Her Montana Man. Cheryl St.John
he said, as though wondering.
“Duck needs to be roasted slowly,” she replied, then turned to pick up a white towel and dab her red face with the damp corners.
“How do you make that sauce that goes on it?”
“With grated orange peel and wine, a little Worcestershire and cayenne. It’s not all that tough.”
“That’s sounding awfully tasty to be truthful. And your rice always turns out just right.”
She picked up the wooden spoon from the floor with a grunt and mumbled.
“I’m thinking duck would be a good choice for this evenin’,” he told her. “You can make salmon once that incompetent warehouse puts your order together correctly. I’ll handle that myself.”
“They should reduce the cost for the inconvenience,” she said with a haughty flick of her pudgy fingers.
“I’ll see that they do.”
“Get on about your day then, and let me get to work on dinner,” she told him. “Where are those silly girls who are supposed to be peeling apples?”
“I do believe you scared ’em all away, Lily. Remember some of these girls have been boxed around a mite. They take to cover when tempers flare and things start flyin’.” He fixed her with a square look.
She acquiesced to his wisdom with a quick nod and a grimace. “If you see the shrinking violets out there, tell ’em I’m not going to bite their heads off,” she replied.
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