Mail-Order Brides Of Oak Grove: Surprise Bride for the Cowboy. Kathryn Albright
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it had a chance to tumble. The lid could never be tightened completely or the yeast would go bad. Noting the contents had more than tripled in size, she set it on the floor along with the jug of tonic. The yeast could be used for many things besides making tonic.
After she had the tonic jug hidden in the wood pile, she returned to the bedroom and using the straw from the trunk, carefully packed the bottles of tonic into two small crates she’d found in the pantry. The bottles would be easier to spot in the woodshed, so she stored them under her bed. Then she went to the kitchen where she’d left the jar of yeast starter on the table. There was more than enough yeast to make several batches of iron muffins.
Her heart tumbled inside her chest. Maggie loved iron muffins. Mary however, was not overly fond of them, probably because whenever their larder had been low, that was what she’d made, knowing Maggie loved the muffins so much no other food was necessary. She’d never told Maggie that. Letting her sister believe they were a treat had been more comforting than telling her it was their way to stave off hunger.
As she separated the starter, setting aside enough to feed over the next few days until it would be ready to rest and ferment into more, she wondered how Maggie was faring. Steve’s abundant supply of food had guilt twisting her stomach into knots. Being separated from Maggie, wondering if she was getting enough to eat, had a place to sleep, if people were being kind to her, was a constant worry. One she wasn’t taking lightly.
The idea she couldn’t do anything about it for the next thirty days weighed heavily. A few days were one thing. Being separated from Maggie for an entire month was entirely different. She would have to find a way to get a message to her sister. Perhaps she could convince Steve she needed help. He wouldn’t have to pay Maggie. What he was already paying her would be more than enough for both of them.
Her mind was as busy as her hands as she mixed up a batch of dough and set it to rest while mixing up a second batch. Surely he would agree to the idea. He would be getting twice the help for the same amount of money. That wasn’t true. As much as she loved her sister, Maggie had never been fond of work—that had been part of their argument on the train. Selling tonic was the only task Maggie had willingly taken on—and that wasn’t really work. The tonic sold itself.
Thinking of the tonic made Mary’s mind return to Steve. And she grinned. This time because of how he pretended he wasn’t pleased to have her here. At least that was what he wanted her to believe. To believe he was a tyrant. That wasn’t true. If he was, he’d have sent her to town with the mayor and the sheriff. Or with Brett last night.
A tyrant wouldn’t have put out that kind of money just to have his employees fed. A tyrant would have told his men to fend for themselves.
Which would have not worked in her favor. Not at all.
An odd sensation rolled inside her. It was almost as if she was glad Maggie wasn’t here, which made no sense. Flustered, she put all her focus into the muffins. By the time the first batch was ready to roll out, she had four other batches resting. She had to pull out every frying pan in the cupboards and when she was done grilling the muffins, there were enough to feed the men nothing but the spongy-on-the-inside-crisp-on-the-outside griddle cakes.
That of course wouldn’t do, but she grinned, hoping Steve liked the muffins as much as Maggie did.
Steve couldn’t remember a time he’d been so flat-out angry. At least not at himself. Like he was right now. The idea he’d given the mayor seventy-five dollars had eaten at him all afternoon. Was he daft? No cook—no woman—was worth the kind of money Mary was costing him. How tasty her food was didn’t matter. Men ate for the substance not the taste.
At least that was the way it had always been. In less than a day, Mary had his men talking more about their next meal than the work they were doing. Other than Jess. Rather than talking about her cooking, he was talking about her. As in how she’d be marrying some lucky fellow next month.
Steve didn’t consider any man getting married lucky, and considering how much she’d already cost him, the man marrying Mary McCary would be the unluckiest one ever. He couldn’t wait for the month to be over and bid her good riddance. Hopefully he’d still have two nickels to rub together by then.
More eager than ever, the men put up their mounts, washed their hands and faces and all but knocked him down in their rush to get in the house, which only added to the fury fueling inside him.
The wondrous smells filling the kitchen didn’t help his mood whatsoever. Neither did how every bite he took seemed tastier than the last. Those little round pieces of honeycomb bread that when slathered with the butter she’d mixed with honey were downright addicting. Every man at the table ate four or more, including him. The two platters that had been piled high when they’d entered the house now held nothing but crumbs. He wasn’t sure what she’d done to the pork, either. Usually this time of year, having been smoked last fall, it was tougher than old leather, but what he’d just eaten hadn’t been. It had been as soft and easy to chew as the beans she’d also served.
“That was the best bread I’ve ever eaten,” Jess said, licking his lips. “What’s it called?”
Steve had purposefully kept his gaze off Mary since entering the house. The anger that had built in him all afternoon hadn’t only come from the money he’d laid out, or her cooking. It was the way she’d smiled and said thank-you to him earlier. At that moment, he’d known he’d never seen a more beautiful woman. With everything else, it would have been more fair if she’d been as homely as a half-plucked chicken. Beady eyes and all.
However, her eyes were far from beady. They were sparkling now, and twinkled brighter than stars in a midnight sky when she started to sing.
“Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man? Do you know the muffin man, who lives in Drury Lane? Oh, yes, I know the muffin man, the muffin man, the muffin man. Yes, I know the muffin man who lives in Drury Lane.”
The men all clapped as she finished her little tune, which had been sung with a pitch-perfect cadence and a hint of an Irish accent that had put smiles on everyone’s faces.
She curtsied. “Thank you. To answer your question, they are called muffins, and are my sister’s favorite. A woman in Pennsylvania taught me how to make them several years ago.”
It couldn’t have been that many years ago. She wasn’t that old. That thought brought upon another and Steve asked, “Pennsylvania? I thought you lived in Ohio.”
“We did,” she answered. “But we also lived in Pennsylvania.”
“Well you can make those Pennsylvania muffins any time you want,” Jess said.
Her giggle tickled something inside Steve. Or maybe it was the way she was smiling at Jess.
“They are called iron muffins because you grill them on top of the stove, like flapjacks,” she said.
“We all like flapjacks,” Jess said. His gaze then settled on Walter. “When made right.”
“Perhaps I’ll make some for breakfast then,” she said while opening the door.
“Where are you going?” Steve asked.
“To get the clothes hanging on the line out back while you all finish eating.”
Steve glanced at the table that didn’t hold enough food to satisfy a ground squirrel. He would have told her that, but she’d already slipped out the door. He pushed his chair away from the table and grabbed his hat on the way out the door. However, once he found her at the clothesline, he had no idea why he’d followed.
“Did you need something, Mr. Putnam?” she asked while plucking off the pins with one hand and gathering the dried laundry with the other. “Was the meal not satisfactory?”
“The meal was fine.” Still trying to come up with a reason to have followed her, he asked, “When