The Trouble With Cowboys

by Melissa Cutler

  “You got that right. I didn’t always see that clearly, but I sure do now.”

  Lisa scribbled a phone number on the back of her business card and pressed it into Amy’s hand. “Here’s Douglas’s number. Go ahead and draw up a new supply contract for me. You can stop by later this week with it.”

  “Thank you.” Amy took the hint that the meeting had come to a close and said a silent good-bye to the half-eaten cheese plate. Just barely, she resisted the urge to swipe one last taste with her fingertip.

  “You’re welcome.” Amy was at the door when Lisa called, “By the way, have fun on your date with Kellan.”

  Amy looked over her shoulder. “Word travels fast in Catcher Creek.”

  “I only know because he’s close friends with Chris. We were at his house for dinner last night and I could tell, when your name came up, that he’s into you. Really into you.”

  “Oh.” Lisa’s words thrilled Amy, even as they terrified her. She didn’t want Kellan to be into her . . . did she? “We’re not . . . it’s not a date. We’ll probably spend the whole time talking business. You know, a supply contract for Slipping Rock beef.” Lordy, her face was hot. Time to leave. She flung the door open and stuck her head into the gust of cold air that swept through the threshold.

  “Of course. How silly of me.”

  Amy gave a little wave of Lisa’s business card, praying she didn’t look as jumpy as she felt. “Okay, then. I’ll give Mr. Dixon a call. Bye now.”

  On the road, all thoughts of cheese and Kellan disappeared as Amy’s car skidded across a patch of ice. She corrected before plowing into the shoulder, then grinned. Kind of fun, actually. Like a whirly ride at an amusement park.

  Yet she missed the zippy sports car she’d driven in L.A. and sold to afford the plane ticket home. The modest-priced sedan from the used car lot in Albuquerque didn’t handle ice all that well. Snow either. Or rain. Come to think of it, it didn’t handle well in the best of conditions. She pressed on the gas pedal. The engine strained to accommodate her need for speed and the tires slipped and slid along the five miles to Cousins Wine Cellar, the next stop on her errand list. Iffy tire tread was probably to blame, but Rachel would’ve yammered on about how the tires were fine, and Amy’s problem was that she took corners too fast.

  Whatever.

  Amy loved the way she drove, the unabashed freedom of speed. It was the one reckless vice she allowed herself without guilt.

  The errands only took a couple hours and, by early afternoon, she was bouncing along the dirt road to her house. In the backseat, the two cases of New Mexico-produced wine from Cousins rattled in protest of the horrible road conditions, as did Amy’s teeth.

  That was one aspect of country living she hadn’t missed—the dirt roads. Rachel and Jenna had outvoted her when she’d suggested they pave the quarter-mile driveway to ease guests’ passage. They’d insisted the dirt road added to Heritage Farm’s rustic appeal. It was no use arguing with the two of them when they banded together. Amy figured she’d sock away some cash and eventually add a paved rear entrance to the property. And she wasn’t going to ask her sisters’ permission, either.

  Two people waited on Amy’s front porch. Amy gazed with curiosity at her unexpected guests and made short work of gathering her purse and phone and unfolding herself from the car. She recognized Sloane Delgado immediately, though her hair had been released from the severe ponytail of the day before to fall in black curtains around her face. Her cheeks were rosy and her legs bare and pale beneath the hem of her skirt. When she saw Amy, she stood and smiled anxiously. Amy couldn’t imagine why the young woman was paying her a visit, but she had the sinking feeling it had to do with whatever she’d agreed to at church while using Sloane and Charlene as a Kellan-shield.

  An older man sat next to Sloane on the bench rocker, wearing a dark brown cowboy hat that he doffed the moment Amy stepped from her car. He also stood up, but it took him a while and he wore a terrible frown of exertion.

  “Hello, Sloane. What a surprise.”

  The previous night’s storm had moved west, and though it was still cold, the sun had pierced the cloud cover enough to melt the snow on the house’s roof. Water dripped relentlessly from the eaves, making it impossible for Amy to mount the porch steps without ruining her hair. She leapt through the drips, scrunching her nose at the icky feel of icy water trickling over her scalp, and held out her hand in greeting to the stranger. “I’m Amy Sorentino.”

  He shook her hand with a deceptively firm grip. “Douglas Dixon.”

  Lisa must’ve made some phone calls after Amy left the dairy. With the trouble he’d had standing and his frail, bony body, Mr. Dixon looked old and tired. Not qualities Amy wanted in a sous-chef. She’d have to figure out a way to break it to him gently.

  “Let’s get inside. You two must be freezing.”

  Once they were inside and everyone’s coats were off, Amy got a pot of coffee brewing. Mr. Dixon eased into a kitchen chair while Sloane drifted to the shelf of cookbooks on the far wall. She wasn’t dressed like an Amish bride today, but like a housewife from the 1970s. The huge orange and green floral pattern boggled the mind. Amy wanted to set her in a vase of water.

  “You have a unique sense of style, Sloane. Such vivid colors.”

  “Thank you for noticing.” She smoothed a hand over her stomach. “I made this myself from a pattern I found in my grandma’s sewing room.” That explained a lot. “Sewing is an important skill for my career as a fashion designer.”

  “I didn’t know Clovis Community College had a program for fashion designers.”

  “They don’t. I’m getting an AA degree in business while I save money to move to New York City someday, like you did.”

  Oh, brother. Amy was many things, but a career mentor wasn’t one of them. “Er . . . good for you. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Are you babysitting Tommy today?”

  “You’re funny, Amy. I know you didn’t forget about my job interview. We set it up yesterday at church. One-thirty on Monday is what we shook on. My grandma told me you might forget. She says pregnant women are forgetful.”

  What? “Your grandma still thinks I’m pregnant? All because I tried to buy celery at the Quick Stand?”

  “That and, well, we saw you running toward the church office bathrooms yesterday after eating a doughnut. Grandma figured you have morning sickness.”

  Astonishing, the way some people’s minds worked. “Sloane, listen to me. Tell your grandma I’m not pregnant.”

  “She and Marti Lipshultz think Kellan Reed’s the father, but I told them—”

  Amy waved her hands in the air, her desperation mounting. “Stop! Oh, God, this is a nightmare. Kellan Reed is not the father.”

  “So you are pregnant. Congratulations. It’s not my business to say, but maybe you should think about telling Kellan you’re carrying another man’s child before your date this Friday.”

  “What . . . how did you . . . ?” Amy covered her face with her hands. This town was unbelievable. She made a quick revision to her earlier thought. There were two things about Catcher Creek she hadn’t missed in her years gone—the dirt roads and the high-speed gossip train, with Charlene Delgado as the conductor. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Can we change the subject?”

  “Perfect. Let’s get started with my job interview.”

  “Yes. Okay. Refresh my memory; what position are you interviewing for?”

  “Waitress. I’ve got two years’ experience at the Catcher Creek Café.”

  “Then why are you looking for a new job?”

  “The café’s only open for breakfast and lunch, which conflicts with my class schedule next semester. I can’t start work until noon on weekdays.”

  That would be fine for the Local Dish. Amy planned to hire a waitress after Christmas, but hadn’t given it much thought yet. Hiring Sloane would likely save her hours of work. And two years’ waitressing experience was nothing to sneeze at. “I can’t pay
you more than minimum wage and tips until the business takes off.”

  “Understood. That’s what I made at the café. I don’t need much money, only enough for gas and car insurance, and to save for New York City, of course. My grandma pays my college tuition and doesn’t charge me rent.”

  Amy stuck her hand out and Sloane shook it. “You’re hired, Sloane. You can start after the new year.”

  “Thanks. I promise you won’t regret it.” She fist-pumped her hand into the air.

  Amy loved her youthful energy. Now all they needed to work on was her wardrobe. “I’m sure I won’t. But can you do me a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “Tell your grandma and her friends I’m not pregnant.”

  “I understand you don’t want it getting around at such an early date. Lots of women like to wait until the second trimester, my grandma says.”

  Lordy. Amy knew a lost battle when she saw one and turned to Mr. Dixon. “I’m assuming you’re here because Lisa Binderman told you I’m looking for a sous-chef?”

  “That’s right. Lisa called Jillian, my daughter-in-law. But let me say, right off the bat, I don’t need your charity. And I don’t need a job. Not for the money, anyway. I’ve got all the retirement funds I need from my oil leasing contract.”

  “Okay. Understood. No hard feelings.” That was easy.

  He waved a hand to quiet her. “Now, now. Hear me out—I’d still like to interview for the job.”

  “Why?”

  He speared the table with his finger and the look he shot Amy was so deadly serious that she gulped. “If I have to choke down one more bite of Jillian’s so-called meals, God help me, I’m going to pack up my truck and drive away from this town for good, which is saying something because my family’s lived in these parts for sixty-five years. I may not want your money, Amy, but I’ll work for my meals if you’ll hire me.”

  “Jillian’s cooking is that bad?”

  Mr. Dixon scrubbed a hand over his face. “Her spaghetti sauce, I don’t know what she does to it, but it’s like ketchup by the time she serves it. Hot, pasty ketchup. Have you ever eaten overcooked noodles and ketchup? Looks like bleeding monkey brains.” He shuddered. Amy nearly shuddered too, and Sloane’s face contorted into a look of disgust. “I play poker with the fellas on Tuesdays at the VFW, which gets me out of spaghetti night, but there’s six more nights of the week to contend with. I don’t think I can take it much longer. Her meat loaf . . .”

  He sipped coffee. Sloane and Amy leaned in expectantly.

  “What about her meat loaf?” Sloane whispered in horrified awe.

  “She adds shredded radishes and nutmeg. The dogs won’t even touch it. I have to sneak it from my plate to a napkin and feed the hogs. They’re the only ones who can tolerate it. Them and my son, Stephen. He must have a stomach of steel. Jillian means well and my son loves her so I don’t say anything, but I’ve been praying for a miracle for years.”

  Amy swallowed back her revulsion. “Lisa told me you were a cook in the Navy.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Twenty-five years, most of that time in the kitchen of an aircraft carrier. My brother, Lawrence, ran the family farm. I joined him when my stint was up. None of Larry’s children wanted in on the family business, but my Stephen did. He’s doing a respectable job of managing the place now that Larry’s passed on and I retired.”

  “Can’t you help Jillian? Teach her some basics?”

  “I’ve tried, Lord knows. She won’t let me through the kitchen door. Shoos me away like I’m a senile old bat. Lisa Binderman says you need help with your restaurant, chopping and making sauces and such. I’m qualified and I’m fast. All I ask in return is that you allow me to take my meals here. I’m a proud man, but I’ll beg if need be.”

  “Oh, Mr. Dixon, that’s not necessary. Of course I’ll hire you.” She couldn’t very well let the man eat Jillian’s food any longer. That would be an act of unnecessary cruelty.

  He slapped his knee and smiled. “All right, then. I’ll show you what I’m made of. You and Sloane talk business, and I’ll make lunch.”

  He opened the refrigerator and stuck his head in.

  Amy leapt up. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Dixon. I already hired you. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  “You expect me to go home and let Jillian fix me lunch? Do you want me to tell you about her tuna salad sandwiches?”

  “Oh, God, no.” Already, she knew she’d never eat spaghetti again without thinking about bleeding monkey brains. She couldn’t suffer the same fate with tuna salad, one of her lunchtime staples. “Do whatever you want in my kitchen, but please don’t say another word about Jillian’s cooking.”

  “Well, get ready, because I’m going to fix you ladies a meal you’ll never forget. You like eggs?”

  “Yes, yes,” squealed Sloane.

  He tucked an egg carton under his arm and grabbed a stick of butter from the refrigerator door. “Eggs Benedict it is. Wait’ll you taste my hollandaise sauce.”

  Chapter 7

  The Cowboy Cook’s horrible manipulations were getting worse.

  Once again, Kellan sat in his darkened house, his eyes riveted to the computer monitor where Amy continued her run on Ultimate Chef Showdown. He chewed a microwaved frozen burrito and watched, with mounting frustration, as Amy acceded to Brock’s every whim.

  A crook of his little finger and Amy would scurry to do his bidding, working double time on the show to finish her dishes, then help him with his. Even more disgusting was the way she swooned whenever he paid her the least bit of attention. Surely, the producers had edited the footage to paint the situation in the most character-damaging light, but still, Amy made terrible choice after terrible choice where Cowboy Brock was concerned.

  Brock continued to revel in his two-faced intentions in the camera confessional footage, where he’d chuckle about his control over Amy and clue viewers in on his next dastardly plan. What an asshole.

  No wonder she’d made up a rule about cowboys.

  Remarkably, Amy remained the person to beat. Maybe that was the reason none of the other contestants stepped in to help when they noticed the injustices done to her. Because as far as culinary skills went, she had them all beat by a mile. Not only that, but more than anyone else, she kept her cool and remained optimistic, even with the odds stacked against her.

  As the episodes trudged along, though, her energy flagged. The bright wattage of her smile dimmed. She didn’t hold her head as high and the bounce left her step. She became careless with her safety, nicking her fingers while shucking oysters and burning her arm during a barbecue challenge. Knowing her story as he did, he could immediately tell which episode filmed the day after her mom’s accident. She was distracted, fatigued. She messed up a basic dish, which the Cowboy pounced on with ruthless enthusiasm.

  If they were dating off camera, as he suspected they were at that point, then Brock must have known what had happened with her mom. And he took advantage of her anyway. Kellan could barely stand to watch through his fury. At Cowboy Douchebag, but at Amy, too, for allowing herself to get played.

  It was the second to last episode of the season. Six contestants remained, including Amy and Brock. Two would be eliminated and the final four would compete for the grand prize of three hundred thousand dollars in the season finale. Amy must have burned with wanting, thinking about how that money could save her family’s farm. By then, she and her sisters would’ve known the financial devastation their father had left them in.

  The contestants divided into two groups of three to compete against each other. Their task was to plan a five-course tasting menu for a benefit auction at a museum. Brock’s group members, Amy and a lanky younger man named Shawn who’d also been labeled a villain during the competition, designated him the leader. In another confessional-style video clip, Brock stared into the camera and explained that he was going to secure his place in the finale by sabotaging Amy’s dishes and setting his group up for the elimi
nation table.

  “Y’all watch,” he told the camera, “I own this competition and all the players in it. This is my night to shine and ain’t nobody gonna stand in my way. Amy thinks we’re allies, she thinks we’re in love”—he used quote fingers—“but she’s got another thing coming to her. Because the Cowboy Cook is a lone ranger, see? I look out for myself and myself only. Just you watch. I’ve got some tricks for Amy up my sleeve today.”

  Kellan paused the video stream. Cursing, he rose from the desk chair. He needed some air. Max regarded him curiously from his spot on the sofa, but didn’t follow Kellan to the porch.

  For the third night in a row, he’d stayed up late, hanging on every minute of Ultimate Chef Showdown. He hadn’t slept much or eaten right. He’d ignored his friends and had made every excuse not to call his brother. He jumped every time the phone rang, dreading the inevitable call from his mother. Any number he didn’t recognize on caller ID, he didn’t pick up the phone. Cowardly, sure, but he wasn’t ready to deal with her yet. Not that he ever would be.

  Instead, his every waking thought was consumed by Amy’s performance on Ultimate Chef Showdown. What had started as a way to remind himself why Amy was the wrong woman for him had become an obsession that left him with a whole slew of emotions that had nothing to do with why Amy was wrong for him and everything to do with why he was wrong for her.

  Far from proving she was a screwup as he’d originally pegged her to be, while he watched her performance on the show, his admiration for her bloomed. With tenacity, smarts, unwavering integrity, and positive attitude, she met the problems in her life head-on and braved every obstacle thrown her way. These were qualities Kellan respected, qualities he strived to possess.

  And yet, the way he’d treated her hadn’t been much better than Cowboy Brock. It sickened him that he’d played on her weakness, same as Brock had. At church, with his belt buckle and bolo tie, Kellan had manipulated her into accepting a dinner date invitation. He’d manipulated her into sleeping with him on Saturday morning too, luring her to his house by preying on her stress. He wasn’t a fake cowboy like Brock, but he’d done an ace job of acting like that asshole. As much as Brock didn’t deserve Amy, neither did Kellan.