Glory (16 page)

Glory spun around. “Nothing.” She shoved a lock of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand, and a sprinkle of flour sifted down like the first flecks of an early snow.

“Baking?” Mary smiled. “Are you making Harper’s famous biscuits?”

“Hmmm,” Glory smiled. “They’re the best, aren’t they?”

“The very best.” Mary glanced around, her eyes searching for Lily.

She wants Lily to help so I won’t make them all sick again.
But Lily was busy gathering firewood.

“Well . . . need any help?”

“No. I can do it alone.”

Shifting the basket of dirty clothes into her other arm, Mary frowned. “Best get these clothes washed—”

“Better do that.” Glory spun back to her pie dough. Interruptions and distractions she didn’t need. “Where was I?” she mumbled. “Oh yes.” She grabbed a wooden spoon and began stirring.

The dough formed a sticky ball. She nodded, remembering seeing this step in Poppy’s process. It was now that he got his hands into it. She dumped the ball onto the wooden board with a satisfying thud. Working it with her hands felt good at first, but then it got too sticky. She tossed in a few handfuls of flour and worked harder. Pretty soon, the dough got too stiff.

She rummaged around until she found the rolling pin. Now things would go better. She shoved at the dough, but it resisted her efforts. Leaning on the rolling pin, she bit her lower lip. This was harder than it had looked when she’d seen Poppy rolling it out.

Maybe some water would soften it up. She reached into the bucket and scooped out a handful and tossed it onto the mound of dough. “Oh no,” she muttered when she saw specks of dough floating in the water bucket. She glanced
toward the others. “I’ll have to get fresh water before supper,” she murmured, making a mental note for later.

Now the dough was softening up. It was also sticking to the rolling pin and her hands and her elbows. She was so exasperated she could scream. Hearing the girls’ laughter alerted her that they were on their way back from the stream. She rolled faster. She had to get this done.

Grabbing the pie tin, she slapped the dough into it. Desperately, she pushed at the dough with her hands to spread it. It required so much force that the tin flipped up and down and spun like a top to the edge of the board. With a lunge, Glory caught it before it dropped to the ground.

“Enough of this,” she muttered as the sound of laughter grew nearer. The dough would probably spread nicely when heated. She tossed the apples on top of the dough and then added a generous scoop of sugar, three tablespoons of flour, a gob of butter, and a dash of cinnamon. The top crust! She closed her eyes, and her head rolled back. She’d forgotten about the
top
crust. She remembered how Poppy had laid neat strips of dough across the top of his pie, weaving them, humming while he worked.

“Next time,” she muttered, “next time we’ll have neat strips.” For now, she’d have to make do with a few stray lumps of dough that had previously escaped the pie tin. She tossed them on top of the pie and hurried to the fire.

The girls were close now. Glory spied the large cast-iron pot Patience had used to boil water. Glory had seen her
pour the water into a bucket and take off with it. Obviously, she was finished with it, so Glory slipped her pie into the pot and clamped on the lid. Carefully, she settled the pot down into the hot coals.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she straightened. By the time supper was over, her pie would be baked to perfection. A triumphant smile spread across her face.
Won’t everybody be surprised,
she thought with smug satisfaction. Poppy had been right as usual: cooking was a matter of instinct. You had it or you didn’t. Tonight she’d show them all. She had it.

As the group sat around the fire finishing rabbit stew, Patience stood and reached for the pan. “Anyone care for seconds?” she asked.

Jackson extended his plate. “I would.”

Glory glanced up. “Better save room for dessert.”

“I didn’t make dessert,” Harper said. “Too much washing to do.”

“What’s this?” Patience asked, pointing down at the iron pot nestled in the ashes.

Glory bounded to her feet. “Allow me.” She wrapped a cloth around the handle of the pot and pulled it from the coals. Carefully she removed the lid and lifted out the pie. It didn’t look like the apple pies Poppy had made, but she figured in the future they would look better.

Patience approached, peering over her shoulder.

“It’s not how it looks that’s important,” Glory began defensively. “What matters is how it tastes. Jackson, if you’ll pass your plate over here, I’ll serve you first.”

After a slight hesitation, all eyes turned to Jackson. Harper reached her hand across the circle. “Here,” she said, with a beckoning wave. “No need to get up. I’ll pass your plate over.”

Jackson paused a beat before handing his plate to Harper. “This isn’t like Poppy’s Blazing Fire stew recipe, is it?”

Glory’s hand shot to her hips. “I don’t want to hear another word about Poppy’s stew.”

Harper returned his plate to him; it was laden with a huge slice of pie. “Eat up, Mr. Lincoln.” She grinned.

Jackson nodded, eyeing the pie. “Looks . . . mighty good.”

He cut into his pie, while Glory continued to fill one plate after another. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed when the pie tin was empty. “I forgot to save a piece for myself.”

“Here.” All plates extended toward her.

She waved their plates away, smiling. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

“I wish you could,” Harper murmured, staring bleakly at the wad of crust on her plate.

Glory looked at her friends, beaming now. “I have to admit I didn’t want to learn to cook, but fixing this surprise for you has taught me the true meaning of . . . What’s that saying? ‘It’s better to give than to receive.’ Never made sense to me before.” She shifted, settling her hands back around her waist. “Now what else can I get for everyone?”

“Water,” Jackson managed to choke out. He coughed, and Glory prayed that a chunk of dry crust wasn’t wedged in his throat.

“Coming up!” She quickly filled his cup from the dipper in the bucket and handed it to Ruth to pass to him, all the while keeping her eyes on the others as they slowly ate their pie.

“What’s this?” Ruth asked, staring at the white blobs floating on the surface of the water.

Glory leaned forward to look. “Oh.” She’d forgotten to get a fresh bucket of water after she’d dipped her hand into it. Clumps of dough were floating in the bucket and in Jackson’s cup.

“What is it?” Mary echoed, staring into the cup as she passed it to Jackson. Wide-eyed, she looked up at Glory.

Glory shrugged and snatched up the bucket. “I’ll get some fresh water from the stream.” She picked up the lantern and disappeared.

When she returned, she was happy to see that every plate was empty.
They must have loved my pie—not a single scrap left behind,
she mused. She would have enjoyed hearing their praise, but she guessed the moment had passed while she was at the stream.

When the last dish was cleaned and put away, Mary asked Glory to help her with the mending. Glory didn’t make an excuse but willingly sat down to learn. She’d proven she could make a pie, so domestic duties weren’t so bad, certainly not as exciting as hunting and fishing, but necessary just the same.

She intended to do her share of work. Truth was, she was beginning to find satisfaction in doing nice things for others.
Her pie had been a hit, why not darn Jackson’s socks? He’d appreciate having those unsightly holes repaired.

“Perhaps you’d want to practice mending tea towels first, dear,” Mary suggested gently.

“No, I like doing things for Jackson.” The words were out of her mouth before she even realized she’d thought them. Embarrassed, she bent her head to her task, drawing closer to the fire, hoping that anyone looking would believe the warmth of the flames was causing the redness in her cheeks.

One morning a couple of weeks later Jackson chose to walk a few miles beside the wagon, carrying his rifle and scanning the hills. For days they’d been crossing flat spaces where he could see for miles. Now they were moving along the river road that ran up to the old pueblo at the mouth of the Fontaine qui Bouille Creek.

They marched through lush, rolling hills where a man could be ambushed. Jackson doubted the law was tracking them, but he was concerned about Amos. Greed could make a man do strange things.

After noon break, he climbed onto the wagon seat and took the reins. Amos or not, he couldn’t walk another step. His feet were killing him; it felt like he’d been walking on rocks all day.

After a few miles, he handed the reins to Ruth and tugged off a boot. “No wonder,” he muttered, running his hand
across the bottom of his foot. “Been walking on knots the size of Texas.” He glanced at Ruth. “Who did this to my socks?”

Ruth continued to stare straight ahead. “Don’t ask,” she murmured.

He groaned, staring at the rumps of his oxen. “Whose idea was it to have her learn all these domestic skills?”

Ruth chuckled. “Yours.”

That evening they made camp early beside a narrow stream and a stand of trees. They needed fresh meat for their meal. While the women gathered firewood from the ample supply surrounding the campsite, Jackson set off on foot with his rifle. Glory followed not far behind, carrying his shotgun.

An hour later, they returned with six pheasants—two of them shot by Jackson, four by Glory.

“Might as well clean those while I clean mine.” She reached for his two birds.

Awkwardly he handed them over, unaccustomed to having someone do his work. “You need some help with them?”

“No, sir.” She headed toward the water.

Steamed, he watched her trotting off, happy as a lark.

“I’ll be down after I feed the stock,” he hollered. “The mare has a sore tendon that needs rubbing down.”

“Already did it,” she called over her shoulder.

He caught up with her in a few steps, spinning her around to face him. “You’ve fed the stock?”

“Of course not, Jackson. They’re too hot to feed when we first break for camp.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I rubbed down your mare’s left foreleg with liniment on the noon break. She’s still limping, so I think you’re wrong about her problem being in her tendon.”

He looked up and then away. “Then why don’t you tell me what you think it is,” he said tightly. “And don’t feel like you have to break it to me gently.”

She grinned. “Oh, I get it. You’re kidding, right? Of course I’ll tell you what I think directly, man to man, so to speak.”

“Yeah, I’m kidding.” He didn’t like her taking over his chores, and he sure didn’t like a woman telling him how to run his business.

“Good, then I can tell you straight-out I think your mare is limping because she has a stone bruise.”

“A stone bruise,” he repeated. His eyes met hers. “I knew that.”

“I know you did. Not much we can do for that but rest her for a while.”

She was right. The mare would only get worse if they didn’t rest her. Now she was sore. If he rode her, she would become lame. Just one more delay he couldn’t afford.

“It’s not my fault,” Glory reminded him as she scanned his grim expression.

“Yeah, well, I’ll feed the stock now.”

“All right.” She headed to the stream.

“And from now on I shoot the game,” he called.

She turned to look back at him. “But I was only—”

“From now on
I
shoot the game! Understood?”

“From now on
you
shoot the game.
I’m
not deaf.”

He watched her slide down the embankment, the birds bundled in her hands, his shotgun under her arm.

Women.

He was in charge, deciding what to do, when to do it. He was the wagon master, and he didn’t want a woman dogging his steps, cleaning his birds, diagnosing his mare, and doing his chores.

He shook his head. It was the first time he’d thought of Glory as a woman. A girl, yes. A waif, yes. A kid, yes. A woman, no. Why, he didn’t think of the other females as any more than girls, either. He trudged up the hill. He didn’t need anything to upset the balance. Best to distance himself from Glory before . . . He refused to consider what he was about to think. He was feeling uncomfortable enough as it was.