Porcupine Ranch

This cooking certainly was an inexact science. In fact, anything that nebulous could hardly be called science at all. It was more like alchemy.

But somehow she had to figure out these ambiguous instructions.

After all, if she didn’t prove herself competent, why would he listen to anything she had to say about his grandfather? That was absolutely the only reason she wanted to impress him.

Clayton washed up at the outside faucet down by the barn with the rest of the men.

“Okay, fellas,” he said, trying to locate a semiclean spot on the community towel to dry his own hands, “the new cook got here a little late, so lunch won’t be anything spectacular, but at least it won’t be sandwiches.”

Mugger and Dub threw their hats into the air, Bear punched Cruiser on the shoulder, Bob slapped his knee and yelled “Hot Damn!” and everyone cheered.

“And one more thing.” They quieted immediately, and Clayton realized he’d used his this-is-important-so-you’d-damn-well-better-listen-close voice. Well, it was important. “Hannah—Ms. Lindsay—is a little different from Mrs. Grogan. She’s, uh, quieter, younger, prettier—”

Cheers broke out again, interspersed with whistles.

“The first one of you gets out of line with her, I’ll break your face.” The words came out loud and harsh.

Silence ensued as the men looked at each other.

“No problem, man,” Bob mumbled.

“You got it, boss,” Mugger agreed.

He hadn’t intended to snap at them even before they’d done anything. On the other hand, better before than after. Hannah’s big brown eyes were bottomless pools of innocence. If one of the men did anything to destroy that innocence, he’d do worse than break the guy’s face.

“Ms. Lindsay is, um, different,” he said.

“You already told us that,” Bear growled.

“I said she was different from Mrs. Grogan. Now I’m saying she’s different from everybody.”

“You mean she’s not right in the head?”

Clayton flinched at the brutal description. Hannah wasn’t crazy. At least, he didn’t think so.

“She’s different,” he concluded obscurely. “Let’s go get some lunch.”

“All right!”

The men followed him up to the house and into the dining room where the table was set with his mother’s dishes with their elaborate floral design. His fault. He should have told her to use the plain brown ones he’d bought after his mother moved out. Well, it wouldn’t hurt the men to eat off pink and purple flowers. They probably wouldn’t even notice in their excitement over their first hot meal in two days.

“Where’s the food?” Bear demanded.

“Sit down. She’ll be out in a minute,” Clayton said confidently. But he didn’t feel all that confident. No tempting odors drifted from the kitchen the way they did when Mrs. Grogan cooked.

Hannah appeared in the kitchen door carrying a serving bowl with a spoon sprouting from it. Her hair looked even wilder than usual, and her eyes had a glassy look. She hesitated, her gaze taking in the ruffians who were talking and laughing as they settled into the chairs at the table. Her entrance froze them in place, Cruiser and Dub already poised over their chairs.

“Ms. Hannah Lindsay, this skinny guy here is Dub. The big, fierce one, with so much grizzled hair and beard all you can see is the tip of his nose, is Bear. The one with the trim little gambler’s mustache is Mugger. The long drink of water is Cruiser, and the redhead’s Bob.”

Hannah’s gaze went from one person to the next, all around the table, her expression getting wilder with each cowboy. When she came to Clayton, a bright red spot appeared on each smooth cheek. “Lunch,” she blurted, holding the bowl before her.

Cruiser ran to take it. “Let me help you, ma’am.”

Hannah’s face relaxed enough to allow a tentative smile as she surrendered the bowl. Yes, she definitely had a nice smile. “Thank you,” she said in a relatively normal voice.

Dub stumbled from his half-sitting position and pulled out her chair at the end of the table nearest the kitchen.

“Thank you,” she said again, looking and sounding a little more confident. She was communicating coherently, and the blood was redistributing itself from her cheeks to the rest of her body. That was an improvement.

Cruiser scooped out a large spoonful of food from the bowl and plopped it onto his plate. Macaroni mixed with bits of black, green and red sprawled among the painted flowers. Nobody said a word as all attention turned to the concoction.

“What is it?” Cruiser finally asked.

“Pasta salad.” Her voice was again strained as she dipped her head, letting her hair fall over her face.

“Pasta salad,” Clayton repeated before any of the men could say something to upset her more. “Great. This should give us a chance to cool down. Pass that bowl over here.”

Knowing the others would be watching him and following his example, he scooped out a generous serving. “Looks terrific.”

He took a bite of the stuff. The pasta was way past al dente. In fact, it was more like al mushe.

He looked down to the other end of the table. Hannah was watching him expectantly, her heart in her eyes.

“Good,” he said, thankful he’d had a new lightning rod installed last year. That kind of a lie could bring down divine retribution. “Needs a little salt. Maybe a little picante sauce.” Texas picante sauce could cover a multitude of bad flavors, or in this case, no flavor.

The men poured on the picante sauce and ate without grumbling, but he was sure he’d hear about it later.

They’d just have to cut her a little slack. She hadn’t had a lot of time to cook today, and maybe her last employer liked overcooked pasta salad for lunch. She’d never worked on a ranch before. He’d have to explain to her that they preferred heartier meals.

She’s not going to make it, a little voice nagged in the back of his mind. You knew that from the minute she walked in here. Roses bloom in town, along the river. Prickly pear cactus is the only flower that thrives out here.

He knew that little voice was probably right, but he ordered it to shut up anyway.

“All right, boys. Back to work.” He folded his napkin and laid it on the table. “I’ll be down to the corral in a few minutes.” He slid back his chair.

Hannah watched the other cowboys push away from the table. They’d been every bit as gracious as any of her mother’s guests, but she knew they were disappointed.

She grabbed an armload of dishes and ran into the kitchen, away from the censure that was in the air if not actually spoken.

She’d blown it again.

She’d wanted to run out of the room the minute Clayton had looked up with a pained expression and declared her meal to be “good.” But she’d had to sit at the table while everyone poured on enough picante sauce to drown any noodles that had survived her excessive boiling, then choked down the horrible mess.

She couldn’t go through that much stress again. She had to work up the courage to talk to Clayton about his grandfather then escape before dinner.

How did some people manage to cook three of those things a day?

Clayton came through the kitchen door carrying the empty serving bowl.