Cowboy Strong

by Stacy Finz

  Nothing to see here, folks.

  She pulled into a gas station, flipped around, and drove back to the coffee shop. Parking was definitely not a problem in this town. Gina pulled her hat down lower over her forehead and made her way to the restaurant. From the sidewalk it looked like a greasy spoon. There was a menu taped to the front door and she stood there a while perusing the offerings. Basic truck stop fare with a Southern flavor, which done right could take you to heaven.

  Gina had no illusions that this little diner would take her anywhere other than to heartburn hell. But starvation trumped standards.

  She let herself in and a bell hanging from the door jangled. The restaurant was unexpectedly crowded, but it was dinnertime after all. The hostess, a sturdy middle-aged woman wearing an apron, pointed to a sign-up sheet and shouted something into the kitchen. Gina scrawled Linda Jackson on the page. It was her business manager’s name and generic enough not to arouse suspicion.

  She sat on the bench, an old wagon seat, and waited for her name to be called. The place was just as unimpressive on the inside as it had been on the outside. A cash register that looked as old as Gina, scarred wooden tables and chairs, and lots of photographs of cattle. The pastry case was cleaned out, typically a good sign this time of day. There was a cake display fridge that was filled with pies and other desserts that looked decent. Gina wondered if they were made in-house.

  The hostess walked over, giving Gina a thorough once-over. She must’ve looked ridiculous wearing her sunglasses inside the restaurant, not to mention the floppy hat. But it was better than being recognized.

  “There’s a space at the counter if you’re interested.”

  “I’ll wait for a table.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said like she thought Gina was being high-maintenance and walked away to greet a couple who’d just come in.

  By the time a table came available, Gina had come close to leaving and hitting up the grocery store for something she could eat in her car. This town needed another restaurant. There probably wasn’t anything else for hundreds of miles, though she remembered driving through a good-sized town only thirty minutes from the ranch.

  Maybe it was Taco Tuesday on Saturday here at the greasy spoon. At this point she didn’t care as long as she got fed. Miss Congeniality led her to a table.

  “What wines do you have by the glass?” As soon as the words left her mouth she realized the ridiculousness of it. “Never mind, I’ll just have a San Pellegrino. You do have that, right?”

  “All day long,” the hostess said in a saccharine voice that was blatantly sarcastic. “I’ll give you time to look over the menu.” The hostess, who apparently seconded as a server, moved on to another table, then back to the kitchen.

  She returned a short time later with Gina’s San Pellegrino and a tall, frosty glass of something else. “My husband told me to tell you this is on the house.”

  Her husband? Gina craned her neck around the large woman to see if there was a man behind her.

  “In the kitchen,” the woman said and rolled her eyes. “It’s our homemade sarsaparilla.”

  Aha, she was the owner. Gina was about to thank her for the drink when someone at the table next door beckoned the woman over. Laney, they called her.

  Gina was used to getting comped at restaurants. Everyone wanted something from a FoodFlicks star. A feature spot on the show, product placement, or just to rub elbows with a celebrity. But here, in her disguise, no one knew her from Adam.

  Gina took a sip, not expecting much. And then pow! It was amazingly good. Better than any wannabe sarsaparillas she’d ever tasted, which had mostly been root beer with a hint of licorice. This, though, had notes of vanilla and caramel and a touch of wintergreen. No artificial flavors were used, according to her taste buds, which were usually right on the mark. Just real sarsaparilla root. There was a nice even balance between bitter and sweet.

  She took a few more sips to make sure the heat and thirst hadn’t tricked her into believing the homemade concoction was better than it truly was. But after draining half her glass she came to the same conclusion: the sarsaparilla was a home run.

  And smart.

  It was the perfect drink for a Southern-style diner with a decidedly cowboy vibe. She hadn’t been in the food biz for more than a decade to not recognize the marketing genius of it, especially if the restaurant catered to tourists. And judging from the crowd, it did.

  Complimentary sarsaparillas for everyone who walks in the door to set the mood and a little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop becomes a destination restaurant.

  Laney returned. “What’ll you have?”

  “What’s the house specialty?”

  “Everything here is special, but we’re most famous for our chicken and waffles.”

  “I’ll have that and a side of collard greens. The sarsaparilla was amazing, by the way.”

  Laney didn’t bother to write down the order in her notebook; she was too busy giving Gina side-eye. “If you think those sunglasses and hat are working, you’re crazy in the head. I knew you were Gina DeRose the minute you walked in, though you’re skinnier in real life. I guess what they say about the camera adding ten pounds is true.” Her eyes skimmed Gina’s chest and she tsk-tsked. “You check yourself into that rehab facility down the road or are you staying with the Dalton boys?”

  Boys? If Laney was referring to Sawyer, he was no boy. Not even close.

  She took in a deep breath and slowly glanced around the restaurant, worried that everyone in the place had also made her. “Shush,” she told Laney and motioned for her to sit down. “Rehab? What in heavens for?”

  Laney arched one dark brow. “Sex addiction.”

  “Give me a break. Does everyone know who I am?”

  “Jimmy Ray didn’t believe me when I told him, but I can’t speak for everyone else. Did Dan and Wendy send you here to hide?”

  Dan must’ve been Dry Creek’s success story. According to Wendy, he grew up in this godforsaken town. It stood to reason that everyone here knew him.

  She gave a slight nod. “Are you planning to rat me out?” Tabloid reporters would pay Laney good money for Gina’s location.

  “Not if you give me your recipe for that strawberry shortcake you’re famous for.”

  The cake mix was one of Gina’s top-selling items. It was 100 percent organic and just required eggs, milk instead of water (a trick to add density, fat, and flavor) and, of course, strawberries. Last year, they’d cut a deal with Whole Foods to double the grocer’s order. The secret was putting mascarpone in the cream frosting (sold separately) and flavoring the berries with a bottle of Gina DeRose basil syrup. Everyone from Martha Stewart to two first ladies had begged her for the recipe to make the cake from scratch.

  “You’re blackmailing me?” Gina continued to peer around the dining room to see if anyone else had identified her yet. What was she thinking coming out in public? That was her problem: She let her impulsiveness be her guide.

  From now on she vowed to stay on the ranch and order everything she needed from the internet.

  “You bet I am,” Laney said.

  “I’ll trade you for the sarsaparilla recipe.” At least Gina could do something with that.

  “Not on your life, sugar.” Laney got to her feet. “I’ll put in your order.”

  Gina deliberated on whether to cancel dinner and hightail it back to the log shack from hell. In the end, she decided she was too hungry to drive. Besides, the smell of fried chicken had hypnotized her.

  While waiting, she took in the crowd. Definitely not a Saturday-night scene in Los Angeles. No designer clothes, just a lot of cowboy hats and boots. If she had to guess, the tourists up for a weekend in Gold Country were the diners in shorts and T-shirts.

  Occasionally, a man in a chef’s jacket popped his head through the window separating the kitchen from th
e dining room to call something to Laney. He must’ve been Jimmy Ray.

  Let’s see what you got, Jimmy.

  If the food was as good as the sarsaparilla, the trip to town wouldn’t be a total loss. But Gina had her doubts.

  Laney finally brought her meal, which was large enough to feed Los Angeles. At first, she thought she was getting special treatment because…uh, Gina DeRose. But it was the same portion size everyone else in the joint got.

  “Enjoy,” Laney said. “You can leave the cake recipe with the check.”

  “You’d really sell me out?” Gina had been observing Laney for most of the evening. She wasn’t the hard-ass she pretended to be. In fact, Gina could tell which diners were local and which were visiting based on who Laney hugged.

  “Faster than a hot knife through butter.”

  “Whatever.” Gina stifled an eye roll. She’d give her the damn recipe and leave out the two extra egg yolks she threw in to make the cake moister, like she’d done with everyone else.

  “Jimmy Ray wants to know what you think.” Laney’s gaze dropped to the heaping plate of chicken and waffles and greens. “Holler when you’re done.”

  As soon as Laney left, Gina layered her fork with a crispy piece of chicken and slice of fluffy sweet-potato waffle and took a bite, letting the flavors—sweet from the cane syrup and a little spicy from the Tabasco—meld on her tongue.

  Holy mother of God, was it good. So good she wanted to cry. She dipped into the collard greens and closed her eyes to savor the salty, pungent flavor. Everything down to the bits of smoky bacon was sublime.

  How the hell did she not know about this place?

  She continued stuffing her face while searching Google on her phone with one finger. Besides a smattering of Yelp reviews, there was nothing about a coffee shop in Dry Creek, California. No writeups or reviews in Zagat, Eater, TripAdvisor, Michelin Guide, or anything else.

  Laney returned to find that Gina had cleaned her plate. “For a skinny girl, you sure can pack it away. I brought you a slice of my chess pie.”

  “Laney, I don’t think I can eat another bite.”

  “Just a little taste. You can bring the rest home with ya.” Laney put her hands on her hips and stayed rooted in her spot.

  No didn’t appear to be an option.

  Besides, Gina wanted to know if it was as good as everything else she’d eaten. She took a small bite, then another one, and before she knew it had devoured half the slice. Laney watched, a smug smile playing on her lips.

  “Oh my God,” Gina said around another bite. “I’m going to explode, but can’t stop.” She pointed at the pie with her fork. “You guys should wholesale this.”

  Laney grabbed Gina’s arm. “Tell that to Jimmy Ray.” She dragged Gina through the dining room.

  Jimmy Ray was holding down the line by himself.

  “Come meet Gina DeRose,” Laney said to him and Gina shushed her again. “No one can hear us out there.”

  Jimmy Ray dropped a few battered chicken pieces into a skillet, took off his plastic gloves, and shook Gina’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. How was your supper?”

  “So good that I think you guys should franchise.”

  “Nah,” he said, but grinned with pride. “We like the coffee shop just the way it is, don’t we, Laney?”

  Laney pulled a face. “I wouldn’t mind being rich for a change.”

  Jimmy Ray kissed his wife on the head and said to Gina, “I hear you’re staying at Dry Creek Ranch.”

  The word was certainly out. Gina gave it twenty-four hours before the paparazzi came knocking on her Unabomber cabin.

  “Your wife promised not to tell anyone as long as I gave her my strawberry shortcake recipe.” Gina locked eyes with Laney and squinted in challenge.

  Jimmy Ray laughed. “She’s joshing you. She won’t tell a soul, will you, Laney?”

  “We made a deal” was her response. The woman drove a hard bargain.

  Gina paid her bill and scribbled the recipe on a page in Laney’s order pad. On her way out of town, she stopped at the Dry Creek Market, deciding to risk detection for a few days’ worth of provisions.

  The grocery store wasn’t the Santa Monica farmers’ market, but it didn’t completely suck. Gina left with a shopping cart full of grocery bags.

  By the time she got home and put everything away, she was exhausted. She would’ve sat outside on what passed for a porch, but there were bugs everywhere and there wasn’t any outdoor furniture to speak of, just an old wine barrel turned upside down.

  She poured herself a glass of wine, took it to the monstrosity of a couch, and scrolled through her emails on her phone. Her manager had sent a couple of invoices for her to sign off on; her agent and lawyer notified her that they were still fighting with FoodFlicks over the public morals clause in her contract; and Gayle King from CBS This Morning wanted an interview. Blah, blah, blah.

  She switched to her fan email account, which had been taken over by Candace Clay devotees, threatening to boycott Gina’s show and her products. One person hoped she died and another offered to help her find Jesus.

  Why are you reading these?

  She put the phone down on the coffee table. It had a layer of dust as thick as Candace’s mascara. She went in search of a rag or the terry-cloth towel she’d used earlier, but got her laptop instead. Back on the couch, she flipped it open, turned it on, and did a search under her and Danny Clay’s names.

  It was stupid, but she couldn’t help herself.

  She clicked on the picture she’d been looking for and blew it up on the screen. There they were, barely clothed, on a sandy beach together. Danny with an ear-to-ear smile on his face. Gina’s breasts on display, looking even perkier than they did on her TV show.

  She stared at the photo a long time, like she’d done a million times since the picture had hit the internet and had ruined her perfect life, then quickly slapped down the cover of her laptop.

  Chapter 3

  Something smelled fantastic and for a few cloudy seconds Sawyer thought he was still at the Park Plaza and room service had just been delivered. He rolled over, squinted at the clock on his nightstand, and tried to go back to sleep.

  But there were sounds coming from his kitchen. Water running. Pots banging. The beeping noise his refrigerator made when the door remained open for too long.

  He tossed his head against the pillow, let out a groan, and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Slipping on a clean pair of jeans, he ducked inside the bathroom to brush his teeth and strode into the kitchen in his bare feet.

  “I thought we were clear on the fact that I live here and you don’t,” he said to Gina DeRose’s ass. She was bending over to put something in his oven.

  “Ow.” She hit her head on the counter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  He started to tell her that she was the one sneaking around his kitchen, uninvited, but got distracted by the smell again. Whatever it was, it was making his mouth water. He sat at the breakfast bar and watched her work.

  She was dicing onions with a utility knife. Not his. His were Henckels and hers didn’t have a brand or a logo. There was an efficiency and grace to the way she sliced. Like a choreographed dance with her hands.

  “Pass me those carrots, would you?” She nudged her head at a colander filled with vegetables.

  He slid it across the granite countertop. “What are you making?”

  “Spinach and cheese soufflé for breakfast and chicken stock to freeze.” She lifted her gaze and stared at his chest. “Do you ever wear a shirt?”

  “Not if I can help it. What’s wrong with your kitchen?”

  She snorted again. “You’re kidding me, right? Hand me that, please.” She pointed with her chin because her hands were full of chicken.

  He reached across the counter and handed her a box
of kosher salt. There was fresh coffee and he got up to pour himself a cup. She had a knack for making herself at home. Since he planned to get a meal out of it, he wasn’t about to complain. But she couldn’t just come and go as she pleased in his apartment.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? Collecting information for your next exposé?”

  He laughed. “You’re a little obsessed with yourself. I write exposés about totalitarian governments that starve their people, drug cartels that rule entire countries, contaminated water supplies that kill children—not about fallen celebrity chefs.”

  She had the good sense not to respond.

  He continued to watch her over the rim of his cup. She looked better today than she had yesterday. The dark circles under her eyes were mostly gone and she’d combed her hair and tied it back into a smooth ponytail. Her shorts were white and her legs Coppertone bronze. Sawyer suspected it was either a spray-on tan or Gina had a standing appointment at a tanning salon. She had on a low-cut tank top. But the spectacular rack that had made her a household name with men who couldn’t care less about cooking was missing in action.

  Then again, so was that breezy, charming personality that had netted her a couple of Emmys. The moral of the story was don’t believe everything you see on television.

  But if someone was holding a gun to his head, he’d be forced to admit that Gina DeRose was a beautiful woman. Blond, blue-eyed with a mouth that was slightly too large for her heart-shaped face. It was sexy as hell and made her stand out from all the other beautiful blondes he’d known in his lifetime.

  “The soufflé will take another twenty minutes if you want to get dressed.” She zeroed in on his chest again.

  “My body too distracting for you?”

  She snorted. “Right.”

  He went back to his bedroom, took a ten-minute shower, and dressed. By the time he wandered into the kitchen, she had his large stockpot on the range top with her chicken broth simmering. He wasn’t crazy about soup, especially in summer, but the fragrant smell was driving him crazy.