The Bachelor Tax. Carolyn Davidson
spoke from the porch, his voice carrying through the kitchen. “You boys about ready? Supper’s gonna be late, and your ma don’t like keepin’ food hot, Sonny.”
“All right, Pa,” the largest of the two young men answered, grinning quickly at Rosemary as he passed.
They were gone. Just that quickly, they climbed aboard the big wagon and Bates disappeared from view.
Rosemary walked into the kitchen, halting in front of the big bureau that held an assortment of crocks and utensils.
From behind her, Tanner’s footsteps crossed the floor. “I’ll expect supper on the table in two hours, Miss Gibson. There’ll be six hands and myself.”
“Do I get to eat, too?” She couldn’t resist. His words begged for rebuttal, and to her dismay, her sharp tongue offered it without pause.
“You’d better make plenty, or there might not be any left for you, ma’am. You’re cookin’ for hungry men.”
That was an understatement, Rosemary decided later, watching as the seven men devoured her efforts. In less than ten minutes they had plowed through two platters of beef steak she’d breaded and fried, then placed in the oven to bake. A big bowl of pale gravy was poured without prejudice over their plates, covering potatoes, biscuits and meat, the spoon she had provided even now staining the tablecloth she’d used.
Two quart jars of green beans had disappeared, and the dried apples she’d made up into a dessert, with sugar and cinnamon and sweet dough on top, were but a memory.
It was as if a horde of locusts had descended and devoured every scrap of available food, she decided, watching with wide eyes as one of the men wiped the gravy bowl clean with a piece of biscuit, then stuffed the dripping bite into his mouth.
“Sure is good grub, ma’am,” he announced, shoving his chair back from the table as he gained his feet. “Pert near as good as Mama Pearl’s.”
The glow ignited by his offhand compliment faded as Rosemary registered his final words. “What does Mama Pearl cook for you?” she asked hastily as the men clustered at the doorway, filing out onto the porch.
Tanner sat at the other end of the long table and leaned back in his chair. “You’ll get a chance to ask her tomorrow. It’s her day to show up here.”
He eyed the empty bowls and his grin was unrepentant. “Doesn’t look like they left you much, Miss Gibson. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She nodded. “That’s true.”
Tanner rose from his chair, nodding at her as he pushed it beneath the table’s edge. His fingers raised in a half salute as he strolled from the kitchen. “I might as well start on the study, ma’am. There may be part of a loaf of bread left in the pantry if you’re hungry.”
“I took you at your word, Mr. Tanner,” she said beneath her breath.
He paused at the doorway. “Oh? How’s that?”
She turned, opening the oven and, with a heavy pot holder, drew forth a plate upon which she had placed a generous portion of the meal she had prepared.
“I got mine first. Just in case.” With a flourish, she sat down at the table, spreading a dish towel across her lap. Folding her hands before her, she closed her eyes, her mind searching for words of thanksgiving.
For the first time in her life, she met a blank wall. The presence of the Almighty seemed not to occupy this room, and the simple prayer she was accustomed to speaking before her meals was somehow gone from her mind.
She compromised, closing her eyes, whispering a few words of thanks for her food, and asking only for safe refuge in this place. The image of Gabe Tanner’s face flashed before her closed eyes, his lips curved in a smug grin, his gaze flashing a challenge.
Her eyes opened and she gritted her teeth. The man was determined to be an aggravation. With fingers that trembled, she picked up her knife and fork and sawed at a piece of steak, reconsidering her quick petition to the Almighty.
Perhaps, she thought, she should have asked instead for patience.
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