Cooking Up Trouble Page 15

  “That wasn’t your fault. You discovered the problems as soon as any man could.”

  “Still and all, I wouldn’t feel comfortable accepting more money from you under the circumstances.”

  Philippe eyed him for a moment. “You’re an honorable man, Gil McGill. Until I moved West, I hadn’t met very many of those.”

  Gil shuffled uncomfortably. “Hell, I’m no more honorable than most of the guys who live around here.”

  “I know.” Philippe smiled. “That’s what’s so astonishing about this territory.”

  Gil returned his grin. “I reckon you might have a point there.”

  Philippe had a feeling Gil had clipped off a “sir” at the end of his statement. He wondered if he’d ever get the lad to relax around him.

  Good Lord, what was the matter with him? First he falls in lust with his cook, and now he was hoping to make friends with his wrangler. Maybe he was changing.

  Since he’d always been a loner, he feared any changes of that nature would weaken him, and he steeled his heart. He was only moderately successful when he contemplated tomorrow’s meeting with Heather to review the menu and the guest list for his party.

  With a heavy sigh, he gave up struggling to make sense of anything and went to bed.

  * * *

  The next morning dawned clear and bright, and as windy as three hurricanes. Cowboys pulled their bandannas up over their noses even before they mounted their horses. Horses hung their heads against the blowing grit and looked miserable. The chicken house blew down, and all the chickens panicked. Gil McGill and some of his men rushed to store the chickens in the barn until they could right the chicken house once more. They did so, and reinforced it, but not one man on the place felt very optimistic that it wouldn’t blow over again.

  “Maybe we should set the anvil on it,” suggested one man.

  Gil shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt, I reckon.”

  Heather, watching and listening to the action from the back door—while trying to hold her skirts down with her hands—shook her head. “Shoot, I wish the wind would stop blowing. Just for a little while.”

  “It’s a devil wind, dear heart, and it won’t stop for a while yet.”

  She turned and frowned at D.A. Bologh, who was grinning at her from his seat at the kitchen table.

  “What do you know about devil winds?” she asked, not politely. She was finding it more and more difficult to be polite to D.A. Bologh.

  “More than you’d ever imagine, Miss Heather.”

  She sniffed. “I’m not surprised.”

  D.A. laughed. She wasn’t surprised about that, either.

  A few minutes later, she stood in Philippe’s library, cleared her throat, and referred to her list. She wished she could pronounce some of the words better. D.A. had drilled her, but she still wasn’t very good with the French.

  Philippe St. Pierre smiled at her from his big leather chair behind his huge mahogany desk. He carried out the ranch business from that big desk, and he carried it out well, if Heather was any judge. He was sure more successful than most of the businessmen in Fort Summers. He seemed a little tense this morning, but Heather was too tense herself to wonder much about that.

  “Go ahead, Miss Mahaffey. I’m interested to know what you’ll be serving my guests.”

  “All right.” She ran her tongue over her lower lip and wished she’d had the foresight to take a drink of water. She was dry as dust, and could hardly talk. She talked anyway. “What I suggest is that we start with something not too fancy. People in these parts aren’t used to eating fancy food.”

  “Good idea.”

  She glanced up sharply from her list. He’d sounded amused, and she didn’t particularly care to be laughed at. He appeared serene and obliging, and she guessed she’d imagined it. She went on. “So, all right. The soup course won’t be awfully fancy. A corn chowder with a sprinkling of chives should do it.” She glanced up again to see how that one had gone over. Philippe nodded, relief flooded her, and she continued.

  “All right. That would be the first course, I guess.” You guess? You fool, you’re supposed to be the cook! Heather took a deep breath and said quickly, “That is to say, the corn chowder is the first course.”

  “Right.”

  He thought she was an imbecile; she knew it. Heather didn’t fault him for that. She thought so, too. She took another breath and continued. “The main course would be roast beef with Yorkshire pudding.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Good. I like that. It’s not—French.” He waved his hand in the air in a dismissive gesture.

  She peered at him hard for a moment, trying to ascertain what that comment had meant. Did it mean he liked French food, or that he didn’t?

  Oh, pooh, what did it matter? She couldn’t cook one way or the other. After licking her lips once more, she went on. “Along with the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, I was thinking we should serve wild asparagus spears with an oil and herb vinaigrette.” Whatever that was. At least she knew what asparagus was and where it grew.

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “Yes, and then, of course, there will be potatoes. Since folks will probably want to use the roast beef gravy on their Yorkshire pudding, I was thinking a gratin of potatoes a la Savoyarde might be appropriate. Do you think that would be all right?”

  She knew, because D.A. had told her, that the last dish was potatoes sliced thin and baked in the oven with cheese and onions. Sounded pretty good to Heather, and she couldn’t imagine how anybody could object, although not everyone shared her taste for onions, as she’d learned earlier. She held her breath and waited for Philippe’s judgment.

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  Heather was beginning to breathe a little more easily. “And then for dessert, I thought a nice pecan parfait. With whipped cream.” Heather had never heard of anyone whipping cream until D.A. had told her good cooks did it all the time. It sounded like a terrible waste of cream to her—after all, cream was supposed to be used for butter and for fattening up the youngsters. Sweetening cream, whipping it up, and serving it on top of an already sweet dessert was pure decadence. But D.A. always seemed to have ample supplies of butter, and there weren’t any youngsters around the ranch that needed fattening.

  “Marvelous. I think you’ve outdone yourself, Miss Mahaffey. I can’t imagine anyone not enjoying that meal.”

  She expelled a huge gust of breath. “Good. Thank you.”

  “And now do you have another moment or two to go over the guest list?”

  “Um, certainly, I have plenty of time.” The good Lord knew, she wasn’t needed in the kitchen.

  She was nervous as a cat when Philippe drew up a chair across the desk from him, although she knew she was being silly. After all, there was six feet of mahogany separating them. Even if she succumbed to her urge to fling herself into his arms, she couldn’t do it. Safe from her own improper impulses, she managed to concentrate on the guest list.

  “I’ve prepared a preliminary list. Here it is,” Philippe said, handing her a sheet of paper. “See what you think.”

  Heather was interested to discover that Philippe’s handwriting was as elegant as he was. Upright and faintly foreign-looking—although how she’d decided that, she had no idea having no experience at all with foreigners—it was sort of spidery and quite pretty. She’d always been secretly proud of her own cursive, but his was every bit as handsome.

  In her experience, the male of the species generally scrawled. Her big brother Jerry, acknowledged to be the possessor of a fine brain, had handwriting that looked as if it had been put on the paper by a drunken tarantula. Not Philippe St. Pierre. She got the impression his handwriting was only one more intensely controlled aspect of his personality. She stopped thinking about his cursive when two names leapt out at her.

  “Oh, you’re going to invite my parents?” She couldn’t help but be pleased. She’d never considered her parents as being among the upper echelons of Fort Summers’ socie
ty. Not that there was an upper echelon.

  “Certainly. Your father’s the finest storyteller I’ve ever met. If things slow down and threaten to get dull, I’m sure he’ll pick them right up.

  She laughed spontaneously for almost the first time since she’d met Philippe St. Pierre. “That’s Pa, all right. You won’t have to worry about breaking the ice, either, because everybody already loves him.”

  “An admirable quality.”

  Heather tried to ascertain from his demeanor if he was teasing or mocking. She couldn’t tell. “It is, you know. Pa is kind of a human equivalent of the Equalizer, only much better, because he doesn’t hurt anyone.” The Colt Equalizer had become a legend in the West shortly after its introduction. And it did, indeed, level out a man’s position in society, being completely neutral as to who it killed. “And he brings folks together. Rich, poor, in between, Pa doesn’t care, which is a good thing, because he’s as poor as a church mouse. He just loves people.”

  Philippe chuckled. “A very admirable quality. And one I fear I don’t share with him.”

  From the way he frowned after he said it, Heather judged he hadn’t meant to divulge the latter sentiment. “You don’t like people?”

  His smile seemed cynical and world-weary, and she guessed she shouldn’t have asked. “I fear no one would mistake me for a saint or a particular benefactor of humankind, Miss Mahaffey. I suppose my talents, if any, lie elsewhere.”

  And that put her in her place quite nicely, Heather thought. She wasn’t offended because she knew she’d stepped into personal territory—and she was only the cook. Or, that is to say, she was supposed to be only the cook.

  “We all have our special individual skills, I reckon,” she said, hoping to make him feel better. Then she took herself to task for being silly. Again. As if this rich, sophisticated man needed any help from her in feeling good about himself.

  “Yes, I believe you may be right about that.” Philippe rattled the list impatiently. “So you think your parents will enjoy the dinner party?”

  “Oh, my, yes. My mother’s always happy when she doesn’t have to feed the brood. Not that she doesn’t love us,” Heather added quickly. “But she’s been working awfully hard for a lot of years.”

  “Yes, I can see how an evening out might be welcome to her.”

  Heather couldn’t account for the slightly quizzical expression on Philippe’s face.

  “This territory is hard on a man, but it must be hell on a woman,” he continued.

  The comment went a ways toward explaining his quizzical expression. “Mercy, yes.” She sighed. “Ma loves Pa and the rest of us, but I know she looks forward to getting periodicals from back East and in catching up with the rest of the world. It all seems so far away, you see. Of course, by the time the magazines arrive, they’re six months’ old as a rule, but they’re still fun to look at. If it weren’t for the telegraph, nobody’d ever know what was going on in the rest of the world until months after it’s happened.”

  When she glanced up, Philippe’s gaze was boring into her, and he looked extremely curious. Shoot, when would she learn to keep her big mouth shut? Probably never. She heaved another sigh.

  “Where do your parents hail from, Miss Mahaffey? Where in Ireland, I mean.”

  “Dublin, originally.” She eyed him keenly, judged that his curiosity was unfeigned, and opened her mouth again in spite of herself. “They were poor in Ireland, too. According to Pa, everybody’s poor in Ireland except the English, and it’s better to be poor in America than in Ireland any day, what with the famines and oppression and all. They came to the United States in ‘68 and spent about a year in New York City. There weren’t very many opportunities there, according to Pa, and it was dirty and crowded and smelly. That’s when they decided to take advantage of the Homestead Act to secure some land, and they moved to the territory.”

  Philippe nodded. “I see. So now he has land of his own. That means a lot to a man.”

  Heather hastily scanned his face, and judged the comment had been heartfelt. So, he’d aspired to land ownership and independence, just like the rest of the mere mortals on this earth, had he? Interesting. “Yes. They never could have owned property in Ireland, according to Pa.”

  “I’ve heard the same thing from others.”

  “Of course, we’re poor here, too. But, as Pa says, at least we’re poor on our own land and nobody can take it away from us. Besides, most everybody else is poor, too.” She cast a hasty glance at Philippe. “Well, most folks are poor. Not all of them.”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  His smile had its usual effect on her, and she discovered her hands crumpling the list. She caught herself in time to keep from ruining it, and cleared her throat. “So, all right, my mother and father. Check.” She smoothed out the paper and made a tick mark next to her parents’ names. “And I think it’s a good idea to invite the sheriff and his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Coe are very nice people, and it’s good to get to know them.”

  She judged by his lifted eyebrow that he’d like to know why it would be good to get to know the sheriff, so she continued. “He’s a rancher, too, you see, as well as the sheriff, and he gets all the bulletins and telegraph messages from other parts of the country before anyone else does. He’s always the first to know any news that’s likely to affect other ranchers in the area.”

  “That makes sense.”

  She noticed that his brow had furrowed slightly, and guessed the cause. “I asked Mike Mulligan if Mr. Coe had received any telegraph messages about recent problems with rustlers, and Mike said he hadn’t. And Mike would know.”

  “You read my mind, Miss Mahaffey.”

  He smiled at her, and Heather felt her heart begin palpitating wildly. After licking her lips, she said, “Well, I imagined you’d be interested in that sort of news, given what’s been happening around here.”

  “Indeed. And it’s nice to know that the sheriff keeps folks informed of potential problems, even though my problem is evidently personal in nature.”

  “Personal?” Heather didn’t like the sound of that.

  Philippe gave what she expected was a very French shrug. It didn’t look like a regular, old, every-day American one to her, at all odds. “I expect it must be, since none of the other nearby ranchers are having like problems.”

  Forgetting all about the effect Philippe had on her in her surprise at his words, Heather gasped. “You mean somebody has it in for you? Because you’re you?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “Like a grudge or a feud or something?” She’d read about blood feuds, although they’d always seemed to her like a mortally stupid way of solving a problem.

  “Either that, or there’s a vandal in the neighborhood.”

  “A vandal?” She knew she ought to know what a vandal was, but she didn’t remember. A vague impression of Mongol hordes tramped into her brain, but she was sure that wasn’t it. Where was Geraldine when Heather needed her?

  “Someone who wantonly destroys other people’s property.”

  “Oh.”

  “But if it were a mere vandal, I expect he’d be picking on others besides me.”

  “Right. It would be less dangerous that way, I reckon. I mean, if he spread out, folks would be less apt to catch him, because you’d be sure to set out men to watch.”

  “Exactly. Although,” Philippe said, sounding unhappy, “so far the watchmen haven’t come up with anything.”

  Heather shook her head. “I don’t understand it. Gil told me they got your fences last time.”

  “Yes.” Philippe seemed to shake himself out of a mood. “But that’s neither here nor there. As I said, I’m glad the sheriff is privy to reports of problems that might be headed this way.”

  Taking her cue from him, Heather decided not to discuss his problems further. She nodded. “Oh, yes. Why, I recall that when there was an outbreak of anthrax in west Texas, Mr. Coe found out about it first and warned everybody
in this area not to get suckered into buying any cheap Texas cattle.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Some of the Texas ranchers tried to sell off their herds quick, in case the anthrax had spread to their animals. Of course, if any of the sick cattle had come here, all of the local herds would have been vulnerable. In fact, Pa tells about when there was an anthrax outbreak and the territorial government had entire herds destroyed.”

  “Good God, that’s drastic action.” Philippe’s eyes opened wide, and Heather felt herself sinking in her chair.

  She jerked upright instantly. “Yes, but there’s no other way to stop it.”

  “I see.”

  “But Mr. Coe and his timely information prevented anybody from being duped.”

  “Hmmm. Foisting sick cattle onto fellow ranchers doesn’t sound like a very honorable thing to do.”

  Heather shrugged. “It’s not.”

  “I thought there was a so-called Code of the West, and that everybody living out here was upright and honorable.”

  Heather squinted at him. “You’re joshing me, aren’t you?”

  He laughed. “Perhaps, a little. But I really am surprised to discover that people out here are as dishonest as the rest of the world.”

  “I don’t know that they are. Out here, folks need each other so much that it doesn’t pay to try to play mean tricks. But I reckon folks are apt to do almost anything when it means the difference between losing everything and salvaging something. It’s not nice, but it’s human.”

  “I expect you’re right.” He didn’t sound as if he much approved of human nature.

  Heather didn’t imagine a rich man needed to. Rich folks could afford to stand on their principles a lot more easily than poor folks could. She knew it shouldn’t make a difference, but it did. She’d learned from the cradle to be practical. She went back to the list.

  “I think this is a fine list, Mr. St. Pierre.” She frowned at it, however, dissatisfied, but not feeling free to express herself.

  She was surprised when Philippe said, “What’s wrong, Miss Mahaffey? Please tell me. If I didn’t want your opinion, I wouldn’t have asked for it.” He smiled at her, and Heather steeled her nerves to withstand her reaction to him. Then she swallowed and decided he meant it.