The Western Dare (Harlequin Heartwarming) (6 page)

As long as he was going to visit Maizie, Camp decided to ask if he could change places in the line—so he wouldn’t be parked next to
her
tomorrow night. He pawed through his supplies, unearthing a fire grate, a coffeepot and the apparatus Emily called a Dutch oven. The coffeepot didn’t have a device to hold filters like the one at home. It was galvanized inside and out. Camp figured you filled it with water and tossed in coffee beans.

Only, how many beans?
Maizie’s supply list had called for generic canned coffee. He wasn’t picky about much, but he was about coffee. The minute he found out he’d be driving a wagon, he’d traded in the can for a sack of gourmet beans.

Settling on a handful, Camp dropped the grate over the fire and sat the pot on it before he took off to see Maizie. Cooking wasn’t so hard, he thought smugly.

At each wagon, Camp paused to sniff. The elementary-school teachers had potatoes roasting in foil wrap and were frying a thick slab of ham. Vi, the taller of the two, said the mouthwatering confection cooling on a flat rock was cinnamon apple cobbler.

Refusing to lick his lips, Camp left. Robert’s and Jared’s plates were piled high with beans and franks. Camp skirted the couple from Philadelphia. That guy was so obnoxious he probably made his wife whip up baklava and lamb wrapped in grape leaves so he’d have another opportunity to brag about his trip to Greece.

Camp skidded to a halt at Sherry and Brittany’s fire. “Who fixed that?” He pointed to something that had the look of strawberry shortcake.

“Me.” Sherry blew on her fingers and scraped them lightly across her shirt. “Emily discovered a patch of wild strawberries along that fencerow. I also made tomatoes, peppers and onions over brown rice. Tomorrow, it’s Brittany’s turn to cook. We decided to trade off.”

Camp swatted at a curl of smoke. “When did you learn to cook?” he demanded “As I recall, you got a D in home ec.”

“In freshman sewing—because we didn’t have a machine at home. At the condo, I do most of the cooking. Yvette’s rarely around. Here, take your data sheet. Brittany? Where’s yours?”

The girl flashed Camp a wide smile. “I’ll bring mine later. I’m redoing my nails.” She beckoned to Camp. “I’m painting them ravishing red instead of black. Tell that little creep, Mark.”

Ravishing red?
Camp edged away, remembering what Mark had said about Brittany having the “hots” for him. “He wouldn’t have noticed if you’d worn polish or not.”

“No polish? Not wearing any color is like...like going naked. But if that’s what you want...” Her rapt gaze traveled slowly up Camp’s torso.

Reflexively, he closed the top button on his shirt. No way would he touch that statement. “I’ll leave you ladies to eat. I’m off to have a word with Maizie.” He couldn’t retreat fast enough to their leader’s wagon. She had stew bubbling in a black pot, and a coffee mug sat within reach of where she straddled a log, mending a cinch.

“Howdy, there, sonny. Did you get the word about redistributing your load and oiling tack?”

“Emily told me. I came to see if you have a spare set of rules—and to ask if I could move my wagon up in the line...say, between my sister and Doris and Vi.”

Maizie took a swig of her coffee, eyes narrowed from the steam. “Spare rules are in my saddlebag. Bad idea for you to move. That little gal ridin’ with Sherry ain’t here to learn trail history, if you get my drift.”

“Argh!” Camp exploded. “She’s my student.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It takes two to tango, Maizie. And I’m not dancing.”

“Glad to hear it, boy. Help yourself to the rules. You might wanna hit the sack early, too. Today I went easy. Tomorrow we’ll make fifteen miles or bust.”

Camp put a hand to his sore butt. “That far? Are you forgetting this train’s made up mostly of women?”

She slapped her thigh and cackled. “Ain’t the gals I’ve seen rubbin’ their backsides.”

“Joke all you want. The trip is young,” Camp reminded her as he walked stiffly to retrieve a set of rules. He thumbed through the pages, disappointed to see there were no recipes attached. “You didn’t give the women extra help, did you, Maizie?” he asked suspiciously.

“Extra help, like how?”

“Oh, like while you had me hitching nags, maybe someone held a sideline cooking school?”

“I never play favorites with customers. Rule number seven says each wagon fixes whatever food they eat on the trip. Number nine says the same about laundry. Next town we hit, you might wanna stock up on canned soup, boy. It gets old, but it’s easy to open and heat. Had a fella went all the way to Oregon eatin’ soup three meals a day. He couldn’t cook, either.”

“I can cook,” Camp lied.

“Uh-huh! See that you memorize those rules. We’re keepin’ a tight schedule.”

There wasn’t enough light for Camp to study the list on his way back to the wagon. Most people, he noticed, had eaten and were washing dishes. He hadn’t even started his dinner. He might have to forgo writing anything tonight. Especially if tomorrow was going to be an even longer day. Every bone in his body hurt now.

The Bentons were dishing up their food as he passed. Bacon, scrambled eggs and biscuits. Golden, fluffy, steaming biscuits. Camp drooled on the top page of rules.

His dad had always made biscuits on weekends. He should be able to remember the ingredients. Flour. Water. Salt. And baking soda? No, baking powder. Darting another glance toward his neighbor, Camp saw Emily serve bacon from the bottom third of her Dutch oven. Biscuits were in the middle, eggs on top. He could practically hear Mark Benton taunting him for being a copycat. As if he cared.

Digging out a rasher of bacon, Camp popped it into the pan and set it over the hot coals. Estimating, he tossed approximately two cups of flour in a bowl, to which he added a pinch of salt—uh-oh, he’d forgotten oil. How much? Equal parts? Why not?

According to the baking-powder can, it was double-acting. Camp took another guess and shook some in. Wow, the mixture was stiff. He added more water. He had no clue how Emily Benton made her biscuits so symmetrical, but looks didn’t count squat with Camp. He plopped spoonfuls of the stiff dough into the Dutch oven’s second level—just like Emily had—and turned the bacon before settling the biscuit pan into the grooves. See, cooking wasn’t so hard. Oh, but how long should they bake? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? That sounded good. It’d give him time for a cup of coffee before mixing up the powdered eggs.

Yuck!
The coffee was barely brown. Camp tasted it. Weak. Very weak. One handful of coffee beans definitely wasn’t enough.

Mark and Megan Benton’s arguing diverted his attention. Neither wanted to do the dishes. Well, he’d never had to pull KP as a kid, and look at him now. Maybe Emily Benton had the right idea forcing those two on this trip. A body should be able to survive in the wilderness. Especially a man.

Camp sipped his colored water and watched Emily wrap leftover biscuits in foil. She didn’t bustle. He liked that she seemed to do everything with an economy of motion. Well, almost everything. She could scramble, too. Take the incident with the papers she’d strewn across his office floor. She’d fluttered like a bird then. A bluebird in that bright-blue suit. Camp grinned. A redheaded bluebird.

Emily glanced up and caught her neighbor scrutinizing her. “You’re burning something,” she said, pointing to the smoking pan on his grate.

Leaping up, Camp poked at the bacon. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Guess it’s time to start the eggs.”

She fought a smile as he picked up a small aluminum bowl and held it over the top pan.

“Wait,” she yelled. “Did you put oil in the pan?”

Was he supposed to have done that for the other two, as well? Not wanting to appear ignorant, he opened a bottle of oil and poured till it covered the bottom—followed immediately by the egg mixture, which sizzled, bubbled and blackened in no time flat. He snatched it off, then yelped and nursed a burned finger. “What’s wrong now?” he snarled as Emily continued to gape at him.

“Nothing.” Hooking a loose strand of hair over one ear, she spun and called to Mark, who stood nearby talking with Jared Boone.

Emily was furious that Sherry Campbell’s brother had caught her staring like a ninny. Worse, she was doing it again—feeling sorry for a man. It’d been Dave’s charming helplessness that had first ensnared her. Emily the nurturer. Vanguard to the vulnerable. A role that became oppressive when her husband’s boyish foibles had ballooned into endless affairs and lies. A shudder coursed through her. The sight of Mark loping back fueled her resolve to ignore Nolan Campbell from here on out. She pasted a smile on her face lest Mark see more than she wanted him to see. Though maybe she’d been wrong trying to keep the unpleasant side of her marriage from the kids...

“Mom...Mom! Jared brought fishing gear. He said I could buy a rod and stuff in Council Grove. His dad says we’ll be camping on the Neosho River, and that he’ll take Jared and me fishing.”

“I don’t know, Mark,” Emily said carefully. “How...how expensive is fishing gear?” After paying bills out of her last check, plus their rent in advance for the summer, she had exactly three hundred dollars in the bank for school clothes and food until she got paid again in September. Not counting the stipend Camp was paying.

Mark’s excitement died. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked a rock into the fire. It clanged against the coffeepot and ricocheted off their neighbor’s grate. “I didn’t wanna go fishing anyhow.” Brushing past his mother, he darted between the wagons.

Sighing, Emily massaged her temples. At least Nolan Campbell had disappeared. Her money woes were no one else’s business. She freshened her tea and sank onto a log bathed in silvery moonlight. A perfect setting for a mythical hero to gallop through on his white charger. The fantasy, at least, restored her sense of humor.

Megan Benton reached out of the wagon and grabbed her brother as he ran past. “Psst...Mark. Day after tomorrow in Council Grove, call Toby. He’ll let you put the fishing stuff on his credit card. Better yet, maybe he’ll come get us.”

The boy perked up, then slumped again. “Nah, Mom don’t want us callin’ them.”

“Who cares?” Megan jutted her pointed little chin. “Mona and Toby footed the bills while Dad was alive. You tell me why Mom’s suddenly so picky.”

“How do you know they paid?” he asked, turning to run smack into Camp, who’d stepped to the back of his wagon to throw out his inedible biscuits. The bacon, charred beyond recognition, he’d scraped into the fire.

The boy sucked in a deep breath. “You spying on us?”

“No, but I heard you mention fishing gear.” He tossed one of his rock-solid biscuits into the air and caught it. “These’d double as a sinker,” he said around a laugh.

Mark dug one out of the pan. “What are they?”

“They’re supposed to be biscuits like your mother’s.” Camp heaved one into the woods. It cracked against a tree. “I’ll give you ten dollars for the ones she has left.”

“No way!” Megan spoke up. “We’re toasting those for breakfast.”

“Oh. Tell you what, Mark. I’ll lend you my fishing pole in exchange for her recipe. Only...don’t mention that I want it.”

“Why not?” Suspicion laced Mark’s words. “Why not just ask your sister?”

Camp drew a hand over his jaw. “I figure she’s gone to bed,” he muttered. “It’s no biggie. You kids go ahead and turn in. Soon as I wash dishes, I’m headed for bed myself.” He fired the remaining lumps of hard dough into the trees, and walked back to the basin where he’d put the other pans to soak. In a final act of despair, he poured out the weak coffee. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d double the beans and try again.

From the corner of his eye Camp noticed that Emily sat gazing at the moon. Occasionally she sipped from a cup. If it’d been coffee, he’d have crawled over on hands and knees to beg a cup. But it was tea. He didn’t like tea. And besides, neither of them cared to get chummy.

He knew why he didn’t want to get chummy with
her.
Obviously she had her reasons, too. That was evident from the way she’d sneaked her data sheet onto the stack the minute his back was turned. The other women had handed him theirs. The only sheet missing was Brittany’s. She’d said she’d bring it by, but maybe she’d been too tired.

Speaking of which—Camp yawned as he emptied his dishwater. Leaving the pans to air-dry, he carefully doused the coals. Plunged into darkness, he stood a moment to let his eyes adjust. Gradually he realized that Emily’s was the only fire left burning. He considered telling her he was turning in, then decided against it. She must know it’d be pitch-black once she put hers out. Camp hoped she didn’t break her fool neck groping her way into her wagon.

He had his shirt unbuttoned and one leg hiked up over the feed trough that hung on the rear of his wagon—when he suddenly froze and gave thanks for Emily’s fire. Now he knew why Brittany hadn’t brought him her information sheet. She was in his wagon—her blond hair fluffed out over bare shoulders.

Bare!
Camp scrambled out as fast and as quietly as he could. Fear left a dark taste in his mouth. Where was his sister? Did she know what Brittany was doing?

No. Sherry wanted the women to show him up. But she’d never be party to anything so damaging.

Unless he wanted to ruin Brittany’s reputation, he couldn’t roust anyone who was sleeping. That left him one option—to throw himself on the mercy of Emily Benton. He tiptoed between the wagons, almost afraid to breathe. Stopping near the front of her wagon, he whispered as loudly as he dared, “Mrs. Benton...Emily.”

She jumped up, slopping tea over the rim of her cup. “I thought you’d gone to bed. Why are you prowling around in the dark?”

“Shh.” He held a finger to his lips as he cast furtive glances over his shoulder. “I have a problem. I need your help.”

He looked so genuinely flustered, Emily found herself agreeing before she’d heard him out. By the time he’d finished his story, anger gripped her chest. “Of all the spineless...weak willed...why didn’t you just tell her to leave?”

Her unexpected fury rocked Camp. Before he could gather his wits, she launched a second verbal attack.