Lauri Robinson - Mail-Order Brides Of Oak Grove

“The one you had Brett drive out,” Henry replied. “Can’t wait to taste those vittles. If they taste half as good as they smell, I’m gonna think I died and went to heaven.”

Still confused, Steve asked, “Brett Blackwell?”

“Yes, sir,” Leroy said, slapping him on the back as he walked past. “And here I was thinking we’d have to eat Walter’s salty flapjacks again for supper.”

“They weren’t that bad,” Walter said while smoothing his mustache back in place after his hearty scrubbing.

“Yes, they were,” several others answered in unison.

Steve started for the house along with the rest of them, until Jess laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You might want to wash up, Boss,” Jess said. “Henry was the only one who made it inside the door. She snapped him with a towel and told him to go wash up before stepping foot in the kitchen again, and that went for the rest of us, too.”

Steve had no idea who this woman was, but if she was half the size of the blacksmith, it was no wonder the boys had all washed up. However, it was his house and he didn’t take orders from anyone.

His men, trying to get through the opening two at a time, dang near broke the door off its hinges. He followed them over the threshold once the ruckus settled down, and then wasn’t exactly sure what stopped him dead in his tracks. Her or the aromas.

The house hadn’t smelled this good in so long—actually it had never smelled this good. Cinnamon. And apples. Baked apples. Apple pie maybe? He treated himself to a slice of pie every now and again while in town, but not often enough.

She stood at the stove, with her back to him, and was nowhere near the size of Brett. She was about the size of the gal who’d fallen onto his lap back at the train station, the one he couldn’t get out of his mind.

Tiny and slender, with one cloth tied around her waist and another over her hair, she spat, “For heaven’s sake, close the door before that wind covers everything with dirt.” And, “Hats are not to be worn at the table.”

While hats hit the floor all around the table, Steve shut the door, hung his hat on a hook and then took a seat next to Brett. The blacksmith’s grin was bigger than his biceps. Steve was about to turn around, to get a good look at the woman, when she barked out another order.

“Start passing the bread around.” A second later she set a huge bowl next to him. “Fill your plate with potatoes then pass the bowl on.”

As soon as he did, she set down another pot. “Now cover your potatoes with this.”

The thick gravy looked more like stew, but he did as ordered, as did everyone else, ladling the stew over the potatoes.

Setting another plate of sliced bread atop the one that was already empty, she said, “Eat up. There’s plenty.”

Appreciative groans echoed throughout the room, and his could easily have joined the others, but Steve held it in. Not only because the mouthful of potatoes and stew was delicious and the delectable smell of apples still filled his nose, but because he sensed something familiar about her, yet couldn’t say what. Other than... It couldn’t be her. She was on her way to Denver.

Once again squeezing between him and Brett in order to do so, she set a large baking pan in the center of the table. “Once you’ve had your fill, there’s apple cobbler for dessert.”

Steve had a great desire to twist about and get a good look at her, but the appreciative groans from his men had him leaning toward Brett. “I owe you, my friend. Where did you find her?”

“At my place, waiting for a ride,” Brett answered.

“Hey,” Jess said. “Didn’t I see you get off the train with the other women today?”

Steve’s spine stiffened as he spun about. As their eyes met, his and her sky-blue ones, he knew she was the woman he’d seen at the train station—she knew he knew, too.

She quickly turned toward Jess and leveled a glare that could have sliced the cowboy in two. “No.”

Jess nodded. “Yes, I did. I saw you.”

“You couldn’t have,” she said. “I did not get off the train with the other women.”

“I’m sure—”

“That would have been my sister,” she said, cutting Jess short. “We look alike.” Setting a smaller kettle on the table, she said, “This is caramel sauce for the cobbler. It’s best eaten warm.”

The men needed no further invite than that, even Jess, and though Steve wanted a piece of that cobbler so bad he could taste it, his mind couldn’t get off why she was in his kitchen. Why she’d claimed she was going to Denver. His gaze settled for a second on each one of his men, wondering which one was responsible. Jess had been the only one he’d seen at the station, and was also the only one who’d been remotely taken with the idea of a bride.

“You sure—”

“Eat,” Steve told Jess, cutting short whatever the other man had been about to say. He’d get to the bottom of it, but feeding his men came first.

“You want cobbler, no?” Brett asked.

“Yes.” Steve took the dish, spooned a large portion onto his plate and then took the smaller pan and poured the thick brown syrup atop the cobbler. It was even better than the meal had been, and that shouldn’t have been possible.

Silence other than satisfied moans and groans surrounded the table again—and polite requests for more.

Once they’d all had seconds, and would have taken thirds if the pan hadn’t been empty, Steve nudged Henry and then nodded toward the door. His silent command circled the table. With obvious reluctance, one by one the men stood, thanked the woman generously for the meal and then exited the house, closing the door quietly behind them.

Steve contemplated his words and what might follow carefully before asking, “Why aren’t you on your way to Denver?”

She paused stacking the empty plates and met his gaze eye for eye. Hers were bluer than the Kansas summer sky, but they weren’t nearly as friendly.

“I—I—uh—”

“You are one of those brides.”

The gasp that sounded came from Brett.

“If you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” the blacksmith said. “She cooks like my ma.”

“No, I’m not one of those brides,” she snapped. “I had no intention of marrying anyone.” As she glanced toward Brett her gaze softened slightly. “Still don’t.”

Steve read around her answer. “But you are from Ohio. You are one of the girls the mayor paid to have sent out here.”

“If you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” Brett said again.

Flustered, Steve growled, “I never said I didn’t want her.” He bit his tongue as soon as the words were out. “As a cook,” he clarified. Mainly because her eyes had grown as wide as the plates she’d been about to pick up.

“Oh, Miss McCary!”

The shout was slightly elongated and slurred, but he recognized Rex’s voice and a hint of shame stung Steve’s gut. He hadn’t checked to see how the man was doing. Frowning at how Rex sounded, he pushed away from the table. She was already on her way into the room off the kitchen and Steve paused at the doorway.

“Can I have a little more tonic?” Rex asked, smiling at her.

A smile from Rex was as rare as the rest of the men washing up before eating.

* * *

With her cheeks still burning, Mary hurried toward Rex’s bed. So much for good luck. Bad luck was the cowboy from the train being Steve Putnam. She’d recognized him the moment he’d walked in the door and her entire being had been shaking—inside and out since that moment. “Of course,” she said to Rex. “Is your leg still hurting?”

“No,” Rex said. “But I don’t want the pain to come back.”

“This will help.” She picked up the bottle of tonic she’d left next to the bed and carefully poured a spoonful of the thick liquid. Rex had his mouth open like a baby bird waiting for a worm from its momma. That was how it normally was. It truly was a cure-all, just as Da always said. Of course, she’d seen it cure many ailments herself. Everything from gout to gas when administered correctly.