A Marriage Made In Joeville. Anne Eames
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of his hat and nodded. “Evening, Essie.” He was looking at what she wore, his gaze never quite making it to her eyes.
“Hello,” she said tightly, then turned back to her chore, angry with him for his lecherous leering, more angry with herself for still caring.
“The pantry’s runnin’ low, but I’m sure ya’d rather not go a-shoppin’.” Hannah actually laughed. There was no sound of rebuke in her voice, but instead, a fond tolerance.
“You make a list and I’ll get whatever your big heart desires.”
Essie swallowed a chuckle, not believing the exchange behind her. Manure was in abundance in these parts, she reminded herself. Obviously it had found its way from the bottom of his boots to his tongue.
“Maybe Essie should go with ya...show’er where ta go and all.”
No! Bad idea. How could she buy boxed mixes and all the other shortcuts she’d decided on, and—
“Fine by me,” Ryder said. “What do you think, Essie? You’re pretty quiet back there.”
I think I’m out of my mind. She turned to meet his gaze, but his focus was somewhere in the vicinity of her backside. She pretended not to notice. “If you have other business, maybe I should go alone...then it won’t take all day.” His head came up and he finally met her glare.
Hannah’s fingers kneaded the ingredients in the bowl and missed the exchange. “Y’all go ahead. What’s one more day? Ya have ta learn yer way ’round sooner or later, girl. Might as well be sooner.”
Essie watched the woman’s sure hands grease a couple of long bread pans, then divide the meat in two, preferring this view to anything she might find on Ryder’s face.
Without breaking stride, and acting as though the previous discussion was settled, Hannah spoke to Ryder, her shoulders rolling with her work. “Have ya got a date yet?”
Date? Essie turned back to the sink, feeling a choke hold on her windpipe. Behind her, she heard Ryder sigh and plant his elbows on the counter near Hannah.
“Any chance you’ll let me off the hook on this one?” he asked, not sounding too put out.
“Now what would a birthday party be without a date?”
“Don’t you think I’m a little old for a birthday party?”
“Humph. When yer my age, talk ta me ’bout old.”
Ryder laughed easily. “Okay, okay. As long as you promise...no pointy hats or horns or the like.”
“Good. That’s settled. Now who ya gonna ask?”
“I was thinking about asking Maddy and her son, Billy.”
“Maddy...Maddy. Now where do I know that name from? Don’t spect ya met her at church.” Ryder laughed and she tried again. “She one of them divorcees, then?”
“More like widowed, I’d say.” Then quickly he changed the subject. “Billy’s young, but he won’t be any problem. Very well-behaved kid.”
“Humph.”
Essie quickened the stroke on her peeler. Why should she care? Ryder was not the man she’d hoped to find, and she was probably deluding herself to hope otherwise. Let Maddy, or the rest of Montana, have him. She dropped a skinned potato into the water and found another fresh one, the sudden tightness in her chest calling her a liar.
Damn it, anyway. Why couldn’t she forget that melancholy young man she had known so well in Detroit? Was he anywhere to be found under all those layers of dust and anger? Her hands stopped. Or was it a moot point? Maybe this Maddy was the reason for the rumpled clothes and the mid-breakfast arrival this morning. And what about Billy? Could he be Ryder’s? No. She was letting her imagination run away with her.
“Well,” Ryder began, then yawned loudly, as if she needed to be reminded he probably hadn’t slept all night, “I got work to do. Better get a move on.”
Essie heard his boots inching closer and she stiffened. Then she heard him plant a noisy kiss on Hannah’s cheek, which elicited a girlish giggle from the woman.
“Get outta here,” she said, lightheartedly.
“See you two ladies at supper.” The boots clomped to the back door, and the screen slammed shut behind him.
Essie breathed a sigh of relief. Supper was enough to manage without the likes of Ryder Malone lurking around. She eyed the last potato in her hands and forced herself to forget him, at least for now. Later she’d analyze the thudding in her ears and the irregular beat of her heart. Right now she had a job to do.
The next step was slicing, but beyond that she hadn’t a clue. She needed to run upstairs and look at her cookbook. If she didn’t get Hannah out of here soon, she’d be in a world of trouble.
“Hannah,” she started tentatively, then rushed on before the woman could stop her. “Why don’t you let me finish up here. I know you have other work.” Behind her she heard balls of meat being pounded into submission inside baking pans.
“There. Them are ready.”
Essie braved a backward glance. Hannah was untying her apron. A good sign.
“Okay, girl. It’s all yers.” She stopped and looked at her squarely, as if estimating the risk she was taking if she left the task in the rookie’s hands. Then she turned and waddled toward the hallway. “The men like ta eat at six sharp.”
The second she was out of sight, Essie dried her hands and ran up the back stairs to her room. A few minutes later, with instructions scribbled on a scrap of paper, she tucked it in the pocket of her jeans and darted back to the kitchen, grateful it was still empty. Breathing heavily, she reread the directions, cursed Jenny under her breath and went to work.
At suppertime the four men sat around the table in stony silence, their forks moving from their plates to their mouths slowly, heads bent. Essie moved around the table refilling iced tea glasses, wishing someone would say something. Everything looked pretty good, if she did say so herself. She’d found enough leftover rolls to warm in the microwave. The peas had been easy enough. There were a few lumps of flour in the scalloped potatoes, but beyond that, she thought she’d fared well for her first performance. Max glanced at her over his tea, and she smiled at him, feeling proud. He set his glass down and smiled back, but didn’t speak.
She returned to the kitchen and dropped onto one of the chairs at the square little table in the corner facing a cozy bay window and a perfect view of the MoJoes. She stared at the mountains a moment, then down at the two plates she’d set out for Hannah and herself, debating whether she should wait for her companion. Before she had time to decide, Hannah ambled in, looking older and more stooped than before. For a moment Essie forgot the woman’s gruffness and felt a pang of empathy. She was too old for all this work. Her eyelids drooped as heavily as her shoulders.
Without benefit of a single word, Hannah scooped potatoes and peas onto her plate, sliced off some meat loaf and dropped a roll in the only clean spot left. Silently she bowed her head a moment, then began to shovel it in like there was no tomorrow.
Essie watched and waited from the opposite side of the table, but Hannah never slowed her pace or lifted her eyes. Maybe this was how they ate out here, Essie thought. All the fresh air and hard work made for a healthy appetite. Words could wait. She went about filling her own plate, eager to taste the fruits of her labor. She blew on a forkful of potatoes and then slid it into her mouth, closing her eyes, ready to savor her masterpiece.
Her teeth, which refused to meet in the middle, discovered the first problem. The potatoes were as hard as granite, almost raw. She persevered, chewed hard and swallowed.
Next was the meat loaf. Hannah had made it; at least it had to be good. Except when she cut into the center it almost mooed at her. She ate around the edges and reached for a roll and a dab of butter. The