faint appreciation, then he took a bigger bite.
But by his very tone he made it clear he
didn't think she had much experience with this. Fear of another of
his outbursts made her defensive and put an edge on her voice. “I
don't need to ask, Mr. Hollins. I used to order food from the
grocer every day in Chicago, and I bought vegetables, bread, milk,
and butter from the street vendors.” Libby drew herself up a little
taller, and even allowed the tip of her nose to rise just a bit.
She may have been riddled with doubt and regret since the day she'd
arrived in Montana, but cooking was one thing about which she felt
no uncertainty. “I know everything there is to know about stocking
and managing a kitchen, Mr. Hollins. I did it for years before
I—”
“Everything, huh?” he interrupted, and pushed
away from the table. “Street vendors don't come by very often
around here, so we have to buy enough to last for a while.”
“Yes, I'm sure that's true—”
“And we don't have much use for French pastry
or burgundy wine.”
“Maybe not, but—”
“Tell me,” he interjected, “did you argue
this much with your last employer?”
That took Libby aback. No, she would never
have dreamed of saying much of anything to Mrs. Brandauer beyond
“Yes, ma'am,” and “No, ma'am.” But that seemed a lifetime ago now,
and something about this man standing before her made her forget
that she worked for him. His attitude challenged her to
respond.
“Well, um . . . ”
He went on eating, never taking his eyes off
her. “How much tobacco are you planning to get? And kerosene?”
“What?” She blinked.
“What about beans, and dried fruit?” He gave
her a knowing look and put his empty plate on the table. “Come on,
Mrs. Ross,” he commanded.
He turned and walked back through the doorway
to the dining room, never once checking to see if she followed. She
had to move fast to keep up—his strides were long, and his spurs
rang as he crossed the floor. They passed through the parlor to a
closed door at the end of the house. When he flung open the door,
she saw a room that contained a big rolltop desk, a long table, and
lots of empty glass-fronted cabinets. The scent of wood from the
peeled-log walls was especially strong here, as though the room was
often closed up.
Libby stood back as he opened the desk to
reveal pigeonholes stuffed with papers that appeared to have no
organization. But without hesitation, he reached for one page in
particular and put it in her hands.
“That, Mrs. Ross, is what we typically buy
when we stock provisions around here.”
He'd handed her a receipt from Osmer's
Dry Goods. The items and quantities listed there, written with a
careless hand in brown ink, staggered Libby. Yes, there was
tobacco: thirty pounds of plug and ten pounds of rolling tobacco.
And a lot of other— equipment was the description that came to her mind: three Colt
revolvers and fifteen boxes of cartridges, a roll of rope, twenty
boxes of matches, one hundred pounds of soap, and ten gallons of
kerosene. But where was the food? she wondered. Oh, there—one
hundred pounds of sugar, fifteen tins of Arbuckle coffee, five
hundred— five hundred —pounds
of bacon and salt pork, five gallons of molasses, three hundred
pounds of flour, two hundred pounds of beans, forty pounds of dried
apples, two boxes of soda, a box of pepper and a bag of salt.
Civilized people didn't eat like this. What on earth could she make
of salt pork? It wouldn't surprise her if they expected her to mix
the tobacco with it and create some kind of dreadful
stew.
“My goodness,” she breathed.
“Not the same as cooking for a family in
Chicago?” he inquired, his arms folded over his wide chest. He wore
a smug expression that made Libby feel two feet tall.
“My wagon won't hold all this.” She gestured
feebly at the list.
“Not if it's that wobbly wreck I saw out by
the barn, it won't. I don't know how you got this far with
But by his very tone he made it clear he
didn't think she had much experience with this. Fear of another of
his outbursts made her defensive and put an edge on her voice. “I
don't need to ask, Mr. Hollins. I used to order food from the
grocer every day in Chicago, and I bought vegetables, bread, milk,
and butter from the street vendors.” Libby drew herself up a little
taller, and even allowed the tip of her nose to rise just a bit.
She may have been riddled with doubt and regret since the day she'd
arrived in Montana, but cooking was one thing about which she felt
no uncertainty. “I know everything there is to know about stocking
and managing a kitchen, Mr. Hollins. I did it for years before
I—”
“Everything, huh?” he interrupted, and pushed
away from the table. “Street vendors don't come by very often
around here, so we have to buy enough to last for a while.”
“Yes, I'm sure that's true—”
“And we don't have much use for French pastry
or burgundy wine.”
“Maybe not, but—”
“Tell me,” he interjected, “did you argue
this much with your last employer?”
That took Libby aback. No, she would never
have dreamed of saying much of anything to Mrs. Brandauer beyond
“Yes, ma'am,” and “No, ma'am.” But that seemed a lifetime ago now,
and something about this man standing before her made her forget
that she worked for him. His attitude challenged her to
respond.
“Well, um . . . ”
He went on eating, never taking his eyes off
her. “How much tobacco are you planning to get? And kerosene?”
“What?” She blinked.
“What about beans, and dried fruit?” He gave
her a knowing look and put his empty plate on the table. “Come on,
Mrs. Ross,” he commanded.
He turned and walked back through the doorway
to the dining room, never once checking to see if she followed. She
had to move fast to keep up—his strides were long, and his spurs
rang as he crossed the floor. They passed through the parlor to a
closed door at the end of the house. When he flung open the door,
she saw a room that contained a big rolltop desk, a long table, and
lots of empty glass-fronted cabinets. The scent of wood from the
peeled-log walls was especially strong here, as though the room was
often closed up.
Libby stood back as he opened the desk to
reveal pigeonholes stuffed with papers that appeared to have no
organization. But without hesitation, he reached for one page in
particular and put it in her hands.
“That, Mrs. Ross, is what we typically buy
when we stock provisions around here.”
He'd handed her a receipt from Osmer's
Dry Goods. The items and quantities listed there, written with a
careless hand in brown ink, staggered Libby. Yes, there was
tobacco: thirty pounds of plug and ten pounds of rolling tobacco.
And a lot of other— equipment was the description that came to her mind: three Colt
revolvers and fifteen boxes of cartridges, a roll of rope, twenty
boxes of matches, one hundred pounds of soap, and ten gallons of
kerosene. But where was the food? she wondered. Oh, there—one
hundred pounds of sugar, fifteen tins of Arbuckle coffee, five
hundred— five hundred —pounds
of bacon and salt pork, five gallons of molasses, three hundred
pounds of flour, two hundred pounds of beans, forty pounds of dried
apples, two boxes of soda, a box of pepper and a bag of salt.
Civilized people didn't eat like this. What on earth could she make
of salt pork? It wouldn't surprise her if they expected her to mix
the tobacco with it and create some kind of dreadful
stew.
“My goodness,” she breathed.
“Not the same as cooking for a family in
Chicago?” he inquired, his arms folded over his wide chest. He wore
a smug expression that made Libby feel two feet tall.
“My wagon won't hold all this.” She gestured
feebly at the list.
“Not if it's that wobbly wreck I saw out by
the barn, it won't. I don't know how you got this far with
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