Chapter 1 #2
"Ha," Arletta huffed. "We nearly had to hog-tie you to get you to hire us some help in the kitchen. It's not like you've got tons of skill in that department."
"I'm from back east," Liv said, feeling a pang of terror at the admission. The less she said, the better it would be for everyone. Still, she couldn't just ignore the question. "I assure you, I can bake though."
"Well then," Arletta said, gesturing to a sack of flour and a jar labeled buttermilk. "We're low on biscuits. It's either you or Mr. Fancy Cast-Iron." She jerked her chin toward Mike. "Pick your poison."
Mike made a wounded sound and laughed again. Liv noticed that he did that a lot. Laugh. It was nice. "My biscuits are legend," he said.
"Your biscuits are edible," Arletta corrected.
Liv felt a bubble of laughter unspool in her chest, thin and surprised.
This was the kind of banter she'd listened to from kitchen doors her whole life.
The kind she'd always been too young to join or too busy to try.
Something in her loosened. She shrugged out of her blazer, rolled up her sleeves and stepped forward, setting her ball cap on the counter top.
Evidently her hands-on interview was about to begin.
Which was fine. This was her area of expertise.
"Where do you keep your baking powder?" she asked, scanning the shelves.
"Top right," Mike said. "Above the honey."
"And your butter? Is it cold?" She opened the fridge. Metal shelving, Tupperware with leftovers, a stack of eggs.
"Always," he said. "Texas rule. Butter goes soft, you use it for corn. Not biscuits."
She found what she needed, almost sighing when she spied a well-loved pastry cutter sitting on the counter. The flour felt like silk as it feathered across her fingers. Liv let the noise around her fall into a familiar hum and let her hands do what they knew.
She didn't measure like a home cook. She measured like a professional—by sight, by texture, by the feel of the dough turning from messy to exactly right under her palms. She cut, folded, turned.
A splash of buttermilk. A whisper of salt.
A touch of honey because she wanted these to be a little sweet, a little delicate.
Mike gave her plenty of room, but he watched her closely, his attention penetrating her conscious like summer sunshine, warm and just a little disconcerting.
"Not bad," he murmured when she slid the tray into the oven.
She glanced up at him, then set the oven timer and took a moment to steady herself. The last time she'd baked anything for pleasure had been…before.
Before the blood on the marble floor.
Before the man in the tuxedo turned and looked right at her.
Before Detective Sanchez shoved a bus ticket in her hand and told her to disappear.
The thought tried to pull her under. She refused to allow it. Her hands shook slightly as she reached for a clean towel. "I…thank you. For the chance to test."
"This is the kind of place where food earns you the right to be here," Arletta said. "You bake good, you're family." She elbowed Mike. "You mess up my kitchen, I'll skin you."
"Noted," Liv said, then realized the woman was teasing.
Clearly the tall, virile cowboy leaning against the granite counter with a sexy smile curling his lips was the true master of this kitchen.
Even though she wasn't quite sure how to react, she liked the banter and camaraderie zinging around the room.
When the timer dinged, she opened the oven. A billow of steam kissed her face. The biscuits were gorgeous, perfectly formed, rising tall and proud, tops bronzed like the horizon just before dusk.
Steam unfurled as she broke a biscuit open, passing halves to both Arletta and Mike.
They ate without talking, then made a single shared sound, a low, ridiculous moan of appreciation.
"Hell," Mike said softly. "You make a really good biscuit, Liv Ramsey."
Arletta sniffed. "She makes a fool look like a genius, is what she does."
Liv laughed—really laughed—and the sound startled her. When was the last time she'd done that? Not the polite laugh she used for investors. Not the nervous one she'd used when the detective told her to run.
This one came from somewhere deeper. Somewhere she'd thought she'd locked up for good.
She took a careful breath. "So… do I have the job?"
Mike's smile was decisive. "You do." He stuck out his hand again, and when she took it, his grip was firm and warm, a tether. "Seasonal to start. Room upstairs. We wake early, we work hard, we eat well. Might be some egg gathering and helping out during down times. You good with that?"
"I'm good with that." She tried to hide the relief that flooded her.
Although the egg gathering and helping out part gave her pause.
She was used to eggs coming from the supermarket and animals had never been part of her life as her parents had allergies and Manhattan apartments weren't conducive to keeping pets.
"Well, come on, then," Mike said. "I'll show you to your room."
Mike led her upstairs with a quiet ease, explaining as they passed framed photos and leather furniture that the upper rooms of the main house were reserved for family on the west wing and guests on the east wing.
It was difficult to concentrate on his words when the majority of her concentration was wrapped up in the way his boots scuffed against the staircase and his jeans molded to his hips.
This man screamed 'cowboy' without even trying.
And that was incredibly sexy. Something she hadn't anticipated noticing about her new boss.
"We've added on to the house over the years. This was our original family home and we did some remodeling when we turned it into a guest ranch. We're a fairly new operation, so you're the first live-in staff we've hired. I'm putting you in the family wing."
"I don't mind staying in staff's quarters."
He grinned. "Well, I mind. My mother would turn over in her grave if I put a woman out in the bunkhouse with the wranglers."
"Oh, I'm sorry for the loss of your mom."
He nodded, but his body language said that particular subject was closed. "Here we are." His hat nearly brushed the door frame as he opened the door and preceded her into the bedroom, placing her suitcase by the bed.
The room was cozy and had a slightly masculine feel with polished pine floors and a bedspread that smelled of fresh linen and lemon soap.
"It's not the Waldorf," he said with a shrug, watching Liv take it in. "But the water pressure’s good, the well water’s clean, and the coffee in the morning's real enough to start wars over."
Liv smiled, truly smiled for the first time in days. "It's perfect. Thank you."
"Well, I better go check on that roast. Take your time and settle in. Supper's at six."
Mike didn't go back to the roast right away.
He stood in the hallway outside Liv Ramsey's door longer than he should have, hat in hand, staring at the scuffed toe of his boot like it held the answers to the questions he hadn't asked yet. Shoot, he’d hardly asked her anything besides her name.
What the hell are you doing, Watkins?
She’d been fairly quiet on their walk up the driveway, her blonde ponytail cascading out the back of her ball cap like a sleek mare’s tail, the brim pulled low, nearly resting on her designer sunglasses. As though she was trying to be invisible.
He'd hired her because they needed help. That was the story he'd tell Joe and Lyle when they asked. And they would ask. The Watkins brothers didn't let much slip by, especially when it came to women and the ranch.
But standing there in the drive earlier, watching her face go pale when Tiny charged, watching her square her shoulders and stand her ground. That's when he knew.
Years of military training taught him to read nuances. This woman was running from something a hell of a lot scarier than a goat.
Mike turned and headed down the stairs, boots heavy on the pine. He could still smell her in the kitchen—vanilla, brown sugar, something floral he couldn't name. Her biscuits were cooling on the counter, and he broke off a corner of one, letting it melt on his tongue.
Damn.
She wasn't just good. She was excellent. The kind of excellence that didn't end up in the middle of nowhere unless something had gone sideways.
He heard Arletta humming in the pantry, and he leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
"She's got secrets," Arletta said without turning around.
"Everyone's got secrets."
"Not the kind that make a woman that jumpy." Arletta came out holding a jar of pickles and fixed him with a look that could strip paint. "You gonna ask what they are?"
Mike shook his head. "Nope."
"Good." She set the jar down with a thunk. "But you're gonna protect her anyway, aren't you?"
He didn't answer. Didn't need to.
Arletta sighed, the kind of sigh that said 'men' and 'Lord help us' all at once. "Your mama raised you boys too decent for your own good."
Mike grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes ma'am, she did."