Her Cowboy Boss. Patricia Johns
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Hank led the way back out of the room. Avery locked the door behind them and followed him down the long hall and out into the sunlight. She paused, looking around. The main house was visible on the crest of a hill a couple of miles off, and the horses shone bronze as they grazed in the field next to it. From their vantage point, slightly higher than the rest of the ranch, she could make out a wider view of the patchwork effect of adjacent fields. Early afternoon sunlight splashed over the distant barn that was visible from her bedroom window, and a tractor towing a trailer filled with hay crept along a gravel road, clouds of dust billowing up behind it. The canteen, which hunched next to the bunkhouse, was a low wooden building with a hitching post out front.
Hank didn’t seem like he’d say much else, and she wondered if she’d overdone it. But her time here was limited, and if she were going to take this job in order to find out a little more about her father, then she’d have to ask questions.
“How long have you worked here?” she asked, changing tack.
“Twelve years,” he replied, then turned toward her just before they reached the door to the canteen. “Long enough to know the boss really well. He’s been good to me, and I’m not about to gossip about his personal business. I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you.”
Heat suffused Avery’s cheeks. “Didn’t mean to offend.”
“If you want to talk, let’s talk about you,” Hank said, pulling open the door and letting her go inside first. The canteen was cool and dark, and it took a moment for Avery’s eyes to adjust.
“This way.” Hank moved past her. She stood there for a moment, glad for the darkness that could hide the color she knew was in her face. She didn’t like being chastised. Maybe this cowboy thought of her as some youngster compared to him, but she was far from naive, and far from being meek. Avery moved forward and her shin connected with something solid she couldn’t make out in the dim light.
“Ouch!” She closed her eyes in a grimace, and then opened them to find she could see a little better now. It had been a bench in her way, and Hank now stood in front of her. He was a big man, but his presence was even larger than his physical size. He always seemed to be inspecting her when he looked at her like that, and she found it irritating.
“You okay?” His voice was rough but gentle, and in the dim light his closeness made her feel slightly flustered. He obviously didn’t trust her, but he wasn’t being a complete jerk, either.
“Fine,” she said. “I can see better now.”
“That’s good.” He walked away from her again, and she followed in his wake, moving around tables and chairs toward the swinging kitchen door ahead. He flicked the switch as they went inside, and the room buzzed with florescent light.
“So how long are you here for?” Hank asked. He opened a drawer and tossed her a white apron.
“It won’t be long-term. I just needed a job while passing through,” she said cautiously. Obviously, they’d need to plan for the future around here, and she felt a pang of guilt. “Look, truthfully, I need to be back in Salina by June twenty-fourth. So I’ll be here for a couple of weeks. You’ll definitely want to keep looking for a cook.”
“Ah.” He paused, eyed her for a moment. “Thanks for letting me know.”
She shrugged, but felt like a fraud—could he sense that?
“You have someone waiting for you back in Salina?” he asked.
She eyed the kitchen appliances—two stoves, a large industrial fridge, a massive mixer on one counter.
“Someone?” She smiled wryly. “No. But I’m reopening my mom’s flower shop when I get back. I was pretty much raised in that shop. I went there every day after school and did my homework at the front counter.”
That store was more of a home than their little apartment had been, and when her mother died, it was the only stability she had left.
“So you’re a florist,” he said, shooting her an odd look.
“My mom was a florist,” Avery corrected him. “I worked at the bank, but when mom passed away and her life insurance came through, I quit so I could concentrate on her business.”
In college, 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.