Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  “He’s a wonderful horseman, and he’s also the best tree climber in Fort Summers.”

  Philippe opened his mouth and shut it without saying anything. A tree climber? He didn’t even know what to ask.

  “It’s very handy,” Heather continued, “because he’s small, and he can shinny up the pecan trees and shake the nuts down. He makes good money doing it. Lots of folks hereabouts have pecan orchards. They hire him at harvesting time.”

  “Ah. How enterprising of him.” He meant it sincerely. He’d never lived anyplace where talents such as tree-climbing could be put to money-making pursuits.

  Heather seemed to have overcome her initial shyness. Evidently talking about her family made her expansive. “And my older brother, Jerry, is married to my best friend’s sister, and he has a hardware and saddle shop in town.”

  “Ah, I see. I believe I’ve met him.”

  “Probably. It’s the only hardware store there.”

  “Yes. Then I have met him, but I didn’t know you were related.” He might have. They both had the same blond, blue-eyed good looks. Jerry Mahaffey was a big, burly man, though, and Heather was small and very delicate. Feminine. Lush.

  He cleared his throat. “And you say you also have a sister?”

  “Yes. Patricia. She’s very pretty, and awfully nice. She’s a year older than I am and much nicer. She’s sort of engaged to Will Armistead.”

  “Sort of?”

  Heather shrugged. “They haven’t made it official yet, but as soon as Will’s saved a little more money, they will.”

  “Ah, I see. What is he going to use the money for?”

  “Setting up his household,” Heather said, as if he shouldn’t have had to ask. “And improving his land. He’s a farmer.”

  “I see. So Patricia will be a farmer’s wife.”

  “Right. It’s right up her alley. She loves farming, and she can do anything she sets her mind to.”

  Philippe turned to look at her. “You sound as if you wish you were more like her, Miss Mahaffey.”

  “Oh, I do,” Heather said impulsively. “She’s so good at everything. She can preserve fruits and vegetables, sew and cook and quilt and knit and do all of the things that I’m so dismal at.”

  “You’re not at all dismal at cooking,” Philippe said, his tone chiding. He hoped she wasn’t one of those females who disparaged their own accomplishments in order to garner flattery. If she was, it was the first genuine flaw he’d discovered in her. He was startled when she flushed.

  “Oh, well, I guess I’m all right in the kitchen,” she muttered, as if she didn’t mean it. “But I’m nowhere near as good as Patricia.”

  “That’s difficult to believe.”

  “It’s true.” She sounded grumpy.

  Philippe decided to skip it. They were approaching the village limits of Fort Summers, and traffic was beginning to pick up. Philippe grinned to himself, knowing he was being sarcastic. Traffic in this case consisted of a solitary rider heading their way.

  Heather apparently recognized the rider, because she sat up and shaded her eyes. “Oh, look!” she cried, sounding happy. “There’s Mike Mulligan.”

  Philippe’s eyes narrowed of their own accord. “You sound as if you’re rather fond of this Mike Mulligan.” How had that peculiarly jealous tone crept into his voice? He had no idea.

  “I am.” She was all but bouncing on the wagon bench. “He and I went through school together, and except for Geraldine, he’s been my best friend for years.”

  “I see.” Philippe didn’t approve, and he couldn’t figure out why. It was nothing to him if these two provincial young people were fond of each other. Hell, they could marry and produce a flock of little provincial brats, and it wouldn’t affect Philippe St. Pierre to the slightest degree. Nothing affected Philippe St. Pierre unless he wanted it to.

  But why was he suddenly furious? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Heather sat forward on the seat and began waving madly at the approaching horseman. Philippe was interested to note that the rider, who had been walking his horse along at a meandering pace, plainly not in a hurry, first lifted his head, then shaded his eyes, and then let out a whoop of joy and urged his mount toward the wagon at a gallop. These westerners. They were all remarkably spirited, he’d give them that.

  When the rider, presumably Mike Mulligan, pulled his mount up in a cloud of dust next to the passenger’s side of the wagon, Philippe perceived a gangly youth about the same age as Heather, with a bony, angular face, ruggedly handsome and suntanned, as were all the folks hereabouts. It was hard to avoid a brown skin out here, where the sun seemed closer to the earth than anywhere else Philippe had ever been.

  Even ladies like his traveling companion, who assuredly had a mother hen seeing to it that she always wore a sunbonnet on her pretty hair, had a fair smattering of freckles across her nose. On her, freckles were charming.

  Philippe himself had been given a head start in the brown-skin department, thanks to his origins.

  “Heather!” Mike called, interrupting Philippe’s thoughts, for which Philippe was grateful. Mike was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Mike!” Heather called back.

  Not an original lot, Philippe thought unkindly. Contemplating his origins always made him feel unkind. He had to admit, however, that given the nature of society hereabouts, he didn’t suppose they got much practice in clever repartee.

  Heather, her cheeks pink with pleasure, sat up straight and put on her Sunday manners, which must have been difficult since she had to keep a hand pinned to her bonnet so that it wouldn’t fly away on the wind. “Mike, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Philippe St. Pierre.”

  Mike whipped off his hat and gave a fairly mannerly bow from his saddle. “How-do, Mr. St. Pierre. I’m Mike Mulligan. Pleased to meet you.”

  Philippe removed his own hat and nodded to the young man. “Likewise, I’m sure. And I’m well, thank you.”

  He felt Heather stiffen in her seat and realized he’d sounded bored and stony. Which was, of course, foolish. There was no reason to rebuff this boy. He mentally climbed down from his high horse far enough to add, “On your way out of town, I see.” He smiled one of the smiles he’d practiced through his many years of trying to trick people into believing he was something he wasn’t: An imperturbable and cosmopolitan man of substance and power in the world.

  Mike brightened a bit with Philippe’s shift in attitude. “Actually, sir, I was on my way out to your place. I understand you’re hiring.”

  “Oh, Mike, wouldn’t that be swell!” Heather cried, then slapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean—not swell—it would be grand, is what it would be.”

  Philippe smiled, with genuine amusement this time. Miss Heather Mahaffey used words like “swell,” did she? Little minx. He’d wager her mother tried her best to muzzle her use of such slang.

  However, he wasn’t sure about Mike Mulligan in connection with his spread. He didn’t think he wanted too many handsome young male friends of Heather’s working there and perhaps distracting his personal cook.

  But that was nonsensical. Philippe didn’t care if Heather married all of them. He smiled at Mike. “Do you know Gil McGill, my head wrangler?”

  “Yes, sir. Known him forever.”

  “Talk to him. We are hiring and, depending on your skills, I’m sure we can use you.”

  Mike’s grin was as bright as the sun beating overhead and trying to burn the wind away. “Thank you, sir!”

  “Certainly. We’ve been having a little trouble with cattle disappearing on my spread. I’m sure we can use another good eye.”

  “Rustlers?” Mike appeared startled.

  “Yes. At least, that’s what we suspect.”

  “Golly. Sorry to hear it. Didn’t know we were having those kinds of problems lately.”

  “I fear we are. At least I am.” Philippe gave the boy a regal nod, regretted it because it made him feel old, and said, “Hope to see you aga
in soon.”

  “Good luck, Mike,” Heather added. She was beaming at her friend.

  Philippe tried not to begrudge the easy way she communicated with her rustic acquaintances. After all, they’d grown up together. They would naturally be at ease with each other.

  “Thanks, Heather. See you!” Mike tipped his hat to Philippe and spurred his mount on his way again.

  Philippe realized Heather had turned his way and was gazing at him in a fairly worshipful way. He frowned back at her. “What?”

  “Thank you, Mr. St. Pierre. That was very nice of you. Mike really needs a job now that his father is laid up.”

  Lord, if she made a hero out of him, Philippe didn’t think he could stand it. “I’m sure I need good men to work my ranch, Miss Mahaffey,” he said repressively. “Especially now, with the troubles we’ve been having.”

  Although he despised himself for asking, he said, “You and Mr. Mulligan seem friendly. Are you in love with him, by any chance? Or he with you?”

  She stared at him for a second before she burst out laughing. It took a while before she was able to answer. “G-good heavens, no!” She wiped her eyes, which had started streaming. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “The sir is unnecessary.” His repressive tone didn’t noticeably dampen her amusement. Although her reaction to his question annoyed him, it also soothed his nerves, which had managed to frazzle themselves into an unaccountably ragged condition in the last several minutes.

  “Oh, dear, I’m s-s-sorry,” she stammered then.

  “I guess that answers my question,” he said, grumpy that he’d allowed himself to ask such a thing, even if her answer had pleased him. He was mortally glad when she stopped guffawing.

  She heaved a happy sigh, and Philippe got the impression she didn’t believe his haughty manner as much as he wanted her to. “Do all of your friends need work, Miss Mahaffey?” he asked in order to quell her.

  “Probably.” She sounded neither quelled nor concerned. “There’s not a lot of money here in Fort Summers, and times have been hard since the depression of ‘93. Of course, most of the town is supported by the soldiers at the fort, but unless a fellow wants to clerk in a store or something, he has to work on a ranch. And until you moved out here, most of the ranchers didn’t have steady work, especially as we’ve had a couple of hard winters and dry summers. Even in the best of times, ranching is mostly seasonal. You run a bigger operation than the rest of the ranchers and use more hands.”

  “I see.” Philippe mulled that one over and decided to say what he was thinking. “I’ve been extremely fortunate in my business transactions.”

  “I guess so.”

  Heather sounded uninterested, which didn’t square with what Philippe knew about women. All the females he’d ever known, from his mother on down—or up, depending on one’s perspective—had been interested solely in money. The only reason they consorted with men at all was because men had money, and they wanted it.

  He wondered if little Miss Mahaffey was playing a deep and dangerous game, trying to trick him into believing that she didn’t care about his wealth, or if she was really as ingenuous as she appeared. She might, he supposed, be so much a product of the freedom of the West that she’d escaped developing the money-grubbing tendencies so prevalent elsewhere. He withheld judgment, but he couldn’t suppress a tiny flicker of hope in his bosom.

  Which was insane. What did he, Philippe St. Pierre, who had created himself as a rich and successful entrepreneur out of whole cloth—in effect, making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear—care about this unsophisticated young woman’s basic character? Not a thing, that’s what.

  Still, he couldn’t account for the faint quiver of optimism that took root inside him.

  Chapter Eight

  Heather took one look at Main Street, and her heart sank into her sensible, albeit hand me-down, shoes. She considered pretending to slip off the seat and fall to the floor of the wagon, but rejected the notion immediately. That would only make her seem ridiculous, and she feared that was going to happen soon enough already. No need to rush things.

  But how, oh how, was she going to explain to Geraldine, who was this minute walking towards them on the long wooden boardwalk, that she, Geraldine, was supposed to have gone all the way out to Philippe St. Pierre’s ranch house this morning and helped Heather clean up the kitchen? She was about to start chattering to Philippe in an effort to distract him from Geraldine’s presence, when she realized all hope was lost.

  “Isn’t that your friend?” asked Philippe. “The one at the dance? The one who helped you with the dishes?”

  Heather wasn’t surprised to see that he looked faintly bewildered. “Er, yes. I do believe it is.”

  “She moves fast,” Philippe muttered, and Heather knew he was trying to put two and two together.

  She’d do anything to keep that from happening. Thinking fast, she blurted out, “It’s her horse. Actually, it’s her brother’s horse. He’s really fast.”

  Philippe looked at her strangely. Heather smiled and nodded, attempting to appear innocent.

  “I see.”

  Any lingering hope she’d entertained that Geraldine wouldn’t notice them was dashed by Geraldine’s happy cry of greeting.

  “Heather! Heather, what are you doing in town?” Waving vigorously with one hand, Geraldine picked up her skirts in the other and trotted over to the wagon, which Philippe obligingly pulled up next to the boardwalk.

  “How do you do, Miss—Swift, is it?” Philippe politely tipped his hat to Geraldine, who blushed.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Mr. St. Pierre. And you?”

  A gust of wind almost lifted Geraldine’s bonnet and she had to slap her hand on it.

  Heather blessed the wind for the first time in ages because it distracted both Geraldine and Philippe for a moment. Drat. What was she supposed to do now? Fake it, she supposed. It’s not as if she hadn’t practiced dissimulation before. Shoot, she was always having to talk her way out of mischief and mistakes.

  Putting on a brave front, Heather grinned down at Geraldine. “Hello, Geraldine. We came to town to pick up some supplies.”

  “Oh, good! I’m so glad to see you. I miss you so much—you know, not being able to see you every day and all that.”

  Heather twisted in her seat so that her back was to Philippe and, using all the miming skills in her repertoire, mouthed a message to Geraldine. Geraldine looked completely blank. Blast. Geraldine, unlike Heather, was unpracticed in deception. Which probably came from her having come from a smaller family and one with considerably more money and supervision than Heather did.

  “Thank you for helping me this morning, Geraldine,” she said, and winked wildly at her friend, hoping in that way to convey the message that Geraldine was supposed to play along with her.

  Geraldine only looked confused. “Beg pardon?”

  Heather made a terrible face, patently shocking Geraldine, who took a step backward. “I said, thank you for coming out to Mr. St. Pierre’s ranch this morning and helping me clean up the kitchen after breakfast.”

  “Oh!” Geraldine’s gaze flicked between Heather and Philippe and came back to rest on Heather. “Oh, of course. Any time. Happy to help.”

  She still looked confused. Heather hoped Philippe, who didn’t know Geraldine well, would accept the expression on her face as not being unusual for the generally competent and clear-thinking Geraldine.

  Acting in desperation, Heather turned to Philippe. “May Geraldine accompany us, Mr. St. Pierre?”

  He shrugged. “Of course. The more the merrier.” He sounded bored.

  That was all right with Heather. Let him be bored. Maybe he’d leave her and Geraldine alone for long enough that Heather could explain matters to her friend. Heather’s conscience chided her for attempting to draw her best friend into subterfuge, but she told her conscience to shut up and mind its own business.

  “Thank you,” she said to Philippe. To Geraldine, she said, “C
limb up, and you can ride with us to Mr. Trujillo’s dry-goods store.” She turned quickly to Philippe. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  Oh, dear. Heather didn’t like the ice that had crept into Philippe’s voice, and she feared she’d been overbold. Well, that was neither here nor there. She had to keep an eye on Geraldine until she could be sure Geraldine was in on her scheme. Good heavens, she sounded like a confidence trickster.

  Perhaps she was. Perhaps this was the first step, and subsequent steps would lead her, Heather Mahaffey, on a long and winding descent into true evil.

  She had to stop thinking things like that. She reached down to give Geraldine a hand, and Geraldine scrambled up into the wagon seat. In order for the three of them to fit, Heather had to scrunch up next to Philippe.

  She hadn’t thought ahead enough to realize she’d be sitting so close to him. Indeed, her thigh and his actually touched. Heather, who had never had qualms about a man in her life, having been sort of a tomboy in her youth, now felt her whole body heat in reaction to being pressed against Philippe St. Pierre. Oh, dear, what had she done?

  Last evening’s debacle in the bath house came crashing into her head, and she had sudden, lurid visions of herself, naked, standing posed in front of Philippe St. Pierre like an artist’s model. In her mental image, however, Philippe wasn’t going to paint her. He was going to do other, less banal and more thrilling things. Jehosephat, her mind was slipping.

  Slanting a sideways glance up at him, she discovered his hot, dark eyes looking directly into hers. She got stuck there, staring into his eyes, fancying he could see every salacious thought in her head for a minute before she managed to wrench her gaze away from his. Merciful heavens. She wished she could fan herself, but didn’t dare let him know how much his nearness affected her. Anyway, the wind was doing a good enough job of fanning her face; she guessed she didn’t need a fan.