a serene voice. “I will forgive you. I need a plan, so let’s leave it at that. It’s still sort of feeble.”
“Plan’s a plan,” he said and gestured to the kitchen.
Eyes full of concentration, Chantal was mixing the pancake batter. Jack crooked his finger and she carefully set the long handled spoon on top of the bowl.
“Chantal, Miss Carteret has a question for you.”
She came closer, her eyes shy. Miss Carteret knelt by the child so they were on the same level, a kind touch that impressed Jack.
“Can you read, Chantal?” Miss Carteret asked.
Chantal shook her head. “I would like to,” she said so softly.
When Miss Carteret stood up and looked his way, Jack felt his face grow hot, hoping she wouldn’t ask him that same question.
But she was looking beyond him to Amelie. “What is your name, my dear?”
“Amelie.” The word came out so quietly. Jack would have to take Miss Carteret aside and tell her that since her father had died in the corral, Amelie, always a quiet child, had withdrawn even more.
“Would you like to read as well?” Miss Carteret asked.
Madeleine watched this exchange with real interest, her eyes lively. “They can learn, then read to me,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Madeleine Sansever. I can write a bit, but that is all. This is my kitchen, and I rule it.”
Trust Madeleine to stake out her territory and make it known to another female. Jack made the proper introductions and smiled with relief when Miss Carteret held out her hand.
“I have so little skill in a kitchen that the thought of one fair terrifies me,” she said, to Madeleine’s obvious satisfaction, considering the width of the cook’s returning smile.
“Oatmeal for you?” Madeleine handed Miss Carteret a bowl.
“She’s pretty, but you mustn’t stare,” Chantal whispered to Jack.
Oh, glory, he hoped with all his heart that Miss Carteret was hard of hearing. The little shake to her shoulders indicated that there was nothing wrong with her ears.
Who could not stare? She wore a simple shirtwaist and skirt today. How Miss Carteret managed to confine her curly hair was a mystery to him. He hated to think what Wyoming Territory was going to do to such smooth skin, but he doubted she would remain here long enough to find out.
“Don’t any of you stare or I will trip,” she said as she carried the bowl into the dining hall, where he introduced her to his two hands, who rose to their feet to Jack’s utter amazement. He indicated a space at their table, hoping she didn’t feel the need to distance herself.
She eyed the bench a moment, then delicately slid toward Preacher, who had gone from ordinary putty beige to beet red.
“Ma’am,” he managed, but that was all.
Jack had never known words to fail the man. “Preacher here always blesses the food and has a chapter and verse for nearly any situation. Preach, this is Miss Carteret.”
“Ma’am.” His repertoire remained the same.
Jack indicated Indian, who had returned to his oatmeal. “Indian is some part Shoshone, and Lakota, and some part French and . . .”
“Pierre Fontaine,” Indian said with a nod.
“. . . and he’s never supplied his actual name until this very moment,” Jack finished, startled at what a lovely woman could do to his ranch hands.
“It’s a pleasure, Preacher and Mr. Fontaine,” Miss Carteret said. She gave Jack a kindly look. “Let us cease formality, sitting here on benches in Wyoming. I am Lily. So it is Jack, Preacher, and Pierre?”
“I do believe it is,” Jack replied, sitting beside her. “You’ll meet Stretch and Will later. Nick’s around here someplace.”
She nodded and turned her attention to the oatmeal, eating with a certain delicacy not seen before in the dining hall. She shook her head at the flapjacks Chantal offered, but made no move to leave the table. Maybe it wasn’t good manners to leap up before everyone was done; Jack didn’t know. He forked down a dozen
“Plan’s a plan,” he said and gestured to the kitchen.
Eyes full of concentration, Chantal was mixing the pancake batter. Jack crooked his finger and she carefully set the long handled spoon on top of the bowl.
“Chantal, Miss Carteret has a question for you.”
She came closer, her eyes shy. Miss Carteret knelt by the child so they were on the same level, a kind touch that impressed Jack.
“Can you read, Chantal?” Miss Carteret asked.
Chantal shook her head. “I would like to,” she said so softly.
When Miss Carteret stood up and looked his way, Jack felt his face grow hot, hoping she wouldn’t ask him that same question.
But she was looking beyond him to Amelie. “What is your name, my dear?”
“Amelie.” The word came out so quietly. Jack would have to take Miss Carteret aside and tell her that since her father had died in the corral, Amelie, always a quiet child, had withdrawn even more.
“Would you like to read as well?” Miss Carteret asked.
Madeleine watched this exchange with real interest, her eyes lively. “They can learn, then read to me,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Madeleine Sansever. I can write a bit, but that is all. This is my kitchen, and I rule it.”
Trust Madeleine to stake out her territory and make it known to another female. Jack made the proper introductions and smiled with relief when Miss Carteret held out her hand.
“I have so little skill in a kitchen that the thought of one fair terrifies me,” she said, to Madeleine’s obvious satisfaction, considering the width of the cook’s returning smile.
“Oatmeal for you?” Madeleine handed Miss Carteret a bowl.
“She’s pretty, but you mustn’t stare,” Chantal whispered to Jack.
Oh, glory, he hoped with all his heart that Miss Carteret was hard of hearing. The little shake to her shoulders indicated that there was nothing wrong with her ears.
Who could not stare? She wore a simple shirtwaist and skirt today. How Miss Carteret managed to confine her curly hair was a mystery to him. He hated to think what Wyoming Territory was going to do to such smooth skin, but he doubted she would remain here long enough to find out.
“Don’t any of you stare or I will trip,” she said as she carried the bowl into the dining hall, where he introduced her to his two hands, who rose to their feet to Jack’s utter amazement. He indicated a space at their table, hoping she didn’t feel the need to distance herself.
She eyed the bench a moment, then delicately slid toward Preacher, who had gone from ordinary putty beige to beet red.
“Ma’am,” he managed, but that was all.
Jack had never known words to fail the man. “Preacher here always blesses the food and has a chapter and verse for nearly any situation. Preach, this is Miss Carteret.”
“Ma’am.” His repertoire remained the same.
Jack indicated Indian, who had returned to his oatmeal. “Indian is some part Shoshone, and Lakota, and some part French and . . .”
“Pierre Fontaine,” Indian said with a nod.
“. . . and he’s never supplied his actual name until this very moment,” Jack finished, startled at what a lovely woman could do to his ranch hands.
“It’s a pleasure, Preacher and Mr. Fontaine,” Miss Carteret said. She gave Jack a kindly look. “Let us cease formality, sitting here on benches in Wyoming. I am Lily. So it is Jack, Preacher, and Pierre?”
“I do believe it is,” Jack replied, sitting beside her. “You’ll meet Stretch and Will later. Nick’s around here someplace.”
She nodded and turned her attention to the oatmeal, eating with a certain delicacy not seen before in the dining hall. She shook her head at the flapjacks Chantal offered, but made no move to leave the table. Maybe it wasn’t good manners to leap up before everyone was done; Jack didn’t know. He forked down a dozen
Similar Books
