“We need to bake bread today.” She fanned her face with an old magazine. “We’ll mix the dough and set it to rise before we head outside.”
“That sounds fun. I love homemade bread, but I’ve never made it.” I was getting alarmingly adept at lying. Before Miles fell in love with it and took over, I used to help Aunt Debbie bake bread and cinnamon rolls.
I insisted that Libby stay off her feet as she directed me step-by-step on how to make bread. Once I had kneaded the dough and put it in a greased bowl to rise, she led me outside to the chicken coop.
After inspecting the hen house, we secured the gate and began to walk toward the vegetable garden. Libby and I picked corn and dug potatoes before returning to the house. We lugged two wooden tubs to the porch—one for soapy water, one for fresh—and spent a couple of hours washing dirty clothes. Wringing out the heavy, wet clothes was exhausting work, and I insisted that Libby take a break on the porch swing while I finished the task. After a feeble protest that she was fine, I persuaded her to go inside and take a nap while I hung the wet clothes on the line.
Jerrilyn watched me from the porch steps, her arms crossed over her chest. From everything I’d seen and heard, the Wilcox Brigade had old-fashioned, sexist views about a woman’s place and a woman’s work. In spite of her advanced pregnancy, Libby was stuck doing all the grunt work, all the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. And despite her sex and her assertions that the health of the baby came first, Jerrilyn was somehow exempt from the gender expectations and was content to leave it all on Libby.
I finished hanging up the clothes, balanced the laundry basket on my hip, and approached the steps.
“You’re a useful little thing,” Jerrilyn observed.
“Thank you, ma’am. Ripper told me to earn my keep.”
“And you always do what Ripper tells you?”
Something about her tone made my Spidey-senses tingle. She was fishing, for what I didn’t know.
“Well, yeah. I mean, he is kind of bossy, but I don’t mind. He’s good to me. He makes me feel safe. The man can take care of business. You should see how he handles a gun. And he never looks at another woman—not that there are many other women around. Guess that’s one of the few blessings of the pandemic. Is that a terrible thing to say? Anyway, my ex was a cheater, and I won’t put up with that shit again.”
Had I tossed out enough word salad to throw her off her purpose, whatever that was?
“Is that right,” she said noncommittally. She’d planted herself in the middle of the stairs and refused to budge, forcing me to switch the basket to my other hip so I could step around her. Charming. “Ripper told me this morning that he wants to join the brigade.”
I halted midstep, surprised.
“He didn’t tell you? I wonder why not?” Her face assumed an entirely unconvincing sympathetic expression. Was she trying to make me doubt Ripper? To sow discord between us? What was in it for her?
I shrugged. “I slept in this morning. He probably planned to tell me later.”
She smirked. “Uh-huh.” When I ignored the jibe and started walking again, she called out. “We’re having a party tonight, to welcome Ripper into the brigade. Darryl and Dwight will be going into town later, to rummage around for some booze. What do you two like to drink?”
I didn’t drink. Never had. But could I believably pass myself off as a biker’s old lady if I told her I never touched the stuff? In my motorcycle club romances, most of the characters imbibed.
“How nice of them.” My mind scrambled to recall what Ripper liked to drink besides beer. I came up empty. “Ripper’s got simple tastes. He’d just as soon have beer as anything else. Sometimes he’s in the mood for tequila.” I totally made that up.
“And you?”
Me? I couldn’t think of a thing. “Rum and coke.” I finally blurted out the name of Ali’s favorite drink.
“I’ll tell the boys to keep their eyes open for tequila and rum.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
The bread dough had finished its second rise. I didn’t want to wake Libby, so I fired up the stove and put the four loaves in to bake. The breadbox held a single loaf of bread, which I used to slap together peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the men, who gathered on the porch for a late lunch. The aroma of freshly baked bread roused Libby, who took over babysitting the loaves in the oven. I retreated to the bedroom, claiming I needed a nap. What I really needed was a break from making-nice with the people who were holding Sahdev and Bear captive. I read for a while, then drifted off.
The aroma of frying chicken woke me. I stared at the ceiling for a full minute before jumping out of bed and heading to the kitchen to help Libby.
She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “You have a good nap?” If Jerrilyn had said the same words, they would have reeked with sarcasm, but Libby sounded sincere and friendly. She liked me, or at least she liked the person I was pretending to be. My conscience twinged, until I reminded myself that she was a willing accomplice to all the crimes perpetuated by the brigade.
“What can I do to help?”
“Can you fix mashed potatoes?” Libby flipped chicken over in the two cast iron frying pans on the stove.
“Sure.”
Libby pointed at the mountain of potatoes on the counter. “The vegetable peeler is in the middle drawer. The pot’s in the drainer by the sink. Put the peels in that bucket for the pigs.” She tilted her head toward a plastic bucket on the floor.
“I’m on it.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes. “You ever butcher a chicken?”
My shoulders tightened. I ate chicken—but, call me a hypocrite—if I had to kill, pluck, and gut one, I’d probably swear off meat forever. “I’m a city girl. I’ve never had to butcher anything.” A better answer than, “Hell no. Ew.”
“I butchered two chickens the day before yesterday. We divert electricity to one small refrigerator in the garage so we can safely age the carcasses. And to keep Boyd’s beer cold. Next time we have chicken, I’ll teach you how to butcher them.”
I swallowed hard. “Okay.” I hadn’t considered what it would mean to live on a working ranch. Unless I intended to be a total leech, I couldn’t afford to be squeamish. Crap. Maybe I could volunteer for another distasteful job—mucking out stalls—if somebody else handled processing meat. But that was a problem for another day. First we had to get rid of the Wilcox Brigade.
Libby and I put corn on to boil just before we called the men in to dinner. To my surprise, Dwight and Darryl were still out scavenging for booze. Libby set aside plates for them. After we finished eating, Tuck escorted Libby and me when we took food to Bear and Sahdev. We gathered in the living room, and Libby handed around bottles of beer.
“Thanks.” I took the proffered bottle, twisted off the cap and took a small sip. Ripper’s eyes sparkled as he watched me suppress a shudder.
“You really don’t like beer, do you?” he asked in a low voice.
“Nope.” I took another sip.
He snagged the bottle from my hand. “You’re a cheap drunk, Mac,” he said loudly. “I don’t want you passing out before the party gets going.”