A Cowboy in the Kitchen

by Meg Maxwell

  A rap sounded at the back door and Annabel glanced out the window. There he was, right on time. She held up a hand and went to the door, taking a deep breath before she opened it.

  “Got my apron,” he said, clutching it in one hand.

  She smiled and held the door open for him, willing herself not to stare at him, not to look too closely at his handsome face or the way his broad shoulders filled the doorway. He wore a navy blue T-shirt and low-slung jeans, a brown belt with a bronc buckle. He’d filled out from the nineteen-year-old boy she’d known. He was tall then, but now he was muscular from years of ranch work. “Come on in.”

  He hung his hat on a peg by the door, then stood at the huge center island.

  Speak, Annabel. She cleared her throat. “Since you said you want to learn the basics, I thought we’d start with breakfast—scrambled eggs, omelets, French toast, bacon.”

  “Lucy loves scrambled eggs and French toast, and I love bacon, so all that sounds great.”

  “So Lucy is six?” she asked. Six. It just occurred to her that in all this time, all these years, of course he hadn’t given Annabel two thoughts. She’d been so focused on how he’d dropped her like a hot biscuit for sexy Lorna when she should have realized it had been fatherhood that wiped his memory of all that had come before. One hour in the hayloft in his parents’ barn where they’d groped and kissed? How could that even register amid the birth of a baby, the first cold, the first steps, the first day of school? How could it register against daily life with sweet miracles in the form of a toothless smile or a child’s pride at learning to read?

  She’d been a dope to wonder these past seven years if he’d thought about her. Of course he hadn’t.

  But that hadn’t stopped her from tossing and turning for hours last night, remembering how it had felt to be in his arms, to be kissed so passionately by him. At around three in the morning, she’d made herself promise she wouldn’t be sucked back in by his face, by his incredible body, by his...story. He had a story seven years ago. She’d responded and had her heart broken and her life set on a path she hadn’t expected. She’d left her home, left her gram and her younger sister and had lived in a kind of emptiness, of going through the motions.

  He had a story now. She might not be able to stop herself from responding; he was standing in her kitchen, after all, awaiting her help. But she would respond only so much, only so far. She wouldn’t let him get to her, wouldn’t let him affect her, wouldn’t let him in.

  West nodded and slipped on his apron. “I can’t believe it, but yeah, she’s six. She’s in first grade and something of a math whiz.”

  “That’s something I’ll never be,” Annabel said. “Although I know my way around a measuring cup and my ounces and quarts and gallons.” She eyed the clock. One minute after six. For a thousand dollars, he was expecting results, not chitchat. “So, I also thought I’d walk you through the ingredients. We’re going to start with scrambled eggs.” She went over to the counter and picked up a stack of papers she’d inserted into a folder. “I made you a folder of recipes,” she said, handing it to him. “Find the one for scrambled eggs and bacon and tell me what we need.”

  He opened the folder and scanned it. “Got it.” He held out a sheet and put the folder back on the counter. “Eggs, milk, butter, bacon.”

  She explained how the bacon would take longer to fry than the eggs needed to cook, so they should start with the bacon. She went over the different kinds of bacon to buy, how folks at Hurley’s liked thick-cut the best, how long to keep it, how to store it, and he jotted down notes on the recipe, listening intently to everything she said. She showed him different kinds of pans, from sauté to cast iron. A few minutes later he had single-file bacon beginning to sizzle in the pan, tongs at the ready.

  “While that’s cooking, let’s get the eggs ready.” She told him how many eggs to use for him and his daughter, how to crack them so the shells wouldn’t land in the bowl, how to beat the eggs and for how long, how some people like to add a little milk and he could try it both ways, with or without, but she liked it with. A little salt and pepper and he was ready to pour the beaten eggs in the fry pan on the next burner.

  The smell of frying bacon made her mouth water and she realized she hadn’t eaten much today. By the time he was slowly stirring the eggs in the pan, she was ravenous. She had him turn the heat off the eggs and drain the bacon on paper towels, then transfer everything to two plates. After instructing him to grab a small handful of cherries from the basket on the counter and add it to the plate, they sat down at the round table by the window.

  “Depending on how hungry you are, you can add toast or biscuits too,” she said. “Well, dig in.”

  He glanced at his plate, then forked a bite of eggs into his mouth. “I made this? It’s pretty good.” He leaned back as though relieved. She wanted to ask again why he was paying a thousand dollars to learn to make a few basics, but as she stole a glance at him while he popped a cherry into his mouth, that mouth she’d fantasized about for at least three years of high school before he’d ever kissed her, she could see the hard set of his jaw, something inscrutable in his eyes. He didn’t want questions, didn’t want to talk. He wanted to learn to cook and was paying good money for it.

  Okay, then.

  She dragged her gaze off him and took a bite of eggs, then tasted a piece of bacon. “It’s better than good. It’s absolutely delicious.” Nerves made her ramble on about how he could get the best tasting eggs from the farm stands in town, rather than from the supermarket. He did a lot of nodding in response and said maybe he’d get some chickens of his own, that his daughter would love that.

  Aware that their knees were awfully close and had brushed together more than once, Annabel couldn’t take it and got up with the excuse that she could use some coffee.

  “Ditto,” he said. “Guess we were both hungry,” he added, glancing at their empty plates. “I imagine you have your hands full, cooking for the restaurant and caring for your grandmother. I appreciate you taking me on.”

  As a student only.

  “Well, we really need the money,” she said pointedly, and he glanced at her. Don’t follow up that comment, don’t qualify, just move on to French toast. He doesn’t need to know your business, that he hurt you so badly you wouldn’t help him if you didn’t have to. Which would be a lie. Of course she’d help him. But he didn’t need to know Gram’s business, how much trouble the restaurant was in. If only Georgia would call back. Talk about a math whiz. Georgia Hurley ran a company in Houston. She’d know how to get Hurley’s back in the black.

  A half hour later, on their second cup of coffee, they sat at the same spot, trying the French toast they’d made, the first bite with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

  “Delicious,” he said. “I wish I wasn’t so full from all that bacon I ate.”

  She laughed. “Me too. But try a piece with cinnamon and a sprinkle of confectioners’ sugar.”

  “Lucy will love this,” he said, swiping a bite in some maple syrup—which she quickly explained was the real thing and worth every penny.

  They moved on to a western omelet, with West slicing and dicing vegetables—mushroom, green and red peppers and onions. He stood beside her at the island, slicing the mushrooms a bit too thick.

  “Thinner,” she said, moving his hand on the knife a bit to the left. “The mushrooms will sauté quicker and won’t be too chunky in the omelet.”

  He glanced at her hand on his, and pulled away slightly. “Got it,” he said.

  Annabel, you fool, she chastised herself, feeling like a total idiot. Hadn’t Gram told her he had women throwing themselves at him since his wife had died? A gorgeous widower with a sweet little girl and a prosperous ranch brought out all kinds, Gram had said. Now he probably thought she was flirting. Grrr. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Seven years in Dallas might
have changed Annabel from that scrawny, frizzy-haired girl into a woman who knew her way around a little makeup and a blow dryer, but she was a jeans and T-shirt kind of gal and always would be and wore her long auburn hair in a low ponytail, tool of the trade. West wasn’t really attracted to her seven years ago, and with a glamorous wife like Lorna, who’d worn push-up bras and high heels to the supermarket at ten in the morning, he wouldn’t be attracted to her now. Especially now, when she smelled like bacon grease and cinnamon. Real sexy.

  She just had a “duh” moment. His sudden interest in cooking was likely tied to his wife’s recent passing. For the past year, he’d probably been responsible for feeding his daughter and maybe he’d burned a few breakfasts or bungled some dinners.

  She moved to the other side of the counter. “You can slide those mushrooms and the onions in the pan,” she said, showing him how to gently sauté them with a wooden spoon.

  He nodded and glanced out the window as if all he really wanted to do was get out of here.

  Unnerved and unsure what to do, what to say, Annabel thought about launching into a discussion of how to properly store vegetables, but she could see something was wrong, that she’d crossed a line. For touching him? Maybe she should remind him that he’d crossed a line, that he’d touched her—ran his hands over her bra, kissed a line down her stomach to the waistband of her jeans. And then dumped her without a damned word the next day.

  It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself, a hollow feeling opening in her stomach. It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago for him. You’re his cooking teacher, Annabel. That’s it.

  “The Dunkins were in for dinner last night,” she said to change the subject—the one in her head anyway.

  He stirred the mushrooms, peppers and onions. And didn’t respond. Interesting.

  Raina and Landon Dunkin, Lucy’s maternal grandparents, had left Clementine a huge tip too. Raina, a former Miss Texas contestant, had special ordered a mixed green salad, dressing on the side, with grilled chicken breast and just a bit of Hurley’s famed Creole sauce. Landon, a nice enough but reserved man who’d done very well for himself in real estate, had the barbecue crawfish po’boy special, with its side of slaw and sweet potato fries. When Annabel had peered through the little round window on the kitchen door to see how busy the dining room was, she saw the Dunkins lingering over cappuccino, deep in quiet conversation.

  “The restaurant sign could use some fresh paint,” West suddenly said, gesturing out the window where the Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen sign, hanging from a post by the white picket fence, clearly needed some sprucing up. Hmm. Guess West wasn’t interested in chatting about the Dunkins. Just bored by the small talk? She wasn’t sure. “And the walkway needs work. There are a couple of loose stones. It’s okay now, but in a few weeks they’ll come loose enough that someone could trip and sue you for everything.”

  Annabel closed her eyes, a swirl of panic shooting up her spine. There was no money. Gram admitted yesterday that the restaurant was losing money every day. There was little in the account for repairs. With everyone knowing Essie was out of commission, Hurley’s just wasn’t the same. Clementine had suggested holding a fundraiser; after all, didn’t everyone love Hurley’s? The place was a community treasure. But Gram had shot down that idea and had called it charity. You’re just as good a cook as I am, better probably, Gram had said this afternoon as she finished her potato chowder. There’s something special in your cooking. Folks just have to have the chance to know that. Give it time.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Annabel said to West, then instructed him to turn the heat off the vegetables. “We have some paint in the basement, I think. And I can probably watch a YouTube video on re-whatevering the stones on the path.” She made a mental note to check on the paint and look up “whatevering” stones.

  West eyed her, took a sip of his coffee and said, “It’ll take me ten minutes to do both myself. I’ll take care of it.” She watched him transfer the vegetables onto the cheese she’d had him sprinkle on the eggs, then showed him to carefully flip half the omelet over.

  She wanted to tell him to forget about it, but she wasn’t above accepting help when she really needed it. “I’d appreciate that, West. Thanks.”

  “Least I can do,” he said, plating the omelet. He cut it in two, then slid half onto another plate, added another handful of cherries and brought both plates to the table. He was getting pretty good at this. “Really. You have no idea.”

  So tell me, she wanted to shout.

  They sat down at the table and he took a couple of bites of the omelet. “This is delicious,” he said. “I really hope I can do this myself when you’re not standing beside me. You’re a good teacher, Annabel.” He took a long slug of his coffee, finishing it, then got up. “How’s tomorrow after the restaurant closes for the lunch lesson? Could you come to the ranch? My daughter will be spending the night at her grandparents’ house, so I’ll have extra time and I like the idea of learning to cook on-site. But if it’s too late, I can come here in the morning.”

  Alone with him at his house. At night. She cleared her throat. “Tomorrow after closing will be fine,” she said. “I’ll be over by nine-thirty. We close at nine, but I’ll need to help clean up.”

  He nodded, took his Stetson off the coat hook by the door and left, twenty different thoughts scrambling around Annabel’s head. But the one that stood out was about how she’d feel being over at the Montgomery Ranch. For the second time.

  * * *

  Tuesday afternoon, just an hour after Lucy had come racing off the school bus, waving her “sight words” quiz with 100% and a smiley face at the top, West rushed Lucy to Doc McTuft’s office, cursing himself with what was left of his breath. They’d been in the backyard, Lucy on the low sturdy branch of her favorite climbing tree, calling out words and spelling them, West nailing on the piece of wood for the roof of the new dollhouse he promised to make for her. One minute Lucy had been saying, “Daddy, look how high I am—am, A M!”—and she’d been so high that he called himself an idiot for not watching more closely—and the next, she let out a high-pitched yelp and was on the ground.

  Doc McTufts had assured him that Lucy was fine, no broken bones, and that the doc herself had fallen out of plenty of trees as a kid and lived to tell the tale to worried parents all over town. But of course, as they were settling up at the reception desk, who was giving him the stink eye but the Dunkins’ next-door neighbor, sitting with pursed lips next to her daughter and grandbaby. As West drove home, Lucy in her car seat in the back with her superhero coloring book, he figured the woman had already called Raina to let her know her poor granddaughter had almost been injured and had left the doc’s office with a big bandage over a nasty scrape.

  Lucy was all right. That was what mattered. But he would keep a better eye on her when she was climbing.

  “Daddy, can we have ice cream for dinner?” Lucy asked.

  “How about your second favorite for dinner and ice cream for dessert?” he asked, smiling at her in the rearview mirror.

  “French toast with strawberries for the mouth and blueberries for the eyes?”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said, feeling pretty confident about his French toast after yesterday’s cooking lesson. Plus, hadn’t Annabel said that she’d often eaten breakfast for dinner in Dallas when she was feeling low or missed her family? Comfort food. The very reason he ate at Hurley’s so often.

  He’d lain awake for hours last night, thinking about the cooking lesson. Annabel was so beautiful with that silky dark red hair caught in the ponytail, her pale, porcelainlike skin free of makeup, her long, lush body in low-slung jeans rolled up at the ankles and a loose white button down shirt tucked in. Her uniform, she’d called it. He called it sexy. She was like summertime, like sunshine, and her nearness, the scent of her, the sight of the swell of her breasts against the cotton shirt, t
he curve of her hip...it had been all he could do not to grab her against the wall and kiss her, memories of their time in the barn hitting him hard, as he’d shaken confectioners’ sugar on French toast, slid peppers around in the pan.

  And then she’d touched him, her soft hand, her skin electrifying his with the most casual of gestures, moving his hand over on the knife. Her touch had sent a shock through him and brought him back to the barn to forty-five minutes when he thought he’d found his future, when he thought everything made sense.

  Until it didn’t.

  Back then West had been going nowhere fast. Annabel would have joined him there if he’d let something happen between them. After he and Annabel had almost gone too far in the barn, he forced himself to stop for her sake and said he’d better get back to the house. She’d gotten a funny look on her face, and he’d wanted to ask her if she was okay, to get a handle on why she seemed upset, but she seemed in a hurry to get away. From him. Maybe she’d just meant to pay her condolences, nice enough to bring him his favorite chili con carne that he always ordered to go after school, and he’d practically ripped her clothes off. Jerk. Maybe she was just being nice and he’d taken things too far, like always.

  So then they’d gone back to the house so she could say goodbye to his parents, but his parents were standing outside, his mother crying, his father’s arm over her shoulder, and they’d seen West and Annabel come out of the barn. He held back a bit and it was too late to tell Annabel she had a bit of hay in her hair. He saw his mother stare at the hay, then glance at him, disapproval turning her grief-stricken eyes cold. West doing the wrong thing again—fooling around with a girl in the barn while friends and neighbors came to pay their respects. That wasn’t how it was, but it was how it had looked to his parents. West was sure of it.