Although she told herself she didn’t care to enter into the conversation, Birdie perked up when she heard her name mentioned.
“Birdie-Alice made the stuffing,” her mother announced as the dish started around the table. “And the gravy,” she added with pride.
Mrs. Millican and Edditha, unaware of the rarity of the occasion, helped themselves to a good portion of the stuffing and ladled the golden chicken gravy liberally over their food.
Time stood still for a few brief seconds. In the lingering summer’s evening light, the only sounds were the frogs in the hot spring and the crickets beneath the porch.
Like the frogs, Cornell couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Take my advice, Miss Millican, stick to the chicken and the squash. You can fill up on Jo’s rhubarb pie.”
Van and her father began to snicker. Looking adorably perplexed, Edditha said, “I don’t understand. I love stuffing. And this gravy looks and smells wonderful. I think you’ll be sorry, Mr. Norquist, if you don’t have some.”
The sly smile Cornell sent Miss Millican would have set any young woman’s heart aflutter. Birdie-Alice long ago had seen past his lopsided, killer smirk, finding nothing but a dried husk where Corney’s heart should be. When it came to the ladies, he could be as cunning as a wolf. Birdie, no fool, suspected a wedding ring and marriage vows would not stop him from hunting and capturing hearts.
Miss Millican responded true to form with a pretty blush when he corrected her. “Cornell, please, Miss Millican. I want to hear my name on your lovely lips,” he said, leering at the young woman as he leaned over his plate.
Birdie caught the disapproving scowl on her father’s face. Cornell must’ve seen it too. She put her head down and pressed her lips together to suppress a smile of satisfaction.
Cornell tried to make light of the situation by saying, “Because I’m starving, and I don’t wish to be rude, I’ll take your advice. But I must warn you, Birdie-Alice is no cook. It’s hard to say what she found to put in this stuffing.” He plopped a helping of the dish on his plate. He poked at the stuffing with his fork and even sniffed it. “The gravy doesn’t look bad. Hmmm, no lumps, Birdie? Now how did you manage?”
She wanted to squish his face in his plate. Instead, she thanked Edditha for her compliment and helped herself to some of the stuffing, which she covered liberally with her gravy.
She passed Gabe the bowl of stuffing and qualified to Edditha, saying, “I admit, I’m unused to cooking, but I can do it. Gabriel’s mother, Petra tried to teach me. It pains me to admit it, but my family and friends are justified to doubt my ability to produce an edible dish. They’ve suffered some of my attempts and left the table hungry. Homely pursuits don’t interest me. I’d much rather be out of doors, gardening or working with the horses.”
Next to her, Gabe helped himself to the offerings, pleasing Birdie when he gave her a nod and a smile before passing the dishes on.
Speaking to Edditha and Mrs. Millican, he said, “We’re all aware, and appreciate that our Curly-Birdie is more at home on a horse than in the kitchen. She has a way with all animals. And she has a green thumb when it comes to gardening.”
Birdie winced hearing him use the nickname stuck to her from the time she could toddle along after him. This evening, recalling her mission, she offered him a condescending smile. In the past, she might’ve punched him in the arm. “It’s true, I do feel at ease with animals. After all, you can’t scorch hay or burn oats. Do you ride, Edditha?”
Gabe had a fork full of chicken loaded and headed for his mouth. He stopped to give her a sideways look of distrust.
Encouraged, Birdie offered him a nod and a sweet smile but continued speaking to Miss Millican. “Buck keeps several good mounts here at the hot spring for the guests.”
Miss Millican hesitated. She dabbed at her lips with her napkin and then with a shake of her head she said, “Oh, I know how to ride. At ten years of age, I had my first equestrian, but I rode seated on a lady’s saddle. I’ve never ridden out in the open, but always within an arena. I shouldn’t know what to do on uneven terrain.”
Birdie purposefully ignored Gabe’s warning glance and persevered, heaping on the butter and spooning several helpings of sugar over her squash. “Buck has the sweetest old mare. I learned to ride on her, as did Jo. She moves like a rocking horse. As hard as I tried, I could never get her into a gallop. You could start out on her. We call her Ike II. She knows this country. You wouldn’t have to do anything but stay in the saddle and enjoy the ride. She’ll do all the work. Once you get used to the different saddle and acquire a little confidence, you could choose another mount.”
“Mrs. Millican, do you ride?” Buck asked.
“You must call me, Adella, Buck, please?” the lady said to him, her hand going to his wrist and a sly smile playing on her lips.
He smiled at her and winked. Birdie and everyone at the table saw him—he winked.
The lady blushed.
Birdie noticed Jo’s cheeks turned a bright pink. Next to her, she heard Gabe moan. At the end of the table, Van gave out a little snort. He’d made an attempt to hide it behind his water glass. Once again, Birdie pressed her lips together to keep from snickering.
Mrs. Millican’s eyes sparkled, obviously having fun playing the game. She scanned the occupants at the table, gave a nod, and then turned to give Buck her full attention. “In answer to your question, Buck, I used to ride a great deal as a girl. I haven’t been on a horse for many years.”
Her coquettish admission, Birdie imagined, could hold a double meaning. “I would love to try it again. Not a long ride, mind you. These arthritic bones of mine would protest. I don’t want to spend all my time here laid up in bed, racked with aches and pains.”
Again, Birdie wondered if the woman realized the double entendre of her words.
“The hot spring is the perfect way to sooth away aches and pains after a ride,” Birdie piped in to say, desperate to say something to take her mind off, well, off what she’d been thinking. “Jo, what say you? Tomorrow we could get up some provisions and head out to the aspen grove for a picnic. It’s only a couple of miles. We might find some huckleberries. They might be ripe by now.”
“Huckleberries? You have huckleberries out here? I love huckleberry jam,” Edditha declared.
Under the table, Gabe kicked Birdie on the ankle. The kick wasn’t hard, but it was more than a tap, and she gave a little start.
Gabe quickly interjected, speaking to his fiancée. “We have plenty of berries closer than the aspen grove. I’ll take you. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to try to ride so far on an unfamiliar mount, especially if you’re not accustomed to a western saddle. No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to ride so far. We’ll take the buggy,” he said, directing his suggestion to his sister and ignoring Birdie altogether. “We can pack more provisions if we take the buggy.”
“Well, you know this country best, and if you think it too far, then I suppose a horse and buggy would be more comfortable,” Edditha said, giving Gabe a nod and a smile of obedience.
Birdie wanted to gag. How silly and condescending. Gabe’s autocratic, high-handed, pompous attitude, added to Miss Millican’s simpering acquiescence to his ridiculous recommendation, made her lose her appetite. She opened her mouth to tell Gabe to get off his high horse but caught Buck’s warning wink before he passed Edditha bread, so Birdie clamped her mouth shut.
Leaning forward around Gabe and past Birdie, her long dark lashes fluttering, Edditha asked, “Will you be joining us, Mr. Norquist…Cornell?”
Birdie pulled back to allow the exchange and took pleasure in the fact that Gabe started to protest but stopped himself, in the nick of time, from saying something rude.
Corney directed his question to Buck. “As tomorrow is Saturday, I think I’ll stay on here if no one objects? I’d love to join in on a picnic.”
Buck nodded and delivered his acceptance with a pointed, hard look which held a warning in it for Corney. “Always welcome a paying guest.”
His children and Birdie heard the unspoken conditions in the look loud and clear. Corney would have to pay to stay, and the man better mind his manners.
“This is a fine meal, Jo,” Buck exclaimed. “Birdie, the stuffing and the gravy are perfect. Petra did a fine job with both of you girls. You’re both mighty fine cooks.”
“As much as Birdie likes to eat, it’s a good thing she knows how to cook a meal,” said Cornell with a chuckle. “Beats me where she puts it all. Little wonder….”
Birdie closed her ears to Corney’s exaggerated, humor-embellished, reminiscences of her adventures with busting seams and gaping buttons. She had to stop listening, or she’d start throwing plates at his head.
When he paused for a breath, she threw caution to the wind and smiled sweetly. Inspired, she placed her hand on his arm, and dug her fingernails into his forearm and said, “I promise I won’t accept your proposal until I improve.”
There, that should shut him up.
»»•««
Gabe struggled to repress a terrific urge to haul Cornell Norquist up out of his chair by his scalp and punch him in the nose. Everyone sat there listening while Norquist took cheap shots at Birdie, directing his witty comments toward Edditha. And Edditha, she encouraged the idiot, smiling and nodding. She actually appeared to be enjoying herself at Birdie’s expense.
Gabe didn’t want to believe she meant to be unkind, but he found it rather thoughtless on her part. Thoughtless in light of how gracious and inclusive Birdie had been during the meal. And damn it, they were engaged, his fiancée shouldn’t be encouraging a big buffoon like Norquist. And Norquist shouldn’t be flirting with Edditha, his fiancée, in front of Birdie. Oh, hell, the entire gathering, the situation, was strange and unsettling, and without a doubt, the conversation between Edditha and Cornell bordered on bizarre.
Birdie had, for whatever reason, decided to let all of Norquist’s cutting barbs slide off her like water off a duck’s back. Which wasn’t like Birdie-Alice at all. Gabe neither understood nor trusted her motives.
What is the matter with her?
“You’ll have plenty of time to improve after we’re married,” Cornell assured his betrothed. “I won’t ask you to cook for me. I don’t expect you to make the beds or clean the windows. We’ll hire someone. You’ll be far too busy with your charities and helping me get ahead in business. I know you can do that. I’ve seen you organize parties and charm guests. You’re a natural. After a bit of taming down, you’ll be the perfect wife.”
Oh, he’d gone too far. Gabe could feel the heat from the fire building within Birdie’s supple, ripe, and blooming body. She pulled up in her seat like a little volcano ready to explode. He heard her inhale and saw her shoulders square up. She thrust out her chest and the fabric of her dress, across her bosoms, strained. On the exposed flesh around the neckline of her dress and down the cleavage between those ample globes, her skin glowed a rosy hot-pink. At last, Gabe would see the true Curly-Birdie of old. She would tell Norquist where he could go in aces and spades, and good riddance.
Raising her napkin to her lips, Birdie dropped her gaze to her plate. When she looked up she turned to Edditha, a sweet, almost serene smile pasted on her lips, she asked, “Do you do a lot of entertaining, Edditha? Jo and I have asked Gabe to tell us if he goes to the theater or concerts, but his descriptions are succinct at best.”
Gabe felt utterly let down, deflated. His shoulders slumped. The topic turned to the social events in Portland, and Birdie deflected the attention away from her to Edditha and Mrs. Millican. He silently congratulated Birdie, even though this new skill of hers set his nerves on edge.
You can’t keep a volcano corked up forever.
It could be Norquist had figured out how to handle Birdie. Like a circus trainer, he poked the bear to keep it in line, letting it know who was boss.
Birdie liked people. She loved socials, gave great parties, knew everyone by name, and remembered their families. Her vivacious personality made her a natural-born hostess. Gabe liked the old Curly-Birdie. He missed her, the one who in days of old would’ve accidentally, on purpose, tossed her stuffing in Norquist’s lap.
Could it be she loved the arrogant, albeit handsome, horse’s ass? Maybe she aspired to marry into the wealthy, powerful Norquist family and elevate herself to become an influential society matron. Who could say, but Gabe didn’t like it, not one bit. He wanted the old Curly-Birdie, the feisty spitfire. He didn’t like this new Birdie, and he didn’t trust her. She wasn’t herself. She was trying too hard to be something she wasn’t.