The Independent Bride (7 page)

Then there was the troubling beef contract. She had no idea where to begin, but she was certain it was crucial. Even inexperienced women from St. Louis knew keeping the Indians quiet and on their reservations was the primary job of the army. If she couldn’t deliver the beef, Bryce would certainly see that she lost the store.

Bryce was another problem. Just knowing she was in his house made her acutely aware of the tug of attraction. His behavior with Pamela had convinced her it was only the responsibilities of his position that made him appear cold and forbidding. He was a kind, loving, adoring father, the kind of man every woman hoped to find. Or maybe his attractiveness stemmed from the fact that she felt overwhelmed by her present position and he was willing to let her lean on him. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She was relieved to know he’d be leaving before long.

She didn’t know when she drifted off to sleep. Her dreams seemed to pick up where conscious thought left off. It seemed no time at all until she was jerked awake by the sound of a trumpet blaring from the square. And the unshakable feeling that there was someone else in the room.

“Good morning,” Pamela said when Abby woke with a start. “Will you help me cook breakfast for Daddy?”

Chapter Four

“Doesn’t your father have anyone to cook his breakfast?” Abby asked.

Pamela ignored Abby’s question. “Good morning,” she said to Moriah, who was just waking up. “Did you sleep well?”

“What are you doing up at this hour?” Moriah asked. “It’s still dark outside.”

“It’s five-thirty,” Pamela replied. “Everybody is up.”

“Why?’

“It’s reveille,” Pamela said.

That didn’t mean anything to Abby. She was sure it didn’t mean anything to Moriah, either.

“Everybody has forty-five minutes to get dressed, eat, and be ready for drill.”

Abby looked out the window. “How can they see to drill?”

“It’ll be light by then. Hurry up,” Pamela said. “We don’t have much time.”

Abby wasn’t quite sure how, but she found herself downstairs with Moriah within ten minutes, facing a stove that had gone cold overnight. On a counter near the stove were eggs, bacon, coffee, bowls, large spoons, plates, everything for the making of a substantial breakfast.

“I put all this stuff out before I went up to wake you,” Pamela said, clearly proud of herself. “Daddy’s striker will be in soon, but he’s a terrible cook.”

“Your daddy’s striker?” Abby asked. She had given up any idea of resisting this child and was lighting the fire in the stove.

“That’s what they call the soldiers who work for me officers in their homes,” Pamela informed her. “His name is Zebulon Beecher, but we call him Zeb. The men like to be strikers because they get paid extra, but they’re not any fun. They grumble about having to help with children, and they’re terrible cooks.”

Moriah had already begun to slice bacon. Pamela was breaking eggs into a bowl. Abby ground the coffee. By the time Zeb arrived, they had breakfast well under way.

“We don’t need you to cook today,” Pamela informed Zeb, “but you can stay and have some breakfast.”

Zeb looked utterly confused by the sight of two strange women in the colonel’s kitchen. Abby decided that just because he couldn’t cook didn’t mean he couldn’t be useful.

“You can set the table and pour the milk,” she said.

“I want coffee,” Pamela said.

“What does she normally drink?” Abby asked Zeb.

“Milk.”

“Ask your father. Until be gives permission, you’ll have milk.”

Pamela wanted to argue, but there wasn’t time. As near as Abby could figure, Bryce wouldn’t have more than fifteen minutes to eat before he had to leave for the drill field, though she wasn’t sure if commanders of forts drilled.

“It smells wonderful this morning,” Abby heard Bryce telling Zeb in the dining room. Pamela started to dart from the kitchen.

“Let’s surprise your father,” Abby said. “We’ll wait until Zeb has everything on the table; then we’ll come in and take our seats like fancy ladies who’ve just come down from getting dressed.”

Moriah scowled.

“He’ll know Zeb didn’t cook,” Pamela said.

Nevertheless, they waited while Zeb carried bowls and platters and pitchers from the kitchen into the dining room.

“Can we reach the stairs from here without your father seeing us?” Abby asked.

Pamela grinned. “Follow me.”

There was little
following
to be done. They simply went into the hall from the kitchen and then into the dining room. There were only six rooms downstairs.

“You almost missed breakfast,” Bryce said when they entered. “I don’t know who Zeb got to help him, but everything smells good today.”

“We did it!” Pamela exclaimed, unable to contain her excitement any longer.

Bryce went still. When he turned to his daughter, all the geniality had gone out of his expression. “Explain what you mean,” he said.

Abby could tell Bryce was unhappy and not about to be cajoled by sweet talk or feigned innocence. “Since you were kind enough to let us use your spare bedroom, we wanted to show our appreciation by cooking breakfast. Pamela said Zeb wasn’t a very good cook.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“I don’t remember.”

Pamela had guilt written all over her face. Abby could tell Bryce wasn’t happy, but he couldn’t chastise his daughter without in essence calling Abby a liar.

“It’s not my custom to require guests to cook their own breakfast.”

“We’re not exactly guests,” Abby said, beginning to help herself to eggs and sausage. “We were more or less forced on you.”

Bryce glanced at his daughter. “Pamela has a way of doing that.”

“Which I greatly appreciate. Now stop looking at your toast as if it’s burned and eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

Though there wasn’t me variety their aunt used to serve each morning, there was more than enough food, even for a man as big as Bryce.

“It’s very good,” he said. “The biscuits make everything worthwhile.”

“Moriah made the biscuits,” Abby said. “Hers are a lot better than mine.”

“And the coffee’s just right.”

“I made that, so you can thank me.”

“We thank both of you, don’t we, Pamela?”

“She helped,” Abby said.

“Abby let me break the eggs, and Moriah let me pour the milk for the biscuits.”

Bryce opened his mouth, but Abby forestalled him. “I know what you’re going to say, but I don’t know how we’re to know who she’s talking to unless she uses our names. If you have a solution, we’ll be happy to hear it”

“Give me some time to think about it,” Bryce said. “But in the meantime, you’re to refer to them as Miss Abby and Miss Moriah.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Pamela looked like the cat who got the cream, but she had enough presence of mind to lower her head.

“What do you plan to do today?” Bryce asked Abby.

“Continue work on the store. I don’t want to impose on your hospitality any longer than necessary.”

As Abby had expected, Bryce looked shocked at her expectation that she would continue staying with him.

“I’ll have a sergeant send some enlisted men to help you,” Bryce said. “How many do you need? Six? A dozen?”

Abby nearly laughed at his hurry to get rid of her. “I think three or four would be enough. The storeroom is a mess. I don’t see how the clerk could find anything.”

“I don’t think he tried very hard. Anything else I can do for you?”

“I’ll let you know tonight at supper. Speaking of supper, my sister and I would like to cook that, too. It’s about the only way we can repay your kindness.”

Abby admitted to a slight twinge of guilt over bribing Bryce so blatantly. He couldn’t kick them out without looking ungentlemanly. He couldn’t refuse their offer to cook without appearing ungrateful. Having accepted their offer, he was even less able to throw them out without seeming mean-spirited.

“Please, Daddy,” Pamela pleaded. “I can help.”

“That ought to slow them down considerably,” Bryce observed dryly.

“Every female needs to learn to be comfortable in the kitchen,” Moriah said. “The sooner she begins, the better equipped she is to handle it alone when she marries.”

“I usually dine at six-thirty,” Bryce said, stiff and very regimental. “Make sure Zeb knows he’s to serve and clean up afterward.” He changed the subject. “I expect you’ll have quite a few visitors today.”

“I don’t mean to open the store to customers just yet.”

“I don’t mean customers. I expect every enlisted man without a wife will find a reason to visit the store.”

“Then I will keep the doors locked. I have no intention of getting married.”

“I worked for Abner,” the man said. “You’ll need me to run the store.”

Abby didn’t like Bill Spicer from the moment she set eyes on him. He was slovenly and suffering from a hangover. Knowing he was the man who was often too drunk to wait on customers didn’t make her any better disposed toward him.

“Where were you yesterday?” she asked. “The store was unattended when we arrived.”

“I wasn’t feeling too good, but you don’t have to worry. People write down what they take and pay for it when they come back in.”

“There was nothing written down.”

“Then nobody took anything.”

“I doubt that was the case. In any event, I want to see the records of sales since my father died.”

“I didn’t keep no records.”

“How do you know what was sold, or what to reorder?”

“I keep it in my head.”

“Since your head is full of at least two months’ business, it must be crowded. You’d better write it down before you forget it.”

“I can’t remember all that stuff now.”

“For just how long
can
you remember that stuff?”

“As long as I need to.” He had been sullen. He was now becoming surly.

“I’m afraid that won’t be adequate for me. I need a record of every transaction that takes place in the store.”

“What’s she doing messing with men’s clothes?” Spicer asked, pointing to Moriah. “She can’t wear none of it.”

“She’s trying to put them in order.”

“Won’t do no good. People will just mess them up again.”

“Then we’ll just straighten them again.”

“I won’t find nobody willing to work for me if I set them to straightening stuff all the livelong day.”

“Let’s get one thing straight right now,” Abby said. “My sister and I own this store. Anybody who works here works for
us.
If they don’t want to do what we say, they can look for a job somewhere else.”

“Won’t no man work for a woman,” Spicer said.

“Why not?”

“No man can call hisself a man if he takes orders from a female.”

“I guess that means you won’t be working here.”

Spicer looked startled. Clearly he hadn’t made that connection.

“If you work for me,” Abby said, “you’ll take a bath, put on clean clothes every day, and refrain from drinking spirits until the store closes.”

Spicer looked dumbfounded.

“You will also come to work on time, make a written record of every transaction, and straighten the stock before leaving for the day.”

“You’re crazy,” Spicer exclaimed.

“Those are my conditions.”

“You won’t find nobody to work for you.”

“Then we’ll manage by ourselves. Good day.”

“What about my wages?”

“I’ll pay you when you present me with a record of sales and income. The bank in Denver says nothing has been deposited since our father’s death. Neither my sister nor I have been able to find any money.”

“It’s here
,”
Spicer said, drawing a bag from his coat. Abby took it quickly.

“There doesn’t seem to be much in it.”

“Most everybody buys on credit. They pay up when they get paid.”

“And when is that?”

“Every two months.”

“When do they get paid next?”

“Next month.”

“Where’s the money from last payday?”

“In there,” he said pointing to the bag.

In other words, there was no money. He’d either drunk it up or simply not collected it. “You’re fired,” Abby said.
“If
you can produce a record of sales for these last weeks, and
if
anybody pays for purchases, I’ll give you a percentage. Otherwise, you get nothing.”

Spicer stormed out, making dire threats against them and the store.

The day didn’t improve. Abby had hardly gotten the five soldiers Bryce sent her—Zeb was one of them— assigned to their various tasks when a man showed up and introduced himself as Luther Hinson, the Indian agent.