Beauty and the Brit (12 page)

Yet again she shoved growing despair aside. Dwelling on the losses helped nothing. She would find a way to earn money again. If David wouldn’t give her work, she’d hitchhike to town.

Back downstairs she prowled the living room, studiously avoiding David’s bedroom, peeked into one more guest room, neutrally decorated, a small office, and a half bath. Finally, inexorably, she was drawn back to the kitchen. Like her sparse room upstairs, it filled her with comfort. Simply standing beside the island and staring at the gleaming appliances made her long to turn every stove knob, open every drawer, and explore all the cupboards she’d merely glimpsed when putting away the groceries.

And then she caught sight of the three copper bowls, hanging on a rustic brick wall between two cupboards and glistening like newly forged treasure. She’d missed seeing them earlier, and stroked the cool metal. It was so silly, but she’d coveted a set of bowls like this forever. She loved copper for no practical reason except that she did.

The discovery of the bowls released a flood somewhere deep inside that sent bubbles of excitement effervescing through her body. One by one she opened cupboards and drawers, and each yielded more five-star kitchen booty: every shape of baking pan, a kitchen store’s worth of high-end cookware. She squealed over a drawer that, in addition to the standard measuring cups and spoons and normal kitchen utensils, seemed to contain every cool gadget she’d ever wanted to own. When she picked out a heavily weighted wire whisk Julia Child would have panted over, her eyes moved to the largest copper bowl and her breath caught at the audacity of her next thought.

She opened the refrigerator and took closer stock of the contents. It held standard fare—condiments, milk, the cream and cottage cheese David had just bought. The pink, perfect steaks he’d been so excited about for tonight’s dinner occupied one shelf, but next to them she caught sight of another package of meat—this one chicken. She lifted it out. The use-by date . . . yesterday.

One of her excited little bubbles burst into annoyance. This was just another indication of how much money the man had. Two pounds of chicken pieces had no business going to waste in a refrigerator. Forget the starving children in China; there were people down her old block who would have loved the ability to simply purchase five dollars’ worth of chicken.

Without hesitating, Rio tore into the shrink-wrap and sniffed the meat. It had been in the coldest part of the fridge, and it smelled perfectly all right. Resolutely she set the package back on the shelf and closed the refrigerator door. Then she started ransacking the cupboards in earnest. The steaks could wait their turn. The old standby her father had called Junk Stew was now on the menu.

She had no idea exactly how much time had passed when she heard voices at the back door. She hadn’t even known there was a back door.

“Rio?” Bonnie’s call rang through the kitchen.

Shocked that she hadn’t thought about her sister once in the last—Rio checked the clock on the microwave—two and a half hours, she glanced around the kitchen, which was now far from pristine. Her heart thumped in nervousness, knowing it was highly possible David might be annoyed at what she’d done. But a thread of contentment mitigated the worry. She’d never had such an amazing space in which to spread out and play with her food. The flour dust, the juice-covered cutting boards, the pile of chicken fat and skin waiting to be thrown away, all made her happy. Happy to the point where she didn’t really care what David thought.

“It smells awesome in here!” Bonnie entered the kitchen and grinned.

She’d seen Rio’s cooking messes before. David, on the other hand, who followed in jeans and stocking feet, stared like he’d been thrown into a new dimension.

“And to think I was worried about you,” he said.

“You told me to
stop
worrying for the day,” Rio tossed back. “I got distracted on the way to the barn.”

“Evidently. I didn’t intend for you to slave away in the kitchen just because we went shopping.”

“I know. And I have something to say about that, too.” She fixed him with a stern look and crossed her arms. “We could have held off shopping for days. Do you know how much perfectly good food I just rescued from the realm of kitchen science projects?”

His features twisted with a hint of sheepishness, and the tic of contrition at the corner of his mouth made her want to touch it, which threw her planned lecture into a jumble of disorganized thoughts.

“Judging from the amazing smells, I’m guessing quite a lot—and I’m also guessing the rescues were successful.”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

All she noticed as he moved into the kitchen were his amazing looks and, far more weirdly than that, his shoeless feet. Their shape, swathed by a pair of thin white socks, was large and masculine.

Stupid. She was supposed to be lecturing him on waste. Instead she was losing her mind.

“I definitely didn’t expect a home-cooked feast,” he said earnestly, catching sight of a pie cooling on the counter. “This is amazing.”

Her cheeks warmed, and the heat drifted down to her stomach. “Thank the week-old chicken.” She found her lecture, but none of the admonishment she’d intended to spice it with. “And the potatoes sprouting eyes, and the eight pounds of what the bag said were State Fair apples starting to wrinkle.”

“Oh no. I forgot about those. A student brought them. But only a week or so ago,” he added hastily, the attractive little apologetic tic returning. “She said it was an unusually early harvest this year and I should try them.”

“They’d have been fine if they’d been in the refrigerator rather than the pantry.”

“I told you. I only dabble in cooking. I’m really quite uneducated.”

“All right.” She narrowed her eyes, but averted them when a smile threatened. “Then this is your first lesson in not wasting food.” She hesitated. “But I apologize for making a mess. I’ll clean it up.”

“You think I’m the least bit worried about the state of the kitchen? It’s brilliant to have it look used for a change. I’m only sorry you felt you had to work. I wanted you to relax.”

“She probably did,” Bonnie said, padding in behind David after leaving her own shoes at the door.

“Yeah. I . . . guess I did.” The truth of her own revelation surprised her.

David studied her a few seconds, seemed to see she meant it, and rubbed his palms together. “All right, fair enough. So can I ask what’s on the menu?”

“Junk Stew for starters.”

“Yum!” said Bonnie.

“Which is?” asked David.

“Pretty much anything you can find to put in the pot,” she said. “I had the chicken, I found a hunk of kielbasa, carrots, celery, onions, a little broccoli, some peas, and frozen corn.”

“Our dad used to make it,” Bonnie explained. “He would put just about anything in it. Even sauerkraut once.”

Rio exchanged wrinkled noses with her and they laughed.

“Sounds awful.”

“It kind of was.”

“What else we got?” The phrase sounded positively Americanized.

She pointed out the apple crisp beside the pie, another glass baking dish topped with mashed potatoes and filled with a green bean hot dish she’d memorized from an old cookbook—the one she’d miss most she’d decided—and a pot of water ready for the broccoli she’d found yellowing in the refrigerator crisper drawer.

“It’s only four-thirty.” Regret tinged David’s voice, and he drew a visible breath through his nose. “But I’d gladly have a go at eating early.”

“I’m going to make biscuits for the stew and cook the broccoli,” she said. “Twenty minutes more. You two could set the table.”

“Set a table?” David chuckled. “The last time I did that it had something to do with my mother being here.”

“I find that hard to believe for a proper duke,” she teased.

It was easy to relax now that she knew David wasn’t going to freak out over her kitchen takeover. And that Bonnie had survived her afternoon.

“What
should
be hard to believe is the duke supping with the scullery maid.” He raised his brows.

“I’d be happy to serve him in his chambers.”

“Oh no. You don’t want to see his chambers.”

In some weird, deep down place that wasn’t true. Very inappropriately, she did want to see them. “Then you’d best get over yourself, Your Highness.”

“English History One-Oh-One,” he replied. “No ‘Highness’ unless it’s royal, and I am not. You may address me as Your Grace.”

She sputtered and then burst out laughing. It felt nice. “Yeah? You can kiss my grace, buddy.”

“Rio.” He surprised her by grasping each of her upper arms and bringing his face close to hers. He smelled of wood shavings and horses—subtle and masculine. “If this were day two of your stay—I would.”

He let her go, and she nearly staggered backward. He winked, oblivious to what his unexpected touch had done.

“I . . .” She turned back to the stove, struggling to show as little frazzle as possible. “You . . . go wash up, the pair of you. And hop to on the table.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes at David. “This is only a little of how bossy she can get.”

Like the laughter, bossy actually felt pretty good. It dispelled the rampaging butterflies in her belly.

“She’s the cook,” he replied. “I guess she gets to make the rules.”

“Darn right,” Rio replied.

David contributed a bottle of white wine that came, he said, from his micro cellar of thirty or thirty-five bottles of wine, which had been stocked almost exclusively with gifts from people who knew far more about choosing good wine than he did. Whatever his lack of expertise, however, the Riesling he poured during supper was delicious. He offered to let Bonnie taste some with Rio’s permission, but Rio unequivocally refused. She wasn’t about to start their stay here off on that foot. Bonnie protested but, once again, in his calm-the-waves way, David simply produced a bottle of sparkling grape juice. His mother, he told Bonnie, was pretty much a teetotaler, so he always kept juice on hand. Bonnie was in good company.

Rio, on the other hand, was hard put to stick to one glass of wine. It was a glass more than she’d had in ages, and even though she sipped it, savoring the mild fruitiness despite wanting to guzzle it like the indulgent treat it was, the warm buzz filled her head, mellowed the conversation, and encouraged more friendly laughter. Bonnie talked about school and classes and where she’d thought about going to college if they moved West. The impromptu cooking session was feeling like a grand success when David pushed his plate away once his third helping of the stew was gone.

“This was brilliant! You are a kitchen wizard.”

She smiled with happy wooziness and drained the last of her wine. “Nah. I can follow a recipe, and I’ve memorized a handful of our staples. Give me a pound of hamburger and some noodles or potatoes and I can make it look good.”

“And taste good,” Bonnie added. “You
are
a great cook, Rio.”

She and Bonnie normally got along fine, but lately she’d spent so much time acting like a parent, such praise between them was rare. Maybe Bonnie was showing off, but regardless the compliment was nice.

“I concur, so far,” David said. “I’m reserving judgment for after the pie.”

“It’s one of her specialties,” Bonnie said.

Rio brought the pie, still hot, to the table and handed David the knife.

“Cut the pieces however you want them. Who’s here to tell us they’re too big?”

“You always tell me.” Bonnie grinned.

“Oh, go for broke. It’s your reward for complimenting the chef.”

“Really? Awesome.” She scooped out a giant slice as did David. Rio had eaten so much at lunch she barely had room for a sliver and opted for watching David’s reaction. It didn’t disappoint.

“This is just wrong,” he moaned through a mouthful, smacking his lips. “Nobody should eat decadence like this.”

“Stop trying to suck up.” Rio laughed. “It’s just apple pie.”

“It’s an Effie Jorgenson–caliber pie,” he corrected. “Around here, that’s the highest compliment we give.”

Despite herself, Rio’s chest swelled with pride. She opened her mouth to brush off the praise with solid Minnesota false modesty, but a loud knock at the back door halted her. David’s brows puckered, and he stood. A moment later he ushered Kim Stadtler into the room.

“Would you like a piece of pie?” he asked. “You’re missing out if you don’t.”

“No thanks.” Kim smiled. “I’m just here to invite you guys, Bonnie and Rio especially, on a trail ride. Jill’s taking some students out to the park to give the horses some fun.”

“A trail ride?” Bonnie’s fork clattered to the plate, the uneaten pie forgotten.

“Who’s going?” David asked.

“I talked Dawson into it.” Kim winked. “Chase might be coming over. Becky Barnes, Angie, Deena, a couple of others.”

“You should go.” David looked at Bonnie and then at Rio. “That’s a great group.”

“Will you come?” Bonnie asked him.

“I could get you out of my hair and get a little paperwork done.” He winked, but Rio wondered how true the sentiment was.

“I don’t know if we’re ready to jump on horses and go riding,” she said, although the idea sent her pulse skittering with excitement. “Shouldn’t we at least practice a little?” She turned to David. “Bonnie’s never been on a horse, and it’s been years for me.”

“But I have been on a horse.” Bonnie exchanged a secret smile with Kim.

“You what? When?”

“I put her up on Jill’s horse, Sun,” Kim replied. “We rode all over the big arena. She did great.”

Rio’s instinct was to grab her sister and run to the nearest padded room. They’d talked about owning horses their entire lives, but dreaming about horses and jumping willy-nilly onto the back of one were two different things.

“Without . . . permission? When I wasn’t here to—”

“To what?” Bonnie demanded, her complimentary voice gone. “To watch over me? Rio, stop worrying, for crying out loud, and start having a little fun of your own.”

“I’m not your mother, Bonnie, but I’m responsible for you.”

“Stop being so responsible then.”

She loaded one last giant bite of pie onto her fork and stuffed it into her mouth. When she’d finished it, she wiped her mouth and stood.