Page 13 of A Late-Blooming Rose
She shook her head. “I doubt we’ll have word for days. Not if the posse has to ride all the way to Morgan’s Crossing.”
He knew the facts as well as Delia did.
“As for Horace Hatter…I plan to call on him and his wife this afternoon, see how he’s recovering, and bring some food so his wife doesn’t have to worry about cooking. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, she tilted her head toward the table, empty except for one place setting and a cut-glass pitcher of water. “If you won’t go back to bed, at least let’s get some breakfast inside you.”
“Coffee,” he corrected.
“Foodandcoffee,” she said firmly, an implacable expression on her face.
“Stop trying to keep me wrapped in cotton wool,” he said testily.
Her eyes teared up. “Papa, I thought I was going to lose you yesterday. Thank goodness you had the digitalis with you.”
“Forgive me, my darling. I’m a crusty old man today.” He hugged her.
She clung to him for a moment, before pushing back and dabbing under her eyes.
“You missed a spot.” With a gentle finger, Andre brushed away the moisture and kissed her cheek. “I never want to make you cry. Truth is, I don’t think I could eat a bite,” he confessed, pressing a hand against his stomach.
“I know. My stomach’s queasy, too.” She patted her still-flat stomach. “But with the baby….”
His granddaughter, or so Delia believed. Yesterday, she told him she intended to name the baby Andrea.
He forced a smile. “I don’t have that excuse.” A knot the size of a wagon wheel lodged in his stomach. He gestured toward the table. “You must eat, too. You need to keep up your strength.” He allowed her to guide him to his chair.
“I had porridge.”
Andre grunted and sat. He disliked porridge, as well Delia knew.
“Darcy and Gideon Walker dropped by on their way home.” She busied herself pouring him a glass of water. “They brought a few baskets of huckleberries left over from the Harvest Festival. Perfect to sweeten your porridge.”
“I hope they’ll be safe.” He frowned. “It’s no secret Darcy has wealth, for all that the Walkers live rather simply in that fairy-tale cottage of theirs. She wears elegant clothing and beautiful jewelry.”
“Gideon thinks they’ll be fine. After all, the posse traveled down that road yesterday. They would have taken care of any trouble if any was to be had.”
Tilda Mournier entered carrying a tureen. The middle-aged housekeeper was a fine-looking woman whose Negro and Indian blood showed in her bronzed skin and high cheekbones.
Andre had known her since they both were small children. Before the war, she and her parents were his father’s slaves, and Tilda tended to mother him—at least until Delia came into his life and took over the bossy role. Far too often the two women ganged up on him. Most of the time he didn’t mind, knowing their fussing came from love.
Today, though, he hoped Tilda wouldn’t speak about what happened yesterday. He’d already discussed the robbery and its ramifications far too much.
Tilda’s husband Rufus followed her. The tall, dark-skinned butler held a laden tray. Behind them came their daughter Milliana with a coffee pot, bringing the bitter scent of the brew into the room. Their other daughter remained in the kitchen, working as cook’s assistant. Both young women looked just like their mother.
Instead of their usual smiles, all three had solemn expressions, which didn’t change when they greeted him.
He supposed everyone else in town looked the same and would continue their somberness until the robbers were caught and the posse safely returned.
Most of his servants had worked for him a long time. He’d hired them in New Orleans and they’d traveled to New York, where they remained taking care of his home during his brief trip back to the South and the move with Delia to Montana. Once this house was finished, he’d sold the one in New York and brought out everyone who still wanted to work for him.
Milliana poured coffee into Andre’s cup and then lifted the creamer from Rufus’s tray to place beside the coffee cup.
Delia offered the porridge tureen, and Andre helped himself. Then she placed the brown sugar bowl and the one with huckleberries next to the small pitcher of cream and gave him aneat-every-bitelook.
Taking his time, he stirred cream into his coffee and sipped. Slowly, he prepared his porridge, adding the berries and brown sugar.
Delia’s gimlet-eyed look made Andre cut short his dawdling and bite the bullet, or the spoon in his case. He poured in cream and ate. The porridge, smothered with brown sugar, huckleberries, and cream, wasn’t too bad. To please his daughter, Andre finished the whole bowl.
Usually, they didn’t linger over breakfast. In addition to managing her household and mothering Micah, Delia performed her duties as a minister’s wife, while Andre meddled with his plans for bettering Sweetwater Springs. He had ideas for improvements that would benefit the town as well as future generations.
