Sequins and Spurs

Out back of the house, she eyed the chickens in the pen. She had no idea what to do with a chicken, but she sure liked them fried, so she went in search of her brother-in-law.

* * *

“Hello?”

At the sound of her husky voice, Nash set down a bucket and straightened.

Startled that Ruby had sought him out, he met her in the opening of the barn door, where the late afternoon sun sent shafts of light across the hard-packed dirt. She walked into one of them, and the sun lit her hair like fool’s gold. “Can you spare a few minutes?”

“What do you want?”

“I wondered if you’d show me how to get a chicken ready to cook.”

Having her here made things agonizingly complex. He didn’t want to help her, but she did seem to be making an effort to do something useful. His belly was already grumbling.

She planted her hands on her hips. “I want to learn. And I really want to eat.”

He grabbed his hat and settled it on his head as he strode out the door. Since she was bound and determined to get in the way of a day’s work, he might as well get a meal out of her effort. “Got hot water ready?”

“No.”

“Not boiling, just hot enough to scald. Sit a big pot on the back porch there.”

She hurried to do his bidding, and returned minutes later.

“Don’t eat the sitters,” he explained. “If they’re on nests in the henhouse, let ’em be. You have to pay attention to know which ones lay regularly.”

She followed him into the pen.

“That one’s a rooster.” He pointed. “I didn’t know till it crowed the other day. Grab it by the feet and hang it upside down, so it won’t flap its wings.” It took Nash a couple minutes to demonstrate a humane kill and preparation.

If he’d thought she’d be squeamish, he was wrong. She watched the process with interest, listening as he explained, watching as he scalded the bird and pulled off the loose feathers.

“What about all these little ones that are left?”

“Burn ’em off over the stove. Then cut it into pieces for frying.”

She took the plucked bird from him. “Thank you, Nash.”

Simple words, but in that throaty voice, they seemed to hold more meaning. She made things personal with that voice. She had the uncanny ability to make him feel something besides anger and grief, and he didn’t like it.

He nodded and went back to his work. He had responsibilities, and tomorrow didn’t take care of itself.

His wife’s sister was persistent and would hound him until he answered her questions. He carried an uneasy feeling about what she wanted to talk about. He’d been working at the mill until he’d married Pearl. She and her mother had been hanging on to the Dearing farm and scraping by. He’d offered to take over farming if that was what they wanted, but Laura had been ready to let him do whatever he wanted with the land.

It had always been his dream to raise horses, and these acres held rolling hills of pasture and fields ripe for hay. It had been a sensible arrangement for them to share the big house with Pearl’s mother, and Laura had welcomed Nash and later their children.

Laura Dearing hadn’t deserved the hairpin turns life had dealt her. She’d been a kindhearted, devout woman who loved her family and should have had a husband at her side. She should have lived to a ripe old age and seen her grandchildren’s children.

And Pearl. She’d worked hard and sacrificed to help him get the ranch going. Their marriage had been convenient for both of them. She got a husband to take over the land and provide for her and her mother. He got the ranch he’d always wanted. He’d been preoccupied with the business end of things and the work. He’d figured there would be plenty of time for them to grow closer once the ranch was thriving. At least that’s what he’d thought until their life together had been cut short.

He’d already learned enough about Ruby to know there’d be no avoiding her if she was determined to ask questions and get answers. He steeled himself for the inevitable.

* * *

Ruby was smart enough to know the men worked till dusk before stopping to eat, so she waited until she was sure they’d be coming before she set food on the table.

The back door opened and the three men entered the kitchen. They had already removed their hats and were freshly washed. Their gazes shot directly to the table laden with steaming beans, biscuits and fried chicken.

Nash introduced the hands. “This here’s Silas Dean.”

The middle-aged man nodded politely. “Miss.”

“And Dugger Wiley.”

The tall young man gave her a friendly smile. “How do, Miss Dearing.”

“Call me Ruby.” She gestured to the table. “Sit wherever you like.”

They seated themselves and Nash picked up the platter of chicken.

“I never cut up a chicken before,” she apologized. “The pieces look pretty odd.”

“Don’t make much difference to how they taste,” Silas assured her.

“I found some recipes in Mama’s handwriting, but nothing about chicken. I guess most people just know how to cook them and don’t write it down.”

“My mama always says you can’t learn till you try,” Dugger noted, and gave her an appreciative nod.

The beans were still a little hard. She hadn’t quite figured that out, either. But she could make golden, flaky biscuits with one arm tied behind her back. She’d found honey and poured some into a small jar, which she passed around.

The men didn’t complain a whit about the food, eating as though they’d been served a feast. She got up and poured each of them coffee. “I found a jar of peaches for dessert.”

She had sliced peaches portioned into four dishes when she looked up and noted Nash’s expression. He was looking at the jar with a bleak expression. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head.

“Were these special? Perhaps I should have asked.”

He reached for his dish. “They’re just peaches.”

Dugger finished first. “Thank you for a fine meal, Miss Dearing.”

The others followed his lead and trailed out the back door. The last one to the door, Nash turned back.

She paused in picking up plates and tentatively met his gaze.

“Thanks.” He shut the door behind him.