Chapter Two
Jake hung the gas nozzle back on the pump, and the machine spit out his receipt, the buzzing abrupt and irritating.
He snatched it and folded himself back into his rental car, his dress shirt already sticking to his arms due to the oppressive heat.
He still had a few miles to go, and he’d gotten away from the airport later than he’d wanted.
The line to grab his rental car had taken over an hour, the gas pumps here pumped fuel like it was molasses, and of course, the air conditioning in the car they gave him wasn’t working worth a damn.
As he pulled out of the gas station, he reflected that he wasn’t in New York anymore and needed to stop being such an asshole.
Out here, life was slower. People had a different pace.
He lifted his shoulders and let them drop, pushing out some deep breaths and trying his best to inject calm into the stress that had crept in only two days before.
Two days ago, he’d found out his father had died.
A father he didn’t remember, but who had requested he be at the reading of his will.
A lawyer from Calgary had called Jake, and now here he was, driving out to West Line Ranch, a place he and his mother had apparently left when he was three, and a place he knew nothing about.
The radio was pure static so he switched it off, preferring to think in the relative calm of wind noise from the open windows. He was headed southwest, according to his phone’s GPS. Into prairie, crops, cows, and country people.
Which was the exact opposite of his life, all the way across the damned continent in New York City.
Three weeks ago, he had been sitting in his restaurant in a swanky part of Greenpoint, signing paperwork to close its sale to the Urban Lumberjack Entertainment Group.
Shitty as it was, he was relieved to be signing it.
Brooklyn was changing. Classical French cuisine was just not bringing people in the door anymore.
Patronage was down, and there were nights he’d had to send waitstaff home early.
It made it hard to keep people, and sometimes he’d been the one serving tables, instead of barking orders in the kitchen.
People these days wanted to drink everything out of thrifted crystal and eat strange concoctions off plates shaped like old tractor seats or barn boards. He was so done with hipster bullshit and the trend toward obtuse, weird food.
Just as he had crossed the T on the last signature, the restaurant door had swung open and his ex-wife, Ashley had waltzed in. Perfect timing, as always. Like a frigging TV show.
The law clerk had gathered her papers and run out of there. After seeing the look on Ashley’s face, Jake would have, too, if he could’ve. But she had a big envelope in her hands, which meant she needed something from him.
She had flourished the divorce settlement papers, and he had endorsed them with the same efficiency he’d just applied to the sale papers, his mind numb from the sheer impact of what he was signing away in the mere space of five minutes.
She’d left, papers in hand, without saying more than a dozen words to him, and he’d helped himself to a few shots of the best scotch behind the bar before he’d closed up the last five years of his life for good.
The sun through the big, retractable windows cast a sad, spiky pattern on the far wall from the chairs upended on the tables, and he’d had one last look at it before locking the doors.
On impulse, he’d taken the bottle home, along with his favorite expensive crystal tumbler from behind the bar. They wouldn’t miss it, and if they did? Screw them.
He’d dragged his ass home to Gordon’s apartment, where he was staying while he looked for a new condo.
He hadn’t yet found one he liked since selling the place he and Ashley had shared for their year-and-a-half-long marriage.
He finished the scotch sitting on the Natuzzi leather couch, staring out the huge windows that had the best evening view of Manhattan, and feeling miserable about his entire life.
In the blink of an eye, he was no longer a restaurateur, was officially divorced and living with his former sous-chef, and was shit-faced by himself.
Rock fucking bottom.
He’d been propped up on that same couch scanning real estate listings when he’d gotten the call from the lawyer in Calgary.
He was in a giant rut, spinning his wheels, so when he was told the plane ticket was paid for already, he figured it couldn’t hurt to get away.
Go out, have the will read, say his condolences, and then come back and figure shit out with a bit of fresh air in his system.
He had to. The money from the sale of the restaurant and condo was decent, but he didn’t want to fritter it away.
He needed work. He needed to keep his reputation as a top chef in one of the busiest cities in the world intact to prove he still had it before the next guy came along and eclipsed him.
The perpetual reinvention was exhausting, but it was what you did as a restauranteur.
He couldn’t do that sulking on his friend’s couch, feeling sorry for himself. As much as he and Gordon got along, and Gordon was always there for him, Jake would wear out his welcome eventually. Finding a new place to live was also a top priority.
Jake scanned the horizon out the windshield, letting the open space and the blue skies settle him further.
Cows dotted a field off to his right, and he wondered what was in store for him. Apparently, Brett had a big ranch just outside of Brightside that did well, with cattle, horses, and crops, now run by his sons. So, he had half brothers. The lawyer was hazy on details, but it didn’t really matter.
Brett West was no more his father than a stranger on the street, so “brothers” was a stretch too.
From what his mother had always told him, she’d left that “shitty backwater” when Jake was still a toddler, hightailed it back to the US, and given him a real life.
When he was a kid, he’d often wondered why she hadn’t left him behind, even secretly wishing she had when times had been tough.
Jake shook his head, not wanting to relive all the upheaval that growing up with his mother had involved, and forced himself to focus on the here and now. The welcome sign for Brightside loomed ahead.
He turned left into the outskirts of town, and the map app on his phone announced that in another five miles he would be at his destination.
A curl of apprehension wound through his stomach.
What would he say to these people, who probably didn’t want him there?
He’d never been a part of their lives. He wasn’t looking forward to any of this.
But maybe they would be nice, decent country folk and it wouldn’t be a shit show.
A line of tall pine trees came up on his left, and he turned into a driveway.
A big, carved wooden sign with a bright blue painted W and a wavy line under it, followed by the words west and sons underneath greeted him.
Petunias and geraniums burst out of the flower boxes below it in a riot of reds and whites.
The grass was partially cooked from the summer sun, but the fence line was straight as an arrow, heading up the driveway toward what appeared to be a cluster of houses.
He could just see another driveway farther down, and barns.
He took a deep breath. Well, here went nothing.
* * *
Liz was sitting on the front step of her house when she saw a black Toyota hatchback drive in and stop beside Brady’s rig, parking sideways in front of the main house. She shaded her eyes with her hand. That must be the long-lost brother.
For the second time that day a black car driving in was bringing bad with it.
Well, hopefully not too bad, she amended.
Couldn’t be much to worry about in the long run.
He certainly had no claim on this place, and the boys would never put up with an uptight, citified asshole staking a claim even if he tried.
She stood and walked over, ready to face the reason her family was yet again in upheaval. Might as well be friendly.
Yet again.
When the tall, dark-haired man unfolded out of the tiny car, she stopped, wondering if she was seeing double, or at the very least a mirage in the heat.
The wave in his hair, the way he stood, and the set of his jaw were unmistakable. That was Brett West’s son, to the letter. He and Tanner could be twins.
Her mother, standing at the top of the steps of the front veranda of the main house, gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
“My god, you look just like him,” Peony declared, and carefully moved down to him.
“Ma’am,” was the response from the stranger, a polite smile forming as he reached her. He held out a hand, which she gratefully took, to help her down the last step.
Liz reached them and really looked at him for the first time.
Intelligent, warm brown eyes stared back, and she blinked in surprise.
Brett had been a good-looking man in his youth; she’d seen the pictures.
Tanner and Brady were good-looking guys, too, but this one .
. . well, he had been given the West genes in spades.
He was fucking gorgeous.
Like the models in the watch ads from the back of the fashion magazines her mother always bought. She found herself staring like a heifer would look at a fresh alfalfa bale, and backed up a step to gain her bearings.
“You must be Jake West,” she decided to say, to break the tension, and offered her hand. “I’m Liz Baker, and this is my mother, Peony.”
The man blinked again, meeting her eyes, and took her hand. At least he had a firm grip. Liz’s first impressions of a man were always based on how he shook hands, how he treated animals, and how he walked. This one had already ticked two of the boxes.
“Yes. Jake West.” He rushed the words out awkwardly, and made that face people do when they offer sympathy. “I’m so sorry to hear about your, I mean our, father passing away. I just found out two days ago.”
“Ohhh, no. He’s not my father. My mother married Brett when I was a kid. I’m not a West,” Liz blurted, determined to make that perfectly clear.
A silent O shaped his mouth, and he quirked an eyebrow. Her face flushed and she looked away, clearing her throat, embarrassed. Awkward.
Her mother let out a small sound and took his hand in both of hers, squeezing it, and smiling. “Oh, bless you, young man. Yes, yes, we’re aware this must be a bit of a strange situation for you.”
“You could say that,” he said, another smile cutting the hard planes of his face. In that instant, he looked every bit a West. This was going to shock the hell out of her brothers.
“Please, come up out of the heat. I have some tea on, I hear you Americans like sweetened cold tea on hot days?” her mother added, and tugged on his hand.
A masculine chuckle escaped him as her mother went back up the steps with more energy than she’d exhibited since the day her husband had died. Liz let out a big breath, following them. Too late, she averted her eyes after taking in Jake’s very well-toned backside, clad in perfectly fitting jeans.
He was fit. From what Frank had said earlier, he was a chef. She had expected plump, or odd, like those chefs she saw on TV all the time, but this man looked like he could vault onto a horse and be at home. Damn.
They entered the cool of the house, her mother chirping on, asking him about his flight and the drive, his short answers reverberating back.
His voice was deep, just like her brothers’, but had an American lilt to it, like the cops in movies.
Frank had said Jake was from New York City, so that was probably why.
They made their way to the main living room, and Liz slipped off to the kitchen. She heard her mother tell Jake to make himself at home, that she’d be back in a moment.
Peony bustled into the room, and they looked at one another, both of them raising their eyebrows at once.
“Holy hell, Mom.”
“Don’t we know it,” her mother replied as she hefted the tray of iced tea and drinking glasses. “I don’t think there’s any doubt he’s Brett’s. Go get the boys and Frank.”