Free Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) by Shirl Henke Page A

Feliz to get you something. She's in the kitchen.”
           The hallway from the front to the back of the house seemed endless to Carrie. As she slowly traversed it, she felt more like an unwelcome outsider with every step. In St. Louis, arising at seven was considered unfashionably early. How was she to know the beggarly hours of this wilderness? Quelling her insecurities, she decided she must be far more forceful with Mrs. Thorndyke if she was ever going to take her proper place as employer and put the housekeeper in hers as employee.
           The smells emanating from the kitchen were heavenly. Everything seemed to run like clockwork here. Even the food was superb. For a panic-stricken moment Carrie envisioned herself as a useless ornament, flitting through the beautiful house with nowhere to go and nothing to do, ignored by everyone including Noah. He had already made it clear to her that her primary function was to breed for him. What would she do?
           “Get hold of yourself, Carrie.” She ground out the words through clenched teeth, forcing her imaginings and her trembling to abate. With a steady hand she opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside. A short, rotund woman in a bright red dress and full white apron was busy at the oven in the far corner of the large, well-equipped kitchen. Her black hair was liberally streaked with gray and pinned in a frazzled bun. She was pulling large, fragrant loaves of bread from the oven, one after another. Suddenly she caught sight of the bright hair and blue dress from the corner of her eye and turned. She held a wooden paddle with a steaming golden loaf still securely on it.
           Her round face creased into a big welcoming smile, and her chocolate-brown eyes glowed warmly. “You are the new Señora Sinclair! I am so pleased to meet you.”
           Carrie smiled in return, overjoyed to have someone welcome her to this hostile household. “I'm Carrie Sinclair, and you must be our wonderful cook. Your dinner last night was excellent. Ah.” She sniffed in pure delight. “The bread smells divine. I'm sorry to have missed breakfast. I overslept, I guess. We don't get up so early in St. Louis.”
           As she deftly slid the loaf from the paddle onto a cooling rack, the older woman made a gesture of dismissal. “ No es importante . I am Feliz Mendoza, Doña Carrie. I will fix you whatever you want to eat.”
           Smelling the coffee and eyeing the hot bread, Carrie replied, “Just a slice of that with some butter and a cup of hot coffee would be lovely, thank you.”
           As Feliz poured a steaming mug of rich black coffee, she laughed. “I hope you like it, señora. I try not to make it so strong as the bunkhouse cook, Turnips, does, but Don Noah likes it the way most western men drink it, thick enough to float a horseshoe in.”
           Carrie tasted the aromatic brew. It was hearty but not at all bitter as so much of the coffee on her western journey had been. “It's delicious, and I don't think we ever need to try the horseshoe test, do you?”
           Her youthful grin was infectious to the older woman, who had been uncertain about yet another Mrs. Sinclair. The previous one was terrible. This one she liked.
           As Carrie devoured the hot crusty bread with thick creamy butter melted across it, they became acquainted. “Mendoza is a Spanish name, isn't it? How did you get so far from home, Feliz?”
           The cook's wide face split in a smile, revealing beautiful small white teeth. “I am Mexicana, but you are right, it is still a long way from home. My husband, God rest his soul,” she crossed herself perfunctorily and went on, “he came north with Frank Lowery from Texas. We grew up in a little town near the border, and my Carlos was a vaquero for a big rancho. He wanted a better life for us. When his amigo Frank asked him to make the long drive with cattle to Montana,