Cooking Up Trouble Page 29

  “I’m trying.” Yvonne’s muffled voice came from underneath the horse blanket on the floor of the wagon. She sneezed.

  “Hush! Do you want D.A. to catch us?”

  “God, no. I think I’m allergic to horses.”

  “It’s probably the dust. Hold your nose.”

  “I ab.”

  Heather’s heart fell when Geraldine let out a whoop, dropped her broom, and began racing toward the wagon. “Bother. I’m afraid I’m going to have to pull up and talk to Geraldine. Try not to sneeze. Don’t forget. Philippe is worth the sacrifice. We have to get to him before D.A. finds you.”

  “I doh.”

  Heather did feel sorry for beautiful Yvonne, huddled there on the floor. She’d bet anything she owned, if she were ever to bet again, which she wasn’t, that Philippe’s mother had never endured a more uncomfortable ride in her life. And now she was going to have to suffer through Heather’s conversation with Geraldine. Heather aimed to keep it short, and not merely in deference to Yvonne’s comfort. She felt an irresistible compulsion to get back to the ranch and settle everything once and for all. She only hoped she, Philippe, and Yvonne would survive whatever confrontation ensued.

  She and Yvonne had talked for two straight hours after Yvonne had made her startling confession. It hadn’t taken much persuading on Yvonne’s part to convince Heather that D.A. Bologh—and what a diabolical play on a name that was—was a minion of Satan.

  “Diablo,” said Yvonne with scorn. “He thinks he’s so clever.” In her faint accent—sort of like Philippe’s only more French, Heather thought—Yvonne lifted scorn to an art form.

  “Actually, he is pretty clever,” said Heather because she thought it was true.

  “Bah!”

  Nevertheless, D.A. had managed to rule Yvonne’s life for more than thirty years. When Heather had pointed it out to Yvonne, the latter had burst into tears, so Heather didn’t rub her nose in it. Poor Yvonne had paid for her foolishness, many times over.

  Now, however, the hard part was coming. They had to convince Philippe that D.A. Bologh was a devil. And Philippe didn’t seem the sort who’d easily be persuaded that an otherworldly being was behind all the problems that had lately plagued his life.

  Worse, perhaps—at least Yvonne thought so—would be to convince Philippe to associate with his mother again. Yvonne was skeptical and was willing to leave Fort Summers and never see him again, as long as she accomplished her purpose. Heather, who couldn’t tolerate the notion of family members being estranged from one another, was more optimistic. She knew how much Philippe didn’t want to see this woman, however. Convincing him to reestablish a relationship with her was going to be hard, and she didn’t try to fool herself on that score.

  “Heather! Oh, Heather!” Geraldine was out of breath when she reached the wagon. Holding a hand to her thundering heart, she panted, “I heard the news. Oh, Heather, it’s so exciting!”

  Heather tried to be glad for her friend’s presence and happiness. “How do, Geraldine. I don’t have much time.” That was rude. Heather would have been ashamed of herself if a whole bunch of people’s lives weren’t hanging in the balance.

  “You surely have time to accept my good wishes,” Geraldine said, sounding a trifle put out.

  Heather pressed a hand to her head. “I’m sorry, Geraldine. I’ve just been in such a—a dither today.” That sounded right; any woman would be in a dither if she was going to marry Philippe St. Pierre.

  “Oh, Heather!” Geraldine put a hand on Heather’s arm. “It’s so thrilling! I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Geraldine.” Feeling contrite, Heather decided she could spare a few minutes for her best friend.

  Yvonne sneezed. The sound came, fuzzy, from the floor of the wagon.

  Geraldine stepped back a pace. “What was that?”

  “I, ah, sneezed,” said Heather lamely. To prove her lie, she sneezed. Her sneeze didn’t sound the least little bit like Yvonne’s.

  “That wasn’t you before,” Geraldine said flatly.

  Feeling bedeviled and at her wits’ end, Heather said, “Yes, it was.”

  “It couldn’t have been you. Your lips didn’t move.”

  Heather huffed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, if that’s all you have to say to me, I’ll be getting along now.”

  “Heather Mahaffey, what’s the matter with you?” Geraldine looked accusingly at Heather. “Just because you’re about to marry a rich man doesn’t mean you’re going to get too big for your britches, does it?”

  “No. Of course not.” Heather sought about in the jumble in her head for an excuse for her strange behavior, couldn’t find one to save herself, and decided she’d have to make it up to Geraldine later. “Listen, Geraldine, I’m a little distracted today. I’m really sorry, but I have to get back to the ranch.”

  Yvonne sneezed.

  Heather said grimly, “Now.” She flicked the reins, clucked to the horses, and left Geraldine in a puff of dust. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw her friend, staring after the wagon in befuddlement, waving dust from her face with her hand. “Lord, she’ll probably never speak to me again.”

  “I’ll nebber breathe again.”

  “Sorry. I’ll try to hurry, but that’ll only kick up more dust.”

  Yvonne groaned.

  It was about a half hour later, and they’d driven about two miles outside of the village limits, when Heather said, “I think it’s safe now.”

  “Thank God.”

  Heather watched Yvonne throw back the blanket, and felt sorry all over again. “Shoot, you’re really a mess.”

  Her dark eyes snapping, Yvonne frowned as she struggled up from the floor and onto the wagon seat. “You’d be a mess too, if you’d spent an hour on the floor of this ghastly thing.”

  “I know. I wasn’t casting aspersions, just mentioning it.”

  “Humph.” Yvonne began slapping her skirts in a futile effort to get the dust out.

  Heather shook her head. “You’ll never get it clean that way. You’ll have to wash it. There’s a wash house at the ranch where you can wash yourself and your clothes both.”

  “Wash my own clothes?”

  Yvonne sounded as if she’d never heard such a preposterous suggestion. Heather gazed at her, surprised. “You mean you didn’t have to wash your own clothes in New Orleans?”

  “Of course not.” Yvonne looked peeved. “I had servants to do those things for me.”

  “I see.” Wondering if Yvonne was truly cut out for life in the territory, Heather drove in silence for several minutes. “Um, do you think you’ll want to go back to New Orleans after this whole thing is over?”

  With a very French-looking shrug, Yvonne said, “I don’t know. Probably not. I imagine D.A. will have destroyed any remnants of my life in New Orleans by this time.”

  She was quiet for a minute. Heather shook her head and murmured, “I’m really sorry, Yvonne.”

  Another shrug and more silence. Then, in a voice that was straining to keep steady, Yvonne said, “It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t be able to go back to work anyway, because if we succeed, I imagine I’ll begin to look my age. If I’m allowed to live through it.”

  Good gracious, that’s right. Heather stared at Yvonne for a few seconds, appalled by the options facing her companion. She licked her lips. “Um, maybe it won’t be so bad.” Feeble. Very feeble. It would, too, be so bad, and Heather knew it as well as Yvonne did. “That’s silly. Of course, it will be bad.”

  “Yes. I’m sure it will.”

  “But, Yvonne, listen, you won’t have to worry about where to go or where to live. You can stay here. With us. At the ranch.” Was that presumptuous of her? Perhaps, but if Philippe was too stubborn to help his mother after she’d sacrificed her entire life for him, then Heather wasn’t sure she wanted to marry him at all.

  That was stupid too. She loved him. Of course, she wanted to marry him. No matter what.

  Which left her with onl
y one option. She’d have to convince Philippe to accept his mother and to acknowledge D.A. Bologh as the devil.

  What could be easier?

  It was all Heather could do to keep from whimpering.

  * * *

  Philippe downed a shot of brandy and growled, “Where the hell is she?”

  Mrs. Van der Linden looked shocked. “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. St. Pierre.”

  Philippe didn’t care if Mrs. Van der Linden was shocked or not. He needed to see Heather. She’d been gone all damned day long, and he was getting worried. Too many strange things had been going on around here for him to be comfortable when one of his employees was late getting back from a trip.

  Not, naturally, that he cared about Heather any more than he cared about any of his other employees. She was, however, the woman he’d chosen to marry, and he hadn’t become tired of her yet. That’s the only reason he was feeling snappish about her being late.

  Mrs. Van der Linden sniffed and said, “She’s always been an irresponsible chit, Mr. St. Pierre. You can’t expect her to change just because you’ve gone daft and asked her to marry you.”

  He turned to stare at her, and from the expression on Mrs. Van der Linden’s face, Philippe imagined he looked as furious as he felt. He really, really didn’t like Mrs. Van der Linden. And he especially didn’t like the way she was always belittling Heather.

  “That is to say,” Mrs. Van der Linden said hastily, “that in her younger days she was heedless. I’m sure she’s changed considerably.”

  “Yes,” he said. “She has. And since she’s soon to become your mistress, I suggest you begin to speak of her with the respect she deserves.”

  Her face draining of color, Mrs. Van der Linden said, “Yes, sir,” and escaped before Philippe could throw anything at her.

  “Damned woman,” he muttered, refilling his glass. He wished his heart would stop careening about in his chest. It was very uncomfortable, and it was a direct result of Heather’s tardiness. He’d have to speak to her about adhering to some kind of schedule.

  He strode to the mantel, picked up the big clock sitting there, and held it to his ear. It hadn’t run down. That’s one thing Mrs. Van der Linden was good for: winding clocks. However, if it hadn’t run down, then Heather was past her time by a couple of hours at least, and Philippe was getting more and more fidgety as the seconds passed. He was on the verge of giving up any pretense of patience and haring out towards town to find her when he heard the wagon rumble into the yard.

  Fearing it wasn’t Heather and hoping it was, he raced out of his office, down the hall, and to the front door, getting there a scant second ahead of Mrs. Van der Linden, who turned on her heel and hurried off in the opposite direction. Philippe sped her on her way with a ferocious scowl.

  His heart lightened by at least a ton when he saw Heather in the driver’s seat. He squinted into the gathering dusk when he realized she’d brought a passenger with her.

  That was all right with him, as long as Heather was safe. Perhaps she’d brought Geraldine Swift from town to help nurse her brother. Or maybe her sister Patricia had insisted she be allowed to come to the ranch to care for Jimmy. Or it might even be her mother, who felt a compelling need to see to her son’s—

  “Merde!”

  Philippe stopped dead in his tracks when he recognized the woman sitting on the wagon bench with Heather. It wasn’t her mother. It was his mother.

  In a heartbeat, his rage returned, bringing along all of its enraged relatives. He stormed the rest of the way to the wagon.

  “Hello, Philippe.” Heather gave him her brightest smile. “I’m sorry I’m so late. You see, I met your—”

  Her explanation ended in a screech when Philippe grabbed her around the waist and hauled her out of the wagon. She dropped the reins and the horses shuffled nervously. Yvonne gasped and clutched the wagon seat.

  “Stop it!” Heather cried. “Before you go off in an apoplexy, at least let me explain!”

  She began battering him on the back with her fists and wriggling so much that Philippe finally set her down—not very gently—in the dirt yard. He was so angry, he could barely see straight, much less talk. Fortunately, Heather didn’t suffer from his affliction.

  “What’s the matter with you, Philippe St. Pierre?” she hollered, obviously mad as thunder. “I brought Yvonne to the ranch because we both have something vital to talk to you about.”

  Towering above her, Philippe felt akin to a black cloud hovering. She glared right back at him, so he clearly wasn’t as intimidating as he wished he were. Because he knew he had to do it some day, he transferred his own personal glare to his mother. She looked frightened. Good. She deserved to be frightened.

  “For heaven’s sake, Philippe,” Heather continued. “Stop being silly about this. Do you think I’d have done this—knowing how much you’d hate it—just for fun? This is important. You have to talk to us, whether you want to or not.”

  She was trying to keep her voice down—Philippe was pretty sure she’d like to holler at him—but some of his men had been attracted by her initial screech. Several of them had wandered out from the bunkhouse. A couple of them seemed to have been stricken dumb by his mother, who looked like she wanted to hide away somewhere and cry, and were gaping, wide-eyed, at her. He thought savagely that perhaps he should hand her to his men and let them take turns. That’s what she was good at, after all.

  Heather poked him in the chest with her finger, and he turned his attention back to her. She was sure furious. So was he. He was, however, having a difficult time keeping his anger at Heather cranked up to a proper pitch. He was so damned glad she was here, and safe, that it took a good deal of energy to stop himself from crushing her in a huge hug of relief and then carting her off to bed, and to hell with supper. Making love to her all night would be much more fulfilling than eating.

  Through his teeth, he said, “Stop yelling, dammit. Get that woman into the house. She’s making a spectacle of herself.” Which was silly. Yvonne was only sitting there, trying to be invisible. Philippe was, however, in no mood to be rational. “I’m not eager to create a scene in front of my men.”

  “You can at least stop being hateful,” Heather huffed.

  “Hateful?” If she only knew. God, if she’d been with Yvonne all afternoon, maybe she already did. “Get her the hell into the house, Heather. Now.”

  She chuffed angrily. “Very well, but you’ll have to let me go first.”

  He did.

  “I’ll probably have bruises for a week.” She rubbed her upper arms and gazed sternly up at Philippe.

  He didn’t feel guilty. “Hurry up. I don’t want my men exposed to her.” He said it spitefully, as if he feared his mother carried some deadly, disgusting plague. He hoped Yvonne had heard him. As far as Philippe was concerned, Yvonne St. Pierre was diseased. And disgusting. And probably deadly.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say!” Heather cried.

  “It’s the truth.” And Philippe turned on his heel and stormed back to the house. He didn’t look to the right or to the left, and he was pretty sure his men—those who weren’t gaping at his mother—were staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  He felt as if he had. His mother. His mother! And Heather had brought her! God, he couldn’t stand it.

  * * *

  Heather stared after Philippe for a moment, then walked over to Yvonne, who was huddled on the wagon seat, looking unhappy and ashamed. Heather didn’t blame her much. Philippe had been a beast.

  True, he believed he had a right to dislike his mother. And if she were to be honest with herself, Heather guessed he had cause. Yvonne had admitted to being a bad mother: selfish, self-absorbed, more concerned about herself and her beauty than her son. Nevertheless, Heather had a feeling Yvonne had done her best under unmerciful circumstances.

  Heather Mahaffey wasn’t one to cast stones at others for making mistakes. She’d made plenty of her own. And if she’d been in Yvonne’s
position, she might have done the same thing. After all, Yvonne had been alone in the world, and Philippe’s father had talked a good story—according to Yvonne. It wasn’t poor Yvonne’s fault for believing the louse.

  Heather huffed and told herself to think about it later. Right now she had to get the horses taken care of and Yvonne into the house. And, since Heather wasn’t Philippe and didn’t hate Yvonne’s heart, liver, and gizzard, she aimed to do those two things in the proper order.

  Glancing around, she noticed Gil McGill standing a few yards off, goggling from Yvonne to Heather and back again. His gaze seemed to get stuck on Yvonne for longer than it did on Heather. Heather pursed her lips and told herself she didn’t care. “Gil, can you get the horses taken care of? I have to get Mrs.—er, I mean Miss—Oh, blast. I have to get this lady inside.”

  Gil jerked out of his trance. “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, Heather.”

  “Thank you.” She held up a hand for Yvonne. “Here, Yvonne. I’ll help you down. Please try not to think about what Philippe said. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” Those words were not only hopeless, but probably moronic as well, and she knew it. Nevertheless, she tried to make her tone of voice kind and encouraging.

  Yvonne wasn’t buying it. “He meant every word of it.” She sounded very discouraged. Yet she took Heather’s hand and climbed down from the wagon seat. She plainly wasn’t accustomed to such rude conveyances, and she stumbled and nearly fell flat on her face. Not that she would have damaged her clothing any, since it was already filthy from having spent so much time on the floor of the wagon. She was graceful, though, and righted herself almost immediately.

  “I’m so sorry to have brought all of this trouble on you, Heather,” Yvonne said in a strangled voice. “You’re a lovely young woman, and you don’t deserve it.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” said Heather briskly. She’d been thinking something of the sort herself, but Yvonne had enough to worry about. Besides, Heather had gotten herself into this mess all on her own. If D.A. Bologh had come to Fort Summers in a premeditated attempt to ruin the last of Yvonne’s life, Heather could have resisted temptation. She hadn’t, and now they had to figure a way out of the pickle she’d helped them get into.