Cooking Up Trouble Page 7

  “You’re back!” Heather didn’t know whether to be happy or miserable. She guessed she was happy when he walked past her into the kitchen, took one look at the pots and pans, and said, “I’ll clean these up in a jiffy.”

  “You will?” She goggled at him.

  “Sure will. Part of the deal.” And, with a wink, D.A. Bologh set about tidying up the kitchen belonging to Philippe St. Pierre in about a tenth of the time it would have taken Heather.

  As she’d done earlier in the day, she watched him. And, as had happened earlier in the day, she got dizzy doing it. He moved too fast. And inexplicable things happened. She could have sworn pots and pans flew through the air. He tossed dishes up into the air and they whirled wildly.

  “That’s going to become known as the spin dry cycle someday,” he said, and winked at her over his shoulder.

  Whatever that meant. In the end, Heather had no more idea how he’d cleaned the kitchen than how he’d cooked the dinner.

  She went to the bathhouse to wash up, thinking the entire time about D.A. Bologh and Philippe St. Pierre, and trying to make sense of either one of them. She couldn’t do it.

  It was all very unsettling, but she was so exhausted by the time she went to bed that night that she sank into the feather mattress, provided for her in the pleasant little room next to the kitchen, and slept the sleep of the innocent. Which was a big, fat lie, and she knew it.

  * * *

  Philippe stood at the window of his library and scowled out into the pitchy night. He was annoyed when he lifted his cigar to his lips and discovered it had gone out.

  “What I don’t understand is how a hundred head of beeves could have vanished, as if off the face of the earth.”

  Gil McGill, who was sitting on the big leather sofa, looked up at him helplessly. “I swear to God, Mr. St. Pierre, I don’t understand it either.” He reached for the glass at his elbow and took a sip, as if he needed to wet his lips in order to talk.

  Philippe turned and tried to soften his scowl. None of this was poor Gil’s fault. Still, a hundred head was almost a tenth of his herd. This was bad. “Could it be rustlers?”

  “I reckon it must be, but I haven’t heard about any gangs working the area. Generally, we know about that sort of thing pretty quick, because of the fort and the sheriff.”

  Philippe nodded and offered another suggestion. “Indians?”

  Gil thought for a minute and then shook his head. “I doubt it. The army rounded up the Apaches in 1864 and sent ‘em to the Bosque Redondo along with the Navajos they herded from Arizona. There’s hardly any loose Indians left around here anymore.”

  “Good God.” Philippe knew the United States hadn’t treated its native sons and daughters any too kindly, but that sounded like atrocious behavior to him. “I had no idea.”

  “Not many folks do, I reckon. From what I understand, they rounded up the Navajos in the wintertime, too, and drove them like a herd of cattle to the Bosque. A whole bunch of them died.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Philippe eyed Gil, whom he knew to be a decent man. He certainly sounded unconcerned about the fate of the Indians, however. Philippe guessed most white men were. He sighed. He was long past wondering why decent human beings could harbor such blind spots in their minds and hearts. After all, he reminded himself with a wry grin, he was the product of mixed heritage himself. If he hadn’t been so damned good looking, he’d still be paying for it, too, and he knew it.

  “I’m not at all surprised,” Philippe repeated. He decided to forego any further questions about Indians. The subject was too depressing, Manifest Destiny be hanged. “So if it’s not the Apaches, who do you think it is?

  “I’ve thought and thought, Mr. St. Pierre, and I just don’t know. There have been gangs around here, of course, but not so much these days. Those old days of the Regulators and that crazy fellow folks call Billy the Kid are long gone. Twenty years gone, in fact, and we’re pretty civilized out here now.”

  Philippe smiled. He really liked Gil. So did Heather. His brain conjured a vision of Heather and Gil in a passionate embrace, and his smile vanished without his consent. He mentally chided himself. Miss Mahaffey and Mr. McGill were perfectly suited to each other, for the love of God, and his reaction to the notion of them joined in carnal embrace was nonsensical.

  “Civilization aside, I’m losing cattle, and we’d better find out why and who’s doing it, or I’m liable to lose everything else as well.”

  Gil nodded and sighed. “I know. I’ve set the men to riding fences and keeping watch at night. We thought about bonfires, but the wind’s been so bad lately, fires are too dangerous.”

  “Yes. I see your point.” Philippe had never been anyplace where the wind was such a constant accompaniment to life.

  Gil took another sip of his drink and set the glass down with a clunk. “It’s almost as if something’s spiriting them cows away. It’s almost like, well—” Gil broke off, and his face turned brick red.

  Philippe lifted an eyebrow with interest. “It’s almost like what, Gil? I promise I won’t scoff.”

  “Well, if you do, I reckon I wouldn’t blame you.” He sat up straight and blurted it out. “It’s almost like it’s an old curse or something. I hear tell that the Indians laid a lot of curses on the whites who took over their land and run the buffalo off and started raising cattle instead.”

  “I see.” Philippe took a long sulfur match from the mantel, scratched it on the rough stones of the fireplace, and relit his cigar. He took a deep pull, blew the smoke out in rings, and contemplated the nature of curses. “You’ll probably be surprised to know that I’m not about to scoff at the suggestion of a curse, Gil.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’ve had some experience with curses.”

  Gil looked up, interested. “Yeah? I didn’t know that.”

  “Nobody knows that.” Philippe guessed he looked a little grim, because Gil didn’t ask any questions. Which was a good thing, because Philippe didn’t have any answers. He shook his head. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do other than be extra vigilant.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Are any of the other ranchers in the area having these problems?”

  Gil looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think so.”

  “Hmmm.” Philippe scowled into the night. Was someone in the area trying to put him out of business? He couldn’t imagine who it could be.

  Gil got up from the leather sofa and stood there, fiddling nervously with his hat. “I wish I could think of something, but I honestly don’t know why it’s happened or what else we can do, sir.”

  Philippe asked irritably, “Why does everyone call me sir?”

  Gil opened his mouth, but nothing came out of it, and Philippe regretted his momentary lapse. Lapses in deportment were rare for him, and Gil didn’t deserve a show of temper from him. “I’m sorry, Gil. Didn’t mean to bark at you. I guess I’m worried about the cattle.”

  Accepting the apology with good grace, Gil said, “Yeah, I reckon we all are. I—it’s—oh, hell, I don’t know.” Gil blushed again. “Sorry, Mr. St. Pierre.”

  Philippe waved it away. “Think nothing of it. I swear like a drunken sailor sometimes when I’m angry.”

  That made his wrangler grin, and Philippe forgave himself for having snapped earlier.

  “What I was going to say was that I can’t figure out where so many beeves could have got off to without anybody seeing it or without leaving a pretty clear trail, but we couldn’t find any trace at all. And I know damned well that all the men are worried, because they like working here better than anywhere else, and they’d be unhappy if anything happened to your operation.”

  “Really?” Philippe was surprised.

  “Oh, yes, sir. This is a great ranch, and you’ve got more sense than most of the other ranchers around.” He’d embarrassed himself, so he cleared his throat and hurried on. “As for the cattle, well, since the winds have been so bad and the weather so dry, we�
��ve tried to keep them pretty much together so’s we can feed them the grain you got. That was a good idea, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” Philippe appreciated Gil’s praise, although he knew good and well any man with enough money could afford to supplement his cattle’s food supply when the going got rough. He, Philippe St. Pierre, was a lucky man when it came to money. If a curse did hover over his life, it affected him in other ways.

  “Anyway, since we’ve kept them pretty much together and close to the bunkhouse and all, we can’t figure out how somebody’s been able to sneak so many off.”

  “We’ll have to keep watching.”

  “Yes, there are men watching all the time. I’m sure some of ‘em are better than others, but they all need their jobs, so I’m pretty sure nobody’s bluffing me.”

  “I’m glad to know they’re loyal.”

  Gil evidently either didn’t catch or chose to ignore Philippe’s sarcasm. “Oh, yes. They are.”

  He meant it; Philippe could tell by the sincerity of his tone. Lord, had he ever been so young an innocent?

  That was a stupid question. Of course, he hadn’t. What chance had he ever had to be innocent? He’d had a lot less to do with innocence in his life than with curses.

  “Thanks for the report, Gil. Do you think it would help to offer a reward if the rustler’s ever caught?”

  Gil shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Hell, sir—sorry—you don’t need to bribe the men to do their jobs.”

  Another damned sir. Philippe didn’t understand this notion people had that he was some sort of person to be kowtowed to. Nevertheless, he quirked an eyebrow and smiled. “I hadn’t intended the offer as a bribe.”

  “Oh. I guess not.” Gil shrugged. “I reckon nobody’d mind getting a little extra money for a job if they do something special.”

  “Right. Well, that’s fine then. I’ll not announce any kind of reward yet, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Gil seemed relieved. Philippe felt his lips tighten and made an effort to relax him. It irked him that the men who were in his employ seemed damned near as insecure around him as his pretty little cook. He could almost understand Heather’s skittishness. For all she knew, he was a black-hearted satyr who wanted nothing more than to ravish her. But Gil? It made no sense that Gil should fear him. Unless he’d created in himself something more than merely a wealthy businessman.

  When he looked at the situation from another angle, though, it sort of tickled him to think folks were afraid of him. Him. Philippe St. Pierre. God, it was too funny.

  He did not, however, laugh. Instead he walked over to Gil and held out his hand. “I appreciate all your good work, Gil.”

  Gil’s pleasure was obvious when he shook his employer’s hand, and Philippe was glad. At least he seemed to have done this one thing right.

  “Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to work for someone who knows what he’s doing.”

  Philippe laughed, Gil’s choice of words having tickled him. “Thanks. Don’t most folks around here know what they’re doing?”

  “Not always. You’d be surprised at the people who settle out here with big ideas about making themselves rich. Most of ‘em end up dirt poor, along with the rest of us. Even the ones with sense have a hard time of it. This isn’t an easy country.”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  After Gil left, Philippe contemplated the nature of the land he’d moved from his wretched origins to conquer. Gil was right. It was a hard, unfriendly land.

  Even the rivers that gave the land and cattle life were hard. The Pecos, which flowed right through Fort Summers, had been honored as the “graveyard of the cowman’s hopes” by none other than Mr. Charles Goodnight himself. And the man had been right.

  The Pecos was as full of minerals as a river could be, there was quicksand on her banks, and the fact that herds had to walk hundreds miles to get to her was a mean trick on Nature’s part. By the time the cattle smelled water, they were dying of thirst, and stampedes were commonplace. It was difficult to persuade a herd of panicked cows that they needed to wait a while longer to slake their thirst, especially when the men trying to do the persuading were damned near as thirsty as the cows.

  Philippe sighed. He knew why he was here. But why would anyone else settle out here? The indomitability of the human spirit astonished him occasionally—in those rare moments when he wasn’t deploring man’s fallen nature.

  Ha. As if he were fit to offer any sort of opinion on the matter.

  A movement outside caught his attention, and he pulled the curtain aside. Was that his rustler, come to pry around the house? He squinted into the dark for a moment, and then relaxed. He did not, however, lower the curtain or cease watching.

  Heather Mahaffey, a towel thrown over her shoulder, and clad in some voluminous thing that was as sexless as it was ugly, was making her way from the kitchen to the bathhouse. The image the knowledge provoked in his mind was an entertaining one.

  Wondering if he actually was, at heart, some kind of perverted satyr, Philippe found himself dropping the curtain, tossing his cigar into the fire, and heading out of his library. He’d never been a voyeur before and didn’t intend to begin now, but he could at least make sure none of the other men on the ranch were looking. After all, Heather was his responsibility now.

  Oddly enough, the notion didn’t make his blood run cold.

  Chapter Five

  Damn. Philippe eyed the bathhouse with disfavor. There were curtains over the two windows, but they weren’t very good curtains. He saw Heather’s hands as they tried to draw the fabric together, but the curtains still gaped in the middle. He’d have to get new ones put up. Immediately. He’d be hanged if he’d allow Heather to be the object of salacious attention from his employees.

  His own attention, however, was another matter. He told himself he was only checking to be sure none of his men were out and about. He told himself this is what came of employing females on a ranch. He told himself it was his duty to see that Heather wasn’t molested—he didn’t even think about Mrs. Van der Linden’s safety since any man who attempted to molest her would probably come out the loser, not to mention be the possessor of deplorably bad taste. He told himself he aimed to stand guard at the bathhouse to ensure Heather’s privacy while she undertook her evening’s ablutions.

  As much as he tried to be honest with himself, however, he couldn’t quite persuade himself that he was being merely responsible when he stepped to the window to determine if a man could actually see anything through the crack in the curtain.

  A man could. Philippe swallowed hard and goggled. Lord in heaven, the female had taken off that ugly wrapper and was standing before the wash basin, humming to herself, as naked as the day she was born. Only there was a whole lot more of her than the day she was born. Philippe was sure of it.

  God in heaven, she had skin like cream. From behind she was ravishing. She reminded Philippe of a painting by one of those famous old masters, of a woman about to step into her bath. Succulent. She was succulent. Her hips taunted him. Philippe wished she’d turn around so he could see her from the front. The curve of her back when she lifted her arms to pin her hair up made him swallow again and utter an involuntary, inarticulate sound.

  She must have heard him because she turned her head suddenly, still holding her hair up. She frowned at the curtain, and Philippe had a sudden, violent urge to crash through the window, stalk over to her, haul her into his arms, throw her onto his saddle, and carry her off like some ancient knight conquering a castle. He’d ravish her there, in private. He jumped back from the window, although there was no way in heaven she could see him. She was the one standing in the light, God save him.

  Lord, what that lantern light did to her body ought to be outlawed. Her breasts were perfect, high and medium-sized, and deliciously rounded. Not a sag in sight. Philippe had seen enough breasts in his life that he was mildly surprised Heather’s had the power to make him salivate. But they did. The light played on
them, making shadows on their curves and creating an aura of mystery. The air in the bathhouse must be chilly, because her dusky nipples were pebbled up tight and pointing straight at him.

  He gaped when she stopped frowning, slipped the last pin into her hair, brought her arms down, put her hands on her hips, and contemplated the window curtains, as if trying to ascertain how she could make them more secure. The fluff of curls between her thighs was a little darker than her hair. Her thighs were enough to make the pope in Rome give up his vows. In whole, she was enough to tempt a saint, and Philippe was no saint.

  Then she walked to the window, her every step making her breasts bounce slightly and making Philippe wonder if she didn’t know he was there, and was deliberately tempting him. Stifling a groan, he forced himself to step aside. He was so aroused, he could barely make his legs work.

  He also prayed that she wouldn’t have any pins with her with which to secure the curtains, because he didn’t want to stop watching her.

  Good God, what did that make him?

  A man. That’s what it made him.

  He waited until he was pretty sure she wasn’t looking out of the window any longer, and took up his position again—and found himself staring straight into Heather Mahaffey’s gorgeous blue eyes. He saw them go wide, and then she screamed.

  His first impulse was to turn tail and skedaddle back to the house and pretend it hadn’t been he, Philippe St. Pierre, who had been peeping at the naked Heather through a gap in the curtain.

  His second impulse overrode his first one, thank God, or he’d have been forever humiliated by this experience. Philippe was a big boy. He knew what he’d done was wrong. He knew he had to own up to his culpability. He also knew he was the boss, and that he could probably bluff his way through this one.

  The bathhouse door flew open and crashed against the side of the wall. Heather’s panicky voice cried out, “Who’s there? Who are you? Why are you peeking in the window?”