by Stacy Finz
“Hey, save some for me,” Clay shouted after him.
Justin also turned for the house, but not before giving Clay a spiteful glare.
Clay shook his head, let out a sigh, and led Emily off the driveway to a flagstone trail. They climbed a slight knoll and she could hear water, maybe a creek. Before she could ask what it was, they came to the top of the hill and the sight stopped her in her tracks.
“The Feather River,” Clay said.
“It’s beautiful.” The wide tributary snaked through the land, wild and rugged. Her gaze followed the river upstream where a waterfall cascaded down an outcropping of boulders.
“Glad you like it,” he said, “because that’s your view from the barn. But it comes with a price. There’s a sandy beach down there, where the boys like to put in their tubes and kayaks. It’ll cut into your privacy—at least during the summer.”
“I don’t mind,” she lied. Watching those children so alive, playing in the water, would be a constant reminder of what she’d lost. But July would hopefully pass quickly, and the seasons had to be short around here, she thought as she looked up at the surrounding snow-capped mountains.
A short distance later, through a grove of trees, sat the barn. It was red with white trim, had a double Dutch front door, a set of barn-door sliders, dormer windows, old-timey lantern light fixtures, and a rooster weather vane.
It was so charming from the outside that Emily held her breath in anticipation while Clay unlocked the door. He flipped on the lights, then ushered her across the threshold. All she could do was goggle. With the exception of her moving boxes, which had been neatly stacked against the rear wall, the place looked like one of those showcase houses in Country Living magazine.
“Those pictures you sent didn’t come close to doing this place justice,” she said. “My God, it’s spectacular.”
“Yeah, well it ought to be for all the fuh—” He stopped himself, stuck his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the wall, silently inviting her to take her fill.
Sounded like the barn was a bit of a sore spot between Clay McCreedy and the missus, Emily surmised as she walked the big front room. The beams had to be a hundred years old, pitted and weathered with character. The plank walls and floors reminded her of frontier houses she’d seen on a trip to Old Baylor Park in Texas, where historians had preserved some of the state’s first homes.
She stared up at the massive twig chandelier hanging over the center of the room. A stone fireplace, kilim rug, two leather couches, and a cowhide chair set off the living room, while a pine farm table and eight Windsor chairs anchored the dining area.
“Your wife must be very successful as an interior decorator. Her taste is impeccable.” Emily couldn’t believe all the furniture came with the place. Some of the pieces looked expensive. If they weren’t antiques, they were damned good replicas.
She found the bedroom, which was small but more than adequate. The bathroom had a claw-foot tub and tiled shower. And there was a small loft that would serve as an office. But it was the kitchen that nearly made her swoon. Open shelves galore, state-of-the-art appliances—except for her new electric range—a spacious center island and windows that faced the river. It wasn’t laid out as well as her Palo Alto kitchen, which she had personally designed. Still, she felt like she had struck gold.
“So she used this as her showroom and office?” Emily asked, chagrined that she didn’t even know Clay’s wife’s name. She’d been dealing strictly with him.
“Yeah,” he said, then walked over to the fireplace, stuck his head in the box, and inspected the flue. “In the winter, I’d suggest using this as much as possible. Heating bills can get steep up here. The phone, cable, and Internet are still in my name. It’s a local company and they give me a package deal for the entire ranch. Since it’s not costing me anything extra, I’ll throw those services in for free. We can settle up at the end of each month on any extras—pay-per-view movies, whatever. That work for you?”
“Absolutely.”
“I left the barn’s phone number over there.” He nodded his head toward the center island, where she saw a sticky note stuck to the counter. “You may occasionally get a call for Jennifer. You can refer them to the main house. That number is on there too.”
“Thanks,” she said, relieved to have one fewer chore to do and happy to save the money.
“I’ll let you get to your unpacking, then. If you want to bring your van around, just take the driveway past the stable. It’ll loop you to the barn.”
“Thank you, Mr. McCreedy.”
“Call me Clay.”
“Okay, Clay. Thank you.” He tipped his black hat and made his way to the door. Emily, unable to believe her good fortune, couldn’t help being inquisitive. “Why doesn’t your wife use it anymore?”
“She’s dead,” he said, and slipped out.
The woman seemed reliable enough, Clay mused as he walked back to the house. Her check had cleared and according to Joe, her ex-husband was a big-time Silicon Valley lawyer. Clay might not be the best judge of character, but she certainly hadn’t struck him as the type to throw wild parties, or to be so irresponsible as to burn the barn down. Hell, even if she destroyed the place, insurance would cover it.
At first, he’d balked at Joe’s request to rent the barn to his lady friend. Joe had said she needed a change of scenery due to some extenuating circumstances. Clay hadn’t bothered to ask about those circumstances. Didn’t care. He had enough responsibilities running a cattle ranch and raising two boys. Adding landlord to the list . . . Well, he didn’t need the headache.
But Joe had cajoled, and the barn was just sitting there, collecting dust. Clay didn’t give two shits about the stuff in it—the antiques, the rugs, the pictures that Jennifer had purchased in one fell swoop from a design center showroom in San Francisco. The McCreedys had been living in these mountains since the gold rush. He slept in the same bed where his great-grandmother had given birth, ate off the same wake table that his ancestors brought with them on a ship from Ireland. His family’s history is what mattered to him, not some meaningless bric-a-brac with a hefty price tag.
So he’d finally relented to Joe. Cattlemen helped each other, and Joe would’ve done the same thing for him. Clay only hoped he wouldn’t live to regret his decision. He had enough responsibilities without Emily turning into a high-maintenance tenant.
At least she wasn’t much to look at. Plain old mousy, if you asked him.
Granted, he was close to six-three, but she barely reached his chin. He liked statuesque women, long and leggy. Charitably, he would call Emily scrawny. Maybe, just maybe, she was hiding a voluptuous figure under all those baggy clothes. But Clay sincerely doubted it. In his experience, women liked to show off their assets. God knew Jen had—like a grand champion at the county fair, strutting all those USDA prime cuts. Especially the ones he’d paid for.
He couldn’t even remember the color of Emily’s hair; only that it hung around her face like a dead animal. Her eyes were a nice shade of blue, though. Just devoid of any signs of life—no twinkle, no spark. Not quite cold, just detached.
“Thank you, Joe,” he said aloud, and meant it from the bottom of his heart.
Because the last complication Clayton McCreedy needed in his life right now was another hot-looking woman.
Chapter 2
Emily awoke to birdsong and the sound of the rushing Feather River. Stretching her toes until they touched the iron footboard, she lingered under the comforter. Sometime before the eleven o’clock news, she’d drifted off. Despite the eeriness of a new home and a strange bed, she’d slept like a rock. No nightmares or dreams about Hope.
Reluctantly, she pushed off the covers and forced her feet onto the floor. Bathroom. Coffee. But halfway to the loo, she reversed the order. The java could be brewing while she tended to her morning ablutions—a better use of time, Emily decided. She’d already made a decent dent unpacking boxes, but rummaged through a straggler to f
ind the coffee beans, then dumped a large mound into the grind-and-brew and hit the switch.
By the time she got out of the shower, the smell of coffee filled the air. Wrapped in a towel, she waded into the kitchen, poured herself a cup, pulled open the barn door sliders, and wandered onto the small deck. Although she was a short walking distance to the main house, the rise of the hills and the cluster of trees made the barn feel completely private.
A person could get used to all this sunshine and clean air, she marveled, staring out at the views. Cows dotted the breathtaking landscape. Big black ones that she presumed were Clay’s.
He’d thrown her a curveball with that bit about his wife. Emily wondered how she’d died. The poor man. And those children—to lose their mother so young.
A little heads-up from Joe would’ve been nice. Then she wouldn’t have made the faux pas of asking. But Joe wasn’t one to dish about other people’s business. That’s a big part of why they’d stayed such good friends all these years. If she had to wager a guess, Joe had held back on telling Clay anything about Hope, too.
She padded back into the barn, yawned, and stretched. Lots of work to be done. She sighed. For the last four years she’d mostly stuck to proofreading and recipe testing, lacking the wherewithal to do a book from start to finish. But to make a living, even a measly one, she’d need to sign on to at least three big projects a year, which meant full-time cooking and writing. Although her generous ex-husband would pay alimony until the end of time, Emily knew it was time to cut the strings. She didn’t want to be the financial albatross in Drew and Kristy’s new life together. He deserved better. And Emily deserved nothing.
After getting dressed, she checked her email, took a quick glance at her new website, and dialed her agent. Fifteen years ago, Marge Morgenstern had walked away from her job as the editorial director of food and wine at A la Carte Press, leased a quirky Edwardian in Dogpatch, and opened a San Francisco literary agency for cookbook and food authors. Emily had met her at an Association of Food Journalists conference.
They’d sat next to each other during a food-blogging panel discussion, where five prepubescent-looking speakers declared that traditional publishing and print journalism were dead. “Just like the rain forest,” they’d said.
Marge had stood up, cleared her throat, and brashly asked, “How much did you all make last year?” The panelists stared back at her vacantly. “Income? Money? How much did you earn from your lucrative careers as bloggers?” More blank stares.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She picked up her program and walked out of the room.
Emily had scurried after her, practically pinning her against the wall to pitch her a book idea—a collection of “Quick Dish” columns she’d written for California Taste, a food and lifestyle magazine.
“It sounds a little too Rachael Ray, 30-Minute Meals to me,” she said. “Have you ever tasted one of Rach’s thirty-minute meals? They’re disgusting.”
A week later, Emily invited Marge to her house for dinner. By the end of the evening Marge had agreed to represent her. Although she’d pushed Emily’s “Quick Dish” proposal to large and small publishing houses, no one had been interested.
“It’s all these farkakte Food Network stars,” Marge had lamented. “That’s all anyone wants anymore. Now, if you were that Italian girl . . . what’s her name . . . the one with the freakishly large mouth?”
“Giada De Laurentiis.”
“Yeah, her. They’d give you a six-figure advance. So go out and be a Food Network star—you’ve got the looks. And you can probably cook circles around most of them.”
A week later, Marge had called with a new game plan. “Forget television. I’ve got a job for you ghostwriting Dallas Tank’s first cookbook.”
“The PBS guy, the one who travels the globe finding regional delicacies? Oh my God, he’s gorgeous.”
“Mm-hmm, nice tush. Can’t cook to save his life.”
And thus began Emily’s career as a ghostwriter.
Christopher, the Morgenstern Agency’s bitchy gatekeeper, answered the phone and upon deciding that Emily was worthy, connected her to Marge.
“How’s The Big Valley?” Marge rasped.
Emily laughed. “Umm, I’m pretty sure you’re thinking of Bonanza. Wasn’t The Big Valley near Stockton? I’m near Nevada.”
“Who can keep those farkakte westerns straight? I’ve got a job for you.”
“You do?” Boy, Marge worked fast.
“Le Petit Déjeuner is doing a book.”
“That little café in the city?” Emily couldn’t remember the last time she’d been there to eat. Cute place, though.
“Little café?—it’s a chain now. It just got bought by Starbucks. Don’t you read? Anyway, the Frenchy . . . the one who founded the place . . . what’s his name?”
“Howard Schultz?” Emily hadn’t known he was French.
“Not Starbucks, Le Petit Déjeuner.” On the other end of the line, Emily could hear Marge tapping away on a computer. “Laurent! It’s Laurent. Anyway, he has a publishing contract with a big house, but doesn’t have time. They’re planning to sell the book in every Starbucks in America!”
“Is the money decent?”
“Of course it’s decent. Would I get you a bad deal? I gave him your email address so he can send you his ideas. In the meantime, take a look at the menu online. Contract’s in the mail.” And with that Marge clicked off.
Emily entered the Le Petit Déjeuner website and found the menu. Lots of typical bistro fare. A smoked trout salad that looked pretty basic. The obligatory pain perdu. And oodles of pastries. This should be a snap, she thought as she made a few notes. Everything on the menu could be made with simple ingredients that any home cook could find in a supermarket.
She wondered if Nugget even had a decent supermarket. One way to find out. Emily decided to be adventurous and go scout out the town and see what the food offerings held. It would be awfully convenient if she could source most of her ingredients here. Better than having to drive fifty minutes each way to Reno and back. At least beef wouldn’t be a problem, she thought as she gazed out the window at the cows again.
She scrambled down the ladder from the loft and grabbed her purse. The van was still parked at Clay’s house. After unpacking, she’d been too tired to pull it around to the barn. But the short walk to retrieve it helped familiarize her with the ranch. Although snow still covered the tallest peaks of the mountains, Emily could feel the summer sun radiate through her jeans and T-shirt. If she’d had a pair of shorts that still fit her, she would’ve worn them. Even her bras were loose on her these days.
When she got to her van, Clay was sitting on his front porch, his boots propped up on the railing, sipping a cup of coffee.
“Mornin’.” He waved. “Sleep well?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
He came down the stairs. “Everything working okay?”
“So far, so good,” she said, trying to hurry into the van without appearing impolite. As nice as he was, she preferred not to get too chatty. “I’m on my way to check out downtown Nugget.”
“Shouldn’t take you long.” He smiled, and she noticed the cleft in his chin. He was a handsome man, no doubt about it. “If you haven’t had breakfast yet, try the Ponderosa—good coffee, good steak and eggs. The beef’s from the ranch.”
Then she’d have to try it. While she lived in Nugget she planned to sample all the regional delicacies. As a cookbook editor, eating was part of the job. But in the past few years she’d lost her appetite.
“The restaurant’s called the Ponderosa?” she asked. The Ponderosa was the name of the ranch on Bonanza. She couldn’t wait to tell Marge.
“Yep. It’s also a bowling alley.”
“Really?” She chuckled. “I’ll for sure check it out. Thanks for the recommendation.” From inside the van, she pulled the door shut.
He stood there watching, idly drinking from his mug, as she pulled out o
f the driveway. Sweet guy, she thought, following the long drive back to the highway. Such a shame about his wife.
Less than ten minutes later she found the thriving metropolis of Nugget. She circled the commercial district a few times to get a feel for the place. Like many of California’s country downtowns, it was built around a square. Unlike the gleaming centers of Healdsburg and Paso Robles with their wine and gourmet shops, cafés and trendy clothing stores, this one was more utilitarian. Even a little shabby. Other than a stunning Victorian inn that took up nearly one full block, the rest of the storefronts were rather nondescript. But Emily liked the place anyway. It felt earnest and real. Not full of itself.
She pulled out of the square in search of the local grocery store, cruising a few of the side streets to get a feel for the residential areas. The Nugget Market sat on the main drag, past the town’s center. Except for the giant caricature map of Plumas County painted onto the side of a bank building, this part of Nugget was even blander than the square. It boasted a run-down gas station, a real estate office, and a visitor center. The grocery store parking lot was nearly full and Emily had to wedge her van into a tight spot.
Inside, sunburned shoppers, wearing shorts and flip-flops, wheeled their carts down narrow aisles, reaching for charcoal briquettes, marshmallows, soda, and bug repellant. Summer in the Sierra. Joe had said that a lot of folks from the Bay Area and Sacramento owned and rented vacation cabins up here. From the looks of the grocery store patrons’ baskets, the state park campgrounds also did a good business.
Emily perused the produce section first, zigzagging through the refrigerated section and the islands of nonperishables. The selection was limited, but everything looked fresh. She’d have to inquire about farmers’ markets.
The butcher cases were chock-full of local beef, pork, lamb, and chicken—even a freshwater catch of the day. This would work fine.
The baking aisle—not so much. Too basic, with lots of boxed mixes. She’d have to purchase her chocolate online and buy bulk flour and sugar in Reno. The store carried very few loose items—beans, rice, and other grains were sold in packages. Not practical for her purposes. Sometimes she only needed a handful and other times large quantities.