she’d changed her major so many times that when she finally did graduate, it was with a generic arts degree. She’d never quite known what she wanted do with herself, what she wanted to be, and she realized after her mother had passed away that she’d relied on Winona for her identity. She was her mother’s daughter—but now?
“Don’t like counting other people’s money?” he asked with a small smile.
“It was just a job.” She shrugged. “But my mom’s store is home in a lot of ways, and having it just empty out and shut down...” She sighed. “It was too heartbreaking.”
“So what are you doing here?” he pressed.
She eyed him for a moment. She wondered if he were a distrustful man in general, or if he was just concerned about the stability of his staff. Possibly a bit of both, but she found herself mildly intrigued by him, too. He was older than she was—old enough that she’d call him sir if she trampled his foot in the street—but she was also very aware of him, of his movement, of the way he looked at her. She ran her hand over a countertop.
“I’m trying to learn about my mom,” she said. “She didn’t say much about her childhood, and now that she’s gone, I want to figure out that side of her that she kept hidden.”
“Would she want you to?”
His question was unexpected, and she felt a twang of annoyance. What did he know about her relationship with her mother, or what Winona would have wanted?
“Probably not,” she admitted, tears misting her eyes. “But she’s gone, so...”
Dying had been the worst thing her mother had ever done, because Avery still needed her. She might be a grown woman, but she wasn’t finished being mothered yet. Her mom had never wanted her to meet her dad, or to even know his name, but since she’d gone and heartlessly died, Avery would have to make these choices on her own. Wherever Winona was—raptured with the scissors?—Avery hoped her mother could forgive her, because she had come to town in search of the very answers Winona had kept hidden all these years. And perhaps while she learned who her mother used to be, she could figure out who she was without her mother in her life.
Hank opened the fridge and pulled out three large, cellophane-wrapped packages of cubed steak and tossed them onto the stainless steel center table with a bang.
“The last cook suggested beef stew.”
Avery glanced around the kitchen, taking in the large pots, the hanging spatulas, the knives in neat rows held along magnetic strips on the wall. Beef stew. It sounded simple enough. Beef, carrots, potatoes, broth. Onions—couldn’t forget those. Yes, this was under control.
Hank’s cell phone rang, and he picked up the call. “Yeah?...Okay...No, that’s a priority...Okay, I’ll meet you there.” He hung up the phone.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“A water pipe leak affecting the water pressure for some sprinklers. I’ve got to look into it.” He paused. “So will you be okay here?”
“I can do this,” she said, her confidence returning.
“Yeah?” He looked a little wary, but she was armed with YouTube and a massive pot. What could possibly go wrong?
“You’re cooking for thirty-five,” he said, nodding toward the stove. “That pot should be full.”
“Dinner’s at five?” she asked.
“Five sharp.” He turned toward the door, and she pulled out her phone. She knew she’d find online videos and recipes and cooking tips galore. Stew was within the realm of possibility. Hank paused at the door and pulled out a little pad of paper, scratched a number on it and placed it on the center table. “Call me if you get into trouble.”
Nice to say, but she highly doubted that kitchen woes would trump anything else he had going in the rest of the ranch. She’d sort things out on her own.
* * *
THAT DAY THE work in the field took longer than Hank anticipated. The water pressure was down to a dribble out there, and the fix was more complicated than they’d originally thought. He and the men didn’t ride back to the canteen until ten past five, and they’d have to head back out after they ate for another go at it. Hank was both hungry and nervous. There were thirty-five hungry workers needing a decent meal, and he’d left a woman they didn’t know in charge of the kitchen, hoping for the best.
Hank bounced along the gravel road that meandered back up toward the barracks and the canteen. The radio was on low, a country song filling up the space between the roar of the engine and the rattle of equipment in the back. He’d been thinking about Avery the entire time he was searching for that blasted leak, telling himself repeatedly he was just worried about the food. But it was less noble than that. He’d never thought of himself as a guy with a type, but if he had one, she was it. Slender, cute, fair. Maybe it was just the fact that there weren’t a lot of other women around here.
Hank parked his truck in front of the building, hopped out and slammed the door with a satisfying bang. The canteen had two large, old-fashioned wagon wheels on either side of the double doors, which were already propped open. Some of the men had arrived ahead of him, their truck already parked in a spot in front. His stomach rumbled. Beef stew would hit the spot tonight. It had been a long day, but the job wasn’t yet done, and he needed a solid meal.
As Hank stepped inside, he was met with the murmur of voices, some laughter, the clink of cutlery—all normal. The smell, though... It wasn’t just the press of sweaty bodies, it was something else he couldn’t quite identify...
“Hey, Hank.” Bernie, one of the ranch hands sat in front of a bowl of stew, two dinner rolls next to it. “Have you seen the new cook?”
“Yeah, I showed her around,” Hank replied.
“Well, thank you for hiring that one,” he said with a grin. “She’s hot.”
There was a chorus of laughter and a few crude comments. Hank shot them a flat stare. Hot or not—and he wasn’t arguing how good-looking she was—she wasn’t here to be ogled. She was here to cook. There were workplace rules about sexual harassment and about fraternizing with the staff, rules he was following, too. When Louis’s wife, Carla, had died in that riding accident, it had been because a couple of workers were literally having a roll in the hay. Her death was preventable, and while those workers had been fired, Louis set up an ironclad rule about workplace dalliances.
“How’s the food?” Hank asked. He leaned closer to the bowl and discovered the source of the “off” smell. “Oh, man...”
“It’s—” Bernie shrugged. “It’s served by the pretty redhead. I’ll have seconds.”
The man across the table from them, Ivan, was chewing a piece of beef, his jaw moving in slow rotations. Hank paused and watched him chew for another ten seconds.
“You gonna swallow that?” Hank asked.
Ivan slowly shook his head. “It’s like leather,” he said past the meat in his mouth. “I can’t get it down.”
There didn’t seem to be any open complaining, interestingly enough. Had a man served that meal, there’d have been a riot. Avery
