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She pulled off her gloves one finger at a time before answering. “I have no idea. Would you like me to introduce you when they get here?”
“Morning’ll be soon enough.”
She took a deep breath, shoved her gloves in her reticule, and wished he were given to excessive speech. At least that way she’d know what he was thinking. And where she needed to bolster her defenses.
“Why don’t you head into the house and rustle up some dinner while I get Willoughby and Shameless settled?”
Resentment swept over her in waves at his dismissal. But what did she expect? Respect? When his first view of her home showed the level of her failure?
“Would you prefer steak or ham?” she asked carefully as he led the horses away.
He stopped so quickly, Shameless bumped him with his head. He went forward two steps before asking, “You got any syrup to go with that ham?”
“I think so.”
Shameless bumped him with his nose, anxious to get to the barn. Asa didn’t budge. She remembered his tactful reaction to the shambles of the ranch and softened despite herself. “Would you care for anything special?”
“Mashed potatoes?”
Mashed potatoes were as common as day old bread, but he made the request with the same awe a miner would demonstrate when confronted with the specter of a two-pound nugget. She ran her gaze over Asa from his head to his toes. He was a big man. Last night, he’d had a dinner equal to hers in size. She remembered how quickly he’d demolished it. How closely he’d watched her finish hers. She remembered how he’d taken on Brent.
“I could probably manage potatoes.”
His free hand went to the front of his body. “I’d be obliged.”
She studied him with new eyes. His chestnut brown hair, long overdue for a cut, curled over the collar of his shirt. His clothes were practical, but, on closer scrutiny, worn threadbare in places. He was tall and big-boned, no doubt about it, but now she wondered if his leanness came naturally or from lack of proper food.
“If the coons didn’t get to the good corn, I could probably put together some Johnny cake,” she offered, wondering if the reason she couldn’t see his hand was because he was clutching his stomach.
This time it was Willoughby who bumped Asa. Again, he didn’t budge. She might have been imagining it, but there seemed a vulnerability to his stance as he mentioned casually, “Red-eye gravy would sure taste good with that Johnny cake.”
“Gravy might be possible.” Provided she could find some leftover coffee.
“I’ll be looking forward to it.”
He still didn’t face her, but instead of lumbering, the horses had to trot to catch up as he headed for the barn. Some of her frustration faded to amusement as it became apparent that Asa clearly viewed her as invaluable in one area of the ranch.
“You’re taking an awful risk, MacIntyre,” she called out, “assuming I can cook.”
“I’m hoping, darlin’. I sure am hoping.”
With a smile on her face, she spun on her heel and hurried to the house, deciding the blackberries she’d picked before she’d left could go into a cobbler. That way, she’d at least have dessert to offer.
Elizabeth used the hem of her apron to wipe the water from her hands. Supper was set and simmering. And so was she. Despite the breeze coming through the open door, the kitchen was a humid inferno. A glance out the window revealed dusk snuggling up to the empty yard. Past the thick trunked oak tree, she spotted the chicken coop. No hens pecked outside. As was their habit, they were probably inside, waiting for her to lock them in safe for the night.
She wished she had the same option, but, come nightfall, the first payment on her debt would begin. No matter how much she told herself it was no big thing, that women all over the world did this every day, she was nervous. Scared spitless as a matter of fact. And it wasn’t just because she didn’t know if MacIntyre was mean in bed or not. That was actually the least of her worries. More than anything, she was terrified that, in her ignorance, she’d do something on her wedding night so totally stupid, the man would be laughing for months to come. Lord, she hated appearing incompetent.
She checked the simmering potatoes, poking them a little harder than necessary. The fork bounced off one without even gouging a hole. She replaced the fork on the table next to the stove and scanned the yard again. She had a good fifteen minutes before she needed to slide the corn bread in the oven. In that time, she could gather the morning’s eggs and have them on hand for breakfast. Of course, getting the eggs meant crossing the yard, which, since her father’s death, was tantamount to entering enemy territory. The trickle of fear that sent her heart tapping in her throat renewed her determination. Dammit! She would not be made a prisoner in her own house.
