Silver and Spice

“Fine.” She was kneading some sort of flour mixture in a big bowl on her lap, another culinary creation of Jake’s. Which was fine, except that it was snowing. No big blizzard, but there was no question that the white stuff fluttering down was a little more than falling stars. The cold was seeping through her culottes; it was the biggest, blackest night she’d ever seen; and they were totally alone in a state campground in the Bighorns. Naturally. No one else would be camping-much less cooking out-on a night like this. No one in his right mind.

“Are you ready to hear what else you have to do to make yellow-jacket soup?” Jake demanded.

“I certainly am.” The doughy horror was sticking under her fingernails, but she continued kneading. At least the mixture was coating her hands-one way to ward off frostbite.

“You get the grubs off the nest by poking them with a lit match. Then you heat the nest over the fire until it dries out a little. About then you pick off the yellow jackets and cook them separately over the fire, pop them into boiling water, add a little seasoning, and voila…”

“Yellow-jacket soup,” she applauded. Jake faced her with a level stare as he took the bowl from her hands, removed the dough and set it in a greased pan near the fire to rise. Anne started laughing helplessly, and pushed up the collar of her coat with her forearms, since her hands were white and sticky.

“It’s an authentic Indian recipe-”

She started laughing again.

“-that happens to be quite delectable.” He clapped her on the back when she started choking.

“Come on, Jake, you’ve never eaten any such thing in your life!”

“I have, too. Once.” He paused, his face taking on a peculiar expression. “God in heaven, once was enough.” He rapidly turned toward the fire again. “Nevertheless, you’re getting an authentic Indian meal tonight, lady. Just not quite that authentic.”

“So tell me.”

He cast her a sudden critical glance. “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting cold?” He hustled her speedily into the motor home, washed the dough off her hands, haphazardly draped her shoulders with a blanket, and covered her hands with a pair of Italian kid gloves he discovered in her purse before hustling her back outside again. Jake gave the gloves a wry look. They were as soft as a baby’s bottom, but they wouldn’t keep her hands warm even in the tropics. She loved those gloves, though.

When she was settled on the log with the blanket beneath her, he started in again. “First we’re having bannock.” He motioned to the floury concoction she’d made. After the oddly textured, stiff dough had risen for a few minutes, he stretched it and wrapped it around a stick in coils. “It’s a trail bread. You roast it over the fire. No prospector or trail hand or self-respecting Indian would ever have a meal without it. Very important.”

“Aaah.”

He cast her another critical look, though evidently not for that peculiar sound she’d made. Moments later, her head was covered with his orange wool scarf. The fabric chafed her soft cheeks, but it was certainly warm; she just had a sneaking suspicion that the men from the funny farm would find her any minute now. In the orange scarf and blue blanket and cranberry coat, sitting on a log with the mountains all around and the snow lazily drifting down. Worse than that, she was starting to laugh again.

“Then we’ll have cactus salad,” Jake continued as he turned his back to the fire. “Then Apache-fried rabbit. Only no rabbits happened to have the misfortune of running in front of the motor home. So it’s Apache-fried chicken, as it happens. Chicken via the grocery store, but we don’t need to mention that-”

“I don’t know when you had the time to pick the cactus,” she said delicately. Not that she doubted him.

“Well…” Jake sighed. “Once again, we had to veer just a little from our chosen course. The cactus came from a seven-and-a-quarter-ounce can.”

“Darling.” Anne rarely used casual endearments; this one was necessary to soften the blow. “Cactus doesn’t come in a can.”

He took a can out of the trash and held it up so that she could read the label: Natural Cactus in Salt Water, Drain before Using.

“I beg your pardon,” she apologized gravely.

“You persist in thinking I don’t know what I’m doing.”

She persisted in thinking nothing of the kind. Jake always knew exactly what he was doing. Her smile faded, just a little. No one but Jake would have made her knead bread dough in the middle of a snowstorm in the Bighorns; no one but Jake had ever elicited purely whimsical laughter from her. She was fascinated by the mountain lore he’d picked up from heaven knew where. Fascinated, happily relieved that she wouldn’t have to eat bee soup, and just slightly…sad.

Her dark prince had always charmed her, had always created a quiet, intimate, delicious fantasy when just the two of them were together. How could she help reaching out for him? But a lifetime was very different from scattered moments. Sand castles never lasted.

Are you thinking about that boring stuff again? Her emotions warred with her mind. Anne, can’t you leave it alone even for a minute?

Jake’s eyes sought hers over the crackling fire. The chicken was sizzling on the spit, the bread was browning and the slices of cactus were arranged on two small plates, pimiento slices between them, swimming in a dressing of tarragon-and-pepper-seasoned oil. All of it, unbelievably, looked and smelled quite good.

“You will reserve judgment, Anne, until we’ve had dinner.” His voice was still teasing, but for a moment the humor didn’t reach his eyes.

Anne decided to reserve judgment a little longer. The look in his eyes had nothing to do with Apache-fried chicken.

Chapter 8

“Delicious, Jake. I mean it.”

Anne had tried the bannock first. The bread was a little tough, oddly sweet, and delectable with melted butter. That had given her the courage to move on to Jake’s Apache-fried chicken, and two pieces later she was licking her fingers. The strange batter was fire-sealed and crisp, the meat unbelievably succulent.

“Have another piece.” Jake dropped down beside her with a second platter of chicken. The wind was whistling through the cliffs, but at least in their sheltered valley the snow had stopped. Their fire lapped up the darkness, warming their faces and toes…but not their backs. Anne knew her spine was never going to thaw, but at the moment she was hungry for another piece of chicken…

A sterling silver fork, utterly incongruous in this wilderness, suddenly made its way in front of her nose. As Jake dangled a forkful of cactus salad before her, Anne swallowed. “Listen, Jake, it’s not that I don’t want to try your salad. I’ve grown cactus in my kitchen, you know. I like cactus. Which is why it occurred to me that maybe the Indians might have found an edible variety. Particularly if they were suffering from absolute starvation-”

Since her mouth was unfortunately open, Jake took advantage and inserted a sliver of the pale green cactus between her lips. It tasted like a smooth, mild avocado-not at all what she was expecting. “Good?” he asked.

She took the plate from his hands. “If I answer that, I’ll never hear the end of the I-told-you-so’s. You think I was born yesterday?”

“I told you-” With exacting precision, she aimed a forkful of chicken at his wagging tongue, and chuckled at his response.

“You’re looking for trouble,” he suggested.

Actually, she wasn’t, not just then. As rapidly as she was devouring the salad on her plate, Jake was forking cactus bits to her from his own, knowing her fondness for anything that even vaguely resembled an avocado.

“Are you cold?” he asked suddenly.

“Freezing. Don’t take that away,” she protested when he started to rise with the chicken platter.

He set it back down. “I’m beginning to think you’ve never been on a cookout before,” he said, amused.

“You know darn well I haven’t. It’s a mystery to me how people could do this for recreation. The fire, for