Carla Kelly (18 page)

It pained her to relegate the crew to another evening of canned food, but there was no way to use the Queen Atlantic yet. She had managed to wrestle the grate out of the clogged firebox, and it leaned outside the door, ready for her to tackle in the morning. She had propped the oven door against the icebox, and the oven shelf was soaking outside in a concoction of Sapolio and ammonia that she mixed in desperation.

Canned food it would be, cooked and eaten in the bunk-house again, which at the moment looked far cleaner than the kitchen. She sent James off to supper and resigned herself to an evening devoted to subduing the Queen Atlantic.

She heard Mr. Otto and Doc ride into the yard when it was full dark. To her relief, and then her guilt, neither man stopped at the house. After they spent time in the barn, she heard the bunkhouse door slam.
I have driven my employer out of his own house,
she thought with chagrin as she struggled to chisel off another layer of grease from the range top.

She ached everywhere from bending over the cooking range for the better part of the day but nowhere worse than her back. Her eyes burned from the soot, and her hair was as dark as Mr. Otto's now and itching her scalp in the worst way. “ ‘A successful cook is a dainty cook,’ ” she muttered grimly under her breath, remembering the saying over the blackboard in the fancy cooking lecture hall.

The stove defeated her finally. Both hands pushing against the small of her back and beyond caring about the sticky table top, she perched herself on it and stared at the Queen Atlantic. “You are a monster,” she told it, already dreading the days ahead. She sniffed herself and wondered if the smell of old grease would follow her around from now on like an evil perfume. Her hands were cracked and bleeding, her carefully manicured nails chipped and broken.

Maybe the Queen will look better in the morning,
she thought, not stirring from the table.
By the end of the week, I can have it positively gleaming.
She shook her head.
If I live that long.

Someone knocked. With a groan she could not stifle, Julia turned her head to the open door. “Mr. Otto, you needn't knock,” she said. “It's your house, although you probably would not recognize it right now, I suppose.”

Without a word, he sat next to her on the table and looked at the cookstove. He started to say something but then shook his head and continued to stare at the dismantled oven, still deep in grease. Finally, he handed her the bowl he was carrying. “Pears,” he said. “Nothing else in the bunkhouse looked edible. Malloy said you haven't eaten all day.”

She took the bowl, contemplated its contents, and then set it aside. “Maybe later,” she murmured. “I'm too tired to lift a spoon.”

“Maybe now,” he replied, reaching for the bowl. “Sit down.”

Too tired to argue, she did as he said, getting off the table and seating herself. Mr. Otto sat beside her, watching her until she speared a pear and dragged it to her mouth. She chewed, tasted nothing but grit, swallowed, speared another section, and then another until he looked away.

“We leave at first light for the open range north and west of here,” he told her. “Keep eating. Two of my cousins from the Wind River Rez will likely show up tomorrow or the day after. They speak English, so just tell them we're starting at the range beyond McLemore's. I hire them every roundup.”

She nodded and pushed away the bowl. Mr. Otto pushed it back, so she picked up her spoon again. “Curtis McLeish and Dan Who Counts. They won't scare you.”

She managed a smile. “I might scare them. I look a fright.”

He sighed, and she knew the whole kitchen was making him uneasy. “This really is a coolie job, isn't it?”

She nodded. “I'll have it so clean you won't recognize it, provided the roundup lasts about a year or two.” She felt more hopeful when he laughed and brave enough to set down the spoon.

“Fourteen days, tops, Darling, and then we expect a fabulous meal.” He picked up her hand, looked at the broken nails, and put the spoon back in her grip. “I have a pair of lady's kid riding gloves I'll leave on the table in the morning. They'll be a little big, but they might keep your fingers from dropping off.”

She finished the pears as he sat there, gratified that the last few spears tasted more like fruit and less like the Queen Atlantic. A wave of exhaustion swept over her, so she pushed the bowl away and pillowed her head on her arms. “I'm just going to rest my eyes for a few minutes, Mr. Otto,” she murmured. “Then I'll get back to it.”

The morning sun was making a faint impression on the sooty window when Julia woke, stiff almost beyond pain. Her head was still resting on her arms, but Mr. Otto must have put the quilt around her shoulders.
I wonder if I can straighten up,
she thought. She did finally and turned around slowly, hoping the Queen Atlantic had disappeared during the night.

She stared at the range top. “Oh my stars,” she said. “My stars.”

The lard bucket was brimful of old grease. Salt lay scattered on the range top, which was almost free of grease now. Just a little more scouring with the salt and some warm water would remove what remained. “My stars,” she whispered again, wondering how many hours Mr. Otto had stayed awake and thinking of his own long day, which had begun with him thrown from his horse when she blew out the creosote.
I don't deserve this,
she thought as she got up and ran her hand across the range top. “Maybe you are a beautiful old girl,” she told the cookstove. “And maybe I'm a beggar too.”

A glance out the door told her much more than the sooty window could. The sun was well up, and even now she could hear James yawning in the back room where he slept. She went to the wash basin to make an attempt on her hands and face. There was a shaving mirror tacked to the wall above the basin, but she was grateful to be too short to see into it. She washed her face and took some solvent to her hands, gritting her teeth when the solution flamed each tiny nick in her skin.

The result did not satisfy her, but she knew there was not going to be a remedy for it until the Queen Atlantic had been restored to its former charms. She looked back at the cookstove, amazed at Mr. Otto's perseverance and the depths of her own exhaustion, to have remained oblivious as he must have scraped and chipped all night at the stubborn grease.

She stood in the door and watched Matt Malloy back the horses to the doubletree of the wagon that was loaded now with what looked like bedrolls. As she walked closer, Julia recognized branding irons and cans of food neatly stacked in boxes. “I thought calves were branded in the spring,” she asked Matt as he harnessed the team.

“They are. But in the fall we always find a few more that escaped us. If we can brand them before they leave their mothers, then they're still ours. Isn't that right, Boss?”

Mr. Otto must have walked up from the river. His hair was wet, and he smelled of Ivory soap. Suspenders still hung below his waistband, and he wore moccasins. “Yep. Morning, Darling. Walk with me, if you will. It'll just be you and James for two weeks, so I want to tell you what to expect.”

She did as he said, keeping her distance because Mr. Otto was so clean. “Something I said?” he asked finally.

“No!” Julia laughed. “I'm so dirty!” She stopped walking. “Mr. Otto, thank you for cleaning that range top. Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“Oh, not much,” he said, and he sounded a little shy. “Doesn't matter. You needed the help.” He stopped in front of the ranch house. “I told you about my cousins. Just send’ em on.”

She nodded. “Curtis Scots Name and Dan Who Counts. I'll listen for James at night.”

“McLeish. Good. Now you might not care for this, but I left a loaded pistol on the shelf above the bureau in my room. If anyone—and I mean anyone—shows up that looks even a little scary, shoot'em.”

“I couldn't!” she exclaimed.

“You ought to keep an open mind about that,” he suggested. “Alice Marlowe might visit. Don't shoot her!”

She stayed outside while he went inside the house, coming out in a moment wearing socks and carrying his boots. He sat down on the step and pulled them on. “I can't think of anything else, except that we'll probably have several ranchers with us when we return who'll want to check out your cooking.” He glared nowhere in particular. “But
not
marry you!”

He was halfway to the wagon when he turned around. “We have a tin tub in the horse barn. But if the weather stays nice like this, I recommend that spot where the cot-tonwoods overhang the river. It's plenty deep for you. Ivory floats too. See you in two weeks, Darling.”

he worked hard all afternoon. Mr. Otto had chipped loose the worst of the grease from the Queen Atlantic's interior, and that mere fact of benevolence made her writhe inside with her own ill-use of him, no matter how unintentional. The work was like soap and water applied to her soul. She doggedly chipped away years of culinary disasters, earning a relief from her distress that felt remarkably like restitution.

James was content to help. He was a good worker, not objecting when she gave him orders and set him to tasks of his own. He didn't even complain of hunger throughout the long day. When the sun was low and her stomach started to rumble, she realized that neither of them had eaten anything since breakfast.

“You should have said something, James,” she told him, as she finally sat down at the table. He grinned at her, and she knew he was probably not used to the most regular hours for meals. “But you don't complain much, do you? I should take lessons.”

James moved his chair closer to her. Touched, she put her hand on his shoulder. “But you don't mind canned food, do you? Or dirty hands? Or even that I don't measure up?”

He shook his head. “I guess I don't mind anything, Mr. Darling,” he said.

“I'm just Julia.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think you haven't been around ladies too much, have you?” she asked.

“No, sir. You smell nice.”

“Not at the moment, James, but you're kind to say so,” she replied.

Still she sat. “I like pears, Mr. Darling,” James commented in an offhand way.

“So do I,” she told him, wincing as she got to her feet. “What about pears, cheese, and crackers?”

Since the can dump was gone, she took the food outside. They sat on the front step, the food between them. James reached for a cracker, but she put her hand on his. “I think I should ask a blessing on the food.”