The Trouble With Cowboys (9 page)
“I’d like to hear them.”
Smacking his lips, Morton set the glass on his desk and rose to his full height. “I invited you into Amarex’s confidence on this particular problem because you seem to sneak your way into every one of my Quay County business deals whether I want you to or not. Thought I’d save you some trouble by providing the information up front.”
Kellan’s bullshit meter was sounding the alarm again. “You’re being generous, is that all?”
“I’m being generous, yes.”
“Not because you’re a manipulative bastard?”
“Think what you want about me, son. But that still doesn’t explain why you care so much about the Sorentino deal that you’d honor me with a rare visit. Maybe you’re hard for one of those cute, young sisters.” He shoved off the desk, walked around, and opened a drawer. “Ah, my copy of the file.”
He shook the contents onto the desktop and spread the photos out. “Let’s see. Three sisters. Brunette, brunette, and a blond. Whose skirt are you chasing?”
Kellan swallowed, watching Morton poke Amy’s pretty face with his stubby finger, but he kept his expression steady. “Never mind about them. I want to know what it is about the Sorentino property that’s got you falling all over yourself to grab a hold of it.”
“You want to know what I’m thinking?”
“That’s why I drove through a storm and crossed a state line in the middle of the night.”
Morton made a show of placing his lowball glass on a coaster on the desk. “What I think, my dear nephew, is that I’ve given you too much over the years to deserve this sort of insolence.”
Unreal, the nerve of this prick who dared to call himself Kellan’s family. “And what, specifically, have you given me,
Uncle Dearest?
”
Uncle Dearest?
”
“I gave you a ranch.”
Kellan felt fury uncoiling inside him. He clamped his molars together, fighting his anger and losing the battle. “No. You loaned me a goddamn piece of dirt and I turned it into a ranch with my own sweat and blood.”
“With fifty thousand dollars of my money.”
Kellan sprang forward, knocking his thigh against the desk. The desk rattled, sloshing bourbon up the side of Morton’s glass. “Which I paid back with interest. Along with your ridiculous asking price for the property.”
The dogs roused, growling. One positioned itself between the two men. Morton stepped from behind the desk, butting his legs against the animal’s side. “You ungrateful son of a bitch. I’ve given you more than you ever deserved.”
Kellan stabbed a finger at the air between them. The growls grew more intense. “You haven’t given me jack shit. Everything I have in my life, I’ve created myself. You had nothing to do with it.”
“That’s a nice story you’ve fabricated, but I’ve got a different recollection. Of an eighteen-year-old homeless punk, nothing but skin and bones, looking for a handout—like your folks did. It got to the point that when I heard a Reed was in town, I hid my wallet.”
“When I was eighteen, I didn’t come to you for a handout. I came here looking for answers about why, when my brother and I needed a place to live, no one in the family stepped up. About why, with relatives rolling in Texas oil money, Jake and I got sent to fucking foster care.”
All three dogs were up now, standing guard over their master, baring their teeth and snarling at Kellan. Their short, brown fur quivered with hostile energy.
Morton’s lips curled into a mean grin. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? You sit up there on your pedestal of righteousness and point your finger at me like you’re God himself.”
“Answer my question. Why did you leave us in the system?”
“You already know what I’m going to say. Eileen had a nervous condition, didn’t tolerate children well. Two teenage boys would’ve killed her.”
Kellan sneered. “Wouldn’t that have saved you the trouble?”
“You better watch what you’re implying.”
Kellan glanced side to side and spread his arms, his eyes wide with mock-concern. “Where is Eileen? I haven’t seen her going on three years. What did you tell me last time I asked—Texas was too hot a climate for her? That she’d run off to Hawaii or something?”
“Yes, Hawaii. And you’d do well to back off that line of questioning.”
“One of these days, you’re going to get your comeuppance, Morton. Someone, somewhere, is going to kill you.”
Rocking onto his heels, Morton laughed. “But it won’t be you, Kellan. That conscience of yours will always be a liability.”
“My conscience is what keeps me from turning into you, old man.”
Morton’s eyes twinkled maliciously. “I’m going to ask you one last time. Why the hell did you come to my house tonight?”
Kellan rubbed his upper arms, feeling the pressure of his heart thudding hard and fast against his ribs. The dogs pressed forward, snapping their jaws, pushing him back from Morton. He relented and walked across the room, reaching for the bourbon. They were arguing in circles, like they usually did, but at least they were back to the information Kellan needed. “What do you want with the Sorentino property?”
“I want to own the Sorentino property, you dumb shit. That’s why I’m encouraging the sisters to sell it to Amarex and Amarex to sell it to me.”
“The property’s dry.”
“So it’s dry. I still want it. If you have it in your mind to stop me, you should know you’re going to fail.”
Kellan lifted the lowball glass in a gesture of salute. “You’re throwing down the gauntlet, Morton? All right, I accept.”
Morton relaxed against the desk, folding his arms across his chest. “You and I are playing on the same side. You do know that, right?”
Kellan tossed the bourbon back and relished the rush of heat down his throat. “We might share blood, but that doesn’t put us on the same side.”
“All these years, I’ve been waiting for you to come around to my way of thinking. To join my empire. But you’re so stuck on past resentments, you can’t see the forest for the trees. Damn shame, it is. You and I could’ve been partners.”
Kellan slammed the empty glass onto the desk. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens.”
“I see that now. Doesn’t make it any easier of a pill to swallow.”
The dogs preceded the men to the front door as though eager for the unwanted guest to depart.
Morton paused with his hand on the doorknob. “The Sorentinos have a week to sign the property over to Amarex before I unleash the lawyers.”
Kellan didn’t trust himself to speak. He pushed past Morton and continued to the driveway.
“I forgot to mention,” Morton said. Kellan kept walking. “Tina called me.”
That stopped Kellan in his tracks. Strange, the way his mother’s name set off a clash of emotions within him—revulsion at the idea of receiving a surprise phone call from the woman he’d avoided for nineteen years, and yet anger that she hadn’t at least tried to call him instead of her brother.
“You want details, but you’re too afraid to ask.” Morton’s tone had an edge of triumph.
Kellan thought about turning to face Morton. He thought about socking him in the jaw. He thought about the rifle in his car. But rather than play into his uncle’s hand by pressing for more information, he set his sights on his truck and kept moving.
Morton’s sinister chuckle followed him across the driveway. “Guess what the big news is? Your father’s out of prison.”
Chapter 6
Kellan squeezed his eyes closed. His father was a free man.
Morton’s voice carried across the driveway. “You’ll never guess why Tina called—or maybe you will.” His voice held a note of amusement. “I’ll give you a hint. Nothing’s changed.”
Nothing’s changed.
Those two words said it all. She wanted money. She could claim she’d come around to apologize, or that she missed her children, but once she ran out of sweet little lies, the truth came out. Every time.
Those two words said it all. She wanted money. She could claim she’d come around to apologize, or that she missed her children, but once she ran out of sweet little lies, the truth came out. Every time.
“She asked me to front her some cash until she can get settled in a new place,” Morton hollered at Kellan’s back before dissolving into cruel chuckles.
Kellan opened his door and climbed into the cab, willing his expression to blank now that Morton had a side view of his face.
Did she sound sober?
he wanted to ask.
Where are she and my dad planning to live? Did you give them money?
he wanted to ask.
Where are she and my dad planning to live? Did you give them money?
He jammed the key into the ignition and started the engine, drowning out Morton’s laughter.
His truck cut through the snow and wind, through endless miles of dark desert and across the state line. He’d thought he’d breathe deeply once he saw the wooden
SLIPPING ROCK RANCH
sign waving on the side of the road, but his anxiety only mounted at the sight—the symbol of the life he’d fought to create despite his family’s unrelenting efforts to drag him down.
SLIPPING ROCK RANCH
sign waving on the side of the road, but his anxiety only mounted at the sight—the symbol of the life he’d fought to create despite his family’s unrelenting efforts to drag him down.
The truck tires crunched onto the snow-drenched half-mile dirt driveway leading to his house. He would not stand for it. He’d worked too hard, for too long, to let the Reeds and Mortons muck up his peaceful existence. The ranch house stood like a beacon in the storm, stalwart and welcoming. This was all he wanted to be—a quiet rancher in a small town, a respected member of the community, unmarred by gossip or family strife. With a beautiful house, a successful cattle business, and great friends he could count on and who counted on him.
Dread ballooned in his chest, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out. He had to get control of the situation before it came to light. He could not let his parents get their greedy claws in him. Six years ago, the last time his father was a free man, they’d honed in on Kellan’s weaknesses like the criminals they were and blackmailed him, threatening to appear in Catcher Creek unless he paid up.
He tried to inhale a deep, lung-filling breath, but it caught in his throat.
He pulled into his usual spot next to the barn and sat in the darkness, fingering the digital recorder. His brother needed to know Dad had been released from prison. He deserved a warning. Somewhere in his desk drawer, he probably had Jake’s number, but it had been a long time since the two last talked, and to say the conversation had been strained would be a gross understatement.
Kellan needed to get straight in his mind before calling Jake. Tonight, he couldn’t cope with any more conflict. After his morning ranch chores, he’d make the call, no matter how difficult it was sure to be. He flipped through the Amarex file on Amy’s family and found her photograph. Her beautiful face and trusting eyes stared up at him. Needing his help. With a curse, he flung the truck door open and stomped through the biting wind to his house.
Enough was enough. He was fresh out of good will.
He wouldn’t waste another thought, another breath on his parents. Or Morton. Or Amy Sorentino. They were nothing more than headaches that made him doubt who he was and what he wanted from his life. What he needed to do was wash his hands of everything and everyone who took his eyes off the prize. He’d call his brother during the day so he’d be sure to get flipped to voice mail. Then he’d cancel his date with Amy and advise her to contact his lawyer buddy, Matt. If his mom called, he’d tell her she’d have to find a handout somewhere else.
He strode through his darkened kitchen to the living room, tossing the digital recorder on his desk, and turned the Christmas tree lights on. Max regarded him curiously from the kitchen before trotting from the room.
A press of a button and holiday music filled the air. The ambiance always calmed him, the glow of twinkling lights, the soothing melodies of Christmas carols. As a kid, the closest he came to this perfect holiday scene was standing in a department store among the floor models of artificial trees. He would sneak to the toy department, load his arms with everything he’d never get, and place them under the trees. And he’d pretend they were for him. He’d playact the Christmas morning of his fantasy, mimicking the ripping open of wrapping paper. He’d act surprised to receive such glorious toys. He’d pretend to hug and thank his imaginary parents for their generosity.
Pathetic.
Tonight, he lit the gas fireplace and a fire burst into being. Then it was on to the cinnamon-scented candles on the mantel and coffee table. He didn’t need to pretend anymore. He had everything he wanted and only had himself to thank. Life didn’t get any better.
He stood in the center of the room, breathing hard through flared nostrils. The tree lights glowed and reflected off the innumerable wrapped presents around its base. “Silent Night” played from the stereo speakers. He inhaled the scents of cinnamon and evergreen and spun a slow circle in the center of the room. It looked like the home in his childhood imagination. It was perfect.
Why didn’t it bring him peace tonight?
Amy. Her big, trusting eyes. Her family on the verge of catastrophe at the hands of his uncle’s company. He dropped to his favorite chair and focused his gaze on the tree. He sung the lyrics to “Silent Night” under his breath, concentrating on clearing his mind.
It was no use.
He couldn’t get Amy out of his head. She’d been so warm and soft crushed between his body and the church office wall. She’d tasted of sugar from the doughnut she’d shoveled into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to talk to him. His lips twitched into a smile at the memory of the way she’d broken into a flat-out sprint through the sanctuary to avoid him.
She probably ran because, like him, she knew if the two of them got up close and personal, the pull of attraction was too powerful to deny. She flipped a switch in him, a crackling of electricity. And when he touched her, they’d both felt the surge of hot, unrelenting need. The promise of ecstasy in her arms, in that luscious body that seemed custom made to fit against his.
With a growl, he rolled his neck, annoyed by how tough it was to get past his attraction to her. His desk in the corner of the room caught his eye and he stood. What he needed was a reminder of all the ways she was wrong for him. Not only because of her problems with Amarex, but because she was the opposite of the kind of woman he wanted in his life. She humiliated herself on national television, so everyone had whispered at the time that chef show aired. Like her mother, she’d disgraced her family name, folks had said. Was that the kind of person he wanted in his life? One who couldn’t keep her dignity in check while the world was watching?
Hell, no.
The words “Amy Sorentino
Chef Showdown
” entered into a search engine were enough to take him straight to a complete series listing for
Ultimate Chef Showdown
, season five.
Chef Showdown
” entered into a search engine were enough to take him straight to a complete series listing for
Ultimate Chef Showdown
, season five.
He positioned the pointer over
PLAY
for episode one, but stopped. Why did he feel guilty, as though he were violating her privacy? There was nothing private about appearing on a nationwide syndicated prime time reality show. Everyone in Catcher Creek, save for farmers like him who went to bed at nine o’clock and rose at four, knew every intimate detail of her abbreviated stint as a celebrity.
PLAY
for episode one, but stopped. Why did he feel guilty, as though he were violating her privacy? There was nothing private about appearing on a nationwide syndicated prime time reality show. Everyone in Catcher Creek, save for farmers like him who went to bed at nine o’clock and rose at four, knew every intimate detail of her abbreviated stint as a celebrity.
He pressed
PLAY.
It was time to find out what all the fuss was about.
PLAY.
It was time to find out what all the fuss was about.
The opening sequence introduced the competing chefs with a cheesy voice-over calling each one’s name as if they’d been selected to appear on
The Price Is Right
while flashing an image of them in chef jackets, striking poses while holding various kitchen utensils. Amy was the fifth chef introduced. She’d been glammed up, with fluffy, perfectly coiffed hair and lots of makeup, her white teeth gleaming, her pose awkward. The real Amy still managed to come through in the hint of mischief twinkling in her eyes and the skilled swish of the knife she brandished as her prop.
The Price Is Right
while flashing an image of them in chef jackets, striking poses while holding various kitchen utensils. Amy was the fifth chef introduced. She’d been glammed up, with fluffy, perfectly coiffed hair and lots of makeup, her white teeth gleaming, her pose awkward. The real Amy still managed to come through in the hint of mischief twinkling in her eyes and the skilled swish of the knife she brandished as her prop.
One of the contestants was done up like a Hollywood version of a cowboy, with a huge, gold belt buckle, snug Wrangler jeans, and a new black Stetson. Brock the Cowboy Cook, he called himself. He had the look and drawl of the Texas rodeo star he claimed to be, but Kellan wasn’t convinced.
Amy was, though. She took to him like a kid to an ice cream truck. It struck a nerve, watching her fall for his lame act, the bald look of desire in her eyes. It was the same look she’d given Kellan at the Quick Stand. A roll of unease coursed through him.
When the first minor challenge began, in which contestants were asked to create a signature omelet, he was irrationally anxious for her. He knew the outcome of the show, but couldn’t stop himself from rooting for her to thump her competition.
And she did. Handily.
Throughout the episode, every contestant on the show became known by a stereotypical label of some sort, courtesy of the show’s editors. There was a vegan “hippie,” a hot-blooded Italian-American, and an older woman who played “grandma” to the younger chefs. Amy was “America’s Sweetheart.” She was funny and determined, yet never vindictive. Often, the producers edited her remarks to make her sound dim-witted or naive. Kellan had only known her for a couple days, but he couldn’t believe what an oversimplification the label was. No one made it as far in the culinary world as she had without being a smart, savvy businessperson. And she’d shown him Saturday morning in his bed exactly how not-naive she was.
Cowboy Brock was positioned as one of the show’s villains. In periodic camera confessionals, he expounded on his diabolical plans to win the title by manipulating the other contestants. He came across as such a lowlife that Kellan wanted to reach into the computer monitor and punch him in the face until he remembered that the producers were doing their own Hollywood-style manipulation with the show’s editing. He’d played right into their hands.
Despite the show’s attempt to degrade Amy’s competence, she sliced, diced, and seared her way through the season premiere, grabbing the first major win with her unique spin on Beef Carpaccio, Thai style. She was a culinary genius, plain and simple.
As the episode’s ending credits rolled, Kellan’s eyes burned with the need to sleep. Yet Amy’s magic on screen had mesmerized him. He needed more of her. Before he could think too deeply on why that was, he pressed
PLAY
on episode two and smiled through the opening at the sight of Amy, with her confident smile, her bouncing, curly hair, and her knife swishing through the air.
PLAY
on episode two and smiled through the opening at the sight of Amy, with her confident smile, her bouncing, curly hair, and her knife swishing through the air.
He settled in his chair, less anxious about how she’d perform. If he’d learned anything from episode one, it was that Amy was remarkable. Not only a top-class chef, but an amazing contestant. Driven by a fierce competitive fire she didn’t sacrifice her integrity or kindness.
The second episode, then the third and fourth, drove home her position as the show’s early front-runner. No matter how Cowboy Brock and his fellow villains sabotaged her, she overcame every obstacle and created fantastic dishes the judges loved. If Brock turned off her pot of boiling water, she turned it on and persevered. If he coerced her into sharing her limited ingredients, she still schooled him in the eyes of the judges. She was consistently—remarkably—wonderful. Of course, he’d already glimpsed her unflappability. She’d endured setback after setback in her career and her family, but she didn’t let anything slow her down.
Near the end of the fourth episode, a funny noise in the distance caught his attention. The blare of his clock radio alarm in his bedroom. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock in the morning. The interruption irked him. Amy had made it through another Judges Trial and looked poised to continue her reign in episode five. Reluctantly, he rubbed his eyes, stretched the kinks out of his back, and stood. Time for another workday to begin.
He left the computer on, the screen displaying
Ultimate Chef Showdown
’s homepage. Tonight, he’d pick up where he left off.
Ultimate Chef Showdown
’s homepage. Tonight, he’d pick up where he left off.
By midmorning on Monday, Amy was ready for a hot shower and a nap. The alarm had been set to ring at five, but Rachel had shaken her awake at four. A storm had hit during the night and she and Jenna needed all possible manpower to dig the ranch out from the snow and feed the animals. The snowdrifts were a mere three feet, but since they’d let the last of their farmhands go after discovering the empty bank accounts, the storm added hours of work to their day.
Amy was all for helping her sisters, but years of kitchen work had conditioned her body in a particular way that wasn’t too useful for manual labor. She could stand at a prep table for ten straight hours, or reach her fingers into boiling water to test pasta, but her calluses and muscles were in all the wrong places for shoveling snow and mucking stalls. After six brutal hours of fighting wind and snow flurries, her hair was snarled, her cheeks felt raw, and her body ached all over. It was a jarring reminder of a fact she’d realized in high school—she was not cut out to be a farmer.
At all.
At all.
She’d worked doubly hard in an effort to keep up with Jenna and Rachel, chipping ice from frozen water troughs, feeding the livestock, mending fence lines. The mini-CAT bulldozer Rachel used for distributing feed and hay wouldn’t start, so they delivered breakfast to their stock one wheelbarrow at a time. Not that there were many animals left. Most had been sold, but they’d retained enough horses, cattle, pigs, and chickens to give guests of Heritage Farm a taste, albeit an idyllic one, of life on a farm.
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