Western Christmas Proposals. Carla Kelly
From the vacant look on the younger brother’s face, Kate could see he did not know the word, and felt surprisingly sorry for him.
Ned came back and took the ketchup off the table. “He wants this.”
“Stubborn man,” Kate said.
“I’m just pleased not to see the whole thing on the floor,” her boss said, and he sounded more cheerful. “He wants some of your coffee, too.”
“I’ll take him both,” Kate said. “Sit down and finish your breakfast.”
He did as she said. “Are you as stubborn as he is?”
“Ayuh,” she said, which made him laugh.
She took ketchup and coffee down the hall, pausing inside the last bedroom to read something else from the ceiling that looked a little newer than Crown Prince Rudolf’s misfortune. “Mr. Avery, it appears that Christine Hardt has patented the first brassiere. If you need anything else, just ask. I intend to earn my thirty dollars a month.”
She returned to the kitchen and finished her breakfast as Ned poured himself another cup of coffee, gave her an inquiring look, and poured her one, as well.
As she ate, he filled her in on the day’s task, which included the mysterious “riding fence” he had mentioned earlier. She had spent a lifetime cultivating an expressionless face, the kind that mostly encouraged people like her stepfather to forget she was even in the room. Ned Avery seemed to see right through it.
“I can tell you have no idea what I’m talking about,” he said, elbows on the table.
“I am curious,” she admitted. “I don’t think anyone rides fence in Maine.”
“Probably not. I’ve seen Maine on a map and it looks pretty squished together. We’ll just be riding down the fence line to make sure the bob wire is tight and all the strands are in place.”
“If not?”
“We’ll fix them. I’ll have a roll of wire and staples with me, and the straightener. Up you get, Pete.”
Pete shook his head. “Don’t like to ride.”
“I need your help.”
Ned gave his brother a push out the door. Ned looked back. “Can you fix us some sandwiches from the leftover steak, and stick some apples in that bag?”
Kate wiped her hands on her apron, ready to begin.
“I’d do it myself,” Ned said, sounding apologetic, “but I’ve noticed something about sandwiches.”
“Which is...”
“They always taste a little better when someone else makes them. Back in a minute,” he said.
Pleased with her boss, Kate made sandwiches, adding pickles from an earthenware crock to the thick slabs of beef between bread. She found waxed paper in a drawer and made two sandwiches apiece. Four apples went in the bag on the bottom. She put the rest of the coffee in a canteen she noticed by the canvas bag and handed the whole thing to Ned when he returned to the kitchen, bringing in more cold weather with him.
“Pete’s pouting in the barn,” he announced.
“He really doesn’t like to ride?” she asked.
“Afraid of horses.” Ned leaned against the table. He shrugged. “I still need his help.”
“Maybe I could help,” she offered.
“Can you ride?”
“I can learn,” she replied.
“I believe you would try,” he told her. “Just keep an eye on my father. I set his, well, his, well you know, close to his bed.”
She nodded. “I’ll remove his breakfast dishes later. Maybe I’ll read to him.”
“I doubt he’ll let you.”
“I can try.”
He gave her an appraising look, one part speculation, two parts evaluation, and another part she didn’t recognize. He slung the bag over his shoulder and startled whistling before he shut the door.
Poor Pete, she thought, wondering what the slow brother would really rather do, given the opportunity.
She thought about the Averys as she set a sponge for bread. She glanced down the length of the cabin through the arches, wondering if she dared risk the wrath. Why not? she asked herself.
Mr. Avery pretended to sleep as she gathered up the empty dishes, and tucked the ketchup bottle under her arm. Back in the kitchen she busied herself with the bread dough, then cleaned through layers of debris and ranch clutter while the loaves rose to impressive height. What was the use of ropes she could not have guessed, but there were enough partly used liniment bottles stuck here and there to make her wonder just how troublesome the cow business could be.
The fragrance of baked bread filled the little ranch house. When it came from the oven still hot and not entirely set, she cut off a generous slice, lathered it with butter, put it on a plate and carried it down to the last bedroom, where Mr. Avery immediately pretended he slept. She left the bread on the table and washed her hands of that much stubbornness.
She slathered her own slice and propped her feet up on another of the kitchen chairs to enjoy it. The wind blew and beat against the one small kitchen window. She eyed the window, and wondered where she could find material for curtains.
Sitting there in the kitchen, wind roaring outside, she felt herself relax. The whine and clank of the industrial looms that had been her salvation from mistreatment, but the author of headaches, had never seemed farther away. No matter what she decided in the spring, she never had to go back.
If only Daniel Avery, rail-thin and suffering, would agree to a truce. She glanced at the calendar, the one with a naked woman peeking around a for sale sign—where did Ned get these calendars?—and resolved to find better calendars, and while she was at it, a better job for Pete and comfort for Mr. Avery. What she would do for Ned escaped her, but she had time.
Not in years had Ned Avery come home to a house fragrant with the twin odors of fresh bread and cinnamon. Ma had been dead so long he could not remember much about her, except her lovely eyes. Katie had eyes like that—brown and appealing.
Pete decided to sulk in the barn, so Ned shut the kitchen door and breathed in the pleasant fragrance, aware that this might mean something delicious to eat, but just savoring an unexpected, simple pleasure.
He watched Kate Peck come down the hall from her father’s room, carrying an empty plate. She smiled her greeting—another unexpected pleasure—and put the plate in the sink. Without a word, she cut off a slab of bread, slathered it with butter and handed it to him.
“Your father pretends to be asleep, but he ate a lot of bread and butter,” she said. “Your turn.”
He ate the bread, embarrassed to be uttering little cries of pleasure, but nearly overcome with something as simple as warm bread and butter. “Best thing I ever ate,” he said, and meant it.
“You’re an easy mark,” she teased, which made him smile. “I have something even better.”
What he couldn’t imagine, unless it was to strip and stand there naked in the kitchen. That thought earned him a mental slap. “Hard to imagine anything better,” he told her, grateful people couldn’t read each other’s thoughts.
In answer, she opened the warming oven and took out a cinnamon roll the size of a dinner plate. “Sit down.”
He sat. Without a word, he plunged in, wondering how lucky a man could be, to find out that he had inadvertently hired a cook, along with a chore girl.
“Words