Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  “Charmed,” Philippe St. Pierre said in a voice as thick and sweet as molasses.

  “How do you do?” Heather was proud that her voice didn’t tremble. She even managed to maintain her friendly smile.

  She heard a muffled buzzing in the room—unless it was her ears ringing—and glanced around to see folks staring. Well, and why shouldn’t they stare? Men didn’t, as a rule, kiss women’s hands in Fort Summers. She saw Geraldine gaping with her mouth open, and she lifted her fan to hide her mouth and grimaced at her. She didn’t want Mr. St. Pierre to see the grimace. It did its work, though. Geraldine understood immediately, shut her mouth, and stopped gaping.

  Because she was worried, Heather said, “I, ah, hope my father hasn’t been filling your heads with fanciful tales about his children, Mr. St. Pierre. He, ah, tends to extol us to an unwarranted degree.”

  “He’s been telling me tantalizing tales about your many talents, Miss Mahaffey.”

  Blast. Exactly as she’d feared. She refused to allow her smile to waver.

  “Please be aware that my father always fails to see his children’s flaws, Mr. St. Pierre. Whatever he’s told you, I’m sure he’s exaggerated.”

  “Pisht!” cried her father, slamming a hand over his heart as if Heather’s words had cut him to the quick. Heather rolled her eyes. “The lass is the brightest thing on these plains, Mr. St. Pierre. I’m sure you can assess her charms for yourself, but she’s got amazing talents, too. Amazing.”

  Mercy sakes, how was she ever going to live this down? Another glance around confirmed Heather’s worries. Every single person who was close enough to hear Pa was snickering behind hands and fans and eyeing one another. They were going to be talking about this for the rest of her life; she knew it. Nothing good for gossip ever died here in Fort Summers, because there were so few tasty stories available.

  “That’s not true, Pa, and you know it,” she muttered. “You just love us too much, is all.”

  Philippe St. Pierre smiled, and again Heather feared for her consciousness. Lord, Lord, the man’s smile ought to be outlawed.

  “Can a father love his daughter too much?” His voice was like silk. Very dark, very expensive silk.

  She swallowed. “Er, no, I suppose not.”

  “And surely you don’t mean to cast doubt on your father’s integrity.”

  Did he have a faint trace of some kind of accent? There was a southern drawl, of course, but Heather thought she detected something else. Something foreign. Maybe French? Cajun? She had no idea what a Cajun was. She’d have to ask Geraldine if she survived the evening.

  “My father is a marvelous man, Mr. St. Pierre,” Heather said a little stiffly. “But he can never be brought to admit that his children have faults.”

  “Not a terrible failing in a father,” Philippe said dryly.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Ach, Heather, you’re only bein’ modest.” Her father shook his head and smiled sadly.

  “I wish that were so,” she said, with absolute honesty.

  Mr. St. Pierre chuckled. His chuckle was deep and rich, like his voice, and it slithered through Heather like melted chocolate. Gads, she had to get her imagination under control.

  “I’m sure your father is right, Miss Mahaffey,” he said. “I believe it’s traditional for young ladies to disparage their own accomplishments in hopes that others will laud them.”

  Huh? Heather squinted up at him. That’s another thing: The man was tall. And broad-shouldered. And built like a mountain. An elegant, suave, sophisticated, muscular mountain. She wished she hadn’t noticed. “I fear that’s not the case here, Mr. St. Pierre.”

  “Nonsense,” her father said heartily. “I’ve only told the truth.”

  I just bet. “Good. I’m glad.”

  “And since Mr. St. Pierre’s established himself and has built that spanking new house east of town, he’s lookin’ for a household staff to work in it as well as men to keep the ranch and grounds in trim.”

  “Oh.” Heather’s interest perked up. That actually might put a different light on things. If the man needed maids and such, Heather might be able to land herself a job. The good Lord knew her family could use the money. Her father, as delightful a raconteur as ever lived, was relatively dismal in the moneymaking department. All of the boys worked here and there, and Patricia helped Mrs. Wade with her sewing and served at the local chophouse during busy times. Their mother took in laundry.

  Heather, the most useless of the lot, would be willing to do almost anything, but folks tended to avoid asking her. Her heart pinged painfully, and she wished for at least the thousandth time that she’d been given grace and skill along with her beauty.

  But even she, useless Heather, could dust and mop floors. And she could probably even help with the domestic animals, although men tended to doubt women’s abilities when it came to outdoor activities. The unhappy truth was, however, that Heather could cowboy with the best of them. It was the female talents she lacked. She couldn’t sew a straight seam to save her life, and the last time she tried to cook, the family had to vacate the house until the smoke cleared.

  She’d lost track of the conversation between her father and Mr. St. Pierre until she caught her father’s last several words and her eyes nearly started from their sockets. Her mouth fell open, and she shrieked, “What?”

  The room went still, and Heather felt heat creep into her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “I, ah, beg your pardon, I don’t believe I caught your last few words, Pa.” Because she didn’t trust him, she lowered her eyebrows and glared at him, hoping in that way to make him behave.

  She ought to have known better. Nothing could keep her father’s tall tales in check once he got started. He winked at her, a sure sign that bad things were to come.

  “Ah, and I know you’re a modest girl, Heather Mary Mahaffey, but you should learn to accept these little compliments you get paid.” He turned to Mr. St. Pierre. “It’s as I was tellin’ you, Mr. St. Pierre, my Heather’s not only the loveliest creature in this world, but she’s also the best cook in the territory.”

  A gasp went up in the room.

  Oh, no. Heather closed her eyes and prayed for help from above. Or even below. Any kind of help at all would be welcome at the moment.

  “Is that so?” Philippe St. Pierre eyed Heather with more interest than he’d formerly exhibited.

  “Aye—”

  “No, it’s not true. Not one tiny little bit.” Heather tromped over her father’s words almost desperately. “I’m probably the worst cook in the territory, not the best. Not anywhere near the top. No, siree, Bob. I’m about the lousiest cook you’ve ever seen, Mr. St. Pierre. I nearly poisoned the whole family the last time I cooked supper.”

  It might have been her imagination that made her hear a townful of breath exhalations, but Heather didn’t think so.

  There went his smile again. Heather’s heart was thumping too hard for her to experience the full effect of those gleaming white teeth against his dark skin. She wanted to scalp her father, even loving him as she did.

  Why me, Lord? The Lord didn’t answer, but Mr. St. Pierre did.

  “I’m in need of a cook, Miss Mahaffey.”

  She goggled at him. “But I just told you I can’t cook.”

  He chuckled again, sending her emotions rioting. This wasn’t fair. Not only was her father out-and-out lying about her, but this wretched French Louisianan’s presence was so overwhelming that it muddled her thought processes so that she couldn’t rebut anything properly.

  “I’m sure you’re modesty is most becoming, especially in such a lovely young woman as—”

  “But—”

  Philippe held up a hand, stopping Heather’s protest before it had even had a chance to form. “No more of this, please, Miss Mahaffey. I trust your father to know you and your skills. If you’re interested in cooking for me, I should be happy to hire you. There aren’t, after all, cooks waiting on every street corner, begging f
or work.”

  This was true. For one thing, there were perilously few street corners in Fort Summers. For another thing, most of the folks who lived here already had enough to do keeping body and soul together. They couldn’t afford the time to cook for other people.

  Heather decided it was futile to argue further. She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Mr. St. Pierre. I think I’ll have to decline your generous job offer. I—ah—am already employed.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Oh? Your father had given me to understand that you might be interested in employment.”

  Blast. Heather shot her father a look she hoped would curdle his liver. Fat chance. Her father was impervious to most things and extremely so to Heather’s killing looks. “He, um, didn’t know.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  All Heather wanted to do then was crawl away and die. Fortunately she didn’t, and, as the party progressed and the moment of her humiliation receded into the unhappy past, her spirits rose. She ended up dancing her feet off and having a wonderful time.

  Mr. St. Pierre claimed her for the last waltz. He was as wonderful to dance with as he was to look at, and she went home in a dreamy mood. She might be the world’s worst cook, and she might have an embarrassing father, but she could dance like one of those Irish fairies her father was always talking about. And she’d finally met a man whose skill on the dance floor equaled her own. She wished she’d been able to dance with him all night. If she had, her feet probably wouldn’t be aching so much.

  She went to sleep and dreamed about Philippe St. Pierre, and awoke the next morning wishing she could dance with him for the rest of her life in a castle far, far away, in a land of green grass, tall trees, and lush meadows. Dotted with wildflowers. Fragrant with honeysuckle and roses and stuff like that. And with a resident cook who was so good, Heather never, ever had to set foot in a kitchen again.

  As the days passed and the winds continued and Heather sneezed out dust and grit every few hours, the pleasant fantasies of her after-dance dreams faded from her mind.

  Four days after the dance, the wind blew the laundry line down, flinging all of the clean sheets into the dirt.

  The young peach tree in the back yard, the one Heather had been pampering like a baby, finally gave up its fight against the wind and cracked right smack in half.

  The hinges holding the door to the Mahaffey barn, stressed beyond endurance with the dry weather and relentless wind, tore away from their moorings and the door sailed into the pasture fence, knocking it flat. The cows would have escaped but for their reluctance to walk into the wind.

  The bucket of milk Heather carried from Bessy in the barn to the kitchen door got full of grit when the cloth with which she’d been attempting to protect it blew away.

  Patricia’s dress caught a gust and flew over her head, causing her to trip over the stile and fall flat on her face, squashing the tomatoes she’d been bringing home for supper.

  Heather’s older brother, Jerry, whilst accepting a shipment of hardware from Santa Fe, got conked on the head with the sign that was supposed to hang over his shop. He had a lump the size of a goose’s egg, and his poor pregnant wife had to clerk in the store for a week while he recovered.

  Jimmy’s homework paper got carried by the wind into Sissy Furbush’s yard. Sissy found the paper and gave it to her brother Sammy. Sammy erased Jimmy’s name, turned the paper in, and received Jimmy’s A from the schoolmarm. Poor Jimmy got an F for failing to do his homework, even though everybody in town knew that Sammy couldn’t string two coherent English sentences together if he tried for a year.

  Little Henry Mahaffey, making his way home from school, was blinded by blowing dirt and walked smack into Mr. Lopez’s mule, Tom, who resented it and kicked poor Henry. Mr. Lopez, smiling apologetically, carried Henry home in his wagon, but the boy’s arm was broken and there was no denying it.

  Of course, the family had very little money with which to pay Doc Grady, who was kind enough to say he’d wait and take eggs in exchange for his services. Since the hens were as upset by the horrible weather as the humans in the community, their egg laying had slowed almost to a stop.

  That was when Heather decided she didn’t care if she was the worst cook in the territory. Or even the whole, wide world. Her family needed money, and she needed to do something to help them out.

  It was no surprise, therefore, that she ever afterwards blamed the wind for forcing her to walk—heading directly into the wind and nearly losing her way in the blowing dust—to Philippe St. Pierre’s huge ranch house several miles east of town, and to ask if the job of cook was still available.

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Van der Linden answered Heather’s knock at Philippe St. Pierre’s door. Heather gaped at her for a moment before she recollected the rumor that Mrs. Van der Linden was now working as Mr. St. Pierre’s housekeeper.

  Blast. One more hurdle to overcome.

  Mrs. Van der Linden looked her up and down, leaving Heather in no doubt, if she’d harbored any, that the stout and fussy Mrs. Van der Linden didn’t want Heather there.

  “What do you want?” Mrs. Van der Linden asked uncivilly.

  Heather cleared her throat and clasped her hands together. If this had been any other time or any other house, she might have told Mrs. Van der Linden exactly what she thought of ungracious people who answered other people’s doors and then rudely barked at the knockees. She was too nervous to be indignant on this occasion, though.

  “Um, I’d like to talk to Mr. St. Pierre about a job he said was available, actually.”

  Mrs. Van der Linden sneered at her. “And what kind of job do you think you’re fitted for, Heather Mahaffey?”

  “Um, actually, I think he needs a cook.” Her voice went so low on the last word, she couldn’t even hear herself.

  “I couldn’t hear you,” Mrs. Van der Linden said, raising her voice to counter Heather’s lowered one. “What did you say? Spit it out, child.”

  Heather would have liked to spit at Mrs. Van der Linden. She didn’t, of course. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath and said, “I came to apply for the position as cook.”

  Mrs. Van der Linden’s eyes opened so wide, Heather got nervous. She added hastily, “Or any other job that’s available. Henry got his arm broken, and we need money to pay Doc Grady, and even though he said he’d take eggs, the hens aren’t laying, and I thought I’d try to earn some money if—”

  “A job as the cook?” Mrs. Van der Linden’s voice cracked. “Are you out of your mind, child? You can’t boil water, and the whole town knows it.”

  “What’s going on out here?”

  Mrs. Van der Linden’s face flushed. Heather would have felt a grim sense of satisfaction about that if Philippe St. Pierre’s deep and smoky voice hadn’t frozen her in her tracks. She tried to swallow again, but discovered a boulder had lodged in her throat and she couldn’t.

  Mrs. Van der Linden recovered first, which Heather resented. The old coot pointed at Heather as if Heather were a pile of rags that had blown in. “This person had the audacity to come to the front door to apply for a position as your cook, Mr. St. Pierre. I was about to tell her that people of her stamp should use the back door.”

  Philippe squinted at Mrs. Van der Linden as if she were a rare and not especially welcome species of animal come to plague him. Heather might have been amused if she hadn’t been so frightened.

  “Nonsense,” he said, making Heather jump a little. “Miss Mahaffey is a neighbor, Mrs. Van der Linden. Neighbors don’t need to use the back door, even when they’re applying for work.” He smiled at Heather, who had to grab the doorframe or fall over. “In fact, I believe in the egalitarian West, no one should be obliged to use the back door. Otherwise, what’s the point? Won’t you step inside, Miss Mahaffey?”

  Heather blessed Geraldine, who had explained to her what “egalitarian” meant for a vocabulary test once, and followed Philippe into the house. She didn’t even smirk at Mrs. Van der Linden as she pa
ssed the older woman, mainly because she was too nervous. Philippe led her into a wood-paneled room that was loaded to the ceiling with books. It also contained a huge, beautifully polished mahogany desk. There were papers stacked on the desk, from which Heather presumed he’d been working there before she’d knocked at his door.

  He waved Heather to a big leather sofa before he took the big leather chair behind the desk. “Please be seated, Miss Mahaffey, and tell me to what happy circumstance I owe the pleasure of your visit today.”

  A pleasure, was it? Heather wondered how long that would last. Not past the first meal, or she missed her guess. She cleared her throat. “Um, I wondered if the position you spoke to me about was still available. Sir.” She added the “sir,” because he intimidated her.

  He shut his eyes and tipped his head back, as if he were trying to see the ceiling without using his eyesight. Heather watched him, fascinated. Suddenly his head righted, his eyes opened, and he stared straight at her. Again she jumped, then told herself to stop acting like an idiot. A tiny part of her mind told her it was too late for that.

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall—oh! Of course, you’re the cook, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Heather said honestly, then gritted her teeth. “I mean, I’ve never cooked professionally, but I’m willing to, um, try.” Oh, sweet mercy, what was she doing?

  She was helping her family, is what she was doing. She told herself so firmly and commanded her nerves calm down. They didn’t.

  “Ah, yes.”

  His smile was a work of art. He was, hands down, the most spectacular male Heather had ever seen in her life. The fact that he was so different from any other man she’d ever met only augmented the impression of foreignness. Or something. It didn’t seem quite fair of God to have given this man so many gifts. Anyone who had his face, for instance, shouldn’t have that incredibly well-muscled body. He should be skinny and pale, like one of those sickly—but handsome—poets she’d read about.