The Trouble With Cowboys

by Melissa Cutler

  Pathetic.

  Tonight, he lit the gas fireplace and a fire burst into being. Then it was on to the cinnamon-scented candles on the mantel and coffee table. He didn’t need to pretend anymore. He had everything he wanted and only had himself to thank. Life didn’t get any better.

  He stood in the center of the room, breathing hard through flared nostrils. The tree lights glowed and reflected off the innumerable wrapped presents around its base. “Silent Night” played from the stereo speakers. He inhaled the scents of cinnamon and evergreen and spun a slow circle in the center of the room. It looked like the home in his childhood imagination. It was perfect.

  Why didn’t it bring him peace tonight?

  Amy. Her big, trusting eyes. Her family on the verge of catastrophe at the hands of his uncle’s company. He dropped to his favorite chair and focused his gaze on the tree. He sung the lyrics to “Silent Night” under his breath, concentrating on clearing his mind.

  It was no use.

  He couldn’t get Amy out of his head. She’d been so warm and soft crushed between his body and the church office wall. She’d tasted of sugar from the doughnut she’d shoveled into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to talk to him. His lips twitched into a smile at the memory of the way she’d broken into a flat-out sprint through the sanctuary to avoid him.

  She probably ran because, like him, she knew if the two of them got up close and personal, the pull of attraction was too powerful to deny. She flipped a switch in him, a crackling of electricity. And when he touched her, they’d both felt the surge of hot, unrelenting need. The promise of ecstasy in her arms, in that luscious body that seemed custom made to fit against his.

  With a growl, he rolled his neck, annoyed by how tough it was to get past his attraction to her. His desk in the corner of the room caught his eye and he stood. What he needed was a reminder of all the ways she was wrong for him. Not only because of her problems with Amarex, but because she was the opposite of the kind of woman he wanted in his life. She humiliated herself on national television, so everyone had whispered at the time that chef show aired. Like her mother, she’d disgraced her family name, folks had said. Was that the kind of person he wanted in his life? One who couldn’t keep her dignity in check while the world was watching?

  Hell, no.

  The words “Amy Sorentino Chef Showdown” entered into a search engine were enough to take him straight to a complete series listing for Ultimate Chef Showdown, season five.

  He positioned the pointer over PLAY for episode one, but stopped. Why did he feel guilty, as though he were violating her privacy? There was nothing private about appearing on a nationwide syndicated prime time reality show. Everyone in Catcher Creek, save for farmers like him who went to bed at nine o’clock and rose at four, knew every intimate detail of her abbreviated stint as a celebrity.

  He pressed PLAY. It was time to find out what all the fuss was about.

  The opening sequence introduced the competing chefs with a cheesy voice-over calling each one’s name as if they’d been selected to appear on The Price Is Right while flashing an image of them in chef jackets, striking poses while holding various kitchen utensils. Amy was the fifth chef introduced. She’d been glammed up, with fluffy, perfectly coiffed hair and lots of makeup, her white teeth gleaming, her pose awkward. The real Amy still managed to come through in the hint of mischief twinkling in her eyes and the skilled swish of the knife she brandished as her prop.

  One of the contestants was done up like a Hollywood version of a cowboy, with a huge, gold belt buckle, snug Wrangler jeans, and a new black Stetson. Brock the Cowboy Cook, he called himself. He had the look and drawl of the Texas rodeo star he claimed to be, but Kellan wasn’t convinced.

  Amy was, though. She took to him like a kid to an ice cream truck. It struck a nerve, watching her fall for his lame act, the bald look of desire in her eyes. It was the same look she’d given Kellan at the Quick Stand. A roll of unease coursed through him.

  When the first minor challenge began, in which contestants were asked to create a signature omelet, he was irrationally anxious for her. He knew the outcome of the show, but couldn’t stop himself from rooting for her to thump her competition.

  And she did. Handily.

  Throughout the episode, every contestant on the show became known by a stereotypical label of some sort, courtesy of the show’s editors. There was a vegan “hippie,” a hot-blooded Italian-American, and an older woman who played “grandma” to the younger chefs. Amy was “America’s Sweetheart.” She was funny and determined, yet never vindictive. Often, the producers edited her remarks to make her sound dim-witted or naive. Kellan had only known her for a couple days, but he couldn’t believe what an oversimplification the label was. No one made it as far in the culinary world as she had without being a smart, savvy businessperson. And she’d shown him Saturday morning in his bed exactly how not-naive she was.

  Cowboy Brock was positioned as one of the show’s villains. In periodic camera confessionals, he expounded on his diabolical plans to win the title by manipulating the other contestants. He came across as such a lowlife that Kellan wanted to reach into the computer monitor and punch him in the face until he remembered that the producers were doing their own Hollywood-style manipulation with the show’s editing. He’d played right into their hands.

  Despite the show’s attempt to degrade Amy’s competence, she sliced, diced, and seared her way through the season premiere, grabbing the first major win with her unique spin on Beef Carpaccio, Thai style. She was a culinary genius, plain and simple.

  As the episode’s ending credits rolled, Kellan’s eyes burned with the need to sleep. Yet Amy’s magic on screen had mesmerized him. He needed more of her. Before he could think too deeply on why that was, he pressed PLAY on episode two and smiled through the opening at the sight of Amy, with her confident smile, her bouncing, curly hair, and her knife swishing through the air.

  He settled in his chair, less anxious about how she’d perform. If he’d learned anything from episode one, it was that Amy was remarkable. Not only a top-class chef, but an amazing contestant. Driven by a fierce competitive fire she didn’t sacrifice her integrity or kindness.

  The second episode, then the third and fourth, drove home her position as the show’s early front-runner. No matter how Cowboy Brock and his fellow villains sabotaged her, she overcame every obstacle and created fantastic dishes the judges loved. If Brock turned off her pot of boiling water, she turned it on and persevered. If he coerced her into sharing her limited ingredients, she still schooled him in the eyes of the judges. She was consistently—remarkably—wonderful. Of course, he’d already glimpsed her unflappability. She’d endured setback after setback in her career and her family, but she didn’t let anything slow her down.

  Near the end of the fourth episode, a funny noise in the distance caught his attention. The blare of his clock radio alarm in his bedroom. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock in the morning. The interruption irked him. Amy had made it through another Judges Trial and looked poised to continue her reign in episode five. Reluctantly, he rubbed his eyes, stretched the kinks out of his back, and stood. Time for another workday to begin.

  He left the computer on, the screen displaying Ultimate Chef Showdown’s homepage. Tonight, he’d pick up where he left off.

  By midmorning on Monday, Amy was ready for a hot shower and a nap. The alarm had been set to ring at five, but Rachel had shaken her awake at four. A storm had hit during the night and she and Jenna needed all possible manpower to dig the ranch out from the snow and feed the animals. The snowdrifts were a mere three feet, but since they’d let the last of their farmhands go after discovering the empty bank accounts, the storm added hours of work to their day.

  Amy was all for helping her sisters, but years of kitchen work had conditioned her body in a particular way that wasn’t too useful for manual labor. She could stand at a prep table for ten straight hours, or reach her fingers into b
oiling water to test pasta, but her calluses and muscles were in all the wrong places for shoveling snow and mucking stalls. After six brutal hours of fighting wind and snow flurries, her hair was snarled, her cheeks felt raw, and her body ached all over. It was a jarring reminder of a fact she’d realized in high school—she was not cut out to be a farmer. At all.

  She’d worked doubly hard in an effort to keep up with Jenna and Rachel, chipping ice from frozen water troughs, feeding the livestock, mending fence lines. The mini-CAT bulldozer Rachel used for distributing feed and hay wouldn’t start, so they delivered breakfast to their stock one wheelbarrow at a time. Not that there were many animals left. Most had been sold, but they’d retained enough horses, cattle, pigs, and chickens to give guests of Heritage Farm a taste, albeit an idyllic one, of life on a farm.

  Sometimes, like this morning, Amy couldn’t help but think of the venture uneasily, like they were pushing a kind of a scam, exploiting their guests’ ignorance of the reality of farm life. Because actual farm work was relentless and tough. It involved mornings like this, working to keep your hands from freezing in the predawn hours of winter, ignoring the rumble of hunger in your stomach until the animals were cared for. Praying for a miracle to pay the bills.

  Amy felt guilty packing up her snow shovel at ten, but she had a great excuse. Her eleven o’clock appointment with Lisa from Binderman Dairy. She stood for as long as she could justify in a hot shower, but the nap would remain a fantasy.

  Binderman Dairy sat along the historic Old Route 66 section of Highway 40, which demarcated the northern border of Catcher Creek. The dairy hadn’t existed when Amy was a kid. The Binderman family had bred dairy goats as far back as anyone could remember, but the dairy had been the brainchild of Chris and Lisa Binderman. Amy had done her homework about all the ranches and producers she hoped to contract with, from wineries to herb farmers, and had been surprised to learn Binderman Dairy was a separate company from Binderman Farm, Chris’s parents’ property.

  Amy pulled into the small, icy parking lot and stared at the roof of the building, at the huge, rotating, white fiberglass round of cheese with a picture of a goat in the middle. The kitschy design had probably been Chris and Lisa’s brainchild as well. No doubt, it was eye-catching and fit right in with the rest of the shops along the highway, but it didn’t exactly scream sophisticated organic cheeses inside.

  She watched the cheese spin for one more rotation, then checked her makeup and hair in the rearview mirror, grabbed her briefcase, and reluctantly left the warmth of her car. She’d never met Lisa, but she’d seen her at church the day before and she looked kind. She had that same nurturing aura as Jenna did, like most good moms did. Plus, Amy had known the Binderman family her whole life and kind of figured this supply contract was a sure bet if only as a favor between neighbors.

  Lisa stood behind the counter, wearing a pristine chef coat. Her dark blond hair had been pulled into a tight bun and covered by black netting. When the chime of the door sounded, she looked up from the ledger she was studying and offered Amy a wide, genuine smile. Amy returned the smile and closed the door behind her, shutting out the cold and the wind.

  What struck her about the shop, besides its clean, simple interior, was the mouthwatering aroma of tangy cheese and baking bread. Amy’s culinary imagination stirred to life. A half-dozen recipe ideas sprung into her head between the short walk from the door to the display. Sure enough, behind the counter sat an electronic bread machine. The top edge of a baking loaf was visible through the glass lid, its dough still pale in color. Maybe their meeting would run long enough that she’d get to sample a slice when it was done.

  After the two women exchanged introductions and handshakes, Amy couldn’t help but ask about the bread maker. “Why bread? Is it for cheese samples?”

  Lisa leaned over the counter, like she was going to share a secret. “The truth? I got the idea from a Realtor friend of mine who bakes chocolate-chip cookies inside the houses she’s selling right before a walk-through or open house. She says the smell sells the houses. Something about evoking potential buyers’ childhood memories. So I thought, people don’t eat cheese because of the way it smells, they buy it because of the way it tastes when paired with other foods. I want people to smell the bread and imagine themselves spreading our goat cheese on a slice fresh from the oven.”

  Amy nodded her approval. “Genius. That’s precisely what I thought when I walked in.”

  “Ha! Good. It works like a charm. I sell more cheese when I’ve got the bread going than any other time of the week.”

  Lisa directed Amy to a table for two near a window. “For the record, I loved your pitch over the phone. A restaurant featuring local ingredients is a fantastic idea. Might add a little zest to this sleepy town.”

  Catcher Creek seemed to have all the zest it needed. Kellan Reed’s perfect jean-clad ass popped into her mind. No, Catcher Creek had been anything but sleepy since day one of her return. Heat crept up around her neck and she tugged the collar of her sweater, hoping to cool off before Lisa noticed. “Glad you’re on board with the idea because I’d love to feature Binderman cheese.”

  She took the contract proposal from her briefcase and slid it to Lisa, who rummaged through her chef coat pocket and produced green-rimmed reading glasses. Amy held her breath as Lisa skimmed the first page. With a nod, she glanced up and smiled at Amy. “You know what you need to be doing while I read this? You need to be eating cheese.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  In minutes, she had a plate of delectable-looking cheeses and crackers before her. She dug into the most unique one, a round wrapped in a grape leaf. Forgoing the cracker, she sliced off a chunk and popped it into her mouth. It melted on her tongue, a complex yet delicate palate of tang and salty cream with an undertone of herbiness from the leaf. All Amy needed now was for the bread timer to ding. She closed her eyes, lost in pleasure, and rolled the cheese over the roof of her mouth, reluctant to swallow.

  “This contract looks great,” Lisa said after a while, rousing Amy from her euphoria.

  “Terrific. Because this cheese is to die for. I’m talking, last-meal greatness here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have an off-topic question,” Amy said.

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m looking to hire a sous-chef for the Local Dish, but I’m coming up short on applicants.” Really short. As in none. “Any chance you know of a trained chef looking for work? Maybe someone you’ve done business with?”

  Lisa tapped her chin. Amy slid another bite of cheese from the knife onto her tongue. This one was firmer and crusted with finely chopped pistachios. Heavenly.

  “I sure do,” Lisa said with a snap of her fingers. “Do you know Jillian Dixon? She and I play Bunco every Thursday night. You should join us, by the way.”

  It was kind of hard to focus on anything but the cheese. She had the crazy urge to grab the plate and make a break for the door. Dixon. The name sounded familiar. “I remember a Stephen Dixon. He and I were in the same grade growing up.”

  “Yes. Jillian’s his wife. They run Dixon Ranch now that Stephen’s uncle died and his father, Douglas, has back problems.”

  “Whereabouts is Dixon Ranch? I can’t picture it.”

  “Northwest corner of town. Catcher Creek cuts right through their acreage.”

  “And you think Jillian might be interested in work as a sous-chef?”

  “Oh my gosh, no. Have you ever tasted Jillian’s ambrosia salad? She brings it to every church social.” Amy shook her head. “Lucky you. Trust me—you don’t want Jillian anywhere near your kitchen. I was talking about Douglas Dixon, her father-in-law.”

  “The retired rancher with back problems?” Lord help her if her professional standards sunk that low.

  Lisa chuckled. “That makes him sound old, but he’s only sixty-something. Before he worked the family ranch with his brother, he was a Navy cook. Tells the best stories about life on an air
craft carrier, feeding all those sailors day in and day out. Stephen and Jillian are going crazy with him underfoot at the ranch. And Douglas isn’t so happy either. He’s got a lot of life left in him and I imagine he feels pretty useless these days. You’d be doing them all a big favor if you gave Douglas a chance.”

  “I’m not in the business of doing favors right now. I’m starting a restaurant.”

  “Then hiring Douglas is exactly what you need to do. Think of the good karma.”

  “Karma?” Sheesh. That was a stretch. Still, she had to hand it to Lisa; she was one heck of a saleswoman.

  As if she could read Amy’s mind, she flashed a bright smile and patted Amy’s arm. “I’ll make a deal with you. Give Douglas a try as your sous-chef for two weeks and I’ll deliver Binderman cheese to your restaurant at cost for the first three months.”

  Holy cow. Amy thrust her hand out and Lisa shook it with a solid grip. “Lisa, it’s not my place to say, but I think you’re in the wrong industry. You’re a natural-born saleswoman.”

  Chuckling again, Lisa folded the reading glasses and placed them in her pocket. “That may be true, but I wouldn’t give this life up for anything. Making cheese is my passion. And the fact that I work alongside the love of my life is icing on the cake.”

  Jealousy and admiration battled within Amy. She’d failed at both her career and finding love. Maybe she did need an infusion of good karma. “That’s wonderful. Your life is blessed.”

  Despite Amy’s smile, Lisa seemed to sense her turmoil because she stood and pulled Amy into a surprise hug. “You’ll be fine, Amy. Your family’s tough. You and your sisters—you’ll get through this because you have each other to lean on. And family’s the biggest blessing of all.”