Gimme Some Sugar

by Stephanie Berget

  Gimme Some Sugar

  Stephanie Berget

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, public or private institutions, corporations, towns, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This book soon to be part of an anthology entitled: A Matter of Taste, from the Sweet to the Spicy, Romance for Every Palate

  Stephanie Berget

  Visit her website at www.stephanieberget.com

  Copyright © 2015 Stephanie Bochenek

  Couple image © Rob Lang,

  Cover © 2015 Winterheart Design, winterheart.com

  All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  For my husband, my original cowboy hero.

  “Stephanie Berget has mastered the art of writing engaging stories with oh-so-hot cowboy heroes. I’ve been a fan of Stephanie’s books since reading her first one, Sugarwater Ranch.”—Sandra Owens, Author of the bestselling K2 Special Services series.

  Chapter One

  The day she was born, Cary Crockett’s lucky star must have kidnapped her fairy godmother. Losing her father when she was eleven was the first black pearl in a string of bad luck that had dogged her entire life.

  But that was about to change.

  Cary concentrated on cutting ice-cold butter into the flour mixture. Thinking about the past never got her anywhere. Dad was gone, and no matter how she rolled things over in her mind, she couldn’t change the fact that she hadn’t heard from her mother in ten years.

  The day she’d graduated high school, Connie Crockett congratulated her daughter on becoming an adult, handed her a graduation card containing one hundred and fifty dollars and informed Cary she was leaving. Poor children in some tiny, destitute country in eastern Africa apparently needed her more than Cary. “You’re lucky to have been born in the land of plenty, honey.”

  Cary had grasped her mother’s hand. Mom never had been very interested in day-to-day life with her daughter. Unlike her friend’s mothers, most of who doted on their children, her mom was too caught up in saving the unprotected and impoverished.

  “Do you have to go now?” Cary’s hands stretched out toward her in a desperate attempt to change her mother’s mind.

  Connie Crockett tugged her hand free from Cary’s grasp then gave her a hug and patted her cheek. A stricken Cary watched as the only person left in her immediate family took a couple of steps away, before stopping to look over her shoulder. “Love you, baby girl.”

  Her mother loved Cary in her own self-centered way, she knew that, but the information had done nothing to alleviate the worry of having only one hundred and fifty-two dollars to her name, or the panic that had risen to the surface at the knowledge that she’d have no place to call home in two weeks when the rent ran out.

  She shook herself. Time to return to the present and the pastry she was preparing at Chez Romeo. Years of hard work and saving every extra penny had brought her so close to her dream she could reach out and taste the sweetness of becoming a pastry chef. From the first time she’d watched Ace of Cakes, she’d wanted to serve up luxurious desserts like Duff Goldman.

  A frosting coated spatula zinged across the room, missing her head by a few inches. “Crockett, get your ass in gear.” Across the counter loomed the angry face of the head baker, Moonpie round and flushed red. She knew what was coming. One of these days, during a vocal attack on his employees, Larry, or Luigi as he insisted on being called, would fall down stone dead of a heart attack.

  And she wouldn’t be very sorry.

  The man was insufferable, but in less than a year, she’d have saved enough to enroll in the Culinary Institute of America. Her dream was close to coming true. She’d already been researching apartments in Hyde Park, N.Y. She took a quick glance at her oversized watch. Fifteen minutes left in her shift.

  Placing the mini blueberry Galette in the center of the stark white plate, she smiled at the sight of the perfect golden, flaky crust. After dusting confectioner’s sugar over the fruit, she drizzled lemony whipped cream over the fruit pastry. Several bits of lemon peel and two curls of dark chocolate on top finished the presentation.

  At the sound of voices in the back room, she turned to see her best friend tying her apron over her clothes. She’d met Pansy Lark eight years ago at a local barbeque bake-off. The prize had been a one hundred dollar bill and that was money Cary couldn’t pass up. It had been an effort in futility.

  Pansy had won the grand prize, and Cary had come in last. Give that woman any kind of meat and she’d have you under her thumb, but she couldn’t hold a candle to Cary’s desserts.

  Pansy’s wig of choice today was a Marilyn Monroe duplicate. With her bright red lipstick and pouty lips, she was a passable double. Cary smiled. The eccentric woman had become the sister she’d never had, and the friend she’d always needed.

  Cary dusted off her hands and pulled at the apron ties around her waist. Her eight-hour shift had crawled by with the speed of a crippled slug, but at last, the day was done.

  “Thank god you’re here. Maybe you’ll make our prima donna happy,” Cary said as she unbuttoned her chef’s jacket and turned toward her friend.

  Luigi beamed at the diminutive woman who’d just arrived. The maître de picked a new favorite each week, and everyone else received the insults he doled out like a retiree did candy at Halloween.

  As Cary walked by Pansy, she touched her arm. “Be careful. He’s been praising Benny all day.”

  Pansy gave her a weak smile. “I knew it was coming. Have a good evening.”

  Cary grabbed her sweater and stepped into the alley behind the restaurant. The full dumpster gave off the scent of rotting vegetables, but after the manic atmosphere of the kitchen, the warm night air soothed her frayed nerves. Only a few more months of putting up with Luigi and she’d have enough money to pursue her dream. She could do this.

  She took a deep breath and set off the six blocks to her tiny apartment. The movement loosened her tight shoulders and relaxed her cramped legs. By the time she reached home, she felt better than she had in weeks. A sense of wellbeing settled like sunshine on her shoulders.

  She counted each one of the thirteen steps up to her front stoop. Fishing her ring of keys from her bag, she reached for the doorknob. Her smile faded when she saw the door open a crack. She’d locked it when she’d left for work. Well, she was almost positive she’d locked it, but she’d been a little late and a lot frazzled.

  Her nervous gaze swept to the apartment below hers. She could go to her landlord’s and call the police. Don’t be an idiot, Crockett. You forgot. That was it. She’d forgotten and the neighbor kid had come in to look around—again.

  As she stepped through the doorway, she reached for the light switch. A hand grabbed her by the back of the neck, and an arm wrapped around her waist. She was held tight against a rock hard chest, her feet dangling. When she tried to scream, the hand left her neck and closed over her mouth.

  Panic raced through her veins like a hurricane, blanking out her mind and weakening her muscles. She tried to pull air into her oxygen-starved lungs. When the grasping hands released her, her knees gave out. Blackness closed in on her as fear claimed her reflexes, and she dropped to the floor.

  Curling into a fetal position would be the easiest thing to do, but she couldn’t afford to pass
out. As she scrambled to her knees, a light, bright and glaring, shone into her eyes. The blinding flash made it impossible to see who else was in the room.

  “Hullo, Cary love.” Although the pitch of the voice was high enough to be a woman’s, Cary stiffened as she recognized the ominous tone. In her mind she could see the pale skin and sparse, yellow strands of hair, see his thin fingers and large rings. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as it had when she’d met the man almost six months earlier.

  Someone lifted her to her feet, keeping hold of her upper arm.

  She pulled herself together and feigned a confidence she didn’t come close to feeling. Jerking her arm loose, she raised her hand to try and shade her eyes. “This is pretty dramatic even for you, Mad Dog. You could have called.” Despite her terror, she almost laughed when she called him Mad Dog.

  The flashlight switched off, and one of her thrift store table lamps clicked on. The pale man nodded to his accomplice, and the big man moved away to lean against the door.

  Cary crossed the room and stood behind a straight-backed chair. The flimsy piece of furniture wouldn’t be any protection if Mad Dog gave the signal for his hired thug to come after her, but it gave her a smidgen of confidence, and she needed all she could muster. She raised her chin and shifted her gaze back to the pint-sized thug.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Mad Dog took out a large white handkerchief and spread it on her sofa. He lowered himself onto the cloth, crossing one leg over the other knee. His smug smile sickened her. “Well, yes I did.”

  She moved to the front of the chair and sat down. It wouldn’t do for her to collapse in front of these men. “Did you want something in particular, or are you just having a few laughs at my expense?”

  Mad Dog giggled then stopped to light a thin, brown cigarillo. He stared at the smoke as it curled toward the ceiling then he turned his attention toward her, not saying a word. The silence scared her more than the big man’s touch.

  With the swiftness of an adder’s strike, Mad Dog moved across the room and stood behind her chair. As she trembled, he ran his fingers through her white blonde strands. “Pretty.”

  It took everything she had to not jerk away. This man got a kick out of causing fear and any show of it encouraged him.

  “Where is Ken?” He asked the question in a conversational tone as he separated a lock of her hair and wound it around his fingers.

  “I don’t know.” She couldn’t contain the shudder that coursed through her body. She hadn’t seen Ken since she’d chased him out of her apartment with a steak knife three months earlier. She’d thought she was rid of the bastard for good.

  Mad Dog’s fingers tangled in her hair and he yanked her head back. As he held her in place, he blew a lungful of smoke at her face. “Do you want to think about your answer again?”

  “Yes, I haven’t…seen him…. Haven’t seen him for months.” The smoke poured into her nose and her lungs seized. Coughs wracked her body, but sick bastard didn’t let go of her hair.

  As she watched, his face transformed from a criminal to a choirboy, but she knew better than to believe he was happy with her answer. He was a narcissistic psychopath, and he had her where no one would hear her if she screamed—when she screamed. “I want you to get a message to him.”

  “I can’t. See, we broke up. I threw the bastard out.” She was babbling like a brook and couldn’t make herself stop. “He stole my savings, and I threatened him with the loss of his—.”

  Mad Dog’s face curved into the first real smile she’d ever seen from the man. “He stole from me, too.”

  She felt a tiny frisson of hope as she lifted her gaze to his. Maybe they could bond over their hatred of Ken.

  His deadly expression froze her in place. “You tell him I want my stuff back.” The ice blue color of his eyes matched the coldness of his heart.

  When she tried to nod, he grabbed her chin and held her motionless, staring into her eyes as he spoke. “And just to make sure you know I’m serious—” Without looking away, he ground the glowing tip of the thin cigar into her upper arm and held it there as she struggled.

  Her screams drowned out the rest of his words.

  ~~~

  Micah stood at the counter of the Five And Diner, as aggravated as he’d ever been in a life filled with aggravation. He was offering Cal twice the money the man made here, and the cook wouldn’t even consider his job offer.

  Even after half a day of cooking over a grill, the cook’s T-shirt was snowy white. The man was a magician, and Micah needed him. “It’s only for a couple of weeks? I’ll find someone by then.”

  Cal stared at Micah like he was an addle-brained calf. Without a word, he turned and filled his oversized, insulated mug with steaming hot coffee.

  Micah pulled out his wallet and held out all the cash he had with him. “There’s a bonus up front.”

  “Keep your money. Them cowboys yell if everythin’ ain’t just so. I don’t need that kind of aggravation.” Cal turned his back and wandered into the kitchen, effectively ending the conversation. Before Micah could move, the cook stuck his head out the swinging door. “You better not let Lorna hear you tried to hire me away. She’ll skin you for sure.”

  Micah slapped his palms on the worn Formica. The counter had been scrubbed until little of the original color, maybe yellow, was left. What the hell was he going to do now? The ranch hands were willing to give him a couple of days to find a new camp cook, but they wouldn’t tolerate sandwiches for long. They worked hard and deserved to be fed a good, substantial meal.

  Without ranch hands, he couldn’t get the hay baled or tend to the cattle. Without hands, he’d lose the ranch. Micah had been born and raised on the Circle W, and he intended to die there.

  He wracked his brain. There had to be another person in East Hope, Oregon who could help him out, but who? A gentle hand touched his arm.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Snapping his head up, he whirled around, almost elbowing the woman standing behind him. Pulling in a deep, slow breath, partly to gather some semblance of calm and partly to adjust to the tingle where her hand met his arm, he took a step back before speaking.

  “Help me with what?” Did he know her? He was sure he didn’t, but man…

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you say you’re looking for a cook.” Golden eyes the color of whiskey stared into his. “I cook.”

  He let his gaze wander over her, liking what he saw. She wasn’t a local. Her white blond hair was as short as a man’s on the sides and curled longer on the top and back. He hadn’t seen any woman, or anyone at all who wore their hair like this. Of course, tastes of the people of East Hope ran to the conservative.

  Despite the severe hairstyle, she was pretty. Beyond pretty. Leather pants showed off her soft curves, miniature combat boots encased her small feet and a tight tank top enhanced her breasts.

  When she cleared her throat, he jerked his eyes up to her face. “It won’t do you any good to talk to my breasts. Like most women, it’s my brain that answers questions.”

  A smart ass and she’d caught him red-handed. His cheeks warmed. Damn it, he was blushing. This woman was not at all what he needed. Time to end this. “I have a ranch, the Circle W. We need a camp cook. A man.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her body tensed. “It looks like you need any kind of cook you can get.” She held her hand out, indicating the empty café. “Not a lot of takers.”

  She had him there. His gut told him he was going to regret this, but she was right. He had no choice. “I’ll hire you week to week.” When she nodded, he continued. “I’ve got seven ranch hands. You’ll cook breakfast and dinner and pack lunches, Monday through Friday and serve Sunday dinner to the hands who are back by six o’clock.”

  She bounced on the toes of her feet until she noticed him watching her then she pulled on a cloak of calm indifference. “You won’t regret this.”

  He felt a smile touch the
corners of his mouth as his gut twisted. “I already do.”

  She held out her hand. “I’m Cary Crockett.”

  Her nails were short and sparkly pink, and she had a huge letterman’s ring on the first finger of her right hand.

  It took him a minute to realize he hadn’t answered her. “Micah West.”

  His hand dwarfed hers when they shook, her skin warm and soft. For a moment, he tightened his grip to keep her from pulling away then he caught himself. No matter how charming a picture she made, he didn’t want or need a woman. He cleared his throat then turned to the man who’d entered the cafe. “This is Clinton Barnes.”

  The normally reserved Barnsey chatted with Cary like he’d known her for a decade.

  They’d be here all day if he didn’t do something. “We’ve got groceries to buy,” he said, his voice gruff. Turning, he strode across the street to the East Hope Foodtown.

  Millie Hanson had owned the grocery for twenty-two years, the first twelve with her husband. After Mike died of a heart attack, she’d kept on alone. Micah had made it a practice to buy from her whenever he could. Because Foodtown was the only place to buy food and staples for forty miles, it was expensive, but friends helped friends.

  He waited in front of the meat counter until the owner strode out of the storeroom. “Need to pick up the supplies I ordered last week.” He glanced at the new cook. “And order some other things.”

  “Micah!” Millie walked right up to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a hug. For a woman on the far side of forty, she was something. Millie had a more than passing resemblance to Katy Segal, and a body a much younger woman would envy. Her deep, dark red hair was striking with her pale skin.

  “It’s been too long since you came to see me. I’ve missed our lunches.” She handed him a small brown paper bag.

  Micah looked inside to find at least a pound of chocolate covered raisins. “You keep spoiling me with my favorite candy, and I’m going to have to marry you.”

  Millie rose to her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on his cheek.