She resumed kneading with perhaps more force than necessary. And now you know why a refined Philadelphia widow is burning biscuits in a Texas ranch kitchen. We all have our reasons for being here. Jake said, "Tom will heal clean thanks to you. That matters more than perfect biscuits.
" He started to leave, then turned back. There's apple pie in my mother's book, page 47. The men haven't had pie in months. Might make them forget this morning's breakfast disaster. A challenge and a kindness wrapped in one.
Margaret found herself almost smiling. Assuming I can manage the oven temperature. You'll manage. You've got stubborn written all over you. After he left, Margaret attacked the bread with renewed energy.
She would make this work. Not just because she had nowhere else to go, but because somewhere between burned biscuits and broken bones, she'd begun to feel something she hadn't experienced in months. Useful. The apple pie turned out lopsided, but edible. She'd forgotten to add sugar at first, remembered just in time, and probably added too much in compensation.
The crust was thick in some places, thin in others. But when she set it on the table after dinner, a successful meal of beef stew, properly seasoned this time, fresh bread and boiled carrots, the cowboy's faces lit up like children at Christmas. Pie, someone exclaimed. Hot damn. Excuse me, ma'am.
Hot dog. We got pie. Even Jake's stoic expression cracked slightly as he took a bite. Not bad, Mrs. Sullivan. Not bad at all.
It's too sweet, she said critically. It's pie, Tom said from his place at the table. Eating left-handed. Could be made of sawdust and we'd still love it. The men laughed and suddenly the kitchen felt warmer, more alive.
Margaret found herself smiling as she served seconds to eager cowboys who complimented her with their enthusiasm more than any Philadelphia Society matron ever had with polite words. Save room for tomorrow, she warned. I'm attempting donuts if I can figure out the oil temperature. Donuts? A cowboy named Bill looked ready to weep with joy.
Ma'am, if you make donuts, I'll marry you myself. Get in line, another said, and the table erupted in good-natured ribbing. Enough, Jake said. But Margaret caught the slight upturn of his mouth. Mrs. Sullivan isn't here for your entertainment.
As the men filed out, each thanking her more profusely than the last, Margaret felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the stove. She'd fed them, tended their hurt, made them smile. It was harder work than she'd ever done, but somehow more satisfying, too. Jake was the last to leave. He paused at the door, looking back at her, standing amid the dinner debris, apron stained and hair escaping its pins.