cookshack, digging in to porridge, elbows on the table. “I said grace, Jack, so you can eat with a pure heart,” Preacher said in that straight-faced way of his. “Looks like flapjacks next. God praise.”
Jack raised his hand to them and went into the kitchen where Madeleine, hair wild around her face, was stirring down oatmeal lava. Chantal cracked another egg in the flapjack batter and gave him her smile, the one that made her brown eyes all squinty and never failed to melt his heart. Amelie nodded to him as she stirred the batter, her eyes shy but no less admiring.
Madeleine made no objection when he patted her cheek. Madeleine had told him once that he reminded her of her little brother, even though Jack was certain that he was older than she. He had said that to her, and Madeleine just shrugged in her Métis way.
“I hear she is a pretty lady,” Madeleine said as she lifted the oatmeal pot onto a trivet. She handed him a bowl. “Chantal says Mademoiselle Carteret has skin the color of wrapping paper. Can this be?”
“It can,” he said, spooning out oatmeal and sugaring it well. “I hope she’ll be here for breakfast, and I hope you’ll treat her nice.”
“I will if she is not too good for us.”
“She’s not,” Jack replied and hoped he was right.
Grateful that the one cow on the place was still giving milk, Jack poured cream on his oatmeal and took it into what Clarence Carteret called “the dining hall,” with its benches and three long tables, testament to the number of cowhands hired on between April and most Septembers. Now the men of the Bar Dot were just crickets sawing on the hearth, sitting at half of one table. He mentally shook his head over the neatly folded blankets in the corner, where the Sansever children bedded down. Madeleine and Jean Baptiste had slept in a small room off the storeroom in the back, and no one was particularly choosy in the Sansever household. Thinking about the winter to come, he eyed the dining hall for warmth. He would ask Preacher what he could do to keep out drafts. Preacher was better at indoor work anyway.
Jack sat down with his ranch hands as the door opened and Miss Carteret stepped inside, uncertainty written everywhere on her expressive face. He wondered how long she had stood outside that door, steeling herself to step inside. Hunger obviously overruled shyness. He got up.
“Good morning to you, Miss Carteret,” he said, not wanting to sound hearty and phony, but hoping to convey his warmth, because he was glad to see her. “Hungry?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t have managed without Chantal’s sandwich. And Papa and I ate petrified cheese and crackers last night. He tells me he doesn’t usually bother with breakfast.”
Her voice had dropped to a whisper. He knew she was mortified, because it had to be obvious to her that everyone else knew why her father never made it to breakfast. Jack also knew he could be hearty and phony now, or he could summon his courage and just touch her hand. He remembered Sayler’s Creek and the gash that his face became. His panic as he swallowed blood and choked was relieved by the firm pressure of a comrade’s hand on his arm. He knew he was not alone then, and he could return the favor now, even if she was a lady.
He touched her hand. “We don’t worry about Clarence Carteret. You’re here, and the first course is oatmeal. Come into the kitchen and meet our cook, Madeleine Sansever.”
“Chantal’s mother?” she asked, recovering smoothly.
“The very same. She is Métis.”
“Which is…”
“Someone of mixed Indian and French background. More French than Indian in her case, I think.”
She pointed to his breakfast. “Your oatmeal is going to get cold.”
“It’ll keep. Let’s find Madeleine.”
She touched his arm in turn. “I have a question for Chantal, which has something to do with my plan.”
“Say, about that plan, I . . .”
“You were too emphatic,” she said in such
Jack raised his hand to them and went into the kitchen where Madeleine, hair wild around her face, was stirring down oatmeal lava. Chantal cracked another egg in the flapjack batter and gave him her smile, the one that made her brown eyes all squinty and never failed to melt his heart. Amelie nodded to him as she stirred the batter, her eyes shy but no less admiring.
Madeleine made no objection when he patted her cheek. Madeleine had told him once that he reminded her of her little brother, even though Jack was certain that he was older than she. He had said that to her, and Madeleine just shrugged in her Métis way.
“I hear she is a pretty lady,” Madeleine said as she lifted the oatmeal pot onto a trivet. She handed him a bowl. “Chantal says Mademoiselle Carteret has skin the color of wrapping paper. Can this be?”
“It can,” he said, spooning out oatmeal and sugaring it well. “I hope she’ll be here for breakfast, and I hope you’ll treat her nice.”
“I will if she is not too good for us.”
“She’s not,” Jack replied and hoped he was right.
Grateful that the one cow on the place was still giving milk, Jack poured cream on his oatmeal and took it into what Clarence Carteret called “the dining hall,” with its benches and three long tables, testament to the number of cowhands hired on between April and most Septembers. Now the men of the Bar Dot were just crickets sawing on the hearth, sitting at half of one table. He mentally shook his head over the neatly folded blankets in the corner, where the Sansever children bedded down. Madeleine and Jean Baptiste had slept in a small room off the storeroom in the back, and no one was particularly choosy in the Sansever household. Thinking about the winter to come, he eyed the dining hall for warmth. He would ask Preacher what he could do to keep out drafts. Preacher was better at indoor work anyway.
Jack sat down with his ranch hands as the door opened and Miss Carteret stepped inside, uncertainty written everywhere on her expressive face. He wondered how long she had stood outside that door, steeling herself to step inside. Hunger obviously overruled shyness. He got up.
“Good morning to you, Miss Carteret,” he said, not wanting to sound hearty and phony, but hoping to convey his warmth, because he was glad to see her. “Hungry?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t have managed without Chantal’s sandwich. And Papa and I ate petrified cheese and crackers last night. He tells me he doesn’t usually bother with breakfast.”
Her voice had dropped to a whisper. He knew she was mortified, because it had to be obvious to her that everyone else knew why her father never made it to breakfast. Jack also knew he could be hearty and phony now, or he could summon his courage and just touch her hand. He remembered Sayler’s Creek and the gash that his face became. His panic as he swallowed blood and choked was relieved by the firm pressure of a comrade’s hand on his arm. He knew he was not alone then, and he could return the favor now, even if she was a lady.
He touched her hand. “We don’t worry about Clarence Carteret. You’re here, and the first course is oatmeal. Come into the kitchen and meet our cook, Madeleine Sansever.”
“Chantal’s mother?” she asked, recovering smoothly.
“The very same. She is Métis.”
“Which is…”
“Someone of mixed Indian and French background. More French than Indian in her case, I think.”
She pointed to his breakfast. “Your oatmeal is going to get cold.”
“It’ll keep. Let’s find Madeleine.”
She touched his arm in turn. “I have a question for Chantal, which has something to do with my plan.”
“Say, about that plan, I . . .”
“You were too emphatic,” she said in such
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