Emmy's Equal Page 8

  Her attention crossed the yard to Greta standing as straight as a lotebush thorn, her hands clenched by her sides as she watched Isi lean into the wagon bed to gather the Danes’ luggage. Emotions warred on the poor girl’s face. What first appeared to be seething anger and outrage became jaws slack with fear. For the first time since Melatha met Greta, the mantle of security entitled to her as John Rawson’s daughter had slipped, as if she suddenly realized her father couldn’t buy her everything.

  Dragging her feet, Greta turned and followed her guests inside the house.

  “Mother?”

  She spun to face him. “You startled me, Isi.”

  “Who are you spying on? The Rawsons and their guests ... or me?”

  She tucked guilty hands behind her back. “I thought no one could see me.”

  “No one did, except for me. What are you doing here?”

  “Mrs. Rawson asked me to help Rosita and her sisters in the kitchen.”

  He drew back. “Cooking or serving?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  He snorted. “A lot. Mr. Rawson asked me to join them tonight. I won’t have my own mother serve me at that fancy table when she should be seated beside me. It would be hard enough knowing you’re standing in front of the stove.”

  She grinned. “I stand in front of the stove for you every day, son. Serve you, too. Don’t let such high-minded notions trouble your soul.” She patted his arm. “I’ll gladly lay my hand to whatever task Mrs. Rawson requires of me. It’s the least I can do to repay her great kindness.”

  One of Isi’s men barreled past behind them. His head jerked around as he caught sight of Diego, and he drew to a breathless halt. “He’s out again, Diego.”

  Isi stared over his shoulder. “Again? That’s not possible.”

  The man’s eyes shifted to the ground. “ Sí, es muy posible. He’s not in the corral or the pasture. Nowhere on the grounds. He’s gone.”

  Isi closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “Saddle my horse. I’ll be right there.”

  He turned and tapped Melatha’s chin with his work-roughened finger. “I have to go track that stubborn horse again. Tell Mrs. Rawson I’ll be back in time for dinner.” He furrowed his brow. “Don’t let me return and find you dishing beans.”

  “What shall I tell Greta?”

  Just as she planned, her question caught him off guard. “Leave Greta to me, if you don’t mind.” He tweaked her nose. “It’s none of your business.” Winking, he sauntered away, pausing once to tip his hat before rounding the house.

  “Humph! None of my business?” Skirting a blackbrush thicket, she made her way to the back of the house, grumbling as she took to the steps. “We will see, my little deer. As surely as the sun sleeps at dusk, we will see.”

  Not that she believed Greta to be the woman God had for Isi, but after seeing the latest contender for his affection, Greta would do to distract him until the right one arrived.

  CHAPTER 10

  Magda ran her hand over the multicolored quilt and sighed. Satin, silk, and velvet pieces in vivid jewel tones set against an inky black background offered her fingertips a feast of sensations. “Will you look at this quilt, Bertha? Without a doubt, it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” She glanced back. Bertha still lingered at the window, staring over the yard. “The grandest thing I’ve ever felt, too. Come over here and touch it.”

  Bertha swatted the air behind her. “Leave me be, Magda. I’ll feel that thing soon enough. I have to sleep under it tonight.”

  Magda exhaled dreamily. “I hope ours isn’t this nice or I won’t sleep a wink for worrying about mussing something so fine.” She lowered her voice. “Willem and I have been known to drool.” Shifting away from the bed, she slid one finger along the marbled top of the tall, mirrored chest then touched the gilded frame around the glass. “One thing’s for sure, most of this furniture came straight over on the boat with Kate Rawson. Handed down from her folks, most likely. You can’t find workmanship like this anymore.”

  A knock at the door caused Magda to jump. Feeling guilty for snooping, she opened it to the young man called Diego.

  He grinned and cocked his head. “I have luggage belonging to one of you ladies. Cuddy’s on the stairs with more. Can you tell me which bags belong where?”

  “Those two are Bertha’s, sugar.” She pushed aside the shoes Bertha had kicked off in the corner. “Put them down right there, if you don’t mind.”

  He did as she asked then gave a slight bow and ducked out again.

  The Rawson boy appeared behind him bearing Emmy’s luggage, one under his arm and one in each hand. He grinned, too. “How about these, ma’am?”

  “Those are my daughter’s.” She pointed. “I believe her room is that way.”

  He smirked and nodded at Diego before sauntering past.

  “That means the two on the wagon belong to my husband and me. You can bring them up and leave them outside our door.”

  Diego’s gaze trailed Cuddy down the hall. “Are you sure? They’re pretty heavy.”

  “Don’t worry, young man. Mr. Dane is downstairs with the Rawsons, but he’ll carry them in the second he comes up.”

  Diego mumbled a senseless reply and didn’t appear to have the first idea of what she’d said. Laughter between Emmy and Cuddy had drawn his attention to where they stood talking. Each time Emmy giggled, the scowl etched on his forehead grew deeper.

  Magda eased the door shut and shrugged at Bertha. “I might as well have talked to his hat. Wonder what put a burr in his bonnet?”

  Bertha snorted and nudged Magda with her elbow. “Where are your spectacles, honey? The burr’s in his behind, not his bonnet. Put there by your little burr specialist.”

  Magda twisted to stare at the door. “You think so? That’s fast, even for Emmy.”

  “It don’t take that girl long to weave her spells.”

  Magda tilted her head in thought. “You may be wrong this time, Bert. After all, she threw up in the boy’s hat!”

  “Maybe so, but that don’t change the facts. Did you look at him? He’s moonstruck and so is that other one. From where I sit, this situation carries the potential for big trouble.”

  Chewing on her thumbnail, Magda nodded slowly. “You’re right. I’d best talk to Emmy.”

  Bertha chuckled. “You’ll have to wait in line behind them two fellers. I suspect they’re making plans to tie up all her free talking time.” She yawned and stretched. “I’m ready to touch that fancy quilt now. Reckon I could take a nap before we eat?”

  Tossing Bertha’s bulging satchel on the bed, Magda shook a finger in her face. “No time for rest, missy. Take advantage of my idle hands and let’s get you unpacked. The sooner we settle in, the sooner we eat.” She raised her nose and sniffed the air. “I can taste that pig from here.”

  Unfastening the latch on the bag, Magda upended it and gave it a shake. Currency of every denomination spilled onto the bed in a shower of faded green bills. Dumbstruck, she lifted a tied bundle with two fingers and held it up. “What in the name of everything decent have you done?”

  Bertha calmly scooped an armful of the money and stuffed it back in the satchel. “Not this one, sugar. I figured to leave it packed until I need it.”

  Trying to work things out in her mind, Magda pressed her fingers to her temples. “Are you telling me you hauled all of these greenbacks clear across the state of Texas?”

  Bertha snatched the hefty bundle from Magda’s hand. “Yep.”

  “Shoved under the seat in the train?”

  “Why do you think I wouldn’t let that porter carry my luggage?”

  “Over rivers and streams, rocks and cactus, through country crawling with bandits?”

  “How else was I supposed to get it here?”

  Magda stretched the mouth of the bag and peered inside. “There’s enough loot in here to buy your own state! What do you need it for?”

  Flustered, Bertha closed the satche
l and refastened the latch. “Suppose I find some cattle I want to buy?”

  Laying the back of her hand on her hip, Magda studied Bertha’s pouting face. “You ever hear of bank checks? Promissory notes?”

  Another knock on the door sent Bertha scrambling to shove the money under the bed. After pushing it deeper with her foot, she hopped on the end of the high mattress and tried to appear dignified and nonchalant—difficult to pull off with knees straddled and bare feet dangling.

  Magda shook her head and turned the knob.

  Willem stood smiling on the other side. “The table is set downstairs. Are you two ready to eat?”

  Bertha leaped off the bed and padded to the threshold. “That’s a wasted question, Willem. When have you seen your wife not ready to eat?”

  Magda elbowed her. “There are worse things than an appetite, you know.” She shot Bertha a meaningful glare. “Taking chances with large sums of money, for instance.”

  Bertha pinched her arm. “What you call taking chances, I call being prepared.”

  Unfazed by their banter, Willem nodded down the hall. “What about Emmy? Is she dressed for dinner?”

  A bell clanged somewhere on the grounds.

  Emmy’s door jerked open and Cuddy stepped out grinning—until he glanced up at Willem’s reddening face. He winced then shoved his hat on his head and offered a weak smile. “Folks, that sound means dinner’s served. Around here, if you’re late, there won’t be nothing left.”

  He tipped his hat at Emmy, who stood gaping at her papa from the door, and swaggered to the head of the stairs without another glance in their direction.

  ***

  Emmy had never witnessed such a flurry of activity around a table. Three Mexican girls bearing trays wove in and out on countless trips to the kitchen. When Emmy didn’t think another platter would fit between the mounds of stringy pork, tall stacks of tortillas, steaming bowls of beans, and crockery pots filled with spicy-smelling dishes, one of the chattering girls brought in a charger filled with brilliant red slices of yet another food she didn’t recognize.

  Mr. Rawson forked a piece and held it up for inspection. “Know what this is?” he asked no one in particular.

  Papa wiped his mouth and smiled. “I believe I do, but let the womenfolk have a guess.”

  Aunt Bertha leaned in closer. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen such a fancy-colored food before.” She shot a look at Mr. Rawson. “Assuming that is food.”

  Mr. Rawson transferred the item in question to her plate. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  She picked around it cautiously with the tip of her fork then raised her eyes to his. “You sure about this?”

  He smiled. “You’ve eaten a watermelon, haven’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, it tastes a bit like that, only watered down.”

  Talked into it, she cut a big piece and shoved it in her mouth. Her broad smile pleased Mr. Rawson, if his booming laugh was any indication. “That’s cactus pear, Mrs. Bloom. Fresh cut this morning.”

  “Call me Bertha, and I’ll call you John. Is that all right?”

  “Why, sure it is.” He pointed at a nearby platter. “Those vegetables there are cactus pads, Bertha. Nopalitos, we call them. We brush them with oil and toss them on the grill. I think you’ll find them delicious.”

  Mrs. Rawson passed Emmy a crock filled to the brim with a savory-looking dish. “And this is pork stew with nopales, a wonderfully tasty addition.” She turned to Mama. “Magda, the preserves you just spread on that tortilla?” She nodded for emphasis. “Cactus jelly.”

  Aunt Bertha reached for another bright-red piece of pear and chewed it thoughtfully. “Let me get this straight. The leaves are a vegetable but the pears are a fruit. All from the same plant? How can that be?”

  Their hostess beamed. “It’s a versatile commodity in the South, as adaptable as this region and its resourceful people.”

  Cuddy laughed. “And just as prickly as these people when they’re crossed.” He had ignored his mother’s place cards and planted himself in Greta’s chair beside Emmy, earning him a sharp glare from Papa.

  Greta didn’t seem to mind since it put her opposite them next to Diego.

  Emmy had explained to her parents that the door to her room wasn’t plumb, so it had swung shut by itself when Cuddy walked her onto the balcony to see the view. Grouchy old Papa hadn’t believed a single word.

  A hand reached between Emmy and Cuddy to place a dish of deep-green peppers on the table.

  Emmy followed the shawl-wrapped arm to find a new face among the servers, this one slightly older. Something about her solemn expression intrigued Emmy. Her serenity and the way she held herself said she was out of place in the role of a servant.

  Her presence sparked a peculiar reaction in Diego that Emmy could feel from where she sat. Already somber, when he saw who stood there he tensed and laid down his fork. One side of his jaw twitched, and his eyes darkened with irritation.

  One of the serving girls whispered to the newcomer in Spanish. She answered quietly. Mr. Rawson added something to the conversation, and Greta laughed and made a comment, too. Soon, most everyone at the table, including Emmy’s bilingual papa, chatted easily in the musical language that Emmy, Aunt Bertha, and Mama didn’t understand.

  However, Emmy did understand that the soft-spoken stranger seemed overtly interested in her. Each time she looked up, the brooding eyes met hers boldly, until Emmy began to feel uncomfortable. As for Diego, he watched the mysterious lady gather dirty dishes, a frown lining his forehead. Usually skilled at sorting the dynamics of a situation, the scowl on Diego’s face and the server’s careful appraisal threw Emmy quite off track.

  Helping herself to one more glance at Emmy, she picked up an empty tray and turned to go.

  Mrs. Rawson held up her hand. “Wait, Melatha. I’d like to introduce you.” Standing, she walked around the table and slid her arm around the woman’s waist. “Friends, this is Diego’s little mother. She’s not usually working in our kitchen but has graciously offered to lend a hand today for our special occasion. Melatha’s the best cook in South Texas.” She tightened her grip. “She’s also a dear friend. The Rawsons consider her and Diego a part of our family.”

  Diego’s mother. This time Emmy flashed an appraising glance.

  Silent until now, Diego bowed slightly. “I’m honored by your words, Mrs. Rawson. I’m certain my mother feels the same.”

  The glowing smile on his handsome face flipped Emmy’s stomach.

  “But if you’ll pardon one bold observation,” he continued, “isn’t it customary for the staff to serve the table while the members of a family dine together?”

  “Isi!” his mother hissed.

  The light of understanding dawned in Mrs. Rawson’s eyes. Flustered, but only briefly, she faced her friend. “He’s right, of course! Melatha, put down those things and join us. You’ve made your contribution for the day.”

  “I really couldn’t, Miss Kate. Besides, I’m not hungry.” She gave a tight smile. “All that tasting in the kitchen...”

  Mrs. Rawson took the stack of dishes from her hands. “That’s all right. We’re nearly done. I know you’re fond of our English tea. Sit and share a cup with us. Allow my guests to benefit from your company.”

  Diego’s mother opened her mouth to protest again, but a short, middle-aged man in dust-covered pants appeared in the archway behind her son. “Excuse me, Señor Rawson.” He wadded his hat in his hands. “I need to see Diego, if you please.”

  Mr. Rawson’s moustache twitched. “What now, Pete? Can’t you men run things for five minutes without him? The man’s having his dinner.”

  The intruder cut pleading eyes to Diego. “Forgive me. It’s important.”

  Irritation brought out Mr. Rawson’s British accent. “What’s so flaming important that it can’t wait?”

  Looking as if he’d sooner lose his tongue, the man swallowed hard then mumbled his answer. “Faron, he’s
loose again, señor. He’s still on the ranch, but none of the men will tangle with him. They call for Diego.”

  Diego groaned and rolled his eyes. “Not again. That’s twice in one day.”

  Mr. Rawson tossed his napkin on his plate. “Blast that son of perdition!”

  Mrs. Rawson gasped. “John! Watch your language.”

  “Sorry, Kate, but isn’t there any fence that will hold that horse?”

  Diego patted his boss’s shoulder. “Relax, sir. Enjoy your dessert. I’ll take care of it.”

  Worry creased his mother’s brow. “Will you return tonight, Isi?”

  He flashed a teasing smile. “I suppose that depends on Faron.”

  “Be careful, son.”

  He gazed at her with affection. “Don’t fret, Mother. I’ll come home in one piece.” He excused himself and pushed back his chair. “Before I go, sir, Señor Boteo suggested we post a night watch for a few days.” His eyes twinkled. “It seems they’ve had a run-in with el chupa sangre. Francisco chased him off a goat last night.”

  Cuddy slapped the table. “Come on, Diego! I’m surprised at you for giving that fable enough credence to repeat it.”

  Greta wiped her mouth then placed her hands in her lap. “Something’s killing all those calves and sheep, Cuddy.”

  He cocked his head to the side and mimicked her. “We do have a coyote or two in Dimmit County, Greta.”

  Biting back a grin, Diego stood. Folding his napkin beside his plate, he nodded at each of the guests and took his leave.

  The warmth of his eyes, lingering on Emmy as he bid her good night, sent chills down her spine. Greta, obviously lost in thoughts she’d not likely share, stared longingly toward a spot past the archway where he had disappeared.

  Mrs. Rawson signaled to one of the girls. She ducked into the kitchen and returned with a stack of small plates and a tray filled with sweets. Serving dessert to her husband, Mrs. Rawson raised one tapered brow. “If I may be honest, John, I’m glad Faron got out again. I hope he pulls up lame this time, and you have to shoot him.” She passed the tray to Willem then demurely folded her napkin across her lap. “Better yet, perhaps the stubborn thing will bail off into the river and break his hateful neck.”