fluffy yellow eggs, smothering them with gravy. She sat with a contented sigh. "This is what it must be like to breakfast in Heaven."
Bridgette frowned at the apple, now using the paring knife to whittle bite-sized chunks off and into the large earthen bowl before her. The mountain of apple pieces grew larger. Her downturned mouth disappeared into the folds around her neck as she attacked the next apple, undressing it with nearly vicious speed. Inez scooped up a forkful of dripping eggs and watched Bridgette as she chewed.
Inez finally broke the uncharacteristic silence. "Is something wrong?"
"Wrong, ma’am?" The apple chunks flew into the bowl.
"That’s what I said."
Bridgette puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. "Biscuits are done. Now, you just stay put, I’ll bring them over." She rose and opened the maw of the iron stove, which belched a cloud of heat and the smell of baked buttermilk biscuits. The wool underclothes prickled Inez’s skin.
"You know, ma’am. Maybe I ought to get some spectacles. Like yours. Only to help me see better at distance. Why, the good father greeted me on the street yesterday, and if it hadn’t been for his voice, I wouldn’t have even known it was him." Biscuit tins clattered on the rangetop. "Sometimes…" Her voice trailed off. She shoveled a dozen hot biscuits into a serving bowl and set them at Inez’s elbow.
"Yeeees?" Inez prompted.
Bridgette plopped into her chair, staring at the bowl of apple pie innards.
"Yesterday was the first time I’d met Mr. Rose’s wife. God rest his soul." Bridgette crossed herself perfunctorily. "Now, ma’am, you know I don’t hold with gossip, carrying tales and such." Bridgette squinted, searching her employer’s face for any hint of displeasure.
Inez nodded encouragingly and reached for a biscuit.
"When I met Mrs. Rose yesterday, I thought to myself, I thought, ‘She looks just like that woman I saw coming out of the back of the Clairmont with Mr. Gallagher.’"
Chapter Eight
Inez sat back, attempting to digest this news along with the eggs and gravy.
"Emma—Mrs. Rose, that is—and Harry, ah, Mr. Gallagher? A most unlikely couple, I agree. Leaving the hotel together?"
"Oh yes, ma’am," Bridgette rushed on. "I was chatting up my neighbor Maggie, she works the Clairmont kitchen, and I saw Mr. Gallagher and a red-haired woman by the back door. She was crying, and they seemed, ah, familiar with each other. Now, Mr. Gallagher, it was he for certain. Well, it’s his hotel, so that’s not so strange. The woman was probably a local fancy woman. After all, why would Mrs. Rose be there? And with him?"
"Why indeed," murmured Inez. "When was this?"
"Oh, early November, I’d say. I’m sure it was just Mrs. Rose’s hair that made me think of it."
The back door creaked open.
"Mr. Jackson!" Bridgette pounced on him. "You’re just in time for breakfast. By the time you’re finished cleaning up, there’ll be pie as well!"
"Promise of your apple pie’ll make the mornin’ tasks bearable." Abe set his knife and a folded newspaper on the table before heading for the coffee.
The wet edge of the eight-inch blade bled onto the crumpled front page of last week’s Dodge City Times . Inez eyed the stain. "Run into trouble?"
"Nothin’ I couldn’t handle." Abe sat down with a full cup, tore the back page from the newspaper, and began cleaning the knife. "Just a tenderfoot, new to town. Lost his bankroll on a shell game couple days ago. Tried to jump me in the alley. I didn’t take his fingers, just his weapon. ’Bout the size of…" He gestured at Bridgette’s paring knife.
Inez’s fork clattered to her plate. "I hope you had him arrested!"
"Now, Inez. You really think the law’s gonna bother over a white man taking on a colored man in an alley? Especially when the white man’s the one who’s cut? Nope, I didn’t."
"Well, what did you do?"
"Gave him four bits. Told him to get a shave, some grub, and a job."
"Stray cats and lost
Bridgette frowned at the apple, now using the paring knife to whittle bite-sized chunks off and into the large earthen bowl before her. The mountain of apple pieces grew larger. Her downturned mouth disappeared into the folds around her neck as she attacked the next apple, undressing it with nearly vicious speed. Inez scooped up a forkful of dripping eggs and watched Bridgette as she chewed.
Inez finally broke the uncharacteristic silence. "Is something wrong?"
"Wrong, ma’am?" The apple chunks flew into the bowl.
"That’s what I said."
Bridgette puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. "Biscuits are done. Now, you just stay put, I’ll bring them over." She rose and opened the maw of the iron stove, which belched a cloud of heat and the smell of baked buttermilk biscuits. The wool underclothes prickled Inez’s skin.
"You know, ma’am. Maybe I ought to get some spectacles. Like yours. Only to help me see better at distance. Why, the good father greeted me on the street yesterday, and if it hadn’t been for his voice, I wouldn’t have even known it was him." Biscuit tins clattered on the rangetop. "Sometimes…" Her voice trailed off. She shoveled a dozen hot biscuits into a serving bowl and set them at Inez’s elbow.
"Yeeees?" Inez prompted.
Bridgette plopped into her chair, staring at the bowl of apple pie innards.
"Yesterday was the first time I’d met Mr. Rose’s wife. God rest his soul." Bridgette crossed herself perfunctorily. "Now, ma’am, you know I don’t hold with gossip, carrying tales and such." Bridgette squinted, searching her employer’s face for any hint of displeasure.
Inez nodded encouragingly and reached for a biscuit.
"When I met Mrs. Rose yesterday, I thought to myself, I thought, ‘She looks just like that woman I saw coming out of the back of the Clairmont with Mr. Gallagher.’"
Chapter Eight
Inez sat back, attempting to digest this news along with the eggs and gravy.
"Emma—Mrs. Rose, that is—and Harry, ah, Mr. Gallagher? A most unlikely couple, I agree. Leaving the hotel together?"
"Oh yes, ma’am," Bridgette rushed on. "I was chatting up my neighbor Maggie, she works the Clairmont kitchen, and I saw Mr. Gallagher and a red-haired woman by the back door. She was crying, and they seemed, ah, familiar with each other. Now, Mr. Gallagher, it was he for certain. Well, it’s his hotel, so that’s not so strange. The woman was probably a local fancy woman. After all, why would Mrs. Rose be there? And with him?"
"Why indeed," murmured Inez. "When was this?"
"Oh, early November, I’d say. I’m sure it was just Mrs. Rose’s hair that made me think of it."
The back door creaked open.
"Mr. Jackson!" Bridgette pounced on him. "You’re just in time for breakfast. By the time you’re finished cleaning up, there’ll be pie as well!"
"Promise of your apple pie’ll make the mornin’ tasks bearable." Abe set his knife and a folded newspaper on the table before heading for the coffee.
The wet edge of the eight-inch blade bled onto the crumpled front page of last week’s Dodge City Times . Inez eyed the stain. "Run into trouble?"
"Nothin’ I couldn’t handle." Abe sat down with a full cup, tore the back page from the newspaper, and began cleaning the knife. "Just a tenderfoot, new to town. Lost his bankroll on a shell game couple days ago. Tried to jump me in the alley. I didn’t take his fingers, just his weapon. ’Bout the size of…" He gestured at Bridgette’s paring knife.
Inez’s fork clattered to her plate. "I hope you had him arrested!"
"Now, Inez. You really think the law’s gonna bother over a white man taking on a colored man in an alley? Especially when the white man’s the one who’s cut? Nope, I didn’t."
"Well, what did you do?"
"Gave him four bits. Told him to get a shave, some grub, and a job."
"Stray cats and lost
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