Diamonds And Denim (Country Brides & Cowboy Boots)

by Danni Lee Nicholls

  Willow gave Mick a stiff look before pushing the truck into gear and moving past the green light onto the open road. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I’m just not sure.”

  Chapter 12

  Mick placed one foot in the stirrup and swung his leg around the rump of the horse while Willow held the gelding’s head. The warmth of the horse surprised him.

  “This here is Michigan,” Willow said.

  Mick gave her an odd look. “Michigan. How did this horse get a name like Michigan?”

  Willow rubbed the horse’s neck. “I’m not sure. My mom named him. She said it sounded stately.” Willow laughed softly, her eyes full of memory and love.

  Willow’s wistful look filled Mick with the desire to cover her hand in his, but he held back. He’d caused enough stress today and he’d much rather hear her laugh.

  He sat stock-still on Michigan’s back and gazed down at Willow, who continued to stand at the horse’s shoulder. The sun and sweet autumn breeze played with her hair and lit her face, giving her radiance Mick had never before seen on anyone in New York.

  Willow moved in close and placed her cheek against the gelding’s neck. “I love this horse,” she whispered before breaking away from Michigan with a final pat. Her voice came back to the present. “Anyway, he’s trustworthy and nothing scares him.” She left Michigan’s side and moved her own horse, Topper, and ran her fingers through his mane. “I love you, too, mister,” she said before mounting quickly and setting off at walk. She looked at Mick. “You won’t have to do much. Michigan will follow Topper, and we’ll take it at a walk.”

  Mick sucked in his breath and nodded quickly as Michigan started to move. After several minutes, Mick could feel the rhythmic motion of the horse underneath him. He relaxed enough to look up.

  The snow from earlier in the week had crept up the mountainside, leaving straw-colored fields dotted with fir and pine along the rolling hills. The sky was deep ocean blue with white cotton ball clouds lazily drifting across the surface. In all his life, Mick had never seen so much beautiful, wide-open sky. In New York, he rarely bothered to notice the sky, but when he did, it was crowded with buildings and city haze.

  Mick brought his gaze back down to earth as Michigan moved slowly along. The earth began as rolling grassland, but the stalwart presence of the mountains was never far away. Like sentinels, they stood guard over the valley, their white peaks playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. Looking over the horizon, Mick began to notice the cows. So many cows. “So this is where steak comes from.”

  “Yep. And hamburger, beef ribs, and roasts.”

  “Does Shorty cook them?”

  Willow laughed. “Not all of them in this field. We usually kill two to feed us and the ranch hands through the year, but the rest we sell.”

  “I wasn’t aware that ranches had full-time cooks.”

  Willow shrugged. “Many don’t. But Shorty has been with our family since I was three. He came one summer and just kind of fit in, so he stayed. He’s a man of all trades, so he helps with a lot of other things, too. I haven’t known ranch life without him.” Willow grew uneasy. “Curtis doesn’t like it, though. He thinks Shorty is an added expense. He doesn’t see the other side of it very well.”

  Mick waited for Willow to explain. When she didn’t, he debated about asking more questions but chose to change the subject. He was interested in talking about Curtis, but he didn’t want to cause any more stress, and there were so many other things to inquire after. “How many cows do you have?”

  “We’re just planning on figuring how many to sell, so that will determine our winter herd, but right now, we’ve got a little over three hundred head. Ours is a small operation. We own close to six hundred acres. Some ranches in the state run a thousand acres or larger.”

  Following Willow’s actions on Topper, Mick gently pulled on the reins and Michigan came to a stop.

  Willow continued, “We run what’s called a cow-calf operation. Our cows have their calves in the first quarter of the year. Then they’re weaned in October. Some we sell to the feedlots around that time and others we hold until spring. Our cows are grass-fed, so they fetch a premium price.”

  “What kind of cows are these?”

  “Herefords.”

  Mick looked over the sea of red-and-white cows with their nearly grown calves. It was a peaceful setting.

  “Dad and I will be looking over the calves within the next couple of days and deciding which ones we want to keep and which ones we want to go to the feedlots.”

  Mick settled in the saddle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so peaceful.”

  Willow smiled. “This is a nice moment,” she said. “But it’s rarely like this. There’s a lot of hard and dirty work, especially in the spring and summer. And when the wind is heading toward us…” Willow turned to Mick and grinned. “It smells like…cow, but I love this life and these animals.” She turned Topper around. “C’mon, you can meet my dad. Shorty, too.”

  Mick swallowed hard, his heart pushing against his rib cage. “Oh…I don’t want to bother…”

  “Nonsense,” Willow said. “They’re both around here somewhere.” She led the way on Topper.

  Mick’s mouth went as dry as straw as he followed Willow back to the barn. Their short ride was done mostly in silence as leather saddles creaked and the horses chewed at their bits. Hooves moved through the stubbled wet grass.

  Once back at the barn, Mick tried to dismount but found it was more difficult than Willow made it look. He hit the ground and his legs about buckled. He was working on recovery when he turned around to find a large man standing in the yawn of the barn entrance, with one hand on his hip and the other hand tipping his hat back away from his forehead, his skin was the color of leather, with deep wrinkles around piercing blue eyes.

  Willow grinned and led Topper to the man. “Hey, Daddy,” she said. “This is Mick Wilson. The cook I told you about.”

  Mick chafed at the word “cook,” but he let it go and did his best to walk toward the man on his useless legs. A shock of silver hair fell below the rim of the hat of the older man. When Mick made it to arm’s length, he reached out his hand. “Hello, sir. I’m Mick.” Mick couldn’t remember the last time he’d called anyone “sir.”

  The man took Mick’s hand in a firm grip. “I thought you might be stopping by,” he said.

  “How did you know?” Willow asked.

  “Marilyn called me on that newfangled phone you bought me.” He turned toward Willow. “I guess you’re the talk of the town.”

  Mick couldn’t tell if there was humor or reproach in the man’s comment, but Willow’s pursed lips loosened when her father gave her a teasing grin. Then he turned to look at Mick. “I’m Chet Simmons. First time on a horse?”

  Mick swallowed the lump in his throat, along with his pride. “Yes, sir,” he said. “First time.”

  “Well, Michigan here is a great teacher, aren’t you, boy?” The man ran his hand over the horse’s nose.

  Mick noticed the same wistful look come into Chet’s eyes that he had noticed earlier in Willow’s.

  “I told him he was Momma’s horse,” Willow said.

  Chet took in a deep breath as he rubbed the horse’s neck. “That he was,” he said gently.

  Willow looked concerned. “Daddy, are you feeling all right?”

  Chet reached out, put his arm around Willow’s shoulders, and gave her a squeeze. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just a bit tired these days, but it’ll pass once we get those calves off to the feedlots.”

  Mick noticed a small bowlegged man come from the shadow of the barn, carrying a basket of eggs.

  Willow grinned. “And this is Shorty. He’s our cook.”

  Shorty grinned back at Willow with a look of happy worship before turning his attention to Mick. “Nice to meet you.” Shorty extended his hand.

  Willow smiled at Shorty as she placed her arm through Mick’s. A pleasant euphoria ran through his veins, touc
hing every part of him. “This here is Mick. I was just telling Daddy he’s a cook, too.”

  Mick swallowed again at the word “cook.” Maybe Shorty would understand the difference between a cook and a chef. “I’m a chef at one of the premier restaurants in New York City. It’s called Red.” He thought for a moment. “Well, I was a chef there. I was on my way to Seattle to apply for a new job, but, well…now I’m here.”

  Shorty gave him a doubtful look. “Who names a restaurant after a color? Why don’t you just call it ‘Mick’s,’ or ‘Main Street Diner,’ or something people can relate to?”

  Mick blinked. “Well, it’s not my restaurant, so it couldn’t be named after me.”

  Shorty gave him an absent smile. “Who works for a restaurant that doesn’t belong to him?”

  “I guess I do…or I did,” Mick said.

  “Quit giving our guest a hard time,” Willow said. “And why don’t you show him what you can whip up in that cast iron of yours?”

  Shorty’s smile turned genuine. “Love to,” he said. “Come with me. I’m about to fry up some eggs and hash with these gifts from the hens.”

  Mick was doubtful. What in the world could a ranch hand cook show him about working in a kitchen? At Red, Mick had several staff members who worked under him. He’d been to one of the best culinary schools in the country and cooked in some of the finest restaurants in a world-class city known for its cuisine. He didn’t need lessons from some no-name with a cast-iron skillet.

  “Oh, I do love that hash you make,” Chet said. “I’ll have some of that for a late lunch, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s my plan,” Shorty said.

  “How about a salad with that?” Willow said.

  Shorty shook his head. “Yes, Miss Willow, I’ll see that you get your greens.”

  Chet reached out and shook Mick’s hand again. “Well, it was nice to meet you.”

  “You too, sir,” Mick said.

  Willow gave her dad a quick squeeze before turning her attention back to Mick. “I’ve got some chores I’ve got to finish. I’ll get these boys unsaddled. Why don’t you come and find me after you and Shorty finish in the kitchen?”

  Mick gave Willow a lingering look, but her attention was already drawn to the two horses she was leading into the barn. The late afternoon sun lit up her hair, which fell down her back in a long, loose braid. from behind. Tendrils fell around her face and tinted her creamy skin with an ember-colored glow. Gosh, she was beautiful.

  Turning away, he continued to follow Shorty to the back of the house. The first thing to catch Mick’s attention was the open brick oven. It was cold now, but when burning, Mick could tell the temperatures easily would run from five hundred to a thousand degrees. “What do you cook in there?” he asked.

  “Pizza sometimes,” Shorty said.

  “You cook wood-fired pizza here?”

  Shorty’s weathered hands ran over the bricks. “Yeah. I also cook steaks and chops in it, sometimes. I’ll finish ribs, too. Steaks are pretty tricky, but once you get the hang of it, there’s nothing like it.”

  Mick’s earlier conceit began to shake from him, and he was eager to see more. Walking into the indoor kitchen attached to the back of the house, he found a six-burner gas stove with a huge oven, along with plenty of counter space and a well-stocked pantry and freezer. “What kind of things do you usually cook?”

  “Depends. I do everything from the hash I’ll be making today with the last of the fall potatoes to pizza.” He gestured toward the wood-fired oven outside before continuing, “We do quite a lot of beef. We butcher about two cows a year for the family and the hands in the summer. But we also do venison, elk, and buffalo. Have you ever worked with game?”

  Mick shook his head. He remembered a class on cooking venison, but he had never really worked with game in a kitchen. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “I bake too,” Shorty said. “We have fresh bread. Sourdough is everyone’s favorite. I’ve got a great starter I’ve been using for fifteen years. But I’ll also do wheat, white, rye, or sometimes I make an oatmeal bread. I cook breakfast too, with bacon, sausage, eggs, omelets, ham … the works.”

  Mick was mesmerized. He’d expected some tin-can electric range with faulty burners, poor food handling and a cook that cranked out burnt biscuits and thin gravy.

  Shorty looked at him. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Big Shot Chef from New York City. But let me tell you something. If I cooked the way you think, I’d be out on my backside in thirty seconds. No ranch worth their salt is going to put up with a bad meal. We’ve got the abundance of the land at our fingertips, and it’d be a slap in the Creator’s face if we didn’t do it justice.”

  Caught! Mick’s earlier snobbery dissipated as he took in the clean floor, which was made of brick laid in a herringbone style. “So you read minds, too?”

  “Nope. Your face is an open book.”

  Mick met Shorty’s eye. “Show me that hash.”

  “First things first.” Shorty pulled two loaves of unbaked bread from the oven. “I had these on warm so they would rise.” A homey scent of yeast filled the kitchen.

  “Sourdough?”

  “Yep.” Shorty turned on the oven, which preheated to the correct temperature in record time. Then he popped the loaves in the oven. Moving toward the refrigerator, he pulled out a pound of pork breakfast sausage and placed it in a cast-iron skillet over medium heat before breaking it up. As the sausage cooked, he reached for four potatoes that had previously been baked and were already cool. With Mick’s help, they quickly had them diced into small pieces. Once the sausage was brown, he removed it from the skillet and added a diced onion, green pepper, and one clove of garlic. He sweated the onion and pepper until the vegetables were barely translucent and then added the sausage back into the skillet with the potatoes. The aroma of freshly cooked onions, peppers, potatoes, and sausage made Mick’s mouth water. Shorty added rosemary, a dash of paprika, salt, and fresh-ground pepper before smashing the hash into the skillet with his spatula to create a nice crust. The hash sizzled.

  “If you don’t mind, would you go to the fridge and pull out some greens for Willow? That girl loves her salad.”

  Mick jumped at the chance and found baby lettuce, kale, and Swiss chard nestled with carrots, radishes, and celery in the produce bin, along with a couple of garden-fresh tomatoes.

  “That’s the last of the tomatoes,” Shorty said above the sizzling hash. He motioned the cabinet above Mick. “Plates are just above you.”

  Mick pulled down three plates.

  “You’ll need a fourth,” Shorty said.

  “What for? There’s three of you, right?”

  “Tonight, there’s four of us.” Shorty looked away from his cooking. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”

  Mick broke into a grin as he pulled down a fourth plate.

  “If you want a salad, help yourself. I made Willow her favorite balsamic vinaigrette. It’s in the door of the fridge.”

  “How about you and Mr. Simmons? Do you want a salad?”

  “Me? Naw. But Chet will want a small one.”

  Mick pulled the dressing out of the fridge and after preparing the salad , tossed it with the vegetables to add some flavor. He found some parmesan cheese in the fridge and grated a small dusting over the top of the salad just as Shorty plated the hash.

  “I’ve already set the table with silverware, glasses, and napkins. It’s the first thing I do, so let’s just take these plates over to the house, and we can eat.”

  Even though Mick had worked through a three-egg omelet earlier, he was famished. He hurried after Shorty as they took a few steps to the house. Balancing one plate on his arm, he opened the door.

  Shorty called, “Come and get it!”

  Mick looked out the window to see Willow and her father walking toward the house, deep in conversation. Were they talking about the cows going to market, or was Curtis the topic of their discussion? Mick pushed his curiosit
y aside. Their conversation was none of his business. He helped Shorty get the plates set on the table and then waited to see where everyone sat before taking his own seat.

  Once he was at the table, he was surprised to see everyone take hands. Willow reached for Mick, placing her fingers in his palm, before Chet offered grace and a blessing on the food.

  The moment was so perfect—so utterly blissful that Mick was afraid to breathe. Was this what a family could feel like? His dad would never consider holding his hand, much less offer grace over food. And his mother was so busy with her society clubs that he’d often felt like an afterthought at meals, while she pulled out some pre-boxed lasagna from the freezer.

  Was this what Mick had been looking for in his desire to cook? A sense of family where everyone gathered and was nurtured over a meal? The thought rushed through him like the cold Montana wind, almost knocking him from his chair.

  No one seemed to notice. Willow, Chet, and Shorty were discussing the price they would be getting for the cows going to the feedlots in three days. Mick listened carefully and learned the trip would be a two-day affair, and Willow would stay behind while her dad and Shorty made the trip to Colorado.

  After a few minutes, Shorty said, “I think we should have Mr. Chef here cook for us one night. It’d be nice to have a night off, and I could sample someone else’s work for a change.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea!” Willow chimed in. “What do you say, Dad?”

  “You tell us the ingredients you need, and Shorty will make sure you have them,” Chet said. “We’ll do it the day after we get back.”

  Mick grinned. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  “What would you charge for a private meal preparation?” Willow asked.

  Mick was taken aback as he remembered he wasn’t family after all. He had been so appreciative of everyone’s warm hospitality—Shorty’s lack of ego with his cooking, Chet’s warm acceptance of his lack of horsemanship, and Willow just being Willow—that he’d temporarily forgotten he did not belong to this country or these people. Bert was working on the Jaguar this very minute, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d be on his way.