The Way to a Cowboy's Heart

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Stephanie Bond

  “Would they? I thought cowboys were the strong, silent type.”

  “Not when it comes to food.”

  She gazed at him, her green eyes serious. “Are you saying they really don’t like what I’m fixing?”

  “I’m not saying that.” And he wouldn’t say it even if somebody shoved slivers under his fingernails. “I only have Jeb to go by, because he’s the one I talked to on the drive from the airport, but since he didn’t brag about the food here, I think it might be a little too sophisticated for his taste buds.”

  “Hm.” She took another sip of wine. “You could have a point.”

  “But maybe it’s just Jeb.” He returned his attention to his plate.

  “I don’t think so. Mary Lou left some recipes for me, but they were all so boring that I put them away. I know what you mean about the lack of enthusiasm from the cowboys, but I thought maybe they just didn’t care that much about what they ate.”

  He thought of Jeb’s rant about how much he missed Mary Lou’s cooking. “I can understand why you’d get bored fixing the kind of food Mary Lou made. I’m guessing her recipes are for ordinary things like fried chicken, ribs, potato salad, stuff like that.”

  “Exactly! From what I could tell, she’s been making the same kind of meals for years, and I thought everyone would like a change of pace.”

  “That’s a good idea, but maybe it was too sharp of a turn for them, considering they’ve probably never eaten gourmet food before.”

  She nodded. “I can see that might be a possibility.”

  “I have an idea for an experiment, if you’d like to hear it.” And boy, did he like this idea. He hoped she would.

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “I know plain food and I know gourmet food, so I could be your consultant and taste-tester while I’m here. We could look for recipes that are fun for you, but give a nod to the sort of food the cowboys are more used to. And then we could see what happens.”

  “That would be great, but I can’t believe you have time to spare. You’re here to work with Houdini, not help in the kitchen. I can’t believe Sarah or the Chance men would go for it.”

  He’d anticipated that argument. “I won’t be training Houdini at night. After several hours of work, we’ll need a break from each other.”

  “Yes, and you’ll probably be exhausted.”

  He smiled. If she only knew how the prospect of spending time with her would revitalize him. “I may be physically tired at the end of the day, but all we’d be doing is going over recipes and planning menus.” He could imagine other activities, too, but he wouldn’t count on it. She might not be the least bit interested in him.

  “I’d want you to clear it with Sarah, and make sure she knows it wasn’t something I asked for. They’ve been really good to me, and I don’t want them to think I asked for extra help.”

  “I’ll check with Sarah, but I really doubt she’ll object.” He had a hunch she’d be overjoyed if he stepped in and made some menu adjustments. Pete Beckett might have taken the kids to the diner tonight to stave off a revolt.

  Aurelia gazed at him. “You’re a very nice man, Matthew, to offer this when you probably should be relaxing down at the bunkhouse instead of coming up here to work.”

  He felt a pang of guilt. Although his original intent had been to help the cowhands out of a jam, now the plan was mostly an excuse to hang around Aurelia and get to know her better. He wasn’t sure where that might lead, and he might be making a huge mistake.

  She had home and hearth written all over her, and he couldn’t offer her anything along those lines right now. But maybe, despite outward appearances, she wasn’t looking for permanence. He’d never know unless he asked.

  His plate was empty, and so was his wineglass. He should probably leave now. The boys in the bunkhouse expected him for a game of cards and he’d had a long day.

  On the other hand, Aurelia had indicated a willingness to go along with his plan, and her cookbooks were still on the table. He glanced at them. “We could start tonight, if you want.”

  “Tonight? Oh, no. You must be jet-lagged. Besides, I’ve already narrowed it down to either spinach soufflés or ratatouille for tomorrow, so I’m okay for the time being. If Sarah agrees, we can start tomorrow night.”

  “I’m really not that tired.” Adrenaline had kicked in the moment he’d walked into the kitchen and caught sight of her. He hesitated. “Can I say something about your two options?”

  She waved a hand. “Be my guest.”

  “I’ve had many spinach soufflés, and I’m sure with your talent you’d turn out something amazing. But I’d argue against making that for tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “The color. To these guys, it’ll look like you baked a frog.”

  She burst out laughing. “Okay, I can see you think like a cowboy. Apparently I don’t because I never would have thought of that.”

  Her laughter charmed him. He was also impressed by her willingness to be flexible. “If you haven’t been around cowboys before, I don’t know how you could be expected to understand them.”

  “But I need to, obviously.”

  “That’s where I come in.”

  “How about the ratatouille? I suppose that’s out because of the name. I doubt cowboys are fond of rats.”

  “So don’t call it that. Call it vegetable stew.”

  “And make it the authentic way?”

  “Maybe not quite.” He shoved back his chair and picked up his plate. “Let’s have some more wine while we talk about how you can modify the recipe to make it more cowboy-friendly.”

  “I’ll admit I’m intrigued.” She stood, too. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “I am if you are.”

  “Okay, then. That book on the top of the pile has the ratatouille recipe in it. If you want to take a look, I’ll tidy up and bring out the baked figs.”

  “Great.” Someone in his travels had told him that figs were beneficial to a man’s family jewels. Considering his state of mind, he couldn’t think of a more appropriate desert for her to serve.

  Aurelia couldn’t tell whether Matthew had offered his services because he was a good guy or because he found her attractive. A couple of times she’d noticed what could be a gleam of interest in his eyes, but it could also have been appreciation for her cooking. At least he liked that about her.

  She quickly refrigerated the remaining food and put his plate in the commercial-sized dishwasher. When she glanced at the table, he was intently studying the ratatouille recipe. “I can warm up the figs or serve them cold with whipped cream. How would you like them?”

  He glanced up. “Cold with whipped cream sounds good.”

  “All right.” When he focused those blue eyes on her, she lost track of everything else.

  She’d never licked whipped cream off a man’s body, but she wouldn’t mind licking it off of his. She could imagine popping open the snaps on that blue denim shirt and squirting a trail of whipped cream down the middle of his chest toward an even more interesting part of his anatomy... oh, yeah. They could have fun times with a can of whipped cream.

  He glanced down at his shirt. “Did I spill food on myself?”

  Whoops. “No, no, I was just... wondering how you stay so fit.” Way to go, girl. Now he knows for sure that you were ogling his chest. Her cheeks grew hot. “I mean, it must be tough with all your traveling, and I know you love to eat, and...” Dear God, the more she explained, the worse it got.

  Fortunately he looked more amused than offended. “The horses make sure I don’t get lazy and fat.”

  “Well, that’s logical.” She struggled to remember what she’d been about to do that had started the whole whipped cream fantasy. Oh, yes. Dessert.

  “So go ahead and pile on the whipped cream. I’ll work it off.”

  “Coming right up.” She turned quickly back to the counter and resisted the urge to fan herself. She’d just bet he could work it off, in any number
of ways. Right now she was picturing how many calories they could burn if they got naked.

  Taking a deep breath, she uncovered the leftover figs. Darned if those figs didn’t remind her of a certain part of the male anatomy. She hadn’t planned to have any, but she found herself dishing a couple for herself.

  Normally she would have whipped the cream herself instead of using a commercial version, but making her own would take too long. For the sake of convenience, she grabbed the pressurized can that had been in the refrigerator when she’d arrived last week.

  After a few quick shakes, she pressed her finger against the nozzle. She hadn’t used a can of whipped cream in years and she’d forgotten how much fun it was. She had to force herself to stop before she covered the figs completely.

  Even then, she couldn’t resist spraying some on her finger and sucking it off before she put away the can. She had her finger in her mouth when she heard Matthew clear his throat. Turning, she met his gaze.

  This time she had no doubt that the gleam in his eyes had nothing to do with her food and everything to do with her. Heat pooled low in her belly as his status changed from harmless crush to potential lover. Ah, but that was a bad idea, wasn’t it? She hadn’t been brought over from Nebraska to get horizontal with the horse trainer.

  Perhaps he had the same thought, because he broke eye contact and looked down at the cookbook. “I think you should lose the eggplant.” His voice was husky.

  She was so focused on the undertone of lust that it took her a couple of seconds to register what he’d said and muster a protest. “Eggplant is the whole point to ratatouille.” She returned the whipped cream to the refrigerator, pulled spoons out of the utensil drawer, and brought the two dishes of figs over to the table.

  He cleared his throat again. “I realize that, but eggplant’s a tricky vegetable when it comes to cowboys. They might accept it breaded and fried in eggplant parmesan, but I’m not sure they’ll take to it in a stew.”

  “So ratatouille without the eggplant.” She sat next to him because the idea had been to study the recipe together. “Maybe I should fix something else, instead.” His warmth and his scent reached out to her.

  “No, I think this will work.” He pulled his dish of figs closer. “Thanks for fixing this.”

  “You’re welcome.” She cut through the whipped cream with her spoon and scooped up a bite of fig and cream. Sitting within easy touching distance made her tremble, and she took another calming breath. She didn’t want to drop the mouthful of dessert in her lap.

  But she was determined to eat and prove that she was in control of the situation. She put the spoon in her mouth, but not all the whipped cream made it. She had to lick away the excess.

  She thought he hadn’t noticed until she realized his breathing had changed. When she peeked over at him, he was watching her with that same intensity that played havoc with her pulse rate.

  Closing his eyes, he pushed back from the table. “You know, maybe I should turn in, after all.”

  She had the distinct impression he was running away before he did something totally inappropriate. And how she wished he would do something inappropriate. But he was acting like a responsible adult, so she would, too. “All right. But should I substitute something for the eggplant?”

  “Yes.” He picked up his bowl of figs. “I’ll take these with me, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine. What should I substitute?”

  “Potatoes.” He headed out of the kitchen.

  “Potatoes? Really?”

  “Yes,” he called over his shoulder. “Cowboys love potatoes. See you tomorrow, and thanks for a great meal!”

  She stared after him, not sure whether to feel rejected by his abrupt departure or immensely complimented because he’d almost lost control of himself. She settled on feeling complimented.

  But knowing they wanted each other this much changed everything. She wondered if he’d abandon the evening meal planning he’d suggested. If they went ahead with that, something was bound to happen. He had to know that as well as she did.

  Would that be a mistake? From what she’d gathered from Aunt Mary Lou, the Chance family didn’t interfere with their employees’ personal lives as long as they fulfilled the duties they were hired for. Yet Aurelia didn’t want to do anything that would reflect poorly on her aunt.

  Being the aggressor in the relationship might look really bad, so no matter how much Matthew turned her on, she wouldn’t pursue him. If he decided to resist temptation, then she would admire him from afar. But if he decided not to resist... Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to imagine the possibilities.

  Chapter Three

  Wound tight from his encounter with Aurelia, Matthew carried his dessert down to the bunkhouse. He hoped the card game was still in progress. He desperately needed a distraction.

  He’d been here less than an hour. Seducing the ranch cook within the first sixty minutes of arriving was not his style, but he’d come damned close to doing exactly that. He was the kind of man who liked to take it easy and work up to things. That was one of the qualities that made him a good horse trainer. So he needed to dial it back several notches.

  Pushing open the screen door, he took in the welcome sight of six cowhands playing poker on a battered wooden table positioned in the middle of what was obviously the bunkhouse kitchen. They’d fortified themselves with beer, soda, and various kinds of chips. A couple had cigars going. They all looked up from their cards as Matthew walked in.

  “Hey, Matthew!” Jeb folded his hand and laid it on the table. “Let me introduce you to everybody.” He pointed to a dark-haired cowboy on his left. “This joker is Tucker Rankin. He’s only here for a couple of nights while his fiancée is at some forestry conference in Spokane, but the rest of these bozos live here full time, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with them and their snoring.”

  “Speak for yourself, carrot-top,” a rugged blond guy said. “You’re a damned buzz-saw.”

  “Am not, Shorty. That’s coming from Danny’s bunk.”

  “Hey!” A guy with prominent ears pointed his cigar at Jeb. “I do not snore. And that’s a fact.” He stood and extended his hand to Matthew. “Nice to meet you, Tredway. I’m Danny Lancaster. I admire your work.”

  “Thanks.” Matthew transferred his dessert to his left hand so he could accept the handshakes of the rest of the poker players as they introduced themselves. Besides Shorty LaBeff and Danny Lancaster, the two cigar smokers, the table included Bob Gilbert, who wore wire-rimmed glasses, and Frank Delaney, who had a neatly trimmed mustache.

  Danny glanced at Matthew’s bowl of figs. “Those things look familiar. The trash is over yonder.” He gestured with his thumb.

  “Thanks, but I’m going to eat them.”

  “Don’t put yourself through it. She’ll never know the difference.” Danny reached for the bowl. “Here, let me get rid of—”

  “No!” Matthew jerked it back. “I want these! If the figs are half as good as the meal she fed me, they’ll be great.”

  Danny stared at him, and then he broke into a wide grin that eventually turned into a chuckle and wound up as a belly laugh. Soon all the other cowhands were laughing, too.

  “That’s a good one, Tredway!” Danny clapped him on the back. “For a second there, I thought you were serious.”

  “He couldn’t have been serious.” Bob pulled out his shirttail and began polishing his glasses. “But it was good for a laugh.”

  “I am serious.”

  That set everyone off again.

  “Yeah, right.” Shorty grinned before sticking his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Okay, joke’s over. Pull up a chair, Tredway. Let’s play some cards.”

  Matthew dragged a chair over and sat at the table. “I’m not kidding, guys. I enjoyed the meal Aurelia fed me.”

  Tucker, the guy who was only temporarily staying overnight, gazed at him. “Then she must not have given you the lunch leftovers, because that stuff was awful.”


  “You can say that again.” Frank picked up his cards. “What’d she call it?”

  “Something French-sounding.” Bob looked at his cards and put them face-down on the table. “Shetty fou lardy, or something like that. And I’m here to tell you it was definitely shetty.”

  “She gave me what you all had,” Matthew said.

  Frank wrinkled his nose, which made his mustache twitch. “Then you must possess a different kind of taste buds from the rest of us, because I don’t know a single person besides you who liked it.”

  Matthew was walking a fine line if he wanted to avoid insulting these men, so he spoke with care. “I admit it was unusual, but as much traveling as I do, I’m used to eating what’s put in front of me. I guess it’s possible that along the way my tastes have changed.”

  Jeb groaned. “And here I thought you’d be the perfect guy to fix the situation. But if you actually like her food, then you probably don’t want her to change how she cooks.”

  “She doesn’t have to change completely,” Matthew said. “Just modify some. I already gave her a suggestion for tomorrow.”

  Everybody looked up from their cards.

  “I don’t suppose you suggested fried chicken and potato salad like Mary Lou makes.” Shorty took a pull on his cigar and blew out the smoke. “I’m starting to have wet dreams about Mary Lou’s cooking.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be fried chicken and potato salad, but I think you’ll like it okay.”

  Jeb narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

  “It’s a sort of vegetable stew.”

  Bob frowned. “No meat?”

  “Hey,” Tucker said, “don’t be complaining about the lack of meat. She’s liable to throw some kidneys in there left over from that shetty fou lardy.”

  “That wasn’t meat,” Bob said. “That was innards. I don’t eat innards.”

  “And those things in the bowl you have there,” Shorty added, “look like something a grown man should not be putting in his mouth, if you get my meaning.”