Chapter Seventeen

 

 

Heather allowed her arms to fall to her sides. She was glancing around, nervous, wondering where the weather had got itself off to. She’d thought they were in for a tornado, at least. She tried to focus on D.A. “Um, I beg your pardon?”

D.A. looked mad enough to spit tarantulas and horned toads. Maybe a rattlesnake. “I said I give. You’re right. I cheated.” He whirled around and slammed his fist on the stove. Heather winced, knowing that such jolt was bad for the soufflé.

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I do believe you did cheat.”

He whirled again and pointed that wicked-looking finger at her heart. “But you’re not off the hook yet, sweetheart. Just because I waffled a little bit at first—”

Another roll of thunder, faint, in the distance, made him jump, and he muttered, “Oh, hell.” Then he heaved a huge sigh. “Very well. I cheated. It wasn’t merely a little waffling.”

The sun suddenly appeared from behind a cloud and shone down brightly from above. Heather passed a hand over her eyes, wondering, for about the millionth time in recent weeks, if she’d lost her mind.

“I cheated,” D.A. declared flatly. “Is that all right?” He glanced around as if waiting for somebody—not Heather—to answer him.

Heather, unsure what to do, murmured, “Well, it’s not all right with me, actually.”

D.A. skewered her with a glare, and she shut her mouth. “I’m not talking to you, of all pitiful creatures.”

“Oh.” She decided to await events and see what transpired. Obviously, she had no idea what was going on, although she sensed it had to do with more than mere kitchen bargains. Something universal seemed a more likely prospect, although it also seemed nuts.

Expelling another huge breath, D.A. went on, snarling a bit. “Very well, I cheated. And the boss doesn’t like that. He thinks it’s more fun when people know what they’re getting themselves into and do it anyway and then try to wriggle out of it.”

He paused and, feeling compelled, Heather said, “I see,” although she saw nothing. Except the sunshine outside. Oh, dear.

“Like hell you see,” D.A. said scornfully. “You don’t see a damned thing.”

Heather silently agreed with him.

“But you’re not getting off the hook. I’ve cooked for you for over a month. I even went so far as to forego truffles and shallots in order to fit my magnificent meals to your shoddy provincial surroundings.”

Feeling pressed to say something—after all, he had been of tremendous service to her—Heather said, “You did a marvelous job, D.A. Everyone thinks so. And I appreciate the part about not using truffles and shallots.” She didn’t bring up mushrooms.

He rolled his eyes. “Garbage. This place would think garbage is wonderful.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Heather said, defensive. “After all—”

“Oh, shut up.”

She did so.

“But you have to pay.” He turned and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Now, let me think about this. I’m sure I can come up with an appropriate payment.”

“Um, while you think, shall I serve breakfast? It’s about time, and I have to take Jimmy’s tray upstairs.”

He waved a hand in the air as if he didn’t give a rap what she did or didn’t do. Heather quickly picked up the tray intended for Jimmy and Mike and carted it out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She was so glad to have escaped the kitchen, she actually contemplated running away after she’d delivered the tray. She’d never do anything so cowardly—but she thought about it.

* * *

Jimmy stared at his breakfast tray and then stared at his sister. “You didn’t cook this stuff.”

“I did, too!” Offended, Heather whipped the silver cover from the dish containing the pretty eggcup, and glared at her brother. “I fixed the ham, and boiled the eggs, and even made the bread. And I made the jam, too.”

“Naw. You couldn’t have. The bread looks like it’s got yeast in it, and it’s not burned.”

“I no longer burn toast, Jimmy Mahaffey.” Heather knew she was being needlessly offended—after all, Jimmy’s experience of her cooking skills was vast—but she was offended anyway. She’d been trying so hard to learn her job.

“I don’t believe it.” Jimmy’s frown faltered when he saw the flowery eggcup. “Say, Heather, that’s real pretty.”

She sniffed. “Yes. Mr. St. Pierre has many pretty things.”

Jimmy grinned up at her. “I’ll bet the egg’s hard as granite.”

Heather’s teeth gritted so hard, she could barely squeeze words past them. “It is not.”

“Let’s try it and see,” Mike suggested in a mollifying tone.

Grateful to him, even though he did look as though he were trying not to laugh, Heather smiled. “Thanks, Mike. What a good idea.” She turned, intending to go down to fetch Philippe’s breakfast to the dining room. If the soufflé had fallen, maybe she could call it an omelet or something.

She heard the tapping of a spoon against a soft-cooked eggshell, and then heard Jimmy’s happy, “Say! It isn’t boiled hard!” And, with a swish of her skirts and a feeling of pride in her bosom, Heather left the patient and his nurse and skipped down the stairs. By gum, she was learning to cook!

Her happiness fled when she realized it might be too late for that. With a good deal of trepidation, she reentered the kitchen. D.A. Bologh was nowhere to be seen. Reprieve! She was sure it wouldn’t last long. Nevertheless, her heart was light when she slid the soufflé, as light and fluffy as a soufflé should be, onto another tray, loaded the side dishes, and carted the whole shebang to the dining room.

Philippe was there, and he hurried to take the heavy tray from her hands, set it down, and enfold her in a welcoming embrace. Heather thought life could hardly get any better.

Well, except for D.A. Bologh.

“Are you feeling all right, darling?” Philippe asked, solicitously leading her to a chair. “I don’t think you should be working so hard today. I’ll tell Mrs. Van der Linden—”

“No!”

Philippe blinked down at her, and Heather felt herself blush. “I mean—I’m sorry, Philippe. I didn’t mean to shout at you. But please don’t ask Mrs. Van der Linden to do anything for me. She already hates me.”

He frowned. “She’s a very bitter woman. I’m rather tired of her attitude.”

Because she felt particularly vulnerable today, especially after her chat with D.A., Heather didn’t agree out loud. She merely said, “Um, she’s quite set in her ways,” and let it go at that.

Philippe chuckled, which made the world bright again. “I suppose you’re right. But I still don’t want you working hard today. In fact, I insist that you take the day off.”

Wasn’t that nice of him? Heather knew she was suffering from an emotional overload when she felt a sniffle coming on. She swallowed it without mercy. “That’s very kind of you, Philippe. If it’s all right with you, I’ll go to town and see my parents. I want to reassure them that Jimmy’s going to be fine.”

Philippe had taken a bite of soufflé, and he frowned as he chewed it. Heather watched, wondering at his frown. Good heavens, was D.A. losing his touch? “Is the soufflé all right? There was a big, um, boom outside the kitchen. I didn’t think it fell, but—”

He swallowed, took a sip of coffee, and said, “No. The soufflé is delicious. As usual.” He gave her a beautiful smile, and she felt better. “I don’t know about you going to town, though.”

Surprised, Heather said, “But why not?” then wished she’d kept her mouth shut. They weren’t married yet, after all, and she remained his employee. She supposed he could still fire her. “That is to say, I’d really like to see my folks and tell them about Jimmy. I went up to see him this morning, and he’s fine. Almost as good as new.”

Another smile from Philippe, this one kind and tender, smoothed her feathers a good deal. “I’m glad of that.” He ate another bite of breakfast and seemed to be thinking.

Heather had no idea why he should worry about her going to town. After all . . . Oh. Suddenly a light went on in her brain, and she understood exactly why he didn’t want her to go to town: That woman. She said, “I’ll only visit my folks, Philippe. And Geraldine.” She considered mentioning the woman, and didn’t, sensing that would be unwise.

Besides, she might just bump into her by accident, and then—but who knew? All sorts of things might happen in town.

At last Philippe shrugged. Heather presumed the influence of good food and a fulfilling night had something to do with his ultimate decision. “Very well. Would you like me to go with you?”

“You probably have lots of things to do here, so please don’t take time away from the ranch to accompany me.” She fiddled with a piece of toast. “Um, were there any more problems with the cattle? That was a whopper of a storm we had this morning. Short, though. I’ve never known a storm to last that short a time.”

Philippe had been concentrating on his breakfast, but he looked at her now, puzzled. “Another storm? This morning?”

Oh, dear. Heather felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. “Um, I thought I heard thunder this morning. And a really high wind.”

Philippe shook his head. “Must have been one of the men chopping wood or something. I’ve been outside since I got up, and there hasn’t been a cloud in the sky. Even the wind’s down. Thank God. We don’t need the damned wind, and we’ve got a lot of fixing of fences to do today.”

“I see. Yes, I suppose it must have been one of the men.”

In a pig’s eye. Heather had been through enough thunderstorms to know one when she heard one. And it was more than merely unsettling to think that she and D.A. Bologh had been privy to their own exclusive storm. The notion made her a little queasy, actually, and sent her thoughts, like vicious pointy arrows, in the direction of what D.A. might be going to exact from her in payment for his assistance. She dropped the piece of toast, her appetite having vanished.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Heather. You look pale.”

Philippe’s big, hard hand covered hers, and his beautiful dark eyes caressed her with a gaze as soft as velvet. Heather sighed, turned her hand over in his, and squeezed gently. “I’m fine, Philippe.” Because it was true, and because she loved him, she said, “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”

Except for one niggling problem that might possibly ruin both their lives. She didn’t mention it.

He squeezed her hand back and smiled at her in his turn. “I’m glad. I’m happy too. I hadn’t ever really considered marriage before I met you.”

“Really?” How sweet. Maybe he did love her a tiny bit.

“Really. I hadn’t believed I could ever find a woman who wouldn’t drive me to insanity. Then you knocked on my door.”

Heather sighed. That had been a fateful day, all right.

And he still hadn’t said a word about affection. Because she had gumption and pride—perhaps foolish pride—Heather would die sooner than declare her love for him before he declared his for her. Which meant, of course, that they might go to their graves without admitting their love for each other. And that seemed tolerably silly, although Heather wasn’t ready to give up her dream of being adored by Philippe this early in the game.

He leaned toward her and kissed her, and Heather melted into his arms. She felt so good there. In Philippe’s arms, she felt protected from the buffets of life and poverty and hard work—and D.A. Bologh.

Drat! She wished D.A. would stop intruding himself into her thoughts.

She was disappointed when Philippe pulled away with a shaky laugh. “I’d better get back to work. You’re an immense distraction, Heather. I’ll be glad when we’re wed.”

“So will I. Do you think I won’t be a distraction then?”

He laughed and grabbed his hat from the back of a chair. “No. I fear you’ll be a distraction to me until the day I die, but when we’re married, I won’t have any qualms about carting you off to bed in the middle of the day. Since you came to work here, all I’ve been able to do is think about it.”

Heather pressed a palm to her flaming cheek. “Oh, Philippe, truly?”

“Truly.” He grabbed her up from her chair, wrapped her in a crushing embrace, and kissed her hard.

She’d never known folks could kiss with their tongues as well as their lips. It was delicious to taste Philippe, to press his tongue with hers, and to abandon herself to the feelings he aroused in her. When he gently disengaged his arms from around her, she staggered slightly, befuddled. His warm chuckle filtered through her like some kind of healing balm.

“I’m glad you respond to my touch, darling. And, as you can see, I respond to yours.” He guided her hand to his crotch, where she felt his sex, as rigid as an oak log, through his trousers.

Heather was slightly shocked. Did all almost-married couples do these stunningly intimate things?

The door opened behind her, Philippe drew her hand away from his leg and up to his mouth where he nuzzled it in front of God and Mrs. Van der Linden and anyone else who might happen to be watching, and Mrs. V answered Heather’s question for her.

“Well, I never!”

Heather was absolutely, positively sure that Mrs. Van der Linden had never, ever, in her whole entire life, done anything even remotely as scintillating as what Philippe and she had just been doing. She cleared her throat. “How do you do, Mrs. Van der Linden.”

Philippe settled his hat on his head and straightened his vest, which had become cockeyed during the preceding few minutes. “Good morning, Mrs. Van der Linden. I’d like you to be the first to know that Miss Mahaffey has agreed to become my wife.”

Mrs. Van der Linden said, “Well!” again. Then she tottered a few steps and fell into a chair. Heather winced for fear her bulk would break it. Fortunately, Philippe could afford to purchase sturdy furniture, and the chair creaked once and held. “I never.”

Heather didn’t know what to say in the face of Mrs. Van der Linden’s overt horror.

Philippe did. “I’m sure you’ll want to wish Heather the best of luck, and offer me your hearty congratulations.” His voice was as dry as sand and as cold as ice. “And now I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll see you this evening, darling.” And he kissed Heather again, hard, and left her and Mrs. Van der Linden alone together in the dining room. Heather appreciated the wink he winked at her before he shut the door.

The housekeeper picked up a linen napkin and fanned herself violently. She eyed Heather with perfect loathing. “I have never,” she said distinctly, “been so shocked in my whole life. To come into this room, all unsuspecting, and to find the two of you doing—doing—well, I never.”

That was probably true, too, but Heather didn’t think it was very nice of the old hag to say so. She lifted her chin. “Is it so impossible that Mr. St. Pierre has formed an attachment to me, Mrs. Van der Linden?”

“Yes.”

Heather frowned. “That’s not very nice.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Nevertheless, it’s not nice.” Heather thought of an even better argument against the woman’s insensitivity. “Besides, who are you to disagree with Mr. St. Pierre’s choice in a wife?”

Mrs. Van der Linden fanned herself more furiously still and said through gritted teeth, “Nobody, I suppose. But I must say you’re the slyest thing in nature, Heather Mahaffey.”

There were several things she could do, Heather thought. She could pick up a plate and crack Mrs. Van der Linden over the head with it. She could thump her with her fists the way she used to thump her brothers. She could verbally fuss and fight with the woman. She could berate her for being a mean old cow. She could say awful—but true—things about her behind her back, or even in front of her face. She could argue with her about Heather Mahaffey’s own personal merits as a bride for Philippe St. Pierre.

She did none of those things, ultimately deciding to ignore Mrs. Van der Linden’s unflattering opinion of her. In that way, Heather thought smugly, she would show the old bat that she was superior to her.

After swallowing her bile and forcing her heart to quit slamming itself against her ribcage and unclenching her fists, she said sweetly, “I’m going to see how Jimmy’s doing, Mrs. Van der Linden, and then I’ll be going to town. Would you like me to procure anything for you while I’m there?” She gave her a sweet smile along with her sweet question and hoped she’d gag on them both.

Mrs. Van der Linden stood on shaky legs and gripped the back of the chair tightly. “No.”

Heather was interested to note that Mrs. Van der Linden had to force the next words out of her mouth. “Thank you.”

Ah. That was better. The old hag was going to have to be nice to her if Heather was going to be Philippe’s wife. And she’d hate it. That in itself was almost enough to make Heather forgive Mrs. Van der Linden for her hostility during the past several weeks.

She was actually humming a merry tune as she gathered up the breakfast dishes and carried them to the kitchen. Her merriness departed as soon as she saw D.A. Bologh, sitting in his accustomed chair, looking bored and glowering at her. She sighed, put the dishes on the counter, and said, “You’re back.”

He said, “Obviously.”

“And have you decided what my payment is to be?”

“Yes.”

Oh, dear. How unfortunate. Nevertheless, Heather had known all along that this reckoning day would come eventually. She was only glad she wouldn’t have to give D.A. her body. Especially after last night with Philippe, she couldn’t bear the thought of another man, and particularly this man, touching her intimately. She sat, too, folded her hands in her lap, braced herself mentally, and said, “All right. What do I owe you?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” D.A. sneered. As usual.

Heather frowned. “What do you mean, it’s more complicated than that? You cheated, remember?”

A very faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and Heather’s heart skittered and bumped. She wished she hadn’t brought up the cheating part.

He growled, “I remember,” and it looked as though he’d heard the thunder, too.

“Sorry I mentioned it.” He looked so ferocious, in fact, she pushed her chair back a foot or so.

“You should be. But I have selected a suitable payment.”

“All right.” Heather held her breath.

“And it’s still you.”

She jumped up from her chair, sending it crashing over backwards. “Now, you just wait a blasted minute here, Mr. D.A. Bologh. I’m not about to—”

He held up a hand to silence her, snickering as he did so. “Don’t get all het up, sweetie pie. That’s not all of it.”

Scowling, not trusting him, Heather picked up the chair and sat again. “What’s the rest of it?”

“I’m going to give you a chance to get away Scot free.”

“Oh?” She didn’t believe him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you’re able to do two tiny little things, you won’t owe me anything.”

She squinted at him, sure there was something else to this latest offer. “You mean it? You won’t exact any kind of payment, at all, ever, in any way, shape, or form, for doing my job for me? If I do these two tiny little things?”

“Right. Precisely. You’re not as stupid as you look, sweetheart.”

Heather didn’t grab the bait. She knew better by this time. “I think I’m going to want this agreement to be put down in writing, D.A. I don’t trust you.”

“Too bad, sweetie. I don’t put things in writing. But you can trust me on this one. The boss won’t let me do anything else.”

It appeared to Heather as though D.A. didn’t appreciate the boss’s edict on this particular issue. But he might be telling the truth. “Hmmm.”

“Better accept it, Heather. I’m not going to make it again. This is your last chance.”

“All right. What do I have to do?”

“I’m going to give you until the eve of your wedding day to discover who I am. That’s the first thing. And then you have to convince the happy bridegroom. That’s the second thing.” He grinned wickedly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You not only have to figure out who I am, sweetie pie, but you have to convince your dear Philippe of the same. It’s a two-part deal. If you can do it, I’ll go away and you’ll never be troubled by me again. If you can’t, you’re mine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You do, too. You’re not really thick, Heather my love, whatever else you are. You heard me. If you can figure out who I am before your marriage to Mr. St. Pierre, and convince Mr. St. Pierre of it, you’ll be free of me forever. You have to really convince him, you understand. He can’t merely pay lip service to agreeing with you because he wants to humor you even though he thinks you’re crazy. If you can’t do both of those, you’re mine.” He reached out one of his pointy fingers and tapped her on the chin. “I’ve taken rather a fancy to you, dearie.”

Shuddering at his touch, Heather jerked her head back. Good gracious, she couldn’t even stand to be touched by his finger; how could she tolerate doing with him what she and Philippe had done? There was no way.

As if he read her thoughts, D.A.’s grin broadened. “It won’t be so bad, sweetheart. I have any number of women who can testify to my skill.”

“Ew.”

D.A. stood, flicked a wrist, and the breakfast dishes were sparkling clean and stacked, ready to be put away. Another flick and they were gone, stashed, Heather knew, in neat rows in the cupboards. She blinked. She’d never get used to how he did things. “That’s about it for me, sweetie. While you try to figure out my name, I’m going to leave you to your own devices in the kitchen.”

“You mean, you aren’t going to cook for me any longer?”

“That’s right.” He winked. “You’ll do all right. In spite of yourself, you’ve learned a little. You’ll never be as good as I am, of course.”

Heather’s heart reeled and staggered for a second before it straightened itself. “I’m sure of it.” Oh, dear, what was she going to do? How could she cook without D.A. to help? Or do it for her?

“Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

Heather’s dismal reflections skidded to a halt. D.A. seemed to loom over her as she sat there, staring up at him. She wished she’d never seen him. “What?” Blast, she’d croaked it.

“You might have noticed certain odd things have been happening around here lately. If you figure out who I am, and if you do it in time, all of those things will stop. If you don’t, I fear Fort Summers is in for a long siege of similar plagues.”

Forgetting all about having to function as a cook on her own, Heather jumped up again, and this time she headed for D.A. Bologh with her fists flying. He caught them easily in his hands and held her at bay, but Heather was too shocked and furious to care. “You are the one who hurt my father! You’re the one who cut the fences! My brother could have died last night—Philippe could have died! Anyone might have died! You’re the one who’s been causing all these things! You’re the one! Damn you, D.A. Bologh!”

He’d started laughing when she’d first erupted from her chair. He laughed harder as she started screaming at him. By the time she was through and panting, unable to hurt him because he was preventing her, he was laughing so hard, it looked as if he were having trouble controlling his hilarity.

And then he was gone and Heather was standing beside the kitchen table, holding her arms out as if he were still there and still holding on to them. She looked frantically around the kitchen. No D.A. Bologh.

The kitchen door opened. “What on earth is going on in here? Why are you shrieking, Heather Mahaffey? You sounded like a madwoman. Is that the sort of behavior your mother taught you?”

Heather whirled on Mrs. Van der Linden, her emotions riled so high, she wasn’t sure she could control them. “Don’t you dare say anything about my mother, Mrs. Van der Linden.”

Evidently, Heather looked as menacing as she felt, because Mrs. Van der Linden drew herself up short, blinked several times, flapped her mouth once, turned tail, and exited the kitchen. She even allowed the door to slam after her.

Heather stared at the door for several moments before the rage drained out of her, and she sank into a chair.

“Who is he?” she whispered to the empty room.

No answer occurred to her and, after another minute or two, she felt strong enough to visit her brother, who was cheerfully telling a friend from town all about his hazardous exploits of the night before.

Then Heather gathered her shawl and bonnet, hitched the horses to the wagon, and set out for town.