The Rancher’s Inconvenient Bride. Carol Arens
But she had been. Under the influence of the laudanum that Hilda Brunne had kept her subdued with, she had been as lifeless as this elephant.
Dead inside, gray and still outside, appearing to have life but with no spark of animation.
Some people might think it strange that she likened her past to this petrified creature—she even thought so sometimes. But other times, when she was afraid, when simply giving a stranger the time of day made her want to hide away—she needed to be reminded that she was alive—to vow that she would never again be a slave to laudanum.
She feared this great hulking creature that seemed to represent life in death.
She feared herself, what she might have become without the help of William English.
Yes, Ivy had been the one to help her overcome her addiction, but it had been William who kept her from going back to it when, fearing her sister had died, she wanted to find oblivion again.
On that wicked stormy night, he’d placed a book in her hands and made her read it out loud to him. It hadn’t been easy to do, given that she was mightily distracted by the masculine scent of him, by the warmth of his arm and the lean muscle of his thigh touching hers while they sat on the couch waiting.
Of course, she’d had a crush on him for years. But whenever her young heart would begin to flutter, Nurse Brunne would point out that she was not fit for any man, especially not one like William English.
She’d been right about that. William was a prince and she had been—dead—like this poor elephant.
But she would not be again.
Today she was breathing, alive and getting stronger. No one, or nothing in a beguiling little bottle would take that new freedom from her.
* * *
The stew was not thickening as it should. No matter how long it cooked, it remained broth and not gravy.
The Fat Lady would hate it.
“I don’t know what’s wrong, Laura Lee.” The Fat Lady was not the only one who was going to be displeased. “Frenchie Brown will be angry.”
“I’m homesick,” Laura Lee stated as though Agatha had not spoken.
“He’s going to bellow at us if his food isn’t correct.”
“It’s been two months and I miss the Lucky Clover to my bones. I’m going home, tomorrow.” Laura Lee turned to look at Agatha, moisture glittering in her eyes. “Did you add flour?”
“Going home!”
She couldn’t go home! The two of them had come on this adventure together. Why, Ivy and Travis would never have allowed her to come if Laura Lee hadn’t accompanied her.
Especially had they ever dreamed the adventure would lead to this cook trailer.
As far as anyone back home knew, she and Laura Lee were working in the kitchen of a fancy hotel in Cheyenne.
Before Agatha had even become skilled at peeling potatoes, the hotel closed for good. Within a couple of days, Laura Lee had secured them this job.
Maybe she ought to have gone home then, let her friend go on alone, but she had set out to find independence. What could be more daring than living among circus folks?
“I’ve got to go. You know how I was sweet on Johnny Ruiz?”
How could she not know? At only five miles from home Laura Lee had begun to sigh over him and hadn’t quit.
“We’ve been writing to each other every day. He’s coming for me and we’re going back home to be married.”
“But you haven’t finished teaching me to cook.”
What a cowardly thing to say! Agatha regretted it the instant the words left her mouth.
“You came here—joined a circus for mercy’s sake—in order to learn to stand on your own.”
Yes—it was true that she had. Still, she hadn’t learned nearly enough about cooking to do it on her own and she’d discovered that circus people did enjoy their meals.
“You should go, Laura Lee!” She really should. “Go home and have lots of sweet little babies with Johnny.”
Dropping the wooden spoon into the large pot of watery stew, Agatha wrapped her arms around her friend. With luck she would believe the tears on her cheeks were tears of joy, and they were for the most part.
But it couldn’t be denied that she was indulging in a big dose of self-pity. She hadn’t a doubt in the world that once Ivy knew where she was, she would send someone to fetch her home.
Ivy would not come herself. She had a newborn to care for, and a ranch to run. But someone would come and she was not nearly ready.
“Don’t look so worried, Agatha.” Laura Lee let go of her and scooped up a cup of flour, mixed it with water. “I know you’re concerned about being forced to go home. But I’ll assure your sister and Travis that you are thriving and the circus people are watching over you like they would their own kin.”
Someone was. Mr. Frenchie Brown. She felt his eyes on her back whenever she ventured from the cook trailer.
In her opinion, his attention was not so protective. He frowned at her often, shook his head. Given the chance he would dismiss her.
Agatha watched Laura Lee stir flour mixed with water into the pot. “Look at that! It’s stew. Nice thick stew.”
“Here’s the secret to cooking, although Mrs. Morgan would paddle me for saying so.”
Laura Lee winked. Mischief made her eyes sparkle.
One day Agatha hoped her own eyes would sparkle. They didn’t now, but one day they would. As much as her friends’ did, as much as Ivy’s did. And Ivy’s eyes always sparkled.
“If a dish isn’t right add butter, lots and lots of butter. If it needs to be thicker, flour, and if it’s dessert lots of sugar, and butter, butter, butter—a good dose of cream doesn’t hurt, either.”
The door slammed behind the current, and fifth, man that William had presented for sheriff. It was hard to tell if the wind had to do with it or if the fellow was hopping mad to have traveled a hundred miles only to be judged unworthy for the position.
William frowned at the citizens sitting in the chairs facing the council table. The way they were going, they would never agree on a lawman.
“I’m glad to see the back of that one,” uttered Mr. Henry Beal. Henry sat beside William at the long council table drumming his fingertips on the polished wood. His vocation of blacksmith showed in the soot rimming his fingernails. “Too prissy to be sheriff if you ask me.”
“And small,” declared a middle-aged woman perched on the edge of her chair. “We need a larger man.”
“Yes, a much larger man.” This from the younger lady sitting beside the woman.
William glanced away quickly when she winked at him and nudged her companion in the ribs.
The wood legs of his chair scraped across the floor when he stood up. He made eye contact—frowned more to the point—at the four men seated with him at the table.
“I understand that you want the best person for the job. We all do. But that man was qualified and willing to accept the pay you offered. He may have been short, but he came highly respected. You read his letters of recommendation.”
“Still too small.” A man stood up from his chair near the front door of the Tanners Ridge Library where town meetings were held, shrugged his shoulders. “I think we all agree on that.”