Chapter 8

“Oh, you poor dear.” Violet hurried to Anya, taking her arm and guiding her to a chair near the well-worn table. “Sit down. All of you. I know what a traumatic experience this has been for you.”

The therapist case worker in Nikki’s head perked up at Violet’s comment. “You do? Vio- Uh, Mrs. Hamilton, have you experienced something similar?”

Violet’s eyes instantly filled with alligator tears. She pursed her lips. Her eyes bore into the floor, unable to lift them to meet Nikki’s. “Yes.” She barely breathed the word.

The atmosphere in the kitchen instantly shifted, Anya and her friends suddenly realized the lie they had chosen, because it was so plausible and possible, was indeed a common occurrence and had in fact happened to this extremely young bride who was currently their only hope for help to assimilate into this strange new existence.

A loud noise clamored on the small stoop at the back door. Men poured into the mud room, tugging off their dirty boots, hurrying to complete the task so they could find out why the bell had been rung.

A baritone voice bellowed. “Violet? What’s wrong?”

He entered the kitchen and focused on Violet. His face lit up the minute he saw her. Anya watched their interaction. Had her ball gown been the special surprise Violet had hoped for?

A huge smile stretched across his mouth. Her cheeks instantly turned crimson in response to him. He looked to be, at least, in his thirties. Then he spied the five women dressed like men. “Who’s this?”

Six men of various ages, builds, and ethnicity shuffled in behind him, also in stocking feet. Their socks weren’t much cleaner than their boots. They gawked at the girls. Slowly realizing the women’s clothing belonged to them, their expressions morphed from curious to anger and confusion. The only man who was not offended by the women wearing the workers’ clothes was an older man with a handlebar mustache and greying-white hair. He was short, really short, and big around. Ah, that’s whose clothes Jackie Lynn had found and rejected as a possibility for any of them to wear.

He grinned under that wooly white mustache. “Well, I’ll bet there’s a good story here, by golly.”

Violet’s eyes widened. “Flap Jack, mind your manners!” She shrieked. “These ladies have been through ... a lot and don’t need your insensitivities.”

Flap Jack looked properly chastised, but his grin remained behind his veil of hair.

The baritone voice walked to Violet and gathered her into his arms. She willingly leaned against his chest and appeared to be quite comforted. At last, she inhaled deeply. “Duncan, we need to talk. Privately.”

He glanced at Anya and the others, then spoke to his wife. “All right.” He turned to the men. “I’ll be right back. Wait here.”

They walked, still embraced in each other’s arms, into the next room. An awkward thickness filled the kitchen. Anya and her friends didn’t know what to do, so they stayed seated around the table and tried not to make eye contact with the workers. The men equally didn’t know what to do and so they hung back at the mudroom entrance. Flap Jack sniffed the air and walked to the stove. Looking around, he found a tea towel and pulled the oven door open. “Mmmm. Mrs. Dillon’s cornbread.”

He reached in and pulled out a cast iron skillet filled with the golden brown bread. He sat it on the far side of the stove and closed his eyes as he delighted himself in the aroma wafting in the rising steam.

“Mrs. Hamilton’s momma is the only person in Dillon who can out-cook old Flap Jack.” He bobbed his head and shot a sly wink at Anya and company. “Smells like our Violet has mastered this recipe.”

Anya smiled. She liked this guy. The men began to swallow hard and shuffle from one foot to the other. Were they intrigued by the smell of freshly baked cornbread, too? Anya wondered why they didn’t just slice it up and have some, but remembered they were the ranch hands and not part of the Hamilton household. Violet had said she’d made it special for her anniversary. Perhaps it was not for the workers.

She had to admit, the smell was causing her own tummy to rumble and complain. It was long past their lunch date in Silverthorne. They should be fed and back on the road by now. They should be heading home. A knot of despair choked her as she swallowed. She had cried about this enough. Or so she thought. Apparently, her eyes were willing to shed more tears even though her pride had crossed its arms over its chest and turned its head to ignore the rest of her body.

“So, will they give us back our clothes?” A tall, extremely slender worker whispered to Flap Jack. Jackie Lynn was probably wearing his outfit. He certainly was eyeing her close enough.

Flap Jack grinned at him. “I’m sure they will, Slim. It’s just a temporary loan.”

Slim, if that really was his name, nodded, reassurance washing over his worried brow. Anya felt obliged to explain, to set his mind at ease, but forced herself to be quiet. She smiled at him, though. And the bean-pole of a man awkwardly flashed a quick and nervous smile, then continued to shuffle his feet as if he really wanted to get out of there, but had been told to wait.

Soon, Violet and Duncan came back into the kitchen. Violet looked disappointed. Duncan clapped his hands as if he were about to announce it was time to open presents. “All right, boys. Here’s what we are gonna do.” He flashed a glance at Anya and the girls. “Cactus Phil, go hitch up the mule and wagon.” The brunette with a Buffalo Bill mustache and goatee nodded and happily ran from the house. “Flap Jack, you and Violet dish up some plates and feed these women.”