Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  Nodding, Geraldine said, “I believe it was a flesh wound and not serious.” Perceiving that Heather was in sad shape, she rushed on. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Heather. I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m sure he’ll be all right. Would you like me to go with you to see?”

  “Yes, please.” Heather nodded. She felt numb. She felt that, somehow or other, these incidents had something to do with her. Oh, she knew she wasn’t important enough for God to pay any particular attention to her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling anyway.

  The two young women walked the half-mile to Heather’s parent’s three-room house at the west end of town. It was an unprepossessing place, but the Mahaffeys had reared six children in those three rooms. They’d never had much in the way of physical possessions or wealth, but they’d grown up with an abundance of humor and love.

  Heather found herself alternately praying and crying as she walked. As she wasn’t a woman who succumbed easily to tears, she was embarrassed by this weakness. Geraldine tried to comfort her, to no avail.

  Unfortunately, Heather couldn’t tell even Geraldine, her best friend in the whole world, what her problem was. If she did, then Geraldine would think she was crazy, as Mr. St. Pierre did, and Heather didn’t think she could stand that.

  She was cheered slightly when she perceived her father, his left arm in a sling, sitting in a chair under the huge pecan tree that shaded the house. She even managed a small smile.

  “Good old Pa,” she said to Geraldine. “It’s blowing a gale out here, and he’s sitting under the pecan tree. I’ll wager if you asked, he’d say he’s enjoying the weather. He loves to be out of doors.”

  “Your father is such a nice man, Heather. You’re very lucky.”

  The wistfulness in Geraldine’s voice surprised Heather, and she turned to stare at her friend for a moment. It had never occurred to her to consider herself lucky, as compared to Geraldine, whose family was ever so much better off than her own. But Geraldine was right about Heather’s father. He was a jolly, cheerful, good man, even if he was poor, and he’d made the lives of his children happy.

  “Heather, me love!” he called when he caught sight of the girls. “It’s about time you came to visit your old man!”

  “Oh, Pa!” Weeping freely, Heather ran the last several yards to her father’s chair, heedless of the wind whipping her skirts up around her knees. Geraldine followed at a more discreet pace.

  “Pisht, child, what are those tears for?”

  “Oh, Pa, when Geraldine told me you’d been shot—shot—I couldn’t believe it!”

  He winked at her and smiled at Geraldine. “Sure, and ‘twas an adventure.”

  “An adventure?” Heather uttered something that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a sob. “Only you would consider being held up and shot an adventure, Pa.”

  “Aye, I suppose you’re right, lass.” He hugged her hard with his good arm. “And ‘tis a good thing the villain didn’t put the slug in me right arm, or he might have done me more harm. As it is, all I have to worry about is a little hide off of my left shoulder. I can still use my right hand and arm, and that’s the important one.” He shared his wink with both girls this time. “The right’s the one I lift me glass with, don’t you know.”

  “Oh, Pa!” Crying and laughing at once, Heather didn’t notice the man who’d walked around the side of the house with her mother. What she noticed was that suddenly Geraldine, who had been smiling as she observed the touching scene between father and daughter, gasped and went as stiff as a board. Then she looked up.

  And saw Philippe St. Pierre.

  He was walking toward them with her mother, and he was looking straight at Heather, his hot gaze making her dizzy for a moment. She tried to hide her condition by gripping the back of her father’s chair. That worked, so she attempted a smile. That worked, too, and she believed she might survive this encounter—depending on why Mr. St. Pierre was here.

  If he’d come to tell her folks that she’d gone crazy and would have to be locked up in the insane asylum, Heather feared she might die here and now. And if she didn’t, she’d just have to borrow a gun from one of the boys and shoot herself, because she’d never live it down.

  “Heather!” her mother cried, and rushed over to hug her, then whirled on Geraldine and hugged her, too. “And Geraldine Swift. You don’t come see us nearly enough.”

  Geraldine, who evidently wasn’t used to exuberant displays of emotion from her own family, flushed. “It’s good to see you, Mrs. Mahaffey. I’ve been working at my father’s hotel most days and at the chophouse in the afternoons. I haven’t been able to visit much.”

  “Well, and it’s a delight to see you today, dear. And our lovely Heather.” Mrs. Mahaffey hugged her daughter again. “But Geraldine, you must say how-de-do to Mr. St. Pierre, too.”

  Both girls did so, Heather with what she hoped was a significant smile, Geraldine with her usual shy reserve.

  Thank God, thank God. Evidently Philippe hadn’t spilled the beans yet, or her mother wouldn’t be so happy to see her. “Oh, Ma, I had no idea what had happened until Geraldine told me. Why didn’t you send one of the boys to tell me?”

  “We didn’t want to worry you, dear.”

  “I’d like to have known, though.” A little bit of her hurt leaked into Heather’s voice. She didn’t like not being in the bosom of her family.

  Her mother backed away, snatched a handkerchief from her pocket, and wiped her eyes. “Oh, Heather, it was awful.”

  “It sounds like it. Do you have any idea who held you up?”

  “No. We couldn’t see his face.”

  Her father put in, “The lad had a bandanna pulled over his lower face, just like you read about in those novels you love so well, child. It was a queer bandanna—looked like a dish towel.”

  “Aye, it did,” confirmed Mrs. Mahaffey

  “Mercy,” Heather whispered.

  “But he had the lightest, bluest, wickedest eyes I’ve ever seen,” said her mother. “And hair as black as soot.”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Mahaffey, “And I think he had a mustache.”

  “How could you tell?” Heather’s insides had begun to get cold.

  Her father shrugged and then winced. “I don’t know how it was, but I think he had a mustache.”

  “Oh.” The highwayman sounded suspiciously like D.A. Bologh to her.

  But that was stupid. Nobody could be in two places at once, and D.A. had been in the kitchen with her. Heather pressed a hand to her eyes for a second and wished her life would stop being in such a turmoil.

  Not that she didn’t deserve it.

  “Mr. St. Pierre was kind enough to ride over here as soon as he heard about your father’s accident, and to ask if there was anything he could do to help us.” Mrs. Mahaffey had to wipe her eyes again.

  Heather was touched. “Thank you, Mr. St. Pierre.” The thanks came from her heart—and for more than one act of kindness on his part. He clearly hadn’t tattled on Heather, and she was as grateful for that as she was for his solicitude toward her family.

  He bowed slightly. It had been so long since Heather had been the recipient of his courtly manners that she feared she might have gaped slightly.

  “It was nothing, Miss Mahaffey.” He nodded at Geraldine. “Miss Swift. It’s a pleasure to see you today. This gives me the opportunity to thank you once again for assisting at my dinner party the other night.”

  “Oh—oh, thank you. I mean, it was nothing. I mean—” Geraldine, who was usually the most poised of young women, turned brick red and shut up.

  Heather knew that it was only to be expected of the folks who’d lived in Fort Summers for years to visit neighbors in distress. But Philippe was a relative newcomer. The fact that he’d bothered to pay a call on her parents touched her heart. Not that her heart hadn’t already been touched by Philippe. With an internal sigh, she turned to her mother.

  “How’s Henry?” The lad had broken his arm a month ago. Heather ha
dn’t seen her family in that time, except during Philippe’s dinner party. She missed them.

  “Ach, he’s gettin’ right along,” said her father. “He’s a sturdy lad.”

  “Aye, he is.”

  Mrs. Mahaffey seemed inordinately happy, given the injuries that had lately plagued her family. Heather eyed her for a minute, wondering. Then she glanced at Philippe, who was gazing off into the distance as if he were bored by the proceedings, and she ceased wondering.

  But that bored, world-weary stance was a pose. She knew it in her bones. He was here to help her family. She wasn’t sure how to feel about it, either. The good Lord knew, her family needed help. Still, the notion of accepting charity galled her.

  She reached into her pocket, withdrew a leather pouch, and handed it to her mother. “Here, Ma. I saved my pay. You can use it to help pay Doc Grady. I’m sure we owe him even more now that Pa’s had to be bandaged up.” She stooped quickly and kissed her father.

  “Ah, Heather,” Mr. Mahaffey said, “you’re a good daughter.”

  Mrs. Mahaffey sniffled. “Thank you, Heather. You are a good daughter.”

  Now she was embarrassed. “Nonsense. We’re family.”

  That said it all, and both Heather and her parents knew it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Intrigued, Philippe watched the Mahaffeys interacting. He’d never seen anything like it. They genuinely loved and cared about what happened to one another.

  How odd.

  Philippe’s experience of families had led him to understand that the members therein were akin to sucking parasites, forever trying to drain a body of his independence, self-respect, and spirit. Of course, Philippe had never known his father. Perhaps that might have made a . . .

  But no. It wouldn’t have mattered. There was no getting away from the circumstances of his birth. His mother probably didn’t even know who his father was. And the fact that he’d been reared in a whorehouse by a woman who cared more for her looks than for him had made an indelible mark on him. That was his kind of family.

  Not the Mahaffeys. The Mahaffeys actually, really and truly, loved each other. He shook his head and butted into the conversation. “Actually, Miss Mahaffey, I was here to ask your parents to allow me to pay the doctor for assisting your father.”

  Geraldine goggled at him.

  Heather did, too, although she ceased almost at once, drew herself up as straight and tall as possible, and planted a frown on her face. Philippe experienced a weird mixture of exasperation and amusement when he realized she was going to try to refuse his offer. As if any Mahaffey could afford to refuse a good turn.

  “We can take care of our own, Mr. St. Pierre, but thank you very much for the kind offer.” She looked like she wanted to pop him one.

  “Ach, Heather,” her father muttered. “It’s a stiff-necked lass you are.”

  “Heather, please,” her mother pleaded. “Mr. St. Pierre explained it all to us already.”

  “Explained what all to you?” Heather demanded

  Philippe stepped in. “Unfortunately, Miss Mahaffey, it seems that my dinner party was the trigger to a series of unfortunate events, and I feel responsible for them.”

  “Fiddlesticks. It’s not your fault there are robbers and coyotes loose. And ruts in the road. And things to trip over. And—and, well, cats die. Everything dies. Eventually.” She got a perplexed look on her pretty face.

  Philippe smiled. So the indomitable Heather Mahaffey believed the events of the party evening were strange, too, did she? He said, “Perhaps not, but the fact remains that a good third of the people who attended the party at my house that night experienced accidents afterwards.” And if they weren’t directly related to the other peculiar things that had been happening on his ranch, he’d be very much surprised. Somebody had it in for him, and he was going to find out who, and put a stop to his shenanigans. In the meantime, he aimed to take care of anyone who got hurt because of whoever this person was and whatever his problem with Philippe turned out to be.

  “That’s still not your fault.” Her brow furrowed. “It’s queer, but it’s not your fault.”

  “Nevertheless, I have visited everyone who was affected, and I insist upon paying for the repair of any damages my guests endured as well as any doctor bills incurred. I don’t intend to be thwarted, Miss Mahaffey, so I hope you won’t argue.” He gave her a smile intended to mellow her into compliance.

  She spluttered a little bit, but didn’t press the matter. Philippe could tell she wasn’t satisfied, in spite of his smile.

  “Well . . .”

  “Then it’s settled.” Without waiting for Heather to respond, Philippe turned to Mrs. Mahaffey. “Thank you very much, ma’am. I trust your husband and son will regain their full health soon.” He bowed formally, and shook Mr. Mahaffey’s hand.

  “Wait a minute,” Heather said suddenly. “Pa’s accident might or might not have anything to do with your party and your ranch, but Billy’s arm doesn’t, and you can’t make it.” She scowled up at him.

  He scowled back down at her and said in the coldest, most authoritarian voice he had in him, “The matter is settled.”

  “But . . .”

  “And I refuse to hear any further arguments about it.” To Mrs. Mahaffey, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Mahaffey. I appreciate your understanding.”

  “Oh, my,” said Heather’s mother. “It’s we who thank you, Mr. St. Pierre.”

  “It’s nothing, ma’am. Truly, it’s nothing.”

  He knew good and well it wasn’t nothing to the Mahaffeys, who obviously weren’t well off, but he’d be damned if he’d ever allow himself to be labeled a philanthropist. Lord, they’d be inviting him to church and to school socials if that happened. The thought made him shudder inside.

  Heather didn’t dicker with him again, but she was frowning up a storm when he turned back to her and her friend, who was still goggling. Philippe said, “If you will allow me, Miss Mahaffey, I’ll help you with the supplies and drive the wagon back to the ranch. I can tie my horse to the back.”

  It looked for a moment as if she intended to quarrel with him. Prudence prevailed—or perhaps she was still worried about her crazy behavior of the night before and didn’t want to reinforce the idea that she was a lunatic—and she accepted with fair grace. He accompanied the two young women back to Mr. Trujillo’s dry goods store, leading his horse.

  A crowd stood in front of the store. Philippe frowned, wondering if all those people were there to confront him for being behind the rash of incidents that had recently happened to citizens in the town. Although he’d had absolutely nothing to do with any of the injuries or accidents, he honestly wouldn’t have blamed anyone for challenging him about the strange events, since they’d occurred immediately after his party guests had departed his ranch. He learned his mistake as soon as Geraldine and Heather expelled twin gasps.

  “Oh, Geraldine! The stage is coming. I forgot all about this being Thursday.”

  “Let’s wait to see who gets off,” Geraldine suggested, excitement vibrating in her voice.

  “Well . . .” Heather hesitated, glanced up at Philippe, and he could see the longing in her expression.

  He made a sweeping gesture, giving them leave. It was the least he could do. “Certainly, ladies. Be my guest. There’s no rush about the supplies.”

  Philippe watched the two young women for a moment, curious. Then it dawned on him why they were so fascinated about a stagecoach’s arrival. It made sense that they’d be excited about the stage coming to town. This was a backwater. An outpost on the isolated American western frontier. These two seldom saw strangers. The most by way of excitement that ever happened in Fort Summers was watching the troops practice drill exercises on the desert. Pitifully small onions for two inquisitive young ladies who yearned to experience something of the world. He felt an unaccustomed tugging at his heart that worried him a little bit. He couldn’t afford to let softer emotions take over.

  But,
honestly, what circumscribed lives these two lived. If he could, he’d snatch them both up—or perhaps only Heather—and spirit her off to exotic ports. Or at least to San Francisco and New York City.

  He smiled inside, considering how Heather Mahaffey would react to the big city. She’d probably leap into society with both feet, if she was anything like he supposed her to be. Not shy and retiring, Miss Heather Mahaffey. Not at all. Oh, she might be a trifle cowed at first, but she wouldn’t be for long. He’d bet on it.

  They hadn’t been standing amid the small throng for very long before the cloud of dust in the distance drew closer, eventually resolving into the horses pulling a dust-brown stagecoach. The crowd began to mutter as soon as the horses became discernible. As the stage drew closer, the mutterings turned to talk, then to clamor, and as soon as the horses passed the westernmost boundaries of the town, everyone began cheering.

  Even Heather and her more genteel friend set up a holler. Philippe was completely disarmed. Now this, thought he, was an aspect of territorial life he hadn’t anticipated when he’d made up his mind to move here, this anticipation and excitement over an event that, in any civilized place, would be commonplace.

  By the time the stage pulled up in front of Trujillo’s store, which also served as the town’s depot, Philippe could see that the horses were sweaty and exhausted. Thanks to the wind and dust, they were also the same color as the stagecoach, the driver, the driver’s assistant, and, it appeared, most of the passengers.

  He shook his head, confounded again by the resiliency of the human spirit. Or its refusal to face reality. Whichever prevailed in these particular human breasts, they weren’t daunted much by the expectation of hardships. He discovered himself feeling much more charitable towards his fellow creatures than he generally did.

  “Oh, look, Geraldine!” Heather’s whisper held a world of enthusiasm. “That poor man’s never going to get his suit clean again.”