“Who needs pickup lines? Usually my offer to show them the barn loft is all I need.”
Guys. They’re all the same. “Cute. Now move out of my way so I can get some more bacon.”
Owen glances at the stove. “Is that all you have left?”
“It’s under control.” Actually I’m a little concerned it’s not. Who knew these people would eat so much?
“Do you want some help? I’m not a total slouch in the kitchen.”
“No.” I push him toward the door, but he grabs my hand and holds it, his skin light on mine.
“I’m serious about helping,” Owen says. “Mitchell told me Pearl left early. We pull together around here, so don’t try to be a hero.”
Nobody has ever helped me—except my three best friends. But even they knew I had my limits. My mom had been good to me, but she’d been gone more than home. I’d learned early that it was better to insure it was done right the first time and do it myself.
“I’ve got this under control.” I pull my hand out of his. “Now let me work.”
“How much rest did you get last night?”
“I don’t know.” I squirm under the concern in his voice. “An hour or so.”
“You’re never gonna make it on the ranch like that.”
“I rarely sleep more than a few hours every night. I seem to have done okay so far.”
“I’ve got just the thing for that insomnia of yours,” he drawls.
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
He laughs, a deep, melodic sound that makes me want to fan myself even more. “I meant a little late-night star gazing.”
“Is that what you Southern boys call it?”
Owen leans against the doorjamb, patient as you please, blocking my way. “I don’t know what kind of guys you’ve been dating in the big city, but around here, we’re a little more gentlemanly than that.”
Good heavens, his eyes are hypnotic. “I. . . I have to get back out there.”
“Your grandpa told me to look after you.”
“Did he now?” An angry heat spreads up my neck. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I don’t need a keeper now. Feel free to pass that on to Mitchell.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having people concerned.” Owen says it in such a way that I instantly feel churlish.
“You haven’t seen the ranch until you’ve seen it at night,” he adds. “They’ve forecasted a clear sky, and I promise you, it will help you shake off some of that stress.”
“I don’t—”
“You don’t need to. Right.” He takes the serving tray from my hands and opens the door. “I’ll pick you up at ten.” And then Owen proceeds to serve bacon to the tables, as if its his job.
Elizabeth finds me standing in the doorway watching him.
“The answer to your question is yes,” she says.
“And what question is that?” I drag my attention from Owen, who’s laughing with his coworkers as he stops by each table.
“You were wondering if Owen really is as good as he seems.” She sticks a piece of bacon in her mouth and takes a noisy bite. “The answer is yes.”
Chapter Six
The rest of the day is a total catastrophe. Like hurricane followed by tsunami, torched with wildfires, then capped off with a plague of locusts disaster.
“Avery?” Elizabeth knocks on the pantry door a half hour before dinner. “How long are you going to be in there?”
I lean my head against a shelf of bagged rice. “I just need a moment.” When I open my eyes, maybe it will be yesterday. Maybe God will give me a do-over.
“I’m sorry you didn’t know about the ranch guests. I guess that’s a pretty important detail.”
Flinging open the door, I glare down my helper. “As if breakfast wasn’t bad enough, not one person thought they should tell me that this is a ranch for children with cancer?” When I’d stepped out to serve our first table of breakfast guests after the workers left, I’d noticed a young boy who clearly wasn’t well. But then each family trickled in, and the heartbreaking pattern just repeated. Adorable, beautiful children of all ages who were clearly here to get away from a brutal bully of a disease.
And I hadn’t known.
“It’s just a few weeks of the summer. Most of the kids are patients at the Children’s Hospital,” Elizabeth says. “I think Mitchell might be on the board.”
I can do this. I know nothing about feeding kids, but I’d been one once. That had to count for something. “Let’s just get through dinner. Then I’ll scrap my menus for this week and come up with a new strategy.”
Elizabeth looks at the dinner ingredients on the counters and her worried face offers me little encouragement.
This morning I completely underestimated the amount of food everyone required, and most of it had gone to the ranch hands. Elizabeth and I spun into turbo mode, scrambling, frying, and serving as fast as we could. My helper received a quick lesson in egg preparation, but even that hadn’t ended too well. The lodgers missed their short morning trail ride before they loaded a ranch bus and went into nearby Bentonville for shopping and sight-seeing.
I spent the rest of the afternoon prepping for dinner. Though Pearl had sent me some texts with lots of exclamation points recommending I stick with the original dinner menu of pork chops and stuffing, I wanted to redeem myself from the breakfast disaster. It was time to break out the Avery’s Awesome Recipe Book and show them what I was made of. I was here to run a professional kitchen, and that’s what I would do.
“What is this?” Elizabeth holds up a chilled plate, her ponytail now as droopy as mine.
I check the clock. Already families were trickling into the dining room. “It’s a fresh pear and fig salad over a bed of greens.” I catch Elizabeth’s scrunched face. “Trust me. This menu’s a huge hit every time it’s served.”
“Those families are going to starve on this. They’ve been out all day.” Elizabeth’s help was on an as-needed basis. She didn’t always assist with food prep, but worked elsewhere on the ranch and only showed up five days a week to serve meals. The other days were covered by another woman I’d yet to meet. And right now I needed both ladies plus a whole cadre of chefs.
“The salad is only the first course.” I open one of the ovens so Elizabeth can get the full aromatic effect. “Then we serve them lamb chops in a balsamic reduction with bacon-wrapped asparagus on a bed of quinoa.”
“What’s quinoa?”
“Something they don’t serve in the nacho line at your school cafeteria.”
“Those nachos have seen me through some dark times.” Elizabeth filled the pitchers with iced water. “Besides, Pearl is gonna flip.”
“Pearl isn’t here.” I garnish the salads with my homemade croutons. “We are.”
“You know people come here expecting soul food, right?”
My culinary skills are so not being appreciated. “It’s time to break ties with gravy.”
Elizabeth laughs as she takes a water pitcher in each hand. “That’s one breakup I don’t ever want to be a part of.”
In a matter of minutes, the frenzy begins anew. The dining room fills, the chatter swells, and folks take their seats in hungry anticipation.
“They’re not eating their salads,” I say to Elizabeth as we load the trays with the main entree. “Are they waiting for a prayer or something?”
“Those short people out there? Those are kids. And they’re born hating salads. Maybe if we gave them some ranch dressing? Got any of that?”
A plate nearly slips from my fingers. “I am not letting anyone put ranch on my salad. It’s much too delicate for that.”
Elizabeth’s eye roll is hard to miss as she carries out her first tray of lamb chops. “By the way, add two more plates,” she says as she pushes the door with her hip. “Mitchell and Owen are here.”
“What?” My hair is a total mess. Would it be too obvious to put on lipgloss? “Why are they here?”
“Mitchell
always eats here in the lodge, but Owen? He rarely does” Her smile taunts and teases. “How interesting to see him tonight.”
I check my hair exactly five times in the reflection of the refrigerator door before going back out and approaching Mitchell and Owen’s table.
“Hi, there.” I fill their glasses with water. “Can I get you guys anything else to drink?”
Mitchell picks his salad with his fork. “Unique blend of flavors here. What is this—a raisin?”
“Fig.” I catch sight of Elizabeth carrying a tray of uneaten salads back into the kitchen. “Fig and pear.”
“Very healthy,” Owen says. “We could all use some more fruit and veggies.”
But I notice he hasn’t touched his either.
Elizabeth joins us, offering both men their lamb chops.
“What a nice presentation,” Mitchell says. “Very Cordon Bleu, right, Owen?”
“Look great.” Owen smiles at me. Not some leering lift of the lips, but a smile meant to bolster, to encourage. I don’t know what to do with it. So I escape back to the kitchen.
Over the next hour, Elizabeth and I scurry like squirrels in a grove of oaks. And by the time the last family leaves, it’s clear my dinner was a complete, utter flop.
Pearl and Elizabeth had been right.
Sure, some guests cleaned their plates and even requested seconds, which I happily obliged. But given the amount of food we put in the scrap bucket for Mitchell’s pigs, there are probably going to be a lot of hungry kids later.
I’ve failed once again.
***
When the last dish is washed, I bid Elizabeth a good night and shoo her out the door.
I collapse onto a bar stool in the kitchen and flip through one of Pearl’s worn recipe books. This collection is more like a binder, with hand-written recipes stuck in plastic sleeves that have lived through spills and spatters. When I get to the spaghetti and meatballs, it’s nearly scratch-and-sniff.
I prop my chin in my hand and turn another page.
Meatloaf.
I’m an honors culinary student, and I’ve been reduced to serving blue plate specials. It just wasn’t fair. I’d wanted to flex my cooking muscles, try some new dishes, show off my favorites, and create a few new masterpieces to take back to school. Instead I’d be spending my summer breading and gravy-boating.
“You still here?”
I look up and find my grandfather standing in the doorway.
I straighten my spine. “I have a few more things to do.”
He walks toward me, approaching like I’m a wild animal he’s not convinced won’t suddenly bite.
“I know I screwed up today,” I say as Mitchell pulls out a stool and sits down.
He laces his leathery fingers together on the granite counter and the room is so quiet, all I hear is the hum of the fridge.
“Your grandma Clare was an excellent cook,” he finally says. “But it wasn’t always that way.” A wistful smile lifts his lips. “We got married young . . . too young. Didn’t have five dollars between us, so I took a job on a ranch in Texas. It didn’t go well. To get the job, I’d lied and told them Clare could cook. We went as a package deal, but your grandma couldn’t fix anything more than a bowl of cereal. I pretty much threw her to the wolves. She was so mad at me. Cried the first month we were there. So, at night, we’d come dragging in after work, and we’d stay up late in our little kitchen with the two-burner stove, and we learned to cook together. I’d bought her a Betty Crocker cookbook at a garage sale, and we’d try two recipes every evening.” Mitchell chuckles, as if he’s right back in that little kitchen once again. “I almost regretted when she got good and our late night cooking sessions stopped. I missed watching her open a bag of flour, and it exploding all over us. Or the time we attempted a whole chicken and thought it would get done faster if we doubled the oven temperature. About burned the place down with that one.”
I don’t want to, but I find myself smiling. “Grandma Clare sounds like she was wonderful. Mom never said much about her.”
Like I pulled a switch, the light in Mitchell’s expression dims. “I guess your mom was about ten when Clare passed away. Too young to lose your mother, and too young to hold on to many memories.”
Though I was nineteen when my own mother died, I knew what it was like to feel robbed of time and memories. The first year after Mom’s death, I frantically wrote in a journal every night, making furious lists of every moment with her I could recall, desperately afraid time would slowly steal it all away. I didn’t want to forget funny things she’d said, the way her hair smelled, the horrible advice she’d given me, or the Southern lilt she never lost.
“You’ll learn quickly,” Mitchell said. “Just like your grandma did. It just takes some trial and error.”
“This morning I didn’t have enough food, and tonight the slop bucket could feed every pig in the county.”
“The guests will be fine. Their rooms are stocked with snacks. Tomorrow they’ll get up and eat a good breakfast and forget about the whole thing.”
I drum my fingers on the cold countertop and look at my grandfather’s face, searching for features that match my mother’s face. But other than his eyes, Mom must’ve favored his Clare. “How come you didn’t tell me you open the ranch to sick children?”
Mitchell shrugs a shoulder. “Pearl said she took care of it. She said it was in Owen’s information packet. I’m sure it was mentioned. And it’s just a few weeks in June. It’s not like it’s the whole season.”
Right. The packet. “It’s a nice thing you do here.”
“I don’t do anything. My ranch hands do it all. I simply let the families use my land. God knows I’ve got plenty to spare.”
This benevolent facet of my grandfather sticks in my conscience like a splinter, an irritation that’s small, but impossible to ignore. “Well.” I seem to lose all communication skills around this man. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”
He studies me for a moment and slowly nods. “I know you will. Say, do you want a ride back to the house?”
“No, thank you. I need to get tomorrow’s sack lunches ready.”
“Good night, then.” He hesitates, as if he’s considering a hug, but settles for a light pat to my shoulder instead. “You could call me Grandpa, you know.”
The air stills around us, and I struggle to draw some into my lungs. “I don’t think I can.” I study my hands, the ever-present cuts and marks a testament to my hurried work. “Do those families pay to be here?”
“Money has never been my first priority, Avery.” Mitchell settles his cowboy hat back on his head and rises to his feet. “I pray one day you can believe that.”
Chapter Seven
I’m so tired, you’d think I’d roped doggies and chased cattle all day.
Or whatever people on a ranch did.
I unwrap another loaf of bread and sigh. My aching back craves a plush, comfy bed to fall into, but I know despite my fatigue, sleep will elude me. If sleep were a friend, I’d send her a nasty text with lots of frowny faces.
“Are you standing me up?”
At that unexpected voice, I whirl around, grabbing the nearest thing as a weapon.
Owen strolls into the kitchen, wearing a faded Razorback t-shirt, jeans, and what I’m guessing are his nicer work boots. And by nicer, I mean ones that rarely meet cow poop.
He lifts one amused brow. “You gonna take me out with that package of Wonder Bread?”
My heart pounds faster than a Shadow Ranch racehorse. “Why are you sneaking up on me like that?”
“I said your name twice. You were probably too caught up in your Owen fantasies to hear me.”
I consider beaning him with the bread anyway. “What are you doing here?”
“We have a date.”
A date? “No, we don’t.”
“Yep. You, me, and some stars.”
“I never said I’d meet you.” My gosh, he’s cute. Dangerously cute. “You just assume
d.”
Owen closes the distance between us until he stands right beside me, and I’m not too exhausted to miss the scent of his evening shower.
He looks at the sandwiches perfectly lined up on the counter like little carb-stuffed soldiers. “Is this for tomorrow’s trail ride?”
“Yes. I need to have them ready by morning. I’m not finished packing the lunches, so that outing I never agreed to will have to wait. I can’t afford to screw up one more thing.”
Owen reaches into a bag and pulls out two slices of bread. He slaps on a few pieces of ham and cheese. “Don’t be mad about supper.”
“I’m not mad.” My vision fogs with the tears I’m absolutely not going to shed. “It’s just been a rough day. And I’m worn out.”
His arm slides over mine as he grabs a sandwich bag. “Your dinner was good.”
I sniff indelicately. “You’re just saying that.”
“Mitchell liked it.”
“He did?”
“Ate it all.”
“He was just being nice.” Which apparently he’s occasionally capable of.
“Mitchell doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to.”
“The other guests didn’t eat it.” I smack the ham onto the bread like it needs to be roughed up.
“Avery.” Owen pulls the beaten sandwich from my hand and sets it on the counter. “This can wait.”
“No, it can’t.” The whine in my voice could crack a window or two. “I have to get this done tonight.”
“You need a break.”
“What I need is to be left alone so I can get this finished.”
He tugs my hand, bringing me closer to him. “Come outside with me.” His gentle eyes hold mine. “I promise I’ll have you back in an hour.”
“I don’t have an hour to—”
“And when we get back, I’ll help you with this. We’ll get it done in no time. But right now, you’re missing the most beautiful moon to ever graze an Ozark sky. One of those super moons.”
“I live next to a frat house. I’ve already seen way too many super moons.”
Wild Heart Summer Page 4