“Leave it alone, Owen. There’s not going to be some happy reconciliation. I don’t want to get to know a man who wrote his own daughter off.”
In sullen silence, I see Roger Parsons speak to his younger help a few moments before gently walking to the foal, cooing so quietly, I can’t make out a word. He rubs her face and body, taking his time as the pony smells his shirt, his hands. Roger lets her sniff the halter, and using tediously slow movements, he circles his arms around the foal and carefully slips it over her.
Owen pushes his sunglasses back on, covering up those eyes steady on me. “I guess with enough time and care, anything is possible.”
Chapter Four
I wake up the next morning with dread in my heart, knowing I can count the time spent sleeping in minutes instead of hours. When I emerge from my bedroom showered and no longer looking like I require a hangover remedy, I walk downstairs ready to do whatever I have to do to get coffee. Even talk to curmudgeonly grandfathers.
Like the one perched on a stool at the large island in the center of the kitchen.
Mitchell holds his coffee cup in one hand and a page of the newspaper in the other.
“You kids get your news from the internet,” he says, not bothering to look up as I near. “But I still like the routine of the morning paper.” He flips a page, takes a sip, then lifts his eyes over his silver bifocals. “I know it’s going to be at my front door by four-thirty. I know the news will tick me off. And I know I’ll see someone I recognize either in the police report or obits. I can count on it.”
I guess now isn’t the time to tell him the closest I get to news was the Celeb Crazy gossip site. Somehow I don’t think my grandfather really cares about the royals or the latest boy band breakups. “I just wanted to grab some coffee before I headed out to the lodge.”
Mitchell rises from his stool with intention, flooding the room with even more awkwardness.
“Don’t bother, sir. I can get it.”
“Nonsense. The least I can do is serve you some coffee. This is my kitchen.” He frowns. “I mean it’s your kitchen as well. You make yourself home here. What’s mine is yours. I just meant that I could darn well wait on my guest. That is to say—oh, never mind.”
I watch him walk to the fancy coffee maker, mumbling under his breath.
He’s nervous too.
I file this away under “Things I Have No Idea What To Do With,” which I shall refer back to later. When I’m not so anxious myself.
“Sugar and cream?” Mitchell asks.
“Actually, do you have any butter? The real kind?”
“To put in your cup?”
I nod. “It’s strange, but good.”
Mitchell’s head disappears into the stainless fridge, and he quickly emerges holding a small container. “Grass fed butter from the Pittman family’s dairy a few miles east. Cows treated so humanely, they get their own stockings at Christmas.”
“Perfect.”
He finds me a spoon, and I stir the butter in my black coffee.
“Sit down.” Mitchell pats the stool beside him as he resumes his seat.
I blow on my mug. “I should go.”
He glances at the clock on the microwave. “It’s four-thirty. Pearl won’t be at the lodge ’til at least five.”
The dueling voices in my head argue so loudly, I’m surprised Mitchell can’t hear them. I don’t want to stay. But it’s the polite thing to do. He did offer me a job.
“The least you can do is plop some of that butter stuff in my coffee.” He holds out his full mug. “Let’s see what this is all about.”
Tentatively, I oblige him, stirring his cup until it’s just right and passing it back. Mitchell takes a drink, quietly considers it, then commits to another sip. “Not bad. Not as good as my vanilla creamer, but it has merit.”
This is way too cozy.
“I better go,” I say. “I want to get a jump start on breakfast.” And get out of this kitchen.
“Avery?” Mitchell calls as I’m nearly out the door.
I stop and warily turn to face him.
“You’ll do great.” He lifts his mug in salute. “Go get ’em, cowgirl.”
I refuse Mitchell’s offer of a ride to the lodge and walk. The sun is still asleep, that lucky girl, and I use my phone to light my way. About a fourth of a mile in, I realize my tired face is smiling.
Cowgirl.
Just like my mom called me when I was a kid.
***
“Look who’s up before the roosters.” Pearl wipes her hands on her ‘Kiss My Grits’ apron. “Are you ready to get cooking?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I plop my beloved recipe binder on the counter. “I thought I’d make a quiche with sun dried tomatoes, chives, bacon and—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Pearl says like she’s trying to stop a galloping horse. “Hon, these folks want eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy. And that’s what they’ll get.”
“Every morning?”
“Well, of course not. Some days we add pancakes.” She hands me a carton of eggs. “Now get to cracking.”
“But my quiche is good enough to end world wars.”
“Which is what we’ll have if you don’t give our folks what they expect. The ranch hands like routine, while the guests just want down-home cooking.”
But this is so boring. I love bacon as much as the next human with a pulse, but the chef in me wants to create, to design, to experiment. To at least serve something they can’t get at the gas station grill.
Pearl sighs. “Mitchell did tell me to let you do whatever you wanted. The place will be all yours by Wednesday anyway.”
“Wednesday? I thought you were staying all week.”
“No, my daughter called, and she’s been put on bed rest. She needs help with the other two kids. Three-year-old twin boys. They’re like dueling tornadoes. Anyway, I suppose if you want to fix your frou-frou breakfast, then you go right ahead. I got all those groceries on the list you emailed us.” Pearl sweeps her arm like she’s Vanna White. “This is your kitchen, hon. Do with it what you want, and I’ll just occasionally butt in.”
I study the lined face of the retiring domestic dominatrix and have to admire her. I know she’s cooked for Mitchell—first, just his house, then later, the staff and guests—for thirty years; and according to Owen, has only missed a few days here and there to birth a child or bury a parent.
Pearl knows her stuff. I guess I don’t need to change everything all at once. “Can I cook what I want for lunch?”
“Naw, folks are heading out on their own for some sight-seeing in Bentonville.”
“Dinner then?”
“Sure.” Her voice is noticeably lacking conviction. “Maybe I’ll learn a new recipe.”
“I was thinking a nice kale lasagna.”
“You’re pushing it, city girl.”
I laugh and help myself to one of the commercial refrigerators, which truly is a thing of beauty. Not only can I check my lipstick in the shiny exterior, but I could fit a month’s worth of food and a small family within.
“Grab some more eggs while you’re in there,” Pearl calls.
I dutifully obey and rejoin Pearl at a nice, large granite counter. With a flick of my wrist, I crack egg after egg into a bowl.
“Did your momma teach you to cook?” Pearl crosses to the gas range and twists knobs until flames dance beneath multiple skillets.
“No. Just picked it up on my own.” The eggs swim in a pool of yellow. “My mom was gone a lot. Worked a few jobs. I kind of had to fend for myself.” Rachel Ray and the internet taught me to cook, and I quickly progressed from being able to toast a Pop Tart to flaky perfection to putting a four-course meal on the table for dinner. My cooking made people happy, took my mind off the lonely hours by myself when my mom worked second shift, and stirred something in me that energized and excited.
“You know, I came to cook for Mitchell when his wife died.” Satisfied her bacon is efficiently frying, Pearl pushes u
p her sleeves and grabs a mixing bowl the size of a small planet. “He was all alone with that little girl—your momma. He worked so hard and did the best he could, but your mother was a pistol, for sure.” Pearl shakes her head as if seeing flashes of memories she’d rather forget. “If I had a dollar for every time I caught her teenage-self sneaking back in the house about the time I’d get here. That was one wild child.” She smiles. “But a sweet one.”
I blink back tears as I put a little cream in the eggs. My mother passed away the summer after my freshman year of college, and flighty as she was, I miss her. Sometimes I still pick up my phone to call her, only to remember. . . she’s not there. I thought being at the ranch would upset me, and while it’s no easy thing with Mitchell, I feel closer to my mom. Like pieces of her are here, waiting to be found. Last night I flipped through her senior yearbook and discovered she’d been voted best dressed and most likely to become a band groupie.
“Good golly, Courtney liked the boys.” Pearl hoots with laughter. “Are you like that too—boy crazy?”
“Maybe a little.” I sniff and blink the sad away. “But they don’t seem to be crazy about me in return.” Just crazy in general. “I’m not the magnet my mom apparently was.”
“It’s better to attract a few of the right ones than scads of the wrong ones. Your momma had the worst judgment.” She checks on her bacon. “No offense to your father.”
“It’s okay. I barely know him. I guess he turned out to be exactly what everyone warned her about.”
“Her running away broke your granddaddy’s heart.”
“Is that right?” I say blandly. “Apparently not enough to help her out when she got pregnant.”
Pearl’s weathered hands still. “Your momma passed on a lot of things to you, but her hurt shouldn’t be one of them. Maybe you should talk to Mitchell about those days.”
“I think I know all I need to.” I inhale the scent of the butter melting in my frying pan. “But he was right about my dad. I’ll give him that.”
“Do you ever see him? His name was Bobby Kirk, right? Didn’t he become a player for the Dodgers?”
“Yes. He was their third baseman for about two months.” When I was twelve, I got to meet him for the first time. He’d waltzed back into our lives, fresh off a minor league baseball season, bearing signed baseball gloves and promises of frequent visits. My parents briefly reunited, but Bobby’s career soon withered, and so did their relationship. He spent a few months with us, but soon went back on the road chasing that dry, empty dream. He didn’t find big success out there, but he did find a Sheila in Cincinnati, a Linda in Topeka, and a Denise in Detroit. By the time my mom died, I was living on my own at college and knew I couldn’t rely on my dad for more than an occasional call on Christmas.
“I hope your Man Picker is better than your momma’s,” Pearl says.
“Not much.” I grab a large knife. “My last two boyfriends cheated on me.” My blade slashes through some cheese. “I’m kind of over men.”
Pearl snorts. “I said that when I was your age. Then I found myself a good one. Some days, I’m over him too.” She laughs. “But I keep him anyway. You’ll find a good one. You just gotta learn how to look for them.”
Clearly my Good Dude Radar is broken.
A nearby phone bursts into an old Garth Brooks tune, interrupting our chat.
“I better get that.” Pearl wipes her hands and grabs her cell. “Hello?” Her eyes widen. “You’re what?” She listens intently, her hand holding her forehead, as if the conversation is just too much. “Okay, we’ll be right there. You keep me posted, you hear? Dad and I are on the way.” Pearl slips the phone into her back jeans pocket. “Avery, I gotta go.”
“Now?” Panic hits me cold as a bucket of ice over the head. “You’ll be back though, right? I mean, it’s just breakfast. I can do this, but what about later when—”
Pearl brackets my shoulders with her hands. “My daughter’s going into labor right now—wasn’t due for two weeks. I gotta grab my bag, grab my husband, and get on the road.”
“Will I see you tomorrow. . . or the next day?” I know the answer, but I ask anyway.
“No, hon. This is it for me. Looks like my retirement starts now.”
Oh, crap.
“But you give me a call anytime if you need some help, okay?”
Oh, right. A phone call will fix everything. Yeah, ten minutes of cracking eggs with the pro Pearl, and I have all I need to cook for the ranch.
Is she insane? How can she leave me at a time like this?
“Sorry to drop the ball.” Pearl whips off her apron with the skill of a Chippendale’s dancer and slips her purse over her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. This is what you’re here for, right? You just feed the folks the basics, and it will be super.”
Yeah, super. As in super disastrous.
Pearl gives me a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Have a good summer.” Her warm palms cup my face, and she smiles. “You’re Mitchell Crawford’s granddaughter. You can do anything. From taking over a commercial kitchen to finding you a good-hearted feller.”
This is not happening. “Right now I just want to focus on one of those.”
She pats my cheek. “I say you can do both. Oh, and you have help coming at six.”
My first taste of relief. “I do?”
“Yep, Elizabeth arrives at six most mornings to serve.”
“Can she cook?”
“Not if you don’t want the health department involved.” And with that Pearl floats out of the kitchen, throwing out final tips and instructions like rose petals before a bride.
Chapter Five
The next hour passes in a frenzy of pots, pans, sweating, and one tiny grease fire I put out with my baking soda and dirty words.
Just as predicted, Elizabeth, shows up at six. A high school senior, she’s full of blondeness, perkiness, and a breathy voice that would’ve had my ex-boyfriend pledging endless love and boob grabs. I’m fully prepared to dislike her, but when Elizabeth gets the tables set in record time and tells me her paychecks help her disabled single father, I decide she might be my most favorite person ever.
“The food smells great,” Elizabeth declares, as she walks between the dining room tables. “They’ll love it.” Her head turns toward a window at the sound of voices. “Here they come. You ready?”
I nod dumbly.
The Shadow Ranch staff files in, wearing their uniforms of jeans, boots, and blue company t-shirts.
I follow Elizabeth’s lead and visit each table, offering coffee and a cheerful good morning. Owen catches my eye and nods his head in greeting. He looks like a pinup for a Hot Farmers calendar. He would be Mr. June—full of sunshine and heat. His shirt stretches over the contours of his hard-earned muscles and his eyes pop in that coordinating blue. He wears scuffed work boots, and the hem of his jeans fray where they rest on the scarred leather. I look away, redirecting my attention to anyone but Owen, but not before I see his smile that packs enough voltage to light up the whole city. And all the dead parts inside me.
Not that I’d let it.
“Owen Jackson is totally checking you out,” Elizabeth whispers later as I pass her en route to another table.
I nearly drop my tray of food refills. “No, he’s not.”
“Looking at you the same way he looks at bacon.” She laughs and nudges me with a friendly elbow. “Which means he thinks you are some kind of sexy.”
I just got compared to a pork product.
It’s strangely flattering.
“Do you know him well?” I ask casually.
“Known him for most of my life. He’s a good friend of my family.” Elizabeth holds out a basket of warm biscuits. “Take this to his table. They’re already running low.”
“Actually I need to get back to the kitchen and—”
She adds the basket to my tray and gives me a push.
I turn toward Owen’s table and suck in a breath when I find his eyes trained righ
t on me. I also suck in my stomach. I’ve spent the last few weeks consoling my sorrows with a lot of bitterness and ice cream. Apparently at least one of those is very fattening.
“Good morning.” Owen’s rich timbre greets me as I reach his table and unload my tray.
“Everything taste, okay?” I address the entire group, which consists of Owen and five other people in ages ranging from college to silver-haired. Two girls who have to be in their early twenties occupy part of the table, and I wonder if either one is dating Owen.
Not that it’s my business! And not that I care. Because I don’t. “More eggs?” I all but slam down the bowl.
“Guys, this is Avery Crawford, Mitchell’s granddaughter,” Owen says. “She’s running the kitchen this summer.”
The table erupts in kind welcomes and polite greetings. Owen introduces everyone around him, and my brain seizes at the information overload.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask them.
“I think we’re in good shape,” says an older man at the table. “Glad you’ve joined us.”
“Thank you.” I scurry away, with too much to do. Like avoiding Owen and all the tingly feelings seeing him causes. I do not want one single thing tingling this summer.
Though the kitchen is hot as the flames of hell, it provides a refuge for a quick break to calm my anxious pulse. I throw back a glass of orange juice and shoo away the hair that’s escaped from my melting ponytail.
Elizabeth pops her head in the doorway, staying only long enough to bark and order. “Need more bacon!”
“My goodness, these people eat like they’re never going to get another meal,” I mutter.
“That’s because they work it off in a few hours,” says a male voice that does not belong to my helper.
I turn and find Owen in the spot where Elizabeth had just stood.
He walks on in, wearing that easy grin and the confidence of one who knows this place like his own. “You look tired.”
“Does that line usually work with the ladies?” I throw some bacon on a serving plate. “Because it’s not exactly doing anything for me.”
Wild Heart Summer Page 3