Rose(15)

Rose couldn’t remember when she had been so tired. Yet a smile played across her lips as she moved about the kitchen. She had managed to wash the dishes, scrub every pot and pan, scour the stove, and put the larder in some kind of order.

She had also managed to cook dinner for seven people.

A beef roast simmered on the stove, its aroma mingled with those of carrots and potatoes in a thick, rich gravy. Two pans of biscuits, one browning in the oven and one waiting to go in, could either be dipped in gravy or slathered with creamy butter. She had cooked some peas from Tyler’s garden. She had picked them herself because he never showed up. She completed the meal with canned peaches and tomatoes from the larder. Milk—sweet, sour, and buttermilk—stood ready for the men to make their choice. And water in case Zac really didn’t like milk.

Rose gave the table a final check. She had cleaned it as well as she could, but signs of oil spills and burns remained. She had meant to cover it with a tablecloth, but she couldn’t find one anywhere. The Rochester lamp, suspended over the table, its globe sparkling clean, cast its amber light about the room.

Things would look better when she had time to clean the windows, wash and iron the curtains, and scrub down the walls and floor, but she felt pleased about what she had been able to do in one day. It added up to a great deal more than she’d thought possible when she’d stepped into this kitchen about six hours earlier.

The sound of horses’ hooves caught her ear. She glanced at the clock, one of the few things in working order. Someone had polished the glass, cleaned the outside surfaces, and oiled the working parts. She hoped it really was three minutes to seven. She quickly cleaned a spot on the window to look out. Four men had ridden up, accompanied by two dogs. Apparently George believed in being punctual. Zac came running up alongside. Obviously he had gone just far enough from the house to escape doing any chores. She didn’t see anyone who could be a thirteen-year-old boy. She hoped Tyler wouldn’t carry his dislike of women to the point of staying away from dinner.

She hurried to make her final preparations. She would set the roast before George’s place just before they entered the kitchen. After the blessing, and while they passed the vegetables, she would serve the biscuits and put in the second pan. Zac could pour the milk. He seemed to know what everyone liked.

She tried to calculate how much time she would have before they were ready to eat. They would have to unsaddle their horses first. She didn’t know whether they fed them or turned them out into the corral, but they would need to be rubbed down. Next, they would wash up and change their clothes. That ought to take at least fifteen minutes. Probably closer to half an hour. She still had plenty of time.

Rose sat down to wait.

She had hardly settled into the chair when the door burst open and a stream of men, dogs, and the smell of sweat and horses poured into the room.

“I told you I smelled a roast,” said one of an identical pair of blond twins. Before Rose could move from her chair, he grabbed the pot from the stove and set it before him at the table. He immediately began serving his plate with one of the cups Rose had set out for coffee.

“Biscuits!” shrieked a tall, painfully thin boy who had to be the missing Tyler. He whisked the pan out of the oven and dumped the golden brown biscuits along the middle of the table so they would be in easy reach.

In seconds everyone except George had started grabbing for the food. They passed the bowls up and down the table, each person shouting for what he wanted. One of the twins tossed a gravy-soaked biscuit to a bony dog that had followed him into the room. A second dog, not willing to wait his turn, put his feet up on the table and began to eat from the other twin’s plate. The man laughed merrily, set the plate on the floor for the dog, and took George’s plate for himself.

Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelash did anyone acknowledge Rose’s presence.

Anger such as she had never known surged through her body vanquishing her fatigue. She jumped to her feet and charged to the head of the table.

“Stop this instant!” she shouted, her voice shrill with rage. “Don’t you dare put another scrap of food in your mouths until you can come to this table like humans.”

She might as well have shouted into the wind. She pushed away a dog intent upon dining in George’s place, then pounded on the table.

“Listen to me,” she cried. “I won’t have you behaving like this.”

Still they ignored her. All except the man with blond hair, amazingly blue eyes, and only one arm. His indignant gaze seemed to be asking by what right she complained about their conduct.