Page 17 of Too Hot To Handle

As Tory soaked her hands in a pan of warm, iodine-tinted water, she heard another wild squawking from the henhouse. It ended before she could see what was happening. An hour later Jed came into the kitchen, carrying the egg basket.

„Boss says he wants chicken and dumplings for dinner.“

„I’ll check the freezer,“ said Tory, „but I think I fried the last chickens for Sunday lunch.“

„No problem,“ said Jed, reaching into the basket and tossing the plucked, cleaned and rather lean body of a chicken on the counter.

Tory gave him a startled look.

Jed grinned. „Guess the ‘feathered phenomenon’ pecked the boss once too often. He wrung her neck and cleaned her himself.“ Jed spotted Tory’s hands. „Holy cow, Tory. What – oh, Lord! It wasn’t Reever the hen got, was it?“

She smiled crookedly. „Like Reever says, I’m clumsy.“

„Clumsy?“ said Jed with an incredulous look at her. „You’re about as clumsy as the cat when she’s prowling for mice in the barn.“

„Yeah, sure,“ Tory said, grimacing.

Her mouth turned down as she remembered all the times she had made a fool of herself in front of Reever – most recently at the henhouse. She had no illusions as to how graceful she had looked with her fanny hanging out of the chicken coop and her legs kicking air. Sighing, she picked up the big hen gingerly. It was one thing to gather eggs that were still warm. It was quite another to confront a barely cooled chicken carcass.

„Pretend you just unwrapped it from the store,“ offered Jed, grinning at Tory’s obvious discomfort.

She smiled weakly and began filling a big pot with water as Jed closed the screen door behind him. While the hen simmered on the stove, Tory found the old ranch cookbook that had become her bible in the last few weeks. Being a short-order cook hadn’t given her a very large list of specialties. While her pancakes had been wonderful, her biscuits could have been used to shoe horses, as Reever had pointed out. She had kept trying, working when no one was around, until she had learned how to make a tender, savory biscuit. The men had complimented her extravagantly. Reever had said nothing but „Pass the butter.“

It had been that way with everything. If she did it badly, he let her know in no soft terms. If she did it well, he ignored her. Dutch had told her that it was nothing personal – Reever was like that with everybody. But even Dutch had to admit that Reever gave Tory less slack and more spur than anyone else in the outfit.

Tory’s solution had been to work longer and harder, just as she had done at the swim club, hoping that sooner or later Reever would let up. In the past even her toughest coach had acknowledged it when she had done a good job.

But not Reever. It seemed that the harder she worked, the more sarcastically critical he became.

Nothing personal.

Tory wished that she could believe it. She wished that she could forget all the times that Reever had cut her to the bone with his caustic appraisals of her as a cook, egg collector, dishwasher – and woman. That most of all. The memory of how her breasts had risen eagerly to his touch humiliated her to her core. Even now he had only to look at her and she felt it starting all over again, the shivering, melting fire.

Honey, you’re so clumsy you’d have to give your tricks combat pay.

Nothing personal? Yeah. Sure.

Gloomily Tory began to read the recipe for chicken and dumplings. For once she had all the ingredients on hand, including an old, tough hen.

Throughout the day Tory hovered over the stew pot, tasting, poking, adjusting herbs and salt as the cooking progressed. The chicken itself had a fine flavor that kept improving as the hours passed. When it was time for the dumplings, Tory did everything according to the book, bit into a dumpling and knew she was in for the cutting edge of Reev er’s sarcastic tongue.

With a sinking heart she threw out the first batch and made more dumplings, measuring the flour so scrupulously that she all but counted each particle. The result looked and tasted like what it was. Boiled dough. Unfortunately the dumplings were the backbone of the meal, for one chicken divided among nine mouths didn’t go very far, even when that chicken was formerly the biggest, meanest hen in all of Arizona.

As Tory set the table, she braced herself for tht ordeal to come. The chicken was tender and flavorful, quite the best that Tory had ever tasted, although she had to admit that revenge might have been part of the savor – her hands still hurt from the punctures and bruises the hen had inflicted. The vegetables she had cooked were just right, firm rather than mushy, with a scattering of herbs, to bring out their natural flavor.

But the dumplings still tasted like boiled dough.

The men piled into the kitchen as Tory was pouring the thick, lethal coffee that they all lovea and she could barely swallow.

„Evening, Tory,“ said Dutch, hanging his battered hat on a knob projecting from one of the ola oak chairs that surrounded the scarred wooden dining table. He slid into his chair eagerly. „Been smelling this all day. Driving me crazy, it smells so good.“

The others were right on Dutch’s heels. Within moments the big kitchen was full of hungry men. One of them was Reever. He gave Tory’s hands a long glance as she poured his coffee. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the small, livid wounds dotting her fine-grained skin.

„Jed,“ said Dutch, „you better check the henhouse after dinner. When I went by on the way in, that one-eyed hen didn’t come out to peck at my boots through the wire. She might be sick.“

„Nope,“ Jed said confidently, helping himself to chicken and dumplings. „That crazy old biddy done pecked her last,“ he drawled.

„Yeah?“ asked Dutch, forking a chunk of chicken into his mouth. „Lord, Tory, you’re gonna spoil us,“ he said, closing his eyes and chewing slowly. „Best chicken I ever had.“ He sighed and turned his attention back to Jed. „What happened?“