Cooking Up Trouble Page 28

  He also felt uncomfortable with Gil’s overt appreciation. Because of it, he held the snake, a good five-footer, out to Gil. “Want the skin for a souvenir? I hear snake makes good eating.”

  “I’ve heard that, too, but I’d have to be awful hard up before I’d eat me a snake.”

  Philippe chuckled, glad for an excuse to let out some of the energy that had blocked up inside him. “Me, too.” Something that might or might not be brilliant occurred to him. “Say, I’ll wager Jimmy Mahaffey would like a rattlesnake skin. What do you think?”

  Gil was breathing hard, a condition Philippe was glad to see. He didn’t want to think he was the only one who’d been affected by what might possibly have been a deadly encounter.

  “I think it’s a real good idea, Mr. St. Pierre. If you don’t mind, I’ll skin it and take it to him. I want him to know his sis is marrying a brave man.”

  Gil stuck out his gloved hand, and Philippe shook it, feeling foolish. “Don’t give me too much credit,” he advised dryly. “It was mostly luck.”

  “I don’t buy that for a minute. That was quick thinking, and even quicker acting. I never saw anybody move that fast and that straight.” He took the beheaded rattler and shuddered visibly. “Lordy, I hate these things.” He shook the rattles, which made a dry, rustling sound in the still air. “But at least they warn you. Guess my ears aren’t as good as I thought they were.”

  “You were listening to wire scraping against wood at the time. That’s why you didn’t hear it.”

  “I reckon.”

  The two got back to work without further discussion. That’s another thing Philippe had noticed about the territory. The folks in it didn’t bother repeating themselves. He’d saved Gil’s life. Gil was grateful. That was all that needed saying. Jimmy Mahaffey would have a superior snakeskin to tack on a wall somewhere. And Heather would be proud of him.

  Before Philippe knew it, he was whistling again.

  * * *

  Heather paid a nice visit to her folks, taking tea and bread and jam in the kitchen with them. Her father’s arm was healing nicely, Billy would be up and around any day now, and Mrs. Mahaffey had even been able to pay Doc Grady.

  “How’d that happen?” Heather was so surprised, she let jam drip on her skirt and had to go to the sink to rinse it out.

  Her mother put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear, I wasn’t supposed to tell you yet.”

  Turning, Heather peered at her mother as she blotted the splotch on her skirt. “Tell me what?”

  Mrs. Mahaffey heaved a sigh. “It’s nothing, dear. It’s only that it sounds so strange. But he said it wasn’t charity. He said he doesn’t believe in giving charity. Got quite touchy about it, in fact.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?” Heather had a niggling notion that Philippe’s name was going to crop up any second now. She’d bet anything he’d paid for Jimmy’s medical care, as he’d paid for her father’s.

  “I’m such a dolt. I knew I couldn’t keep it a secret.” Mrs. Mahaffey’s blue eyes were brighter than Heather had seen them in a long, long time. “But, he made it all sound so reasonable.”

  Wishing the woman would spit it out, Heather nevertheless made herself sound patient when she said, “Who made what sound reasonable?”

  “Mr. St. Pierre.”

  Aha. She’d known it. “What did he do?”

  “He said that it was because of Jimmy’s accident that the cattle turned during the stampede. He said that it was due to Jimmy’s intervention that he didn’t lose the whole herd in the Pecos.”

  “He said that, did he?” If he’d made that big whopper sound reasonable, he must be more of a silver-tongued rogue than Heather had figured him to be—and she’d already figured him to be a good one.

  “Yes. He sent the message via the Billings boy, the one who rode over here early this morning with the news.”

  “Matt Billings? He gave that message to you?”

  Mrs. Mahaffey nodded. “Yes. He said Mr. St. Pierre is the fairest man he knows, and the best boss, he doesn’t lie—tell stretchers, is the way Matt said it—and, therefore, it must be true.”

  Heather guessed there was no arguing with that kind of logic. Not that she wanted to argue. She’d been angry with him when he’d offered to pay for her father’s medical care, but she couldn’t drum up any animosity today. What she wanted to do was throw her arms around Philippe St. Pierre and tell him how much she loved him. She always wanted to do that, but hearing of this latest bit of benevolence—offered as if it were nothing more nor less than an everyday occurrence—intensified the feelings.

  The only reason she didn’t tell her mother that she and Philippe were going to marry was that she couldn’t quite make herself believe it yet. She wondered if that signified a failing in her nature, or if she thought Philippe had lied to her. She suspected the former.

  She left shortly after the conversation, spurred on her way with a kiss from both parents, a snarl from her brother, who was tired of being laid up, and a sack full of jams, jellies, preserves, and half of an applesauce cake. She was feeling pretty good about life, except for one rather blackish aspect of it, when she guided the wagon back through town.

  The beautiful woman who’d stepped down from the stage the last time Heather had come to town caught her attention by stepping slap in front of the wagon while Heather was daydreaming. The horses almost knocked her over before Heather, shocked, pulled them to. Good gracious! That had been close.

  She leaned out of the wagon. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you walking across the street.”

  Pulling a gorgeous red silk shawl tightly to her shoulders, the woman walked out from in front of the horses and went to Heather’s side. “It wasn’t your fault. I wanted to meet you.” She had a voice as beautiful as her shawl. It was deep and rich and velvety and contained musical overtones. Heather wished her voice was like that.

  “You wanted to meet me?” Unbelieving, Heather pointed at her chest.

  But the woman nodded and said, “Yes. If you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? Of course, I don’t mind.” Shoot, Heather’d been wanting to learn the woman’s story—and what she was to Philippe—ever since she first set eyes on her.

  “Would you care to come up to my hotel room? I would appreciate it. I—don’t like to be out of my room very much.”

  “Wouldn’t mind at all,” Heather said briskly. She clucked to the horses and drew them up alongside the boardwalk. This was all very curious. She couldn’t wait to find out all about it.

  Although, she thought a moment later as she followed the woman into the hotel and up the stairs, she wished she’d dressed better for the occasion. Not that she’d known ahead of time that there’d be this occasion. But that woman, and the way she was dressed, and the way she carried herself, and her beauty and elegance weren’t exactly calculated to make Heather feel awfully feminine. In truth, they made her feel like a lump. Since folks had been praising Heather’s looks since she was a baby, feeling lumpish was a new and unpleasant sensation to her.

  But that was stupid. Looks weren’t worth a hill of beans in the overall scheme of things. Heather told herself that at least fifty times before they’d made it to the woman’s door.

  She glanced around curiously as she entered. Whoever this person was, she’d fixed this room up as if she aimed to live in it forever.

  “Please,” said the woman, “take a chair. I must introduce myself, but first I want you to know that I only want the best for you.”

  “Thank you.” Now that, to Heather’s mind, was an odd way to begin a conversation. “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  The woman sat in a chair facing Heather—if “sat” was the proper word. In truth, she sort of sank into it gracefully, as if she’d been taught the fine art of sitting in some kind of school. Maybe that’s what girls learned in finishing school. Heather didn’t know anyone who’d been to a finishing school. Since the woman seemed a little uneasy, Heather smiled at her.


  “You are Miss Heather Mahaffey, aren’t you?”

  Heather blinked at her. “Yes, I am.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, I knew it was you. You were pointed out to me.”

  “I was?” Heather wasn’t sure she approved.

  “Yes. You see, I came here to find you.”

  “You did?”

  It was disconcerting that the woman seemed so intent upon her. Heather found herself wondering again if this person was a former lover of Philippe’s, and if she had come all the way to the territory from wherever she’d come from to eliminate a rival. The notion wasn’t a happy one, and Heather decided it was time she took steps. She sat up straight, lifted her chin, and said, “You know my name, but I fear I don’t know yours. It is?”

  And she smiled the most winning smile in her repertoire. It was her “I’m as good as you and anyone else in the world, and you can’t intimidate me” smile. She’d found it most effective when dealing with men. For some reason, men seemed to feel that, because of their gender, their intellects were superior to those of women. Heather knew good and well that was poppycock. The smile came in handy today, too.

  The woman tightened her lips—not, Heather thought, in anger, but in some combination of fear and perplexity. This whole situation was extremely odd.

  Rising from her chair and taking a turn around the room, the woman kneaded her hands together. “I wish I could offer you some sort of refreshment, Miss Mahaffey. This is a hotel room, however, and I can’t.”

  “I don’t need refreshment,” Heather murmured. She could sure use a dose of information, though. She’d just about decided the woman hadn’t come to Fort Summers to do her in; rather, she seemed to be in some kind of distress. “I would certainly like to know your name, though.” She said it kindly, because she sensed the woman needed kindness.

  The woman turned and sucked in a deep breath. She let it out in a whoosh and, along with it, blurted out, “My name is Yvonne St. Pierre.”

  “Oh.” Heather went numb for a moment before she had a brilliant idea. This woman was Philippe’s sister! Why, they looked so much alike, Heather was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. They must have had some sort of family spat and lost track of each other. Now, Yvonne was here to mend fences and—

  “Philippe is my son.”

  Heather’s tumbling thoughts crashed to earth and left her blank. Not only couldn’t she think of a thing to say; she couldn’t think at all. She could only stare.

  Yvonne took note of her astonishment and produced a grim smile. “It’s the truth, Miss Mahaffey. I gave birth to Philippe thirty-three years ago, in New Orleans.” She paused, took another deep breath, and added, “I’m sure he’s never spoken of me. He’s—not very proud of his heritage.”

  She’d been dazed by Yvonne’s astounding news, but Heather rallied at that bit of information. More or less. She exclaimed, “But you can’t be his mother. You’re younger than he is!”

  That wasn’t very polite, and she knew it as soon as the words had spilled out of her mouth. She was still too fuddled to think properly, but she tried. “That is to say, I can’t believe anyone as young and beautiful as you could possibly be Philippe’s mother. I mean, Mr. St. Pierre’s mother. I mean, well, I call him Philippe, because we’re to be married, you see, and—and—”

  She jerked with alarm when Yvonne rushed to her, fell on her knees in front of her, and grabbed her hands. Her dark, gorgeous eyes were passionate, and Heather was uncomfortable to see tears standing in them.

  “That’s the reason,” Yvonne said, in a low, intense voice. “That’s the reason I came here. It will mean certain doom for me, but I had to save him. And you! I had to save you! It may already be too late, but I’ve made it safely this far. If I can only make you understand, perhaps together we can stop him.”

  The tears spilled from her eyes and coursed down her perfect cheeks. “If we can’t stop him, Philippe’s life will be ruined, as mine was. It’s all my fault, and I can’t bear it. It’s one thing if a person’s past comes back to haunt the person, but when I realized my past was endangering my son and the woman he loves, I had to do something. I had to!”

  Heather began to wonder if Philippe had left New Orleans because of his mother’s—no, no, his sister’s—insanity. She’d never say so.

  “Er, and what was it you thought you had to do?” Heather used her most soothing tone, hoping to calm the agitated woman. The good Lord knew, she didn’t want her to get violent or anything.

  Yvonne stood up again, and wiped her cheeks with a perfect hand. Everything about her was perfect. Heather had never seen a woman so perfectly perfect. She felt rather inadequate, actually, although she’d never let on.

  “I have to stop him.”

  Heather sighed. “Yes, you said that before, that you have to stop him. Whom do you have to stop?” She offered another smile, this one her “I’m really trying to be encouraging here” smile.

  “The man who ruined my life. He’s trying to ruin Philippe’s life now, and yours, and I have to stop him before he accomplishes his job.” Yvonne turned abruptly and started pacing again. It hurt Heather’s heart to watch her, she was in such obvious anguish.

  Yvonne whirled around, making Heather start in her chair. “He’s already done so much evil here!”

  “He has?” Heather wished she knew what the woman was talking about.

  Yvonne nodded. “I’ve heard. People have told me. He’s caused accidents, even here in the village, and he’s stampeded Philippe’s cows and broken his fences and done all sorts of terrible things. He’s made the devil winds blow until the whole town is going crazy.”

  It sounded to Heather as if Yvonne were talking about God, although she wouldn’t say that, either. But who else was in charge of the weather and random accidents?

  The extremely localized thunderstorm she and D.A. Bologh had experienced recently burst into Heather’s brain, and she frowned. This was all terribly confusing. “Um, who is this ‘he’ you’re talking about, Mrs. St. Pierre?”

  “Mrs. St. Pierre?” Yvonne stopped her agitated striding about and gaped at Heather. Then she threw her head back and laughed.

  What in thunder was the matter with the woman? Heather was not amused. After several seconds of watching Yvonne and listening to what sounded like her hysterical laughter, Heather rose from her chair. Feeling stiff, uncomfortable, and peeved, she snapped, “I fear that unless you can make sense, I must be on my way, ma’am.” She didn’t offer any of her practiced smiles when she said it.

  Yvonne stopped laughing abruptly. She appeared startled and afraid. “Oh, no! You can’t go! Not until I’ve told you everything.”

  Heather pressed her lips together for a second, then said, “I suggest you begin, then, because I have to get back to the ranch. I have meals to prepare.” That almost wasn’t even a lie any longer. Knowing it gave Heather a modicum of courage, and she didn’t unbend an inch.

  “Please,” Yvonne pleaded. “You can’t go yet. I have to talk to you. I’m sorry I’ve made no sense so far. But it’s all so impossible to talk about—to understand.”

  Heather huffed impatiently. She knew it was impolite, but she’d never been long on patience. “Just spit it out, and we’ll see if I can understand or not,” she suggested, none too gently.

  “Yes. Yes, I must do that,” Yvonne murmured. “But please, sit.”

  Heather sat.

  Yvonne did, too. “You see, Miss Mahaffey, when Philippe was a baby, I wasn’t married. I was left in New Orleans, abandoned by Philippe’s father.”

  Goodness, how shocking. And sad. Yet it didn’t explain anything. Heather nodded to signify she understood Yvonne’s plight, which had been a terrible one indeed.

  “I was only sixteen years old, and I was beautiful, although beauty had never brought me anything but unhappiness.”

  She sounded bitter, and Heather was interested to note that what she’d believed through her life seemed to have been gi
ven a grain of confirmation. Beauty didn’t mean squat in a world kept spinning by deeds.

  Yvonne lowered her head and began fiddling with a pleat in her skirt. “I—took up employment in a house of ill repute.”

  Good gracious! Heather didn’t know if she was more shocked than fascinated or the other way around. She didn’t speak.

  “It was the only work I could get, you see, because my heritage is mixed.”

  “Mixed heritage is nothing to be ashamed of. Most Americans are mixed.” Heather didn’t know if it was true or not, but she thought it might make Yvonne feel better about being a mutt.

  Another harsh laugh from Yvonne’s throat made Heather shrink inside.

  “Thank you, Miss Mahaffey, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. If you don’t mind my plain speaking?”

  “Of course not,” said Heather, who did mind—very much.

  “There are different types of mixed ancestry. Some of my ancestors were African slaves, you see, and that makes all the difference to most people.”

  Good Lord! Heather could only gape.

  “And the only employment I could procure was as a—courtesan.”

  “My goodness.”

  “Goodness didn’t enter into it, I fear,” Yvonne said dryly. “But that wasn’t the bad part.”

  It wasn’t? Heather couldn’t imagine anything worse.

  “My true downfall came when I met a man and made a bargain with him.”

  Heather’s skin began to crawl and her heart to shrivel.

  Yvonne looked her straight in the eyes. “His name was D.A. Bologh. And I sold him my soul in return for eternal youth and beauty.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Stay still,” Heather hissed. “We’ll never get you out of town unnoticed if you keep wriggling.” She waved at Geraldine, who was sweeping the boardwalk in front of her father’s store, and had just caught sight of the wagon.