Dancing alone gets old fast. " The words hung between them. An unspoken invitation, or perhaps just a statement of fact. Margaret kept her eyes on her sewing. Well, if there happens to be dancing, and if partners happen to be scarce, more happenstance, Mrs. Sullivan.
Margaret, she said softly. In the evenings, when it's just conversation, et. Saturday dawned clear and crisp. Margaret packed her pies carefully in the wagon. She'd volunteered to contribute to the communal supper that preceded the dance.
Jake appeared in his best clothes, dark trousers, white shirt, black vest, and a coat that showed city tailoring despite its age. He looked, she thought, with a flutter, quite distinguished. The ride to town passed quickly. Jake pointed out landmarks, told stories of the ranch's early days, even laughed at her account of her first week's disasters. It was the most relaxed she'd ever seen him, as if leaving the ranch boundaries allowed him to leave some of his burdens behind in town.
Margaret shopped with careful attention to her small savings. New plates would have to wait, but she bought fabric for proper curtains, some spices the general store had finally gotten in stock, and indulgence of indulgences, a small bottle of rosewater. Jake had given her money for ranch supplies, but she kept careful track of every penny. The dance hall was already crowded when they arrived. Margaret's pies disappeared quickly, earning her compliments from the ranchwives, who'd previously eyed her with suspicion.
The widow from Philadelphia who'd shone up to cook for Jake Caldwell had been the subject of much speculation. She knew. You're doing a fine job out there, Mrs. Morrison said, her tone slightly warmer than their first meeting. The Circle M boys are looking well-fed for the first time in years. Thank you, Margaret said.
I had a good teacher. She held up the cookbook Jake had loaned her. Old recipes, but reliable. Is that Anna Caldwell's book? An older woman peered at it with interest.
I knew her years ago. Lovely woman. Terrible shame what happened. Before Margaret could ask more, the musicians struck up a lively reel. Cowboys descended on the gathered women like bees to flowers.
Margaret found herself swept onto the floor by an enthusiastic young rancher who stepped on her feet more than the boards. She endured two dances before begging off, retreating to the refreshment table. Surviving the social whirl. She turned to find Jake beside her, amusement flickering in his eyes. He'd been dancing with Mrs. Henderson, who did indeed appear to have talked through the entire set.
Barely, she admitted. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is to pretend your feet aren't being murdered. Here, he handed her a cup. Lemonade from the safe pitcher. They stood together, watching the dancers spin past.
The musician switched to a slower waltz and Margaret felt Jake shift beside her. Would you? He cleared his throat. That is your feet have had time to recover. Are you asking me to dance, Jake?