Finding Home (St. John Sibling Series Book 2)

by Barbara Raffin

  "I just figured you should know the truth about my limited training before turning me loose in your kitchen. I'm hardly qualified to be called a chef."

  She set Weston's plate on the dirty dish counter with a definitive clunk, the hero-worship melting from her eyes like butter on a hot grill. "I wasn't planning to hand my kitchen over to you, Sam. Nor do I expect you to cook any omelets."

  He'd given her the truth. He should feel good about that. But the truth had chased that glint of hero worship from Dixie's eyes. It made him feel like a heel. Why, he didn't know. He was used to seeing disappointment in the eyes cast his way. But then, none of those other eyes had ever looked at him with anything akin to hero worship.

  She edged past him to the flattop, took up a spatula and scraped aside the burnt pancakes and over-cooked bacon, the sweetness in her voice a tad forced. "I hadn't meant to impose on you, Sam."

  He pivoted after her. "It's not an imposition. It's—"

  "It's okay, Sam." She gave him a sad smile, turned away from the grill and scrubbed her hands in the sink. "You don't have to be polite and manufacture some excuse. Asking you to cook would be an imposition. That's why I didn't exactly ask that of you. I only asked you to play along."

  "I don't understand," Sam said as she returned to the griddle.

  "Miss Weston can be a bit of a snob," Dixie said without looking at him. "All I need is for her to think a European trained chef has prepared her omelet and she won't dare complain again."

  "Aaah," Sam exhaled. "You never intended for me to cook any omelet." You just hoped I would.

  She moved to the walk-in cooler and jerked open its door. "I can make Miss Weston's omelet and she won't know the difference."

  Did she doubt his ability? Is that what this was about? He didn't like it, as evidenced by the knot forming in his stomach.

  "And while you're making omelets on the stove, who'll be running the flattop?" he ventured, testing her true intent, hoping it wasn't about her doubting him.

  As she emerged from the cooler with bacon, eggs, and milk, her gaze went to the big flat cooktop and worry lines pinched vertical troughs above her nose. Still, she said, "I can handle that, too."

  Beginning to think her reason for dismissing him was more about imposing on him than doubting him, he ventured, "There's a lot more to running a flattop than the uninitiated might think."

  She all but threw the contents in her arms down on the prep-counter before facing him, one hand on hip. "I waitressed in more than a few greasy spoons, and when a cook didn't show up for his shift, I took over the flattop, the grill, and the fryers. I can do this."

  He folded his arms across his chest and leaned a hip against the prep-counter. "Smart enough to run a business, sweet enough to attract honey bees, and experienced enough to run a restaurant kitchen. Aren't you a woman of many talents?"

  She blinked and turned to the ingredients she'd brought from the cooler. Was that a tell? A man didn't successfully maneuver around life's pitfalls without learning to read people; and he'd swear that blink—that turning away from him hid a lie. He decided to push a little harder.

  "Cooking eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and hash browns on a flattop while whipping up omelets is quite a talent."

  "Carl did it," she said, frowning at the ticket for the ruined breakfast she'd scraped off the flattop.

  "Not many can do both and keep their cool and you did it as a waitress just filling in."

  She scowled at him. "Okay, the places I worked didn't exactly make omelets. It was mostly hamburgers, French fries, and grilled sandwiches."

  He laughed. "Hell, Red, you were fibbing."

  "I do not lie." She peeled a slice of bacon from its tray and slapped it on the griddle with far more force than was necessary.

  "But you said—"

  "That I'd ask you to cook her omelet." She looked him in the eye. "Sam, will you cook Miss Weston's omelet?"

  Before he could answer, she turned her attention back to the flattop. "There. Now I've asked you."

  "Integrity to the letter," he said.

  "Lies cause trouble," she said, slapping another slice of bacon onto the hot grill. "There's never a good reason for lying."

  Hisssss, went the bacon.

  "I used evasive action to prevent myself from strangling Miss Weston," Dixie muttered, a third bacon slice hitting the griddle with a sizzle.

  Taking the package of bacon from Dixie's hand, he said, "I, for one, am glad you didn't strangle Miss Weston. I couldn't bear to see you in jailhouse stripes."

  She gave the pitcher of pancake batter a stir. "You saying horizontal stripes won't work on my figure?"

  He caught himself taking a quick inventory of Dixie Rae's luscious curves before shaking his head. "Heck, Red, stripes, horizontal or otherwise, would work their little dyed fibers threadbare for an hour wrapped around you."

  She peered over her shoulder at him, the fire in her voice replaced with a dubious lilt. "Are you flirting with me, or just trying to smooth my ruffled feathers?"

  "A little of both, I guess."

  "A truthful enough answer," she said, uncertainty a mere shadow in her tone. "I like that." She poured out three perfect circles of pancake batter, their edges immediately bubbling against the hot surface of the flattop.

  "So, Samuel Jefferson Ryan—"

  "Mickey gave you the full tour of my name, did he?"

  She faced him. "Among other things."

  He just bet he did.

  "Thanks for playing along, Sam."

  Playing along. He didn't believe for one minute that's all she'd expected from him, not given the hero worship in her eyes. Nor did it sit right in his gut that her opinion of him so easily shifted—that she so easily let him off the proverbial hook…even if his history made him a bad bet.

  He should stick to his original plan and leave before she learned how bad a gamble he was. But, something deep within him wanted to prove to her he could be what she needed him to be…

  He took the hand she held out to him, held her bacon-greased fingers. But he didn't shake her hand as her gesture had implied he do. The gesture seemed too impersonal—too final.

  "You saying you don't want me to cook for you?" he asked.

  A plethora of emotions flashed across her face. Surprise, hope, and something like relief. She slipped her fingers from his and turned back to the cook surface where she turned the bacon with the corner of a spatula. "I told you, Sam, you're a guest here. I wouldn't dream of imposing on a guest."

  "How about family?"

  She paused in mid-flip of a pancake. "Careful about volunteering your services, Sam. I'm likely to take you up on the offer and I can't handle two chefs walking out on me in the same day."

  He could still escape, just tell her what a sham he was.

  "I make an omelet that's to die for," he said.

  She tossed down the spatula and threw her arms around Sam's neck, crushing the chef's apron and cap between them. "Thank you, Sam. Thank you. I promise I'll call Carl as soon as I have a free moment and beg him to come back."

  He wanted to say there was no hurry to call Chef Carl, not if she kept hugging him like this. What he should be doing was smacking himself up alongside his head for volunteering his services. The best he could say for the situation was that at least he'd be stuck in this torture chamber of heat and close quarters with Dixie Rae for only one day. Certainly good old Carl couldn't resist her any better than he had, right?

  Like a stone skipping across the surface of a tranquil pond, the fact that the man had already rejected her pleas that he not quit sent a ripple of doubt across Sam's logic. Or was it the gliding of her hands down his arms that set his nerves ajumble?

  "Of course you mean 'die' in the figurative sense," she said, leaning back from him and looking him in the eye. "Preferable as that would be where Miss Weston is concerned, it's never good form for any restaurant customer to die from the food."

  Take the out. Tell her there's nothing fi
gurative about his word choice.

  "I mean it figuratively. Promise."

  She snatched the apron from his hands. "Okay. Here's what we'll do." She looped the apron over his head, for a moment her arms draped once more around his neck. Too close. Too tempting. Too late to run.

  "You make Miss Weston's omelet. I'll do the rest." With quick, efficient hands, she urged him around, tugged off his jacket, and began tying the apron strings.

  "What do you mean, you'll do the rest?" he asked, trying to ignore the brush and bump of her fingers against the small of his back.

  "Having you make Miss Weston's omelet is imposition enough," she replied. "If there are any other omelet orders, we'll worry about them then."

  "What do you mean, we'll worry about them then?"

  "I mean, we'll worry about making more omelets if anyone orders any."

  "You don't believe I can make an omelet to die for, do you?"

  She tugged the chef's cap from his fingers, rose onto her tiptoes, and placed it on his head. "I believe you can do anything you set your mind to, Sam Ryan."

  'Anything you set your mind to.' So it was his ability to follow through she doubted, not his talent. An accurate assessment.

  He escaped past her to the sink and turned on the hot water. He couldn't blame her for doubting his commitment. He'd never followed through on anything.

  He scrubbed his hands harder than was necessary. He didn't like that Dixie doubted him. It wasn't like he wasn't used to being doubted. His family did it all the time. But they doubted his abilities while Dixie…

  With scalding water flowing over his hands, it struck him. Mickey had told him the same thing Dixie had. You can do whatever you set your mind to.

  But he'd never had anything to set his mind to…unless avoiding Uncle Stuart counted. So, he'd let Mickey down.

  But, he wouldn't let down Mickey's widow. At least not today. At least not as long as Sunday brunch lasted.

  Sam dried his hands, selected a spatula from the rack above the stainless steel island, and tested its weight in his hand. How right it felt being back in a kitchen.

  "I can handle every aspect of a restaurant kitchen," he said.

  She grinned at him when he joined her at the flattop. "For now, just keep to the stove and Miss Weston's omelet. At least then we'll know who to blame in case of death."

  "There you go again, Red, underestimating my talents."

  Before she could counter, the door to the dining room swung open and a blonde wearing an apron similar to Dixie's burst into the kitchen, reading from an order pad, "I need two farmhouse specials, one scrambled with ham, the second hard cooked with bacon." Then, looking up, she added, "Hey, who's the new chef?"

  "This is Sam Ryan," Dixie supplied.

  "Your chef du jour," he said.

  "He's Michael's cousin," Dixie added, stating the facts as they stood between him and the very enticing Dixie.

  "How do, Sam Ryan," the waitress said, her chin cocked in an angle reminiscent of the tilt Dixie had given her own chin as she'd bantered with him at his bedside, but nowhere near as provocative. "Dare I ask what happened to our former and far less handsome chef?"

  "Sam, this is my cousin Annie, my very married cousin Annie."

  "Just because a girl has already bought the goods doesn't mean she can't still window shop," Annie returned with a wink. "So, what happened to Carl?"

  "He and Miss Weston had a difference of opinion," Dixie explained.

  "And Sam's taking his place?"

  "Sam's making the omelets…for today."

  "Cool!"

  Next to where Dixie flipped pancakes, Sam one-handedly cracked two eggs onto the griddle.

  "Wow," Annie said. "I never saw Carl do that."

  Dixie gave him a sidelong look. "Okay, so you know a few tricks." To her cousin, she said, "Don't you have coffee to pour, or something?"

  "Yeah. Sure."

  Annie disappeared in a flurry of swinging doors.

  Sam cracked open three more eggs into a deep bowl, drawing Dixie's attention.

  "I can handle the kitchen," he said.

  "There's more to cooking for a restaurant than tricks and being a whiz with omelets," she said.

  He nodded at the flattop in front of her. "Over easy on those eggs, right?"

  She flipped them. "It takes coordinating, lots of it."

  He tested the temperature of his pan, poured the beaten eggs into it, and read the ticket Annie had just delivered. "What's a farmhouse special?"

  "Two eggs your choice with hash browns, toast, and a side of bacon, ham, or sausage. Why?"

  He buttered the flattop and scooped out two portions of shredded potatoes.

  "You're trying to make a point here, aren't you?" she said.

  "Me? No." He added three strips of bacon and a slab of ham to the mix, and nodded at the griddle space in front of Dixie. "Your eggs are about to pass the over easy stage again."

  She smirked at him and scooped the eggs onto a plate. "If I didn't have you distracting me—"

  Annie burst into the kitchen. "I just seated the Fieger family."

  "All nine of them?" Dixie gasped.

  "From Gramma Fieger right down to baby Ruth."

  "I don't suppose they're the pancake and sausages types?" Sam asked.

  He loaded the cooked pancakes and bacon onto the plate in Dixie's hand. She looked at the plate, then at him.

  "I can handle the kitchen," he said. "Trust me."

  "Trust you, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  She nodded. "This is going to work."

  "Of course it is."

  "We will make it work," she said.

  He gave her a thumbs up and she nodded again, then backed out the swinging door. He'd win her over…at least in the kitchen. It was the one place where he could be honest.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "This will work. It has to." Dixie murmured the words like a mantra as she stepped into the front dining room whose walls she'd bordered with hand-stencils and windows she'd covered with lace curtained. Customers filled better than half the tables with Sunday brunch getting underway. Everything was as she'd envisioned it…except for handing over her kitchen to Sam. She reminded herself she'd done that as much because she needed someone cooking for her as much because Sam needed someone believing in him.

  What had she been thinking? She stood frozen in place just outside the kitchen doors. She needed Sunday brunch to be a hit for her, for Ben, for Gran. This shouldn't be about Sam at all. That's what she got for being the local saint of all lost, broken, and unwanted creatures. What was this penchant she had for fixing the walking wounded?

  She drew a quelling breath and took a step away from the kitchen doors. Now was not the time to ponder her shortcomings, or Sam's…unless he decided to exercise his number one failing. When the going gets tough, Sam runs. Michael had well acquainted her with that pattern of Sam's. But he wouldn't walk out on her in the middle of brunch, would he?

  Of course not. He'd volunteered his services—fought to get her to accept his offer to cook for her. Besides, you can't fight fate. Sam's being here at the very moment when she most needed him was proof of that.

  Yup. Everything would be fine. Every cloud has its silver lining. The glass is half full. The sun always rises.

  With a smile, she set the egg and pancake filled plate along with a brown paper bag in front of a bird-like man with thick, black-rimmed glasses. "I'm sorry your order took so long, Mr. Patterson. We had a little mishap in the kitchen and had to start over. As an apology, I wrapped up a couple of my apple-cinnamon muffins for you to take home."

  His wizened face crinkled into a smile. "You are a sweet girl."

  For a small man, he sure had a big smile and a healthy appetite—a contradiction not unlike Sam Ryan who could be vulnerable one minute and flirtatious the next.

  Make that sexy.

  Quite a talent, to go from tousled boy to tempting man in the blink of a waking eye...and the slip of a
sheet. Michael had said there was more to Sam than met the eye. Thank goodness, because that black t-shirt and jeans he wore under his apron didn't fit the persona of a chef one iota...at least not the kind of chef who cooked gourmet omelets.

  "If you need anything," she said to Mr. Patterson, "you just give me a call."

  He gave her a wink, his eyes huge behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  Everything would be okay. She had a chef in her kitchen who had at least some European training. Catastrophe averted. Nothing else was going to go wrong.

  The front door rattled open and Dixie turned toward the foyer, eager to greet her next customers. But the three women filing into her entry were the Hostettler sisters, the most gossipy women in town.

  For months, Dixie had tried to entice them to dine in her restaurant—wanted them to sample her good, home cooked food. Their word of mouth advertising was worth half a year's budget of newspaper and radio ads.

  And they had to pick today of all days to come to The Farmhouse—today when she had an untried chef in her kitchen.

  "So much for silver linings," she muttered under her breath.

  Dixie pasted on a smile and greeted the trio. "Hortense, Penelope, Esmeralda, don't you all look lovely in your Sunday finery."

  Penelope and Esmeralda smiled and nodded, their widened eyes exploring every corner of the dining room. Hortense, the eldest, sniffed. "We'll have a table away from any drafts."

  No drafts in an old farmhouse. Swell. Why didn't the woman just ask for the moon?

  She seated the trio by the window that over-looked the flower garden. Hopefully, the view would distract them from the imperfections of an old parlor-turned-restaurant dining room. Hopefully, they'd order something simple, like muffins or croissants. Just nothing…cooked.

  Not that she doubted Sam.

  I make an omelet to die for. What if he'd lied to her?

  Even if Sam could make an omelet to die for, it had to pass the impossible to please Miss Weston's taste test. To be on the safe side, she should steer the Hostettler sisters away from ordering any omelets.

  Just as she handed them their menus, Sam emerged from the kitchen with Miss Weston's omelet—Miss Weston who occupied the table at the next window. Dixie cringed. Why hadn't she seated the Hostettler sisters along the far wall?