Meg put her ear to the door, wondering how long she’d be stuck in Sam’s room—something that was clearly bothering him. As he wrung his hands, he sat down on the side of his bed, which was neatly made, a fluffy comforter covering what looked to be a comfortable—Meg covered her smile, her cheeks flushing as Sam looked at the bed and over to her.
His eyes wide, he jumped up as if the bed were on fire and walked to the window, as far away from Meg as possible. “We’ve got to get you back to your room,” he said, running his hands through his hair.
“I think maybe the coast is clear. I haven’t heard anything for a while.”
Sam walked to the door and pressed his ear to it. “I don’t hear anything, either. What do you think?”
Meg smiled. “I think I need to go. I’ll be as quiet as I can. What about in the morning?”
Sam groaned and bounced his forehead on the door. “This is awful. What was I thinking?”
“Now, Sam, we’re still doing well. Try not to worry. Your mother said she’s an early riser and would start breakfast. I’ll stay in my room until I hear her downstairs and then come down. She’ll never know where I came from.”
“I suppose that’s our only choice, isn’t it?” He reached for the doorknob but stopped, quickly squeezing Meg’s hand before he opened the door a small crack.
Meg peered through the opening and when she saw that Mrs. Allen’s door was closed and no light came from beneath it, she whispered, “All right. See you tomorrow.” She opened the door and squeezed through, tiptoeing to the door of her room and holding her breath as she opened it.
Once inside with the door safely closed behind her, she leaned against it and stifled a laugh. Who would ever have thought she’d be sneaking around at night in her own home?
Chapter 21
Meg woke up early, but stayed in her room until she heard rustling in the kitchen downstairs. Sam’s attempts at rising early hadn’t been very successful, she’d noticed, so she was pretty sure it was his mother downstairs. She’d been dressed for some time, so she took one last look in the mirror, shook her head at the results of her efforts to do her hair and headed down.
“Oh, good morning, Meg.” Meg smiled at Mrs. Allen’s cheery voice, and she pulled her wrap around her, shivering at the chill in the air.
“Shall I stoke the fire for you?”
Mrs. Allen looked up from the bowl she was stirring, her brows furrowed. “Oh, I suppose you should. I think I’ll need fire to cook with.”
Meg raised her brows, wondering if Sam had learned his cooking skills—or lack thereof—from his mother. No one had mentioned who had actually done the cooking in their home.
Closing the door to the stove after the new wood had caught flame, she went to the counter and peered into the bowl Mrs. Allen continued to stir. “You have some flour on your forehead. And would you like an apron? I think there’s some on your dress, too.”
Mrs. Allen’s hand flew to her forehead as her eyes searched her dress. “Oh, my, I do seem to have made a mess. I wanted to have some biscuits ready before you two came down, but I don’t seem to recall the recipe. Flour and something, I believe.”
She smiled gratefully as Meg handed her an apron and put one on as well.
“Biscuits? Sam loves biscuits.” Meg reached into the cupboard for the things Mrs. Allen would need besides flour.
“I know. He always loved them as a child, and cook made them almost every day. I was hoping to surprise him.”
“Cook?”
Mrs. Allen shook her head slowly. “Yes, I’m afraid that cooking wasn’t my strong suit, and with his father’s job, we were frequently away at night anyway. I never really learned, so having a cook was an act of desperation if anyone wanted to eat.” She laughed as she brushed back a stray lock of her black hair with the back of her hand, leaving another streak of white as she did.
Meg stifled a laugh with a dishtowel, and reached for the heavy iron juicer she’d noticed in Sam’s kitchen. She set it on the table along with a bowl of oranges she’d been given by Suzanne at the mercantile when they’d gotten a shipment from California that was too large for the needs of the Occidental.
“Does he like orange juice?” she said as she set down a knife and a cutting board.
Mrs. Allen turned to Meg, her head cocked to one side. She folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the counter. “Yes, it’s one of his favorites. You don’t know that?”
Meg’s hand froze in mid-air, her back to her mother-in-law. Her stomach dropped as she realized her error. There were so many things that could stump her, and she seemed provide every single one of them.