“Try Brooklyn,” he said, and he turned his back and made his way down the hall.
“Despicable SOB,” she muttered as she slammed the door.
But at least he was on his feet. After that fall last night—not that she cared. For all it mattered to her, Mr. Despicable could spend the next few days in the emergency room, except that he’d never get there in weather like this.
And she’d never get out of here.
No plane.
How long before there’d be one? It depended on the weather, meaning there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Meanwhile, she was stuck here with a man who had all the charm of a mongoose and when she finally headed home, it would be to no job, not even any job prospects.
Not good. Not good at all.
But she wasn’t going to let herself think about that. Or about last night. She was going to keep busy. Keep occupied.
The question was how.
Fortunately, the answer was simple.
She’d cook.
Not for Gentry. Let him scrounge for himself. She’d cook for the six ranch hands, the cowboys who had been so effusive in praise of her Spam casserole last night. They were downstairs now; she’d heard the back door open and close several times, heard the murmur of male voices.
As for what she’
d cook…
She had no idea. Last night’s search through the kitchen hadn’t turned up much, but she’d find something and, by God, she would cook it. What was the name of that amazing food writer who’d written a book about basically turning nothing into a meal?
If M.F.K. Fisher could do it, so could she.
Lissa pulled on an extra sweater, yanked her hair into a ponytail, and headed downstairs.
* * *
She found the men milling uncertainly in the dining room, mugs of steaming coffee in their work-roughened hands.
They turned toward her as she walked briskly into the room, their weathered faces sporting immediate grins.
“Mornin’, Ms.Wilde,” six voices chorused.
“Good morning. I see you all managed to get here from the bunkhouse.”
Ace nodded. “Yes ma’am. We got a roped path we follow. Amazin’ how a body can get lost tryin’ to walk twenty feet in a whiteout like this without somethin’ to guide him.”
Lissa nodded. That was a basic heavy-snow, blowing-wind survival skill. You grew up on a ranch or a farm in snow country, you heard all the warnings by the time you were a toddler.
“That coffee smells wonderful.”
Gus blushed. “I jes’ made it,” he said, nodding his head at the huge pot on the sideboard. “I’d be honored to pour you a cup.”
“Not just now, thank you. I want to check out the pantry. I’m hoping I missed something that I can turn into breakfast.”
“Maybe there’s still some flour,” one of the men said hopefully, “and lard and sugar.”
“Hens probably laid us some eggs,” another man said.
Lissa nodded. She could turn that into pancakes of one kind or another.