Chapter Eleven

 

 

Several days later, Heather was in a dither. Any minute now, her sister Patricia and her best friend Geraldine were going to show up at Philippe St. Pierre’s kitchen door to help serve at his dinner party. Mr. St. Pierre had hired them for the occasion, much to Mrs. Van der Linden’s disgust.

Heather was so accustomed to Mrs. Van der Linden’s disgust by this time that the sour old woman didn’t even faze her. She was, however, dreadfully fazed by the possibility of what Geraldine and Patricia would say about D.A. Bologh. He’d managed to keep his presence in Philippe’s kitchen a secret from the rest of the household thus far, but Heather couldn’t imagine how he was going to do it with two other girls popping in and out for serving dishes, platters, and so forth. She’d asked him about it, and he’d only laughed. That hadn’t surprised her, but it hadn’t helped her dither any, either.

He’d been in the kitchen all afternoon, doing whatever magical things he did to create his succulent meals. Heather kept watching, hoping she’d pick up a hint here or there, but he moved too fast for her.

“You might as well stop trying so hard,” he told her, an ironical cast to his voice. “You’ll never be able to do the things I can do.”

“Maybe not, but I might be able to learn to cook something worth eating if I keep watching.”

“You’d be better off reading cooking books, sweetheart.”

Heather couldn’t remember when he’d begun calling her sweetheart again, but she no longer objected. She owed him too much; she certainly shouldn’t gripe if he chose to use an endearing term when speaking to her. Except that it didn’t sound endearing coming from his handsome mouth. It sounded faintly contemptuous—which was no more than she deserved.

One of these days, she was going to prepare a meal on her own.

Her heart went cold at the thought. That would queer her employment in no time flat, and she knew it. And, as much as it would humiliate her to be fired, even more did she dread losing Philippe St. Pierre’s esteem. For he did esteem her, at least a little bit. Heather, who hadn’t ever before paid much attention to such things, had recognized the signs.

But why should serving a meal cooked by her own two hands spell her doom? If other people could learn to cook, why couldn’t she? She was as smart as most people. Well, except for Geraldine, but Geraldine was smarter than everybody. It was only because Heather’d had no interest in the craft of cooking up until now that she’d avoided learning it. She’d been rebellious, as well, and too much of what her mother had called a little-miss-know-all.

She no longer felt the least bit rebellious. And she knew good and well she didn’t know it all. She knew nothing, as a matter of fact. She’d give anything to have her mother here now, teaching her how to do things in the kitchen.

Her mother might not be able to fix fancy meals like those D.A. Bologh conjured, but the meals she served were prepared with love. Heather very much feared that D.A.’s motivations were far removed from love. She didn’t like to think about what D.A. was eventually going to require from her in payment for his services. She was almost positive that love wouldn’t figure into it in any way, shape, or form.

A knock came at the back door. Heather cast a quick glance at D.A., who winked at her. Big help that was. With a sigh of resignation, she went to the back door and opened it. There stood Patricia and Geraldine, both avidly gazing around Heather to peek into the kitchen in back of her.

“Where is he?” Geraldine, up on her tiptoes and squinting behind her spectacles, asked in a hissing whisper.

“Come in,” Heather said irritably. “Don’t strain your neck or anything.”

“Geraldine told me there’s some man helping you, Heather. Who is it?” Patricia hurried into the room and looked around in something very nearly resembling glee. “Where is he?”

“I don’t see anybody.” Geraldine sounded disappointed.

Surprised, Heather turned to look toward the stove, where she’d last seen D.A. Bologh. He wasn’t there. A quick scan of the rest of the kitchen revealed his absence in all corners.

“Um, I’m not sure where he went.” Hoping to turn the conversation, she said, “Here, I have a couple of clean, starched aprons for you. I’ll get the food ready to serve.”

But it was already ready to serve. Somehow or other, in the second or two he’d had while Heather went to open the door, D.A. had managed to set out all the courses artistically in various platters and bowls. There was something awfully uncanny about D.A. Bologh. Every time he did something like this, Heather’s nerves wobbled more.

“What are we supposed to do first?” Geraldine slipped the snowy white apron on over her dress and tied a big bow in back.

“Serve the soup. According to Mrs. Van der Linden, you’re supposed to hand everybody their soup plates from the right.”

“Are you ready in here?” came a grumpy voice from the kitchen door.

Heather turned to find Mrs. Van der Linden standing there, hands on hips, scowling. She scowled back because she didn’t want the old cow to think she was capable of being intimidated by her. “All ready,” she said.

“Do you girls know what you’re supposed to do?” Mrs. Van der Linden asked as if she expected them to answer in the negative.

Patricia nodded. “I’ve been working at Mr. Gleason’s chop house for quite a while, Mrs. Van der Linden. I know how to serve food to people.”

The older woman sniffed. “Get a move on, then, because the guests are being seated in the dining room right this minute.”

Heather took a deep, steadying breath. This was it. She almost wished D.A. would show himself again, because she was unsure of how to carry on serving at a big dinner party. But he didn’t show up, so she took charge.

“Put the soup tureen on this cart, Geraldine. Patricia, the bowls are on the sideboard. You know how to serve the chowder.”

“Right. After I put two ladles full into each bowl, I sprinkle the top with the chopped chives.”

“Right. Don’t use more than a half-spoonful or so of the chives, or they’ll overwhelm the delicacy of the chowder.”

Both Geraldine and Patricia gawked at her for a couple of seconds. Heather shut her eyes, took a deep, sustaining breath, opened her eyes again, and decided not to explain. If a body worked—or sat—around D.A. Bologh for any time at all, one began spouting stuff like that. She couldn’t help it. “All right, get going.”

The two new arrivals grinned at each other, squared their shoulders, and left the kitchen. Heather watched them, hoping nothing would go wrong.

“Don’t fret, sweetie pie,” came a voice at her back. She swirled around to behold D.A. Bologh leaning against the far wall of the kitchen.

“How do you do that?” she demanded, knowing she’d not get any kind of satisfactory answer.

He only laughed. “I have my ways.”

Heather shook her head and wished she could start her life over again—next time she’d do it right and either learn to work in a kitchen—or have enough sense never to apply for a job as a cook.

 

* * *

 

D.A. Bologh couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Yvonne!” he called. Silence answered his call, and then he couldn’t believe his ears.

He made a survey of her elegant rooms, provided for her by her wealthy new protector. No Yvonne. Had she gone out? Maybe she’d gone shopping. She’d been pretty reclusive of late, but that didn’t mean she never went out. D.A. made a search of the nearby shops she’d be likely to visit.

No Yvonne.

He went back to her house and tore through it like a fury. He didn’t miss a single closet, and he looked under every stick of furniture and rug in the place.

No Yvonne.

He stood in the middle of her beautifully appointed parlor and glared around. She’d run out on him. She’d actually managed to drum up enough courage—or desperation—to leave.

The fool. She knew what to expect by this open rebellion. She’d always been such a vain thing, he was surprised she’d found the fortitude in that pretty little body of hers.

She wouldn’t get away with it. D.A. knew where she was going. She couldn’t escape him.

“Bitch!” he shrieked. “I’ll show you what happens when a woman double-crosses D.A. Bologh!”

It took the New Orleans Volunteer Fire Department two days to put out the fire.

* * *

The dinner party had gone splendidly. Heather’s sister and friend had done an admirable job in serving up the wonderful meal. His guests had raved about the food. Even Heather’s mother and father had been astonished at how delectable the fare was. Actually, they’d seemed, if anything, more surprised than any of this other guests that their daughter was such a master of the kitchen arts.

Philippe chuckled as he sipped at a snifter of brandy. It was late, and he was feeling satisfied and happy. His mood of contentment surprised him, as it was extremely unusual. For as far back as he could remember, he’d been dissatisfied with something, and more often than not with everything.

There must be a quality in this territory, isolated and remote as it was, that appealed to his soul, which was isolated and remote, too.

There was also something about Heather Mahaffey that made him feel good. She not only had a body he still recalled with fondness and severe attacks of libido, but he really liked the wench. She irked him sometimes, when she put forth her opinions about things—women’s suffrage, for example—since she was always remarkably sure of herself.

He wasn’t accustomed to females possessing strong opinions of their own, especially if they accompanied those opinions with examples. Like men drinking and gambling their children’s milk money away. Philippe grinned, remembering. He was used to females who pretended to embrace the opinions of the men in their lives.

Not little Miss Heather. She was as spunky and independent as the territory itself. Odd how his territory was isolated and remote, and hers was spunky and independent—yet they were the same place.

He wondered what his life would be like with someone like Heather in it permanently. He’d never considered marriage as a viable option in his future, because he’d never met a woman he could tolerate. He’d never met one like Heather. But he didn’t think marriage to the redoubtable Heather Mahaffey would be the onerous burden he’d always assumed marriage would be. It certainly wouldn’t be dull. And it would be full of good food.

Of course, if he wanted children, he’d have to get married someday. There wasn’t any other socially acceptable option of getting them that he was aware of. And he’d be damned if he’d bring bastards into the world. That particular family tradition ended with him. He scowled for a moment under the influence of the thought, but didn’t feel like dwelling on it. There were more pleasant things to think about than his miserable past. With a grin, he wondered what Heather would do if he proposed to her.

Good God, what was he thinking?

Philippe sat up straight in his chair and frowned. He’d better watch his step or he’d be in big trouble. He sank back against the cushions and told himself to relax. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with the institution of marriage. Hell, if his mother had been married, Philippe himself might not be such an alienated creature today.

He hated thinking about his mother, because when he did, his insides got muddled. He recalled her as a beautiful woman. And even warm and tender with him on occasion. But he also recalled the screaming fits, the temper tantrums, the crying sprees, and the men. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of men, all taking pleasure from her and taking her away from him. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with the memory of himself as a lonely child who needed his mother. Philippe didn’t like to think of himself as needing anything.

Except, perhaps, children. A legacy. A way to secure his worth to the world. On his own, Philippe feared he was a pitifully imperfect specimen of mankind. But if he had children, children who could carry on with the ranch after he died, well, then . . . He might truly believe he’d accomplished something besides rising from the mud and creating himself as a successful man.

It was strange to Philippe that he had always been drawn to children. He hid the weakness well, of course. He’d never let on that he had a very human desire to perpetuate himself, because it sounded so puerile a conceit, somehow. Yet here, in his own parlor, in his own house, surrounded by the trappings he’d earned by himself and by his own hard efforts, it didn’t seem like a bad thing to want.

If he had children, needless to say, they wouldn’t be burdened with a past like his own. No. If Philippe St. Pierre ever had children, they’d know both their father and their mother. They wouldn’t have to share their mother with a thousand men. Philippe’s heart hurt every time he thought about his mother—which was one reason he tried never to do so. It was also one of the reasons he supported that orphanage in New Orleans. He couldn’t bear the thought of children growing up unwanted and uncared-for.

Heather was nothing at all, in any way ever, like his mother. Thank God. Her very difference might be what attracted him most, in fact. And that was a good thing.

He wondered what the girl, who was always nervous around him, would do if he courted her. With another grin, he decided it might be fun to find out.

By God, it couldn’t hurt to try. If he could win Heather Mahaffey’s favor, perhaps he could really, finally and forever, vanquish his miserable past.

The next morning, no longer under the influence of Fort Summers’ society, a delicious meal, and a good deal of brandy, Philippe decided to wait and see. For all he knew, Heather Mahaffey possessed ghastly imperfections that would render her an unsuitable choice for a wife. The notion of being stuck with a whining woman, for example, or one who snored, made his stomach ache. No. Philippe didn’t want to make any mistakes when choosing a wife.

If he ever decided to take a wife.

He shuddered and concluded that he’d just had a narrow escape. No more drinking for him. He worked hard that day and felt much better for it afterwards.

* * *

Yvonne’s heart battered against her ribs like a kettle drum, and it was all she could do to keep from peering over her shoulder every other second, searching for D.A. Bologh. She knew he’d come after her. She knew he’d find her. She only hoped she could forestall the inevitable long enough for her to warn Philippe.

“Well, ma’am,” the station agent said. “There ain’t no way to get there that’s straight.”

“No?” She wanted to scream at the man standing before her scratching his chin and looking stupid that she didn’t care if the way was straight or curved or went through hell itself. All she cared about was getting there.

“No, ma’am. You’ll have to take this here train to Texas.” He poked the schedule with a dirty fingernail. “This here one that goes to Fort Worth. Then you’ll have to take another train to Albuquerque.”

“To where?” Yvonne squinted at the book, trying to read it upside down. “Where did you say?”

“Albuquerque. That there’s a city in the territory, ma’am. They got strange names out there. Injun, I reckon.”

“Albuquerque. I see. And is that near Fort Summers?”

“No, ma’am.”

Again, Yvonne suppressed the urge to scream. “Then,” she said through clenched teeth, “how do I get to Fort Summers from Albuquerque?”

“I’m a-lookin’ it up fer you, ain’t I?” The man squinted at the book. “Hell—beg pardon, ma’am. But I don’t see that there’s no railroad line into the town of Fort Summers. Looks like the closest train station would be in a place called Roswell, and that’s forty-five mile east of the fort.”

“I’m sure I can secure some kind of transportation from Roswell to Fort Summers,” Yvonne said. In truth, she knew no such thing because she was accustomed to the civilized surroundings of New Orleans, where transportation wasn’t a problem. One walked or took a hackney or a streetcar.

“I expect so, ma’am.” The station agent shut the book with a thump. “So is that what you want to do?”

“Yes.” Her nerves were crawling and skipping like ants at a picnic, and this idiot stood there asking her questions she’d answered a hundred times already. Yvonne clutched her small reticule in fingers that ached from the strain and told herself it wasn’t his fault she’d finally decided to break away from D.A. Bologh.

“All rightie, ma’am. Just wait a little minute, and we’ll get you all fixed up.”

Yvonne sincerely doubted it.

* * *

“I don’t know why you’re so blasted touchy today.” Heather frowned at D.A. Bologh, who was throwing pots and pans around as if he were mad at them.

“I’m not touchy!” he bellowed, and slammed a skillet onto a burner.

Heather winced. “You could have fooled me.”

“Anyone could fool you,” D.A. said nastily. “You just try fixing a cheese soufflé in this hell-hole, with all the thumping and banging going on, and see how you like it.”

“Did it fall?” Heather asked curiously. D.A. had never complained about the less-than-stellar accommodations prevailing in her territorial homeland before.

He shot her a sneer over his shoulder. “Of course it didn’t fall. What do you think I am, anyway?”

“I’d probably best not say.”

“Ha-ha. You’re excessively funny today, aren’t you?”

Heather sighed. “Probably not.”

“You’re right about that.” D.A. stuck a wooden fork and spoon into a huge wooden bowl and tossed the salad. He’d put things in it that Heather didn’t know could go into a salad. She knew about the lettuce and tomatoes, but D.A. put sliced onions and cooked beets and broken cauliflower florets and stuffed Spanish olives into his salad. God alone knew where he got such provisions. And, what’s more, the salad tasted really good when he tossed everything with his very own oil-and-vinegar-and-herb concoction that he called a French dressing.

“This place is the end of the universe, and I hate it,” D.A. muttered.

“Why do you stay then?” Heather wished he’d go away, actually, although that would mean the end of her employment and abject humiliation. And no more Philippe. Her heart squeezed at the last thought.

D.A. opened the oven door and withdrew a casserole of potatoes and onions baked with herbs and milk. “I have a job to do.” He sounded annoyed about it. He slammed the casserole on the counter. “Here. Potatoes. These westerners need their potatoes with everything.”

“Oh.” Heather liked potatoes herself. She decided to try putting a little sugar into the conversation. Maybe that would sweeten his disposition. “Thank you for doing such a wonderful job with the dinner party yesterday, Mr. Bologh. I understand from Mr. St. Pierre that everyone loved the food, and the party went very well. He called me in and spoke to me about it personally this morning.”

She flushed from head to toe, remembering that conversation. Mrs. Van der Linden had been furious. But Philippe had been so very complementary to Heather, and had thanked her so copiously for creating such a wonderful repast for his guests, that Heather almost forgot for a minute that she hadn’t had anything to do with it. Which didn’t last long. As soon as she returned to the kitchen and encountered a muttering, cranky D.A., reality had returned with a crash.

“Don’t thank me, sweetie. You’ll pay me back one of these days, believe me.”

He sounded malicious, and Heather’s insides scrunched up. “Er, about that, I really think it’s time you told me what you want in payment, D.A. I don’t like not knowing.”

“You’ll know soon enough.” D.A. ladled out something he’d called braised endives. They looked like little cooked lettuces to Heather, and she hoped Mr. St. Pierre would like them. He probably would. D.A. knew his way around a meal; she’d give him that much.

Now she made a face at his back. “Why won’t you tell me now? I’d like to prepare for it, if it’s bad.”

“Ha! You won’t need to prepare. Trust me.”

She wished she could. Unfortunately, she didn’t. Although, she must admit that he hadn’t gone back on his word to her so far. He’d handled the cooking for a few weeks now and hadn’t once slipped up. Nor had he allowed anyone but Heather to see him. Even Mrs. Van der Linden almost believed Heather was doing all the work in the kitchen, and Heather knew how much the old bat hated giving credit to anyone.

D.A.’s month of service was almost up, however, and she was getting nervous about being left alone to cook. She’d been taking cookbooks to bed with her each night and reading all sorts of recipes, and she thought she might be able to whip up something very simple if push came to shove. But it would be a long time before she could create the masterpieces of culinary art that D.A. fixed every day and so easily. None of this kitchen nonsense would ever be easy for Heather; she knew it in her bones.

As she began arranging dishes on the cart upon which she took food to the dining room, she decided to broach the subject. “Um, April’s almost over now, Mr. Bologh.”

“Yeah? So what?”

Heather peeked at him. She didn’t like him, but she’d never heard him sound this crabby before. “It occurred to me that you agreed to help me for a month. The month is over on the first of May, and I—well—I wondered—” Shoot. What she wondered was would he be willing to keep cooking for her, actually. Until she’d read more cookbooks. Say, a thousand or so.

Lord, she’d never be able to handle this on her own.

“Don’t worry about it,” D.A. growled. “I’ll stick around for another month if you want me to. Just remember that you owe me.”

“How could I forget?” Heather asked sourly.

D.A.’s laugh seemed particularly ugly today.

* * *

Philippe wasn’t surprised, and he wasn’t awfully amused, when Heather jumped a good three inches and gaped at him.

“You mean you want me to sit at the dining room table and eat dinner with you?”

He tilted his head to one side and observed her through half-lowered eyelids. “Would that be such an irksome task, Miss Mahaffey?”

Heather looked around the room almost wildly. “But—but there’s nobody else here. Sir.”

“That’s why I’m asking you to dine with me.” His voice, he noticed, had taken on an edge of irritation. Damnation, why should the wench balk at dining with him? Had he grown a second head? Was he sprouting horns? Was he so evil and mean-tempered that she should have this terrible aversion to him? “Unless, of course, you have other plans.” He smiled. If his smile reflected his present mood, it was wolfish, but he didn’t much care. He was sick to death of Heather’s attitude toward him.

“Um, no, I have no other plans.”

“Good. Then please, remove that ugly apron and have a seat, Miss Mahaffey. I asked Mrs. Van der Linden to set a second place, as you can see for yourself.”

“Oh, dear.”

“You don’t sound happy about it. Is sitting with me such a dreadful way to pass a meal?”

“It’s not that, Mr. St. Pierre. It’s Mrs. Van der Linden. She’ll be furious that you asked her to set a place for me, of all people.”

“Really?” He lifted an eyebrow and saw her swallow. “And why is that, pray?”

“Um, she doesn’t like me much. Sir.”

“You may toss away that sir, Miss Mahaffey, if you please.”

She expelled a huge breath. “All right. Mr. St. Pierre.”

He nodded. “Please sit, then, and tell me why Mrs. Van der Linden doesn’t like you, if you will.”

She seemed to give up the fight. Her shoulders sagged, and she complied with his request, folding the apron neatly and laying it over the back of a chair. She sat with her accustomed grace, folded her hands, and put them demurely in her lap. Since demure was about the last adjective Philippe could think of to describe Heather Mahaffey, this behavior on her part interested and vaguely amused him.

He’d put in a hard day. More cattle had disappeared overnight, and there had been a fire in a haystack. If Gil McGill and Mike Mulligan hadn’t been quick on their feet, the entire barn could have burned down. All of that, while his guests had been devouring Heather’s glorious dinner.

Philippe was honestly beginning to believe that someone in Fort Summers held a grudge against him, although he couldn’t imagine who it could be. Hell, he hadn’t lived here long enough to make enemies.

He’d even briefly contemplated the possibility that Gil or Mike might hate him for some obscure reason, but had tucked it away. The notion was too absurd—unless one of the boys was flat crazy, and neither of them acted like a lunatic.

At any rate, the day had been difficult; he’d sweated buckets and worn himself to a frazzle, and now he wanted to relax. He felt an unaccustomed urge to do so in company, what’s more, and the only company he could think of that was easily obtained and totally acceptable to him was that of Heather Mahaffey.

He was going to put her at ease in his company, starting now. He eyed her, noticing her downcast eyes and tense jaw muscles. She hadn’t looked the least bit tense when she was buck-naked in the bathhouse. He told himself to stop thinking about the bathhouse, or he might, by accident, let some of his lustful thoughts leak into the air in the dining room and unsettle her. If she were any more unsettled, she might just break in two. “I suppose you say grace in your family, Miss Mahaffey?”

Her head jerked up and she stared at him, wide-eyed. “Yes, we do.”

“Would you care to do the honors here?” Philippe had about as much truck with prayers as he did with horseless carriages, but he didn’t want to shock the natives. He’d asked Miss Grimsby, the schoolmistress, to say grace at his dinner party, thereby startling most of the men in the company. It had done Philippe’s heart good to see their discomposure. He loathed tradition. Besides, the women had appreciated it—he’d thought of Heather and grinned. Fortunately, by that time, all heads were bowed, and no one noticed.

“Um, certainly. I’ll be happy to say grace.” She bowed her head and recited, “God is gracious, God is good. Thank you for this food. Amen.” He made the sign of the cross, and she opened her eyes.

Perfunctory, at best. Philippe snapped his napkin open and placed it in his lap. Miss Grimsby had been much more creative. She’d even thanked her Heavenly Father for Philippe, probably the first time anyone had ever done that. Miss Mahaffey would sooner condemn him to the pit at the moment, or he missed his guess.

“So what have you created for my delectation this evening, Miss Mahaffey?” Philippe lifted a lid and sniffed at the potatoes. “Do I detect garlic?” He liked garlic, but he hadn’t encountered it much out here.

“Um, yes. Yes, there’s garlic in the potatoes. And herbs. And onions.” She licked her lips.

“I see. Well, it smells good enough to eat.”

“I hope it is.”

He glanced at her as he served a plate. “You sound doubtful.”

“Oh, ah, no. It’s just that I’m—always a little nervous about people liking what I cook.”

He shook his head. “You need have no fears on that score, Miss Mahaffey. I’ve never met a better cook.”

“Thank you.” If her voice got any smaller, Philippe wouldn’t be able to hear it at all.

“Ah, and what’s this? A soufflé?”

“Um, yes. I think.”

“You think?”

She stood suddenly, making Philippe blink in surprise.

“Mr. St. Pierre, I have a confession to make.”

“You do?” Whatever could this sweet, innocent girl have to confess? Nothing awfully improper, he bet. Unless she’d been rolling in the hay with one of the cowboys, but Philippe doubted it. She didn’t seem the type somehow.

“I haven’t been cooking for you.”