A Very Weaver Christmas Read online

  Spencer and his mother watched as Arlan and his guests began to peruse the selections. “Well, we’ll mosey along and let you folks eat. It was nice meeting you,” Spencer tipped his hat, then looked over Harrison’s shoulder at the menu. “You might want to steer clear of the beef stew.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?” Mrs. Dunnigan asked, eyeing him sharply.

  Spencer glanced at the kitchen and lowered his voice. “We don’t know. But whatever Hank does with it, it never turns out right. He keeps trying, but …”

  Everyone looked at Arlan, who shrugged. “It’s true. Don’t order the stew.”

  “Fine, then – I’ll have the fried chicken.” Irene slapped her menu on the table. “He’s probably not using the proper seasonings. You can’t make beef stew without the proper seasonings. Same with pot roast or any beef or pork!”

  Spencer exchanged another look with his mother. Neither of them had to voice what they were thinking – Irene Dunnigan would give Hank a hard time, no doubt about it. Time to leave before the sparks flew. Spencer just hoped he didn’t have to come back and arrest anyone.

  Chapter Two

  Irene Dunnigan scrutinized her fried chicken. “It looks overcooked.”

  “It’ll be fine, Irene,” Wilfred scolded. “Now eat up. You’ve been bellyaching about being hungry for hours.”

  “A bellyache is what I’m trying to avoid!” she snapped.

  Arlan noticed the Cookes paid the woman no mind and began to eat. Her husband was nonchalant about her cantankerous attitude as well. He hoped someone said something soon or he’d have to. The last thing he wanted was a cranky old woman on a two-day journey, since the Dunnigans didn’t look up to a full day’s travel. In fact, Ma warned him they might want to rest up a day or two before heading to the farm, and she might be right.

  “This coffee is weak,” Mrs. Dunnigan complained next.

  “I must say, I have to agree with you, Irene,” Harrison said. “What do you think, wife?”

  Sadie looked at her coffee mug. “I don’t mind it.” She looked at Arlan apologetically, as if to say, don’t mind them.

  So he didn’t. “Hank used to make coffee so thick you could stand a fork in it,” he explained. “I guess enough people complained over the years that he’s thinned it.”

  “Watered it down, you mean.” Mrs. Dunnigan set her cup on the table and glanced toward the kitchen. “I’d like to get my hands on him for five minutes.”

  “Now, Irene, don’t get yourself all riled up,” her husband soothed. “The coffee’s not like yours, the food’s not like yours, and nothing here’s going to be like yours unless you’re cooking it. Get used to the idea.”

  She scrunched up her face, her eyes narrowing to slits, but said nothing. It was one of the scariest expressions Arlan had ever seen.

  She turned it on Hank as he came to their table. It scared him too. “Is there uh, anything … else I can get you?” he stammered.

  “Some decent coffee would be nice!” Mrs. Dunnigan snapped.

  What his mother saw in this woman, Arlan had no idea. “Don’t mind her, Hank. These folks had a long journey and are tuckered out.”

  “I’m not tired, I was hungry!” Mrs. Dunnigan shot back. “There’s a difference.”

  Hank looked at him, gulped, then turned back to Mrs. Dunnigan. “I don’t make my coffee as strong as I used to …”

  “And your chicken’s overdone.” She pointed at her plate.

  “Irene, you don’t know that,” Wilfred cut in. “At least take a bite of it first.”

  But Hank was ready to cave. “I-I could make you another batch …”

  Wilfred held up his hand. “No need. You’ll have to excuse my wife – she’s a mighty fine cook, and unfortunately fine cooks don’t like too many other folks’ cooking.”

  “I like Grandma’s,” Mrs. Dunnigan said. “And Sally’s. I even like that Oscar White’s!”

  Hank gulped again. “Who’s Oscar White?”

  “Never mind – bring me some stronger coffee,” she demanded.

  Hank scurried back to the kitchen as fast as he could. Arlan was surprised he didn’t fight back, but then, none of them were used to dealing with the likes of this. Nellie Davis had been quite a foe, but Nellie was high-born, delivered her insults with some finesse – and knew when to back down. Irene Dunnigan, by contrast, was a battering ram.

  “Irene, you’re scaring the man,” Wilfred said.

  Is she ever, Arlan thought. Hank probably said he’d make a fresh pot just as an excuse to hide.

  “Irene, you’ll have to forgive other people’s cooking,” Wilfred continued. “You have to admit, you’ve never been outside of Clear Creek since we settled it.”

  Arlan’s eyebrows rose. “That so?”

  “I dare say it is,” Harrison said. “My family and I settled Clear Creek along with quite a few others thirty years ago. Wilfred and Irene have never left.”

  “That’s not uncommon,” Arlan said. “I was born and raised here. When my brothers and mother went to Clear Creek last summer that was the first time they’d ever left the area.”

  “There, Irene, you see?” Harrison smiled at her. “I can only imagine what Mrs. Hughes thought of some of the cooking in Clear Creek when they had their visit. But she didn’t complain.”

  “Why would she? Clear Creek has excellent cooks and everyone knows it.”

  Arlan frowned, but couldn’t hold back. “Ya could say the same ‘bout Nowhere. Lots of womenfolk here are fine cooks, including my ma.”

  “I know your mother is – we exchanged recipes and I’ve tried some. But that man …” Irene jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at the kitchen. “… could use a lesson or two.”

  “Okay, you had your say.” Wilfred rubbed his temple. “But all this griping is giving me a headache.”

  “Do you want to go to the hotel and lie down after this?” Sadie asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do. I’ve never sat in a stage for so many days. Never sat anywhere that many days since we were on the Oregon Trail. We remember that, don’t we, Harrison?”

  “We certainly do. I’ll never forget that trip.”

  “I’d like to hear ‘bout that,” Arlan said. Having lived all his life on his family’s farm, he couldn’t imagine trekking thousands of miles, settling in a brand-new place then building a town up from scratch. His parents had, and Ma had told him about it, but it was still hard to fathom.

  “Of course. I’m surprised Tom didn’t tell you, considering the storyteller he is.”

  “Oh, he told us plenty, but most of them stories were about yer cousins. All them English mail-order brides?”

  “Ah, yes,” Harrison said with a smile. “The cousins. Your mother and brothers met some of them when they came to town. That was a grand time.”

  “They’re still talkin’ ‘bout it,” Arlan said. “That was the time of their lives. I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “Then you should come visit next,” Irene said as Hank brought her another cup of coffee.

  “I hope this is better.” He placed it on the table then stood back, clasping his hands in front of him. Arlan wouldn’t be surprised if he started wringing them next.

  Irene picked up the cup and took a tentative sip. “Hm. Much better than the last batch.” She nodded his way. “Much obliged.”

  Hank gulped, nodded back and returned to the kitchen.

  Arlan glanced around and noted they were still the only ones in the café. Thank goodness for that. Considering the woman’s cranky behavior, she’d be the talk of the town in no time. Thankfully none of the town gossips (namely Nellie Davis and Connie Ferguson) were around, and Nellie had mended her ways for the most part. It was Mrs. Ferguson from the hotel that could still get a case of wagging tongue.

  “Mr. Weaver …” Harrison began.

  “Call me Arlan.”

  “Very well … Arlan, are we going to try to make it to your farm in one day?” He glanced worriedly at the Dunnigans.


  Arlan shook his head. “No. I think it’s best you and yer friends rest first and we make the trip to the farm a two-day job. We’ll be there about a week ‘fore we have to come back for the Christmas dance.”

  Maxwell poked at his chicken. “Do we have to go?” Arlan noted the boy had a hint of his father’s English accent.

  “Maxwell, mind your manners,” Sadie said. “Yes, you have to go – you can’t very well stay behind when everybody else goes.”

  “Why not?”

  “‘Cause ya’d be alone in the middle of nothin’ for almost a week,” Arlan explained

  “On account of the women and children, it takes us two days to travel here from the farm. We go to the dance, have a good time, stay overnight, and it takes two more days to return. And that’s if we just head straight on back. Ya gonna stay out there by yerself for five, six days with nothin’ but the livestock and wild Injuns for company?” He hadn’t seen an Indian, wild or otherwise, around the farm in over a year, but he wasn’t going to tell them that. He also wasn’t going to tell him that two adults always stayed behind to watch the smallest children. Sure enough, his explanation had the desired effect.

  Maxwell’s and Clinton’s eyes popped wide. Everyone else just stared at him. “Land sakes, why don’t you move closer?” Irene asked.

  “Once ya see the farm, ya’ll understand,” he said. He hoped. With their luck the Dunnigans would want to turn right around, come back to town and catch the first stage home. Ma was so looking forward to their visit – would Irene Dunnigan spoil it by complaining too much? But then, this was the first time she’d traveled outside of Clear Creek since before he was born. Maybe she just needed time.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting your wife, Mr. Weaver,” Sadie said.

  “And she’s lookin’ forward to meeting you too. She’s been talkin’ ‘bout it for weeks. All the womenfolk have.” He looked at Irene. “’Bout you too, ma’am. They wanna try out more of yer recipes.”

  Irene sat up a little straighter. “I’d be glad to help them. I like teaching young women how I do things.”

  “That you do, Irene,” Harrison quipped. Wilfred chuckled under his breath.

  They finished their meal, went to the hotel and got settled. Daniel was still at Aunt Betsy’s, so Arlan needed to fetch him and introduce him to their guests. Wilfred and Irene immediately took to their bed after their satchels were carried up to their room. But Irene’s mouth wasn’t ready to rest yet. “I’ll never eat at that café again, I can tell you that.”

  “We’ll be having dinner with my Aunt Betsy and her family this evening,” Arlan assured her.

  Sadie smiled at them. “I’m just next door if you need anything.” She led Arlan from the room, closed the door and went to her own room.

  Once everyone was gone from the hallway, Arlan whistled long and low. This might turn out to be the roughest visit to the Weaver farm in history. It might only be two weeks on the calendar, but those were looking like really long weeks.

  “… And then she insulted my fried chicken,” Hank lamented.

  Daniel Weaver shook his head. “That ain’t good. What’s she gonna say about Ma’s cookin’, or my wife’s?”

  “I don’t know, but you’d better brace yourself,” Hank warned. “I’m not even going to tell you what she said about my coffee.”

  Daniel rubbed his face a few times. “This don’t sound good. Ebba likes to make them Swedish dishes she grew up with, and we all like ‘em fine, but I don’t know about Mrs. Dunnigan. Ma likes her. But ya make her sound like a real harpy.”

  “I don’t know how her husband puts up with her.” Hank poured more coffee into Daniel’s cup. “It’s a good thing you came in when you did or you’d have been in the middle of it.”

  Daniel thought a moment. “She didn’t order the beef stew, did she?”

  Hank groaned. “There you go, making fun of my beef stew just like everyone else.”

  Daniel folded his arms. “Hank, it’s well known that yer beef stew ain’t so good. Why don’t ya change the recipe?”

  Hank slammed the coffee pot on the table. Good thing it was almost empty. “I have, a dozen times. I just never can seem to get it right!”

  “Well … then maybe try somebody else’s recipe.”

  Hank sighed. “Yeah, maybe.” He picked up the coffee pot and slouched toward the kitchen.

  Arlan entered the café, went straight to Daniel and sat down. “Boy, I’m glad that’s over. I got Ma’s guests settled at the hotel. That Irene Dunnigan …”

  “Yeah, that’s what Hank said too. She didn’t like her meal, she complained about the coffee …” Daniel took a sip of his own cup. It tasted fine to him – not like the old days, when Hank made it mule-kick strong. “What do ya think she’ll say about Ebba’s cookin’, or Samijo’s? Our wives ain’t gonna take kindly to bein’ insulted.”

  “Yer right. Could get ugly.” Arlan thought a moment. “Maybe if we made sure only Ma cooks for ‘em while they visit.”

  “We can’t do that, not with seven extra mouths to feed. Ma’ll need help.”

  “Yer right. Don’t know what I was thinkin’. And there’s Bella – everyone likes her cookin’.”

  “But what if this Mrs. Dunnigan don’t like Eye-talian food?” Daniel asked. “No matter how good our wives’ cookin’ is, if that woman don’t like it, she’s gonna let everybody know. Feelins will get hurt.”

  Arlan rubbed the back of his neck as he’d seen poor Mr. Dunnigan do. No wonder he was worn out. Who wouldn’t be, married to the likes of that?

  As if reading his thoughts, Daniel said, “I don’t know what Ma sees in that woman or how they became such good friends. Heck, she writes her once a week.”

  “I know, they’ve been exchangin’ letters and recipes for months. But ya have to admit, Mrs. Dunnigan’s recipes are good. Remember that new cherry pie recipe Ma tried?”

  “Do I ever. That was delicious. Was that one of Mrs. Dunnigan’s?”

  Arlan sat back in his chair. “Yep. And that’s the problem. Someone suggested that’s the way of it with good cooks, that they think theirs is the only good cookin’ ‘round, but I ain’t never seen anyone so sharp-tongued ‘bout someone else’s cookin’, no matter how good they was.”

  “I wonder if this is how it was when Ma, Benjamin and Calvin visited Clear Creek. But none of them said so when they came home. All they talked ‘bout was that stupid chicken.”

  “It wasn’t a chicken. It was … somethin’ else.” Arlan leaned toward the kitchen. “Hey, Hank! How about some coffee?”

  Hank came to the threshold, looked around, saw the coast was clear and entered the dining room. “It’s just the two of you, right?”

  Arlan held his hands out. “Ya see anyone else?”

  “No, but can you blame me for being careful?”

  Daniel laughed. “She is that bad!”

  “Enough, ya two,” Arlan said. “The Dunnigans are Ma’s guests and we’re gonna treat ‘em like guests. But that don’t mean we’re going to let that woman insult anyone’s cookin’,” he quickly tacked on. “Otherwise, she’ll have our wives in tears.”

  “Ya can say that again.” Daniel looked at Hank. “Did she make ya cry?”

  Hank scowled at him. “You’d better think about your poor Aunt Betsy too – aren’t you having supper with her tonight?”

  Arlan slowly nodded. “And Charlotte will probably help with the cookin’.”

  The three men looked at one another. Arlan’s cousin Matthew had married Nellie Davis’s daughter years ago. Charlotte couldn’t cook a whit when they married, and while she’d improved greatly over the years, she still couldn’t hold a candle to their mothers or wives. More to the point, Charlotte was no wilting violet – she had enough of her mother’s tongue to cut Irene down to size if she desired.

  Daniel watched Hank poor Arlan’s coffee. “Land sakes. A war might break out at the supper table tonight.”

  “Ya might be
right.” Arlan buried his face in his hands for a second. “I think I need somethin’ stronger than coffee.”

  Hank nodded. “That makes two of us, and I won’t even be there.”

  Daniel laughed. “Yer lucky.”

  Hank smiled at him. “I’ve already paid my dues. Now it’s your turn.” He turned and headed for the kitchen.

  “Oh, joy,” Daniel grumbled.

  “I know. But please, for Ma’s sake, try to be polite.”

  Daniel gulped. “Dare I ask why I wouldn’t be?”

  Arlan shook his head. “Don’t ask. Just do it.”

  Chapter Three

  Nowhere was small, so it didn’t take long for news of Irene’s nature to spread through town. But the tongue doing the most wagging wasn’t Nellie Davis’ or Connie Ferguson’s.

  “I’m used to people not liking my beef stew recipe,” Hank told Spencer Riley. “I know I need to keep at it until I get it right. But to impugn my fried chicken … that’s just uncalled for!”

  “What’s this about impugning?” Clayton Riley, Spencer’s older brother asked as he pulled his wagon to a stop. “Spencer, our mother tells me we’re having supper guests soon.”

  Spencer shook his head. “She’s speaking out of turn – again. The Weavers have guests for the holidays and Ma invited them over, but no date was set.”

  “Figures.” Clayton set the brake, jumped off the wagon and onto the boardwalk. “Howdy, Hank.”

  “Clayton.” He turned back to Spencer. “Poor Ma Weaver.”

  “Ma Hughes,” Spencer corrected.

  “To me, she’ll always be Ma Weaver,” Hank glanced between the Riley brothers. “If your mother’s talking about having that woman out to the farm for supper, she’d better reconsider. Who knows what that ill-mouthed Jezebel will say about her cooking!”

  Clayton’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “Hank’s had a rough afternoon,” Spencer said. “Seems one of the Weavers’ guests didn’t care for his fried chicken.”