Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TWO HOURS EARLIER
Enya watched Rowan as he walked down the hall toward the war-room to meet with the other men about their mission.
If her hands hadn’t been full of the box of pies, she’d have fanned her face, because dang, it was getting hot in here.
If she told the girls that a ranch existed where the cowboys were warriors who were off-the-charts sexy, there would be a stampede that she didn’t think even the Stronghold gates could withstand.
Might be good for business.
Think of all the horses they’d sell.
Smoking-hot cowboy soldiers on display…
Twenty-dollar entry fee, but drool buckets and towels are provided for free.
“Ma’am?”
“Wha—” She jumped and glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry, Calloway, I didn’t see you there.”
“I see that, ma’am.” As soon as she stepped out of the way, he slid past her. “You were occupied by the view.”
She spluttered, but by the time she thought of a snarky comeback, he’d also disappeared in the same direction Rowan had taken. “Damn it.” Muttering to herself, she went into the kitchen and placed the pie box on the table.
What am I going to make?
She exhaled, then squared her shoulders. Rowan and his team were heading into the dark. She didn’t know the details, nor did she want to; she had enough of her own nightmares. But she would send them off with some good Southern cooking that stuck to their ribs and tasted like home.
She pulled open the fridge and she scanned the shelves. Ground beef, check. Eggs, check. “Meatloaf. Everyone likes meatloaf, right?” She’d have to hunt for the rest of the ingredients, but this was a ranch kitchen; if they didn’t have breadcrumbs, she’d make her own.
She grabbed the beef and set it on the counter.
Then the eggs, a bottle of ketchup, and a half-used onion.
The pantry yielded a can of tomato paste, a box of saltines she could crush into crumbs, and a jar of dried oregano.
She lined everything up like soldiers, but when she reached for the Wash Your Sister sauce, her fingers stilled.
Shit.
She could see her mom’s hands in her head and could almost hear the clink of the bottle against the mixing bowl.
A glug for the meat and a glug for the glaze, don’t skimp, baby, that’s where the flavor lives.
But how much was a glug? Two teaspoons? A tablespoon? She should know this. She’d stood at her mom’s elbow every Sunday, watching, learning how to make her daddy’s favorite supper.
Before she could second-guess herself, she wiped her hands on her jeans and grabbed her phone from the back pocket.
The screen lit up with half a dozen missed calls from her mom, all from the last few days.
Guilt twisted in her gut. She’d been so wrapped up in her own head, in the rhythm of Stronghold and the way Rowan’s presence seemed to take up all the air in a room, that she’d let the calls go to voicemail.
But her mom wouldn’t care; she’d just be happy she was calling her now.
She hit the call button before she could chicken out.
The line rang twice. “Enya?” Her mom’s voice was warm, and filled with a tinge of relief that filtered down the phone.
“Hey, Mama.” Enya’s voice came out smaller than she intended. She cleared her throat. “Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been… busy.”
“Baby, I was starting to worry. Your daddy said you were doing okay, but—”
“I am.” The lie tasted bitter, but she swallowed it down. “I’m good. Really.” Her momma didn’t need to know that she wasn’t sure if she was ever going to be ‘good’ again. She picked at the edge of the countertop, her nails catching on a groove in the wood. “Actually, I, uh. I need your help.”
“Anything.”
She could hear the smile in her mom’s voice and could picture her wiping her hands on her apron, turning away from whatever she was doing to give Enya her full attention. It made her eyes burn.
“I’m making meatloaf,” she said. “For Rowan and his team. They’ve got a thing tonight—” a mission, a job, something that could get them killed— “and I wanted to make them something good. But I can’t remember how much Wash Your Sister sauce goes in the bowl.”
Her mom laughed, and just like that Enya was ten again, standing on a stool to reach the counter, her mom’s arm slung around her shoulders as she made multiple attempts to pronounce Worcestershire sauce.
From that day on, in their house, it had become Wash Your Sister sauce.
“Oh, honey. You always overthink it. It’s not rocket science.
” A rustling sound, like she was shifting the phone to her other ear. “You got your notebook?”
She blinked. “My—?”
“Your little blue notebook. The one you used to write all my recipes in.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She had had one. A spiral-bound thing with a faded cover, pages stuffed with her mom’s scrawled instructions and her own messy notes. But she had no idea where it was now. “No,” she said, her voice thick. “I think it’s in my bedroom there.”
“That’s alright, baby. We’ll walk through it together.”
Just like that, her mom was there. Not in the kitchen with her, or with her hands guiding hers as she measured and mixed, but there all the same. Enya grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper from the junk drawer to scribble down the measurements her mom dictated.
“Two pounds of beef. One egg. Half a cup of breadcrumbs. A third of a cup of ketchup in the mix, another third for the glaze.”
“And the Wash Your Sister?”
“A glug, Enya,” her mom said, amused. “You’ll know it when you see it. Just tilt the bottle until it feels right.”
Enya huffed a laugh, “That’s not a measurement.”
“Sure it is. It’s a soul measurement. You remember how we used to make it together? You’d always try to sneak a bite of the raw mix.”
“And you’d smack my hand.” Enya leaned against the counter, the phone pressed to her ear. “Said I’d get salmonella.”
“You did, that one time when you were about ten. Lord, you were sick as a dog. Your daddy had to carry you to the truck to take you to the ER.”
“Mama,” she whispered.
“I miss you, baby.” Her mom’s voice wobbled a little. “I know you’re where you need to be right now. But I miss you.”
Enya swallowed hard. “I miss you, too.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with all the things she wasn’t able to say out loud.
I’m scared.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay.
What if I can’t come back from this?
But her mom, ever the pragmatist, was the one to break it. “You got onions for that meatloaf?”
Enya sniffed, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Good. Don’t skimp on the salt when you sweat ’em down, and make sure you let the meatloaf rest before you cut it, or it’ll fall apart. Your daddy never could wait the full ten minutes.”
Enya laughed. “I remember you stabbing him with the fork by accident one time.”
“I did, didn’t I? He was madder than a rooster with hens and next week’s eggs to protect.” Mirth warmed her mom’s voice. “Now go on. Make those boys a meal they won’t forget.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hung up and set the phone down, her fingers lingering on the screen for a second longer than necessary. Then she squared her shoulders, grabbed the onion, and got to work.
As the kitchen filled with the sharp, sweet scent of caramelizing onions, the rhythm of it came back to her like muscle memory. She dumped the beef into the bowl, added the eggs, the breadcrumbs, the ketchup, and then hesitated over the Wash Your Sister sauce.
A glug.
She tilted the bottle.
One.
Two.
Three.
There. That feels right.
She added the cooled onions. Her hands moved on their own as she mixed everything together, her fingers digging into the meat, kneading it like she was working dough.
It was messy and just as much fun as she’d remembered it to be.
She shaped the loaf, patting it into place in the baking dish, then slid it into the preheated oven.
The timer beeped as she set it for fifty minutes.
The potatoes were next. She peeled them at the sink, the skin curling away in long, thin strips, the water running cold over her fingers. Her mom had always made her do this part when she was little.
‘Keep the peels thin, Enya. Waste not, want not.’
By the time she had the potatoes boiling and the greens washed and trimmed, the kitchen was a symphony of sounds and smells from the bubbling water, the timer ticking down, and the rich scent of meat browning in the oven. She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed, and let herself breathe.
The timer on the oven beeped, startling her.
Fifty minutes already? She pulled on an oven mitt and cracked the door open, the heat rolling out in a wave.
The meatloaf was golden brown, the edges just crisp enough, the glaze caramelized in places.
She pulled it out, setting it on the stovetop to rest, just like her mom had told her. Let it sit, baby. Patience.
She drained the potatoes, the steam billowing up around her, then dumped them back into the pot.
Butter, milk, and a pinch of salt. The masher made quick work of them, the potatoes breaking down into creamy, fluffy piles.
She tasted a bite, decided they needed a little more salt, adjusted, then tasted again.
“Yum.” Perfectly rich and smooth enough to make her close her eyes and sigh.
A groan from behind her made her jump, and the wooden spoon she’d been using on the potatoes went flying.
“Christ.”
Her eyes widened as Rowan ducked to avoid the flying potato bomb, but didn’t quite make it, and it hit his chest, leaving a smear of mashed potato on his shirt.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” She grabbed a dishtowel and raced across the room to try and wipe the mess off Rowan’s shirt.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for—” She stopped in front of him, rag in hand.
Rowan blinked. His gaze flicked from the smear of potatoes, then to her, a grin spreading across his face. “You threw mashed potatoes at me.”