Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  Not Philippe St. Pierre. Philippe St. Pierre looked like Heather’s notion of Hercules.

  She attempted a little smile when he didn’t go on, but wasn’t sure if it was effective or not. “Um, yes. That’s the one, all right. Cook.”

  “I see. I believe the position is still open, Miss Mahaffey. Mrs. Van der Linden has been serving in that capacity as well as that of my housekeeper, but if you’d like the job, it’s yours. I’m sure Mrs. Van der Linden will be pleased. I don’t think she likes cooking much.”

  “I’m sure.” Heather wished it were so. Even if Heather were the most accomplished cook in the territory, Mrs. Van der Linden wouldn’t be happy. In truth, Heather knew Mrs. Van der Linden would love nothing better than to see Heather fail miserably. She feared she was going to make Mrs. Van der Linden happy all too soon.

  “I’ll be pleased to have you as part of my household, Miss Mahaffey.”

  “You would?” Heather mentally kicked herself. “That is to say, yes, I’m glad, too. Thank you.” Lord, she was doing this all wrong.

  “When will you be available to start?”

  Heather gazed at him blankly. “When? Um, any time, actually.” Now, in fact.

  “Fine.”

  Philippe stood, and Heather was reminded once more that he was a very tall man. She blinked up at him, wishing this wasn’t her real life, but some sort of fairy tale in which she was Cinderella and he the handsome prince. He could fill the role, hands down, no matter how ill she filled hers.

  “Why don’t you pack up your belongings and begin working for me the day after tomorrow, then. Will that be enough time for you to gather everything together?”

  “Er, yes. Certainly.” Heather, feeling uncomfortable with him towering over her, stood too. He still towered over her, but she felt better about it. “Um, you want me to live here?”

  He cocked his head. She wished he wouldn’t do that. Every time he tilted his head that way, she had a mad impulse to run her fingers over his cheeks and lips. Shoot, she’d better get herself under control soon.

  “Most of the household staff sleep here, Miss Mahaffey, since my ranch is so far removed from the town. It seems to work out well that way. Otherwise, I fear you’d never get any rest at all.” He smiled kindly, and Heather felt silly. “After all, you’ll have to be up early to prepare breakfast and stay up late putting food away and cleaning up after supper.”

  “Of course.” She managed a fairly commendable laugh. “I hadn’t thought, is all.”

  He smiled at her, and she got light-headed. This was terrible.

  “Fine, then,” he said. “I’m looking forward to your tenure as my cook, Miss Mahaffey.”

  “Thank you.”

  He pulled a red velvet rope beside his desk. Heather had never seen a real bell pull before. She’d read about them in novels. She heard Mrs. Van der Linden stomping to the door before the door opened and the older woman entered the library.

  “Yes, sir,” Mrs. Van der Linden said. Disapproval dripped from the two words, and Heather was surprised. She hadn’t believed even Mrs. Van der Linden was bold enough to so clearly express disapproval of her employer’s activities.

  “Mrs. Van der Linden, I believe you’re acquainted with Miss Heather Mahaffey,” Philippe said, his voice sounding benign and reasonable.

  “Humph,” said Mrs. Van der Linden.

  Heather smiled and gave the woman a little finger wave. The only thing her wave produced was another humph from her enemy.

  “Miss Mahaffey has agreed to come to my ranch and cook for me.”

  This time Mrs. Van der Linden sneered. “Oh, she has, has she?”

  “Yes. She has. And I’m very pleased about it.” The glitter in Philippe St. Pierre’s eyes would have stopped Heather in her tracks had it been directed at her.

  Even Mrs. Van der Linden was affected by it. She stiffened, bobbed a curtsy, and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Indeed.” Ice dripped from the word. “And I expect you to extend every courtesy to her.”

  Heather almost protested. After all, Mrs. Van der Linden already hated her guts. If she had to be courteous as well, Heather feared for her happiness, at least.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Van der Linden said, sounding not quite as sour as she might. Heather took heart.

  “Please see her to the door, Mrs. Van der Linden. She will begin her employment two days hence.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Mrs. Van der Linden shot a hot, mean scowl at Heather, who turned, said, “Thank you, Mr. St. Pierre,” to Philippe, and fled.

  Mrs. Van der Linden sped her on her way with a few well-chosen and not-very-nice admonitions, to which Heather paid no heed. Her head was spinning too sickeningly for her to pay attention to Mrs. Van der Linden, whom everyone in town knew was a mean old biddy.

  Mrs. Van der Linden’s being a mean old biddy did not, unfortunately, negate the certain fact that Heather Mahaffey couldn’t cook worth squat. She tried, in the two days left to her, to learn. Her mother tried to help her. Her sister Patricia tried to help her.

  Heather managed to avoid learning a thing from either one of her loving relatives.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She was almost in tears as she stared at the chicken she’d failed to fry. It was lying in the pot, naked, looking soggy and sad. Heather knew just how it felt.

  Patricia glanced unhappily at another burned pot—the one that had held the first chicken—and sighed. “It’s because you don’t really want to, Heather.”

  Heather rounded on her sister, shocked. “But I do want to! I’m supposed to be the man’s cook, for heaven’s sake! How can I be a cook if I can’t cook?”

  Patricia shrugged. On her, shrugs looked ladylike and delicate. Heather didn’t understand it. “No you don’t. Not really.” She gave Heather one of her sweet smiles, and Heather nearly burst into tears. “You can do anything you really want to do, Heather. We all know it. If you really wanted to cook, you’d be the best cook in the world. You’d rather ride horses and round up cows and do things like that.”

  Heather hung her head, knowing her sister spoke the truth. “But I need to be able to cook,” she said feebly.

  Patricia patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Heather. You’re the smartest one of us all.”

  Heather gawked at her older sister, her astonishment unfeigned. “What?”

  Patricia’s musical laugh tinkled out, soft and pretty. “It’s true, sweetheart. Everybody but you knows it.”

  Heather could only shake her head. Patricia was wrong. Heather knew it, but her sister’s wrongness surprised her; Patricia was wrong about very few things.

  Nevertheless, she didn’t back down from her commitment to Philippe St. Pierre. Two days after she’d been hired by him to do a job for which she was unqualified, she stuck her few belongings in a pillowcase—since the family owned no luggage—slung the pillowcase over her shoulder, and trudged the five miles to the ranch. The wind tried to blow her off of her feet but, stubborn in the true Mahaffey tradition, she wouldn’t let it.

  * * *

  Mrs. Van der Linden opened the door to Heather’s knock, and Heather’s heart sank even further than it had already sunk.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Heather Mahaffey.”

  Heather smiled at the ogre—that is to say, she smiled at the woman. This was one of her sweet, good-girl smiles. She said, “So do I, Mrs. Van der Linden.” From the sniff the older woman gave her, Heather knew Mrs. Van der Linden had her own opinions, both about Heather and about her attempt to put herself across as a good and useful young woman.

  “I’ve made his breakfast, and he’s going to take his noon meal in town because he has some business there. So you won’t have to serve him a meal until suppertime.” Mrs. Van der Linden looked her up and down in a way that told Heather the housekeeper didn’t expect her to be around for many meals after that.

  When Mrs. Van der Linden left her alone in the
kitchen, Heather glanced around with dismay. Good Lord, what had she done?

  “You’ve gone crazy, is what you’ve done,” she said to herself, not bothering to mince words. But she still held the job, at least until Philippe St. Pierre ate supper that night, so Heather decided she’d better begin making the most of the opportunity.

  How in God’s name could one make the most of a kitchen? Heather took a deep breath and refused to panic.

  All right, the first thing she had to do was take stock. She took two more deep breaths to calm herself and then walked slowly through her new domain, pulling out drawers, peering into cupboards, and assessing things.

  The icebox was a daunting appliance. It was as cold as winter in there, and it was full of things Heather didn’t know what to do with. Foodstuffs. Meat. Raw meat. Eggs. Uncooked vegetables. Milk. Milk? Did grown men drink milk?

  “I’m probably supposed to cook something with it,” she muttered, wishing she knew what that something was and how to make it.

  Sighing soulfully, she shut the icebox door and walked to the pie safe. It was empty, which probably meant she was supposed to fill it. Blast.

  And there was the sink. It was a nice sink. Enameled. Nicer than the wooden tub Heather’s family had to use. Must be nice to have money.

  Oh, and look there. Mr. St. Pierre was so rich, he even had a water faucet. Heather had seen pictures of water faucets. She turned this one on gingerly, and leapt back when water spurted out into the sink.

  “Mercy.” She heard the awe in her own voice, and told herself to get used to it.

  Or maybe she shouldn’t. As soon as Mr. St. Pierre ate his first meal prepared by Heather, she’d probably be tossed out on her ear. How humiliating.

  Mercy sakes, look at the stove! Heather gaped at the gleaming range, one of the newfangled variety that had a variable temperature gauge and a hole in the top where you could set pots to keep soup warm. The range was big, too. The stove in her parents’ house was tiny by comparison, and her mother had to feed six people. Mr. St. Pierre’s cook only had to feed him. Perhaps one or two indoor servants. There weren’t a battalion of flatirons set out on this stove, either, probably because nobody wanted to mar the surface of the shiny new appliance. Mrs. Van der Linden must keep her flatirons heating somewhere else.

  My goodness, what a fabulous place this was.

  Her heart ached when she turned to peruse the rest of the kitchen. There were two bins underneath the sink, one holding flour, and one holding sugar. Of course. Her mother had bins like that. That’s because flour and sugar were used so much in the average kitchen. There was probably cornmeal somewhere too. Heather thought she could probably make up a batch of cornmeal mush in a pinch because all that entailed was mixing water with the meal and adding a little pinch of salt.

  Maybe not.

  And look at all those pots and pans. Gleaming brass and cast-iron black, they hung on neat little hooks, only waiting for someone who knew what she was doing to take them down and cook in them. That let Heather out.

  Oh, and there were sacks of potatoes and onions and things, too. There was probably a kitchen garden that she’d be expected to care for. She opened the back door and looked outside. Yup. There it was.

  “That’s one thing I can do, at least,” she said in order to bolster her self-esteem. “I’m good at gardening.” For whatever that was worth.

  As soon as she backed into the kitchen again and glanced around, what little dignity she’d just gained departed in a rush.

  Gad, she’d never make it here. Feeling a good deal disheartened, Heather made her way to the pantry. There were tins of things and jars of things and boxes of things—baking soda, cornstarch, yeast, salt, pepper, coffee, tea. There was some oatmeal up there. The last time Heather had prepared oatmeal for her siblings, it hadn’t turned out too badly. Of course, she’d had to throw in a bunch of raisins to disguise the lumps. Perhaps Mr. St. Pierre had some raisins in here somewhere. Oh, yes, there they were.

  “Now, if only I can convince him to eat oatmeal for every meal, maybe I’ll last for a week or so.”

  Right.

  Well, there was no getting out of it now. Heather had possessed the foresight to bring along an apron and one of her mother’s cookbooks. Straightening her shoulders and telling herself to buck up, she put on the apron. Frantically she went over Patricia’s kind words about her native ability. They didn’t help a whole lot, but she wouldn’t give up. Not yet.

  She plopped the cookbook on the table that sat in the middle of the kitchen. Then, armed with her apron and a whole lot of grit, she plunked herself down on a chair and thumbed through the book, hoping to find something to prepare for dinner that was so easy even she couldn’t ruin it.

  “Fricasseed chicken and dumplings,” she read. “I can probably boil a chicken, but I wonder if I can make a dumpling.”

  An incident from her checkered cooking past slithered into her memory, and she vetoed the dumplings. Maybe she could serve something else with the fricasseed chicken. Bread? But then she’d have to make the bread, wouldn’t she? The last time she’d helped her mother with the bread making, the whole batch had gone flat because she’d killed the yeast with too-hot water. Fudge.

  She was sitting at the table, staring at the cookbook in black despair and praying for help from somewhere—anywhere—when a knock came at the back door, startling her. Heather looked up from the book and stared at the back door. Who could that be? Only one way to find out.

  With a heavy heart, she heaved herself up and walked to the door. She sighed with despair as she opened the door—and discovered herself standing face to face with a man who was, in his own way, as handsome as Philippe St. Pierre. He had icy blue eyes, dark hair, and a droopy black mustache. He was a complete stranger, which was odd, considering Fort Summers was a small place and people generally knew each other—and, if a stranger did come to town, it was big news.

  She stared at him, puzzled. “Yes? May I help you?”

  He removed his hat and smiled. He had a lovely smile. Only it seemed a tiny bit sly. His smile made Heather’s nerves skip. On the other hand, she was already a nervous wreck, so she was probably exaggerating the effect of his smile.

  “How-do, ma’am. My name’s D.A., and I understand you might need a little help with your new job. It would be my great pleasure to help you.”

  She blinked, sure she’d heard him wrong. “I, ah, beg your pardon?”

  He chuckled low in his throat, and Heather’s skipping nerves took to racing like frightened mice.

  “I understand from friends that you might have taken on a job you’re not quite sure of, ma’am. I’ll be happy to help you.”

  Heather frowned at him. “I don’t understand. How did you hear about my new job?”

  “Word gets around, ma’am.”

  That might be true, but word of this guy hadn’t gotten around to Heather, and that was a very unusual circumstance. Any time a personable young male stranger came to town, Geraldine and Heather were among the first to hear about it. Geraldine’s parents, in particular, wanted to get Geraldine hooked up with a gent, married, and out of their hair—which didn’t seem quite fair to Heather, as Geraldine was a credit to her family. Unlike herself. Heather shut the door on that unprofitable track.

  She had less luck shutting the door on the stranger. Without her being aware of what he was doing, the man had maneuvered her backwards until he was inside the kitchen. How’d he do that? Heather glared at him, but he was no longer looking at her. Instead, he was surveying the kitchen as if he owned it.

  “I still don’t understand,” she said, trying to reestablish her place of authority as Mr. St. Pierre’s duly-hired cook, standing in her duly-assigned kitchen. So what if she was a fraud? This man couldn’t possibly know that. Could he? Maybe the local gossip mill was even better than she’d believed it to be. Trouble was, she’d never seen this man before. “Who are you?”

  He winked at her and tossed his hat onto the
table. Heather did not approve. “I told you. Name’s D.A. D.A. Bologh.”

  “D.A. Below?” Odd name.

  He laughed again. “Bologh. B-o-l-o-g-h.”

  “Oh.” It was still an odd name, and he was an odd duck, even if he was handsome in a creepy sort of way. “What do the D. and the A. stand for?”

  “My first and middle names.”

  Big help. She intensified her frown for his benefit, but it seemed to have no effect. She ought to have practiced frowns along with smiles, but she hadn’t bothered. The more fool she. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

  “New?” He threw back his head and laughed.

  Heather didn’t understand that, either. She didn’t think she’d said anything even remotely funny.

  “No, sweetheart, I’m not new here. Except, maybe, to you.” He winked at her again.

  Sweetheart? Heather stiffened. “I don’t appreciate your attitude, Mr. Bologh, and I don’t like strangers calling me sweetheart. If you haven’t any business here, please leave.” It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps he did have business here. She backpedaled quickly. “Er, are you a tradesman? Do you have a delivery for Mr. St. Pierre?” Maybe it was part of the cook’s duties to receive tradesmen. She knew nothing about running a big, elaborate house belonging to a rich man. For all she knew Mr. St. Pierre received shipments of merchandise from faraway places every day.

  Ignoring her first suggestion, that he leave, D.A. Bologh sat in the chair lately vacated by Heather herself. “You might say I’m a tradesman. In a way.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Heather, already nervous and upset, bristled. “Listen, Mr. Bologh, I have a lot of work to do, and I want to get at it. If you have business here, please tell me what it is, so I can get on with my job.”

  “Your job?” He lifted an ironic eyebrow. “From everything I’ve heard, you’re in over your head, Miss Heather.”

  Lord, wasn’t that the truth. Still, Heather didn’t relish his smirking way of expressing it. Actually, she didn’t relish his knowing about her at all. Her nervousness burned up in a fit of wrath.

  “Now you listen here, you.” She poked her finger emphatically on the table in front of him. “I don’t know who you are, don’t care who you are, don’t have any idea why you think you know anything about me, but I want you to leave now. I have work to do.”