Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  She was actually humming a merry tune as she gathered up the breakfast dishes and carried them to the kitchen. Her merriness departed as soon as she saw D.A. Bologh, sitting in his accustomed chair, looking bored and glowering at her. She sighed, put the dishes on the counter, and said, “You’re back.”

  He said, “Obviously.”

  “And have you decided what my payment is to be?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, dear. How unfortunate. Nevertheless, Heather had known all along that this reckoning day would come eventually. She was only glad she wouldn’t have to give D.A. her body. Especially after last night with Philippe, she couldn’t bear the thought of another man, and particularly this man, touching her intimately. She sat, too, folded her hands in her lap, braced herself mentally, and said, “All right. What do I owe you?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.” D.A. sneered. As usual.

  Heather frowned. “What do you mean, it’s more complicated than that? You cheated, remember?”

  A very faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and Heather’s heart skittered and bumped. She wished she hadn’t brought up the cheating part.

  He growled, “I remember,” and it looked as though he’d heard the thunder, too.

  “Sorry I mentioned it.” He looked so ferocious, in fact, she pushed her chair back a foot or so.

  “You should be. But I have selected a suitable payment.”

  “All right.” Heather held her breath.

  “And it’s still you.”

  She jumped up from her chair, sending it crashing over backwards. “Now, you just wait a blasted minute here, Mr. D.A. Bologh. I’m not about to—”

  He held up a hand to silence her, snickering as he did so. “Don’t get all het up, sweetie pie. That’s not all of it.”

  Scowling, not trusting him, Heather picked up the chair and sat again. “What’s the rest of it?”

  “I’m going to give you a chance to get away Scot free.”

  “Oh?” She didn’t believe him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if you’re able to do two tiny little things, you won’t owe me anything.”

  She squinted at him, sure there was something else to this latest offer. “You mean it? You won’t exact any kind of payment, at all, ever, in any way, shape, or form, for doing my job for me? If I do these two tiny little things?”

  “Right. Precisely. You’re not as stupid as you look, sweetheart.”

  Heather didn’t grab the bait. She knew better by this time. “I think I’m going to want this agreement to be put down in writing, D.A. I don’t trust you.”

  “Too bad, sweetie. I don’t put things in writing. But you can trust me on this one. The boss won’t let me do anything else.”

  It appeared to Heather as though D.A. didn’t appreciate the boss’s edict on this particular issue. But he might be telling the truth. “Hmmm.”

  “Better accept it, Heather. I’m not going to make it again. This is your last chance.”

  “All right. What do I have to do?”

  “I’m going to give you until the eve of your wedding day to discover who I am. That’s the first thing. And then you have to convince the happy bridegroom. That’s the second thing.” He grinned wickedly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You not only have to figure out who I am, sweetie pie, but you have to convince your dear Philippe of the same. It’s a two-part deal. If you can do it, I’ll go away and you’ll never be troubled by me again. If you can’t, you’re mine.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You do, too. You’re not really thick, Heather my love, whatever else you are. You heard me. If you can figure out who I am before your marriage to Mr. St. Pierre, and convince Mr. St. Pierre of it, you’ll be free of me forever. You have to really convince him, you understand. He can’t merely pay lip service to agreeing with you because he wants to humor you even though he thinks you’re crazy. If you can’t do both of those, you’re mine.” He reached out one of his pointy fingers and tapped her on the chin. “I’ve taken rather a fancy to you, dearie.”

  Shuddering at his touch, Heather jerked her head back. Good gracious, she couldn’t even stand to be touched by his finger; how could she tolerate doing with him what she and Philippe had done? There was no way.

  As if he read her thoughts, D.A.’s grin broadened. “It won’t be so bad, sweetheart. I have any number of women who can testify to my skill.”

  “Ew.”

  D.A. stood, flicked a wrist, and the breakfast dishes were sparkling clean and stacked, ready to be put away. Another flick and they were gone, stashed, Heather knew, in neat rows in the cupboards. She blinked. She’d never get used to how he did things. “That’s about it for me, sweetie. While you try to figure out my name, I’m going to leave you to your own devices in the kitchen.”

  “You mean, you aren’t going to cook for me any longer?”

  “That’s right.” He winked. “You’ll do all right. In spite of yourself, you’ve learned a little. You’ll never be as good as I am, of course.”

  Heather’s heart reeled and staggered for a second before it straightened itself. “I’m sure of it.” Oh, dear, what was she going to do? How could she cook without D.A. to help? Or do it for her?

  “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

  Heather’s dismal reflections skidded to a halt. D.A. seemed to loom over her as she sat there, staring up at him. She wished she’d never seen him. “What?” Blast, she’d croaked it.

  “You might have noticed certain odd things have been happening around here lately. If you figure out who I am, and if you do it in time, all of those things will stop. If you don’t, I fear Fort Summers is in for a long siege of similar plagues.”

  Forgetting all about having to function as a cook on her own, Heather jumped up again, and this time she headed for D.A. Bologh with her fists flying. He caught them easily in his hands and held her at bay, but Heather was too shocked and furious to care. “You are the one who hurt my father! You’re the one who cut the fences! My brother could have died last night—Philippe could have died! Anyone might have died! You’re the one who’s been causing all these things! You’re the one! Damn you, D.A. Bologh!”

  He’d started laughing when she’d first erupted from her chair. He laughed harder as she started screaming at him. By the time she was through and panting, unable to hurt him because he was preventing her, he was laughing so hard, it looked as if he were having trouble controlling his hilarity.

  And then he was gone and Heather was standing beside the kitchen table, holding her arms out as if he were still there and still holding on to them. She looked frantically around the kitchen. No D.A. Bologh.

  The kitchen door opened. “What on earth is going on in here? Why are you shrieking, Heather Mahaffey? You sounded like a madwoman. Is that the sort of behavior your mother taught you?”

  Heather whirled on Mrs. Van der Linden, her emotions riled so high, she wasn’t sure she could control them. “Don’t you dare say anything about my mother, Mrs. Van der Linden.”

  Evidently, Heather looked as menacing as she felt, because Mrs. Van der Linden drew herself up short, blinked several times, flapped her mouth once, turned tail, and exited the kitchen. She even allowed the door to slam after her.

  Heather stared at the door for several moments before the rage drained out of her, and she sank into a chair.

  “Who is he?” she whispered to the empty room.

  No answer occurred to her and, after another minute or two, she felt strong enough to visit her brother, who was cheerfully telling a friend from town all about his hazardous exploits of the night before.

  Then Heather gathered her shawl and bonnet, hitched the horses to the wagon, and set out for town.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Philippe’s mood was remarkably light, considering the damage that had been done to his herd and his ranch the night before. Not only was the wind slumbering this
morning—how long the peaceful condition would last was anybody’s guess—but he was happy. Philippe hadn’t been happy for so long, he couldn’t even remember when the last time had been. Happiness, perceived as impossible, had long ceased to be a goal with him. He’d forgotten all about happiness as a state of mind. Until this morning.

  Heather. He really did like her. A lot. In fact, he’d never felt about a woman the way he felt about Heather. He had an almost intolerable itch to attach her to his side permanently, and the sooner the better, for fear she’d slip away from him somehow. How odd that he should fear her absence. Could he be suffering from love?

  “God, what an abysmal thought.”

  Gil McGill rode up, and Philippe greeted him much more cheerfully than Gil greeted him. Gil looked, in fact, almost green.

  “What’s the matter, Gil? Bad news?”

  Gil wiped a bandanna over his sweaty forehead. “No worse than you’d already guessed, I imagine. We lost fifty head.”

  Philippe nodded. It wasn’t good news, but it could have been much worse if they hadn’t turned the stampede. “It’s not as bad as it might have been.”

  “Yeah. And at least none of the men were hurt.”

  “Except Jimmy Mahaffey, but Heather tells me he’s doing well this morning.”

  Gil grinned at last. “And he isn’t quite a man yet, I reckon.”

  “No, but he’s a brave little guy.”

  “That he is. All the Mahaffeys have spunk.”

  Spunk. What a wonderful word to describe his adorable Heather. “Right. So, what about the fences?”

  “Got men out right now, fixing them. I can’t figure out what happened. They shouldn’t have given out like that. It’s almost like somebody’s been doing some of these things on purpose, Mr. St. Pierre. Like someone’s trying to put you out of business. I swear, I don’t know how else they’re happening.”

  “Right. The thought’s occurred to me more than once.” But he didn’t understand it either. Unless he was much worse at judging his fellow men than he thought he was, Philippe didn’t know a soul who wished him ill. Unless . . . But that was absurd. His mother couldn’t manage the sort of destruction his ranch had been prey to in recent weeks. Besides, why should she? She’d never bestirred herself for him—or against him—before; why would she come all this way to destroy him? It made no sense.

  One of her men friends might be behind the trouble. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the notion.

  “Anything the matter, Mr. St. Pierre?” Gil sounded worried.

  When Philippe glanced at him, he looked worried. “No. Just thinking.” He didn’t like the notion of Heather running into Yvonne in town, though.

  Of course, she might have left town by this time, since she had to know he didn’t want to see her. He’d made his unwillingness to resume any kind of relationship with her abundantly clear when he’d dragged Heather by force away from her.

  A sharp pain in his chest made him frown. It wasn’t guilt. Couldn’t possibly be. What did he have to feel guilty about? It must be—indigestion. Yes. That was it.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Gil asked. “You don’t look so good all of a sudden.”

  “I’m fine,” Philippe snapped. Then, repentant for having barked at Gil, he said, “A little indigestion is all.”

  Gil’s eyebrows arched. “Heather’s cooking is finally getting to you, huh? Nobody thought it’d take this long, to tell the truth. The boys have been taking bets on when you’d give up on her. She’s pretty, and she’s a great rider and roper, and she’s true-blue and about the best pal a fellow could have, but she can’t cook for beans.”

  Philippe turned in his saddle and eyed Gil carefully for a moment, believing at first the boy must be making a joke. A critical survey of Gil’s trustworthy face told him it wasn’t a joke. “I believe you’ve been misinformed, Gil. I’ve never eaten so well in my life as I have since Miss Mahaffey—Heather—came to work for me.”

  Gil’s astonishment appeared genuine. “Honest to God? Well, I’ll be kicked. I didn’t think she’d ever learn to cook. Her brother Jerry used to keep us in stitches talking about her accidents in the kitchen, and her ma all but gave up on her after she poisoned the dog.”

  “She poisoned a dog?”

  Gil shrugged. “She didn’t mean to. Hell, Heather loves dogs. And the dog didn’t die. She just put the wrong ingredients into its food, and it was sick for a good long time.”

  “Hmmm. She must have improved considerably.” Philippe frowned, wondering how Heather could have come by such an undeserved reputation. A person couldn’t be an atrocious cook one day and turn into a premier chef the next. Or, at least, it didn’t seem likely.

  He recalled her preposterous story about another person cooking for her and shook his head again. He didn’t have time to think about cooking, for God’s sake.

  However, as long as Gil was here, he might as well let him in on the news. “You might be interested to know that Miss Mahaffey has agreed to marry me, Gil.”

  “She what?” Gil gaped at Philippe, who didn’t take it kindly.

  “Yes.” His voice was frigid. “Is that so surprising? I suppose I’m as good a catch as the next man.”

  Gil’s mouth shut with a clank. “Oh, yes, sir. You’re a better catch than most, if it comes to that. It’s only that I didn’t think Heather’d ever get herself hooked.”

  “No?” Philippe was accustomed to looking upon marriage from the perspective of a possible hookee, not the one doing the hooking. It was an odd concept and took some getting used to. “And why is that?”

  Gil shrugged. “She’s so blamed independent. She even used to tell fellows who tried to court her that she was happy being single, thank you very much—she’d say that, ‘thank you very much,’ all snippy like—and didn’t aim to let a man drag her down.”

  “She said that? She didn’t want a man to drag her down?” How strange. Philippe was certain Heather loved her father; how could she say a thing like that if she loved him? Unless she was even more clear-headed than he’d heretofore given her credit for. Something else to think about.

  “Yep. I think it’s ‘cause of her pa, don’t you know. She’ll never say so, but I think she’s always felt sort of sorry for her ma, because Mr. Mahaffey don’t keep the family as well as he might, if you know what I mean. Mr. Mahaffey’s a hell of a good talker, and he’s as nice as they come, but he’s kind of worthless.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “That’s why she’d never let any of the boys get serious. And they all wanted to at one time or another. Even me.” Gil blushed.

  Philippe said, “I’m a fortunate men.”

  “You sure are.”

  Gil was shaking his head, ruminating, Philippe presumed, about the perversity of a fate that would allow Heather to accept a newcomer over a local lad, when he and Gil came upon three of his men who had been working since dawn, repairing a huge stretch of fencing that had been trampled the night before by terrified cattle.

  Fences were tolerably new to the territory, and most of Philippe’s rangeland was open. Because of the weather and the fact that the men had begun rounding up the beeves for the summer cattle drives, however, a good portion of his herd had been driven closer to the ranch, into enclosed pasture land. The cattle were easier to keep track of when they were bunched together, but they were also more prone to touchy behavior. They’d proved it again last night when they stampeded during the storm.

  “It’s looking good, men. Take time off to eat and drink something. Gil and I can take over for a while.”

  The men were glad to oblige. Philippe knew he was considered a good boss by those who worked for him, and he took satisfaction, not untainted by cynicism, from the knowledge. The truth was that he treated his employees as he himself would like to be treated if their situations were reversed. He also knew that, but for the grace of God—or whatever benign spirit reigned over the universe when the malevolent spirits were slee
ping—their situations might be reversed. Philippe had a good deal of respect for the chanciness of life.

  Which made him think of Heather. Which made him begin whistling without realizing it until he glanced over at Gil and found him smiling. Damn. He used to be better at hiding his emotions than this. He stopped whistling.

  “Geeze, the cows did a good job on this fence,” muttered Gil at one point, when he was trying to salvage fence posts and unwrap wire.

  “Yeah. They didn’t leave much but trash behind.”

  Gil shook his head as he gazed at a shattered stake. “There’s blood on this one. Reckon some poor cow got her leg scratched good.”

  “I expect.”

  Philippe hoped Gil wouldn’t continue to talk, because his ears had picked up something that didn’t sound right to him. Fortunately, Gil decided to use his energy on the job and not on his mouth, because he didn’t speak again, but began untwisting wire from fence posts.

  Mon dieu, there it was. Very quietly, Philippe said, “Don’t move, Gil. Be very still.”

  “Beg pardon?” Gil straightened and looked a question at Philippe.

  The movement was enough to set off the rattler. In the split-second before he shot his hand out, Philippe saw it dart its head toward Gil’s leg. He could hardly believe it when he straightened, gripping the snake’s body right beneath its diamond-shaped head.

  Gil gaped at him, horror-stricken. “Holy shit. You just up and grabbed that thing.” He stopped goggling at the snake and goggled at Philippe. “You saved my life, Mr. St. Pierre. Damned if you didn’t save my life. That damned snake might have bit you.”

  Philippe’s heart had jumped right straight to his throat, where it seemed to be lodged too firmly to allow him to speak. He didn’t answer, therefore, until he’d grabbed his knife out of its scabbard and, with one clean cut, sliced off the rattler’s head. Because the fangs could still poison a man or an animal even after the snake was dead, he crushed the head under his boot heel, shuddering slightly on the inside as he did it. He respected the territory, but it was a damned hard place. Everything in it either pricked, stung, bit, or stabbed if you weren’t watching out for it every minute. It kept a fellow on his toes with a vengeance.