be half that. Then you have late sleepers who skip breakfast, and the tourists who want to try out the restaurants in town. But we ask the guests to give us a meal count each day for the next day so we know how many to cook for.”
Brooke continued to scan the facilities. “It’s a lovely room.” More intimate than the hotel ballrooms she was used to.
“Thanks. We didn’t want it to feel impersonal like a lot of places that serve large numbers all at once.” With that, Mrs. Teague led the way back into the kitchen.
“That’s about it,” she said after she’d pointed out a few more highlights. “Any questions?”
Brooke shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then let’s shoot for six o’clock.” She patted Brooke’s hand where it sat palm down on the large, cool surface of the island.
The friendly, familiar gesture surprised Brooke. But based on her limited knowledge of the other woman, it seemed totally in character.
The phone rang, drawing Mrs. Teague’s attention to the caller ID. “Oh, I’m sorry but I have to take this.”
“Okay, no problem.”
Brooke smiled as Mrs. Teague headed out of the room, hoping only a few more hours stood between her and a job. Because, honestly, if she didn’t get this position, she didn’t know if she had the energy to start her search over again. When she’d found the ad online for the ranch cook opening at Vista Hills, something had made her latch on to it, planning her new life around the idea of working here.
She hoped that decision proved wiser than the one that had led her to Texas. The one that had forced her to walk away from the person she’d been before, as if Brooke Alder had never existed.
RYAN TEAGUE PRESSED the hot brand into the board, the last piece of a large trunk he’d just finished constructing. When he pulled the branding iron away from the wood, his nose tingled as it always did from the scorched scent in the air.
He smoothed his hand over the image—a VHR flanked by a simple wildflower on one side and a horse on the other. He made a mental note to call the doctor in San Marcos who’d ordered the trunk as a wedding gift for his daughter.
After hanging the branding iron in its spot next to his shop’s large outdoor stone fireplace, Ryan wiped the sweat from his face and headed inside to cool off and get a drink. It was only mid-May, but central Texas was already doing its damnedest to give Hades a run for its money in the heat race. Still, anything was better than the merciless inferno that was the Iraqi desert.
He froze halfway to the fridge as a chill swept through him, one that had nothing to do with the cranked air-conditioning. He closed his eyes, brought a view of the ocean to mind, and imagined the sound of the waves. He inhaled and exhaled slowly—once, twice, three times.
The moment passed, thank God not a true flashback this time. They were less frequent now than they’d been two years ago, when he’d been shipped home with a hole in his leg the size of a baseball.
As if the injury had happened yesterday, he felt that blinding pain again. He fought the urge to reach down and rub the side of his thigh. But the pain was all in his head, his memories. He hardly ever even limped anymore. Months and months of hard work had him walking normally so he didn’t have to be reminded of that horrible day every time he put weight on his leg.
Harder to banish was a head full of images no one should ever have to see. Despite the therapy and his family’s support, he still wasn’t sure the lessening of the flashbacks was a good thing. Part of him still believed he deserved them.
With a curse, he shoved those thoughts back to the other side of the world and crossed the distance to the fridge. He jerked the door open and … found it empty.
He’d forgotten to restock. What a surprise. Sometimes he’d swear being nearly blown up had knocked some of his memory loose. As if to punish him for his absentmindedness, the sides of his parched throat stuck together. Time to go pilfer some sodas from his parents until he could get into town to buy his own. And with the length of the order list for his custom-made furniture, God only knew when that would be.
He walked the short distance from his shop-home combo to the main drive into the ranch. His parents’ house, the ranch office and the horse barn were visible the moment he made the turn. Even though he didn’t live far from his parents, a hill and several large live oak trees gave him the privacy he needed.
Choco, the family’s chocolate Lab, descended the steps from the front porch and ambled out to meet him.
“Hey, boy,” Ryan said as he crouched and gave the dog a good scratching between the ears. He nodded toward where Nacho, the yellow Lab, lay watching them from the porch. “I see your buddy is as lazy as ever.”
Choco snorted as if agreeing. Ryan laughed then resumed his trek toward refreshment.
When he stepped in the back door to the kitchen, he noticed his mom standing behind the open refrigerator door.
“Perfect timing,” he said. “Please tell me you have a cold 7-Up in there.”
When the fridge examiner leaned back, it most definitely wasn’t his mother. Instead, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty stared back at him.
“Oh, sorry. Thought you were my mom.” For a moment he felt as though he’d wandered into the wrong house, then he thought maybe this woman was a guest. But why was she in the kitchen with no one else around?
Or had his mom finally hired a new cook? After years of seeing Trudy helping his mom in the kitchen, he hadn’t been prepared for someone near his own age. He hadn’t even known his mom’s weeks of interviews had finally come to an end.
“You’re Mrs. Teague’s son?” Was that a touch of nervousness in her voice?
“One of them. Ryan. Are you the new cook?”
The woman placed a package of chicken on the island and closed the fridge.
“Not yet. I’m making your parents dinner tonight, sort of a tryout.”
A tryout? His mom hadn’t required that of any of the other applicants. Then it clicked what day it was. He laughed, but at the stricken look on the woman’s face he reined himself in.
“Sorry. Bit of a family joke.” He pointed toward the calendar on the wall, one adorned with prints by famous Western painters like Frederic Remington and Charles Russell. “Thursday is family night around here, with mandatory attendance by all. We each take a turn providing the meal and entertainment. Guess whose night it is.”
“Your mother’s?”
“Bingo.”
She smiled, just a little, but it was enough to make something in his chest perform an unexpected flip-flop.
Not a good thing.
He forced any hint of a smile from his expression and headed toward the refrigerator. Damn, he had to remember to buy his own drinks.
“I shouldn’t have assumed I was just cooking for two,” she said.
“Mom didn’t tell you how many to cook for?” That was odd.
“She got a phone call she had to take when we were talking, and then headed over to the office. I guess she just forgot when she got busy, and I assumed when she said ‘just the family,’ she meant her and your father.”
Ryan stared into the fridge, not seeing any 7-Up. He grabbed an orange soda instead and closed the door. When he turned around, she—whatever her name was—was eyeing the chicken and chewing on her lip.
“Seven adults, one six-year-old boy.”
Her gaze met his, and for some reason he got the feeling that part of her was somewhere else. “Huh?”
“That’s how many you’re cooking for.”
She