by Stacy Finz
“Uh-uh, I’m not going in there first.” She waved her hand over the threshold for him to take the lead.
He went inside and flicked on a light. To air the place out—it stunk of dead animals—he opened a few windows.
There wasn’t much to the cabin. Just one large space that made up the living room, kitchen, and eating nook. Off a narrow hallway there were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The smaller of the two bedrooms had been decorated in pink and white stripes when Ellie had come to live with Cash. The rest of the cabin was a depressing beige, although some of the walls were made from rough-hewn logs.
“Can’t beat the views,” he said and gazed out the window. “You can fish right off the front porch.”
“Or die.”
Even if the porch appeared to be held together with a piece of chewing gum, it was safe. “It’s been here for a hundred years; it’s not going anywhere.”
She lifted her chin and locked eyes with him. “Sotheby’s called and said to tell you you’re fired.”
Sawyer ignored her. “It’s also furnished.” He motioned at a dun-colored sofa that he was pretty sure Cash had found on the side of the road somewhere.
“Restoration Hardware or Pottery Barn?” She folded her arms over her chest and clenched her jaw so tight Sawyer thought she might crack a molar. “I can’t possibly stay here.”
The cabin might not be the Palace of Versailles, but it was certainly livable. Cash and his now thirteen-year-old had managed here just fine. All it needed was a good scrubbing and, depending on how long she planned to stay, Ms. FoodFlicks Star with the stick up her ass could afford to buy herself some decent furniture on the internet.
He brushed by her and hauled her luggage inside. “Well, I’ll leave you to unpack and get settled. Just holler if you need anything.”
He was making his way down the front-porch stairs when a Louis Vuitton cosmetic bag sailed past his head and landed in the dirt. “You cannot leave me here. This place…this dump…it should be condemned.”
He pointed across the creek to another cabin. Unlike Gina’s, that cabin had graced the pages of Sunset Magazine and Country Living. “My cousin and his wife and kid live there. Aubrey’s an interior decorator. For the right price, she’ll hook you up.” Sawyer kept walking.
“Why do you hate me?”
He stopped and turned around to face her. “I don’t hate you, I don’t even know you. But to be real honest, you haven’t made the best impression. You seem pretty damn self-entitled, if you ask me. This isn’t a resort: It’s a working cattle ranch. And I’m not your servant. The only reason you’re still here is because I love my mother. She’s a pain in the ass, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”
She started to respond and he held up his hands. “I haven’t slept in three days. I’m going home now. If you need your car—which, by the way, prevents me from parking in my own garage—just follow the dirt road we took to get here. There’s a grocery store and a coffee shop in Dry Creek, thirteen miles from here off the highway, when you get hungry.”
He got in his Range Rover, discovered he’d hit that point where he was too exhausted to sleep, and headed to Jace’s ranch house instead. Sawyer was greeted with a snout in his crotch by Sherpa, Jace’s Australian shepherd. Scout, the other mutt, rolled on his back for a belly scratch. Sawyer obliged, then let himself in the back door.
“Anyone home?” The house was unusually quiet.
“In here,” Jace called from his study.
Sawyer found him behind his desk, staring at a spreadsheet. He sank into the sofa. “Where is everyone? And what are you working on?”
“Ranch expenses.” Jace looked up from his paperwork and rubbed his hand down his face. “Charlie’s with Aubrey at a flea market. Justin and Grady are at friends. How was your trip?”
“Good, until I got home.”
Jace laughed. “Your mom called. I know all about your houseguest. I never heard of her, but Charlie and Aubrey went nuts. They say she’s a big deal. Has a cooking show, huh?”
“Yep, or rather she had a cooking show.”
Jace nodded. “Though your ma didn’t get into too many details, it was clear this DeRose woman is on the tabloids’ shit list.”
“She’s probably on everyone’s shit list. Have you met her yet?”
Jace jerked his head in surprise. “Last night for a few minutes, after I gave her the key to your place. She seemed more than pleasant. Friendly, self-deprecating. Likes dogs.”
Sawyer didn’t think they were talking about the same person. “That must’ve been her nicer twin. I moved her to Cash’s old cabin. Hope you’re okay with that.”
“It’s vacant.” Jace hitched his shoulders. “Better her than varmints.”
Sawyer leaned back on the couch. “I’m not so sure about that. Unlike you, I had a different experience. Only thirty minutes in her presence and I already can’t stand her.”
Jace chuckled. “How long is she staying?”
“I’ve got no idea. I guess until her troubles blow over and there’s a new celebrity scandal for the public to obsess over. As long as she keeps out of my way, I don’t care.”
Sawyer bobbed his head at Jace’s spreadsheet. “You figure out how to pay for this place yet?”
The Daltons had always been cattle ranchers. But when the drought came, Grandpa Dalton had been forced to cull the herd. Now, Sawyer and his two cousins ran about a hundred head. The income it generated wasn’t enough to cover the expenses of the taxes, insurance, and upkeep on 500 acres. Their goal this summer was to find sustainable ways the ranch could bring in more money.
“Working on it,” Jace said. “A lot will depend on how well Charlie and Aubrey’s home goods store and design studio does. If the business takes off and brings traffic to the ranch, we’ll have a better chance of leasing out space to other shops.”
Sawyer wasn’t thrilled with the idea. He didn’t want a business park on the unspoiled land that had been in the Dalton family for four generations. But he supposed it was better than developing the property and turning it into a gated community of mini-mansions, swimming pools, and clubhouses. Or even worse: A Sam’s Club with a giant parking lot.
“Let’s make sure these shops have an agritourism vibe and not an outlet center feel.”
“You think Cash and I would do that? Give me a break, Sawyer. We’re looking at Harris Ranch as a model.”
Besides producing something like 150 million pounds of beef a year, the Harris family had turned their San Joaquin Valley cattle ranch and feedlot into an attraction for motorists traveling between Southern and Northern California. They offered luxury lodging, dining, and a gift shop. The whole setup had become a California institution, as well as a license to mint money.
“A bit of a tall order, don’t you think?” Sawyer stretched out, hanging his boots off the edge of the couch. “What makes Harris Ranch work is that it’s halfway between San Francisco and Los Angeles and there’s nothing else for miles. Dry Creek isn’t on the way to anywhere.”
Jace wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at Sawyer. “Whatever happened to your standard ‘Go big, or go home’? We’re on the route to Reno. Best ski resorts in California are only an hour away. But you don’t have to be so literal about it. I’m using Harris Ranch in theory. We’re not talking about building a one-hundred-fifty-room inn or a steak house. Just businesses that subscribe to the ranching way of life that’ll attract tourists and locals.”
“Like what?”
“Hell, I don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Maybe we could become a halfway house for disgraced celebrity chefs.”
Jace’s lips twitched at Sawyer’s sneer. “She really got under your skin, didn’t she?”
“She’s a piece of work. Threw a bag at me because she didn’t like her accommodations.
The woman’s lucky I didn’t throw her out in the street and drop a dime to a food blogger friend of mine at Eater.”
“I don’t think your folks would be too thrilled with that. But we have some horse stalls that need mucking if you want her to earn her keep.”
The idea appealed to Sawyer. Nothing like shoveling horse shit to bring a person down to earth. “Hopefully, she won’t be here long. My gut tells me after a few days in the heat without air-conditioning, she’ll pack up and book herself into a Ritz-Carlton somewhere.”
Sawyer’s stomach growled. Besides some nuts and pretzels on the plane, he hadn’t had a real meal since leaving the UK. “You got anything to eat?”
“I think there’s some leftover meat loaf in the fridge. Help yourself.”
Sawyer got to his feet and wandered into the kitchen. It was the best room in the house, which was saying a lot, because the log rancher was a showstopper. His grandfather had spared no expense on the house, with its thirty-five-foot high ceilings, enormous stone fireplaces, rough-hewn log walls, and enough windows to take in views of the foothills on four sides.
Jace had grown up in the ranch house and had been raised by their grandparents after his mother, father, and baby brother had been killed by a drunken driver on Highway 49.
Although Sawyer had grown up in Los Angeles, he’d spent much of his youth sitting at the massive center island in this room, sneaking his grandmother’s home-baked cookies from the pantry before dinner, and eating countless pancake breakfasts with his cousins. As kids, he and his sister, Angela, spent every holiday and summer at the ranch.
Dry Creek had always felt more like home than his parents’ sprawling Beverly Hills compound.
He found the meat loaf and a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes, fixed a plate, and heated it in the microwave. While waiting, he nursed a bottle of beer. It looked like his afternoon nap was on hold. Probably better to stay awake until his regular bedtime to fight his jet lag anyway.
“You get a lot out of the conference?” Jace joined him at the island.
Sawyer shrugged. “It was mostly a bunch of journalists drinking and networking. At least while I was there, I did a few interviews for a piece I’m working on for Forbes about globalization.” He was happy to be back in the swing of things. For the last year, he’d been chained to a desk, writing a book about the war in Afghanistan.
The microwave dinged and Sawyer took his food to the breakfast table. “You on call today?”
“I’m always on call; the joy of being sheriff. So far, though, it’s been a slow Saturday.”
“Nice,” Sawyer said around a mouthful. “What’s Cash up to?”
“Dunno. Probably with Ellie. She might’ve had a horse show today. Have you seen her jump? The kid’s good. We might have an Olympian on our hands.”
“Sounds like she takes after Angie, huh?” Unlike the rest of them—and much to their grandfather’s horror—Sawyer’s sister had preferred English riding to Western. Grandpa Dalton had given her no end of grief about her preference.
Sawyer would do anything to be able to tease her about it again.
He ate the last of his meat loaf and potatoes and polished off the rest of his beer. A second wave of exhaustion hit him and he considered taking a dip in the creek to wake himself up.
“Thanks for the meat loaf.” He cleared his plate. “We grilling tomorrow?” It was a Sunday tradition Jace had started last summer. They gathered in his backyard around the outdoor kitchen for suppertime and ended the evening with the kids roasting marshmallows over the firepit.
“Yep,” Jace said. “Bring beer. None of that weird shit.”
Sawyer rolled his eyes. Jace’s taste was as pedestrian as anyone’s. Cash’s wasn’t much better. “Sure, something from 7-Eleven, preferably in a can. While I’m at it, I’ll get some boxed wine.” He headed out, calling behind him, “See you tomorrow.”
When he got home there were four missed calls on his phone. All from his mother.
Chapter 2
Gina walked around the cabin, trying to decide whether to find the nearest hotel or haul ass back to Los Angeles. Ultimately, the prospect of the paparazzi chasing her down Interstate 5 convinced her to stay put.
But this place.
She held her nose and spent the next ten minutes wheeling her suitcases into what served as the master bedroom. With an old dish towel from the kitchen, she dusted down the closet and bureau before unpacking. Terry cloth wasn’t enough to clean the bathroom. A gallon of gasoline and a match might be the only way to save it.
Nevertheless, she found a can of scouring powder and some steel wool under the kitchen sink and went to work on the tub, then the toilet and sink. It didn’t sparkle when she finished, but at least she was no longer afraid of contracting a disease.
The white tile floor was next on her agenda and she went in search of a mop. At home, in Malibu, she had people to scrub her floors and do just about anything else she didn’t have time for, including cooking.
Which was ironic.
But she was too busy running a multimillion-dollar company and taping thirteen episodes a season of her show, Now That’s Italian!, for FoodFlicks. Even her cookbooks were written by someone else now. Sometimes she wondered if she even remembered how to make scrambled eggs.
Stop whining.
She reminded herself that she’d achieved the dream. Not the cooking so much, which had been her escape, her joy, the one thing that made her feel loved. No, her kitchen skills had never started out as part of the master plan. But being rich and famous…yeah, that had always been the goal.
And now she stood a good chance of losing it all.
There wasn’t a mop anywhere. Not in the pantry or the laundry room, or in the hallway linen closet. But she did find soap, a bucket, and a scrub brush. On her hands and knees, she cleaned the floor, which wasn’t as dirty as it looked. Just old and chipped and faded.
And the physical labor did her good, even in the ninety-degree weather. It helped work off her nervous energy.
Her T-shirt stuck to her like a second skin. Outside, she could hear the creek flowing and for a rash second considered going in. Sawyer had said something about fishing off the porch and Gina didn’t swim where she ate.
Sawyer…ugh…what a jerk. She was trying to escape the press, not shack up next door to it.
After he’d dumped her off here, Gina had called Wendy to give her a piece of her mind. Wendy had used that calming voice of hers to talk her off a ledge. She trusted Wendy’s judgment; she really did. Dalton and Associates was the best in the business when it came to quelling a crisis and Gina’s situation had morphed into full-blown catastrophe. But she was out of her depth in Dry Creek Ranch. Raised in Beverly Hills, dirt roads and cattle crossings gave her hives.
At least Sawyer’s apartment had been modern and rather gorgeous, though it pained her to admit it. This place, though, didn’t even have a decent stove. It was freaking electric and not even induction. And a Mr. Coffee? Who even used those anymore? She planned to remedy that as soon as possible and hoped to God UPS, FedEx, or the US Postal Service delivered here in the middle of nowhere.
She tugged off her sticky T-shirt and slipped off her shorts for a quick shower, letting a stream of cool water sluice over her. After twenty minutes, she got out of the tub, feeling human again.
She rummaged through her newly-hung clothes, trying to find something that wouldn’t draw attention to herself. Gina finally settled on a lightweight peasant dress she’d bought at Fred Segal ages ago because she’d liked the way the blue fabric had matched her eyes. The dress still had the tags on it. Slipping on a pair of sandals, she grabbed her purse and hiked to Sawyer’s garage to fetch her car.
His Range Rover was still parked in the driveway. She stared up at the barn loft, but couldn’t make out any signs of life through the big picture windows, not that s
he cared. How hard could it be to find the coffee shop he’d told her about? That’s what GPS was for.
She pushed her oversized sunglasses up on her nose, adjusted her floppy hat, and opened the garage door. There was probably a switch that did it automatically, but she had no idea where it was.
She backed her BMW out. Instead of taking the dirt road again, she used the same blacktop driveway she’d taken the night before and followed it to the gate. There, she set her GPS for the center of Dry Creek.
Ten minutes later, she was hopelessly lost on a back road. The highway was nowhere in sight and nothing looked familiar. Just a lot of barns, cows, goats, and an occasional house. She couldn’t deny that the scenery was picturesque. It kind of reminded her of the Tuscan countryside where her father had grown up.
But hunger and frustration killed any chance of enjoying the view.
There hadn’t been much food in Sawyer’s house. Just a jar of beluga caviar, a heel of Manchego cheese, and some stale crackers. She’d helped herself to all of it, as well as to Sawyer’s excellent wine collection. The man had good taste, she’d give him that.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled at her GPS, which had the good grace not to yell back. She’d managed to navigate Los Angeles’s labyrinth of freeways just fine. But a tiny backwater…She threw up her hands, then hung a U-turn.
“Recalculating,” the damned GPS whined.
She drove for what seemed like miles. But this time, judging by the Dry Creek sign—Welcome to the best cowtown in America—the fickle piece of equipment had come through. She cruised Mother Lode Road, peering through her window at the sights. Or rather the lack of them. Sawyer’s coffee shop, which didn’t appear to have a name. The obligatory supermarket, a seamstress shop with the cutesy name of Sew What, and a mishmash of other stores.
She hung a right on Main Street and was equally disappointed. A construction company, some kind of county office complex, a Greyhound bus station, and as Main came to the end of the road, a high school and a park.
