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He picked her up. “Then you’re in for a treat.”
As he carried her out, Portia looked back, saw the mess they’d made of her desk, and didn’t care.
It was now the end of July. They’d settled into the house, her business was going well, and Kent was in contract negotiations with the army to supply them with horses starting after the New Year.
Portia decided to surprise Kent by making breakfast. He’d done all of the cooking since they’d moved in and she thought it time she share the load. She grabbed eggs from the hens, took some bacon out of the cold box, sliced bread, and began.
In the bedroom, a tired and sleepy Kent awakened to the smell of something burning. At first he thought it might be a dream but when it persisted he sat up and noted that, one, Portia wasn’t in bed and, two, yes, something was definitely burning.
Hurrying out of the room, he saw tendrils of smoke curling out of the kitchen. Inside he found his wife using a small towel to bat at flames rising from what had once been toast. Swallowing his smile, he cleared his throat, “Good morning, Mrs.Randolph.”
She shot him a peeved look. “I wanted to surprise you with breakfast, but thought I’d try to burn the house down instead.”
The kitchen looked like a cyclone had visited. There were eggs shells and little puddles of spilled milk on the floor, pieces of what appeared to be a broken plate and a saucer on the counter, and something black and foul-smelling stuck to the surface of the cast-iron skillet on the stove.
“I’m a woman,” she said angrily. “I’m supposed to be able to cook. If something happens to you, I’ll starve to death.”
Knowing she’d probably gut him if he laughed, he instead held out his arms. “Come here.”
She walked to him and he eased her close. Above her head he grinned widely, which prompted her to say, “I know you’re secretly laughing, Kent Randolph.”
“Laughing with you, Duchess, not at you.”
She made the sound women make when they know their men are lying.
He kissed her hair. “Tell you what, if you want to learn to cook, I’ll teach you.” He leaned back so he could see her face. She was still mad. “You have talents a lot of other women don’t have. I married you for your fierceness, your toughness, and that bear-trap mind of yours. Your lack of skill in the kitchen doesn’t make me love you any less.”
“I don’t like doing things I can’t do well.”
“I understand, so let me help you, okay?”
Lips tight, she nodded.
He eased her back against his chest. “I love you so much.”
“Thanks for putting up with me.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
So for the next month, in between his dealing with the horses and her going back and forth between her clients in Flagstaff and in Oracle, Kent taught his wife the basics of cooking: how to fry eggs and make omelets, how to fry bacon so it remained recognizable. Her first attempts at biscuits were hard enough for the biblical David to have used in his slingshot against Goliath, but Kent slathered them with butter.
Seated at the table, she looked his way. “They aren’t very good, are they?”
Determined not to hurt her feelings, he bit into one, prayed he didn’t break a tooth, and mumbled, “They’re not that bad.”
“You truly do love me, don’t you?”
He nodded and hoped eating just the one was enough to prove it.
“I’ll try again.”
“Keep riding the bronc. You’ll get better.”
