Jak ran his long fingers through his matted mane of white hair. “Could do with bath.”
“Reckon that could be arranged,” Ryan said. “Let’s get the meal done with first.”
At that moment the bat-wing doors clattered open, and Mom, red faced and perspiring, pushed her way through carrying a big tray loaded with plates of food.
Chapter Fourteen
“That was so good.”
Krysty leaned back in her chair and barely stifled a belch, wiping at her chin with a stained linen napkin. She looked at her empty plate, then at the large array of serving bowls that stood in the middle of the table.
One held a few wisps of creamed potatoes, dried and crusted at the edges. Another had a handful of slender green beans, sodden with salted butter. A large gravy boat had the skinned remnants of a delicious creamy sauce. A quarter of a loaf rested on a wooden platter. Its four predecessors had left only a scattering of crumbs.
A flat dish of flower-patterned china had once held a mountain of Mom Fairchild’s famous jerky. Now there was only a smear of dark grease against the emptiness.
“Anyone fancy some puddings?” Mom called from behind the bar.
“What you got?” Ryan replied.
“Pecan pie. Pecan pie with cream. Pecan pie and lime jelly. Hot pecan pie.”
J.B. gave a thin smile, whispering under his breath. “Pecan pie well-done. Pecan pie medium rare. Pecan pie and grits. Oh, and we got some pecan pie.”
Mom hadn’t finished. “And there’s some peach-and-cherry cobbler, hot or cold, with or without.”
Ryan blew out his cheeks. “Spirit’s willing, Mom, but I’m not sure the body can take another mouthful.”
“Try pecan pie, peach-cherry cobbler with cream and lime jelly,” Jak called.
“Me, too,” Dean added.
Krysty laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “You two are living proof that you can get a quart into a pint pot. I seriously don’t know how come you don’t burst. You must’ve had at least three helpings of the jerky.”
“Four,” they replied in unison.
“Anyone else for dessert?”
“I’ll have a sliver of the pie with cream,” Ryan said. “How about you, lover?”
“No, thanks. I know when I’ve had enough. And right now I’ve had enough.”
“Just a glass of water for me, if you please,” Doc said. “And maybe some coffee sub.”
“Sure thing.” Mrs. Fairchild stood in the doorway, sleeves wound up almost to the shoulder, revealing her muscular arms. “Anyone else? No?” She turned on her heel and disappeared once more into the steamy kitchen.
“That was the finest damned jerky I ever tasted,” said the Armorer, leaning back in the seat and easing the buckle on his belt by a notch.
The restaurant was empty, several of the lamps guttering. Nobody else had come by Mom’s Place since Ryan and company arrived.
Ryan felt comfortably relaxed and full. His right hand brushed against the butt of the SIG-Sauer; the Steyr SSG-70 hunting rifle stood upright against his chair.
The great dishes of sun-dried strips of meat, some of them honey roasted and some smoked, had been mouthwateringly good, tender and chewy, with an exquisite flavor that lingered long on the palate.
He’d asked Mrs. Fairchild what kind of meat she used for the jerky.
“Varies. Sometimes I use some prime beef. Hard to get hold of up here in the hills. Goat’s real good. Old guy lives down the trail a piece has some he feeds on milk. Tender as hand-reared veal but with a mite more flavor. Then there’s often some tasty pork in there.”
“Lamb or mutton?” Mildred asked. “Some of it had a real unique texture.”
“Not often. Could be venison jerky that you had. Those hunters bring me some now and then. Even tried beaver, but it was kind of tough. Back flavor of fish to it. I often just mix it up and serve it in any order. Kind of potluck, as it comes.”
Ryan had tried to pump the woman about the Children of the Rock, but she clammed up and changed the subject, claiming she could smell something burning back in the kitchen and disappearing from the questions.
A little later, when she was actually serving out the meals, she was just a tad more forthcoming.