Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(25)

His hands braced on the beam between his legs, he called down, “You can leave it there by the ladder. Now that you have burnt my lunch, you might as well clean out the kitchen stove.”

Bedamn the bloody smoke that had billowed yet once again from the stove. Its wee bit of vapor that, granted, was her fault was paltry when compared to his ill-tempered manners.

His ill temper had not improved by late afternoon either.

She was standing in front of the stove, dicing the goulash’s onions into the cast iron Dutch oven. With the radio blaring, she did not hear the jingle of his spurs until they were directly behind her on the flagstone, and even then it was more like she sensed him. Startled, she spun, knife pointed up at his blue chambray shirt’s midsection.

Instantly, his had hand snagged her wrist. With what could only be surprise, he stared down at her. Beneath the brim of his hat, his brows rose and lowered in a velocity of perplexion. “You’re a little slow on the draw, aren’t you?”

He was so close, she could smell the sun heat lingering on him and his healthy male sweat. “I . . . my mind was elsewhere.”

He pried her fingers from the haft and tossed the knife on the counter. “Uhh, speaking of elsewhere . . . ” he hooked his thumbs in his worn chaps’ belt, “ . . . look, I have a standing Friday night game of checkers here. Do you think you can, uh, hang out elsewhere after dinner for a while? The cowhands usually have a poker game going in the bunkhouse.”

Checkers? Why wasn’t he playing poker? But, of course. Her face lighting up, she charged, “Why, Duke McClellan, ye have yuirself a girlfriend coming over tonight.” Opportunity was presenting itself.

Palms upraised, he scowled. “Whoa, right there. Sally Kirtley is just a long-time friend. The daughter of a neighboring horse rancher.”

“Then, you may be overlooking a four-leaf clover. You will most definitely need my advice about her.”

“No.” His molasses-slow voice contained an inflexible note. “I don’t need your advice. Or you. Here.” He rotated on clinking, spiked spurs and headed for the bathroom to wash up at the end of the day, as was his habit.

Still, she called futilely after his departing broad back, “The cards say ye do – ye need me here, Big Guy.”

§ § §

At dinner, Arturo asked “Que es esto?”and poked his spoon in the direction of the goulash in his bowl.

“Think stew,” Romy told him. “Think guisado quemado, burnt stew.”

The young Mexican’s mouth turned down. He was not his usual lively self. It couldn’t just be her questionable cuisine that put him in a slump.

The other five cowpunchers sitting around the long plank table glanced cautiously from the stew to her to Duke. He sighed and shook his shaggy head.

She fisted her hands on her hips. “Are ye hungry or not?”

At once, they all dug in. She slid into the wobbly chair remaining at one end of the table, the one nearest the stove, and watched their leery expressions. They weren’t exactly dancing on sunshine about her presence there. After a week, she knew, of course, the ranch hands’ names. She knew even better their mannerisms.

Among them were the dour old Jock, a spare man with spare hair. On her first day at the S&S, he had grumbled that the hands’ horses were no bloomin’ Rolls Royces. But he did not dare grumble about her cooking, and he was always there to help out. He also was inclined to scratch his overhanging belly when stumped.

Naturally, the swaggering Arturo reminded her of Giorgio. At the kitchen table, when the Mexican was antsy or nervous, he pumped one leg.

And both Skinny Henry and Glen could have been the comic strip’s tall Mutt and short Jeff. Where Skinny Henry tended to tug on his longish ear lobe when ill at ease, Glen’s prominent Adam’s apple worked overtime.

There was the runaway Bud, who pulled low the bill of his flat, newsboy cap when anxious.

And Micah, the reticent Negro, who curled his thumbs under his overalls’ shoulder straps and stared at his brogans with the holes in their soles or anywhere but at the person talking.

At the moment, Jock was talking. “Yup, Lucy’s calf ‘s taken to that there teat bottle like a duck to water.”

Lucy’s carcass had provided meals that week and leftovers for the night’s goulash. Duke had been none too happy about the loss of Lucy – and now was none too happy about Sally Kirtley showing up after dinner.

At least, he was none too happy about her showing up while Romy was there.

The men were devouring her goulash, so her culinary skills were apparently not a zilch. Of course, after working all day, they would eat carrion if that was all that was being served up.

At the knock at the front door, Duke raised a commanding brow, signaling it was time to evacuate the ranch house. The men hastily scraped their plates.

She gave him the stink eye, but stood, saying, “I’ll clear the table first.”

While he went to answer the door, the ranch hands vacated the kitchen through its back door, and she collected the plates, putting them into the deep sink to soak. But before she made her exit, she peeked into the parlor.

Duke was helping a young woman out of her denim jacket. Tall, lean, she possessed the same in-charge set to her jaw as Duke’s.

With a wide smile, Romy asked, “Is there anything ye be needing afore I leave?”