Fearless Love (2 page)

MG blinked again. the Rose was part of the Woodrose Inn, an imposing luxury bed and breakfast at the end of the road that ran by the farm. She didn’t know how many guests it held, but she was guessing it was more than a dozen. “But my whole production wouldn’t feed all your guests.”

“No, that it wouldn’t.” LeBlanc shrugged. “We’re already buying from some of the other farms around here. But we need a steady supply of fresh eggs, and you’re close. So how much?”

MG pursed her lips. Produce negotiations weren’t exactly her forte since she had no idea what to ask. “Four dollars a dozen?”

LeBlanc’s brow arched. “Two dollars.”

“Three. Which would be four fifty for what I’ve got on hand now.”

He grinned. “Make it five. That way we don’t have to mess with change.”

“Sold,” she said quickly. “You want me to clean these off for you?”

“Nah, they’re not that dirty. If we find any muck, we can just brush it off in the kitchen.” His lips turned up again. “Looks like you’re doing a good job keeping stuff clean around here.”

“Thanks.” Yet another thing she’d learned from Grandpa. And since she’d cleaned the nest boxes and roosts when she was a kid, it hadn’t taken her long to get reacquainted with the way things worked.

LeBlanc’s smile started that thing with her toes again.
Steady, MG.
Her cheeks suddenly felt warm. “Hang on a minute and I’ll get you a carton.”

She trotted toward the storage shed, trying to get her pulse rate to slow down.
He’s just a guy. And this ain’t your first rodeo. It’s not like you haven’t run into charmers before.
Of course, a lot of those charmers had turned out to be snakes. She grabbed two of the cardboard cartons and headed back.

LeBlanc took them from her and started fitting the eggs into the depressions. Then he glanced up at her again, his blue gaze roaming lazily over her body. “Looks like you got around fourteen eggs here. You got any more inside?”

She blew out a breath. “Right, yes. Stay right here.” She ducked onto the back porch, then grabbed the last remaining eggs from yesterday from the cooler. She handed the carton to LeBlanc. “That makes eighteen.”

“Right. What time can you bring the next bunch over tomorrow? We’ll need them as early as you can get there.”

“Tomorrow?” She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

He shrugged. “I bought your entire production, darlin’. That means everything your hens turn out, seven days a week. Beginning tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks burned again. “Okay. That’s…great.”

He nodded, tucking the cartons of eggs under his arm. “Bring them around to the kitchen. Seven’s okay. Six is better.”

Better? In what universe?
She managed not to grimace. “I’ll see what I can do. I may have to come back again later if the hens haven’t finished laying yet.”

“That’s okay. Bring the first load for breakfast, and then whatever you get later on we can use for the next day.”

She nodded. “Okay. I can do that.” Maybe Robespierre would be asleep, but given that he was the earliest riser around the place, she doubted it.

LeBlanc glanced around the yard. “You got anything else here?”

“Anything…?” She frowned.

“Vegetables. Fruit. Like that.”

She shrugged. “Well, there are four or five peach trees, but it’s not the right season for peaches yet. I don’t know what’s in the garden exactly.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you plant it?”

“No. My grandpa planted it last year.” There was an unexpected twinge somewhere around her heart. Grandpa had planted it before that stroke that had laid him out on the living room couch for the last three months of his life.

LeBlanc shifted the eggs to a more comfortable position. “How long have you lived here?”

“About four months or so.”

That eyebrow went up again. “You brought the chickens with you?”

“No, they’re my grandfather’s chickens. I started taking care of them after he got sick. He died a couple of weeks ago.”

“So you’re running the farm on your own?” LeBlanc didn’t really look incredulous, but she felt slightly annoyed all the same.

“I used to stay with Grandpa part of the time in the summer. He taught me how to take care of the chickens. I know what I’m doing.”
Sort of.

“Well, we’ll take the eggs,” LeBlanc said, turning back toward the road. “If it turns out you have any fresh vegetables for sale, we can maybe take them too, depending on quality. Nice doing business with you.”

“You too.” She managed a smile. “I’ll bring the eggs tomorrow.”

He nodded at her, then headed back up the road. Even with the two cartons of eggs under his arms, he still managed a slight jog. She tried not to watch his muscular legs as he disappeared up the road and failed utterly.

A sale. She’d somehow managed to sell her eggs. All of them. Maybe things were finally looking up.

Thirty-five dollars a week.
Oh well, at least it might provide her with Pop-Tarts and a few packages of ramen noodles.

She sighed and headed back into the house, glancing at her reflection in the hall mirror as she moved past.

Shit. Hell. Goddamn.
Her hair was dappled with bits of hay, probably from changing the straw in the nest boxes. There was a slash of mud on her cheek. At least she hoped it was mud—in the henhouse there were always other possibilities. And she was, of course, wearing no make-up whatsoever.

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the wall. He was probably really impressed. A genuine salt of the earth type here.

Six months ago, she’d worn suede boots. Six months ago, her hair had highlights. Six months ago people were beginning to know her name. Hell, six months ago, she’d been… Not nearly as impressive as she’d thought at the time.

What you were isn’t important anymore. It’s what you are now that you need to concentrate on. It’s all you’ve got
.

She sighed. She needed to spread some wood shavings around the nest boxes to make it harder for the hens to track in mud. And she should add some more ground oyster shells to the feed.

Ah yes, the glamorous life of a Hill Country chicken farmer. But if nothing else, it took her mind off her troubles. Even though those troubles were a big part of this life now.

If only Grandpa had left her advice on how to deal with Great-Aunt Nedda, who was a hell of a lot more dangerous than Robespierre could ever be.

Nedda Carmody turned on her computer, watching the screen slowly turn from black to gray. A new computer would boot up more quickly, of course, but a new computer qualified as a frill, as far as Nedda was concerned. Given her choice, she’d ignore the computer altogether, but she knew better than that. These days you couldn’t run a business without one, and Nedda had no intention of putting Pedernales Properties at risk.

Her spreadsheets opened slowly too, but that gave her time to look at the figures as they appeared on the screen. The bed and breakfast bookings were a little thinner than usual, but it was September, toward the end of the summer season. They’d pick up again when the wineries started releasing their new wines, and they’d peak when the Wine and Food Festival rolled around.

The rentals were a little slow too, but most of them were up to date on their payments. The punk renting the cabin near the railroad tracks was a week late, but she didn’t expect much from him. Sooner or later, she’d probably have to start eviction proceedings if the little pissant didn’t light out on his own.

Her gaze moved down to the final items on the list. The office building on Main with the store on the first floor. The empty lot on Spicewood she was planning to sell. The farm.

She stopped, studying that entry. The farm. Harmon’s farm. Correction: the Carmody family farm that used to belong to Harmon. Still down by a payment, the one Harmon had missed after that first stroke. Why Harmon chose to saddle that silly child with the place was something Nedda would never understand. There was no way she’d make enough money from chickens to pay off Harmon’s debts.

Or rather, she did understand what Harmon thought he was doing. She understood all too well. But it didn’t make any difference. Whatever Harmon had wanted to do, he’d still been stuck in the end—not enough money and not enough time. Maybe he didn’t want the farm in Nedda’s hands, but it wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter. He could try to postpone it, but he couldn’t change it. And, of course, he was dead. Which meant that whatever he’d planned was irrelevant.

Nedda studied the numbers on the screen again, letting her lips slide into a rare smile. Harmon had already lost, and she was going to win. Finally, after forty years, she was going to win.

Chapter Two

Joe had debated dropping the eggs off in the kitchen before he got his shower, but finally decided against it. He’d made a deal with himself back when he’d climbed out of his own personal pit—he’d never again show up in a kitchen in anything less than top shape. And that included being in chef’s whites. His pants might be black canvas with the Saints logo up the sides, but he held onto the white jacket as the mark of professionalism. For a while, it had been all he had to show that he was back on his game.

Now he walked into his kitchen, black chef’s beanie in place, bandana knotted around his neck. The tall white toques French chefs wore struck him as slightly ridiculous—the beanie was good enough to confirm his status as the chief rooster in this particular kitchen.
Rooster
made him think of his new egg producer, which in turn made him smile as he put the egg cartons on the counter.

Ms. MG Carmody looked a lot better than most of the chicken farmers he’d had dealings with over the years, even if she did give the impression of someone who wasn’t sure exactly of what she was doing. She also looked like someone who badly needed a second source of income. Twenty-five hens weren’t going to bring in enough to keep her farm going, unless she started producing something else along with the eggs.

He nodded toward one of the line chefs, Darcy, who was washing micro greens for lunch. “Morning.”

Darcy raised her head far enough for him to see the bright green tips of her hair and mumbled something that might have been a greeting or a curse.

He sighed. Darcy had wanted the sous chef position that he’d recently opened up in the kitchen, although she hadn’t actually applied for it because he hadn’t actually asked her to apply. Of the three cooks at the Rose, she was the most qualified for the job—she had a culinary degree, her cooking skills were first rate and she worked like a son of a bitch. On the other hand, her people skills were virtually non-existent. And the sous chef would be in charge of the kitchen when Joe wasn’t watching. He figured if he’d hired Darcy, his other two cooks would have quit within a week.

Of course, Darcy herself might quit now, given how pissed she was about the whole sous chef deal. The manager at the Silver Spur had already hired away Joe’s prep cook, and he happened to know Leo and Jorge were both getting offers. Fortunately, the salary and benefits package at the Rose was decent. Still, he needed to do something to smooth Darcy’s feathers. She might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she was a hell of a cook.

“Found us a new egg producer.” He opened the cartons, checking the eggs for dirt. “She lives down the road here. Small operation, maybe eighteen or twenty eggs a day.”

Darcy raised her eyebrow but said nothing, keeping her focus on the greens.

Joe felt like sighing again. The hell with it—time to face the problem head on. “Okay, Darcy, let’s talk this out.”

She turned to look at him, her chin elevated mutinously.

Joe raised his hands in what he hoped with a calming gesture. “Look, darlin’, I know you’re pissed about not getting the job, and I know you’re a smokin’ cook. Hell, we both know that. If it was just cooking, you’d be a shoo-in. But that’s not all the job involves. Right now, you can’t talk to other people for shit, and we both know that too. If you want to be sous chef, you need to learn how to get other people to work with you. And at the moment, you’re not ready to do that.”

Darcy froze, chin up, back rigid.

Oh crap, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“How am I supposed to learn to do that?” she said between her teeth. “I’m spending half my time washing fucking greens and peeling potatoes, for Christ’s sake.”

He shrugged. “Okay, I know, we’re down on staff. We need somebody to do prep work, but prep cooks aren’t thick on the ground around here. I’ll work with Kit to find somebody long term, and maybe I can find someone to do the crap part of the job now—washing and peeling and slicing. I agree, you shouldn’t get stuck with all of this.”

Darcy’s back relaxed slightly, and she looked him in the eye for once. “You think Kit will go for hiring more help?”

“Sure, why not? We lost Herb to the Silver Spur, so we’re down by one. And we’re always scrambling back here anyway. I’ve got a standing order for more cooks.”

She blew out a breath. “So who did you hire for the sous chef?”

He shrugged again. “New guy. From Austin. He should be here after we finish lunch service.”

“What’s his name?”