The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,143

the size of his ranch and make him the rich man he intended to be. But since he needed Fannie to make this all happen, he reluctantly gave up the idea of Lola, and set his mind to endure the evening of whist that lay ahead.

Fannie got up to refill Myron’s coffee cup while eyeing the plate of rapidly disappearing chicken as her father and Myron ate in relative silence.

Orville was still in shock that this man was eating at his table, and didn’t know what to make of it all. He kept eyeing Fannie, uncomfortable with the constant smile on her face, and the warm, almost familiar tone in Myron Griggs’ voice as he praised Fannie’s cooking.

Fannie basked under the compliments while trying to appear as stunned as she felt that Myron Griggs had told her she was a handsome woman and, in his words, “a damned fine cook”. It did her good to see people enjoy her food, but she wasn’t accustomed to compliments. Even so, Myron Griggs had done nothing but compliment her tonight—from the attractiveness of her hair, to her way with biscuits, and she knew her father was seething. That, in itself was a satisfaction she hadn’t expected. Seeing her father furious, but helpless to act upon it, was oddly satisfying. As the meal progressed, she began to relax more and more. By the time they got to the apple cobbler, she was heady with the power of being somewhat in control.

“Father… Mr. Griggs, would either of you care for some clotted cream on your serving of apple cobbler?”

“Yes, please,” Orville said, while Myron only shook his head and shook his finger at her in a scolding but playful manner.

“I’ve told you twice already to call me Myron, and I would love clotted cream on my cobbler. I haven’t had anything this wonderful since I left Philadelphia.”

Orville wanted to be pissed about the unwanted guest, but he couldn’t rid himself of his curiosity. Who would have ever guessed that the owner of the saloon was a Philadelphia blue-blood?

Fannie picked up the cream pitcher then, instead of pouring, dipped the thick, sweet cream onto the servings of warm cobbler.

Still curious, Orville leaned forward, ostensibly to put a spoonful of sugar in his coffee, but it was to give himself something to do while he thought about how to form his next question. He dropped the sugar into the cup and then began to stir.

“So, Myron… you say your family is still in cotton.”

Myron nodded. “Yes. I get letters regularly from Mother and occasionally from Father. My two oldest brothers run the cotton mills we own in Boston and New York City, and the brother just older than me works with Father in Philadelphia.”

“So you’re not ostracized from the family or anything like that?” Orville asked.

Myron laughed, which made Fannie stop what she was doing and stare. She couldn’t remember thinking a man’s laugh a sensual thing, but Myron’s exuberance was so delightful she couldn’t help but smile with him.

“Lord no,” Myron said. “Oh, initially they weren’t pleased when I wanted to do something besides work in the family business, but they understood my desire to strike out on my own. In fact, I’ve been having Father invest some of my money over the years. He thinks my business of choice quite ironic.”

“Why is that?” Orville asked.

Myron laughed again. “Because it’s whispered in our family that great-great-grandfather Dupree, on my fraternal grandmother’s side, was a privateer.”

Fannie chuckled. “Don’t you mean a pirate?”

Myron’s eyes twinkled in appreciation of her forthright manner.

“Why yes, Fannie, I suppose that I do.”

Then he laughed again, and this time Fannie felt it all the way to her toes, while Orville frowned.

“I see nothing humorous about thievery,” he muttered.

“Of course you don’t,” Fannie stated, and set the bowl of cobbler at her father’s place. “Enjoy,” she added, and handed him a spoon.

Then she gave Myron his cobbler, laid the spoon neatly beside the bowl and stifled a giggle when he winked.

Myron quickly scooped up the first bite and then moaned in ecstasy as the tastes exploded on his tongue.

“Absolutely delicious,” he said, chewing and talking at the same time.

Fannie ignored the faux pas in manners to bask in her moment of glory.

“Thank you, Mr…” She stopped, blushed, and corrected herself. “Thank you, Myron. I’m pleased you enjoy it.”

Orville was decidedly uncomfortable with their constant byplay of flirtatious remarks, and tapped his spoon against his cup to infer his displeasure.

Fannie glared at her father, yet