propped against her lower back.
“Don't even worry about it,” she said. “I'll sleep here with you tonight, and the men can take the floor in the other room.” She smiled at Julia. “Actually, we should make Paul Otto sleep in the wagon under the tarp. Maybe that's even too good for him. What was he thinking?”
Julia started to comb out the tangles. “It wasn't his fault it started to rain,” she said, surprising herself by defending him.
“I suppose not,” Mrs. Marlowe said, sitting on the edge of the bed. She leaned close to scrape a crust of mud off Julia's chin that had escaped the warm water. “Welcome to Wyoming, my dear.”
ulia had no more than a vague recollection of that evening, spent shivering in bed, trying to get her feet warm. She woke once in the middle of the night to sidle closer to Mrs. Marlowe, warm in a flannel nightgown. She heard a man snoring in the front room, thought of her father, and settled deeper in the bed.
The sun woke her in the morning. She sat up, listening to kitchen sounds instead of rain, and the men talking in low voices in the front room. Her traveling suit was nowhere in sight; Mrs. Marlowe must have put the garment out of its misery.
Someone—she hoped it was Alice Marlowe—had rummaged through her trunk and found her clothes. She had only one hairpin remaining, so she brushed her hair until it crackled and bound it at the back of her neck with a piece of twine lying on the dresser.
“Sleep all right, Miss Darling?” Marlowe asked when she opened the door. He looked at her with some concern. “Allie took your dress to the burn barrel.”
“She is kind, indeed,” Julia replied.
Mr. Otto stood up and stretched. “There's a rumor that Alice Marlowe is so kind that she warms the water before she drowns baby groundhogs. Isn't that right, Alice?” he called into the kitchen.
One cannot accuse my boss of being overly sentimental, Julia thought, as she edged past Mr. Otto into the kitchen. Alice Marlowe looked up from the cinnamon rolls she was slicing with a thread. “You were so busy sleeping this morning that I couldn't bear to wake you,” she said. She deftly arranged the rolls in the pan, covered them with a cloth, and placed the pan in the warming oven. “Would you please make coffee while I gather the eggs?”
Julia winced. My sins have truly come home to roost, she thought, and much sooner than I thought they would. Her eyes wide with dismay, she stared at her hostess's back as Mrs. Marlowe took a basket from the shelf. “I … I don't know.”
Mrs. Marlowe reached for her shawl. “Of course you can! I expect your coffee is far better than mine.” She leaned toward Julia. “I can't imagine anything more important to a rancher than good coffee.” She opened the door. “It's not every day that I have a graduate of the Boston Cooking School in my kitchen. Think of this as your moment to shine.”
Julia sat down at the table and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Coffee would be the one thing she never learned to make. With painful clarity, she saw that first week's schedule tacked to the bulletin board by the practice kitchen. “Coffee” followed “The Making and Care of a Fire,” and came right before “Mixing Water Bread.”
For one uncharitable moment, she blamed Miss Farmer. When Julia arrived two days after class began, Miss Farmer had wanted her to come early before class to catch up. Julia had assured her teacher that she was adept at laying fire in a cookstove and that she would never, ever have to make coffee at home in Utah. This finishes it, she thought. I have a terrible suspicion that Mr. Otto may not forgive bad coffee.
It was failure too soon, she decided as she sat at the table again. Had she come so far, lost a lovely suit and hat, and turned her complexion red to give up so quickly? “I won't go home,” she said softly, already dreading the smug way Ezra Quayle would look at her.
“I hope not, Darling.”
Miserable, she
“Don't even worry about it,” she said. “I'll sleep here with you tonight, and the men can take the floor in the other room.” She smiled at Julia. “Actually, we should make Paul Otto sleep in the wagon under the tarp. Maybe that's even too good for him. What was he thinking?”
Julia started to comb out the tangles. “It wasn't his fault it started to rain,” she said, surprising herself by defending him.
“I suppose not,” Mrs. Marlowe said, sitting on the edge of the bed. She leaned close to scrape a crust of mud off Julia's chin that had escaped the warm water. “Welcome to Wyoming, my dear.”
ulia had no more than a vague recollection of that evening, spent shivering in bed, trying to get her feet warm. She woke once in the middle of the night to sidle closer to Mrs. Marlowe, warm in a flannel nightgown. She heard a man snoring in the front room, thought of her father, and settled deeper in the bed.
The sun woke her in the morning. She sat up, listening to kitchen sounds instead of rain, and the men talking in low voices in the front room. Her traveling suit was nowhere in sight; Mrs. Marlowe must have put the garment out of its misery.
Someone—she hoped it was Alice Marlowe—had rummaged through her trunk and found her clothes. She had only one hairpin remaining, so she brushed her hair until it crackled and bound it at the back of her neck with a piece of twine lying on the dresser.
“Sleep all right, Miss Darling?” Marlowe asked when she opened the door. He looked at her with some concern. “Allie took your dress to the burn barrel.”
“She is kind, indeed,” Julia replied.
Mr. Otto stood up and stretched. “There's a rumor that Alice Marlowe is so kind that she warms the water before she drowns baby groundhogs. Isn't that right, Alice?” he called into the kitchen.
One cannot accuse my boss of being overly sentimental, Julia thought, as she edged past Mr. Otto into the kitchen. Alice Marlowe looked up from the cinnamon rolls she was slicing with a thread. “You were so busy sleeping this morning that I couldn't bear to wake you,” she said. She deftly arranged the rolls in the pan, covered them with a cloth, and placed the pan in the warming oven. “Would you please make coffee while I gather the eggs?”
Julia winced. My sins have truly come home to roost, she thought, and much sooner than I thought they would. Her eyes wide with dismay, she stared at her hostess's back as Mrs. Marlowe took a basket from the shelf. “I … I don't know.”
Mrs. Marlowe reached for her shawl. “Of course you can! I expect your coffee is far better than mine.” She leaned toward Julia. “I can't imagine anything more important to a rancher than good coffee.” She opened the door. “It's not every day that I have a graduate of the Boston Cooking School in my kitchen. Think of this as your moment to shine.”
Julia sat down at the table and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Coffee would be the one thing she never learned to make. With painful clarity, she saw that first week's schedule tacked to the bulletin board by the practice kitchen. “Coffee” followed “The Making and Care of a Fire,” and came right before “Mixing Water Bread.”
For one uncharitable moment, she blamed Miss Farmer. When Julia arrived two days after class began, Miss Farmer had wanted her to come early before class to catch up. Julia had assured her teacher that she was adept at laying fire in a cookstove and that she would never, ever have to make coffee at home in Utah. This finishes it, she thought. I have a terrible suspicion that Mr. Otto may not forgive bad coffee.
It was failure too soon, she decided as she sat at the table again. Had she come so far, lost a lovely suit and hat, and turned her complexion red to give up so quickly? “I won't go home,” she said softly, already dreading the smug way Ezra Quayle would look at her.
“I hope not, Darling.”
Miserable, she
Similar Books
