getting too dark in here. The lantern’s fine when I’m alone.”
“That helps,” he said, unwrapping the cured ham. He lifted the lid on the skillet, stirred, and added the meat to warm it. “Let me hang the lantern over here.”
She passed it to him. “It smells good,” she said, sidling up to the stove. She put her hand out for the lid, but he knocked it away.
“Careful. That’s hot.” He pulled his towel free and handed it to her. “Use this.”
She did, inhaling deeply. The fragrance of sweet, browning onions and the moist aroma of the potatoes tickled her nose. “I didn’t think I could eat anything, but I’m hungry now.”
“Good.” He took the towel and lid from her and replaced it.
Rachel returned to the table and opened the jar of applesauce. She spooned some onto each of their plates, then sat and waited for him to finish at the stove. “Do you cook often?”
“Just often enough to hold my own. Mostly I eat at the hotel or Longabach’s.”
She’d seen him there sometimes. “How did you learn?”
“Necessity. How did you learn?”
“My mother taught me. Mrs. Farmer, also. She was our cook when I was growing up.”
“Well, my mother definitely did not teach me. I’m not sure she knew where the kitchen was, and Monsieur Gounod suffered no one to enter that he could not abuse with a wooden spoon and a tirade.”
That caught Rachel’s attention and confirmed a suspicion she’d been harboring since she first met him. “New England,” she said. “I keep hearing something in your speech. Massachusetts. Boston? A Brahmin, I imagine. Oh, but that’s a good one.” She smiled when she saw him flush. It might have been the steam coming from the skillet that turned his sharply defined features ruddy, but she didn’t think so. She’d embarrassed him. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You have a good ear.”
“You do a credible job of disguising it, but Mrs. Maddox was from Boston. I was around her for a lot of years.” She stopped him when he looked expectantly at her, as if she might comment further. “That wasn’t an invitation to talk about me or that family. We were talking about you and yours.”
Wyatt lifted the lid, turned the meat over, then put the lid to one side altogether. He gave the skillet a shake, flipping the potato slices. “My mother’s family could properly be called Brahmins. A couple of brothers and my sister, also. As for me, it’s generally held by the family that I take after my father.”
“But that’s a compliment, isn’t it?”
“Not if you heard my grandparents say it.” He removed the skillet from the stove and divided the contents evenly between them, ignoring Rachel’s protests that he should take the lion’s share. “You could stand to eat my portion as well,” he told her. “Colorado winter’s not kind if you have no meat on your bones.”
“I’ll sit closer to the stove,” she said dryly.
Wyatt tossed the skillet and spoon in the dishpan and sat. He motioned to her to pick up her fork and waited until she’d had her first bite before he did the same. “All right?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Better than that. Delicious.” She intercepted his skeptical look. “No, really. It is.”
“This is pretty standard fare. You must burn a lot of eggs.”
She ducked her head a shade guiltily. “Seems like.”
“You should try soft-boiling them.”
Rachel quickly took another forkful of potato and onion and avoided looking at him.
“Oh,” he said, drawing out the single syllable. “You were soft-boiling them this morning. What did you do? Forget about them?”
“I was putting the hem in a dress for Mrs. Morrison.” She winced at her defensive tone and tacked on a more agreeable admission. “Yes, I forgot about them.”
Wyatt glanced around the kitchen, most particularly behind him around the stove. “Looks like you got the mess scraped off the walls.” He looked up at the ceiling and pointed with his fork.
“That helps,” he said, unwrapping the cured ham. He lifted the lid on the skillet, stirred, and added the meat to warm it. “Let me hang the lantern over here.”
She passed it to him. “It smells good,” she said, sidling up to the stove. She put her hand out for the lid, but he knocked it away.
“Careful. That’s hot.” He pulled his towel free and handed it to her. “Use this.”
She did, inhaling deeply. The fragrance of sweet, browning onions and the moist aroma of the potatoes tickled her nose. “I didn’t think I could eat anything, but I’m hungry now.”
“Good.” He took the towel and lid from her and replaced it.
Rachel returned to the table and opened the jar of applesauce. She spooned some onto each of their plates, then sat and waited for him to finish at the stove. “Do you cook often?”
“Just often enough to hold my own. Mostly I eat at the hotel or Longabach’s.”
She’d seen him there sometimes. “How did you learn?”
“Necessity. How did you learn?”
“My mother taught me. Mrs. Farmer, also. She was our cook when I was growing up.”
“Well, my mother definitely did not teach me. I’m not sure she knew where the kitchen was, and Monsieur Gounod suffered no one to enter that he could not abuse with a wooden spoon and a tirade.”
That caught Rachel’s attention and confirmed a suspicion she’d been harboring since she first met him. “New England,” she said. “I keep hearing something in your speech. Massachusetts. Boston? A Brahmin, I imagine. Oh, but that’s a good one.” She smiled when she saw him flush. It might have been the steam coming from the skillet that turned his sharply defined features ruddy, but she didn’t think so. She’d embarrassed him. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You have a good ear.”
“You do a credible job of disguising it, but Mrs. Maddox was from Boston. I was around her for a lot of years.” She stopped him when he looked expectantly at her, as if she might comment further. “That wasn’t an invitation to talk about me or that family. We were talking about you and yours.”
Wyatt lifted the lid, turned the meat over, then put the lid to one side altogether. He gave the skillet a shake, flipping the potato slices. “My mother’s family could properly be called Brahmins. A couple of brothers and my sister, also. As for me, it’s generally held by the family that I take after my father.”
“But that’s a compliment, isn’t it?”
“Not if you heard my grandparents say it.” He removed the skillet from the stove and divided the contents evenly between them, ignoring Rachel’s protests that he should take the lion’s share. “You could stand to eat my portion as well,” he told her. “Colorado winter’s not kind if you have no meat on your bones.”
“I’ll sit closer to the stove,” she said dryly.
Wyatt tossed the skillet and spoon in the dishpan and sat. He motioned to her to pick up her fork and waited until she’d had her first bite before he did the same. “All right?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Better than that. Delicious.” She intercepted his skeptical look. “No, really. It is.”
“This is pretty standard fare. You must burn a lot of eggs.”
She ducked her head a shade guiltily. “Seems like.”
“You should try soft-boiling them.”
Rachel quickly took another forkful of potato and onion and avoided looking at him.
“Oh,” he said, drawing out the single syllable. “You were soft-boiling them this morning. What did you do? Forget about them?”
“I was putting the hem in a dress for Mrs. Morrison.” She winced at her defensive tone and tacked on a more agreeable admission. “Yes, I forgot about them.”
Wyatt glanced around the kitchen, most particularly behind him around the stove. “Looks like you got the mess scraped off the walls.” He looked up at the ceiling and pointed with his fork.
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