The Ranger's Passionate Love (2 page)

Kyara peaked out of the service window at her grand opening and tried not to cry. The dining area, small as it was, was still basically empty. Oh, it wasn’t totally abandoned. The local minister, Father “Just call me Eddie” Brinklet sat near the window, sharing a club sandwich “just the meat, none of that other fancy stuff,” with the woman Kyara figured had to be his wife.

The couple was actually pretty perfectly matched – their beady little eyes taking in the room so they could gossip about it later. Kyara missed gossiping with a man after going out somewhere new.

Not like that’ll be me anytime soon,
Kyara reflected.

Across the room sat Ms. Waite with a man Kyara didn’t know. She’d had the Caesar salad, he’d ordered the chicken cutlets.

At least there’s one new face,
Kyara reflected sadly. The man was facing away from her, but from the look of his strong shoulders, straight back, and nicely tight jeans, he might be young enough to be part of a successful set. He was young and good looking, at least from the back.
Maybe he’ll tell his friends to come in
.

Nearby, Crystal was standing near a table of her friends, all of whom were sharing a basket of fries between them, the bill counted out in change. Kyara felt like she should scold Crystal back to work, but what was there to do? No one new had come in in an hour. These weren’t her only customers of the night, but it was pretty close.

Honestly, she was probably just jealous watching the teens laugh and flirt with each other. It had been a while since she felt carefree enough with someone to perch on their lap.

It will be OK
Kyara told herself.
Word will get around, and business will pick up.

It has to,
another traitorous part of her mind whispered.
Papa’s life insurance money won’t hold out forever. Not that there was much of it in the first place
.

It will
, she told herself firmly. After all, she’d always been a good cook. True, she’d gone with a menu she figured rural Vermont types and tourists would like, rather than her usual. She knew she was amazing with soul food. She had the ribbons from enough cooking competitions to prove that. It didn’t seem likely to appeal up here, though. She hadn’t even seen okra in the store when she went shopping for herself.

Still, cooking was cooking.

This has to work. It has to. If it doesn’t, I can’t go home....

Kyara sighed again, and turned back to her station. It’s not like there wasn’t always cleaning to do in a kitchen.

* * * * *

Kyara tossed and turned. The dream was back.

Dream Kyara wound her fingers through the mass of hair in front of her. Her fingers twisted and folded, pulling the hair into neat little braids. The head in front of her bobbed back a little with each tug.

No, no. This isn’t happening. Not again.

"Oww," said Keisha, pulling forward against her hands. "Why you hav'ta pull so hard?" Keisha's voice was high and whining, but Kyara just smiled.

"To make sure it stays," Kyara told the six year old. "Don't you want to look pretty for your daddy when he's done?"

No, Not her dad. Don’t make me look at her dad.

Both Kyara and the girl in front of her looked towards Keisha's father. The man stood hunched, his back to the street. He could have been kind of cute, but his narrow face was pinched with concern. His jeans sagged down, and the bandanna around his head declared his gang allegiance to anyone who cared to look at him. Kyara's papa stood talking to him.

Papa was older, gray hair now taking over the distinguished hair framing his light caramel face. He stood straight, compared to the hunch of the younger man, his suit falling in perfect, crisp lines.

No, Papa. I miss you, but don’t make me see it again. Don’t make me....

In the dream, bits of their conversation drifted over to Kyara and her young friend.

"I'll bring this to the police for you, Darrell. They can get you out. For now, we're just a young man talking to his preacher. It'll be fine." Papa’s voice was rich and powerful, just like it had been in life.

* * * * *

The blaring of the alarm pulled Kyara from sleep, and she sat up with a start. She could still see the fall of his suit, always so neat. She could still hear her father’s voice.

“It’ll be fine.”

Her cheeks were wet with tears.

Kyara wiped her face and rolled over, crossing her painfully empty bed to swat at the shrieking alarm clock. It wasn’t even light out yet, but restaurant prep started early.

Kyara shuffled through her morning, trying not to let last night get her down.
The opening was slow, sure, but it was a slow kind of town. Once word gets around, it will be better. Plus, I opened on a Friday night, but this was still a working town. Farmers don’t really care about Friday nights, do they? They’ll take tonight, though, since they’re going to church tomorrow.

Yeah, tonight will be better.

Kyara managed to go downstairs into the restaurant with a spring in her step, if not a big one.

She unlocked and met the morning delivery. She thought she saw Mrs. Waite’s curtain’s twitch when the truck pulled up, but it was hard to tell in the early morning light.

Jan-3000 system, armed and ready, I guess,
Kyara mused.

She kept herself busy with prep for that evening. Even for a tiny place like this, there was a lot to do, and it wasn’t like she had a sou chef. She let herself get caught up in the rhythm of the work, the careful chopping and labelling forcing away the remnants of her nightmare, at least for now.

When Crystal came in hours later, Kyara looked up in surprise. Time had gone by faster than she’d thought.

The perky teenager slid her backpack, black, of course, into the corner and came to stand by Kyara.

“I’m sorry you didn’t make much money last night,” said Kyara, still chopping. Crystal snorted.

“Pastor Eddie tipped me a pocket bible.” She favored Kyara with a smile. “It’s OK, though. I got to hang out with my friends instead of at home with my mom. Plus, air conditioning. Do not underestimate the value of your air conditioning.”

Kyara returned Crystal’s smile with one of her own. Crystal studied her face for a moment, then nodded.

“I’m glad you’re in such a good mood, considering the review,” said Crystal. “I was worried you’d be all sad, the way you get sometimes.”

Kyara paused, and took a deep breath.

“I’m not going to let an empty restaurant on one night keep me down,” she said. “Once people try the food, they’ll come around.”

There was a long silence from behind her. Kyara stopped working long enough to turn around and check her young helper. Crystal’s face was even paler than usual, her blue eyes wide. Kyara turned fully to face her, waiting.

“You don’t know yet, do you?” said Crystal slowly.

Kyara stared at the teen.

“Know what?”

Crystal bent down, carefully pulling a newspaper from her bag, and handed it to Kyara. It was the local paper. Even covering Bradford and all the surrounding towns and counties, it was barely big enough to stay open. Most of the news came straight from the AP. The page it was folded back to, though, didn’t. It was local, and it was a review of her restaurant.

Patrons Don't Care for New Cafe

By Jay Hardison

When Alice Tylden passed away six months ago, the whole county went into mourning. Not only were we losing a remarkable woman who had been a pillar of the community for over thirty years, but we were losing the best cook in the state.

Naturally, when someone new moved in and took over, the town was bound to be a little skeptical. I resolved to give it a chance, however, and went to its opening night. Sadly, this new cafe lived down to my expectations.

My meal was fine, but no more. The menu felt generic and the meat, though clearly fresh, managed not to be truly succulent or spectacular. Don’t get me wrong – it was acceptable. The chef can clearly cook. What this new restaurant lacks, however, is personality.

We, who were so used to Mrs. Tylden’s age-old family recipes and personal touches, can’t help but feel like the entire experience, from the food to the decoration, is as bland as the new place’s name itself – “The Cafe.”

At best, this is a place for leaf-peepers who want to think about Madison Avenue for a bit. Maybe somewhere else this would be fine. Way out here, though, where people have to go out of their way to eat out, it just isn’t going to cut it. My advice: stay home and make your own sandwiches. You’ll get more out of it.

Kyara read the review. Then she read it again, her eyes watering.

“I ... Uh ...” she tried to rally in front of her young helper. Crystal moved over, giving her a quick hug.

“Um...” said Kyara, still trying to get over the shock. She’d never been judged to be so ... boring. “Thanks.”  She shook herself, forcing her eyes back to the counter in front of her. “We should get back to work. This place isn’t going to prepare itself.”

Crystal looked at her questioningly, then backed off a step. “Good idea, Ms. B.”

They worked in silence after that, the teenager quietly pretending she couldn’t see the tears gathering in Kyara’s eyes.

Kyara walked among the stands of fruits and vegetables, just trying to breathe them in. There was something about fresh food. The smells, complex and tantalizing, helped calm her down. The colors, a hundred shades of green at this time of year, were reassuring. She could almost stand at the fresh herb stand and take it all in, the thyme, the garlic, the new grown basil, four hours.

Almost.

The greens weren’t quite right. Where were the collards? The Okra? What was the local obsession with corn?

Just like that, she was pulled out of the fantasy world the food had helped her find, and back into reality. He farmer’s market might have been charming, the day lovely, but she didn’t belong here. It wasn’t home, and it never would be. She was in a strange place, all on her own.

At least she had a few things for dinner tonight. Not food for the restaurant. That had been faltering along for a few weeks now, but at least she hadn’t gotten to the point where she could supply it out of the local farmer’s market.

A few people were still drifting in each day, usually for lunch. Crystal’s peers came by in the afternoon, hanging out, sharing plates of fries, sneaking kisses with one another.

Kyara felt like she should shoo them out, but what would be the point? Then she’d just be staring at an empty dining room.

Just like it had every day for weeks, Kyara’s mind picked over the review, obsessing over each word. At her most bitter, she’d thought about just arranging for “Just fine, but no more.” To be put on her tombstone when she inevitably ran out of money and starved to death.

That was absurd, of course.

She knew she’d break down and call her brothers if it got that bad.

That, however, came with its own risks, its own pain.

Why didn’t I think to ask about the previous owner?
Kyara asked herself for the thousandth time.
I mean, here it was, a ready-to-go kitchen in the middle of nowhere. No one around who knew me. Surrounded by chatty neighbors who would let me know if anyone came into town. It seemed so perfect. Why didn’t I question? I could have found out about Alice Tylden. I could have known I couldn’t compete. I should have known that I would never be able to measure up.

The fact was, even though she’d counted on the smallness of the community to protect her, she’d never thought about how hard it would be to be accepted into that community in the first place.

Totally caught up in her thoughts, now spiraling down and down, Kyara didn’t even think about the world around her. Turning, she ran into someone, hard. He was as sturdy as a brick wall. Kyara tumbled backwards, her bag of vegetables spilling everywhere.

“Excuse me! I didn’t see you,” she babbled. At the exact same time, he blurted out, “I’m so sorry.”

They each paused to take a moment, his hand already extended down to help her up.

He was tall and broad shouldered.

His simple black t-shirt skimmed over the taut muscles of his arms and chest and tapered nicely into his jeans, showing off his waist. His hands seemed rough with work. When she took the offered hand, though, it was gentle.

His eyes were probably the most striking thing about him. They were a gray-green, like light playing off a pond. They matched his smile – easy and genuine, but with a hint of something hidden underneath.

He began talking to her as he bent to help her gather her lost produce.

“I really am sorry about that, Ms. Bell. I should have noticed you turning there.”

Kyara looked at him with a quirked eyebrow.

“You know my name?” she asked.
Is he blushing a little?

“Um, yeah.” He admitted. “We don’t get a lot of new people in the area.”

Kyara allowed herself to laugh a little for not having thought of it.

“Yeah, I should have figured. I’m guessing that outsiders are kind of a thing around here,” she allowed.
Plus
, she added mentally,
I’m probably the only black person around for sixty miles.
 “But, you should call me Kyara, not ‘Ms. Bell.’”

“Nice to meet you, Kyara,” he said. He seemed almost wary, but he held out his hand again. Kyara took the opportunity to shake it, feeling his large hand almost fold around hers.

Mmmm.

Good hands.

“And you are ...” she invited.

“Oh, uh, right. I’m Ja ..., um, Jason. Here, let me help you pick up.” Jason broke the handshake, the toughened pads of his fingertips trailing across the back of her hand, a pale tan next to her rich, dark brown. His touch made her mouth feel dry.

"Thank you, Jason," she said, watching him.

How does he seem this confident and this awkward at the same time? Whatever, at least he’s talking to me and trying to be polite.
Jason bent down to scoop broccoli back into her canvas bag.

Plus, he’s got a great ass.
Kyara blinked at herself. It had been a while since she let herself see anyone that way, never mind a white guy.

He straightened up, taking away her view, but handing her the vegetables. He was giving her an odd look. Kyara realized she’d been licking her lips.

“I really appreciate it,” Kyara said, trying to hide her own flush at being caught ogling. “I have to admit, it’s nice to talk to someone friendly.”

God, was that as lame as it sounded? Now I probably just seem whiny.

“It takes people a while to get used to each other around here,” he allowed. He realized he’d been griping a rather impressive cucumber in his hand, and hastily put it in the bag. Kyara had to suppress a giggle.

“Although...” he started to muse “if you wanted to get to know some more people, I’d be happy to introduce you around.”

Kyara winced, picturing herself on display like some sort of exotic pet.

Look! I made friends with a
black person!

Every black woman she knew who had made friends with a white person had had a dose of that at some point or another.

“Thanks, but I really do need to be getting back home. I don’t get much time off, and the restaurant needs a thorough cleaning before the fourth of July,” she said, stepping back a little. She fidgeted with some of the items in the bag, carefully moving the cucumber a little lower and out of sight.

“Oh ... alright,” he said. To her surprise, he looked genuinely disappointed. “If you change your mind, I’m here trying to get volunteers for the Old Mill Road restoration project. We’re going out on Tuesdays. I just thought you might like to come see what it’s all about.”

Oh, that’s it. He’s just trying to get me to volunteer for his pet cause. He doesn’t care about me in particular.
 In a strange way, the thought was both reassuring and a little disappointing.

Then why did he seem so hurt when I pulled away?

“What time do you usually meet?” Kyara found herself asking.
Where did that come from? He’s cute, but I don’t have time for this.

Then there was that smile of his. It was open and pleased, but with something just underneath, like he couldn’t quite believe she’d expressed interest.

“We get a group of teens from the local Honor’s Society around eleven. Then a group of folks who volunteer after work tend to come in around six-thirty, after they get home and eat. We meet at the General Store, but you can come on out any time. The old road starts behind the store and goes from there.” He rushed his words, sending them tripping out over one another in his haste.

Kyara did her best to give him a genuine smile, though she’d started avoiding the general store entirely, it was so unfriendly. He swallowed.
I wonder if he is watching my brown eyes as carefully as I’m studying his green ones?

“I’ll see if I can find time in the schedule,” she allowed.

“I’m glad,” he said. His shoulders relaxed, and his smile became less guarded. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Kyara said. She adjusted her bag to shake his hand, the warmth of him sending a pleasant little tingle through her fingertips.
You absolutely do not have the time or energy for tingles, Kyara,
she told herself firmly. Still, it had been a long time since she’d felt tingly over anyone.

Goodbyes made, they separated. He returned to what she now saw was a little table set up with information about his project. She gave herself permission for one more glance-over of his tousled hair and rugged features. He was really attractive, but she had to wonder at his behavior when she showed some interest in his project.

Why is he acting like I’m his momma and just let him off for having his hand in the cookie jar?

Shrugging it off, Kyara made her way back to her car. She had a life to keep quiet and struggling business to save, after all. No time for mystery men.