Amelia Jacobs’s words were chiding but her tone was soft and gentle. “Too much mixing and the biscuits come out like skeet targets.” Emily blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. Despite the big apron doubled over and wrapped around her, she was covered with a fine layer of flour. Her hair was escaping from its neat ponytail and she had biscuit dough layered on her arms up to her elbows. Amelia had shown up promptly at five thirty, a tiny woman of indeterminate age, tanned and slender with laughter in her dark eyes, her gray-streaked brown hair twisted back into a braid. She was dressed in worn jeans and a plaid blouse, clothing Emily realized was far more appropriate than linen slacks and silk blouses. As soon as she got paid she’d need to do some shopping. She slowed down her motions with the big wooden spoon, ignoring the puffs of flour that flew up from the bowl. I’ll never get the hang of this. What in hell ever made me think I could be a cook? Maybe part of her problem was her mind kept drifting to Wyatt.
