Chapter Five
Avery made love to her two more times before they drifted off to sleep.
He woke with her backside pressed to his front, his body and arms wound around her. Her hair smelled of the scent he never used—tea tree-lemon-sage. Apparently, his housekeeper provided it in the event he had company of the female persuasion. And he didn’t deny it was an enticing combination coming off Layla’s soft waves as they brushed his skin.
His internal clock had him rousing at half past four, and he didn’t want to disturb Layla. He definitely didn’t want to unravel from her. But he had work to do.
Yet, for the first time since he took over as bunkhouse cook, he wasn’t in any hurry to slip from the bed and get on with his busy day.
Her curves melded to his hard muscles. Her breaths were deep and measured, an enticing rhythm. She was so alluring, he could lay here for several more hours, just absorbing the sensuality of her. The feel of her.
That wasn’t a luxury he could partake in, though.
Avery believed Layla would comprehend that, having studied bunkhouse routines for her show.
He tried not to wake her, but that was impossible, given how tangled up they were. As he stirred, she did too. She glanced over her bare shoulder and said, “Sun’s not up yet, cowboy.”
“I start before sunup, honey. Gotta prep. Lots of mouths to feed, and I make everything from scratch.”
“Of course you do,” she said with admiration.
“You just go back to sleep. I’ll bring you breakfast later.”
“My flight’s not till this evening.” She yawned. “I have time to drive to San Antone with Brodi, pack, and then catch the plane.”
“So get more z’s, and I’ll see you in a bit.”
And yet he still didn’t move. Something to consider. He wasn’t in the position to be this wrapped up with a woman at the exact time he needed to get himself around and to the chuck hall.
Thus, he forced himself to swing into high gear. Kissed her temple and climbed out of bed. He dressed, refilled her water glass, then left.
He took his UTV from the house to his bunkhouse kitchen. He parked and passed through the screen door, inhaling the woodsy fragrance of oak woodchips and lit fires, those being the two cowboy campfires that warded off the early-morning chill and offered auxiliary grates for cooking.
He could see the entire outback seating straight through the primary kitchen. The setup was further illuminated by tall lamps and ground lighting, the latter so no one stepped on any snakes nesting in the grass.
His assistant, Ritchie, came in through the far doors and said, “I’ve got your chimney starters goin’, sir.”
“So I smell. Nice job, Ritchie.” Avery eyed him and added, “Didn’t think you’d be up so soon, after the weekend activities. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
“Are you kidding?” he asked with unbridled enthusiasm. “I can’t even believe how great that bash was. I had a blast!”
“You were spot on with your prep too,” Avery assured him. “Jack’s accountant will reconcile the party funds and then distribute bonus checks to the staff. Including you.”
Ritchie shook his head. “I didn’t do all that for extra money, sir. I did it because I love this ranch and all the people. And, damn!” His hazel eyes glimmered as he said, “I learned so much. We cook for a crowd here but not a crowd like that!”
“Hence the reason I told you to sleep in for an hour to recuperate.”
“I could barely sleep even after breaking down all the grills and cleaning ’em last night. Cowboys did all the heavy lifting for us, getting everything returned to their proper places.”
“We couldn’t have pulled this off without all the help.” And Ritchie hadn’t been the only one to follow Jack, Avery, and Chance’s direction to keep the event running smoothly from day to day.
Ritchie further contended, “I for sure couldn’t let you down. Not this morning, when everyone’s gonna be feeling the strain and be hungry as hell. I have the utility carts loaded with the dishes and rollups. And the coffee urn’s a-brewin’.”
Avery’s gut twisted with pride—and gratitude. He respected the kid’s work ethic. Though “kid” was borderline patronizing, and that wasn’t Avery’s nature.
Ritchie was twenty-three. He’d come to the ranch at nineteen—the same age as Avery had been when he’d taken over this position. In his four years with Avery, Ritchie had floundered and flourished. He’d been a homeless orphan when he’d wandered toward this stretch of Texas, outside Serrano, and one of the cowboys had given him a ride. Problem was, Ritchie hadn’t had anywhere to go. So he’d ended up here. And had demonstrated mad skills that Avery appreciated.
He told Ritchie, “You grab those ramekins for me so I can parse out ingredients, and we’ll get this show on the road.”
“Yes, sir.” Ritchie nearly bounced on springs as he moved behind Avery to collect what was needed. Only seconds later, he turned toward Avery, set a large bin on the metal prep table Avery had unfolded, and asked, “What is all this?”
Avery spared a glance his way. Grinned. Then he laid out his knives on the table.
“These have my name on them,” Ritchie said, emotion tinging his voice.
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
“These are aprons like yours. Grillin’ gloves too.”
“Yep.”
Ritchie sifted through the bin. The two black leather aprons had “Ritchie ‘Right Hand’ Matthews” in red scripting centered at the top, with “TRIPLE R Chef” stamped below his name and moniker. The two brown ones had green lettering. The sets of gloves matched.
His gaze shifted to Avery.
“I never expected this,” he said. More choked up now.
Avery nodded. “’Cuz you’re modest, Ritchie. You keep your attitude in check and do what needs to be done.”
“I learned that from you, sir.”
“Makes me even prouder.” Avery wouldn’t lie ... he felt the tug of emotion too. Seeing this young man grow from scrawny and unstable to sturdy and loyal—as hardworking as all the wranglers and ranch hands—filled Avery’s heart.
Ritchie was too old for Avery to think of him as a son, and yet ... he sort of did.
Ritchie pulled the items from the bin and spread them out. He gazed at them as though they were gold bars. And then pulled in a deep breath.
Avery said, “You earned those, Ritchie. Don’t think twice about it. Just suit up and check on our woodchips while I get the food rollin’.”
Ritchie did as instructed. Though his thank you lingered in his eyes.
Avery gave another nod—of acknowledgment.
“I just want you to know I’m not ever going to let you down, sir.”
“I don’t doubt it, Ritchie. And you can call me Avery or Pitty now.” His own nickname.
“Yes, sir.”
Avery held back a chuckle. “Get to it, all right?”
Ritchie yanked off his cloth apron that was stained and also frayed around the edges. He selected a black one because that was what Avery had on. He figured Ritchie might consider this a team uniform—and he wouldn’t be off the mark.
Hell, they fell so easily into step with each other, Avery knew they’d have a good chance of coming into the money with Layla’s cook-off. If he was allowed an assistant. Not that he couldn’t rustle up a meal for the wranglers, the additional staff, and the three judges all on his own. It was just that Ritchie provided the additional hands one found beneficial for mass production.
And so . . . what?
Avery’s head cocked to the side with his mental contemplation.
Was he leaning toward a potential win, a new title, cold, hard cash?
Why wouldn’t you?
Been there, done that in the reasoning department,he reminded himself.
For as much as Layla dodged her past—to whatever extent that might be—Avery had the ability to lay low on the ranch to keep his at bay too.
But he had to wonder ... was he now merely hiding out because it was convenient, and he was accustomed to his routine? Or did he fear that getting back on any kind of BBQ circuit would resurrect the troublemaker in his father?
Then again . . .
Was his dad even alive?
Sometimes people who faded into obscurity didn’t have obits or notices to next of kin. It wasn’t as though anyone at the TRIPLE R was Caleb Reed’s in case of emergency number. When he’d damn near destroyed this place by draining the coffers and was stripped of his own titles following drunken tantrums that warranted assault charges, his brother Royce Reed—Jack’s dad—had basically declared he was dead to the family anyway. Not easy words coming from a man who was so dedicated to providing for others that he’d worked himself into his own early grave in support of his legacy.
Evidently, some things couldn’t be forgiven.
Purposely tearing down what others had put so much effort into building up and sustaining—when so many lives and futures were at stake ... Being a selfish, greedy, horrendous SOB offered others some clarity when it came to cutting the umbilical cord.
How it’d all affected Avery was a barbed wire fence he still felt twisted up in. Because he’d been the one on the circuit with a madman, and he’d been well aware his dad was an alcoholic and a gambler. One with plenty of debts. Avery didn’t know how they’d gotten paid because they were heftier than the team’s winnings. Then his uncle Royce had pieced together the paper trail and realized his older brother was stealing from him. Syphoning money from the family, the entire ranch. Bleeding them dry.
Something Avery couldn’t comprehend.
He curbed these thoughts for now and tempered the anger they incited. He had food to serve.
He grabbed a crate of eggs from one of the large refrigerators and cracked half of them into a bowl that he set under the standing mixer to whip up, then started another batch. He chopped ham and veggies for Denver omelets before slicing and dicing ingredients for his avocado and tomatillo salsa verde.
Ritchie busied himself cutting home fries to parboil and pan-fry. While they were in the roiling water, he made a big bowl of fresh fruit cocktail.
They met up at the grills outside, and Avery dumped the chimney starters into the long firebox to get his heat going. Ritchie supplied the cleaned grates for one half and the flat griddle for the other portion. Once the desired temperature was reached, Avery arranged his plump breakfast sausage with a hint of cayenne on the grates, along with asparagus wrapped in applewood bacon. He got the ham and veggies cooking up and then poured the egg mixture onto the smooth surface and spread it thin with his spatula.
Ritchie set up the buffet table with plates and the rolled-up napkins with flatware. Then completed the beverage station with mugs, glasses, and spoons, adding pitchers of milk, and cranberry and orange juices.
The aromatic scents enticed the cowboys, and they filed in, filling up their cups as Avery folded the oversize omelets, cut portions at an angle, and piled them on platters that Ritchie delivered to the buffet table. Avery transferred everything else to their respective platters and then retrieved southern biscuits from his trench, to be served with either his homemade gravy or his honey-and-cinnamon butter.
The conversations came to a standstill as the chow line formed and then everyone dug in.
“Go on and join ’em,” Avery told Ritchie, who always waited until Avery indicated it was break time for them before they cleaned up.
Avery poured hot coffee and made a plate for himself, then sat with Chance at the round table off to the side that the two of them occupied. Unless Chance was eating at the main house, where he got the opportunity to have discussions with Jack and Mateo—Wyatt’s husband and the ranch rep for auctions and other business—without them having to carve time out of their day for meetings.
Didn’t take much brainpower to know why Chance was hunkering down with Avery this morning.
Sure enough, his brother jumped right in. “You left the party before it officially came to a close.”
There was humor in his tone.
Avery glowered at him. “I did my duty and turned my station over to Ritchie. Don’t hassle me, bro.”
“No hassle. Just sayin’.”
“No need to say anything. I got the job done.”
“Thoroughly,” Chance concurred. “Not an empty belly to be found on that lawn. Some were even asking for to-go containers.”
He snorted. “For the price of those tickets, I’m not surprised. Then again ...”
“Yeah ...” Chance drew in a breath. “They gorged themselves. On top-grade meats, no less. Not to mention all the sides and desserts.”
Avery ate some of his omelet, then washed it down with coffee.
He told Chance, “If the profit margin is favorable, I’d be good with doing this twice a year. Maybe quarterly.”
“Don’t know what sort of draw we’d get if it wasn’t perceived as being ‘exclusive.’ However, if we made it a smaller scale so it wasn’t so costly for us and the guests, that might be one more revenue stream for the ranch.”
“Just that Jack doesn’t like the disruption, right?”
As Chance sliced into his sausage, he said, “I can’t argue with that. George and his landscaping crew have to revive the lawn from not only the foot traffic and the tables and chairs, the carving stations and pop-up tents, but also from the dance floor and the stage.”
“That’s a good point.” He sipped some more, then ventured, “Could be Jack needs to evaluate what the impact is on the surroundings.”
“Sure thing.”
Avery groaned.
Chance glanced up from his plate. “What?”
“Something interesting has cropped up—and I’m not certain how it might bear upon the overall environment, but if all were to go well, it most definitely could pump up the operations’ bottom line.”
Chance’s brow rose. “That’s always important to Jack. Hell, to all of us. What’s simmerin’ in your head, little bro?”
“Not my idea, just so you know. It’s Layla’s.”
Chance chuckled. “How intriguing. I wasn’t going to mention that I saw you leave yesterday with her and her pretty little friend.”
“The friend is Brodi. Spitfire. You’d like her.”
“Oh, whoa.” He lifted his hands in the air, in surrender. “Don’t go getting me all knotted in your shoestrings.”
“I wear boots, dumbass.”
“And, clearly, you did get knocked right out of them by Miss Layla Jenson.”
“Inescapable,” he murmured. And polished off his omelet.
Meanwhile, Chance hooted and lightly slapped his thigh. “Didn’t I predict that was gonna happen? Christ Almighty, I should hang a shingle and start charging for fortune tellin’.”
“If you wouldn’t mind getting over yourself, I could use some actual advice.”
Chance settled down. Gave him a sincere look and asked, “What seems to be the problem? Because that was obvious mutual attraction between the two of you. From the get-go.”
“Not claiming otherwise. But she didn’t come here to kiss and cuddle with me. She came here to recruit me.”
“I’ll find out about the latter later—tell me more about the kissin’ and cuddlin’.” He wagged his brows.
If Avery hadn’t already eaten his biscuit, he would’ve thrown it at Chance.
Then again ... why waste a perfectly good biscuit?
He shook his head. And said, “On a need-to-know basis—meaning this goes no further—she’s still in my bed.”
Chance whistled under his breath. “Well, color me jealous.”
“Times a lot, I promise you. She’s ...” He clamped down on his lip, not wanting to utter a word that wouldn’t do her justice.
“It’s like that, then?” Chance mused.
“Multiplied by infinity.”
“I think that’s redundant,” Chance said. “I’ll consult Jack on that.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Avery admonished. “He’d want to know why you want to know, and that would circle back to me. And Layla. Jesus. Why are we making this so complicated?”
“I’m only following the commentary, bro. You’re the one chasin’ your tail.”
“That is a true statement.”
Avery was the one instigating all this uncertainty. For good cause.
He said, “Look, I’ll tell you straight out that she hosts a BBQ cook-off channel, and she wasn’t at the event to enlist Jack. Her project’s different.”
“How so?”
“They’re looking to crown a Best Bunkhouse Cook.”
“Hot damn,” Chance said, keeping his voice down when it seemed he wanted to shout from the rooftops. “That’s yours to win, Avery.”
“Comes with a hefty purse too. For first or second place.”
“So you signed on the dotted line?”
He scowled. “Can’t do that right off the bat. Again, gotta run the flag up the pole, starting with Jack. And ensuring your activities with the wranglers aren’t interrupted. Layla swears they have the production crew honed to be unobtrusive. If so, then great. But there’s a little more to it than that.”
Chance’s head tilted to the side. “Such as?”
“Dear ol’ Dad.”
“Ah. Him.”
“Yeah, him.”
Chance cleared his throat. Rested his elbows on the table, his chin on his clasped hands.
“So you see my dilemma,” Avery said. “One of three, really.”
“Maybe.”
“How’s that?” Avery challenged.
“Hear me out. First, we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the man in over a decade. He’s not welcome on the TRIPLE R. Brute force and embezzlement follow a person around like a ball and chain. And we’ve alerted our team to keep him off the grounds. Not to mention, the gate code has been changed countless times since Uncle Royce gave him the boot.”
“And it’s been quiet on that front, as you said. Just seems to me that if there’s money to be had, he’ll come sniffing around.”
“That could very well be. Not just related to you. If he’s learned of Jack’s channel and this past weekend’s BBQ bash, he could have dollar signs flashin’ in his eyes over all that as well.”
“And seeing me in a competition for upward of a hundred and fifty K would also draw him out.”
“Wow.” Chance whistled. “That’s a nice chunk of change.”
“Bringing me to issue number two.” Avery pushed aside his plate and drained his coffee. He said, “If I win, there are some bare necessities I’d want. New hat and a couple pairs of jeans. Some cooking equipment that will enhance what Ritchie and I do. Not anything that Jack should have to spring for beyond my budget, more gourmet—per our choice. I don’t want to tap the ranch funds for stuff Ritchie and I pipe dream about.”
“That’s commendable. And I see where this is going. You know Jack’s not gonna accept money from you, Avery.”
“If I just so happen to find myself in the position to offer it ... what would you suggest?”
Chance wiped his mouth with a napkin and dropped it onto his plate. He pinned Avery with an earnest look and said, “We’d have to get Mateo involved. He’s the top negotiator around this place. And he knows how to speak Jack’s fiscal language. Also knows how to work around Jack when he’s being stubborn.”
“Like how he got Jack to accept a bull from Luke’s poker earnings.”
“Just like.”
Avery mulled this over. Then he approached the end of the trifecta, saying, “Third quandary is that I might be more invested in Layla Jenson than just the possibility of making a fistful of cash.”
Chance grinned. “That’s a given. She had you at ‘carnivore’s heaven.’”
“Listening in, were ya?”
“I drop eaves when warranted.”
“You’re not as amusing as you think you are.”
“I don’t have any trouble makin’ the ladies laugh. You, however ... you’re an odd duck for sure.”
“Duck ... oh, fuck!” He slapped his hands on the table.
“What the hell was that all about?”
“Turducken would be my specialty meal for the contest. I fucking can’t go wrong with that. I make it for the ’boys on major holidays, and they scarf it down.”
“Avery, they scarf down everything you make.”
“Could just mean they’re starving because you’ve got them out on the range all day.”
Chance’s guffaw garnered attention. But then the wranglers went back to eating.
He said, “See? Can’t really be bothered by anything else when they’re chowin’ down—on your food.”
“Okay, fine. But why am I an odd duck?”
“You get in front of a camera, and you’re as big a ham as Jillian’s puppy. In reality, though? You’re nose to the grindstone. All work and no play. But boy howdy, did you take an instant shine to Layla. Bet you had a bitch of a time hauling yourself out of bed this morning.”
Avery rubbed the hint of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave, since he’d be showering and cleaning up later, when he was done here and before he had to prep for lunch.
“She’s not exactly the kind of woman you want to leave. And it’s not just her looks, Chance. Like Jillian, something haunts her. Something bad happened to her. There’s a tentativeness about her. About us. And with whatever it is she’s running from, I can’t unpack all the Dad drama I’m still outrunning. There’s a deep-seated humiliation embedded in all that, and I can’t eject it. Not when I feel he could show up here one day, out of the blue, and send us spiraling again.”
Chance sat back. Drummed his fingers on the table as he said, “The scenes he caused on the circuit were never your doing, Avery. No one ever blamed you.”
“How can you say that when the slightest thing set him off? If he was drunk off his ass—which was all the goddamn time—and even the tiniest of detail was overlooked, he’d go apeshit, being the loose cannon that he was. Tongs once fell from the table into the dirt, and instead of getting a fresh pair, he erupted. Toppled the table. Our entire competition’s meats went flying. Not an isolated incident, by the way. We’d be done for the day. Hours and hours and hours of work—wiped out. Money lost, not made.”
And God help them all when Jack was pulling ahead with the scoring. Caleb would rant and rave as though Satan had possessed him. He’d even accused Jack and Uncle Royce of cheating.
Absolute BS. They wouldn’t. They didn’t have to; they were that good. A source of contention on his dad’s side that Avery had to ponder as well, given Jack’s newfound celeb status.
Although . . .
“You and I don’t share his temper,” Avery continued. “If I entered Layla’s contest and didn’t win, I’d be bummed, sure. Because it’d mean something to me to stand out. Especially after all this time. Yet it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I’d move on, do what I’ve been doing. But if Dad got word ... if he somehow found out they were filming here on the ranch ...”
His gut clenched.
It wouldn’t just be mortifying if Caleb invaded the production, got in Avery’s face in front of the cowboys, the judges, the audience ...
It’d be horrific if he went on one of his bombasts in front of Layla.
Not only that . . .
“The man has violent tendencies,” Avery stated. “I don’t want him around our people. Plain and simple.”
Again, especially Layla. Because Avery suspected she’d been involved in some sort of volatile altercation—or plural. He sensed she’d found a safety zone. He wouldn’t wreck it. Not even for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
He’d finally reached his answer?
He groaned.
The options he weighed were not to be taken lightly. This was a hell of an opportunity to pass up just based on a what-if. This truly was a contained environment. Chance would see to it remaining that way during the filming.
And the ranch could use the additional funds.
Not to mention ... Avery really was enticed by a new title.
But there was something about the woman that held him back.
That was why he needed to speak with Jack. Not for permission. Rather, for a different kind of advice.
The love of Jack’s life, Jillian, had come here as a recluse, for reasons that were also violent. She’d thrived. So much so, she’d been able to return when there were hundreds of people crawling around this place—and even clamoring to get close to her.
She hadn’t overcome her fear of crowds. She’d kept to her own safe space during the weekend events. Had stuck by Jack’s side, but had still, in effect, been immersed in the activities. She and Jack were learning to work with her phobia.
Avery needed to find similar confidence in protecting Layla from his father, should he weasel his way back into their lives or onto the property. Jack would offer the proper tips. He always did.
So for now ... the answer was to discuss this with his cousin.
He told Chance, “I want to do the cook-off. I want to win that money. I just need to make sure nothing goes awry.”
Chance speared him with a knowing look. “I hear you loud and clear. Me and my crew have cattle to move and horses to tend to. But that security we hired for the party might be our best bet to man the gate.”
“I don’t want to add to the expenses, Chance. Just ... let me get a handle on this with Jack. In the meantime, I’ve got a woman waiting for breakfast. I need to finish here and whip up something for her.”
“The omelet with a Bloody Mary would be my suggestion.”
“Perhaps this is the reason you’re not married. Gotta go above and beyond.” He shook his head, gathered his dishes, set them in one of the busser bins, and then shut down his operation.