Chapter Eight
Amy tied her apron around her waist and set to work in the warm kitchen. The scent of roasting chicken filled the small homestead, a comforting aroma that spoke of family gatherings and quiet afternoons. With practiced hands, she rolled out pastry dough for the blackberry pies, her thoughts drifting to the Daileys’ kindness.
“George, Beatrice,” she called over her shoulder, “I need you two to keep an eye on the little ones tonight.”
George leaned against the kitchen doorframe. “We’ll manage,” he said.
Beatrice nodded, though her lips were a thin line of reluctance. “Of course,” she replied.
Tim ambled into the kitchen, his hat in hand. He ruffled George’s hair, earning a scowl from the boy. “Now, I expect you both to do your share. No roughhousing inside the house.” His voice was firm but gentle.
Amy slid the first pie into the oven and then turned to face the children, her expression earnest. “And no fussing,” she added, looking directly at Beatrice, who held her chin up defiantly.
“Supper’s on the stove,” Amy continued. “Make sure everyone eats together.”
“Can we have pie too?” one of the younger ones piped up from behind Beatrice, eyes wide with hope.
“Only if there’s some left when we get back,” Tim answered with a chuckle, winking at Amy.
Amy shook her head. “I made three. One for here and two to take with us. We’re trusting you two. We’ll be back after supper at the Daileys’.”
“Go on, then,” George urged. “We won’t burn the place down.”
“Or each other,” Beatrice muttered under her breath, but a ghost of a smile flickered across her face.
“Thank you,” Amy said. She placed the other pies in the oven and glanced at Tim. Oh, how she hoped that the Daileys would have good advice for dealing with Beatrice.
Amy and Tim approached the Dailey homestead, the lingering guilt in Amy’s heart warring with a flutter of anticipation. Tim reached for her hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze, his gaze softening as they neared the porch where Susan stood waiting, an embodiment of hospitality.
“Welcome!” Susan opened the door wide and invited Amy and Tim inside. “We’re glad to have you both.”
“Thank you for having us,” Amy replied. “It’s nice to get out, just the two of us.”
“Come on in,” Susan said, ushering them into the parlor with a motherly touch. “I remember what it’s like, needing a bit of grown-up time.” She laughed softly, settling Amy onto a plush settee. “When I married David, his little ones were simply other versions of the siblings I’d left behind in Massachusetts, and those siblings are the main reason I left.”
“Your siblings are legendary with their pranks.” Amy said.
Susan shook her head. “Not in a good way at all, though. So here’s what I think I would do with a sullen teenage girl.”
Amy listened intently, feeling a bond form as Susan shared her story, the kind that only women who’ve walked similar paths could understand.
Meanwhile, David’s chuckle floated from the adjoining room, where he and Tim had begun to converse. “So, Tim,” David’svoice was as relaxed as his posture against the mantle, “how’s ranching treating you?”
“Better now with summer,” Tim admitted, his own tension easing under the spell of David’s easy nature. “And your horses? How’s that new stallion faring?”
“Strong-willed like I’ve never seen,” David confessed, “but there’s no better feeling than when you finally reach an understanding with horses like him.”
Amy could hear the men sharing a hearty laugh, and she smiled to herself, grateful for this unexpected kinship blooming between their families. As Susan continued to recount her early days of marriage, offering wisdom wrapped in kindness, Amy felt the last threads of unease slip away, replaced by a growing sense of camaraderie and hope for the future.
Amy perched on the edge of the settee, her hands clasped in her lap, while Susan’s laughter filled the parlor. The scent of blackberry pie lingered, a sweet reminder of Amy’s gratitude for this visit.
“Thank you so much for the pies,” Susan said. “My kids will have them gone by breakfast.”
Amy chuckled. “I just hope they taste as good as they smell.”
“Trust me, with hands like yours? They’re divine,” Susan assured her. “From what I heard from Elizabeth, your pies are nothing less than culinary masterpieces.”
From the other room, David’s hearty guffaw punctuated the conversation. “Tim, you ever seen a stallion try to court a mare? I think that stallion of mine’s got ideas above his station!”
