“No.”
“Then I’m talking to you.”
He was taller than she expected.
Broad shoulders.
Dark-brown hair.
Short beard.
Blue eyes that looked less ornamental and more dangerous up close.
His ivory shirt was open at the collar.
Black waistcoat.
Dark trousers.
Leather belt.
His black hat had been pushed slightly backward.
He looked as if he had escaped civilization and not yet been recaptured.
Mabel wiped her hands on her apron.
“Mr. Cole.”
“Harrison.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“No?”
“We met six seconds ago.”
“Seven now.”
“Still Mr. Cole.”
His smile widened.
Mabel hated that she liked it.
“The party is through there.”
“I know.”
“Your dance partner might be looking for you.”
“Which one?”
Mabel raised an eyebrow.
He laughed.
“That sounded worse than intended.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“Clementine.”
Harrison’s expression shifted.
“Ah.”
Mabel noticed.
Not longing.
Fatigue.
She nearly laughed.
He looked at the cooling pastries.
“May I?”
“You're the guest of honor.”
“That sounds like permission to steal.”
“It is.”
Harrison picked up one honey biscuit.
Broke it.
Steam still rose faintly.
He tasted.
Then stopped chewing.
His eyes closed.
Mabel stared.
“That bad?”
He opened them.
“Good God.”
She laughed before she could stop herself.
Harrison looked delighted.
“You laugh.”
“Sometimes.”
“I hadn't heard it.”
“You've known me ten seconds.”
“Long enough.”
He took another bite.
“I’ve eaten in New York.”
“San Francisco.”
“Chicago.”
“Cheyenne.”
Mabel folded her arms.
“And?”
“This is better.”
“Than Chicago?”
“Everything is better than Chicago.”
She laughed again.
Harrison leaned against the counter.
There was no mockery in his face.
That made her nervous.
He asked:
“You made the whole feast?”
“Not all.”
“How much?”
Mabel hesitated.
“Most.”
“Why?”
“Because someone had to.”
“Your family?”
“Yes.”
“Paid?”
She almost choked.
“You ask inappropriate questions.”
“I’m wealthy.”
“I was told that excuses many things.”
He smiled.
“Not that one.”
Mabel looked away.
Harrison watched her.
Then:
“What would you charge?”
She looked back.
“For what?”
“Those biscuits.”
“At Longhorn Valley.”
“Two hundred men.”
“Twice a week.”
Mabel stared.
“You’re offering me work?”
“I’m asking a price.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Good.”
His smile returned.
“Give me one.”
Mabel’s mind shifted automatically.
Flour.
Butter.
Honey.
Transport.
Labor.
Fuel.
She calculated.
“Six dollars per hundred.”
Harrison raised an eyebrow.
“Too low.”
Her face hardened.
“You asked my price.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“You underpriced yourself.”
“You don't know my costs.”
“Then explain them.”
She did.
For the next ten minutes, Mabel forgot he was handsome.
Which was dangerous because when she remembered, he had become even more so.
They argued about delivery.
Ingredient fluctuations.
Whether ranch cooks could reproduce her glaze.
Labor.
Quantity.
Oven capacity.
Harrison asked good questions.
Better than most merchants.
Mabel answered without shrinking.
At one point he laughed loudly enough that someone in the ballroom glanced toward the kitchen.
Mabel froze.
Harrison noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No.”
His expression changed.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Become smaller when someone might notice you.”
Mabel’s smile vanished.
“You are observant.”
“I run cattle.”
“Cattle aren't people.”
“Usually easier.”
She looked toward the doorway.
“Go back.”
“Why?”
“Because Clementine is waiting.”
“Is she?”
“She expects you.”
“That isn't the same.”
Mabel stared.
Harrison stepped closer.
Not too close.
Enough.
“Why are you back here?”
“I told you.”
“I’m working.”
“Why are you always working when everyone else gets seen?”
Mabel’s throat tightened.
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know your sister said you made the food.”
“I know your mother told someone the kitchen was ‘better suited’ to you.”
Mabel’s face burned.
He had heard.
Harrison continued:
“I know half the room praised the feast without asking who cooked it.”
“That’s enough to irritate me.”
Mabel looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because they’re fools.”
“You arrived three weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve already judged the whole town?”
“Efficiently.”
She laughed despite herself.
Harrison’s eyes softened.
Then he asked:
“Why do you let them hide you?”
The question landed harder than expected.
Mabel looked toward the ballroom.
Clementine passed the doorway in gold.
Beautiful.
Surrounded.
Mabel said:
“Because Oak Haven believes women are weighed on a scale.”
Harrison’s expression tightened.
“And?”
“I have always been considered too heavy a burden.”
Silence.
Mabel immediately regretted saying it.
Too honest.
Too intimate.
She looked down.
“Forget that.”
Harrison moved closer.
She became aware of him in every possible way.
His height.
His breath.
The small scar near his jaw.
His hand resting against the counter.
He lifted one finger.
Brushed a loose curl from her forehead.
Mabel froze.
Harrison stopped immediately.
“May I?”
The question mattered.
Mabel swallowed.
“You already did.”
“I can stop.”
She looked into his eyes.
“Don't.”
His hand remained near her cheek.
Not quite touching.
“Then Oak Haven is full of blind fools.”
Mabel’s heart began beating too hard.
“You've known me fifteen minutes.”
“Twenty-three.”
“You're counting?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He smiled.
His gaze dropped.
To her mouth.
Mabel’s breath changed.
Harrison noticed.
He stepped closer.
“Mr. Cole.”
“Harrison.”
“This is a kitchen.”
“I noticed.”
“I have flour on my face.”
“I noticed that too.”
“You were dancing with my sister.”
“That was harder to forget.”
Mabel almost laughed.
Then Clementine’s voice came from the doorway.
“Harrison!”
Both turned.
Clementine stood there.
Martha beside her.
Behind them, three townspeople.
Then five.