The Trouble With Cowboys (11 page)
He shook her hand with a deceptively firm grip. “Douglas Dixon.”
Lisa must’ve made some phone calls after Amy left the dairy. With the trouble he’d had standing and his frail, bony body, Mr. Dixon looked old and tired. Not qualities Amy wanted in a sous-chef. She’d have to figure out a way to break it to him gently.
“Let’s get inside. You two must be freezing.”
Once they were inside and everyone’s coats were off, Amy got a pot of coffee brewing. Mr. Dixon eased into a kitchen chair while Sloane drifted to the shelf of cookbooks on the far wall. She wasn’t dressed like an Amish bride today, but like a housewife from the 1970s. The huge orange and green floral pattern boggled the mind. Amy wanted to set her in a vase of water.
“You have a unique sense of style, Sloane. Such vivid colors.”
“Thank you for noticing.” She smoothed a hand over her stomach. “I made this myself from a pattern I found in my grandma’s sewing room.” That explained a lot. “Sewing is an important skill for my career as a fashion designer.”
“I didn’t know Clovis Community College had a program for fashion designers.”
“They don’t. I’m getting an AA degree in business while I save money to move to New York City someday, like you did.”
Oh, brother. Amy was many things, but a career mentor wasn’t one of them. “Er . . . good for you. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Are you babysitting Tommy today?”
“You’re funny, Amy. I know you didn’t forget about my job interview. We set it up yesterday at church. One-thirty on Monday is what we shook on. My grandma told me you might forget. She says pregnant women are forgetful.”
What?
“Your grandma still thinks I’m pregnant? All because I tried to buy celery at the Quick Stand?”
“Your grandma still thinks I’m pregnant? All because I tried to buy celery at the Quick Stand?”
“That and, well, we saw you running toward the church office bathrooms yesterday after eating a doughnut. Grandma figured you have morning sickness.”
Astonishing, the way some people’s minds worked. “Sloane, listen to me. Tell your grandma I’m not pregnant.”
“She and Marti Lipshultz think Kellan Reed’s the father, but I told them—”
Amy waved her hands in the air, her desperation mounting. “Stop! Oh, God, this is a nightmare. Kellan Reed is
not
the father.”
not
the father.”
“So you are pregnant. Congratulations. It’s not my business to say, but maybe you should think about telling Kellan you’re carrying another man’s child before your date this Friday.”
“What . . . how did you . . . ?” Amy covered her face with her hands. This town was unbelievable. She made a quick revision to her earlier thought. There were two things about Catcher Creek she hadn’t missed in her years gone—the dirt roads and the high-speed gossip train, with Charlene Delgado as the conductor. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Can we change the subject?”
“Perfect. Let’s get started with my job interview.”
“Yes. Okay. Refresh my memory; what position are you interviewing for?”
“Waitress. I’ve got two years’ experience at the Catcher Creek Café.”
“Then why are you looking for a new job?”
“The café’s only open for breakfast and lunch, which conflicts with my class schedule next semester. I can’t start work until noon on weekdays.”
That would be fine for the Local Dish. Amy planned to hire a waitress after Christmas, but hadn’t given it much thought yet. Hiring Sloane would likely save her hours of work. And two years’ waitressing experience was nothing to sneeze at. “I can’t pay you more than minimum wage and tips until the business takes off.”
“Understood. That’s what I made at the café. I don’t need much money, only enough for gas and car insurance, and to save for New York City, of course. My grandma pays my college tuition and doesn’t charge me rent.”
Amy stuck her hand out and Sloane shook it. “You’re hired, Sloane. You can start after the new year.”
“Thanks. I promise you won’t regret it.” She fist-pumped her hand into the air.
Amy loved her youthful energy. Now all they needed to work on was her wardrobe. “I’m sure I won’t. But can you do me a favor?”
“Name it.”
“Tell your grandma and her friends I’m not pregnant.”
“I understand you don’t want it getting around at such an early date. Lots of women like to wait until the second trimester, my grandma says.”
Lordy. Amy knew a lost battle when she saw one and turned to Mr. Dixon. “I’m assuming you’re here because Lisa Binderman told you I’m looking for a sous-chef?”
“That’s right. Lisa called Jillian, my daughter-in-law. But let me say, right off the bat, I don’t need your charity. And I don’t need a job. Not for the money, anyway. I’ve got all the retirement funds I need from my oil leasing contract.”
“Okay. Understood. No hard feelings.” That was easy.
He waved a hand to quiet her. “Now, now. Hear me out—I’d still like to interview for the job.”
“Why?”
He speared the table with his finger and the look he shot Amy was so deadly serious that she gulped. “If I have to choke down one more bite of Jillian’s so-called meals, God help me, I’m going to pack up my truck and drive away from this town for good, which is saying something because my family’s lived in these parts for sixty-five years. I may not want your money, Amy, but I’ll work for my meals if you’ll hire me.”
“Jillian’s cooking is that bad?”
Mr. Dixon scrubbed a hand over his face. “Her spaghetti sauce, I don’t know what she does to it, but it’s like ketchup by the time she serves it. Hot, pasty ketchup. Have you ever eaten overcooked noodles and ketchup? Looks like bleeding monkey brains.” He shuddered. Amy nearly shuddered too, and Sloane’s face contorted into a look of disgust. “I play poker with the fellas on Tuesdays at the VFW, which gets me out of spaghetti night, but there’s six more nights of the week to contend with. I don’t think I can take it much longer. Her meat loaf . . .”
He sipped coffee. Sloane and Amy leaned in expectantly.
“What about her meat loaf?” Sloane whispered in horrified awe.
“She adds shredded radishes and nutmeg. The dogs won’t even touch it. I have to sneak it from my plate to a napkin and feed the hogs. They’re the only ones who can tolerate it. Them and my son, Stephen. He must have a stomach of steel. Jillian means well and my son loves her so I don’t say anything, but I’ve been praying for a miracle for years.”
Amy swallowed back her revulsion. “Lisa told me you were a cook in the Navy.”
“Yes, ma’am. Twenty-five years, most of that time in the kitchen of an aircraft carrier. My brother, Lawrence, ran the family farm. I joined him when my stint was up. None of Larry’s children wanted in on the family business, but my Stephen did. He’s doing a respectable job of managing the place now that Larry’s passed on and I retired.”
“Can’t you help Jillian? Teach her some basics?”
“I’ve tried, Lord knows. She won’t let me through the kitchen door. Shoos me away like I’m a senile old bat. Lisa Binderman says you need help with your restaurant, chopping and making sauces and such. I’m qualified and I’m fast. All I ask in return is that you allow me to take my meals here. I’m a proud man, but I’ll beg if need be.”
“Oh, Mr. Dixon, that’s not necessary. Of course I’ll hire you.” She couldn’t very well let the man eat Jillian’s food any longer. That would be an act of unnecessary cruelty.
He slapped his knee and smiled. “All right, then. I’ll show you what I’m made of. You and Sloane talk business, and I’ll make lunch.”
He opened the refrigerator and stuck his head in.
Amy leapt up. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Dixon. I already hired you. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“You expect me to go home and let Jillian fix me lunch? Do you want me to tell you about her tuna salad sandwiches?”
“Oh, God, no.” Already, she knew she’d never eat spaghetti again without thinking about bleeding monkey brains. She couldn’t suffer the same fate with tuna salad, one of her lunchtime staples. “Do whatever you want in my kitchen, but please don’t say another word about Jillian’s cooking.”
“Well, get ready, because I’m going to fix you ladies a meal you’ll never forget. You like eggs?”
“Yes, yes,” squealed Sloane.
He tucked an egg carton under his arm and grabbed a stick of butter from the refrigerator door. “Eggs Benedict it is. Wait’ll you taste my hollandaise sauce.”
Chapter 7
The Cowboy Cook’s horrible manipulations were getting worse.
Once again, Kellan sat in his darkened house, his eyes riveted to the computer monitor where Amy continued her run on
Ultimate Chef Showdown
. He chewed a microwaved frozen burrito and watched, with mounting frustration, as Amy acceded to Brock’s every whim.
Ultimate Chef Showdown
. He chewed a microwaved frozen burrito and watched, with mounting frustration, as Amy acceded to Brock’s every whim.
A crook of his little finger and Amy would scurry to do his bidding, working double time on the show to finish her dishes, then help him with his. Even more disgusting was the way she swooned whenever he paid her the least bit of attention. Surely, the producers had edited the footage to paint the situation in the most character-damaging light, but still, Amy made terrible choice after terrible choice where Cowboy Brock was concerned.
Brock continued to revel in his two-faced intentions in the camera confessional footage, where he’d chuckle about his control over Amy and clue viewers in on his next dastardly plan. What an asshole.
No wonder she’d made up a rule about cowboys.
Remarkably, Amy remained the person to beat. Maybe that was the reason none of the other contestants stepped in to help when they noticed the injustices done to her. Because as far as culinary skills went, she had them all beat by a mile. Not only that, but more than anyone else, she kept her cool and remained optimistic, even with the odds stacked against her.
As the episodes trudged along, though, her energy flagged. The bright wattage of her smile dimmed. She didn’t hold her head as high and the bounce left her step. She became careless with her safety, nicking her fingers while shucking oysters and burning her arm during a barbecue challenge. Knowing her story as he did, he could immediately tell which episode filmed the day after her mom’s accident. She was distracted, fatigued. She messed up a basic dish, which the Cowboy pounced on with ruthless enthusiasm.
If they were dating off camera, as he suspected they were at that point, then Brock must have known what had happened with her mom. And he took advantage of her anyway. Kellan could barely stand to watch through his fury. At Cowboy Douchebag, but at Amy, too, for allowing herself to get played.
It was the second to last episode of the season. Six contestants remained, including Amy and Brock. Two would be eliminated and the final four would compete for the grand prize of three hundred thousand dollars in the season finale. Amy must have burned with wanting, thinking about how that money could save her family’s farm. By then, she and her sisters would’ve known the financial devastation their father had left them in.
The contestants divided into two groups of three to compete against each other. Their task was to plan a five-course tasting menu for a benefit auction at a museum. Brock’s group members, Amy and a lanky younger man named Shawn who’d also been labeled a villain during the competition, designated him the leader. In another confessional-style video clip, Brock stared into the camera and explained that he was going to secure his place in the finale by sabotaging Amy’s dishes and setting his group up for the elimination table.
“Y’all watch,” he told the camera, “I own this competition and all the players in it. This is my night to shine and ain’t nobody gonna stand in my way. Amy thinks we’re allies, she thinks we’re in love”—he used quote fingers—“but she’s got another thing coming to her. Because the Cowboy Cook is a lone ranger, see? I look out for myself and myself only. Just you watch. I’ve got some tricks for Amy up my sleeve today.”
Kellan paused the video stream. Cursing, he rose from the desk chair. He needed some air. Max regarded him curiously from his spot on the sofa, but didn’t follow Kellan to the porch.
For the third night in a row, he’d stayed up late, hanging on every minute of
Ultimate Chef Showdown.
He hadn’t slept much or eaten right. He’d ignored his friends and had made every excuse not to call his brother. He jumped every time the phone rang, dreading the inevitable call from his mother. Any number he didn’t recognize on caller ID, he didn’t pick up the phone. Cowardly, sure, but he wasn’t ready to deal with her yet. Not that he ever would be.
Ultimate Chef Showdown.
He hadn’t slept much or eaten right. He’d ignored his friends and had made every excuse not to call his brother. He jumped every time the phone rang, dreading the inevitable call from his mother. Any number he didn’t recognize on caller ID, he didn’t pick up the phone. Cowardly, sure, but he wasn’t ready to deal with her yet. Not that he ever would be.
Instead, his every waking thought was consumed by Amy’s performance on
Ultimate Chef Showdown.
What had started as a way to remind himself why Amy was the wrong woman for him had become an obsession that left him with a whole slew of emotions that had nothing to do with why Amy was wrong for him and everything to do with why he was wrong for
her.
Ultimate Chef Showdown.
What had started as a way to remind himself why Amy was the wrong woman for him had become an obsession that left him with a whole slew of emotions that had nothing to do with why Amy was wrong for him and everything to do with why he was wrong for
her.
Far from proving she was a screwup as he’d originally pegged her to be, while he watched her performance on the show, his admiration for her bloomed. With tenacity, smarts, unwavering integrity, and positive attitude, she met the problems in her life head-on and braved every obstacle thrown her way. These were qualities Kellan respected, qualities he strived to possess.
And yet, the way he’d treated her hadn’t been much better than Cowboy Brock. It sickened him that he’d played on her weakness, same as Brock had. At church, with his belt buckle and bolo tie, Kellan had manipulated her into accepting a dinner date invitation. He’d manipulated her into sleeping with him on Saturday morning too, luring her to his house by preying on her stress. He wasn’t a fake cowboy like Brock, but he’d done an ace job of acting like that asshole. As much as Brock didn’t deserve Amy, neither did Kellan.
He paced across the porch, shaking off his anger. The episode he was on had to be the one where she melted down. He didn’t want to witness it, but he resolved to hang in until the end, if only so he didn’t go crazy with curiosity. He strode into the house and clicked
PLAY
, but didn’t sit. Standing against the far wall, he watched as Brock did exactly what he’d told the camera he would. With a trusting smile and little touches of affection, he coerced Amy into planning three of the five dishes for the group. Then, while she prepped the vegetables for a quiche, he snuck to the refrigerator and added lemon juice to the cream, curdling it.
PLAY
, but didn’t sit. Standing against the far wall, he watched as Brock did exactly what he’d told the camera he would. With a trusting smile and little touches of affection, he coerced Amy into planning three of the five dishes for the group. Then, while she prepped the vegetables for a quiche, he snuck to the refrigerator and added lemon juice to the cream, curdling it.
He sabotaged her other dishes in similar ways. Kellan’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth. It was unbearable, watching Amy’s dreams burn to ashes before his eyes. All three of her dishes were disasters. Even worse, with her head held high, she took full responsibility for the failures. When she issued a tearful apology to Brock and Shawn for blowing their chance to win, Kellan stormed into his kitchen and pulled whiskey from the cabinet. He took a long hit from the bottle, listening to Brock’s gracious acceptance of her apology, and his subsequent laughter into the confessional camera.
Kellan was certifiably drunk by the time Judges Trial started. He set the bottle aside, lest he throw it against the wall as McKenna faked reluctance in admitting that it was Amy who’d designed the failed dishes. Her tears followed, but she held herself in check until the head judge asked Brock his opinion, as the leader of the group, about who should go home that night.
He pointed to Amy.
She cracked. Screaming and ranting. Throwing things. She kept yelling, “I thought you loved me” at the asshole. That, perhaps, hurt the most. Knowing she threw her love away on a man who didn’t deserve to lick the bottoms of her feet.
He turned the computer off, unable to bear seeing the pain in her eyes or hearing the hurt in her voice any longer. Sitting in the darkness, he rolled the now-empty whiskey bottle along his pant leg, thinking about Amy. About the destruction of a vibrant, trusting woman at the hands of one greedy, manipulative man after another.
It was too late to save her from Brock McKenna, but he could save her from Amarex. He would find a way, somehow. And he would save her from himself. No more cowboy act. No more treating her like she wasn’t worthy of more than temporarily warming his bed.
He gathered her Amarex file, flicked on a desk lamp, and found the leasing contract Gerald Sorentino had so foolishly agreed to all those years ago. Then he called his lawyer buddy, Matt. It was time to bury his uncle’s company.
Mr. Dixon was right. His hollandaise sauce was to die for. Smooth, creamy, and a delectable custard-yellow color. The eggs had been perfectly poached. Here it was days later and Amy couldn’t stop daydreaming about his sauce. The next morning, he’d returned to her kitchen and whipped up the most delectable batch of waffles she’d ever eaten. Crispy on the outside, creamy and fluffy on the inside. After one bite, Amy had tacked breakfast duty to his list of job responsibilities at the restaurant.
She’d offered him the option to wait until after Christmas to start work, but he’d looked so forlorn at the idea that she told him he could report for duty as soon as he wanted. He hadn’t missed a meal at her house since.
By Wednesday afternoon, Amy had compiled a long enough list of needs from the restaurant supply warehouse in Albuquerque to justify the time away from the restaurant. The following morning, she waved good-bye to Mr. Dixon, who stood on the porch dressed in a white apron and chef coat. His plan was to spend the day perfecting a red wine braising sauce for Slipping Rock short ribs. She’d left a basic recipe on the counter along with a selection of bottles from a winery near Taos.
Sticking to any sort of a budget at the restaurant supply warehouse was impossible, but Amy managed to not completely demolish her bank account. She stuffed her trunk and seats with pots, pans, and gadgets, eager to experiment with them alongside Mr. Dixon.
Her final stop of the day was, by far, the most important. From the parking lot, she stared at the tinted windows of her mom’s nursing home and said a quick prayer that she’d find her in good spirits. Most often, she was. In fact, for the first time in her life, Mom seemed happy for extended periods of time. What a cruel twist of irony that it took losing her mind for her to finally find happiness. Only twice since she’d awoken in February from a ten-day coma had Mom plummeted into depression. During those episodes, nothing rescued her from the darkness but sedation. Then again, that had always been the case.
Amy greeted the staff and signed in. Bypassing the elevator, she jogged the three flights of stairs to her mom’s level, hoping to work off Mr. Dixon’s pecan-glazed French toast from that morning. Her mom resided on the floor where the highest level of care was administered, but where residents were allowed to shuffle around the common room.
She found Mom in her usual spot, her thin, angular body cushioned in a faded chair, staring out the window at the bustling city street outside. Amy perched on the footstool and took her mom’s hand. It was cool, skeletal.
Her mom’s eyes focused on her. “Amy,” she whispered.
A pang of relief shot through her, as it always did when Mom recognized her. Most often, she didn’t recognize anyone, but she greeted Amy, Jenna, and Rachel with a polite, distant smile. Invariably, Tommy made her anxious. His little-boy energy was so overwhelming for her fragile nerves that the sisters decided to stop bringing him for visits except on special occasions.
Today, her expression was troubled. Her fingers quivered beneath Amy’s grip.
“Amy, I think something bad happened.”
“Shhhh, you’re okay, Mom. Everything’s fine.”
She turned her haunted, sunken eyes on Amy. “No, that’s not true. Something’s wrong, but I can’t remember what. Can you?”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“Nothing’s wrong, Mom.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mom.”
“I feel so sad today.”
“No, no, no. You’re happy here, remember? You have your friends, you do art. You have this window to look out.”
Her expression softened. “I like this window.”
Amy relaxed the intensity of her grip on her mom’s hand. “I know you do. So much to see out the window.”
“Yes . . .” Her voice drifted off.
Amy patted her knee. “And hey, you’re coming home for Christmas dinner. I made arrangements with Selena and Mary at the front desk. I’m fixing a turkey. You liked the turkey on Thanksgiving, right? Remember Thanksgiving here with Jenna, Rachel, Tommy, and me?”
Mom’s eyes shifted, grew distant. Then she was gone, lost in the light from the window. A vague smile turned up the corners of her mouth. What did she see there? What thoughts did she think, if any? Amy liked to imagine she saw colors. Beautiful, rich yellows and greens, violet and royal blue. A swirl of beauty created by her imagination. Maybe she saw the happy days of her life playing like a movie. Or maybe the sky outside was enough. The gray clouds moving across the city buildings along the horizon, the occasional sliver of blue.
“She had a tough night last night,” said the voice of her mom’s nurse, Selena, behind her.
Amy stood to shake her hand. “Did you have to sedate her?”
“No, but it nearly got to that point. She’s been so happy. But lately, the bad days are becoming more frequent. There doesn’t seem to be a reason why.”
Amy snagged a quilt from a nearby basket and smoothed it over her mom’s legs. “The anniversary of my dad’s passing is later this month. Maybe on some level she understands.”
Selena stroked a hand over Mom’s wispy gray-black hairs. “Our minds might forget, but the heart never does.”
So true. “Call me if she has another bad spell, okay?” Not that Amy could do anything to ease her mother’s troubles, but she hated thinking her mom was alone on those bad nights, without anyone who loved her near enough to hold her hand or whisper words of comfort.
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