Chapter 4
MATTHEW
I nstead of entering the dining room through the door used by guests, I passed through the kitchen so I could check on Damon Gansevoort, our head chef.
This was my nightly ritual. When I hired him at the start of the previous summer, he’d told me he was recently sober and asked me to keep the dinner wine out of the kitchen.
We both quickly learned that he needed much more distance than that from temptation.
After the first evening with a drunk cook at the stove stirring up scorched risotto, I worked harder to make sure none of the wine made its way into his hands.
I did such a good job securing the wine that he moved on to the stash of liquor in the Round Room and went on another bender.
When I called him into my office to fire him, he confessed he’d lost his daughter and wife in a car accident and, when those memories hit, he’d do whatever was necessary to get a drink to numb the pain.
I couldn’t help but empathize with the guy, especially having recently lost my own parents in a wreck.
I pledged to keep him on staff and lock away all the alcohol on the premises.
My efforts were successful, and we signed a contract for him to return the following summer season.
This summer, he’d only had one incident, and, fortunately, it was the night of our cookout, so he wasn’t required to prepare food for guests, anyway.
Now I lived in fear of him tumbling off the wagon again, so to speak.
The second I walked into the kitchen and heard him barking directions at his sous chef, an unflappable young woman aptly named Serenity, I knew he was fine.
Bad mood, good food was the saying around here.
“Evening, Serenity.”
She glanced over her shoulder while still agitating a pan on the stove. “Hi, boss.”
Every day, I was thankful that Serenity didn’t take our chef’s moods personally. In fact, it appeared they were developing a mentor-student relationship. One day in the staff mess hall, I even heard her gently tease him, and he’d nearly smiled. A small miracle.
Chef, which was not only Damon’s job title but what we called him around the ranch, stood at a different stove, sampling a chunk of what looked like fried potato.
The intense concentration on his face told me he knew more about flavors than anyone I’d ever met.
In response to whatever he tasted, he added several dashes of Kosher salt to the roasting pan.
“Evening, Chef.”
His silence didn’t surprise me. When he was cooking, he didn’t bother with the niceties like greetings or “God bless you” when someone sneezed.
In fact, if you sneezed in his kitchen, he’d probably take a meat cleaver to one of your limbs.
Sometimes I forgot about his germophobia, which is why I reached out to taste one of the recently washed green beans sitting in a colander.
“Are these local?” I asked.
Chef snapped a kitchen cloth in my direction. “Do not infect my vegetables with your grubby hands. And, yes, they’re local.”
I lifted an eyebrow at him. “Is that any way to speak to the man who pays your salary?”
“Fine, put your paws all over them.” He picked up a giant roasting pan full of chopped vegetables and carried it to one of our industrial-sized ovens. “And when you pass Giardia to your guests, you can explain to the health department how it happened.”
I backed away from the vegetables. “It’s not like I’ve had my hands in cow excrement today, but okay.”
Serenity looked over at me, waiting to see if I was going to push things further. I wasn’t. Damon was sober, the kitchen smelled delicious, and, by the look of things, the meal would roll out on time. All this good news had me feeling downright optimistic.
“And I’m not making chicken tenders for those kids out there,” Chef said. “If they want shitty food, they can go to The Marmot.”
The Mangy Marmot was a bar and grill owned by a good friend of mine, and I didn’t appreciate his slight on her establishment. “Fine, if anyone requests chicken tenders, Serenity will cook them because we’re here to make our guests happy, even if we think it’s beneath us to do so.”
Chef whirled around and headed to his rack of saucepans. “Fine. Now get out of my kitchen.”
I was pretty mellow when it came to his moods, but I was still his boss, and he needed to show me some basic respect. “Excuse me?”
He lit the burner, sighing deeply. “ Please get out of my kitchen so I can focus.”
“Slightly better.” I plucked a bean out of the colander while his back was turned and winked at Serenity.
Out in the dining room, Gigi was already sitting at our usual table, head bent over a book. None of our guests had arrived yet, so I chomped on the green bean as I headed over to my daughter. Before taking my seat, I tipped my head so I could read the title on the cover.
“Another dystopian novel, huh?” I couldn’t imagine finding it entertaining to read about the end of the world, especially when it seemed to be happening in real time, but to each their own.
“Uh huh…” She didn’t look up when she spoke.
“Please put the book away now that I’ve joined you.” I took it out of her hands and marked her place before closing it.
“You’re not supposed to fold the pages!” she squealed. “Our school librarian told us that’s one of the worst things you can do to a book.”
I tried to undo the damage by smoothing out the crease I’d made. “Sorry.”
She pulled a bookmark with a stallion on it out of her back pocket and slid it between the pages. “Seriously, Dad, you should know better at your age.”
It was bad enough I made her eat in the dining room when she’d begged me to eat in the staff kitchen instead. Now I tried to fold a page down in her book? The audacity.
“Who’s that lady?” she asked, pointing to Lauren who was entering the dining room.
From her silver sandals to her silky black dress, all the way up to her delicate diamond earrings, she was the picture of elegance and grace.
She gave me a little wave as she took a seat at a window-adjacent table, and I smiled back at her, trying to look like a professional ranch owner and not a goofy bumpkin.
“Don’t point,” I told Gigi. “She’s a guest from New York. Lauren Wagonblast.”
“What?” Gigi bugged out her eyes. “I know we’re not supposed to make fun of people’s names, but Wagonblast? That’s awful. Poor lady. And she’s here all by herself. Do you think she’s alone because of her terrible name?”
“No, Gigi, I don’t think that’s the reason. Some people like to travel by themselves.”
She had a point, though. I couldn’t ever remember a woman coming to the ranch by herself.
Gigi shrugged. “Okay. She just looks like someone who would go to a big city on vacation to visit museums or something like that.”
She was right again. Never in my life had I used the word “chic” but when I looked at Lauren Wagonblast (unfortunate name aside), I understood she was the definition of it.
“Maybe she wanted a change.” I thought about her request for matcha lattes and hoped the change she wanted included her beverages.
“Maybe she’s a fugitive from justice,” Gigi suggested. “Or a government spy.” She watched Lauren with the eyes of someone with a big imagination. “She could also be here to give us a review. You should treat her really well and make sure she has a good time.”
The deluxe ranch treatment, I thought with a cringe. I didn’t believe for one second that a magazine or website sent Mrs. Wagonblast to review the ranch. We should only be so lucky.
I tugged on Gigi’s braid. “You should be a writer someday, since you’re so good at making up stories about people. I need to go over and say hello to her.”
As I strode over to Lauren’s table, I prayed Chef was going to prepare something magnificent tonight. She looked like someone who was used to five-star meals, and I needed him to put on his best cooking performance for her first night at the ranch.
“Good evening,” I said to her with a tip of my head.
“Hello, Matthew.” She smiled up at me, and I was under the spell of those brown eyes again. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.” It was time to put on those fancy manners my mother taught me. “I hope your accommodations are to your liking?”
“My cabin is fine,” she said. “The bed is so comfortable that I slept for an hour this afternoon. I was wondering, do you have a map of the ranch?”
“I have some in the office,” I said, “but, honestly, once you walk around the property tomorrow, you’ll have this area figured out in no time.
All the buildings are concentrated in one area.
You will want a map for the hiking trails, though.
If you plan to go on a long hike alone, make sure you tell us first and take enough water with you, of course. ”
She nodded, but her eyes told me she still had questions. “How do I make a reservation for the spa?”
“You mean the hot springs?” I was glad she’d asked about this amenity because it was something special we offered.
A few years back, a Canadian named Luke Daltry moved to Three Rivers, the town nearest to the ranch, and renovated the facilities at the hot springs.
The mineral waters were supposed to have healing properties, and guests had raved about their experiences over there.
“We offer trips by request,” I continued. “It’s prettier under the stars, so we usually go in the evening. Plus, it’s nice to soak after a day of riding.”
Lauren tilted her head and frowned. “No, I mean the spa here at the ranch. I’d like to look a t the menu of everything you offer.”
I widened my stance, feeling like our conversation was about to hit a rut in the road.
“We don’t have that kind of spa at Silver Sage.
” Had she really booked a trip here when she knew nothing about us?
The best I could offer for a facial was some locally sourced eggs and milk.
Actually, that sounded more like an omelet than something a lady would put on her face.