Wild Texas Rose by Martha Hix Page B

read three P.M. , and two hours needed to be killed before the nuptials. Her clothes were unpacked and smoothed of wrinkles; she had freshened up; Gus was fed. An hour ago she’d finished the last page of Les Travailleurs de la Mer, Victor Hugo’s exciting novel of love, betrayal, and adventure in Guernsey.
    Again she heard laughter from the kitchen. So what if she hadn’t been asked to join the kitchen crew? Perhaps Lois Atherton had been reluctant to ask her, Mariah being a guest.
    She walked to the kitchen, which smelled of just-fried chicken, nut pies, and the piquant aroma of pickles. A kettle whistled on the wood-fed Chandler stove. Fancy, the overweight feline, perched as still as a statue beneath the round table centering the kitchen. No doubt the sharp-eyed tabby was hoping for something edible to drop.
    â€œHello, there,” Gail said, and Lois echoed the salutation.
    â€œYes. Hello.”
    The room was warm and homey, and though the smells were different from those in Anne du Moulin McGuire’s Norman-style cuisine, these things still reminded Mariah of home. Guernsey. And of her brothers. And of her mother and grandmother, both now resting in the St. Martin’s churchyard, alongside the stone menhir, La Gran’mère de Chimquière. Homesickness and sorrow squeezed her chest. Don’t be silly, she warned herself against the inappropriate sentiment. What remained of her family was only a father who offered no sweetness or understanding.
    â€œI’d like to help.” She indicated the baskets of food being prepared for the wedding feast. “What may I do?”
    Both Lois and Gail peered at Mariah as if she had suggested they step on a puppy.
    â€œYou’re a guest,” Gail reminded as she poked through a gunnysack of potatoes. “Guests don’t work.”
    â€œYou’re a guest, too. I don’t see that stopping you.”
    Lois spooned beets into a bowl. “She’s kin. She’s expected to lend a hand.”
    â€œI see. But I’m not about to sit around that room all afternoon twiddling my thumbs. I’m used to work, and I like pulling my own weight.”
    â€œWell, gal, you’ve come to the right neck of the woods.” Lois hitched a thumb toward a wreck-pan of dirty dishes. “I was just fixin to tackle those beauties, but if you’re serious about that offer, make yourself at home.”
    â€œI am serious.” Mariah grabbed an apron and a quilted hotpad, then went for the kettle of boiling water. “I don’t feel right unless I’m up to my elbows in suds.”
    â€œWell, thanks. I’m beholden for the offer, seeing’s how my help’s out back settin’ up the hoedown.”
    â€œI’d better see if Kimble can use some help gettin’ dolled up,” Lois added, and stopped short of the door leading into the hallway. “You know, Mariah, I like you. You’re the kinda gal I’d love to see my brother hitched to.”
    Gail rolled her big blue eyes.
    â€œI’m promised to another,” Mariah reminded.
    â€œToo bad.” Lois waved a goodbye.
    Mariah blushed and turned to the dishes. From behind, she heard the peeling and dicing of potatoes. She turned her thoughts to the positive aspects of the future. Within a matter of days she’d be working in her own kitchen, or at least supervising Joseph’s cooking staff. And soon, she’d be busy with Trick’em’s youngsters, teaching them the rudiments of education. Though she had many reservations about becoming Joseph’s wife, Mariah was certain her tomorrows held promise.
    She began to hum a tune, an ageless folk song from her homeland. While drying a plate, she put words to the music.
    â€œIs that French?” Gail asked.
    â€œYes. Mostly we speak Norman French in Guernsey.
    â€œMcGuire isn’t a Gallic name.”
    â€œMy father hails from the north of Ireland,” Mariah