5

Leaves on a butternut tree across the street from West & Riley’s trapped the early morning sunlight, sending filtered shadow over the alley behind the restaurant. Cassie shivered, more from nerves than cold. She hurried through the kitchen entrance.

“I’m not late, am I?”

Mrs. Fielder paused in the act of kneading dough and rested her hands on the worktable. “Mr. West said you’d be here. Didn’t say what time, so guess you’re not late.” She gave Cassie’s garments a quick glance. “At least you wore an apron today and changed from that fancy outfit.”

Cassie ran her fingers along the sleeve of her blue dress. “This one’s easier to care for.” She smiled, hoping to make a friend of the cook. “Please tell me what you want me to do.”

“The men will be here for breakfast in a few minutes—most of ’em, anyway.” With a floury hand, Mrs. Fielder pointed to shelving piled with brown crockery. “The plates are over there, knives and forks in that tray against the wall. Best get everything on the tables right away. Put a setting in front of each chair—but you already know that, eh?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Heart thudding, Cassie nodded and took three plates from the shelf. Before she reached the door, Mrs. Fielder snorted.

“Three at a time? You’ll be ten minutes just carrying plates. There’s twenty-four chairs out there.”

Cassie backtracked, adding three more pieces of the thick crockery to her load. As soon as she entered the dining room, she thumped the stack onto the nearest table. A quick survey of the room showed four rectangular tables, each surrounded by six chairs. Some part of her mind must have noticed the furnishings when she visited yesterday. But yesterday she hadn’t paid attention.

Sighing, she walked around the table, centering a plate in front of each chair. Then she stepped back and studied the arrangement. One of the plates sat off-center. She made a quick adjustment. As she did so, she sensed she was being observed.

When she looked up, she noticed Mr. West standing in the doorway that joined the grocery to the restaurant. He watched her without saying a word. Unnerved, she hastened back to the kitchen.

Mrs. Fielder slid a pan of biscuits into one of the two ovens and banged the door closed. “You’ll need to move faster—this isn’t a ladies’ tea. When you finish with the plates, the cups are on that tray under the window.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The words stirred echoes in her memory. She’d grown up listening to servants respond in the same fashion to her mother, never imagining one day she’d walk in their shoes.

Under Mr. West’s silent, but intent, gaze, she set the remainder of the plates in front of the chairs, then turned to gather tableware from the kitchen. Before she reached the door, he cleared his throat.

She stopped.

“Miss Haddon. If I may make a suggestion.”

Her heart thrummed. “Yes, sir. What is it?”

“You could save yourself several trips if you put the knives and forks on top of the plates when you bring them out.”

Heat climbed up her throat and burned her cheeks. How obvious. A few minutes on the job and she’d already earned a black mark.

“You’re right. Thank you.” She kept her gaze on the floor until she reached the kitchen, then grabbed two handfuls of tableware and dashed back to the dining room. Heedless of alignment, she dropped a setting at each place. As she finished with the last table, the outside door opened and two men entered.

“Well, if you don’t brighten the morning,” the first one said, removing his hat. He wore a red flannel shirt tucked into dusty black trousers. Stubby whiskers prickled from his cheeks. “Mrs. Fielder sick?”

Cassie inched toward the kitchen. “No. She’s . . . making breakfast.”

The second man laughed. “We figured as much. That’s why we’re here.” He stepped to one of the tables and scraped a chair across the floorboards. “I smell coffee. Don’t see no cups, though.”

Oh mercy. She’d forgotten the cups. A second black mark. “I’ll bring them right now.”

She whirled and pushed through the door, nearly colliding with Mrs. Fielder.

“Heard voices. Time to start serving.” She carried the largest coffeepot Cassie had ever seen.

“Just a moment. I forgot the cups.”

“Humph. In that case, you take care of the coffee. I’ve got to tend to the eggs.” The cook thunked the pot at the rear of the range and picked up a spoon.

Cassie’s knees wobbled. She doubted she could lift the pot, much less pour without spilling on customers. Cool air slid over the floor as more men entered, their voices loud above the clinking of Mrs. Fielder’s spoon against the skillet.

This was the moment she’d dreaded. Mr. West had cautioned her that the men he served weren’t all gentlemen. No matter. She needed this job. She jutted her chin in the air and marched into the dining room carrying a tray full of cups.

Close to a dozen heads turned in her direction. Some were hatless, others wore slouch hats even though they sat at the table. Cassie marked them as the ones who weren’t gentlemen. With quick movements, she circled the room, plunking a crockery mug next to each plate.

“You going to fill these?” The boy who spoke couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen.

“’Course she will. That’s her job.” Middle-aged, with coarse features, the speaker reached out, placing his hand on Cassie’s waist. “Ain’t that right, missy?”

Revulsion shuddered over her. She twisted away. “Yes. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return in just a moment with the coffee.”

Mr. West strode across the room and caught up with her next to the kitchen door. “It would be best if Mrs. Fielder handled the coffeepot,” he said in an undertone. “You fill the platters. She can serve the tables.”

“Yes, sir.” Equal portions of gratitude and embarrassment swept through her. She scurried to Mrs. Fielder’s side to relay his message.

The cook huffed out an exasperated breath. “Wish he’d make up his mind. First he wants you to serve, now me.” She shoved the spoon into Cassie’s hand. “The bowls are next to the stove. Fill ’em with eggs. Put the biscuits and bacon on the platters. One for each table. Bring ’em right in. Those gents don’t have all morning.”

Mr. West didn’t think her capable of pouring coffee. If she couldn’t do the simple task of dividing the food, she knew he wouldn’t let her stay.

Hands shaking, she scooped spoonfuls of scrambled eggs into four bowls, doing her best to ensure each bowl contained an equal amount. When she reached to the warming shelf for the bacon, her fingers slipped on the greasy edge of the tray. The contents spilled over the top of the range like so many twigs. Grease splatters smoked. Bacon strips shriveled.

At that moment, the door swung open and Mr. West stepped across the threshold. “Customers are waiting. Where’s the—” His voice choked off. He grabbed a serving dish from the table next to the stove. Using a long-handled fork, he raked the darkening strips off the stovetop and onto the platter.

Cassie watched, horrified at what she’d done. “I’m so sorry.” The words emerged in a faint whisper. The pan slipped from her nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

He set his jaw in a tight line. “Take one of those towels over there and clean the grease off the range before a fire starts. Then clean the floor. I’ll send Mrs. Fielder in for the biscuits.” He turned his back and stalked into the dining room.

The smell of smoldering fat spurred her from her paralysis. She snatched a towel from the shelf, wadding the thick cotton fabric around her right hand. Perspiration beaded her forehead and sizzled on the broad iron surface as she leaned over to reach splatters in the back corners.

Mrs. Fielder banged into the room, dumped the biscuits into bowls, and stamped out again without saying a word. She didn’t have to. Disapproval radiated from her body like quills on a porcupine.

Cassie dropped the soiled towel into a basin and slumped against the worktable. Lord, help me. Keep me from more accidents.

If she finished well, she hoped Mr. West would be pleased enough to overlook the bacon incident.

Jacob stepped into the kitchen after the final supper patron departed. Reflected sunset sent a saffron glow through the window, tinting Miss Haddon’s auburn hair gold. Bent over the dishpan, she paid no attention to his presence until he spoke her name.

She turned then, wiping water from her hands with one corner of her food-spotted apron. Her green eyes were shadowed with fatigue.

“Yes, sir?”

He pulled a chair away from the worktable. “Sit a moment.”

After a glance at Mrs. Fielder, who stood with her back to them using a brush to scrub the stovetop, Cassie crossed the room and sat. Anxiety marked her features.

“I know I’m slow, but I’ll have everything washed before I leave.”

“I’m not worried about the dishes.” He hoped the sympathy he felt showed on his face. “You look worn-out. This is more work than you’ve ever done in your life, am I right?”

Her features tightened, as if she were bracing herself for a blow. She straightened her sagging shoulders.

“I can do this, Mr. West. Please give me a chance.”

The scrubbing sounds stopped. He knew the cook was listening to their conversation. He’d hoped to speak to Miss Haddon alone, but if he waited much longer she’d probably collapse. The surge of protectiveness he felt surprised him. He had to send her home. Now.

“Be reasonable. Today was nothing. When there’s a full railroad crew in town, we have men standing in line to be served.”

“All the more reason you need help.” Her eyes sparked. “You said you’d give me a week. This is just my first day.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “From what I’ve seen, a full week would probably kill you. Wouldn’t do me any good, either.” Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket and pushed three silver quarters toward her. “Here’s a day’s pay. I hope you find something you’re more suited for.”

She glared at him. “I’m tired of being told I’m useless.”

“I never said—”

“You can keep your money.” She rose and swept her cloak and carryall from pegs near the door. “Good night, Mr. West.”

The screen door banged behind her.

He blinked at the intensity of her reaction. She had to recognize that the restaurant was no place for an innocent girl like herself. A fresh flare of anger burned through his gut at the memory of the customer grabbing her waist at breakfast. He’d had to use all of his willpower to stop himself from taking the man by the collar and throwing him out. To have her continue working here would only invite similar incidents.

The scritch, scritch of brush on iron told him Mrs. Fielder had returned to her task. For a brief moment, he wondered whether he should ask her opinion about Miss Haddon.

Then he slapped his hand on the table. No. He’d done the right thing.