Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  Fortunately—or, perhaps, unfortunately—Geraldine spoke then, and Heather had to act fast or be discovered.

  “Oh, Heather, this is so much fun. I was afraid I’d never see you anymore once you began working for Mr. St. Pierre. What did you mean when you said— Ow!”

  Geraldine turned and frowned at Heather. “Why did you poke me in the ribs?”

  “Oh, did I?” Heather tittered, which was so unlike herself that she ceased immediately and cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon, Geraldine. I didn’t mean to. Poke you, I mean.”

  “All right. But why did you— Will you stop that?”

  Heather turned so that her face was directly before Geraldine, and mouthed, Don’t ask. I’ll tell you later.

  Geraldine, clearly confused, shrugged. “Very well, but I still don’t understand.”

  Blast! Sometimes Heather wished Geraldine wasn’t so sweet and good. Any one of the members of Heather’s own family would realize that Heather was sending a message not to talk about whatever it was they’d been going to talk about. Not Geraldine. Geraldine, as upright and honest as the day was long, had no practice in trickery. Which undoubtedly made her a better person than Heather herself, but it also made her a dud as a conspirator.

  Nevertheless, Philippe managed to drive the buggy to the dry-goods store and hitch the horses to the rail without further incident. Heather wasn’t sure she’d make it that far without having an apoplectic fit, brought on by extreme nervousness, and dying, but she did. She also wasn’t sure she was glad of it.

  “Here, ladies, allow me to help you down.” Philippe’s deep, low voice sent a creeping fire through Heather, who was still reeling from having to sit so close to him.

  “Thank you, Mr. St. Pierre.”

  Geraldine, too, seemed to be affected by Philippe’s presence. She flushed prettily and took his hand. Heather had to force herself not to frown at the two of them. There was no reason she should resent it that Philippe’s attention was focused entirely on Geraldine. After all, he was being polite. And she’d noticed before that, when he spoke to one, it was as if there was no one else around but the person to whom he was speaking.

  The trouble was, Heather wanted that person to be herself. Which was stupid. She was his cook, not his sweetheart. And actually, she wasn’t even his cook. She was a cheat and a fraud, and she made herself sick.

  She really, really had to get a handle on her nerves.

  “Miss Mahaffey?”

  Heather jumped slightly on the wagon bench. She’d been so caught up in her own black thoughts that she hadn’t realized Philippe had turned from Geraldine to her.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon. I guess I was wool-gathering.”

  “Indeed.” He smiled up at her, and Heather’s heart tripped, fell, picked itself up, and started racing. She wished she didn’t have this reaction to him. It was very uncomfortable. Not to mention unseemly.

  It was all she could do to climb down from the wagon in an almost-dignified manner and alight on the boardwalk. It was impossible to be truly dignified whilst trying to hold one’s skirts and hat and, at the same time, scramble over a dusty wheel and leap out of a wagon.

  Add to that the fact that Heather experienced a mad desire to jump from the wagon into Philippe’s arms, and she didn’t know what to make of herself. Her mother would be shocked. Patricia would be shocked. Geraldine would be shocked.

  Shoot, even Heather was shocked. She’d never had impulses of this improper nature before. Granted she wasn’t the most ladylike specimen in the universe, but she was still a proper female. Or had been.

  She had a sinking feeling that proper females didn’t lie and perpetrate rank deceptions as she was doing, but she didn’t dwell on it.

  The three of them entered the dry-goods store together. Heather managed to maneuver Geraldine over to the notions counter in a far corner after a few minutes, while Philippe talked to Mr. Trujillo. She told Geraldine to pretend she’d been out to the ranch that morning.

  “But why? What’s so important about me helping you clean up the kitchen?” Geraldine’s eyes were large behind her spectacles.

  Heather wished her best friend weren’t so blasted innocent. Or so blasted curious. “Because I couldn’t possibly have done it so fast by myself.”

  Geraldine, whose head had been tilted slightly to the left, now tilted it slightly to the right. “Heather, you’re not making any sense. If you didn’t clean it, who did?”

  Blast! Heather remembered an old saw about tangled webs and deception, and sighed deeply. “I had help.” She didn’t think Geraldine would buy that one without further explanation.

  She was right.

  “Who helped you?”

  Oh, dear. Perceiving that Geraldine was going to be obstinate about this, Heather said, “A gentleman named D.A. Bologh. He’s assisting me in the kitchen.”

  “Then why keep it a secret?”

  “Because Mr. St. Pierre doesn’t know about it, and he doesn’t like strangers in his house.”

  “Then why do you want me to lie and say I, another stranger, am the one who helped you?”

  “It’s not a lie!” Which was, of course, a lie. Heather backed up and started again. “That is, it’s not a lie that I have help. It’s only a lie that the help is you.”

  Geraldine shook her head sadly. “I fear you’re not making any sense, Heather. If you’re ashamed of accepting this Mr. Bologh’s assistance—”

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” Heather hissed, trying to keep her voice low for fear of being overheard. “That is, I am ashamed of needing help.” She huffed impatiently. “Oh, Geraldine, you know how I am in the kitchen. I can’t cook water. I tried to boil some eggs at home and they exploded all over the stove. The whole place stank like sulfur for a week.” She hated admitting all of this, but Geraldine already knew most of it. “Anyhow, I’m a terrible cook. Mr. Bologh is helping me to learn, but Mr. St. Pierre doesn’t know it.”

  “That’s wrong, Heather. You know it’s wrong. You’re working there under false pretenses, and you’re sure to be found out one of these days, and then what do you suppose will happen?”

  “I’ll get fired,” Heather grumbled.

  “That’s right.” Geraldine nodded sharply. “And what if this Mr. Bologh person is really a bad man and is only pretending to be helpful.”

  “That’s folderol.”

  “You don’t know that. He might well be weaseling his way into your confidence so he can then rob poor Mr. St. Pierre blind.

  “He’s not poor.” It was feeble, but Heather felt sort of feeble just then.

  “You’re waffling, Heather Mahaffey, and you know it.” Geraldine looked very stern.

  “Hmph.”

  “And one of these days you’re sure to be found out. Then you’ll bring shame on your family, too.

  Geraldine sounded a little too self-righteous for Heather’s peace of mind. Unfortunately, Heather couldn’t fault her friend’s logic. “I know it, but I needed a job. Besides, it was the wind.”

  Geraldine squinted at her. “What about the wind?”

  “It drove me crazy. It must have, because I know good and well I can’t cook.”

  “Yes, the entire town knows that.”

  “That’s not very nice, Geraldine,” Heather muttered. “Even if it is true.”

  Geraldine took Heather’s arm. “I’m sorry, Heather. But you’ve got yourself in a terrible fix now, and I fear more lying won’t help you much.”

  Heather stared at her friend, appalled. “Oh, Geraldine, you’re not going to tell on me, are you? You can’t do that!”

  “Well . . .”

  “Please, please don’t tell anybody! I’m learning. Honest, I am. Mr. Bologh is teaching me. He’s got to be the best cook in the world, and he’s letting me watch and take notes and everything.”

  Geraldine frowned again. “I’ve never heard of a Mr. Bologh. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. He just showed up.”

  �
��It sounds fishy to me.”

  It did to Heather, too. “What’s fishy about it? I need help. He’s helping.”

  “For free?”

  Heather hesitated before she said slowly, “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  Geraldine was beginning to sound serious again, and Heather didn’t appreciate it. She had enough trouble without her best friend turning on her. “We made a deal. He’d help me, and I’d—” She’d what? She didn’t know yet. Her insides gave a little spasm of dread. “I’d do something for him. Someday.”

  “What? Exactly what are you going to do for him?”

  “I—ah—I don’t know yet.”

  Geraldine slapped a hand to her forehead. “Heather! I can’t believe—”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  Geraldine obliged. She whispered fiercely, “I can’t believe you made a bargain with a total stranger and don’t even know what payment he’s going to exact from you. What if he wants you to—you know.” Geraldine’s cheeks caught fire.

  “I’m sure he won’t,” muttered Heather, who was sure of no such thing.

  “You really are crazy, Heather Mahaffey, do you know that? And the wind has nothing to do with it. Here you are, supposed to be a grown-up woman—you’re twenty-two years old, for heaven’s sake—and you’re behaving like a naughty child. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “If I wanted a lecture, I’d go home and get a good one from my mother,” Heather retorted hotly. “Now, are you going to tell on me, or not?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I thought we were friends.” A lump had grown in Heather’s throat and was now aching. This was all her fault, and she knew it, but she couldn’t bear the notion of Geraldine turning against her. Even if she deserved it.

  “Oh, Heather, of course I won’t tell anybody.” Geraldine gave her a quick hug, and Heather had to fight tears. “But you know as well as I do that this is a foolish thing you’re doing. Perhaps even dangerous.”

  Heather had to yank a handkerchief out of her pocket and dab at her eyes before she could respond. “Thanks, Geraldine. You’re my best friend and always will be.”

  “I know it. Nobody else would put up with you.”

  Heather’s chuckle came out drowned.

  Geraldine sighed heavily. “But I wish you’d reconsider this lunacy.”

  “I will,” Heather said, not meaning it. “Truly, I will.”

  She took Geraldine’s arm, and the two young ladies left the notions counter. She saw Philippe directing Joe, Mr. Trujillo’s fourth son, to take some large sacks, presumably containing flour or sugar or something else she didn’t know what to do with, out to the wagon.

  When she glanced to her right, she stopped dead in her tracks.

  “What is it?” Geraldine asked, startled by Heather’s abrupt halt.

  “That’s him,” Heather whispered.

  D.A. Bologh stood leaning against the far wall, grinning his evil grin, and stroking his wicked black mustache. He winked at Heather, and her heart stood still for a moment. She was afraid of that man, and she couldn’t understand why.

  “That’s who?” Geraldine blinked at Heather.

  “That’s Mr. Bologh. Mr. D.A. Bologh.”

  “It is? Where?”

  Heather glanced at her friend and said, “Over there.” When she turned her head again, he was gone. She looked around the room, feeling something akin to hysteria growing in her. “At least—I know he was there. Against that wall. He’s here somewhere. He’s got to be.”

  But he wasn’t. Everywhere Heather looked in the dry-goods store, D.A. Bologh wasn’t.

  Geraldine shook her head sadly. “It’s your guilty conscience playing tricks on you, Heather. You know what Mr. Harvey always says.”

  Yes, Heather knew. Mr. Harvey always said that a man’s sins would find him out, and that the Lord would exact payment for every iniquitous deed.

  “But I’m not wicked,” she all but whimpered.

  “Nobody starts out wicked,” Geraldine lectured in her gentlest tone. “One’s sins pile up so subtly that one isn’t even aware of them. Then, one day, a body wakes up to find herself the possessor of a black heart and a soul that’s headed straight to perdition.”

  “I’m not that bad.”

  “No.” Geraldine sighed heavily. “Not yet you’re not. But you soon will be. You’re behaving in a reckless and misguided manner, and you know it.”

  “I know it.”

  Heather was utterly demoralized and completely miserable when she climbed back into the wagon, waved good-bye to Geraldine, and Philippe and she set out to return to the ranch.

  * * *

  In a tall, elegant mansion with gingerbread trim and frothy wrought-iron balcony railings, D.A. Bologh stroked Yvonne St. Pierre’s silky cheek.

  “It’s time to pay, sweetheart,” he said.

  The beautiful Octoroon uttered a guttural, “Bah! I’ve been paying for decades.”

  D.A. chuckled softly. “Oh, but not enough, my sweet. The time’s come for the final tally.”

  She jerked away from him as if his touch sickened her. Which, by this time, it did. At first, the bargain she’d struck had seemed merely sensible. She knew good and well that a woman like her only lasted as long as did her looks. And, thanks to the deal she’d struck with D.A. Bologh so many years ago, her looks were superb.

  But she was sick of it all. That wretched bargain, which had done so well by her in the way of appearance and fortune, had cost her too much in the long run. It had, in fact, cost her everything she’d ever truly valued in her life. Knowing it, her heart ached.

  “What in the world do you mean, the final tally?” she asked testily. “You’ve already got my body and soul and everything else of mine.”

  “Not quite everything.” He twirled his mustache, grinning like the devil.

  “I’d like to know what else I have that you don’t have access to.”

  At first it seemed he wasn’t going to answer her. He said softly, “I’ve been traveling a lot lately. You know, seeing the country and all that.”

  “So what?” She flung herself down onto a velvet love seat and drew her brilliant red—she looked particularly stunning in red—silk Chinese wrapper more tightly to her high, firm bosom. Yes indeed, not only was her face still beautiful, but she had the body of a woman a third her age.

  D.A. shrugged. “You know how much I like to travel. I like to keep on the move.”

  “Right.” She glared at him, not bothering to hide her loathing. Her open hostility only amused him, but she didn’t care any longer. There was only one thing she’d ever cared about, and that had been denied her for so long she barely remembered any longer. “And you’ve been at it for a long time, too. I’m surprised there’s anywhere you haven’t been yet.”

  “There isn’t, really, but things change with time. I never know what, say, Egypt is going to look like from one visit to the next. Or America. America’s changed a lot.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “For instance, I’ve been interested in several of the western territories. It used to be there was nothing but cactus and creosote out there in, oh, for example, southern New Mexico Territory.”

  “And there’s more there now?” She didn’t believe it. She’d read tales about the Wild West and as far as she was concerned, the dime novelists could have it.

  “Oh, much more.” D.A. strolled over and sat next to her. Reaching out, he gently pushed the silk wrapper aside and gazed greedily at Yvonne’s breasts.

  She shut her eyes, wishing for at least the ten-thousandth time that she didn’t have to do this anymore.

  “For instance, there are a lot of cattle ranches in that part of the territory now. Folks are moving there all the time for their health, as well. The dry air is alleged to be good for consumptives.” He leaned closer and flicked her nipple with his tongue.

  This was part of the bargain, and Yvonne knew it—and h
ated it. As much as she abominated this fiend from hell, the minute he put his hands on her, she was aroused to the point of near insanity. She squirmed and tried to draw away, but he only chuckled.

  “I don’t care about cows,” she said, close to tears. Eternal youth and beauty and sexual allure seemed to her now to be pitifully petty things for which to sell one’s soul.

  “No? But you might care about a gentleman down there who has a whole flock of them. Or is that a herd? I forget the vernacular.” D.A. pushed Yvonne’s wrapper off and began feasting on her luscious body. It was his, after all.

  “I don’t care about cowboys, either,” she said, writhing in spite of herself.

  D.A. stood and stripped quickly. A moment later, he was buried inside of her and thrusting deeply as she met each thrust with a wild lift of her hips.

  “But this particular gentleman’s last name is St. Pierre.”

  Yvonne’s eyes flew open, and she saw D.A. looming over her, grinning evilly—which was the only way he could grin. “What?” she panted, near her climax.

  “Yes, indeedy, sweetheart. A Mr. Philippe St. Pierre. Folks say he came originally from New Orleans.”

  Yvonne’s release came along with her scream of anguish. She cried for hours after D.A. left her. Of course, not a speck of her distress showed the next morning when her latest protector, a northerner who’d opened a large tobacco processing plant nearby, joined her for breakfast.

  She wished she could die. Unfortunately, even that pleasant option was now denied to her, thanks to the bargain she’d struck with D.A. Bologh when she was only a girl.

  * * *

  Heather knew something strange was afoot as soon as she stepped inside the house. The journey back to the ranch from town hadn’t been as dismal as she’d feared. Philippe had seemed to be in a good mood, and she shortly managed to put Geraldine’s dire warnings and predictions for Heather’s future behind her.

  By the time they’d entered the ranch yard, she’d almost convinced herself that everything would work out just fine in the end. She only had to pay close attention to D.A. Bologh and learn from him. If she was never as good a cook as he, she could probably become fairly competent if given enough time. And lots of luck.