“Me?” He pretended astonishment. “Why, bless my soul, Miss Burton, I ain’t never done much more than brew a pot of coffee for myself. And those never turn out very good.”
“Imagine that. Here, take this butcher knife.”
“I’d rather have a scalpel.”
“Not to slice a rump of ham, you wouldn’t. There’s the cutting board; here’s a platter. Start working.”
Apparently cowed (or at least allowing her the illusion of his being cowed), Gabe looked her up and down for a minute. “And just what will you be doin’, Missy, while I’ve been set to this manly task?”
“Making cornbread and frying potatoes.” Lard was already beginning to melt and sputter in the iron skillet, since the Burton girls, having planned to enjoy their noontime meal here, had started a fire in the cook stove not long ago. She returned his look with an unexpected spark of humor. “And I might serve the blackberry pie that Molly picked up from the bakery this morning.”
“Oh, woman, the key to my heart. There’s nothin’ I like
better than blackberry pie.”
“Of course. Unless it’s peach cobbler, or raisin cake. I do believe I hear that from you about every morsel of food you gobble up in this household.”
“I do not,” intoned Gabe, with mock hurt, “gobble. I merely consume with vigor, that’s all. It’s what a doctor does. Because he’s usually rushin’ around from house to house, tendin’ patients.”
“M’h’m. Business must be picking up again. How are you doing with that ham?”
For a few minutes they worked together in (almost) companionable silence. The clink of knife and fork onto the platter; the sizzle of cooked potatoes being fried to succulent crispiness; the clank of the oven door being opened and closed for the pan of cornbread. Small background sounds, accompanied by mouth-watering scents that would likely draw those at the back yard table inside like iron filings to a magnet.
“Gabe.”
“Ahuh. These slices aren’t too thick, are they? A man likes to be able to see what he’s eatin’, y’ know, not have the food transparent. But I could—”
“Gabriel, listen to me a minute.”
He nearly dropped his weapon in surprise. Hannah, wanting to talk seriously with him? Goldarnit, couldn’t she have chosen a better time than here and now, when they were busy getting ready to fill his stomach and someone might walk in at any second?
“Yes, Miss Burton. I’m listenin’.”
She was standing near the sink, backlit by a shaft of mid-day sunlight that colored her hair with a rich blue-bronze, both hands knotted together at the waist of her white apron.
“This Reese Barclay of Letty’s, that she’s picked up.”
“I know the man.” As if he were a bit of crumpled newspaper that had been discarded in the streets, and Letty were removing him for disposal. “What about him?”
“Does he remind you of anyone?”
“H’mmm...can’t say as he does. Maybe similar to a thousand other cowpokes that’ve crossed my path over the years. Never really thought about it.”
Hannah wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. “Well, then, do. Do think about it!”
Baffled, Gabriel put down his knife, leaned against the counter, and considered her, this waspish-tempered but gloriously beautiful woman who had decided to make her own way in life. “All right. I’m thinkin’. And, no, there’s nobody that might—huh. Well, now, I dunno. Seems like there’s a spark of somethin’...”
“Exactly. I feel the same. There’s something—some mannerism, or way of speaking—but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Well, Miss Burton,” considering the matter settled (or unimportant, which would be worse, in her eyes), he had turned back to his slicing and dicing, “when you figure it out, lemme know, will ya?”
Giving up on the chance to have someone else in her corner, whatever her opinion, Hannah sniffed and took up her wooden stirring spoon. “By all means,” she assured him, with acid on her tongue and iron in her soul. “I shall be happy to.”
Just then came the anticipated, familiar creak of the screened door being opened. “Oh, Hannah, honey, I’m sorry for being such a derelict,” caroled Molly, entering with the tray of teapot and cups. “I meant to come in earlier and help you. But we just got to talkin’, and—”
“It’s all right.” Hannah, pink-cheeked and tight-lipped with irritation (although not directed at Molly, as she guiltily supposed), turned from the skillet of potatoes. “As you see, we have things well in hand. But, if you could get some coffee going, that would be a help. And Letty can set the table. That is—where is Letty?”
Molly put down her burden to begin unpinning her hat. “Oh, I thought I ought to give the courting couple some privacy. They’ll be along directly.”