The Trouble With Cowboys

by Melissa Cutler

  He paced across the porch, shaking off his anger. The episode he was on had to be the one where she melted down. He didn’t want to witness it, but he resolved to hang in until the end, if only so he didn’t go crazy with curiosity. He strode into the house and clicked PLAY, but didn’t sit. Standing against the far wall, he watched as Brock did exactly what he’d told the camera he would. With a trusting smile and little touches of affection, he coerced Amy into planning three of the five dishes for the group. Then, while she prepped the vegetables for a quiche, he snuck to the refrigerator and added lemon juice to the cream, curdling it.

  He sabotaged her other dishes in similar ways. Kellan’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth. It was unbearable, watching Amy’s dreams burn to ashes before his eyes. All three of her dishes were disasters. Even worse, with her head held high, she took full responsibility for the failures. When she issued a tearful apology to Brock and Shawn for blowing their chance to win, Kellan stormed into his kitchen and pulled whiskey from the cabinet. He took a long hit from the bottle, listening to Brock’s gracious acceptance of her apology, and his subsequent laughter into the confessional camera.

  Kellan was certifiably drunk by the time Judges Trial started. He set the bottle aside, lest he throw it against the wall as McKenna faked reluctance in admitting that it was Amy who’d designed the failed dishes. Her tears followed, but she held herself in check until the head judge asked Brock his opinion, as the leader of the group, about who should go home that night.

  He pointed to Amy.

  She cracked. Screaming and ranting. Throwing things. She kept yelling, “I thought you loved me” at the asshole. That, perhaps, hurt the most. Knowing she threw her love away on a man who didn’t deserve to lick the bottoms of her feet.

  He turned the computer off, unable to bear seeing the pain in her eyes or hearing the hurt in her voice any longer. Sitting in the darkness, he rolled the now-empty whiskey bottle along his pant leg, thinking about Amy. About the destruction of a vibrant, trusting woman at the hands of one greedy, manipulative man after another.

  It was too late to save her from Brock McKenna, but he could save her from Amarex. He would find a way, somehow. And he would save her from himself. No more cowboy act. No more treating her like she wasn’t worthy of more than temporarily warming his bed.

  He gathered her Amarex file, flicked on a desk lamp, and found the leasing contract Gerald Sorentino had so foolishly agreed to all those years ago. Then he called his lawyer buddy, Matt. It was time to bury his uncle’s company.

  Mr. Dixon was right. His hollandaise sauce was to die for. Smooth, creamy, and a delectable custard-yellow color. The eggs had been perfectly poached. Here it was days later and Amy couldn’t stop daydreaming about his sauce. The next morning, he’d returned to her kitchen and whipped up the most delectable batch of waffles she’d ever eaten. Crispy on the outside, creamy and fluffy on the inside. After one bite, Amy had tacked breakfast duty to his list of job responsibilities at the restaurant.

  She’d offered him the option to wait until after Christmas to start work, but he’d looked so forlorn at the idea that she told him he could report for duty as soon as he wanted. He hadn’t missed a meal at her house since.

  By Wednesday afternoon, Amy had compiled a long enough list of needs from the restaurant supply warehouse in Albuquerque to justify the time away from the restaurant. The following morning, she waved good-bye to Mr. Dixon, who stood on the porch dressed in a white apron and chef coat. His plan was to spend the day perfecting a red wine braising sauce for Slipping Rock short ribs. She’d left a basic recipe on the counter along with a selection of bottles from a winery near Taos.

  Sticking to any sort of a budget at the restaurant supply warehouse was impossible, but Amy managed to not completely demolish her bank account. She stuffed her trunk and seats with pots, pans, and gadgets, eager to experiment with them alongside Mr. Dixon.

  Her final stop of the day was, by far, the most important. From the parking lot, she stared at the tinted windows of her mom’s nursing home and said a quick prayer that she’d find her in good spirits. Most often, she was. In fact, for the first time in her life, Mom seemed happy for extended periods of time. What a cruel twist of irony that it took losing her mind for her to finally find happiness. Only twice since she’d awoken in February from a ten-day coma had Mom plummeted into depression. During those episodes, nothing rescued her from the darkness but sedation. Then again, that had always been the case.

  Amy greeted the staff and signed in. Bypassing the elevator, she jogged the three flights of stairs to her mom’s level, hoping to work off Mr. Dixon’s pecan-glazed French toast from that morning. Her mom resided on the floor where the highest level of care was administered, but where residents were allowed to shuffle around the common room.

  She found Mom in her usual spot, her thin, angular body cushioned in a faded chair, staring out the window at the bustling city street outside. Amy perched on the footstool and took her mom’s hand. It was cool, skeletal.

  Her mom’s eyes focused on her. “Amy,” she whispered.

  A pang of relief shot through her, as it always did when Mom recognized her. Most often, she didn’t recognize anyone, but she greeted Amy, Jenna, and Rachel with a polite, distant smile. Invariably, Tommy made her anxious. His little-boy energy was so overwhelming for her fragile nerves that the sisters decided to stop bringing him for visits except on special occasions.

  Today, her expression was troubled. Her fingers quivered beneath Amy’s grip.

  “Amy, I think something bad happened.”

  “Shhhh, you’re okay, Mom. Everything’s fine.”

  She turned her haunted, sunken eyes on Amy. “No, that’s not true. Something’s wrong, but I can’t remember what. Can you?”

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom.”

  “I feel so sad today.”

  “No, no, no. You’re happy here, remember? You have your friends, you do art. You have this window to look out.”

  Her expression softened. “I like this window.”

  Amy relaxed the intensity of her grip on her mom’s hand. “I know you do. So much to see out the window.”

  “Yes . . .” Her voice drifted off.

  Amy patted her knee. “And hey, you’re coming home for Christmas dinner. I made arrangements with Selena and Mary at the front desk. I’m fixing a turkey. You liked the turkey on Thanksgiving, right? Remember Thanksgiving here with Jenna, Rachel, Tommy, and me?”

  Mom’s eyes shifted, grew distant. Then she was gone, lost in the light from the window. A vague smile turned up the corners of her mouth. What did she see there? What thoughts did she think, if any? Amy liked to imagine she saw colors. Beautiful, rich yellows and greens, violet and royal blue. A swirl of beauty created by her imagination. Maybe she saw the happy days of her life playing like a movie. Or maybe the sky outside was enough. The gray clouds moving across the city buildings along the horizon, the occasional sliver of blue.

  “She had a tough night last night,” said the voice of her mom’s nurse, Selena, behind her.

  Amy stood to shake her hand. “Did you have to sedate her?”

  “No, but it nearly got to that point. She’s been so happy. But lately, the bad days are becoming more frequent. There doesn’t seem to be a reason why.”

  Amy snagged a quilt from a nearby basket and smoothed it over her mom’s legs. “The anniversary of my dad’s passing is later this month. Maybe on some level she understands.”

  Selena stroked a hand over Mom’s wispy gray-black hairs. “Our minds might forget, but the heart never does.”

  So true. “Call me if she has another bad spell, okay?” Not that Amy could do anything to ease her mother’s troubles, but she hated thinking her mom was alone on those bad nights, without anyone who loved her near enough to hold her hand or whisper words of comfort.

  “Will do.”

  “I’m headed home, but I’ll come back as soon as I can.�
��

  “Of course, dear.”

  She bent and kissed Mom’s cheek. “Bye, Mom. I love you.”

  Mom’s eyelids blinked but her focus never strayed from the window. Closing her eyes, Amy imagined her mom saying I love you back, and said a silent prayer for her to have a restful sleep that night. Then it was time to go.

  On her jog down the stairs, she shook off the melancholy of the visit, forcibly turning her mind to the short ribs Mr. Dixon was preparing for dinner. She imagined opening the squeaky front door to the aroma of braised meat and red wine sauce. She wanted to hug Tommy and be henpecked by Rachel. She wanted to run her finger through the nicks on the stair rail from the time she and Jenna pretended to fix it with horse hoof files, and she wanted to read a passage from the crumbling leather Bible that had belonged to her grandmother.

  She wanted to go home.

  Chapter 8

  Friday night, Amy stuffed a condom into her purse and wondered why such a smart choice made her feel so stupid. Then she looked at the condom, its round ridge obvious beneath the cellophane wrapper, and pictured Kellan rolling it on in a display of glorious virility. Sucking in a sharp, lusty breath, she grabbed another condom.

  Once Jenna had made it clear she’d be no help in finalizing a deal with Slipping Rock Ranch, Amy had asked around about alternative beef suppliers, and everyone—from produce growers to cheese makers, poultry farmers to the manager at a restaurant supply warehouse—said the same thing. No other beef compared to the cattle raised by Kellan Reed at Slipping Rock Ranch. And how convenient, a few people pointed out, that she and Kellan were neighbors.

  Despite her determination that the dinner be purely a business meeting, she’d spent the better part of the day in a state of semi-arousal, fantasizing about his kiss, his hands, and his body. Around lunchtime, her distraction got the better of her and she nicked her finger again while julienning carrots. The man was ruining her ability to wield a blade.

  As she stood at the kitchen sink, flushing the cut with water, she made the call. Time to stop fighting what her body wanted. The best way to prevent herself from falling in love with a cowboy again was to control the situation. Keep it about the sex, don’t get sucked into personal conversations—don’t start to care. It was a bastardized version of rule number one, but if she was powerless to keep her body away from cowboys, which was certainly true where Kellan was concerned, then she needed to work doubly hard to keep her emotions at a safe distance.

  Her tiny, black purse barely had enough space for a coin pouch, cell phone, and lipstick, much less condoms. She’d have to be careful not to accidentally flip one out when she paid for her half of dinner. Kellan seemed like the sort of man who didn’t allow a woman to pay her own way, but Amy was determined not to let the evening devolve into a date. All she wanted tonight was to settle the Slipping Rock business deal and one last cowboy booty call.

  She took one final look at herself in the mirror. Easy-up skirt? Check. Easy-off panties? Check. Not that he needed to remove her thong to get to the action. The bright pink fabric was thin and pliant, easy to pull to the side. Damn, her pulse sped and her skin grew tingly just thinking about him doing that to her in his truck. Maybe they didn’t need to waste time going to dinner first. Drawing a flustered breath, she grabbed three more condoms and wedged them into the purse.

  In front of the mirror, she smoothed her skirt, made sure the gals were evenly distributed in her bra, and grabbed her purse. The cellophane wrappers crinkled shamelessly. Mortified, she hustled to the bathroom and stuffed tissues into the crevices of the purse’s interior to blunt the noise.

  A knock sounded at her bedroom door.

  “It’s open.”

  Rachel poked her head in. “Kellan’s here. He’s waiting downstairs.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right down.”

  “Jenna asked me to remind you about drawing up a supply contract with him, but I have a better idea. How about I tell him you need to cancel the date and I’ll handle the contract negotiation myself?”

  Tempting. Probably, that would be the most prudent course of action. Then again, if she didn’t get laid tonight like she’d been banking on all afternoon, there wasn’t enough celery in the county she could dice to burn off all that unsatisfied sexual energy.

  “Thanks, but no thanks, Rachel. I’ll discuss it with him tonight.” After he satisfies my more pressing needs.

  Rachel indulged in a beleaguered sigh. “Fine. But mark my words. You’re going to regret this.” Amy sent her a look of warning. “Since you’re so stubborn, when you talk to him about the contract, would you feel him out about my idea to offer supplier tours to our guests? It would be a great way for him to earn extra publicity and revenue with no risk involved.”

  “Yeah, I’ll feel him out.” Amy grabbed the purse and winced at the faint crackle of cellophane. “I mean, about the tours.” Thank goodness Jenna wasn’t around or this conversation would have turned in a whole different direction, straight toward dirty.

  With as much dignity as possible while holding her purse of sin, Amy attempted to squeeze past her sister.

  “Amy?” Good Lord, she hated the way Rachel said her name when she was about to start in on a lecture.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Rach.”

  Rachel’s shoulders slumped. “Look, you need to take care of yourself. Don’t fall for this guy. He’s a player.”

  “I know what he is. I’m not looking to start a relationship anyhow, with all that’s going on. I just need to blow off some steam.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  Amy hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “I don’t know. Sounds like a personal problem to me.” She started down the stairs. “Do me a favor and don’t wait up.”

  Rachel snorted, but otherwise remained silent as she followed Amy.

  Kellan stood in the living room near the Christmas tree, staring at the photograph above the mantel, Rachel’s picture of Sidewinder Mesa at dawn. For the first time since she’d met him, he wasn’t dressed like a cowboy. He wasn’t wearing boots, bolo tie, or a belt buckle. The Stetson she’d looked forward to knocking off his head was absent as well. But even fancified in chinos, black leather dress shoes, and a tailored, button-down shirt, he was still the hottest guy she’d seen in a long, long time.

  When he turned to regard her as she descended the stairs, something in his expression made her pause, some feeling he wanted to mask.

  Nope. Couldn’t think about that. Because then she’d ask what was bothering him and they’d start talking. He might open up to her. She might try to comfort him. And heaven help her heart if she started down that slippery slope.

  He walked to meet her at the base of the staircase, his jaw tight, his smile strained. When he took her hand, his was slightly damp, like maybe he was nervous. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded to Rachel. “I won’t have her home too late.”

  Amy narrowed her eyes, studying him. Those weren’t the words of a man preparing for a night of seduction. Or maybe he wanted it as hard and fast as she did. If that were the case, this booty call wouldn’t take any time at all. Hell, they didn’t even need to leave her property.

  Rachel handed Amy her coat. “Why should I care what she does so long as she’s here to feed the pigs in the morning?”

  Amy ignored the vitriol in her sister’s tone.

  She and Kellan walked in awkward silence to his truck. With a hand on her elbow, he helped her to the passenger seat and closed the door. The truck smelled of him, of work and dust and the kind of manly soap that was liable to burn a hole in a woman’s skin if she let it sit too long. She breathed in deeply and considered how little she knew of Kellan’s life, how he viewed the world, what made him laugh.

  “Idiot,” she muttered, smacking herself on the forehead. Instead of wanting to pick Kellan’s brain, she should be concentrating on picking his clothes off. Leaving her seat belt undone, she
took stock of the truck’s potential. It didn’t have much of a backseat, so that option was out. She tested the center console and discovered it to be the flip-up kind. Nice. Nodding with satisfaction, she pushed her seat back as far as it would go, tucked her purse at her side, and stretched her boot-clad legs out.

  Kellan climbed behind the wheel and turned the truck toward the highway. The hint of tension remained in the lines of his face and the set of his shoulders. He stared straight ahead, and with the death grip he had on the steering wheel, Amy wouldn’t be surprised if he were losing feeling in his fingers.

  After a couple minutes, she reached across the divide and fingered his sleeve. He flinched and, as if she’d jump-started his voice box, began to chatter. “I know I offered to cook dinner for you at my place, but I think it’s a better idea to go out. We have reservations for the restaurant at the Mesa Verde Inn. It’s a bit out of the way, but quiet and low-key. Marla Ray does a nice dinner there, seasonal, good enough quality for a chef like you to appreciate. I figured we could use the drive to talk. I don’t even know where you lived before this week.”

  His anxiety was charming. One would think after the righteous nooner they had on Saturday and the blazing kiss they shared on Sunday, he’d be over his nerves. Guess dinner was a different story.

  “I lived in Los Angeles. Worked as a line cook at a hot spot named Terra Bistro.”

  He nodded, but hadn’t yet looked her way. “Did you go to culinary school?”

  “Yes, straight out of high school. After I graduated, I moved to New York for culinary school, then Paris for a year to continue my studies, then back to New York to apprentice under some big-name chefs in the area.” Until I crashed and burned on a televised chef competition and fled the vicious Big Apple gossip scene. But she didn’t feel like talking about that hiccup right now. Hopefully, he wouldn’t ask about it. “And I ended up with the great job I told you about in L.A. Which is where I worked until a week ago.”