Things That Go Hump In The Night (54 page)

But right now, I didn’t feel like following someone else’s recipe. My encounter with Anita had left me feeling insulted, which I didn’t appreciate.
Especially
not while I was standing inside of a kitchen, which was my domain.

I slammed the binder shut. Anita didn’t know this, but
I
was a personal chef once, and I knew that I could cook good food without anybody’s help.

Chapter 3

Kyle and Tucker were the first ones to come back for lunch.

“Where’s the lemonade?” Kyle asked playfully.

“I got a little held up,” I said. But luckily, I’d had time to make some, and I pulled a pitcher of it out of the refrigerator.

Kyle poured himself a glass right away and gulped it down greedily. Tucker got his own glass out of the cabinet, moving slowly behind me while I finished fixing lunch. I felt him brush up against me and froze.

I didn’t move until I heard him join Kyle on the other side of the counter.

The kitchen door banged open, and suddenly the room was full of the boisterous noise…and smell of hardworking men.

“Dang! What smells so good?”

“I’m starved!”

“Hey, where’d you get that lemonade?”

I pulled lunch out of oven and set it on top of the stove. The ranch hands fell quiet as they stared.

“Are those empanadas?” somebody asked.

“Kind of,” I said. My face began to burn as I fell under their scrutiny. “They’re, um, chicken pot pie popovers.”

I’d made the crust using some frozen pastry sheets I found in the back of the freezer. The chicken was seasoned with garlic, rosemary, and sage, and I’d stuffed it with broccoli, peas, and every type of cheese I was able to find.

“Well, what are you waiting for, guys? Dig in!” Tucker said.

I gave him a small, grateful smile, and he winked.

I stood back while the men formed a line. Then, food in hand, they retreated to their various designated eating spots. Tucker and Kyle claimed the table with three other guys. A trio of older men lined up on stools at the counter. Most of the others went back outside, lounging in the shade on the edge of the porch.

I tried to look busy as I began cleaning up, but I felt a little nervous as I waited for the first man to try my food. Then, I heard one of the older men at the counter take his first bite.

“
Yowch!
That’s hot…but
damn,
that’s good…”

I turned around to see him give me an approving nod as he chugged his lemonade. The man next to him chewed slowly, scowling in concentration.

“Yeah. Not bad. Good job, Cookie.”

“Joe, her name’s Hailey,” Tucker said.

“I’m gonna call her Cookie.”

I felt all the tension release in my body, and I beamed. “Thanks, guys. There’s plenty more if you want seconds.”

When I finished cleaning, I got my own plate and leaned back against the counter.

“You gotta love a gal who can cook,” Joe said between bites. He gestured to me as he talked with his mouth full. “You can tell just by looking at her. I never trusted skinny cooks. It’s like all they know how to make are those frou-frou salad things.”

“You talkin’ about Anita?” Kyle said with a snort. “Because that
is
all she knows how to make.”

The ranch hands laughed, and I smiled to myself. I could tell Anita was a capable cook, judging from the high end, gourmet ingredients that stocked the pantry. But after the stinging encounter I’d had with her, hearing the guys say what they thought about her warmed my heart.

* * *

The rest of the day flew by in a flash. After lunch, I went back to my guest house to catch up on the laundry I’d accumulated during my trip. My washer and dryer were on the side of the house, under the shade of a makeshift porch roof of hammered tin. While the washer was running, I took a shower. I knew that after dinner, I wouldn’t have much time to do anything but go right to sleep so I could wake up for another early day.

I noticed that my hair had stained my towel brown. When I examined myself in the mirror, I could see a hint of blonde roots coming through. I fingered the ends of my hair, wondering where in town I could find home hair-dying kits.

My blonde hair had been my pride and joy. Until I got with Quentin, that is. I wasn’t a small woman, and my curves got enough attention in the right outfit. But if I wore my hair down, I turned every head on the street. My natural hair was blonde, long, and thick. Quentin had loved my hair at first, but after a few months he began to demand that I put it up in a bun any time I went out.

Now, my hair was muddy brown from the dye job I’d given myself in a rest stop bathroom. The ends were frayed and split after I hacked some inches off with a pocketknife. I felt invisible and bland without my hair, but I had to remind myself: “Lay low.” I said the words aloud, like a spell to ward off evil. Evil in the form of Quentin.

I folded a bandana in half and tied it over my hair to hide the roots. I put Quentin out of my mind and concentrated on the present. There was laundry to be done, and dinner to make. I wasn’t going to feel sorry for myself just yet.

At a quarter to five, I crossed the grounds to the main house once more. I’d left several long filets of salmon marinating in lemon and white wine in the refrigerator, and they were finally ready to be baked in the oven. The sides tonight were going to be grilled asparagus and cream of potato soup. I’d found some crusty, day-old bread that would go perfectly with the latter.

At six o’clock sharp, the ranch hands filed in, eyeing up my offerings curiously. Some of them grumbled about eating fish as cattlemen, but I knew their attitudes would change after tasting my crispy, glazed salmon.

Once again, I stood aside and watched as the men ate and joked around, unwinding after a long work day. The soup ladle kept banging around in the tureen as people got up for seconds, until eventually it
thunked
against the bottom after every last drop had been scraped out.

“That was delicious, Cookie,” one of the ranch hands said as he wiped his mouth.

I thanked him politely.

The others echoed the first man’s sentiments, pausing to pat me on the back as they put their dishes in the sink. The room slowly emptied as the men went out the door, yawning and stretching with full stomachs. But their sunbaked, working man smell lingered as I rolled up my sleeves and prepared to wash the dishes.

It took me almost an hour to get through them all. I made sure to hand dry them and put them in the cabinet, so I wouldn’t face Anita’s wrath in the morning. My bones ached. I was surprised by how hard this work was. But at least it was fulfilling. I was sure that mealtimes were the only reprieve these men faced while toiling under the summer sun.

I gave the kitchen a final once-over before shutting off the lights and walking out. I was looking forward to taking off my bandana, washing my face, and falling into bed…

Until I saw Tucker waiting for me on the back porch.

He hopped up when he saw me. His dark hair glowed amber at the edges with the setting sun behind him. “Hey. I was wondering if I could walk you back.”

“Sure,” I said.

Tucker fell into step beside me as we made our way to the guest house. He kept his stride short and slow.

“Thank you for cooking today, Hailey. Your food is the best food we’ve all had in a while.”

I tried not to blush, but I couldn’t help myself. “I’m just doing my job.”

“No, really. You’re phenomenal.”

“Well…thanks.” After a few seconds of silence passed, I asked him, “Am I a better cook than Beatriz?”

“Ho! Boy.” Tucker chuckled. “Now, that’s a debate I don’t want to get involved in. Beatriz is a saint around these parts. But you’re more than okay. Trust me.”

He touched my shoulder and squeezed. My breath caught when he touched me, but he didn’t notice.

“You’re a little shy, aren’t you?” Tucker said.

“Who? Me?” I said in surprise. Then, I laughed. “I’m not shy at all. I left the only city I know to work on a ranch I’ve never heard of with a bunch of strangers. Does that sound shy to you?”

Tucker smirked, and his blue eyes twinkled. “You are a little quiet, though. You don’t really say anything unless someone addresses you. And you only say a few words at that.”

What Tucker said really made me think. I supposed it was true, now that I thought about it.

“I never used to be this way,” I said, more to myself than to him. I’d always been the loudest of my friends, the friendliest, the one who laughed the most. But that had all been before Quentin.

“Are you okay?” Tucker asked softly.

I looked at him, a little startled. He’d been studying my face closely, and I’d obviously shown some emotion when I was thinking about Quentin. I rearranged my expression, pasting on a wide grin.

“Sorry. I’m just beat. I can’t stop thinking about going to bed.”

“Me too.”

We finally reached the guest house, and I put my hand on the knob of my front door. I paused, wondering if I should hug him. “Well…thanks for walking me back.”

“No problem. Good night, Hailey.”

“Good night.”

We stared at each other. Tucker’s shoulders rose, and for an instant I thought he was going to wrap his arms around me. But he only gave me a curt nod and turned around.

I exhaled a lungful of hot air and opened the door.

“Oh, Hailey.”

“Yeah?” I said, turning around.

Tucker had only gone a few paces, and he was standing with his hands in his pockets. “I know you’re shy and all, but you can always talk to me if you want. I don’t bite.”

Shy.
The thought of it still made me want to laugh, but I just smiled. “Thanks, Tucker. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chapter 4

I had an easier time getting up the second time around. Wearing my freshly laundered clothes and my folded bandana tied around my hair, I started my walk to the main house. I passed by the spot where I’d seen the bear tracks and noticed they were gone.

Somebody had either scuffed them away or filled them in. That meant at least somebody had
seen
them. I felt marginally safer knowing that other people knew there might be a bear wandering the property.

I was planning a French variation of yesterday’s breakfast when I walked into an occupied kitchen for the second time. Once again, there was a slender, blonde woman sitting at the kitchen table, but it wasn’t Anita. She was a bit older, perhaps in her forties. But with her icy highlights and bright, blue eyes, she still looked too pretty to be real. She was wearing a set of activewear, the hoodie and pants cut from matching pink velour, and looked like the type of woman who’d own a Pomeranian. The words
trophy wife
floated briefly through my mind.

“So
you
must be Mrs. Henderson,” I said.

Mrs. Henderson’s face broke out into a nervous smile, and she rose from the table where she’d been drinking a cup of tea. “Hi. I’m sorry to barge in. I was hoping you’d make me something?”

“Don’t apologize for being in your own kitchen,” I said. I took my apron off of the hook on the wall and put it on. “I’m sorry, though, I thought Anita prepared your meals?”

“Oh, she does,” Mrs. Henderson said brightly. “But I got up early to do my yoga, you see, and...” She made a show of glancing over each of her shoulders before dropping her voice. “Anita never wakes up before seven. She takes
sleeping pills
.” She said the words the way a powdery, old church lady might say
masturbation.

“
Oh,
” I intoned knowingly. “In that case, I’d be happy to fix you something to eat. I was planning on making scrambled eggs with gruyere and sweet potato croquettes for the guys, if you want some for yourself.”

Mrs. Henderson pressed her lips together.

“Or…I could make whatever you want for breakfast. As long as it’s quick,” I said.

Mrs. Henderson looked relieved. “I
was
thinking about eggs benedict during my sun salutations,” she said, looking slyly to the side.

Yowza.
This woman certainly had a demanding palate, and whipping up eggs benedict on the fly would be no easy task, especially with the other mouths I had to feed. Still, I hated saying no to the lady of the house. Plus, compared to Anita, Mrs. Henderson was a saint.

“You got it,” I said. And I realized that I was actually looking forward to the challenge.

“Oh,
thank
you!” Mrs. Henderson gushed. “And I don’t even know your name! What do I call you?”

“Hailey,” I said. Then, I thought for a moment. “But everyone calls me Cookie.”

“Cookie. I like it,” Mrs. Henderson said.

Mrs. Henderson chattered on and on while I started the coffee and retrieved two dozen eggs. She told me she was originally from South Dakota, and she’d met Bill Henderson in the 90’s when she was a cocktail waitress at a casino. Anita had worked at the same casino while putting herself through culinary school, and it had been Mrs. Henderson’s idea to hire her as the family’s personal chef.

“I feel like she gets away with a little more as an employee because she’s my best friend, but it’s her cooking that makes up for it,” Mrs. Henderson said, masking her bitterness gracefully.

“Well, wait ‘til you taste my food,” I said boldly.

Mrs. Henderson’s eyes went wide. Then, she laughed. “Oh, Cookie!”

I smiled to myself as I cooked up a storm. I had all four of the stove’s burners going. Two were for the men’s eggs, one was for sweet potatoes, and one was for the single pan containing two eggs and two strips of turkey bacon for Mrs. Henderson. I toasted an English muffin and whipped together a quick, impromptu hollandaise sauce.

By the time I plated it up, there were thirty minutes to go until breakfast.

Mrs. Henderson pressed her hands together under her chin and bounced excitedly in her seat as I brought the plate over.

“It looks absolutely decadent,” she said, lifting her fork. When she took her first bite, her eyebrows shot up.

“How is it?” I asked.

Mrs. Henderson performed her peeking-over-the-shoulder routine again. “It’s better than Anita’s eggs benedict!” she whispered. “What’s your secret?”

“That I can’t tell you,” I said with a small smile, though I was surprised she didn’t know. She’d watched me make it the whole time. My “secret” was simply substituting soy sauce for salt.

I finished up the croquettes while Mrs. Henderson ate. She was still talking my ear off, but having to pause in between to chew seemed to slow her down. She polished off the eggs and thanked me for a wonderful breakfast as the first tendrils of light appeared in the sky. Then, she slipped out of the kitchen just before the first ranch hand came in, her timing so perfect that I wondered if she’d rehearsed it all beforehand.

“Cookie!” the ranch hand said. “What you got for us this time?”

I told myself that I absolutely
had
to remember all these guys’ names. “Breakfast. What’s it look like?” I shot back.

I put the platters out and stepped away, letting the men converge like hyenas around a fresh kill. I felt myself getting even more pleased as I watched them digging in. Even Mark made a quick appearance, grabbing a plate for himself before he disappeared to do whatever work he did on the ranch.

Like last time, the guys thanked me one by one as they put their dishes in the sink, and Tucker was the last to leave. His presence lingered in my mind as I started cleaning up.
Focus,
I thought, when I caught myself thinking about him.

I made sure to wipe down the stove to Anita’s satisfaction. Then, I imagined her face when she would inevitably find out that Mrs. Henderson, her best friend, had already had breakfast—
my
breakfast. The thought put me in a jovial mood as I put the dishes into the cabinet and made my way back to my guest house.

It was a humid day, so the front door was stuck. If it hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have taken long to get inside, and maybe I wouldn’t have seen it.

But, it took me a few tries to get the door open. And I happened to look at the doorsill as I shoved my shoulder into the door for the third time.

The carving was a crude one, like someone had to really dig into the wood with a dull pocketknife, but there was no mistaking it.

Right in my door’s wooden frame, about the size of a ping pong ball, was the letter “Q.”