Colorado Courtship: Winter of Dreams / The Rancher's Sweetheart. Cheryl St.John
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for fabrics and colors,” Marcella said, with an excited smile. “I have ideas for combinations that will go with your lovely dark hair and eyes. What is your ancestry, dear?”
Violet touched the bolt of fabric the woman pulled out. “My father was Swedish.”
“That explains the faint accent, but not your hair or skin.”
“Well, my mother’s mother came from Ireland.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Tessa, I’m thinking of the dress we made you with the puffed sleeves and the gathered bodice. The skirt is chocolate sateen and the bodice a soft ivory. That style would look lovely on Miss Bennett, but with a spring-green skirt and a print blouse and sleeves. The tails of a faux demijacket nestled at her hips would be striking, don’t you think?”
Violet agreed with a nod. “It sounds lovely.”
“And you definitely need something in a rose-red,” she said to Violet. “I have the perfect princess pattern. The skirt would be a solid, the sleeves and yoke in embroidered sateen, with fitted forearms—and fur at the collar, I’d say. The front buttons up on one side, rather than down the center. I’d add a snip of fur on a matching hat, as well.”
Marcella’s eyes shone with excitement as she described styles and fabrics. She showed Violet a pattern from an afternoon dress she’d been wanting to create, but she hadn’t known the appropriate lady to carry it off.
Everything she mentioned sounded expensive, but Tessa didn’t blink an eye. When Marcella went to her stockroom for trim and buttons, Violet whispered, “I don’t know about the expense of all these dresses on your brother’s account. I’m only the cook, and I’ve just arrived. I haven’t earned my way yet. I don’t know that I’ll ever earn enough to pay for all this.”
“Ben Charles said not to let you leave without ordering dresses for church and shopping and social events.”
It seemed like a lot of fancy clothing for a cook.
“You’re part of our household now,” Tessa told her, as though she knew Violet’s thoughts. “You represent the Hammonds.”
Violet had never imagined the prestige of her new position. While part of her was uncomfortable with this treatment, another side of her was childishly thrilled with the attention and acceptance. She wanted to be worthy of the Hammonds’ faith in her.
That afternoon Violet put away all the supplies and took another look at the pantry and each of the items it held. Delighted to discover three cookbooks, she pored over the recipes, making notes. She prepared the turkey she’d purchased from the butcher by brushing it with oil and rubbing it with thyme before roasting it in the oven. While the bird baked, she prepared stuffing with leeks and wild mushrooms, cooked corn pudding and made cranberry-walnut relish. Her rolls turned out perfectly, and she stored them until supper.
The sideboard and cabinets in the dining room held tablecloths, heavy silver, ornate trays and enough dishes to serve a banquet. She set the table and trudged out in the cold to find evergreen boughs, graceful twigs and berries for the centerpiece. After adding candles, she stood back and admired her handiwork.
She checked her timepiece, removed the turkey from the oven and ran upstairs to change.
“There will be one more for supper,” Ben Charles said as he passed through the kitchen a few minutes later. “Hugh Senior is helping me today, and I’ve invited him to join us.” He stopped before he reached the stairs. “Something smells awfully good.”
“Probably the turkey,” she replied.
Hugh Senior was a man several years older than Ben Charles, but his hair was still dark. Ben Charles explained simply that the man helped him on occasion. As each person entered the dining room, his or her face showed surprise and delight at the feast.
Tessa stared until Ben Charles pulled out her chair and prompted her to sit, so the men could take their places.
“I haven’t seen the table look like this since my mother used to set it,” Ben Charles told her. “These were her things.”
“I hope it was all right to use them,” Violet said uncertainly.
“It was more than all right,” he replied quickly. “What use are nice things if they’re not enjoyed? The china has been gathering dust.”
“Oh, I washed everything,” Violet was quick to assure him.
“I had no doubt.”
Ben Charles sliced the turkey, and Violet spooned cranberry relish over each serving as the plates were distributed. They passed the other bowls and the basket of rolls before Ben Charles took Tessa’s hand and prayed. “We lift up Gus Chapman’s family to You, Lord,” he said. “I ask that you bestow peace and comfort on them this day and in the days to come. Give them strength to trust You and abide in Your love during this difficult time.”
Violet had never heard anyone speak to God the way Ben Charles did, as though God was a real person, as though He was listening and truly cared. As though his prayer made a difference.
Her employer’s genuine concern for the family of the deceased man unexplainably touched her. Peace and comfort had been elusive commodities in her experience. What if someone had prayed those words for her when her parents died? Would it have made a difference? Could Ben Charles make the same request for her all these years after her mother’s death or was there an expiration on petitioning God?
She didn’t think about her mother often, yet she answered questions about her methodically, without letting memories invade the locked-off portion of her heart and mind where she kept pain and reality at bay. Ben Charles’s words and example were a steel chisel prying at the seams of her guarded sanity.
She didn’t like the feeling. But she liked being here.
Her supper was an enormous success, and she accepted praise for her efforts. “I don’t know that you should have set the bar so high this soon,” Ben Charles admonished with a grin. “Now we know what you’re capable of doing.”
“It’s a pleasure to cook for someone who appreciates the effort,” she answered. “It’s no hardship to cook in your kitchen.”
“You didn’t have to eat any of the meals we fixed before you got here,” Tessa said. “A fancy stove doesn’t cook a good meal itself.”
“You can ask me to work anytime you need help,” Hugh Senior said to Ben Charles. “I ain’t had a meal like this since Rosie and I ate at the hotel in Denver on our honeymoon.” He set down his fork and ticked off numbers on his fingers. “Twenty-four years, it’s been.”
Violet raised her brows in surprise. “Now, that is a compliment, Mr. Senior. But don’t let your wife hear you say that.”
The men looked at each other with amusement. Finally Ben Charles said, “Hugh’s last name is Crabtree. Everyone calls him Hugh Senior because his son’s name is Hugh Junior.”
“Pardon my mistake. Do you have other children?”
“Goodness, yes. Three others, plus two sons-in-law and three grandchildren. Hugh Junior is the youngest and my only boy.”
“Hugh Junior has a way with horses,” Henry said. “If ever there’s a problem with one of Mr. Hammond’s animals, Hugh Junior knows what to do.”
They finished the meal and Violet served a warm cobbler she’d made from dried apples. Tessa declined her serving, but Henry raised his dessert plate for her portion.
Tessa helped with cleanup and dishes while the men went next door. Violet was uncomfortable with the extravagant expenses of the clothing they’d ordered that day and hoped for a moment to speak about it with Ben Charles. She remained in the kitchen, her attention on the adjoining door, long after dark had enveloped the house. Using only an oil lamp on the table for light, her imagination took over with what lay beyond that door.
Finally