shamefully."
She shrugged. "Just doing my job."
"None of the other cooks ever kept food warm for the man who worked through dinner."
"From what I've heard, none of them cooked anything worth keeping warm," Carla said dryly.
Ten bent over the ladle and inhaled. "Damn, but that smells really fine. What's in it?"
"You wouldn't believe me."
"Sure I would."
"The usual things, plus bourbon and juniper berries.
Ten blinked. He sniffed again. "Juniper berries?"
"Think of them as Rocking M peppercorns."
"You think of them. I'm going to eat before you tell me something I don't want to know."
Cosy's voice called plaintively from the next room. "Hey, ramrod, you planning on sharing any of that with the men what do the real work or are you going to keep it all for yourself?"
"Don't get your water hot," Ten retorted. "If we fed you on the basis of work, you'd have starved to death long before now."
Carla just managed to remove the smile from her face before she walked into the dining room carrying a tray of steaming biscuits and a pot of dark mountain honey. Ten followed with the big bowls of stew. The food vanished shortly after it was put on the table.
The speed with which Carla's cooking disappeared no longer appalled her, for she had become accustomed to thinking in terms of feeding men who routinely burned three and four thousand calories a day. During roundup, branding, calving and other seasonally demanding kinds of work, the men would work sixteen-hour days, during which they would eat a minimum of four big meals and all the "snacks" they could cram into their pockets, saddlebags or the glove compartments of their pickup trucks.
Before Carla sat down to eat, she went back to the kitchen with the stew bowls, filling them again from the much-reduced volume of the cooking pot. After bringing the new bowls of stew, plus coffee refills, two more trays of biscuits and a new pot of honey, she sat down and ate her own dinner.
She didn't lack for company; the men who weren't polishing off second helpings were working their way through a third plate. By the time she had eaten her first – and only – serving, the men were through eating. It was the part of the meal Carla enjoyed most, for the full, satisfied men tended to sharpen their wits on one another while she brought in dessert.
Sometimes it was Carla who came in for her share of ribbing, but she enjoyed even that. It reminded her of the good-natured give-and-take she and Cash shared – and Luke, too, until that disastrous summer.
"What's this I hear about you running off tomorrow and leaving us to starve?" Cosy asked as he mopped up the last of the savory gravy with a biscuit.
"True," Carla said cheerfully. "I've saved up some days off."
"And you're going to run off to the city and never think of the brokenhearted boys you left behind."
"Actually," Carla said, standing up and gathering dirty plates, "I'm running off to September Canyon."
"Same difference," mumbled Cosy.
"It is?"
"Sure. We'll starve just the same."
"You can live off the fat of the land," Ten pointed out to Cosy.
"Speak for yourself, boy. I'm trim as a rattlesnake and twice as mean."
"Three times as ugly, too," called Jones from the end of the table. As the other men laughed, Jones kicked back and lit up a cigarette, sending a streamer of smoke across the table. "But that's still one hardhearted woman," he added, gesturing toward Carla with a burned match. "Leaving us to starve and not turning a hair over it."
"Hate to disappoint you boys," Carla said, pausing in the doorway with her arms loaded with dishes, "but I doubled up on everything I made this week and froze half. You won't starve."
Shaking his head, Jones rocked back from the table and blew out another stream of smoke. When Carla returned and began passing out dessert, Jones watched her closely and said as though no time had passed, "It's not the same a'tall. Nothing's as
She shrugged. "Just doing my job."
"None of the other cooks ever kept food warm for the man who worked through dinner."
"From what I've heard, none of them cooked anything worth keeping warm," Carla said dryly.
Ten bent over the ladle and inhaled. "Damn, but that smells really fine. What's in it?"
"You wouldn't believe me."
"Sure I would."
"The usual things, plus bourbon and juniper berries.
Ten blinked. He sniffed again. "Juniper berries?"
"Think of them as Rocking M peppercorns."
"You think of them. I'm going to eat before you tell me something I don't want to know."
Cosy's voice called plaintively from the next room. "Hey, ramrod, you planning on sharing any of that with the men what do the real work or are you going to keep it all for yourself?"
"Don't get your water hot," Ten retorted. "If we fed you on the basis of work, you'd have starved to death long before now."
Carla just managed to remove the smile from her face before she walked into the dining room carrying a tray of steaming biscuits and a pot of dark mountain honey. Ten followed with the big bowls of stew. The food vanished shortly after it was put on the table.
The speed with which Carla's cooking disappeared no longer appalled her, for she had become accustomed to thinking in terms of feeding men who routinely burned three and four thousand calories a day. During roundup, branding, calving and other seasonally demanding kinds of work, the men would work sixteen-hour days, during which they would eat a minimum of four big meals and all the "snacks" they could cram into their pockets, saddlebags or the glove compartments of their pickup trucks.
Before Carla sat down to eat, she went back to the kitchen with the stew bowls, filling them again from the much-reduced volume of the cooking pot. After bringing the new bowls of stew, plus coffee refills, two more trays of biscuits and a new pot of honey, she sat down and ate her own dinner.
She didn't lack for company; the men who weren't polishing off second helpings were working their way through a third plate. By the time she had eaten her first – and only – serving, the men were through eating. It was the part of the meal Carla enjoyed most, for the full, satisfied men tended to sharpen their wits on one another while she brought in dessert.
Sometimes it was Carla who came in for her share of ribbing, but she enjoyed even that. It reminded her of the good-natured give-and-take she and Cash shared – and Luke, too, until that disastrous summer.
"What's this I hear about you running off tomorrow and leaving us to starve?" Cosy asked as he mopped up the last of the savory gravy with a biscuit.
"True," Carla said cheerfully. "I've saved up some days off."
"And you're going to run off to the city and never think of the brokenhearted boys you left behind."
"Actually," Carla said, standing up and gathering dirty plates, "I'm running off to September Canyon."
"Same difference," mumbled Cosy.
"It is?"
"Sure. We'll starve just the same."
"You can live off the fat of the land," Ten pointed out to Cosy.
"Speak for yourself, boy. I'm trim as a rattlesnake and twice as mean."
"Three times as ugly, too," called Jones from the end of the table. As the other men laughed, Jones kicked back and lit up a cigarette, sending a streamer of smoke across the table. "But that's still one hardhearted woman," he added, gesturing toward Carla with a burned match. "Leaving us to starve and not turning a hair over it."
"Hate to disappoint you boys," Carla said, pausing in the doorway with her arms loaded with dishes, "but I doubled up on everything I made this week and froze half. You won't starve."
Shaking his head, Jones rocked back from the table and blew out another stream of smoke. When Carla returned and began passing out dessert, Jones watched her closely and said as though no time had passed, "It's not the same a'tall. Nothing's as
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