this position, the hours being what they are. I hope that isn’t a problem for you.” When she shrugged her compliance, he added, “There’s a room in the bunkhouse—a private one—for the cook, so you should be comfortable enough. But first we’ll need some ID so we can do a background check.”
“Of course.” Avery provided the necessary identification, and Louis disappeared into the next room where the rattle and moan of an old photocopier filtered through the open door. When Louis came back into the kitchen, he handed back her ID and had her sign the bottom of an employment form. This was getting official quickly.
“I might as well show you around,” Hank said. “Mr. Harmon can give us a call if there’s any problem. Is there anything else, boss?”
“No, that should cover it,” Louis replied. “It’s nice to meet you, Avery. Hank will take good care of you, but I’ll stop by later on this evening to see if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” she said, her insides roiling with misgiving. Was she really going to cook for this ranch for the next two weeks? But the other option was to announce who she was now and probably be shown the door for having misled them this far. Or she could take a few days to get to know Louis a little bit, and then say something. Hopefully, after a little time getting to know her, he’d understand why she did this.
Hank led the way, pushing open the screen door to let her pass ahead of him. She was struck by how tall he was as she stepped past him—she only came up to his shoulder—and how he smelled of musk, hay and sunshine. He stood motionless until she was past, then followed, releasing the door behind him.
A warm breeze pushed Avery’s hair away from her face, and the screen door closed with a bang. She had just officially met her father.
* * *
HANK GRANGER LED the way around the house to where his old blue Chevy pickup waited. He glanced over at the sad-eyed new hire. She was pretty—more than pretty, if he were honest. She had golden red hair that spilled down her shoulders and skin the color of new milk. Her eyes were flecked with green, and she had freckles across her nose and on the tops of her shoulders, not covered by her white tank top. And those jeans fit rather well...
Blast it, he wasn’t supposed to be checking her out, and he shouldn’t be noticing that scoop of her collarbone, either. Mr. Harmon relied on Hank for his professionalism, and dalliances with other employees were strictly forbidden on this ranch. This was more than a job for Hank. This was home, and he had no intention of messing up a good thing. Besides, she was young. Way under thirty—she was too inexperienced to be weighed down with a pessimistic SOB like him. That should be enough to keep his mind on the straight and narrow.
There had been something in the way she was looking at Louis back there—cautiously, expectantly. She’d wanted something from him, and not just the job. There was more to her arrival than a simple desire for employment. Maybe she was the gold-digging type, and she’d sniffed out a wealthy widower. Whatever it was, this Avery had ulterior motives—he was willing to bet on it.
“So where are you from?” Hank asked as they reached the truck. He pulled open the passenger-side door and gestured her inside.
“Salina, Kansas,” she replied, hopping up into the seat.
A pretty out-of-towner looking for ranch work. She was no cowgirl. She wore slim Nike runners, and her nails looked too good. He came around the driver’s side.
“So what brings you to Hope?” he asked as he slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.
She paused a breath longer than necessary, then said, “My mom grew up in Hope, and I wanted to see it.”
“Alone?” he prodded.
“She passed away in April.”
Ouch. Hank shot her an apologetic look. “Sorry about that.”
She smiled in reply, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Hank pulled away from the house. The wheels of his truck crunched over the gravel and onto the drive that led away from the barn and toward the bunkhouse and canteen for the workers. Warm afternoon sunlight bathed the land. Bees circled over wildflowers in the ditches, and Hank slapped a mosquito on his arm. It was the season for them. He drove past the nearest pasture, and the cows looked up, chewing in slow, grinding circles, their liquid eyes following the truck as it passed them.
“So what was your mom’s name?” he asked. He was curious—if her family was from Hope, maybe he could place her.
“Winona Southerly.”
It didn’t ring any bells, but if Avery had never seen Hope, then her mother must have left town a good—he glanced at Avery from the corner of his eye—twenty-five years ago, in a rough estimation. He wouldn’t have known her mother—he’d have been ten at the time.
“You have any other family around here?” he asked.
“No, my mom was living with an elderly aunt who passed away when I was a kid,” she said. “But I wanted to see Hope. Mom used to tell me some stories about rope swings and swimming in a canal, back in the seventies when kids could roam feral.”
He smiled at the mental picture. Yeah, those were the days. He’d been a kid in the eighties, and he’d still been pretty feral. The town of Hope was small enough that people trusted each other—maybe more than they should.
“So you wanted to see it,” he concluded.
“With her gone, I just—” She pulled her hair away from her face. “I guess it makes it feel like she’s not completely gone.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
He knew a fair bit about loss, about dealing with that empty hole in your chest. He’d gotten divorced five years back, and that had been a gut-wrenching loss. Vickie had started up with some guy online. Hank used to be a whole lot more trusting. He’s just a friend turned into He understands me and you don’t even try, which eventually turned into her packing her bags and leaving. Vickie had been wrong—he had tried. He’d tried really hard to understand what she needed, what she wanted. He hadn’t been some passive guy letting his woman walk off—he’d done everything he knew how. It just hadn’t been enough.
“Do your parents live around here?” Avery asked.
He pulled himself back to the present. “No, they’re in Florida.”
“Hmm.” She smiled. “That’s nice.”
His parents loved Skype—always calling at inopportune times, crowding in front of their tablet so they could both beam at him from their motor home. They were so proud of that thing—they still gave him virtual tours. You wouldn’t believe how spacious it is, Hank! Look at the depth of these cupboards... Can you see it? Hold on, I’ll put on a light... Can you see it now?
Hank was approaching the barracks now—a long, low building on the crest of a hill, overlooking the pasture and a winding creek that watered it.
“Okay,” he said pulling himself away from personal topics. “I guess I should tell you the job requirements. First of all, Mr. Harmon has a rule against employees becoming romantically involved. There is no wiggle room there. If you’re caught, you’ll be fired. No second chances.”
She nodded.
