M. Donice Byrd - The Warner Saga (5 page)

She should offer to kill a hen but one thing stopped her. If one of the chickens gave up their life to provide a meal, she felt she should honor that death by making something edible and she was pretty sure she did
not possess the skills.

“You’re alone out here?” he asked, thinking they already established she had a husband.

She looked away and worried the inside of her lip. She hadn’t meant to reveal that. It just spewed out without any thought. Dang it.

Would he think
she had not corrected him earlier because she was ashamed of the fact she was not married? Would he assume her cooking was the cause? The truth was worse. She hated to admit there were no young men interested in a hellion wife.

“All the young men have gone and joined the infantry,” she said vaguely still not willing to admit she was a spinster.

“Leaving you alone to tend the farm?”

A sad smile played on her lips as she shrugged. “Mr. Broberg checks up on me every couple of days but
his English is so rough, I can hardly understand him. I’ve missed having anyone to talk to.”

“Assuming I’m not taking food out of anyone’s mouth, I’d love to eat with you.”

“The eggs will go to waste if you don’t help me eat them.”

3

Meredith put his horse in an empty stall. “Would you mind taking that bucket and fetching some water while I give the horses some oats?”

“Sure.”

When he returned, she took the bucket and divided it between the horses. “I need to take care of my evening chores before supper. There’s a rocker on the porch where you can rest if you’re tired.”

The man looked out the barn door toward the rocker on the porch. “I could start a fire for you if that would help.”

“Actually, it would.”

Meredith told him where he could find what he needed then proceeded to muck the stalls, throwing fresh hay down from the loft. She hauled water to the garden and plucked a few weeds she saw. She fed the chickens, and milked the goat before washing her hands and returning to the house with a pail of fresh water.

Unfortunately, she had not thought to specify that he should lay the fire in the pit in the yard and he had built a fire in the fireplace making the small cabin stifle with heat. There was no point in fussing about it when he was trying to be helpful and she hadn’t told him to put the fire in the yard.

“For someone who claims to be spoiled, you are a hard worker,” he commented as she propped open all the windows.

“The work has to be done.”

Blake took a seat at the table while she retrieved
the recipe for the biscuits and the ingredients.

“I have a feeling our definitions of being spoiled are two different things.”

Meredith opened the cupboard, took out a teacup and used it to measure the flour into the bowl. With two fingers she plucked something dark out of the flour and flicked it into the flames.

“If my horse isn’t proof enough, you can ask the people in town tomorrow. They’ll all tell you.”

Maybe he would. But he suspected if the people called her spoiled, it was jealousy over the horse itself because nothing he had seen so far had proven it to him. “I’m sure giving you that horse gave your husband as much pleasure as it gave you.”

As Blake watched her measure the ingredients, he found himself strangely attracted to her. She wasn’t his usual taste of blonde-headed socialites. Women back
home would be shocked by her tanned face and crude speech and even the way she laughed. But she was so different from all of them, he found he could barely wait to see what she would say or do next.

Perhaps part of the reason he was attracted to her stemmed from the way she showed no interest in him. He always seemed to be on his guard around the women he knew. They all had one goal in mind and he vowed never to get married. It annoyed him when the debutantes giggled like ninnies when he walked by or stared at him from across the room.  In an attempt to draw his attention, they’d drop their dance card or kerchief so he’d be forced to stop to pick it up and exchange a few pleasantries with them. They couldn’t look past his handsome face
and fat bank account to see he was not husband material.

Oddly, he disliked girls in their first few seasons because of their immaturity and innocence and yet,
Meredith couldn’t be much older and little about her annoyed him. Then again, she was married and no doubt the responsibility of running the farm had matured her.

No, she wasn’t his usual taste at all. He tended to gravitate to young widows who enjoyed their freedom and discreet women who had lost their innocence long before they ever met and occasionally unhappy married women.

Offhandedly, he wondered if she would be game for a bit of overnight fun but dismissed the idea immediately. She had never implied she found her marriage dissatisfying. Being young, she probably missed that aspect of her marriage since her husband went to war.

Perhaps, he had been too quick to dismiss the possibility. No one would know if they did. Maybe if he played his cards right, she might enjoy a no-strings-attached never-have-to-see-you-again roll in the hay.

She was really mixing the biscuit dough with a fervor he knew was not good for the texture of the finished product.

“Uh…”

She stopped and waited for him to say more.

“Never mind.”

She stared at him waiting.

“I was just going to ask for a glass so I could get myself some water.”

“This cupboard,” she said pointing with her elbow, the bowl grasped under her left arm as she mixed right-handed.

He crossed to the cupboard and took out two glasses and seeing the dishes below, he took two plates also setting them on the table.

“Where do you keep your forks and knives?” he asked.

“You’re a guest. You don’t need to set the table.”

“I don’t mind. If you play your cards right, I might even help you with the cleanup.”

Meredith turned the bowl up on end to put the dough on the counter.

“Wait,” he said. “Flour the counter first or it’ll stick.”

Color rose in her cheeks. “Why do I have the feeling you know more about baking biscuits than I do?”

He leaned against the counter as she floured it and turned out the dough. In fact he probably did know more. The cook at one of the boarding schools he attended took him home with her one Christmas instead of leaving him alone in the dormitory. She showed him how to make a few basic recipes.

“You’re doing fine.”

Within a few minutes, she had cut the biscuits with a glass and placed them in the Dutch oven. He carried the heavy cast iron pot to the fire and placed it in the coals then shoveled glowing embers on top of the lid. When she was going to immediately start the eggs, he suggested she wait until the biscuits were done so the eggs wouldn’t get cold.

After a short silence, she turned to him.  “If you’ll excuse me, Blake, I would like to change my clothes.  I may like to ride horses but I certainly don’t like to smell like them. I was on my way to the pond for a swim when I nearly trampled you this afternoon.”

His easy grin came to his lips showing his pearly white teeth and she cast her eyes to the ground realizing one doesn’t speak of the way one smells to a man she just met.

After filling her ewer from the bucket of water they brought in earlier, she disappeared into her room.  As she slipped out of her riding habit made of blue homespun material and rushed through her ablutions, she pulled several dresses from her wardrobe.  In the end, she selected a lavender dress made of store bought cotton material as most of her other dresses were homespun.  Mama thought the color brought out the gray tones in her eyes.  It possessed a rather low scooped neckline her mother hoped would lead to a suitor or two but Meredith was so embarrassed that it showed a hint of her breasts that she never wore it without a shawl.
Until today.

When she emerged from her room, no little time later, her hair pinned up since it was so hot, she found her dinner companion no longer sitting at the table where she left him.  In her absence, he lit two lanterns, removed his sack coat and now stood at the kitchen counter, his
back to her. 

He’d removed the biscuits from the fire, placing the Dutch oven on the counter. At first she thought she might have burned the biscuits, having completely forgotten about them but as she watched unobserved, he opened the pan and pulled out a golden biscuit and tossed it between his hands to keep from burning his fingertips.  Thinking it was funny to catch him sneaking a biscuit like a child, she was on the verge of making her presence known when he did a curious thing.  He set it in his palm as if he were weighing it.  A moment later, he deliberately dropped it a distance of about a foot onto the counter and it landed with a dull thud.  Then he put it back in the pan and covered it with the lid.

“Are they done?”

He wheeled around with a guilty start.  It took him a moment to gather his wits.  “Just,” he finally said.

“You weren’t going to sneak one?” she asked crossing the room.

“No, of course not.”

“There will still be plenty for supper if you want one or two to hold you over until the eggs are ready.  Go on,” she encouraged when she saw his reluctance.  “They’re always best when they’re still hot.”

“Thanks, I don’t mind if I do,” he said and proceeded to take not one but two biscuits with him to the table.

“Honey or jam?”

He shook his head and took a bite.  Chewing slowly, he raised an eyebrow, cocked his head to one side then nodded as if they were delicious.  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he forced himself to swallow.

“These sure are good, Meredith.”

For some reason he was eating them just to be nice.  “Stop,” she said halting his next bite.  “Don’t eat it.”

“You saw?”

“I saw.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  It saved me from eating any.  Pretty bad, are they?”

“Like rubber,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I think you over-mixed the dough.”

With a shrug, she forced a smile.  “If I thought I could do any better
, I’d try again.”  Her attempt at being light-hearted didn’t keep her embarrassment away and she turned her back.  With rosy cheeks, she began straightening the already tidy counter.  Again trying to keep an air of nonchalance in her voice she said.  “I hope you aren’t hungry.  I’m pretty sure I’ll ruin the eggs, too.”

He hesitated before answering.  He could tell she was upset and tried to tease her out of her mood.  “Actually, I think I filled up on the bite of biscuit.”

She chuckled in spite of herself.

“They’re really not so bad flavor-wise, they’re just dense,” he said taking a bite. “Here, try it.”

She took it from him, and stared at it with leery eyes as if he just handed her a horse apple to eat.

“I could try again.”

“Don’t waste food, Meredith.”

She knew he was right and it made her mad at herself for acting like she could cook when she knew their old dog, Rance, had died the night she’d slipped him some burnt chicken she’d cooked. She never cooked again despite her parents’ assurances that her cooking had not killed the dog.

“If you have some bacon grease and milk, I might be able to whip up some gravy for the biscuits,” Blake said.

“Is goat’s milk all right? I can go to the Broberg’s for cow’s milk if you’d rather.”

“I think it’ll be fine. But honestly, I’d eat it even if it wasn’t.”

“You must be starving to say that without tasting it.”

His stomach gnawed a bit with hunger but by no means could one call that starving and it annoyed him when people used that word so casually. He couldn’t forget what it felt like to never have enough food in his belly. He knew, despite her slender form, she had never been truly hungry. Perhaps she had skipped a meal, once or twice, but he’d bet she’d never gone a full day without eating.

Blake fought back the unbidden memories and forced himself to smile at her. It came automatically like pulling one’s hand away when coming in contact with a hot pan.

Meredith recoiled slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with a cheery voice.

“I was about to ask you the same thing?”

Unsure how she detected his mood shift when he covered it up with a smile, he turned away, unwilling to meet her eyes or answer her question.

“Where’s the bacon grease?” he asked scanning the countertop and reaching for the flour he’d seen her use earlier.

Within another fifteen minutes
, they were eating. Blake ate four biscuits slathered in thick bacon gravy and two scrambled eggs and Meredith ate about half as much but declared herself stuffed to the gills. As promised, Blake offered to help with the dishes but she only accepted as an excuse to prevent him from leaving. She may have told herself she was lonesome but in truth she enjoyed the company of the handsome stranger.