Plots and Pans (5 page)

Miss Pennyworth took away the vial and stepped back. “You were coming over faint.”

“Culpeppers don’t faint.” Aghast at such weakness, stricken by loss, Jess swallowed a sob.

“You didn’t,” the headmistress assured her. “But you must admit you’re better now.”

Better?
Jess looked up blankly. Nothing could make this better.
My breathing won’t bring him back—but my stubbornness made his lung collapse in the first place. It’s my fault he’s gone
.

She looked back at the letter, needing to be sure. After all, people died of fevers and falls every day. Maybe something else took Papa. Maybe it had nothing to do with that terrible day seven years ago when the bronco threw her, then kicked her father when he tried to reach her.

She gave a strangled cough. Her brother hadn’t seen her in years, but he’d known she’d blame herself. Then again, they both knew she had good reason to feel responsible. Guilt intensified her grief as she scanned the next few lines.

Jess mouthed the words as she read them, remembering happy days filled with sunlight and sage advice when their father taught them everything he knew about ranching. For a moment the memory eased her pain. Then it rushed back, heavier and harder than before.

Jess bowed her head.
She’d
been the fool who’d tried to bust a bronco she had no business riding. If Papa hadn’t been so worried about her, he wouldn’t have jumped into the pen, run past the wild horse, and gotten kicked in the chest. Without that injury, he wouldn’t have struggled through having his lung collapse the other times, and he almost certainly would still be alive.

Miss Pennyworth cleared her throat, breaking into Jess’s self-remonstrance. Abruptly she recalled that a carriage waited for her at the door to take her to her grandparents’ home. She needed to finish reading Ed’s letter and wrestle her emotions under control until she reached the privacy of the carriage. Once alone, she could sit in stunned silence or let her tears fall. But not now. Not here.

Here she paused then scanned back up to reread the passage. The words scattered through her thoughts like buckshot, hitting every possible emotion. Disbelief and hurt that he’d leave her here—abandoned—warred with outrage at his high-handedness. For a moment rage overshadowed the more difficult realms of grief and remorse. Anger lent her strength to keep reading.

Jess couldn’t hold back a snort that her brother’s final worry was whether some man would snatch her away. Obviously he hadn’t been in contact with any of the headmistresses whose schools she’d attended and failed. Otherwise they would have put paid to the notion that any English gentleman would see her as a desirable bride. She’d grown into a woman, but not even seven years of cloistered lessons could turn Jessalyn Culpepper into their idea of a lady.

True ladies didn’t shimmy over terraces, ride astride … or use tuition money to book passage back to Texas. Which was why she wasn’t going to write back and let her brother rest easy.

Jessalyn might not be a lady … but she wasn’t a liar, either.

W
e don’t tolerate that sort of thing at the Bar None.” Tucker fisted his hand around the placket of a grub-liner’s shirt and yanked him down off his horse. When he released his grip, the man stumbled.

“What’re ya talkin’ ’bout?” the stranger sneered. “I wasn’t tryin’ ter steal the thing.”

Tucker hooked his thumb over his belt, drawing attention to the holster against his hip. As foreman, he took the responsibility of wearing his firearm seriously. The other ranch hands weren’t allowed the privilege. “It’s not about stealing, though we don’t tolerate that either.”

“We tried ta tell him, Boss,” Cookie hollered from the door of the mess hall, where he kept vigil. His shout brought a round of solemn nods from the cowboys clustered outside the bunkhouse.

“What’re you jawin’ on ’bout?” the culprit protested. “Didn’t try ter tell me nuthin’.”

“Dig her loose—and don’t be rough about it.” Tucker waited while the cowhand considered.

The man looked from him to the chicken at his feet and scratched his head. “Fer serious?”

A raised brow served for his answer. No sense wasting words on a fool, and Tucker didn’t doubt this man ranked as a fool. In the regular run of things, he probably wasn’t a vicious man. Plenty of cowboys didn’t think Chicken Pickin’ was anything more than an amusing pastime. They figured chickens were for eating, so the manner of killing didn’t much matter. But it had mattered to Simon Culpepper, and the senseless practice stuck in Tucker’s craw, too.

The confused cowhand squatted down and started scooping dirt away from the bird. “Aw right. I didn’t know this’un were some kinda pet. I kin grab another’un jest as easy anyways.”

“Ya might as well try scratchin’ yer ear with yer elbow, mister.” Old Virgil tongued his tobacco to the other cheek and spat into the dirt. “It ain’t the bird ya picked that’s yer problem.”

Burt added, “It’s the game itself what chaps the bosses’ hides. Think it’s cruel.”

“Cruel? How is it any crueler’n branding a calf?” With a loud squawk, the hapless hen escaped from the loosened earth around her, flapping her wings in the face of the startled cowhand.

“You want us to bury you up to your neck and line up to gallop by, trying to pull you out?” Tucker waited for the man’s vehement protests to end then added, “You know we brand because we have to identify who the cattle belongs to. It’s not done for sport, and it doesn’t kill them.”

“They all get butchered and chickens go from the coop to the kettle, so what’s the fuss?” He didn’t sound belligerent, just baffled, so Tucker gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“You work with animals. Horses, cattle … you know they have a strong instinct for survival and show fear when they’re cornered. Am I right?” He waited until the man—and several of the others—nodded their understanding. “Chickens are no different that way. So when you start burying the chicken, it’s helpless and scared. When a great big horse thunders by, almost trampling it, it’s even more frightened. And if someone manages to grab hold and pull it loose without strangling the poor thing or breaking its neck, that little bird has been put through the wringer.”

“That’s a terrible truth, Boss.” The man looked humbled. “Never thought of it like that.”

“Good.” Tucker shrugged. “It’s just mean-spirited to treat any living thing that way.”

“I get what yer sayin’!” The grub-line rider snapped his fingers. “Kill the bird first!”

At that Tucker stopped talking and simply walked away. He wasn’t going to keep arguing with a man who boasted less brains than the bird. Besides, he’d promised Ed he’d swing by the ranch house after dinner to discuss a few things.

“C’mon in!” Ed invited in response to Tucker’s halfhearted holler from the front porch.

Tucker let himself through the front door and headed for the study, only to find Ed in the dining room. Again. Sending up a thankful prayer that he’d already eaten in the mess hall, Tucker wandered in. He waved howdy when Desta bustled through the kitchen door and relaxed when he realized she was clearing the table. No chance for him to hurt her feelings by refusing food.

“Grab a chair.” Ed gestured toward his left. “You can join me for some dessert.”

Tucker paused in the act of pulling out a seat. He muttered so Desta wouldn’t hear. “I filled up at the mess hall. You know good and well that I told you I’d swing by
after
supper ended.” Ed invited him for supper, but he couldn’t fool Tucker into that situation twice. Miss Desta might be a paragon of womanly virtues in every other area, but she couldn’t cook a square meal if someone laid it out at right angles for her in advance.

A mischievous grin lit his friend’s face. “Stop giving me the hairy eyeball. According to Desta, cooking and baking are as different as mules and mares. One’s too stubborn and ornery for her to get a handle on, the other settles in sweet and works out every time. You’re in for a treat.”

“I’ve known some women who could cook but not bake, but never the other way around.” Tucker sank down into his seat, reluctantly intrigued. Come to think of it, Desta’s disastrous stew came with unblemished biscuits last time.

Ed gave a great, loud sniff as Desta backed into the room, a pie in each hand. “Those pies sure do smell wonderful. Are they sweet potato?”

“One’s sweet potato, and the other’s pecan. I planned to serve the pecan tomorrow, but since Mr. Carmichael joined us in time, I figured you might like a choice. Or even a slice of each.”

“Please call me Tucker,” he reminded. “Otherwise I can’t go on calling you Miss Desta.” While she thought it over and finally gave him a nod of agreement, he took the opportunity to eye the pies. They looked tempting, but Ed played the trickster often enough to make a wise man pause.

“Pecan, please.” Tucker decided to try one before committing to a slice of both. There’d be no harm asking for a second slice, but trying to swallow a set might prove an impossible task.

“Both for me!” Ed slanted him a sideways look that said he knew Tucker doubted him. “Sometimes two are better than one!”

Soon the only sounds at the table were the scraping of forks and the gobbling of two truly superior pies. Sweet and satisfying, baked goods lulled a man into a contented stupor. A reliable reaction Miss Desta must have planned to use to her advantage. As soon as they’d eaten their fill and let their forks fall, she dabbed her lips with a napkin and let fly what was on her mind.

“Speaking of two being better than one,” she began as though there hadn’t been a twenty-minute, dessert-devouring interlude since Ed’s comment, “I’m hoping you’ll agree with me, Mr. Tucker, that my nephew needs to send for Jessalyn as soon as possible. That girl’s been away from home for far too long, and it’s only natural to keep family near after a loss. The pair of them will do better together than apart.”

Tucker registered that she’d used his name, but the rest of her speech left him tongue-tied. He turned to Ed, unable to tell the well-meaning housekeeper that he thought her niece should stay as far away from the ranch as possible, for as long as possible, until things settled down. There surely weren’t any appropriate words to say that. Given what he remembered of little Jessalyn Culpepper, she’d bring along more trouble than the Bar None was equipped to handle just yet. Women—especially women who didn’t know what they were doing—made a powerful liability.

But he couldn’t say that to another woman—especially one who’d proven she didn’t know what she was doing when it came to cooking up a main meal. Or, to look at it another way, a woman who was the disastrous young lady’s loving aunt. Tucker knew he’d bring a heap of trouble down on his own head, so instead he kept his mouth shut and waited for the majority owner of the ranch—not to mention brother of the problem in question—to handle Miss Desta’s demand.

Ed finally sighed and bellied up to his responsibility. “Now, Aunt Desta, I already explained to you why it’s just not possible to bring Jess back until the fall. There was no cause for you to ambush poor Tucker like that. When it’s all said and done, the decision belongs to me.”

“Well, the decision might belong to you, but I figured you’d be open to some good advice before you went and settled on the wrong one.” She started to sound huffy, and Tucker wondered how long it would be before she started shaking an admonishing finger at her errant nephew.

It’d probably be entertaining, so long as she didn’t try and drag him into it again.

“You’re thinking with your heart; I’m thinking about what’s practical for the ranch. You know what’s practical for the ranch is what’s best for all of us, Jess included,” Ed defended.

“Calving season, roundups, cattle drives, and so on.” Desta waved away their lives’ work as though it were less than air. “It’s all taken precedence over yore sister for seven years. Why doesn’t yore own flesh and blood matter more to you than a bunch of cows you replace every year?”