Tall, Dark, and Determined (16 page)

“What's more, I intend to prove it.”

    THIRTEEN    

H
ow do you want to do this?” Jake tracked Dunstan where his friend camped out in the woods near town. The previous evening the women ate apart from the men, leaving Jake to explain about the incident with Twyler while they avoided any potential fray.

Jake didn't blame them. Even with the worst of the rabble forced onto a train out of town, every man left in Hope Falls nursed bruised knuckles and egos from the town-wide brawl the day before. If they caught sight of a woman, each and every one would start yammering, either bragging how they bested another man or bawling for sympathy over an underserved assault.

And they'd be barking up the wrong tree. None of the Hope Falls women had any patience for fools who began brawls, exacerbated one, or opened his fat mouth in a way sure to make his defeated opponent demand a rematch. Only the men who sustained their injuries trying to end the brouhaha would be welcomed warmly by the women. But Clump, Lawson, and Riordan wouldn't ask for accolades, even when they could use the aid.

Not even Lawson, the mild-tempered engineer, nor Clump, nor the behemoth Scots-Irish bear of a logger escaped without a bruised rib or two. The only three men unmarked by the town-wide scuffle were a bedridden Braden Lyman, his doctor, and the squeamish Mr. Draxley. This last reportedly took to his heels at the first sign of trouble and hid out in the telegraph office.

These men, along with the women who brought out the worst in them, all became Dunstan's motley mess the moment Jake left.
No wonder he's glaring at me fit to tear a strip from my hide
.

Jake held up his hands to both apologize and ward off that glower. “Dumb question. You don't
want
to deal with any of this at all. But you're going to, so I'd like to know your plan.”

Dunstan grunted, yanking tent pegs from the ground in orderly succession. “Seeing as how you didn't tell your men why I'm here, I'll have to start there. Clump and Riordan already spread the word about yesterday's clash by the train tracks, so the others will circle with caution before challenging me.”

“I forgot your tendency to predict human behavior as though you were still dealing with wildlife.” Jake chuckled. “Even worse, you're right. Clump and Riordan's praise establishes you as someone not to be messed with, but it's Williams's silence that cements your reputation. I can't tell you how impressed everyone is that you managed to shut his yap for a while.”

“Didn't hit him hard enough to break his jaw. Why'd he stop wagging it?” Dunstan plunged the pegs in a small canvas sack, folded his one-man tent down, and nestled both in his pack.

“For all his faults, and he boasts a slew of those, Williams isn't a liar. If he can't find a way to make the truth look good, he keeps it to himself.” Jake riffled Decoy's ears. “But him gritting his teeth tells the story even better than Clump's recitations. The few comments Riordan's thrown out about how you handle yourself finish off any lingering doubts.”

“Then I won't expect much trouble from the men. Safe to say Williams will wait awhile before he risks being beaten again.”

“Never thought the men would be the ones to give you trouble.” Jake grinned, but wiped the smile from his face before Dunstan turned that glower on him again. “What about the women?”

“I'll deal with the women same as I've always dealt with women.” Dunstan shouldered his pack and started walking. At the movement, Decoy abandoned Jake to follow. “Make sure they're safe and otherwise keep as far out of their way as possible.”

“Keep away from him, Lace.” Evie bustled back from the storeroom with an apron full of strawberries. “He'll be busy keeping an eye on the men or out hunting in the forest, so your paths won't cross much unless you're determined to make trouble.”

“Me
make trouble?” Lacey saw red, and it wasn't just the strawberries tumbling onto one of the kitchen tables.
How typical that I'd be blamed for causing difficulties when they're thrust upon me!
“You know our paths already crossed once.”

Fuming, she wrapped a towel around her right hand, opened the oven door, and slid forward one of the piping-hot bread pans. The enveloping, yeasty scent of fresh-baked bread beckoned her with a temporary distraction. Reaching forward, she gently flicked the top with her left middle finger, testing for the slightly hollow thump that told of finished loaves. Satisfaction blossomed, lending her a measure of composure and allowing her to form a logical response rather than an all-out attack.

“In any case,
I'm
not the one who hired on new help when it wasn't my place. Granger overstepped his bounds, Dunstan followed, and you did the same by supporting your fiancé's schemes rather than your business partner's wishes.”

“Lacey! Your mother taught you better than to lash out in anger, much less deliver such low blows.” Naomi's disappointment twinged her conscience. “Cora and I agreed to hire on Dunstan.”

“I didn't imply anyone would cause trouble.” Lacey sniffed as she carried her loaves to the large worktable set along the wall next to the outside door. Here, where she baked bread at least twice a week, Lacey claimed a corner of Evie's kitchen. “If you see facts as insults, I suggest you look to your own consciences. For my part, I feel I'm the one struck down. When I left the room and could no longer speak for myself, rather than looking out for my interests
—our
interests—and giving me a voice in the proceedings, you deliberately undermined me.”

You wanted me out of the way, so you could do what you wanted. Same as Papa and Braden
. She drew a shaky breath, focusing intently on her small corner of the kitchen and excluding the rest of the room the same way they'd excluded her the night before. Let them talk among themselves now; she wasn't ready to listen to any excuses. Not when Evie started out by throwing down the gauntlet and accusing Lacey of stirring up trouble. The other women could look to themselves.

Lacey would look to her loaves. Only here, a safe distance away from the flurry of activity and pots bubbling atop the stove, did she turn loaves from their pans, tap their bottoms, and pronounce another batch ready to cool atop the windowsill. For a loaf to slice well, without the bread squishing down into sad smooshes, it needed cooling for two or three hours.

Bread is easy that way
, Lacey acknowledged.
My temper heats, and I haven't finished cooling down by the next day!
But tempers weren't loaves of bread popped in the oven and baked.
It takes repeated tries before someone manages to fire my temper
.

She placed the two loaves on the sill, took a crock of butter, and regreased the pans before setting the next two loaves—already neatly rolled with ends folded beneath—inside. With their seam-sides down and tops bathed in a generous brushing of melted butter, this next batch would take about three quarters of an hour to complete a second rising.

Lacey peeked beneath the towels covering two waiting pans, judged these loaves roughly doubled in size, and lightly pressed the tip of her finger near the edge to see if an indentation remained. It did. Those towels went to cover the latest batch. These were off to the oven, and Lacey returned to her station before any of the other women caught her in their conversation.

Mr. Dunstan managed to ignite my temper in such a short time
, she marveled.
Did he intend to, or did he blunder into it?
Maybe he got on her bad side purely by behaving like every other man who'd told her she couldn't possibly take care of herself.

Huffing at the insulting notion, she pulled her largest bowl across the table, whisked away its cover, and pressed in two fingers to the depth of her first joint. The dough did not spring back, having risen sufficiently for the next phase. This, though Lacey was loath to admit it, was her favorite part of baking bread. In fact, watching cook punch the dough down, turn it out upon a floured tabletop, and begin kneading the mixture so fascinated her as a child she begged to learn.

There'd been no time before, nor since, when she'd seen a woman permitted to punch anything, much less push and pull and test her strength against it. The power of imposing one's will on something else and forcing it into the form of one's choosing, Lacey knew well, was a privilege enjoyed only by men.

Entirely unfair!
She cried against this injustice as she rolled up her sleeve and punched the dough, feeling it billow about her fist before deflating far lower.
I'm capable!
She turned the dough atop her floured table, sprinkled it with still more flour, and folded the whole of it toward herself.

There's no reason I can't learn new things
. She pushed down with the heels of her hands, feeling the cool mass obey her motions as she folded it again.
Find new interests
. Lacey spun the lump a quarter turn before pulling it back.
And master them!

She rhythmically worked the mound for a couple of moments before reaching for her knife. A swift, decisive stroke severed it in two. A few swift motions, and two smooth balls sat beneath their towel for a brief rest. Next she'd use a pin to flatten each ball then tightly roll them into the desired loaves.

“Are you even listening?” A voice almost directly beside her ear made Lacey jump. Naomi reared back, as startled as she. But her cousin recovered more quickly, disapproval tightening her features. “That's what I thought. You spoke your piece and didn't bother listening to anyone else's. For shame, Lacey.”

“I don't have time for remonstrances.” Lacey knew from practice she'd have just enough time to mix another batch of dough, perform the initial long kneading, and leave it for first rising before the pans in the oven were ready to come out. So she truly didn't have time to listen to Naomi's chiding, even if she'd tucked some spare patience away to call forth. Nor did she feel inclined to deal with the hot slide of shame loosening the anger at the back of her throat.
If I start talking, I don't know what I'll say. Apologizing isn't right because I won't entirely mean it, and I'm sure I'll just make things worse by trying to make it all right again. Why can't they let me be?

“That's a nice trick.” Cora slid into her path, forcing Lacey to step around her. “But we're not going to let you get away with it. You can't just opt out of a conversation.”

“Why not?” She dodged Cora and kept on moving.

The first time she'd tried to make a dozen loaves in one morning, she'd run about breathless for hours, always a step behind. The next time she treated the entire production as a painstaking ballet of baking, allowing significant lengths of time between the starts and stops of each stage so she wouldn't miss a step. It worked, but it took an entire day.

So the third time, Lacey choreographed more carefully. If she staggered loaves in different stages of preparation throughout the kitchen, moving fluidly from one space to the next to keep each post ready, she finished the fastest. Today the practice would serve her well. Nothing and no one would keep her in that kitchen an instant longer than necessary!