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There were various reasons he wasn’t sleeping well. One being that he was too tired. Which sounded silly, but for whatever reason, if Merritt went to bedtoosleepy, sleep tended to elude him. As though his brain had to stay awake to compensate for the weariness of his body.
Two, he was suffering a bout of creative constipation. He had made good progress on his novel, but now he was somewhat stuck. Merritt didn’t reallyplanhis stories in advance, so the details had to come out little by little, step by step. He often didn’t know how they would end until he got there. And in truth, although he’d made a living with his pen since he was twenty-three, most of it had been newspaper articles and short fiction—his first published novel had been a struggle. So he deliberated over the adventures of Elise and Warren in his head, wondering if they should betray each other (but with what motivation?) or perhaps fall in love.
That train of thought ultimately led him to Hulda. She liked his book. Which meant she liked his brain, didn’t it? Which made him consider how nice it would be to have a person to bounce ideas off indefinitely, whether it was midday or midnight. Which also made him think of how nice it would be if there were another body taking up space in this too-wide bed. Someone warm and soft andthere.
Merritt growled.Stop it.He was an independent bachelor who had made a good life for himself with very little help from others. He was content with that life. He’dmadehimself content with it. And every time he tried to expand said contentment to include another person, it always went sour. What was the point of trying?
Rolling over, he folded the pillow under his head and forced his eyes shut. Pretended to sleep for a full minute.
He thought, again, of what it would be like when Hulda left for BIKER. Well, so what? He could overcome infatuation. He had before. But Hulda was like picking up a book with no description, fanfare, or title and discovering it got better and better with each page turned. He wanted to know how her story would read. He wanted to reach the denouement, the end. And he wanted to see if she had a sequel.
It must have been near midnight when Merritt finally groaned, sat up, and ventured out of his blankets to put on trousers. Lying there endlessly obviously wasn’t helping. He’d try stretching his legs a bit, maybe get some fresh air. Granted, this far from the cities, it was awfully dark at night, and he was more likely to sprain an ankle strolling outside than he was to relax.
Rubbing his eyes, he padded down the hall, surprised to see light beneath Hulda’s door. He heard her voice saying, “Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” and wondered at it, but decided to give her privacy and ventured instead toward the stairs. Owein, who did not seem to need sleep, graciously turned the stairs into a giant wooden slidebeforehe arrived. With a sigh, Merritt sat and slid down on his rump. The stairs returned to normal a moment later.
Though he was headed toward the front door, he heard a pounding coming from the kitchen, so he ventured through the dining and breakfast rooms, finding Baptiste hunched over the counter in the kitchen, smashing a piece of meat with a little metal hammer.
“I think it’s dead,” Merritt offered.
The only sign of surprise was a quick flex of the man’s shoulders, which he peered over to look at Merritt. “I am...” He paused. “Temporizing it.”
“Tenderizing?”
“Yes, that.” His accent weighed his words more than usual. He had to be tired. “I am making schnitzel.”
One of Hulda’s choices, no doubt. “I’m sure the meat can be smashed in the morning if you want to get some rest.”
The chef shrugged. “Sometimes I do not sleep.”
Merritt pulled over a stool and sat. “You and I both. It’s something that comes with age. How oldareyou, my friend?”
“I turned forty in August.”
“You don’t look a day over thirty-seven.”
Baptiste snorted. Might have even smiled, but his face was turned toward the meat.
“Pork?” Merritt guessed.
Baptiste nodded.
“What is your favorite thing to cook?”
“Pies,” he answered immediately. “Fruit pie, meat pie, cream pie. I am very good at pies.”
Merritt’s stomach rumbled at the thought of so many pastries. “I will hardly keep you from making pies.”
“Need a cellar for the butter. It works better cold.”
“Perhaps Owein can dig one for you.”
He shrugged. “Give me shovel, and I will dig it myself. And take care of the cow.”
That gave him pause. “What cow?”
Baptiste glanced over again. “I talked to Mrs.Larkin about cow. I would like cow. Take good care of her. Have lots of cream.”
Merritt wondered what a whole cow’s worth of cream would do to his digestion, but his tongue moistened at the idea. “If my novel does well, I will get you—us—a cow. I’ll even let you name it.”
