by Duncan Leigh
“I know I promised to uphold the Circle P’s traditions, but that old pot—”
“Nothing stays the same forever,” Luke interrupted. “Look how much the ranch has changed. Five years ago, we raised beef—prime Andalusian cattle—and nothing else.”
“And you were barely keeping body and soul together,” Sarah pointed out.
“Lettin’ tourists come along for the spring and winter roundups put us in the black and kept us there,” Luke finished.
“Don’t forget my flowers,” Sarah chimed in. “With that end of the business doing so well, we can afford to take on two more foster kids this fall.”
“Sounds like the birding tours’ll be a big hit, too, thanks to Josh. He did a great job showing Mike and Dave around.” Colt aimed for a parking spot among the usual assortment of pickup trucks and four-wheelers. “You’ll have to read the article from Beaks and Wings.”
“First thing on my list after we unload.” Luke unbuckled his seat belt with an audible sigh.
“I can’t wait to see Maize’s puppies. Can I go to the barn, Dad?” Jimmy popped his door open when the truck rolled to a halt.
“Let the dog get a whiff of your scent before you go bustin’ in on her,” Luke cautioned the same way Colt had taught Bree. “Remember, you’ve been away for a while.”
The boy who’d acquired a deeper tan in the month he’d been gone slowed his steps just long enough to treat them to a world-class eye roll as if he needed to remind his dad this wasn’t his first time dealing with a protective mom and her pups.
“Luke, would you mind getting the luggage?” Sarah asked as she stepped from the vehicle. “I’m itching to visit the greenhouse. I’m sure Chris and Tim took good care of my plants.”
“They worked with ’em whenever Emma didn’t need them in the kitchen,” Colt said, noting the same slight lift in Sarah’s tone he’d heard the past three times she’d asked about the boys. He added a subtle hint of his own. “She taught ’em so much about cookin’ an’ such, I imagine they could ’bout take over.”
“Uh-huh.” Sarah squinted at the horizon, where the setting sun had turned low clouds into a sea of gold and pink. “For now, though, I’ll need their help. The new plants should arrive the day after tomorrow. We have to make room for them.”
“There’s some other stuff you need to know.” Prepared to dive into the topic he’d put off for as long as he could, Colt ran one hand over the brim of the new Stetson he’d picked up on his way through Okeechobee.
“Can we get to that in a bit?” Sarah flexed her fingers. “I can hardly wait to dig my hands into some good Florida dirt.”
“Well, I…” But he was speaking to Sarah’s back as the boss’s wife headed for her beloved flowers. Watching her go, Colt resettled a hat that, like all the other changes in his life, was going to take some getting used to.
He shrugged. “Guess I’ll help with the luggage,” he muttered. It was just as well. He could use the reprieve to get his wits about him.
While he and Luke pulled bags from the back of the truck, Colt took a slow, methodical survey of the parking area. He couldn’t spot Emma’s car and told himself that was a good thing, though, for the life of him, he wasn’t sure how he’d survive the next five minutes, let alone the next five years, without her at his side.
In her usual parking space sat a black sedan with an “I Heart Real Estate” sticker on the bumper. Evidently, Hank had made good time. Too good, in fact. Had something else brought his younger brother to the Circle P? Colt’s brow furrowed. Weekly phone calls from his mom kept him updated on Arlene and the baby. At last report, the situation was still touch and go.
Suddenly in a hurry, he put his feet in motion. Seconds later, his boots rang against the wide steps leading into the ranch house. The front door swung open before Colt made it to the top, and his brother stepped onto the porch. Munching on a cookie, the younger Judd dusted a few crumbs onto the wide cedar planks.
“Hank.” Colt dropped a pair of suitcases at the feet of a man who looked far too at ease to be the bearer of bad news. “You must’ve been halfway here when we spoke on the phone earlier,” he said while they traded shakes and half hugs. “What’s the hurry?”
“I’m just here for you, Bro. It sounded like you were eager to hit the road.” Hank held out a fistful of cookies. “Want one?”
Colt’s stomach did a slow roll as he stared down at the treats he and Emma had baked for the Parkers’ homecoming. He told himself the tremor that shot through him was just hunger. Earlier, he’d been in such a rush to put some much-needed distance between him and the woman he loved, he hadn’t bothered to stop for lunch. But the thin scab over his heartbreak was sure to reopen if Emma and Bree were still on the Circle P. “You haven’t seen Emma, have you?”
“The cook?” Hank’s eyes widened. “You know what she did, don’t you?”
“Hey, Hank.” Loaded down with luggage and bags, Luke brushed past. “Don’t stand out here jawin’. Grab a bag and close the door.”
The Circle P’s owner trudged to the bottom of the staircase, where he dropped a load of suitcases bearing red overweight tags. When Colt and Hank added theirs to the pile, Luke asked, “Are you going someplace, Colt?” He turned to Hank. “I didn’t expect to see you here. And what did our cook do?”
“You haven’t told ’em?” A grin spread across Hank’s face. “The PBR made Colt a sweet deal if he’d quit loafin’ around here and get back to work.”
While Colt considered throttling his brother for the way he’d dropped the bomb, concern deepened the lines around Luke’s mouth. “Is that true?”
His eyes on the doorway to the kitchen, Colt shrugged. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out, but yeah. I’m heading out tomorrow.”
“Leaving the ranch in my capable hands.” Hank, ever the salesman, stepped forward. “I may not be able to ride a bull as well as Colt, but I know as much about managing the Circle P as he does. And I’m not going anywhere till Royce and Randy get here.”
Luke expelled air. “This isn’t exactly the welcome home I expected, but it sounds like you’ve taken care of things. Now, what’s this about our cook?”
A troubled look crossed Hank’s face. His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “She’s gone. Packed up—lock, stock and barrel—and hit the road. She didn’t even stick around long enough to help with dinner tonight. Chris and Tim are doing the best they can, but…” He tsked. “Damn shame, if you ask me. These are the best cookies I ever tasted.”
Gone. The relief Colt expected at not having to face Emma again never materialized. Instead, the bands across his chest tightened.
“Let me get this straight.” Luke’s voice dropped into a lower register. “You’re leaving and we’ve lost our cook? Ever think those two items might qualify as an emergency?”
“I hear ya.” Colt absorbed Luke’s censure. His friend was right. Luke should have been kept in the loop. Would have been, except everything had happened so fast there hadn’t been time to so much as make a phone call.
While Luke continued to glower, the front door eased open. Smiling, Sarah joined the trio in the great room.
“Hank! I didn’t know you were here.” After giving him a brief peck on the cheek, she turned to Colt. “The boys have done a marvelous job with the nursery. They even started an herb garden for our new cook. I need to thank them. Are they in the kit—” Noticing the grim faces around her, she stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Emma’s gone,” Hank blurted.
“Really?”
As one, the three men nodded.
“What a shame. I really liked her. I’m so sorry, Colt.” A pensive frown crossed the redhead’s brow. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Hank’s eyes widened as understanding finally sank in. “Wait a minute.” He stared at his brother. “You and Emma?”
Colt sliced the air with one hand. “Doesn’t matter. She— I told you about the changes she made.”
Some
, like the coffeepot and fruit in the lunch bags, were obvious. Others, not so much. Like the ones she’d made in his heart, his life. She’d turned a nomadic cowboy into a man who craved nothing more than a quiet evening by the fireplace, his girl in his arms, his babies upstairs. That he couldn’t have what he wanted, that was his own misery to bear.
He swallowed past a fresh burst of pain and steadied himself. He had to make Luke and Sarah understand why Emma had left.
“She…” Unwilling to let her shoulder the blame, he tried again. “There was an accident. In the kitchen. Most of the Circle P’s cookbook was damaged. We spent the past month salvaging what we could and testing out new recipes to replace the ones that were lost. Emma’s a good cook. A great one,” he corrected. “We made a lot of progress. But then a four-star restaurant in Fort Lauderdale offered her better pay and the chance to make a name for herself. It was simply too good to pass up,” he said, his words spilling out faster than the announcer’s at the rodeo.
“Wait.” Sarah held up a hand. “I’m confused. She had all that in New York. She came here to have more time with her daughter. So why’d she leave again?”
Knowing the time had come to explain his role in Emma’s swift departure, Colt widened his stance. “Truth be told, she didn’t want to take the job. But this kind of thing, it doesn’t come along very often. So I—” he scuffed one boot against the floor “—I fired her.”
When he managed to look up, three pairs of eyes stared at him as if he’d suddenly lost all his marbles.
“I had to,” he protested. “Wait till you read the Beaks and Wings article. You’ll see. Even they realized she was wasting her talents here.”
Silence filled the room. Sarah’s mouth opened and closed as though she’d started to say something, but thought better of it. Hank stared into the distance, unable to meet Colt’s gaze. At last, Luke cleared his throat.
“Well, what’s done is done.” Slowly, Luke unclenched his hands at his sides. “We left you in charge of the Circle P while we were gone. We have to trust that you made the right decision.”
Sarah glanced at her husband and nodded. She tapped one finger against her lower lip. “The cookbook, on the other hand, that’s one problem I can solve.” She disappeared into the office.
Listening to the sounds of drawers opening and closing, Colt shot a questioning gaze toward Luke. From the look on his face, the owner was as much in the dark as he was.
“Here.” Sarah bustled into the room and pressed a tiny object into Colt’s hand.
“What’s this?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, cowboy?” The slim redhead grinned up at him. “Computers were a big part of my job with DCF. You don’t think I’d trust all our recipes to paper, do you?”
Colt stared down at a piece of plastic no bigger than a cricket. His thoughts stumbled, unable to absorb the idea that the tiny device held four generations’ worth of Circle P recipes. Or that it had been here through all the long nights he and Emma had spent together in the kitchen.
The irony of the situation struck him. He’d fallen in love with Emma while they tried to recreate the lost recipes, but they’d been here all along. A chuckle worked its way up from his middle. By the time it reached his chest, it bubbled into laughter. Before he knew it, he was holding his sides, tears streaming down his cheeks. He glanced up and caught his brother staring at him as if he had two heads. Luke and Sarah’s quizzical expressions sobered him.
Seconds later, an altogether different emotion swept over him and he beat feet while he still could. He barely made it to his room before his legs gave out from under him. Slowly, he slid onto the floor, his back against the bed.
He slung one arm over his eyes. After all they’d been through, he had to tell Emma about the cookbook. He owed her that much. Not today, though. Not until he gave his aching heart some time to heal. Soon, though, very soon, he’d track her down in Fort Lauderdale. But he refused to kid himself. There’d be no happy reunion. He would simply deliver a message. Unless…
Was there any chance she’d take him back? He refused to fool himself. He’d hurt her, destroyed their love. If she’d give him a second chance, though, he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
But if not, putting Hank to work finding him a place of his own wouldn’t work. Not unless he had someone to share his hopes and dreams for the future. And he couldn’t stay at the Circle P. His childhood home would never be his home again. Not without Emma. Which left the job with the PBR and, though he knew it was just a job and not a life, he figured it might be all he deserved.
Chapter Thirteen
“This is your office, Chef.”
With a proud flourish, Paul, the owner of Marco Paulo’s, stepped aside. Emma peered into a windowless room far smaller than the Circle P’s pantry. Stacks of paperwork covered a built-in desk. Linens spilled from sample boxes piled in one corner. Hemmed in on all sides by three-by-five cards and Post-it notes, thumbtacks pinned a marked-up copy of the restaurant’s standard menu to the wall.
Paul noted her intense study of a much-revised staffing diagram. He squeezed past the desk to rip the sheet from the wall. “We’ve had some turnovers of late,” he offered. “You may hear a few complaints from those who expected a promotion from within. I’m sure you’ll prove yourself in their eyes. Each of our cooks is brilliantly creative.”
Her jaw clenched at the standard euphemism for difficult. So Marco Paulo’s kitchen was a hotbed of jealousy and dissent, was it? A wave of homesickness for the Circle P’s quiet atmosphere, where the only rustle was the sound of the breeze through tall grass, swept over her. She squared her shoulders. Dwelling on all she’d lost only made for more heartache.
“Perhaps your daughter should sit here while I introduce you to your staff.”
Bathed in pasty light from the overhead fluorescent, Bree clung more tightly to her hand than the day they’d faced down alligators on the Circle P. Emma didn’t have to glance down to know that Mrs. Wickles dragged on the floor at her daughter’s side.
She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, return to the days of dropping Bree off at day care before noon and leaving her with a sitter until after midnight. Despite all the responsibilities of her new job, she’d bring Bree to work with her. She’d clear a space for toys and coloring books. Wedge a cot into the miniscule office. Turn the room into her daughter’s home-away-from-home.
“She’ll stay with me.” She snugged the little girl closer.
“Suit yourself.” Paul led the way past a kitchen where every inch of space performed double-duty. “I’ve asked everyone else to meet us in the dining room.”
Seconds later, Emma told herself that, okay, maybe bringing her active four-year-old to work at Marco Paulo’s wasn’t such a great idea. The owner obviously thought black was, well, the new black. Black linens and plates adorned the tables in the dining room, where black draperies blocked every ray of sunlight. Even the staff dressed in black from head to toe. The few touches of color scattered about the room looked so strikingly out of place they actually hurt her eyes.
She brushed a hand down the front of her own chef’s whites while she took a measured look at the predominantly male assembly. Passed over for promotion, her new second-in-command leaned insolently against the wall. His deep scowl warned Emma to double-check every dish that left the kitchen lest he sabotage plates destined for important patrons.
In the opposite corner, the pastry chef leaned a little too familiarly against the saucier while, from across the room, the fry cook—the apparent low man in a lover’s triangle—glared at the couple.
She moved on to the pantry chef, who clutched the keys he wore on a chain around his neck as if he’d refuse her request to see the larder. In between, junior cooks and assistants spread out according to an unfriendly pecking order.
Clearly, managing this kitchen would take as much tact and diplomacy as it did actual cooking skills. As for raising her daughter here, Emma shook her h
ead. Try as she might, she couldn’t imagine Bree growing up a healthy, well-adjusted child in such a hostile environment. She inhaled a breath that shook with longing for the easy camaraderie of the Circle P.
Another bridge burned, she told herself. Or destroyed. There was no going back.
Stiffening her spine, she drew her carry case out of her pocket. On the Circle P, she’d begun each day by giving Chris and Tim a short lesson in the culinary arts, a tradition she intended to carry forward into this new job. She’d even chosen her topic—the intricately carved strawberry roses she meant to install as her signature garnish.
Tha-pet-ah, tha-pet-ah. The cotton case filled with gleaming chef’s knives unrolled on the table. She stared down at the tools by which she plied her trade. From them, she looked up into a dozen angry faces. Suddenly, her heart wasn’t in it. As quickly as she’d opened her case, she rolled it up and tied it closed.
“As you were, chefs,” she said, adapting the term she’d heard far too often in her childhood home. “This isn’t going to work.”
She had to face facts. She couldn’t submit Bree to this unfriendly atmosphere any more than she could stand it herself. She’d left her heart on the Circle P. Maybe she couldn’t go back there. Maybe there wasn’t another kitchen in the world exactly like it. But she didn’t have to settle for this. For the hostility, the long hours, the oppressive heat. She wanted warmth from soft breezes blowing through a window overlooking a cow pasture, not the sweltering, chaotic atmosphere of a restaurant kitchen.
Paul turned as red as one of the beets in the house salad. “Chef, we open in—” sputtering, he glanced at his watch “—six hours.”
“You’ll have to do it without me.” Paul’s hand on her forearm slowed her. At a deep growl from somewhere behind her, the man flinched away as if he’d been bitten.
