Love on the Range (Brothers in Arms #3)(14)
It was a chilly day. There’d been snow in the night. She saw it scudding along the ground. Not deep, and it wasn’t the first snow by any means, but it was a reminder that once she got settled in town and the weather closed down the trails, she might not see her family for months. Not for Thanksgiving nor Christmas.
Squaring her shoulders, she accepted that. Parson and Mrs. Brownley would be good companions, and she’d see her family in the summer—but she refused to live out here as Win had done when school wasn’t in session. When she made her break, though they’d always be family, she wasn’t going to ever live with them again. It hurt too much for it to begin and end repeatedly. She’d learned that from being dragged home last night.
Turning her thoughts away from being separated from Kevin and Andy—as if she weren’t already—she stirred a skillet full of scrambled eggs just as footsteps sounded on the stairs. She scraped the eggs onto a platter with the sharp sound of her metal spatula on the cast-iron frypan.
She set the eggs on the table as Wyatt came in. He went straight to his chair and sat.
The bacon was done and keeping warm on the back of the stove. She set that beside him. Then she pulled her drop biscuits from the oven. She’d grated some cheese into them and seasoned them with garlic, which she’d brought along from Kansas. She’d learned to grow it and loved what it added to a meal.
She slid the perfectly browned biscuits into a small cloth-lined basket and set it on the table. Wyatt grabbed the first one before she let go of the basket.
She added a ball of butter to the table, along with sparkling purple jelly that she’d found in the cellar. It must have been made from wild grapes. She’d have to find where they grew next summer and make more.
Then she caught herself. She didn’t intend to ever live here again. Fine, she’d make jelly for Mrs. Brownley.
Cheyenne and Falcon came in next, and they all ate, singing her praises. They were acting like they wanted to make up for whatever had made her leave.
Molly cleared the table with so much help they were in each other’s way.
Then Cheyenne said, “We don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”
Molly turned from the sink and saw Falcon’s back as he followed Cheyenne outside and swung the door shut.
Blinking at the sudden departure, she turned to Wyatt, who was standing there looking like a man who was afraid he’d say the wrong thing and make Molly move out again. He held a towel and a dripping plate, but he wasn’t wiping. He was staring wide-eyed at her.
“Where are they off to? More cattle to move?” Molly asked. “And what did she mean by not knowing how long they’d be gone? I always make plenty for meals, so it doesn’t matter if they turn up at mealtimes.”
Wyatt seemed to come out of whatever strange mood of fear he’d been in. With a somewhat desperate grab at something to talk about, he said, “The house Cheyenne was born in sits on the border of Ma’s land and Grandpa’s. We’ve used it as a line shack.”
“What’s a line shack?” Ranching was eyeball deep in odd phrases.
“We have such a far-flung holding we send a man or two out to cabins we’ve built on the far edges of our property line. They live out there and can check the cattle nearby.”
“And Cheyenne and Falcon might be moving to that cabin to live?” Molly went back to washing dishes, only to find out the cast-iron skillet in her hands was the last. Wyatt made her nervous for some reason. She’d prefer to keep busy.
“They are thinking of it. It’s a nice cabin. Not nearly as big as this, but Cheyenne’s pa was a good builder, and we’ve kept it in good repair. Not sure why they can’t just stay here with me.” Wyatt frowned. It was his little-brother frown, and Molly had felt a little-sister version of it before on her own face. She suspected it’d been on there near full time since Kevin got married.
She rinsed the skillet and handed it to Wyatt, then poured the basins of water down the handy drain hole in the kitchen sink. This really was a nice house.
Thinking desperately of what to do, she filled a pot with water from the hand pump that came right in the kitchen. Then she used that to refill the wells on the stove while Wyatt dried the skillet.
She forced herself to think of the noon meal. She had a nice elk roast Falcon had brought in.
While she poured the water carefully into the wells, Wyatt reached past her to hang the skillet from the nail on the wall behind the stove. She felt him too close to her as she poured and stepped aside, splattering water on the hot stove. It sent a hissing blast of hot steam straight up toward Wyatt’s reaching arm.
He yelped, dropped the skillet with a loud bang, and jumped back.
“Oh, Wyatt, are you burned?”
He pumped the handle for water a couple of times and cool water flowed out onto his wrist. He let the water soak his shirtsleeve, then sighed in relief. “No, it’s not bad. Sorry to fuss like that.”
Molly took over the pump handle and kept the water flowing.
Wyatt kept his arm there, so she knew it must hurt.
After a few more seconds, Wyatt said, “That’s probably enough.”
Molly quit pumping. He pulled his shirtsleeve up, then the sleeve to his longhandles.
“It’s red.” Molly leaned close. “But no blisters. They sometimes raise later.”
She thought of the time her pa, in a temper, had thrown a full coffeepot of boiling water on her ma. Molly had doctored those burns and knew the different levels of seriousness.