Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  “Well—” She took a deep breath. “Well, I think it’s fine to invite Mr. and Mrs. Harvey and the Coes and my folks and the rest of these people. But this is the territory, Mr. St. Pierre. It’s not like back East, where everything runs according to some kind of social code that people established decades ago and are still upholding. This is the West, where lots of things are different from back East.” Heather knew it for a fact, because she gobbled up her mother’s periodicals like candy. She could hardly imagine society operating the way it did in some of those stories, but she had no reason to doubt that it did.

  “For instance?” Philippe’s eyebrow had gone up, and Heather swallowed again. She hated when he did that, because it always made her nervous.

  But he’d asked. “For one thing, I think you should invite the school teacher, Miss Grimsby. I know she’s a single lady and it will throw your numbers off, but she’s a leading citizen. And you could invite Miss Halloran, who runs the laundry, and Mrs. Main, who’s a widow lady and runs a boarding house. They all work very hard in Fort Summers, and their good opinion matters a lot. I’m sure they’d be honored to be invited.”

  She lifted her chin, waiting for him to scoff at her. As if a man like him would invite three single ladies to a dinner party at his house. Heather was sure such a thing would be unheard-of in New Orleans.

  “What a good idea. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  She blinked at him. “You mean you’ll do it?”

  “Of course. Why not? They all sound like successful and productive members of Fort Summers society. Two of them are obviously fair businessmen—or businesswomen, if you prefer—and the third is responsible for the education of the town’s children. They’ve each taken on immense responsibilities and have succeeded. Why shouldn’t they be invited to a dinner party given in honor of Fort Summers’ leading citizens?”

  Why indeed? Heather beamed at him. “Thank you, Mr. St. Pierre. I hope this starts a precedent. It’s always irked me that folks don’t treat women business people the same as they treat men.”

  “I see.” His eyes were sparkling with humor, making Heather feel slightly giddy. “And how do you stand on woman’s suffrage, Miss Mahaffey?”

  She felt her cheeks heat, and guessed she’d asked for that one. Nevertheless, she spoke the truth. “I’m all for it. Women do as much work as men, they’re every bit as smart as men, no matter what people want you to think, and if they’ve got the responsibilities, they ought to be making the decisions.” There. Let him fire her if he wanted to.

  “Yours is an interesting outlook. What do you say to those people who claim women aren’t emotionally stable enough to be allowed the vote.”

  “I say they’re fools,” Heather declared hotly, and then wished she hadn’t when Philippe’s smile broadened. “I don’t know any female who isn’t as sensible as any male I know.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t like his attitude. “What about you? Do you think women are stupid?”

  “Far from it.” He didn’t sound as if he considered their lack of stupidity anything to be proud of.

  “You don’t sound as if you’d care to entrust women with the vote.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “In my experience, women are coy, manipulative, and dishonest, actually. I know that sounds brutal, but you asked.”

  Heather couldn’t suppress a gasp of surprise. “Are you serious?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “But that’s absurd. Women are no more coy, manipulative, and dishonest than men are. At least not out here, they aren’t. I don’t know about anywhere else.”

  He waved her protest aside with a flick of an elegant hand. “Perhaps. I only know what I’ve observed.”

  “Well, I haven’t observed anything of the kind,” Heather said, miffed. “In fact, it seems to me that women are far more apt to be sensible and levelheaded than men are. You don’t see women sitting around in saloons, gambling their family’s food money away. Or drinking themselves silly, and then shooting each other.”

  Philippe chuckled. “Put that way, I suppose I’d have to agree with you.”

  They stared at each other in silence for a moment, Heather trying to understand him. He was beyond her limited experience of humankind, though, and she couldn’t do it. Impulsively, she said, “You must have had some awful experiences with women if you think they’re all like that.”

  A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face. Heather jerked a little, startled to see it. Good heavens.

  “I have,” he said shortly, and didn’t elaborate.

  “I see.” Heather paused for a moment, said, “I’m sorry,” and waited.

  Philippe said nothing.

  Although she knew she shouldn’t be probing, she couldn’t seem to hold back another question. “And I suppose most of your bad experiences were in New Orleans?”

  “Most of them.” His eyes had gone hard. “Not all of them, however.”

  “I see.

  She sighed and concluded that revelations were over for the day. She was disappointed. She’d love to know everything there was to know about Philippe St. Pierre. He was a deep one, though, and incredibly reserved. He was totally different from anyone else Heather had ever met.

  She didn’t like it that he mistrusted women, though. “I still don’t think most women are like what you said. I think you’ve just managed to fall in with a bad lot.”

  His lips twisted up at the ends, as if he found her comment funny—in a sick sort of way. “You may be right.”

  “I’m sure I am. Women are no more deceitful or manipulative than men are. Maybe less so, actually. Or if they are, it’s because that’s the only way they have of achieving their goals.”

  Philippe lifted that dratted eyebrow again. Heather was beginning to feel huffy. “Look at it this way, Mr. St. Pierre: If you were denied the right to vote, the right to own property, the right to your own children, for heaven’s sake, if anything happened to your marriage, wouldn’t you do anything you could to get whatever benefits you could? I mean, a man can be a mean, wife-beating drunkard, and the poor wife can’t do anything about it. Unless she shot the son of a gun, and then she’d be the one who’d be punished. Shoot, if a woman divorces a man because he’s a low-down, gambling skunk, he’d be awarded custody of the children. Now, I ask you, is that fair?”

  He gazed at her fully long enough for Heather to realize she’d stepped over a boundary that shouldn’t have been invisible to her if she had any sense. She felt herself flush. “I beg your pardon.” Because she couldn’t help it, she added, “But don’t forget Wyoming Territory. They had enough sense to give women the vote way back in ‘69.” She sniffed and lifted her chin. “Forward-thinking, is what Wyoming is. I wish I could say the same for New Mexico Territory.”

  “I see.”

  “And anyway, women are honest. I’m sure you wouldn’t see a woman rancher trying to sell bad beef to her neighbors.” She was running out of steam in the face of Philippe’s rigid silence.

  Besides, she realized with a bitter spasm in her heart, she had no right to say such things. She was deceiving him and everybody else at the moment. That knowledge in itself negated everything she’d just said about women being as upstanding as men. Bother.

  Because she was an honest girl, and because she was ashamed of herself, she muttered, “But you may be right. In fact, you probably are.” She sighed heavily.

  “Shall we get back to the list?” His voice was icily polite.

  She glanced at him, wondering if she’d ruined herself in his eyes. Probably, and it was no more than she deserved.

  They got back to the list.

  Chapter Eleven

  Several days later, Heather was in a dither. Any minute now, her sister Patricia and her best friend Geraldine were going to show up at Philippe St. Pierre’s kitchen door to help serve at his dinner party. Mr. St. Pierre had hired them for the occasion, muc
h to Mrs. Van der Linden’s disgust.

  Heather was so accustomed to Mrs. Van der Linden’s disgust by this time that the sour old woman didn’t even faze her. She was, however, dreadfully fazed by the possibility of what Geraldine and Patricia would say about D.A. Bologh. He’d managed to keep his presence in Philippe’s kitchen a secret from the rest of the household thus far, but Heather couldn’t imagine how he was going to do it with two other girls popping in and out for serving dishes, platters, and so forth. She’d asked him about it, and he’d only laughed. That hadn’t surprised her, but it hadn’t helped her dither any, either.

  He’d been in the kitchen all afternoon, doing whatever magical things he did to create his succulent meals. Heather kept watching, hoping she’d pick up a hint here or there, but he moved too fast for her.

  “You might as well stop trying so hard,” he told her, an ironical cast to his voice. “You’ll never be able to do the things I can do.”

  “Maybe not, but I might be able to learn to cook something worth eating if I keep watching.”

  “You’d be better off reading cooking books, sweetheart.”

  Heather couldn’t remember when he’d begun calling her sweetheart again, but she no longer objected. She owed him too much; she certainly shouldn’t gripe if he chose to use an endearing term when speaking to her. Except that it didn’t sound endearing coming from his handsome mouth. It sounded faintly contemptuous—which was no more than she deserved.

  One of these days, she was going to prepare a meal on her own.

  Her heart went cold at the thought. That would queer her employment in no time flat, and she knew it. And, as much as it would humiliate her to be fired, even more did she dread losing Philippe St. Pierre’s esteem. For he did esteem her, at least a little bit. Heather, who hadn’t ever before paid much attention to such things, had recognized the signs.

  But why should serving a meal cooked by her own two hands spell her doom? If other people could learn to cook, why couldn’t she? She was as smart as most people. Well, except for Geraldine, but Geraldine was smarter than everybody. It was only because Heather’d had no interest in the craft of cooking up until now that she’d avoided learning it. She’d been rebellious, as well, and too much of what her mother had called a little-miss-know-all.

  She no longer felt the least bit rebellious. And she knew good and well she didn’t know it all. She knew nothing, as a matter of fact. She’d give anything to have her mother here now, teaching her how to do things in the kitchen.

  Her mother might not be able to fix fancy meals like those D.A. Bologh conjured, but the meals she served were prepared with love. Heather very much feared that D.A.’s motivations were far removed from love. She didn’t like to think about what D.A. was eventually going to require from her in payment for his services. She was almost positive that love wouldn’t figure into it in any way, shape, or form.

  A knock came at the back door. Heather cast a quick glance at D.A., who winked at her. Big help that was. With a sigh of resignation, she went to the back door and opened it. There stood Patricia and Geraldine, both avidly gazing around Heather to peek into the kitchen in back of her.

  “Where is he?” Geraldine, up on her tiptoes and squinting behind her spectacles, asked in a hissing whisper.

  “Come in,” Heather said irritably. “Don’t strain your neck or anything.”

  “Geraldine told me there’s some man helping you, Heather. Who is it?” Patricia hurried into the room and looked around in something very nearly resembling glee. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t see anybody.” Geraldine sounded disappointed.

  Surprised, Heather turned to look toward the stove, where she’d last seen D.A. Bologh. He wasn’t there. A quick scan of the rest of the kitchen revealed his absence in all corners.

  “Um, I’m not sure where he went.” Hoping to turn the conversation, she said, “Here, I have a couple of clean, starched aprons for you. I’ll get the food ready to serve.”

  But it was already ready to serve. Somehow or other, in the second or two he’d had while Heather went to open the door, D.A. had managed to set out all the courses artistically in various platters and bowls. There was something awfully uncanny about D.A. Bologh. Every time he did something like this, Heather’s nerves wobbled more.

  “What are we supposed to do first?” Geraldine slipped the snowy white apron on over her dress and tied a big bow in back.

  “Serve the soup. According to Mrs. Van der Linden, you’re supposed to hand everybody their soup plates from the right.”

  “Are you ready in here?” came a grumpy voice from the kitchen door.

  Heather turned to find Mrs. Van der Linden standing there, hands on hips, scowling. She scowled back because she didn’t want the old cow to think she was capable of being intimidated by her. “All ready,” she said.

  “Do you girls know what you’re supposed to do?” Mrs. Van der Linden asked as if she expected them to answer in the negative.

  Patricia nodded. “I’ve been working at Mr. Gleason’s chop house for quite a while, Mrs. Van der Linden. I know how to serve food to people.”

  The older woman sniffed. “Get a move on, then, because the guests are being seated in the dining room right this minute.”

  Heather took a deep, steadying breath. This was it. She almost wished D.A. would show himself again, because she was unsure of how to carry on serving at a big dinner party. But he didn’t show up, so she took charge.

  “Put the soup tureen on this cart, Geraldine. Patricia, the bowls are on the sideboard. You know how to serve the chowder.”

  “Right. After I put two ladles full into each bowl, I sprinkle the top with the chopped chives.”

  “Right. Don’t use more than a half-spoonful or so of the chives, or they’ll overwhelm the delicacy of the chowder.”

  Both Geraldine and Patricia gawked at her for a couple of seconds. Heather shut her eyes, took a deep, sustaining breath, opened her eyes again, and decided not to explain. If a body worked—or sat—around D.A. Bologh for any time at all, one began spouting stuff like that. She couldn’t help it. “All right, get going.”

  The two new arrivals grinned at each other, squared their shoulders, and left the kitchen. Heather watched them, hoping nothing would go wrong.

  “Don’t fret, sweetie pie,” came a voice at her back. She swirled around to behold D.A. Bologh leaning against the far wall of the kitchen.

  “How do you do that?” she demanded, knowing she’d not get any kind of satisfactory answer.

  He only laughed. “I have my ways.”

  Heather shook her head and wished she could start her life over again—next time she’d do it right and either learn to work in a kitchen—or have enough sense never to apply for a job as a cook.

  * * *

  D.A. Bologh couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “Yvonne!” he called. Silence answered his call, and then he couldn’t believe his ears.

  He made a survey of her elegant rooms, provided for her by her wealthy new protector. No Yvonne. Had she gone out? Maybe she’d gone shopping. She’d been pretty reclusive of late, but that didn’t mean she never went out. D.A. made a search of the nearby shops she’d be likely to visit.

  No Yvonne.

  He went back to her house and tore through it like a fury. He didn’t miss a single closet, and he looked under every stick of furniture and rug in the place.

  No Yvonne.

  He stood in the middle of her beautifully appointed parlor and glared around. She’d run out on him. She’d actually managed to drum up enough courage—or desperation—to leave.

  The fool. She knew what to expect by this open rebellion. She’d always been such a vain thing, he was surprised she’d found the fortitude in that pretty little body of hers.

  She wouldn’t get away with it. D.A. knew where she was going. She couldn’t escape him.

  “Bitch!” he shrieked. “I’ll show you what happens when a woman double-cross
es D.A. Bologh!”

  It took the New Orleans Volunteer Fire Department two days to put out the fire.

  * * *

  The dinner party had gone splendidly. Heather’s sister and friend had done an admirable job in serving up the wonderful meal. His guests had raved about the food. Even Heather’s mother and father had been astonished at how delectable the fare was. Actually, they’d seemed, if anything, more surprised than any of this other guests that their daughter was such a master of the kitchen arts.

  Philippe chuckled as he sipped at a snifter of brandy. It was late, and he was feeling satisfied and happy. His mood of contentment surprised him, as it was extremely unusual. For as far back as he could remember, he’d been dissatisfied with something, and more often than not with everything.

  There must be a quality in this territory, isolated and remote as it was, that appealed to his soul, which was isolated and remote, too.

  There was also something about Heather Mahaffey that made him feel good. She not only had a body he still recalled with fondness and severe attacks of libido, but he really liked the wench. She irked him sometimes, when she put forth her opinions about things—women’s suffrage, for example—since she was always remarkably sure of herself.

  He wasn’t accustomed to females possessing strong opinions of their own, especially if they accompanied those opinions with examples. Like men drinking and gambling their children’s milk money away. Philippe grinned, remembering. He was used to females who pretended to embrace the opinions of the men in their lives.

  Not little Miss Heather. She was as spunky and independent as the territory itself. Odd how his territory was isolated and remote, and hers was spunky and independent—yet they were the same place.

  He wondered what his life would be like with someone like Heather in it permanently. He’d never considered marriage as a viable option in his future, because he’d never met a woman he could tolerate. He’d never met one like Heather. But he didn’t think marriage to the redoubtable Heather Mahaffey would be the onerous burden he’d always assumed marriage would be. It certainly wouldn’t be dull. And it would be full of good food.