“What are you doing?” Allison blocked the doorway to the nursery so Riley couldn’t pass.
“I’m taking this downstairs.” He started to set the small desk down, then thought better of it. It might look like he was relinquishing control.
“Why do you need a child’s desk downstairs?”
“Davis won’t need it for several years.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why are you taking it?”
“Allison, this is my home. This was my nursery. I believe I have a right to move the furniture around as I see fit.”
“Correction. This was your nursery. Now it’s Davis’s nursery. Why are you taking his furniture?”
“This was in the corner. It’s not being used.”
“Just answer my question.”
“I think you already know the answer. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He charged forward and hoped Allison would move out of the way.
She didn’t.
Instead, she put one hand on her hip and lifted one finger to his face. “You may have gotten your father to agree to let that little half-breed in this house, but she’s not going to step in front of Davis as the first grandchild.”
So many thoughts went through Riley’s mind at that moment. Was her heart made of ice? Was she that greedy, that she’d begrudge a poor, motherless child a little kindness? But he knew voicing them would only make matters worse. “Allison, no one is trying to take Davis’s place. She’s just a little girl who needs a desk. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Allison stepped aside, probably more out of fear of being trampled than from any acknowledgement or agreement on her part. The contrast between Allison Stratton and Emma Monroe was, in Riley’s mind, like the difference between a squirrel and a skunk. Neither was bad to look at. But while one of them was hardworking and resourceful, the other stunk to high heaven.
Downstairs, he found the kitchen empty, though a delicious aroma filled the air. He returned the bench and the dining room chair to their places and set the desk in the small space. Not the ideal classroom, to be sure. But it was kind of cozy. Add a plate of Emma’s cookies, and any place felt like home. Come to think of it, with or without baked goods, Emma Monroe did a lot to brighten up any space.
For just a moment, he allowed himself to picture what it might be like to be married to Emma. But the picture was tainted with his father’s disapproval, with Allison’s sneering judgment, even with Colt’s mocking superiority. He really did need to get this infatuation under control. If not for his own sake, then for hers. On the off chance she did return his interest, it wouldn’t be fair to subject her to this family’s cruelty. She’d never fit in here.
She played tricks on his mind and heart, what with her big, soulful eyes and her smell—like cinnamon and vanilla—and her recent loss that so reminded him of his own journey of grief. He felt compassion for an old friend, and nothing more. Any thoughts of a romantic relationship with Emma Monroe were rubbish. If she weren’t in such a vulnerable state, he might consider having a little fun with her, but in her current circumstances, that would be cruel.
Yes. That’s all this was. She was pretty. She was here. And his moral compass wouldn’t let him pursue her. And that was driving him mad.
The thought both agitated and depressed him.
He forced all thoughts of Emma from his mind and evaluated the space above the top shelf. Just as he thought, he could add a high window for some natural light. He didn’t know why no one had thought to do it sooner. It would sure make hunting for a jar of maple syrup or mayhaw jelly a lot easier.
Then, from nowhere, his thoughts changed course, bringing to mind what Charlie Monroe said about having a relationship with God. Riley had been to church nearly every Sunday since he was a child, but he’d never paid much attention to the sermons. When he was a boy, he was too busy examining his pocket treasures to listen to some stodgy, blustery old man talk. And when he got older, well...he got really good at mentally running through his list of chores while watching the preacher move his mouth.
He remembered once, about a year before Ma died, she’d tried to talk to him. “Riley, we’ve never spoken much about God. But I want you to know God loves you more than anything. And He wants you to love Him back.”
“I do,” he’d told her, more because he wanted to get out of the odd conversation than anything.
She’d smiled and said, “I’m glad.”
Funny. He hadn’t thought about that conversation in a long time. But now, it seemed like it might have been one of the most important things his mother had ever said to him. Now she was gone.
Her life was too short. As was Sally Monroe’s.
This God thing...maybe he shouldn’t put it off. But doggone if he knew what to do. How to start. He thought about what Mr. Monroe had said, about simply sharing your thoughts. Talking to God, like a friend? The whole idea made him squirm. But since no one was around to judge whether he did it right, he might as well start now.
Hello, God. Uhm...it’s me. Riley Stratton. I don’t know much about You, though I suppose You know everything there is to know about me. I was just wondering if, maybe, we could be friends.
Uh...that’s all. Amen.
He really did need to get some bookwork done. He’d spent this entire day on other matters. But before he did, he thought he remembered seeing an old window propped against the wall in the far corner of the barn.
Feminine voices approached from the back part of the house. Riley shut the pantry doors and tried to slip through the kitchen door before anyone detected his presence, but he wasn’t quick enough.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Stratton. We were just coming to check on the peach cobbler. Skye made it herself.” Emma smiled at the girl as she spoke.
“Is that what the delicious smell is? It reached out to me, wrapped itself around my neck, and drew me here like a lasso.” Riley wrapped his hands around his neck and crossed his eyes as he spoke.
Skye giggled, but didn’t say anything. It was a start.
Emma shook her head like a tolerant schoolmarm and looked at Skye. “Should we let him sample it?”
The girl nodded.
“All right, Mr. Stratton. Have a seat. You get a small taste, and that’s it. Then you must leave. We have work to do.”
Riley did as he was told while Emma pulled the cobbler from the oven and set it on top of the stove. Skye retrieved a small plate and held it while Emma scooped a big dollop, then poured cream over it. It was more than a small taste, but he wasn’t about to complain.
Skye handed him the plate, Emma gave him a spoon, and they both watched him like two kittens waiting for the fish bowl to tip over.
He filled his spoon, blew on it, and took a bite.
His taste buds exploded with warm, sweet peaches mixed with a flaky, melt-in-your-mouth crust, and just the right amount of cream to balance it out. Without a word, he took another bite and another until it was all gone. Finally, he looked at Skye and said, “I can’t decide if I like it or not. May I have a little more?”
The girl giggled again, but it was Emma who answered. “No, you may not, Mr. Stratton. You’ve had your taste. Now out with you.”
Riley pushed back the bench and stood, an odd sort of warmth filling both his belly and his spirit.
“What’s this?” Lyndel wrinkled his nose that night at the dinner table.
“It’s called Veal Collops. Try it.” Emma scruffed his hair before adding some of the entrée to her own plate.
“Why’d ya fix this? We never eat veal.”
“Allison Stratton requested it for a special dinner on Thursday, and I wanted to practice. The butcher was kind enough to give me a small portion of veal at his cost, since I also purchased enough for the dinner party. By the way, Pa, I’ll be late getting home that evening. I’ll put a pot of beans on to simmer, and that can be your dinner that night.”
“This is delicious,” Pa mumbled around a small mouthful, his voice frail. He coughed. Would he choke? When his breathing settled, he said, “You’re almost as good a cook as your mother.”
Would he ever get well? She looked at Ma’s empty chair, then pushed her own plate away. Would the gaping hole in her heart ever stop hurting? “Thank you, Pa.”
There were crullers for dessert. A cruller, she had learned, was simply a deep-fried, braided, or twisted pastry. In reality, none of the recipes were hard, but Emma was glad she’d given them a test-run before the dinner party.
“This girl...you say she’s Donnigan’s child?” Pa asked after he wiped his mouth and dropped his napkin on his plate.
“Yes. They’re living in a shack in the woods—well, it’s a little better than a shack—and when I found her today, she was filthy. But she’s the sweetest thing, and sharp as a pin.”
“And John Stratton doesn’t want anything to do with her?”
“No. I want to pity her, but honestly, I pity him more. To have such a dear creature in his family and not even know it.”
“She has school in the pantry?” Lyndel asked. “I’d hate that. Unless I could eat while I was in there. Then it might not be so bad.”
Emma chuckled. Lyndel was growing so fast she could hardly keep his pants at the right length, and it seemed like all he thought of was food. Would they be able to feed and clothe him after her savings were depleted? Good thing she had a job that paid well. She didn’t see how she’d ever be able to quit, to attend teacher college.
After the dishes were washed and put away, Emma got out Ma’s old basket of fabric and notions and sat in the chair next to her father’s. Lyndel disappeared outside to catch fireflies. It was still early in the season for the little bugs, but she didn’t tell him that. He really just wanted an excuse to be outdoors until dark.
“Riley Stratton paid me another visit today,” Pa told her.
She nearly dropped her basket. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“What did he want? And when did he come?”
“Early afternoon. He just wanted to talk.”
She wanted to press further, but she knew better. If Pa wanted her to know more, he’d tell her. If he didn’t, wild stallions couldn’t pull it from him. Instead, she pulled out several different fabrics from Ma’s basket and held each up to the lantern, trying to decide which she had enough of to make a small dress. Which would look nicest on Skye? The dishes still needed doing, but this chore was more fun. She’d cut out the patterns, then tend to the kitchen.
Skye was a lovely child, and in all truth, any of the fabrics would do nicely. After several minutes of deliberation, she decided on the yellow gingham. She had some yellow bric-a-brac for the sleeves and hem, and a set of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons she’d been saving for a special project.
If she had time, she’d make her another dress from the blue calico. If not, she’d get to it later this week. For the first time, she thought of Ma without fighting back tears. Oh, the ache was still there. But as she cut the fabric and pieced together the tiny dress, she almost felt like Ma was right there with her, approving.
What would Ma say if she knew how much time Emma spent thinking about Riley Stratton, or how her stomach flipped like a hot griddlecake when he came near? Emma recalled his flirtations with every pretty face in school, and the stories she’d heard about all the swooning girls while he was away at university, and suddenly those griddlecakes in her belly went flat.
The next morning, Skye waited in the kitchen for Emma when she arrived. The little girl sat at the table across from Riley. The oven fire was already started, and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room.
“Are you trying to steal my job, Mr. Stratton?”
“Not at all. Skye insisted she couldn’t start her day without coffee. I didn’t have a choice.”
Skye giggled.
“Is that true, Skye?” Emma asked.
The girl giggled some more and shook her head.
Emma looked at Riley, who was holding a finger over his lips, telling his niece to “shush.”
“It appears that someone else is in need of coffee, and is trying to blame an innocent child. Shame on you.”
“I confess. Will you make me write sentences, Teacher?”
Emma tried to keep her face stern, but she couldn’t help but laugh. “If you’re not careful, I might do exactly that. Now if the coffee is ready, you may pour yourself a cup and skedaddle. Skye and I have important business to conduct, and it doesn’t involve you.”
Riley feigned a hurt look, poured his coffee, and exited into the hallway, mumbling something about being unappreciated.
When he was well out of hearing distance, Emma looked at Skye. “I have a surprise for you. But first, we have to get you cleaned up. Let’s move this washtub into the pantry and fill it halfway with water. I’ll boil some more water on the stove to heat it up. Do you have running water at your house?”
“No, but a creek runs behind the house.”
“That’s nice. When I was your age, I used to love to bathe in the creek in the summertime. But in winter, Ma made us haul water into the house to bathe, so she could heat it. That wasn’t nearly as fun. But she made us do it every day.”
Skye smiled, grabbed a bucket and slipped out the back door. Emma watched her pump water, and held the door open for her as she carried it to the big tub in the pantry.
The child continued her work in silence, and Emma tried to think of a way to teach Skye about appropriate hygiene without embarrassing the girl. Skye’s mother had probably taught those things, but Donnigan clearly didn’t know how to address such issues. When the tub was half full, Emma added a big pot of boiling water and stirred it around. Then she pulled out the brown paper package she’d discreetly placed on the counter when she came in.
“I made this for you.” She handed Skye the package.
The girl’s eyes lit up. She held it in her hands, as if she didn’t know what to do with it.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
Skye nodded and sat in the small desk Riley had placed there, which was now scooted to the corner to make room for the tub. Carefully, tenderly she untied the string and set it aside. Then she unfolded the paper as if she wanted to save it to use later. When she saw the dress, her expression held such awe, such wonder, that Emma’s chest tightened with emotion.
“Do you like it?” Emma whispered.
Skye nodded. She poised her hand just above the fabric, as if she were afraid to touch it.
“Go ahead. You won’t hurt it. That’s one of my favorite fabrics. It’s cotton, and it’s very soft.”
With an almost holy reverence, Skye touched the fabric, then picked up the dress and held it to her cheek as if she wanted to remember this moment forever.
Emma cleared her throat. She had to stop being so sentimental. “I’m glad you’re pleased. But we never want to wear a new dress unless we’re nice and clean.” She turned the lantern up as high as it would go, then stepped back into the kitchen. “Off with your dress, and hop in. I’ll be back in a few minutes to help you wash your hair.”
She was glad Riley had started the fire and made the coffee. Otherwise, she would have been late with breakfast. As it was, she and Skye had breakfast on the table, and Skye was contentedly ensconced in her classroom, looking radiant in her new dress and clean braids, by the time the Strattons were seated.
Hours flew by in a whirl of activity. Emma found a chapter on table settings in one of Ma’s old cookbooks, and she helped Skye practice her numbers as they tried out various designs. “Place four plates, one at each of these places. Now count out four forks, four spoons, four knives...and set them in this pattern, beside each plate.” Emma couldn’t say for sure, as she didn’t have any other students to compare her to, but Skye seemed uncommonly bright for her age.
By the time Thursday rolled around, Emma felt like she could conquer the world. She could certainly conquer this strange cuisine Allison had requested. Everything was ready, and as close to perfect as she could make it. Emma had been given two uniforms, so she brought them both with her and changed into a fresh one twenty minutes before guests were scheduled to arrive.
When she emerged from the privy, Allison waited in the hall. “They’ll be here soon. You’ll answer the door and escort them into the parlor, where you’ll serve hors d’oeuvres. Please give us about twenty minutes, and then call us in for dinner.”
Hors d’oeuvres? Oh dear.
Emma refused to let on, refused to show panic. Instead, she simply nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then she calmly dismissed herself from the woman’s presence and slowly, with as much dignity as she could muster, returned to the kitchen pantry. “Skye, I need you to help me with a project.”
“All right.”
“See that shelf of pickles and nuts? I want you to choose several things that you think would look nice on a tray. Look for different colors, shapes and sizes, while I look for a serving platter. Can you do that?”
“Yes!” The way Skye said it made it sound like they were playing a game instead of standing on the brink of disaster.
And why not make a game of it? They were in a race with the clock to create an hors d’oeuvre tray to beat all hors d’oeuvre trays, and they would win. They had to win.
That Allison had set her up again was indisputable...or perhaps not. Emma should have known hors d’oeuvres would be expected.
In the dining room, beneath the large buffet cabinet, Emma knew there was a beautiful silver tray, intricately etched with a floral design, and with ornate handles on each end. She’d just polished the silver last week, and had taken extra time with that tray. But could she remove it without Allison seeing?
Slowly, silently she crept into the dining room. There was Allison, sitting across the way in the parlor, with her back to Emma. If she took extra care, she could retrieve the tray without being detected.
As quietly as possible, she knelt in front of the cabinet, eased open the doors, and found the tray. It took her longer than she wanted to remove the items stacked on top of it, as she had to take her time to avoid any clatter. But at last, she’d replaced the unneeded pieces and shut the door, and was just standing to her feet when a male voice cleared his throat behind her.
Riley.
He was watching her from the foyer, a look of amusement in his eyes like he didn’t know whether to laugh or not.
“Riley, is that you?” Allison called from the parlor. “What are you doing?”
He must have read the panic in Emma’s face as she held a finger over her mouth and pleaded with her eyes for him not to give away her presence, for he just smiled, but didn’t acknowledge her verbally. “I’m coming to join you, Allison. I was hoping to see Davis...is he already down for the night?”
“He was nearly asleep when I left him. I’m about to go check on him once more before...”
Their conversation trailed out of Emma’s hearing as she snuck back through the kitchen and into the pantry. She set the large tray on Skye’s little desk and gasped in delight at the assortment the child had lined up on the edge of the middle shelf. Pickled okra, pickled olives, pickled carrots. Add to that the practice loaf of bread she and Skye had baked this afternoon, plus some dainty jars of jam, a jar of nuts, and a fresh crock of butter and voila! An hors d’oeuvre tray.
The crack of the giant brass doorknocker echoed, and Emma’s heart quickened. “Skye, do you think you can arrange these pickles in a pretty pattern around the edge for me? Leave room in the middle so I can add a few more things.”
Skye nodded. She looked like she was having fun. And truly, the child was heaven-sent, especially in this moment when her serenity fell over Emma’s anxiety like cold lemonade on a hot day.
After a deep breath and a few pats of her hair and skirt as she approached the foyer, Emma answered the door. Mayor Bridges and his wife stood on the porch. And there, hanging onto his arm and looking like an illustration from a fashion journal, was Clara.
And here she was looking like a cross between a mortician and a lace doily.
“Good evening, Mayor Bridges, Mrs. Bridges, Miss Bridges. Won’t you come in?” Emma focused on the mayor, in hopes of bypassing conversation with Clara.
“Why, Emma, I never in a million years expected to see you here. And...dressed like that.” Clara giggled, but there was no malice in her tone.
Allison and the Stratton men waited just behind Emma, so Emma didn’t respond. She simply held the door open wide and allowed the visitors to enter.
Clara threw Emma a look that was part question, part apology as she swept past.
“Mayor Bridges, I’m delighted you could join us this evening. Mrs. Bridges and Clara, as always, you ladies grace any room with your presence.” John Stratton’s words felt like a slap to Emma, punctuating even further her own status in the Stratton family.
Though Emma had never spoken of her own feelings for Riley, Clara had whispered and dreamed and hoped for the day she’d one day become Mrs. Riley Stratton. Clara and every other girl in school. Emma silently excused herself from the group, but not before she saw Clara’s doe-eyed look in Riley’s direction. After all these years, Clara still had feelings for Riley.
Is this whole evening a matchmaking opportunity? A burning sensation pierced Emma like a knife in the gut. In all honesty, the two of them would probably make a very nice match. And what did it matter? She had a job to do.
She stiffened her spine, schooled her features, and put the final touches on the tray.