Christmas Recipe for Romance novel · Chapter 21 of 24

Chapter 21: Dish Twelve

I took the suet off the floor and put it back in the bowl.

"Hattie," Abel said quietly.

"I know."

I pulled my stool up beside Ansel's and took his right hand in both of mine.

It shivered in my grip.

"You told me yourself," I said. "Your hands go quiet in dough."

"Not for this."

"You've never tried it for this."

I looked across the pass at Abel, and he came around without a word and took the old man's left.

We held them there, two pairs of hands around one pair.

I lowered all six into the bowl of flour and suet and breadcrumbs.

For a moment the tremor ran through the three of us, and I felt it in my wrists.

Then it settled.

Ansel's fingers stopped under mine, as still as stones in a creek.

"There," he said.

His voice cracked on it, and nobody mentioned it.

We worked the mixture together, folding and pressing, and Abel grated the suet because he is six foot four and has strong wrists.

I measured the spice by Ansel's nose.

"Mace," he said. "Less. Nutmeg. No."

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