered if she was trying to mimic his stilted way of speaking. If she was, that amused him too. He’d practiced proper speech patterns for so many years now, he doubted he could use improper grammar if he tried. For years he’d done everything he could think of to disguise his origins. Now such affectations were normal for him.

  She went on, “I’m sure most folks consider playing cards and gambling a no-account way to pass one’s time. Pete’s awfully good, though, and he makes fair money at it. And since he gives most of the money he wins to Ma and Pa, I reckon what he’s doing isn’t bad.”

  “I should say not. He sounds very talented, actually.” In Philippe’s experience, gamblers played because they had some kind of madness or addiction. They were rather akin to opium smokers and dipsomaniacs in that regard. Evidently Mr. Pete Mahaffey wasn’t one of that breed, and Philippe admired him for the control he exercised over his impulses. Philippe himself was a mas
ter of that kind of control. He expected he and Pete would get along quite well together.

  “Oh, I know,” Heather said, sounding both defiant and resentful. “You think it’s stupid to play cards and gamble. You think a man ought to be doing something worthwhile with his time. Working in a store, clerking, or herding cattle or something. But my family’s poor, Mr. St. Pierre. We don’t have lots of money and fancy houses and herds of cattle and piles of belongings. Pete’s doing his best to help out, and I think he’s good to do so.”

  “I don’t recall saying that I think it’s stupid of your brother to be a good card-player, Miss Mahaffey,” he said gently. “In fact, I admire him.” Particularly since his experience with gamblers contrasted violently with the estimable Pete.

  She squinted at him as if she didn’t believe it. Smart girl. Philippe didn’t believe people, either, as a rule, although in this case he was telling the truth.

  “Well,” she said, deflating like a pricked balloon, “the minister doesn’t like it. He says gambling is sinful and that people who gamble are sinners. He says Pete is taking food out of the mouths of the children of the men he wins from.” She looked as if she might agree with the minister if anyone but her brother were the recipient of such a reproach.

  Never having experienced anything in the way of family feeling, Philippe was impressed. “I see.”

  “Oh, I know, he’s probably right. The minister, I mean. But it’s not Pete’s fault he’s good at cards. And it’s not Pete’s fault if Mr. Johnson gambles away his family’s food money, either. I should think Mr. Harvey—he’s the minister—should be lecturing Mr. Johnson, not Pete. Pete helps his family.”

  “Put that way, I absolutely agree with you,” Philippe averred firmly. He adored her logic. It was so—logical. And she was so charming in her defense of a brother she loved. Although he’d never experienced family unity, Philippe could almost—almost—appreciate it as spoken about by Heather Mahaffey. “Er, do you have a large family, Miss Mahaffey?”

  “I have four brothers and a sister. That’s not as big as some of the families around here, but it’s plenty big for the house we live in. Too big.”

  Philippe chuckled until he realized she was squinting at him, perplexed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Mahaffey. You express yourself in such businesslike terms. I’m not accustomed to young ladies exhibiting such practicality.”

  “Oh.”

  She sat like a lump for a minute, seeming to mull over his statement. Philippe watched her out of the corner of his eye, wondering what she was going to say next. He didn’t have long to wait.

  “I expect most folks out here in the territory are practical, Mr. St. Pierre. If you’re not practical, you don’t last long.”

  “A sensible observation,” he said dryly. “That’s one of the things I like about the territory.” He didn’t elaborate, because he didn’t think Heather would understand how refreshing he found life lived amongst people who didn’t play games with each other.

  Except cards, which was a time-honored masculine pursuit. He grinned, thinking of Heather’s brother Pete. Out here, you were practical, or you were dead. He liked that. It was simple and to the point and left no room for whining, arguing, pussyfooting, or bluffing.

  “I guess it’s kind of rough in the territory,” Heather said, as if admitting to a grievous shortcoming. “My mother says she’ll be glad when civilization arrives. I’ve never been anywhere else myself, so I don’t know what she means exactly, although I read a lot, and I guess lots of other places have more—fanciness.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do. Of course, not everyone admires, ah, fanciness.”

  She sighed. “I wouldn’t mind experiencing a little bit of it myself. Like your house, I mean. It’s so pretty, and well-appointed. I mean, you even have running water indoors.”

  “I see what you mean.” He glanced at her, fascinated. He hadn’t before considered how life must appear to a young woman who’d never lived anywhere but this demanding territory. It was relatively uncivilized out here, he supposed, although there were plenty of churches and schoolhouses in it these days. Too many, if you asked him.

  But the land was still as hard as it had ever been. Philippe scanned the countryside, and a feeling of contentment settled on his soul. “So you’ve learned about the world through books, have you?”

  “Yes.”

  Her color was high, and Philippe hoped he hadn’t embarrassed her. He’d learned about life in a whorehouse, which was much less appealing than learning through books. He didn’t tell her so because he imagined she wouldn’t appreciate it. “But you say your mother is from Ireland?”

  She nodded. “Both of my parents are.” She sighed again, wistfully. “Of course, they’ve told me about Ireland. It sounds like heaven to me. I can’t imagine a place where everything’s always green.”

  Heather glanced at the countryside, as Philippe had just done, and from her expression he judged her soul didn’t appreciate it as his did. That was undoubtedly because she had nothing to compare it with except her parents’ stories—and books. He imagined their stories got more colorful with the passing years. Books, of course, were always exaggerating things.

  Actually, he had to admit this landscape appeared relatively bleak, at least when one first moved here. As Philippe glanced around, he saw not a speck of Heather’s beloved green. And it was April, for the love of God. Yet he knew, because this was his second year in the area, that when summertime came, and the nightly thunderstorms drenched the land—and often covered it with deadly floodwaters—the land would turn green. And the desert would bloom. The territory was a magical place in some respects. Harsh and hard, yet it harbored pretty little flowers in its bosom.

  And then there was the sky. The huge, eternal sky that looked bigger than any other sky Philippe had ever seen. And it was generally decorated with clouds, from bouncy little puffball clouds to looming, threatening thunderheads.

  He was going to make himself sick if he went on in that vein any longer.

  “Um,” Heather said, interrupting his cynical thoughts, “You’re from New Orleans?”

  “Indeed, I am.” He hated talking about New Orleans. Yet again, however, he felt within himself an impulse to tell this girl things. He checked it ruthlessly. He might answer questions if she asked them, because he liked her, but he wouldn’t volunteer anything.

  “I see. I’ve read about New Orleans.”

  Philippe said, “Mmmm.”

  “And about the big celebration there in the spring.”

  “Mardi Gras,” Philippe muttered.

  “Yes. It sounds like fun.”

  “Hmmm.”

  She cleared her throat and gave up on Mardi Gras. “And, um, did you live in New Orleans until you moved to the territory?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Oh.”

  When he glanced at her this time, she looked as if his short answers had quelled her, and he was ashamed of himself. Feeling ashamed of himself was almost as astounding as wanting to tell her things. He relented.

  “No, indeed, Miss Mahaffey, I’ve visited pretty much everywhere in the United States.”

  “Really?” There was a note of wonder in her voice, and her eyes went as big and blue as Texas bluebonnets. “Oh, I’d love to travel someday.”

  “Perhaps you will,” he murmured.

  She heaved a sigh that was almost as big as she was. “I doubt it. It takes money to travel, and I doubt that I’ll ever have any.”

  “Now, now, Miss Mahaffey, what kind of attitude is that?”

  “A practical one,” she said, and laughed.

  Her laugh was lovely. She didn’t titter and she didn’t giggle, but she laughed exuberantly, as she seemed to do everything. Except talk to him. He made her nervous and he wished he didn’t.

  “Have you been to California? I’ve heard a lot about San Francisco. I’d love to see it someday.”

  “Yes, I’ve been there. It’s an interesting city. Booming, I
guess you could call it. Lively. Unrestrained. Full of itself, but with reason. It’s much less stuffy than cities back East.” He grinned, remembering. “I made a lot of money there.”

  “Really? Lucky you.”

  “Luck had something to do with it,” he admitted. “I suspect luck has more to do with one’s circumstances than people like to admit.”

  He realized she’d turned to gape at him, and he said, “What? Did I just utter a blasphemy?”

  “No, it’s only that I’ve never heard anybody but my father say that. Most folks claim luck has nothing to do with anything, and that people make their own luck.”

  “I suppose that’s partly true. I’ve been lucky, though, and I don’t mind admitting it.”

  “My brother says the only thing luck doesn’t have anything to do with is cards.”

  “Ha! The philosophical Pete, I presume.”

  She smiled. “Yes. He says anyone who relies on luck when he plays poker is doomed from the start.”

  He laughed. “I suspect he’s right.”

  Good God, the entire family were philosophers. Must be the Irish in them. Philippe was charmed.

  “Pete works on Mr. Custer’s ranch. I mean, that’s his real job. He doesn’t only play cards.”

  “I see.” Philippe suspected Heather was trying to paint her brother in a more socially acceptable light. Little did she know. Philippe had liked Pete better when he thought he only played cards for a living. “And you say you have three other brothers?”

  “Yes. Poor Henry is six. He’s the baby, and he just broke his arm. But he’s very good at school. He already wants to be a school teacher.”

  “A noble ambition,” Philippe murmured, although he didn’t necessarily believe it.

  “And then there’s Jimmy. He’s eight.”

  “I see. And does he have any discernible talents? Eight is rather young, I suppose.”

  “Actually, he does.”

  Philippe heard the pride in her voice, and was moved. How wonderful, he thought, to come from a large and loving family, the members of which took pride in each others’ accomplishments. He’d never know, although he enjoyed hearing about Heather’s. “And what talents does he display?”