“Where in tarnation did you learn to cook chicken pie?”
“Well…” The child hedged.
“Where, Mary Alice?”
“I didn’t, actually. Miss Blackburn came by.”
Garth tensed at the mention of the pretty teacher. “What was she doing here?”
“She was worried ’cause I hadn’t been in school.”
“None of her damn business whether you’re in school, girl.”
“She’s the teacher.”
“Still none of her business. So she taught you how to make chicken pie, did she? Thought her job was readin’ and writin’. And cypherin’.”
“She didn’t teach me. She…uh…she made the pie. Said if we liked it she’d write down the recipe and I could make it again for you.”
“She was in my kitchen makin’ supper?” Damn woman had a lot of gall. He looked around. The room was spotless. “Did she clean, too?”
“Well…”
“Answer me, girl.”
“Y-Yes. She cleaned the kitchen. But I did the laundry and tidied the front room.”
“I ought
to throw that pie out for the pigs.”
“Pa, please!”
His stomach growled, louder this time, and from the wide-eyed look on Mary Alice’s face, he knew she’d heard it.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you, girl?”
“Yes.”
“You want to eat this pie.”
“Yes. And the cornbread, too.”
Cornbread? Damnation. “What else did she do?”
“Just that. Well…and the loaf that’s rising. For our breakfast tomorrow. I’m supposed to put it in the oven after dinner and let it bake until it’s golden brown on top and sounds hollow when I flick my fingernail against the crust.”
Garth glanced at the loaf next to the stove. Though covered, clearly it was rising high. Fluffy bread like Lizzie used to make. How long had it been since he’d had a decent slice of bread?
So they’d eat Miss Blackburn’s creations. Mary Alice deserved a good meal. She worked hard for him, for the farm, and got little in return.
Yep, he’d eat this savory-smelling chicken pie and the sweet-smelling cornbread. Even the wheat bread in the morning. Not for himself, of course. For Mary Alice.
Tomorrow he’d pay a call to Miss Ruth Blackburn.
Chapter Three
The crimson river meandered down the pale neck of the dying man. Raspy moans, shallow inhalations. Blood trickled against the dull edge of Garth’s blade. When he finally eased it out of the man’s flesh, his hands were covered with the scarlet stickiness.