Hitch ignored the outstretched hand as he rose to his knees. He peeled an oddly shaped piece of flapjack from his cheek and shook it off his fingertips. It wasn’t easy. The molasses made everything sticky. He sat back on his haunches, and when Ellie handed him a damp kitchen rag, he took the offering. What he wanted to do was bury his hot face in it, but he only wiped it down and handed the rag over.
“Sorry, Ellie. Mrs. Vandergrift.” He brushed Fedora’s delicate hands aside when she would have picked up a broken piece of china. “My mess, Fedora. I’ll clean it up.”
Fedora kept the dish shard she was holding and looked up at Ellie for direction. Her face was pale, but her small chin didn’t wobble and her eyes were dry. “Mr. Shepard came in while you were back here.”
Ellie heard Fedora’s statement as an explanation for why she’d hurried into the kitchen. She was fleeing the dining room. “You didn’t leave him standing at the entrance, did you?”
“No, ma’am.” She hardly noticed that Hitch was gently removing the piece of broken china from her hand. “I showed him to his usual table even though it’s Saturday and he’s never come on a Saturday before. He asked for flapjacks, eggs, fried potatoes, and bacon. I poured coffee for him. Mr. Shepard said he had plans to ride out toward the Double H this morning if the rain stopped.”
Ellie blew out a breath. “Oh, Lord, that’s right. I cleanforgot it was Saturday. He asked me if he could have some provisions for the outing, and I assured him he could.” Her eyes darted to the cook. “Mrs. Vandergrift?”
“I’ll get on it straight away once my floor is cleared of all this rubbish.”
“Doing it now,” said Hitch, picking up the pace at which he was picking up the pieces.
Ellie helped Fedora to her feet. “Mop and broom, Fedora. Hitch is proving he can take care of this.”
Nodding, Fedora gracefully skirted the mess on the floor on her way to the broom closet. When she returned, Hitch was setting the tray piled with the detritus of his fall on the butcher block. There was a short battle of wills as he tried to take the broom from her, but Fedora held on and he settled for the dustpan and eyed the damp mop that she leaned against the table.
Mrs. Vandergrift watched them with pursed lips and raised salt-and-pepper eyebrows. Disapproval did not improve her appearance, and she would not have been offended to hear it. Shaking her head, she turned back to the stove and began pouring batter onto the sizzling griddle.
Ellie did not miss the cook’s censure. She was grateful not only that Mrs. Vandergrift did not voice it, but also that Fedora and Hitch did not see it. “Empty the dustpan on the tray, Hitch, then carry it out. Bring the tray back. Fedora will finish the mopping and I’ll wipe down the butcher block.” Her assignments were meant to avoid a tug-of-war over the mop, and they worked as planned. Hitch returned from the outside at the same time Fedora was at the broom closet. Ellie wanted to believe they took advantage of a few moments in passing away from the cook’s disapproving eye, but she wasn’t sure that Hitch had the gumption or that Fedora even knew there was an attraction.
“Rain’s slowed,” said Hitch, taking up the stool again. “Did Mr. Shepard say what he was going to do out by the Double H?”
Ellie surreptitiously nudged Fedora. The girl was waiting at attention for Mrs. Vandergrift to plate the food and pass it to her. When Fedora didn’t move or respond, Ellie said, “He’s speaking to you.”
Fedora’s narrow shoulders and slender frame twitched as she came out of her trance. “Oh. Pardon?”
Hitch repeated his question.
“A survey.”
“Huh. I thought he’d been over that section of land.”
“I don’t know about that. He said he was doing a survey and was taking someone to help him.”
At the stove, Mrs. Vandergrift snorted. “That no-account George Hotchkiss, I’ll wager.”
Ellie sighed but otherwise ignored the pointed interjection. “I didn’t know where he was going until Fedora told us,” she said to Hitch. “He didn’t offer that information when he asked about provisions, and I guess I wasn’t interested enough to ask. Now, if he’d mentioned that he’d hired someone, I would have wanted to know about that.”
Hitch shrugged. “Seems like Mr. Shepard had a lot to say to you this morning, Miss Chen, or does he always ramble on when you’re at his table?”
“I don’t usually wait on him.”
Which wasn’t an answer to his question. He let it go. “How’s that jail order coming, Mrs. Vandergrift? Billy will be wondering what’s keeping me. If he’s up. I made coffee before I left to tempt him.”
“I have it right here,” the cook said. She set a full plate of flapjacks and bacon on the tray and covered it with a blue-and-white kitchen towel. “You make sure you bring back that dish. I reckon you know we’re down three. Can’t keep losing them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He started off to get his hat and slicker, but when he turned, he saw that Fedora was holding both out to him. She was a head and a half shorter than he was and had to raise her arm to keep his slicker from dragging on the floor. He took it, thanked her, and shrugged into it. Droplets of water still fell from the sleeves. He was careful with his hat, adjusting it until it sat on his head in the preferred position. Hitch was working out his parting words to Fedora, which wasn’t easy with Ellie standing in front of him looking a little amused and Mrs. Vandergrift standing at his back with a turner in her hand. He just about had them set in his mind when the cook interrupted in chilly, authoritative accents.
“I’ve got plates for you, Chen. Take them. Get them out of my way.”
Fedora had a brief, apologetic smile for Hitch, or at least heimagined that she had. He held on to that glimpse of her sweetly tentative smile on his walk back to the jail. He could almost dodge the raindrops now. Clouds were parting and east of town he made out a glimmer of sunshine. If his luck held, maybe there’d be someone else in a cell tonight who’d need a meal from the Butterworth.
•••
“How is your mother?” Roen asked. He’d been holding on to the question until they reached the place he had in mind to begin the survey. For most of the journey he’d been occupied keeping an eye on Clay, who had not exaggerated his lack of riding experience. The boy’s concentration was so focused on staying in his saddle that he had a difficult time with conversation. Roen dismounted first and then made sure Clay was able to do the same without mishap. The boy was lithe and light on his feet, and there was no awkwardness at all. That was youth, Roen thought, not familiarity, and he was reminded that there was a lot about youth to recommend it.
