Chapter 602 Wife
"That's okay, we can make do," suggested one of the bodyguards—clearly, the idea was for them to bunk together while the four young masters and ladies would require separate accommodations.
"Alright then, y'all can settle down in the den. My wife will be back shortly to help get the rooms ready," the old man said, counting the money twice before handing half of it back, "Y'all don't need to pay that much. We ain't got much by way of fancy fixings here, so it’ll just be simple fare."
After saying this, he set down his half-finished wood carving and went inside to see what he could whip up for dinner.
The interior of the house was humble. The den was a large, square space with worn wooden paneling. A sturdy table stood at the center, flanked by handmade benches, and in the corner was an old refrigerator that hummed a tune from years past.
The bodyguards instinctively scanned the room for any signs of danger, silently checking every nook to ensure there were no security risks.
When the old man returned, he saw the tall, robust men standing orderly, with only a strikingly handsome man and woman sitting. He gave them an odd look but didn't pry further.
Experience is a valuable asset, and though curious, he knew better than to ask unnecessary questions. Curiosity isn't always a good thing.
"We're staying here tonight, but what's the plan going forward?" Natalie asked Oliver, sensing that he must have a strategy in mind.
"We wait," Oliver replied, a hint of frost in his gaze.
It didn't take long for Natalie to understand—they were waiting for their own contact to arrive or for the next move from their opponents.
Lilian, intrigued by a wind chime hanging from the porch, circled around it without touching, her head tilting as she quizzed Lucas about its purpose.
"Which one of you is making racket on my porch?" A local woman, clad in a slicker and wide-brimmed hat, returned, speaking with a drawl, eyeing the unexpected man and woman at her door. "Well, I'll be! We've got visitors!"
"We're just looking for a place to stay!" A man called out from the kitchen.
The woman shrugged with a "hmm," hardly surprised—travelers often sought shelter here each year.
Tickled by Lilian's looks, the woman chuckled, "Aren't you as pretty as a picture, like one of them porcelain dolls they sell at the mall!"
Lilian didn't fully catch the drawl but picked up on "pretty" and beamed in response.
The woman hung up her slicker and hat, joining her husband in the kitchen to prepare dinner.
The house, not soundproof, allowed murmurs to drift from the kitchen.
"There's a bunch of 'em, and they seem well-off, but we don't have much to offer. I've got some canned beans and corn. Let's fix the chicken we've been fattening; we could use the extra cash."
"Go ahead," the woman agreed. "Odd day, the neighbors have some guests too."
More guests...
Oliver caught the eye of one of his bodyguards with a subtle nod.
Two bodyguards approached the kitchen: "Sir, Ma'am, can we give y'all a hand?"
"Sure thing, you've got plenty of hands. The missus and I could use the extra help," the host wasn't too proud to accept.
Natalie, surprised, leaned in and whispered to Oliver, "Your bodyguards know their way around a kitchen?"
"They're just being resourceful," Oliver stated.
Their motives were clear: to keep an eye out for any foul play and to gather intel.
After a while, the bodyguards returned, quietly reporting to Oliver, "Sir, a few hundred yards north, there's a house that took in three men as lodgers right before we got here. Should we check it out?"
"Not right now."
Acting hastily might just alert them.
Dinner was indeed a humble affair. Despite the couple's best efforts to serve their finest home cooking, the flavors didn't suit Oliver, who put his fork down after a few bites.
"Young man, is the food not to your liking?" the hostess asked Oliver, her voice tinged with concern.
"He's got a particular taste, Mrs. Johnson. Don't you worry none. Look, everyone else is digging in just fine," Natalie intervened swiftly. "If it's alright with you, may I use your kitchen? I can whip up something quick for him, maybe a stir-fry or something."
Oliver's gaze flickered to Natalie.
The bodyguards exchanged glances. They had endured far worse on duty and were thankful for any meal provided—no room for fussiness.
Ah, only a wife would go out of her way like this!
Mrs. Johnson smiled, "Well, sure, darlin', cook up whatever your brother will eat. I reckon our down-home cooking might not sit right with y'all city folks."
The room felt a sudden chill as Oliver's usually impassive face clouded over instantly.
"Ma'am, I'm actually his cousin; she's his wife," Lilian corrected, trying to untangle the confusion in an innocent attempt to clarify.
"Eh?" Mrs. Johnson looked baffled. "But ain't you a foreigner? How in the world are you this man’s cousin? You're joshing me."
Lilian appeared genuinely puzzled.
Lucas couldn't help but laugh beside her, his amusement evident.
Mrs. Johnson was about to remark that Natalie looked too youthful, almost like a college girl, not someone's wife, but Mr. Johnson, the more perceptive of the two, quickly steered her away from the topic.
Leading Natalie to the kitchen, Mrs. Johnson turned on the propane tank. "Luckily the gas tank my son bought for the New Year's Eve hasn't run out yet. We don’t have much left in the way of vegetables, but feel free to use whatever you like... oh, there are some eggs here too."
After thanking her, Natalie urged Mrs. Johnson to go ahead and have her dinner.
The kitchen was equipped with already-steamed mashed potatoes, a few remaining peas in a basket, and some kernels of corn. Natalie cracked two eggs into a pan, added a pinch of salt, and then poured in some oil. She fried the eggs on both sides until they were golden brown.
Footsteps approached from behind.
"What are you making?" Oliver ambled over, eyes landing on the well-worn pan before Natalie.
Oliver had looked at the same food at the dining table earlier and thought they were "so unappetizing they killed his appetite."
"Fried eggs," she replied.
The rich aroma filled the air, tempting anyone's taste buds.
"The food that Uncle George and Aunt Martha make is a bit greasy, true, but the Southwest does tend to have a hearty flavor profile," Natalie remarked.
Oliver instinctively wanted to lean against a wall but, catching a glimpse of the kitchen's walls stained with dark grease, he awkwardly straightened up.
"Scared I'll lose my temper?"
"Not exactly. Just didn't want to give Mrs. Johnson the wrong impression."
Natalie knew Oliver well enough. He might have a short fuse, but he wasn't uncultured. Although he may have disliked some dishes earlier at the dinner table, he chose not to eat them.
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