Marianne's Marriage of Convenience Page 16

  “Are you an experienced rider, Miss Panovsky?” Marianne asked as she filled out the entry form.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. At least I think I am. The sisters who taught horsemanship at the orphanage in New York said I was a natural. Whatever that means,” she added with a soft laugh.

  “Is not natural,” Ivan interjected. “Kicking heels in side of animal is not pleasant for horse.”

  “Ivan,” the young woman intoned. “Please.”

  The young man sighed. “Is not natural, but my Anna, she want to be like Western girl, so she wish to race.”

  Marianne caught the girl’s pleading look and nodded. “Very well. Sign here, please.” She pointed to the signature space, and when the girl scrawled her name, Marianne sent her another smile. “The race course will be laid out soon, Annamarie. Perhaps you would like to inspect it?”

  “Oh, no, I—”

  “We will inspect,” her brother interrupted. “Is more safe to inspect before riding.”

  Marianne bit her lip. Sammy would be marking off the final route shortly. Maybe she should inspect the course, as well.

  When Ivan and his sister left the shop, Marianne took herself off for a long walk to sort out her thoughts. She marched down one side of the main street and up the other, weighing the pros and cons of disobeying her husband. She hadn’t actually signed up for the race yet; she wanted to be absolutely sure about what she was doing.

  When she returned to the shop she found Sammy’s mother, Rosie Greywolf, pacing up and down outside. The sinewy Indian woman stopped short at the sight of her.

  “Hello, Missus. You know me?”

  “Yes, you’re Sammy’s mother. You work at the restaurant.”

  The woman’s tanned face dipped in a short nod. “I hear about horse race.”

  They moved on into the shop. “Yes, on Fourth of July. Sammy is laying out the course for it.”

  “I want to ride in race. Okay?”

  Marianne blinked. “Of course it’s okay, Rosie. I already believed you were going to. Sammy said you taught him to ride when he was young.”

  The woman grinned. “I teach good,” she asserted. “Horse good, skill good. I teach.”

  Marianne studied the Indian woman. “Rosie, I—”

  “You ride in race, Missus?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. “I’m not sure. It has been many years since I have ridden a horse.”

  “No problem,” Rosie said. “I teach.”

  Marianne blinked. “What?”

  “I teach, like Sammy. You have horse?”

  “Well, no, I don’t.”

  “No problem, Missus. You ride one of my horses. Very gentle.”

  “Oh, but I… I have to think about it.”

  “You could do,” Rosie insisted. She held Marianne’s gaze. “Husband not know,” she murmured.

  “Oh. Oh, but—”

  The woman’s dark eyebrows rose and fell. “You want husband to know?”

  “Oh, Rosie, I’m not sure I—”

  “Rosie is sure.” Her eyes twinkled. “Rosie see many things.”

  Marianne leaned toward her. “I tell you what, Rosie. I will pay your entry fee if you let me ride one of your horses.”

  “Deal,” Rosie said. She thrust one hand forward, firmly clasped Marianne’s fingers and pumped her arm up and down. “First lesson tomorrow morning, Missus. Before sunup.”

  For the rest of the day, Marianne drifted in a fog of indecisiveness. Whatever was she thinking, talking with Rosie Greywolf about riding lessons? She hadn’t been this apprehensive about anything since the day she walked up Mrs. Schneiderman’s front steps and asked for a job.

  Now she was facing another crossroads, and another decision. Was she really going to defy Lance and ride in this horse race?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Abe, you have any idea what’s eating Marianne?”

  Abe sent Lance a wry look across the cutting table he was bent over. “Son, I stopped tryin’ to figger out a female before you was born.”

  Lance met the older man’s gaze and frowned at the expression he saw on his face. He’d bet his last two-bit piece Abe knew more than he was telling. But how was he going to worm it out of him?

  “Know what I think?” he ventured.

  “Nope,” Abe said.

  “I think Marianne’s hiding something from me.”

  “You do, huh?” Abe said, his voice bland. “Hidin’ what?”

  “Hell, if I knew that I wouldn’t have to ask, would I?”

  “Nope, ya wouldn’t, and that’s a fact.”

  “I just can’t figure out what a sensible, straightforward woman like Marianne would be hiding.”

  “Mebbe you figger she’s in love with somebody else,” Abe said with a sly grin.

  Lance fumbled the pair of leather shears, which flipped out of his hand and sailed on to the floor. “Huh?”

  Abe scooped up the shears and tried not to laugh.

  Lance stared at him. “Abe, c’mon. What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Nuthin’. It’d take a smarter feller than me to figger out Miss Marianne.”

  “Yeah,” Lance said, his tone disbelieving. Abe knew something, he was sure of it. But the man was closemouthed as a clam.

  “Listen,” the older man said. “We got pretty near eighty riders signed up for the horse race now.”

  Lance recognized a red herring when he heard one, but he figured he’d play along. “Oh, yeah?”

  Abe slapped his leather shears down on the cutting table. “Yep. Old ’uns. Young ’uns. Even ladies.”

  “Ladies,” Lance echoed. “Any ladies we know?”

  “Yep. Real sweet little gal, Annamarie Panovsky, come in with her brother and paid her five bucks yesterday mornin’. And then Sammy’s ma, Rosie Greywolf, signed up. And that nosy busybody Eugenia Ridley, the one who allus wants to know everythin’ ’bout everybody, she’s signed up, too.”

  Lance snapped the blades of his leather shears open and closed four times. Abe hadn’t succeeded in distracting him as much as he thought. He still figured the canny old man knew more about Marianne than he was telling.

  “You notice anything different about Marianne lately, Abe?”

  Abe studied the boot last he was bent over. “Well, yesterday she done borryed one of my new dime novels. Cowboy’s Lady, it was. Kinda flowery title, iff’n ya ask me.”

  Lance said nothing. Marianne had packed a few books in her trunk when they’d come out to Oregon, a Bible, an etiquette book, Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens, a volume of crochet patterns, and lots of cookbooks. Cowboy’s Lady wasn’t typical of his wife’s reading preferences. But he had to admit yet again that Marianne was still very much an unknown quantity.

  “That strike you as odd, Abe? Her reading a dime novel?”

  “Cain’t say, son. All women have secrets that a man, even a clever one like you, ain’t never gonna guess.”

  Lance gritted his teeth. Oh, hell. He was never going to figure out what went on in Marianne’s head. I might as well give up and just concentrate on what happens between us in bed at night.

  That idea made him feel better. Just thinking about lying next to Marianne in the dark made him hot all over. He guessed he was smiling because Abe sent him a sharp look.

  “Somethin’ funny, Lance?”

  “Not exactly. I was just working out a plan for tonight.” Thinking about that kept him on edge for the rest of the day.

  Late that afternoon, Lance found himself seated at the kitchen table, poring over Marianne’s well-thumbed copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Household Receipts. His wife had gone off to the telegraph office and then to visit dressmaker Verena Forester with young Annamarie Panovsky, and Lance planned to surprise her with supper when she returned.

  He should have considered his plan more carefully, he realized, because the truth was he didn’t even know how to boil an egg! After staring at the pages of recipes and instructions for an hour, he s
et off to the mercantile for help.

  Carl Ness took pity on him. “Baked beans and coleslaw,” he suggested. But then the mercantile owner said the beans should be soaked overnight, and that stopped the baked beans idea.

  Abe was more help. “Why don’tcha make my Poverty Pie? It’s real simple, just bacon, tinned tomatoes and sweet corn, and some grated cheese on top. And ya don’t need no recipe.”

  No recipe, huh? That made him heave a sigh of relief. He climbed the stairs back up to the apartment, slipped Marianne’s ruffly red-checked apron over his neck and tied it in back. Then he opened the cooler, found the slab of bacon and carved off four thick slices, laid them in one of Marianne’s medium-sized skillets and chunked up the fire in the stove. While the bacon sizzled he pried open the tinned tomatoes and studied them. Should he pour off the juice or not? What about the corn? While he thought it over, he grated a couple of cups of cheese and forked over the bacon.

  Marianne would sure be surprised, he thought with a smile. And pleased. But it wasn’t the surprise he was really after. What he wanted was to keep her from getting tired before, well, before coming to bed. He figured he’d cook supper for her and hope.

  When the bacon was crispy he lifted it out and laid it on a plate to cool, poured the juice off the tinned tomatoes and the corn and grated the rest of the cheese. Then he came face to face with the empty pie pan.

  Poverty Pie needed a piecrust, surely? Well, how hard could that be? He looked it up in the recipe book and exhaled with relief. Just flour and butter and enough water to make it all stick together. Simple as…pie.

  He mixed it up, patted it into a big lump, and searched for Marianne’s rolling pin. He hadn’t a clue where she kept it, and after a fruitless ten minutes, he substituted the whiskey bottle she kept on the top shelf of the china cabinet. He flattened the sticky blob of dough with his fist and then, using the sloshing bottle, he spread it out into a sloppy circle.

  But when he went to lay it in the pie pan, the mess kept sticking to the counter. Finally he gave up, scooped it up in both hands and plopped it into the tin, then smooshed it out to the edges and up the sides with his thumbs. It looked pretty awful, but the filling would cover it all up, and Marianne would never know.

  He laid the bacon slices on top of the crust, then dumped in the tomatoes and the corn. Last he sprinkled the grated cheese over the top. His pie was ready to bake; the oven was hot. What could go wrong?

  *

  Four blocks away, Marianne stood outside the dressmaker’s shop with Annamarie Panovsky. “Come on, Mrs. Burnside,” the girl urged. “We’re here now, so let’s see what Miss Forester can suggest.”

  Annamarie had talked her into coming, pleading that her brother was no help in feminine matters and she needed a woman’s advice. Reluctantly, she now followed the girl into the tidy shop.

  Verena spun away from a tower of fabric bolts and frowned. “Ladies, what can I do for you today?”

  Annamarie grinned at the woman. “I need one of those funny skirts you can ride horseback in.”

  “A split skirt, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  Verena’s eyebrows pulled together. “What about you, Miz Burnside?”

  “Me? Oh, I don’t need a thing, thank you, Verena.”

  “Really?” the dressmaker muttered. “In that case you’re the only woman in town who doesn’t need something. It’s the middle of the summer and every female in the county wants a new something-or-other.”

  “Well, I don’t need a thing, truly.”

  “Are you maybe entering the Fourth of July ladies’ race?”

  She didn’t answer for so long Verena’s frown deepened. “Well?” the woman snapped. “If you’re riding, you’re probably going to want a split riding skirt, like Annamarie here.”

  Annamarie saved her. “Miss Marianne, could you suggest an appropriate fabric?”

  “Denim,” Verena announced. “Sturdy as possible.”

  “What color?” Annamarie inquired with a sidelong look at Marianne.

  “Blue,” the dressmaker pronounced. “It’s called blue denim for a reason.”

  “Oh, of course.” Annamarie sent the dressmaker a melting smile. “Could you measure me for a split skirt, please?”

  Verena grabbed her tape measure.

  “And measure Mrs. Burnside, too,” Annamarie added. “Just in case she wants to go horseback riding.”

  Marianne blinked. “Annamarie, I have to confess I haven’t been on a horse since I was your age.”

  “Really? But Mr. Garland at the boot shop said—” She broke off when Marianne glared at her.

  “Come now, ladies,” Verena interjected. “I haven’t got all day.” She slapped out her measuring tape and Annamarie stepped forward and raised both arms.

  “It’ll be ready on Friday,” the dressmaker announced as she measured the girl’s waist. Then she sent an expectant look at Marianne, but when she said nothing, Verena rolled up her tape measure and retreated behind the pattern counter.

  Outside, Marianne took Annamarie’s arm. “Just what did Mr. Garland tell you?” she demanded.

  “Only that you’re new to Oregon and you used to ride years ago and that you might ride again someday.”

  “Someday,” Marianne echoed. “Maybe. And that is a very big ‘maybe.’”

  “If you say so, Mrs. Burnside,” Annamarie said with an innocent smile. “Maybe. But if you do, you will need a riding skirt.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  While his Poverty Pie baked, Lance consulted Mrs. Beeton’s book of recipes. He needed a dessert to go with the pie. He riffled through several pages. Stewed peaches? Nah. Fruit compote? Nah. What about apple crisp?

  Perfect.

  By the time he’d peeled and sliced up the apples and mixed up a topping of brown sugar and flour and butter, his Poverty Pie looked done. He slid it out of the oven, and just as he was shoving in the baking dish full of apple crisp he heard Marianne’s footsteps on the stairs.

  The door opened and she stepped inside and stopped dead. “Oh, my goodness, what smells so good?”

  “Supper,” he said proudly.

  “Oh, Lance.” Her mouth went all trembly. “Oh…” Her voice broke. “Not since I was eleven y-years old has anyone m-made supper for me. How did you—?”

  “I found one of your cookbooks and, I uh, studied it a bit.”

  Marianne stared at the man she had married barely six weeks ago. Were all men this surprising when you got to know them? “I never dreamed you c-could cook.”

  “I can’t, not really. But I can read. And Abe helped.”

  She studied him. He was wearing her red gingham apron, and he looked so wonderfully out of place she wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. “Lance, you really are the most—” she searched for a word “—unexpected man.”

  “Is that good or bad?” he asked.

  She just smiled. “Unexpected is…unexpected.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, boy, wait ’til you see what I made for supper, Marianne. That will be unexpected. It’s something called ‘Poverty Pie’.”

  Her eyes widened. “W-what?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Well, yes, I am, but—”

  Lance grinned. “Then wash up and get ready!”

  She went to the sink, washed her hands, and settled into her chair at the table. Lance set his creation down before her, and she eyed the dish without speaking. It smelled good, and the cheese had melted nicely.

  “I sure hope it tastes all right,” he said. He sat down across from her, picked up a butcher knife and cut a big slice. “Jumpin’ jennies, it cuts just like a real pie!”

  That made Marianne laugh out loud.

  Halfway through her serving of Poverty Pie, she began to sniff the air. “Is something in the oven?”

  “Yep,” he said proudly. “Apple crisp.”

  She stared at him. “How on earth did you figure out how to bake an apple crisp?”

/>   “Mrs. Beeton,” he said. “There’s a recipe in her cookbook.”

  “Lance,” she said with a tired smile, “if I had known you could cook all those years I was slaving in Mrs. Schneiderman’s kitchen, you could have helped me.”

  “Oh, heck, no, Marianne. I don’t know a thing about kitchen stuff,” he confessed. “I just took a deep breath, and, like they say about the proverbial fool, I rushed in.”

  She laid down her fork. “I am impressed. Actually, Lance, I am amazed. Your Poverty Pie tastes very good.”

  “Beginner’s luck, I guess.” He knew he was turning red, but he couldn’t help it.

  She was silent, so he rose and strode to the oven, pulled out a bubbling pan of crumb-topped apple crisp and set it on the stove top.

  “Marianne?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Marianne, I… Oh, I don’t know. I can’t think straight around you sometimes. Do you want some coffee?”

  When she nodded he busied himself dishing up the crisp, poured her a cup of coffee and passed her the cream pitcher. She doused her apple crisp with the cream and picked up her spoon.

  Lance was watching her so closely her hand began to shake. She tasted the apple crisp and sent him a grin. “This is delicious! Really it is.”

  He thought his heart would float right out of his chest. More than her approval of his apple crisp was his elation at making her smile at him.

  She finished her dessert without saying anything else, then sat sipping her coffee while Lance wondered why he couldn’t taste anything.

  “Lance?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you?”

  His heart spiraled right back into his chest. “Yeah? What about?”

  “It’s about the advertisement I wired to Brooks and Cassidy this afternoon.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, what if the three hundred dollars we spent on that advertisement brings in so many orders we can’t keep up with production?”

  That thought had occurred to him, too. “Then we’ll all have to work like demons.”