Cowboy In The Kitchen

“So, Mason Dixon Temple was a conservationist before conservation was cool.”

“I guess that’s as good a way to put it as any. How about if we hang those doors here? I presume you plan to offer an in-kitchen dining experience, and this pantry could be a focal point with an interesting story.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t considered the idea of special seating in the kitchen but I understand it’s become quite popular. If we include that in the plan, won’t the diners be in your way?”

“We’ll have plenty of additional space once that far wall is blown out to accommodate the walk-in cooler.” He pointed toward the row of windows she’d marked for demolition to expand the footprint. “We’ll put seating for eight along the south wall, and the pine pantry will be storage for our selection of fine wines. A dinner party in our kitchen will be on every hostess’s wish list for the New Year.”

The nod of her head was nearly imperceptible, but it was enough. He’d scored a point. She stepped into the open space he’d envisioned for the prep stations and cooking surfaces.

“Have you given any thought to the layout of the countertops and appliances?”

It took every shred of manners his mama taught him to hold back the rude response that rushed to his lips. Gillian Moore wasn’t stupid, and he was pretty sure she wasn’t downright mean. He could only surmise it hadn’t crossed the woman’s mind that he’d wandered the halls of Temple Territory for countless hours, dreaming and planning of what he’d do with the place. But he’d never imagined it would all be for somebody else.

“I’ve laid out this kitchen nine ways from Friday and I’ve planned out exactly how it should operate. I’ve been remodeling it in my mind since I was sixteen and fried my first green tomato.”

“Then why didn’t you make it happen yourself?” There was annoyance in the way she barked the question.

“I never imagined anybody would make the investment in this place, given its reputation.” Hearing his excuse made Hunt feel like the whiner his brothers had accused him of being that very same morning.

“Well, you were wrong. It only took me one walk-through to realize this property could be spectacular.”

“So you’ve already told me.” He scuffed his hand through his hair, Gillian’s aggravation spilling over to him. “Just give me the budget and I’ll get the best return for your investment.”

She retrieved a notepad from her purse, flipped over a few pages and then held it up so Hunt could read the bottom-line figure, circled in red ink. “We must stay within that amount.”

Hunt exhaled a soft whistle. He’d be bitter about her ability to exercise such generosity if he wasn’t going to enjoy spending the rich girl’s money.

“Well, can you make it work?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He feigned uncertainty. “There’s wiggle room, of course.”

“None whatsoever.” She flipped her notepad closed and poked it into her bag. “I don’t intend to rob Peter to pay Paul during this project. I’ve worked this budget out with my financial advisor nine ways from Friday, as you so eloquently put it. There’s no reason we can’t open Moore House on schedule and without breaking the bank.”

Moore House. Cold chills rippled up Hunt’s spine each time he heard the name. Surely the sensation was caused by Pap rolling over in his unmarked grave.

* * *

MOORE HOUSE. JUST the mention of it comforted Gillian like a thick quilt on a bleak winter day. Her parents’ investment of their years of vigilant saving simply had to bear fruit, and in a big way. There could be no other outcome, or her folks would be working the rest of their lives, and she’d never hear the end of it from her father.

Gillian loved the hospitality business and would work in corporate service if there was no other choice. But caring for her own guests under her own roof was her dream.

She’d been short with Hunt just now about his ambitions, but the man had dragged his feet and let a golden opportunity pass him by. That was his issue. She had plenty of her own.

Highest on the list was to meet her grand opening deadline to make the most of the holiday season. To do it, she’d personally have to watch every penny, and that meant keeping a close eye on Hunt. Everything he put on his inventory list had to be absolutely necessary and the best value possible. She’d drive a rental truck to Dallas and pick up the stainless-steel appliances herself if it would save a buck.

“You’re the boss,” Hunt reminded Gillian, returning her attention to their discussion. “Far be it from me to argue if you want to cut corners.”

“You can’t be serious.” His crooked smirk revealed that the man was intentionally goading her. “That’s a very generous budget. If you’re not able to handle the job, I’m sure I can find a capable chef, even if I have to take a risk on an unknown,” she bluffed.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. We made a deal, and I intend to keep my end of the bargain.”

Her cell buzzed again. Gillian slipped her hand inside the pocket of her shoulder bag, retrieved the phone and, no surprise, noted her father had called twice in the past fifteen minutes.

“My knickers are none of your concern. But our contract certainly is, so speak now or be legally bound through the end of the year.”

He held his palms outward. “I apologize, that comment was inappropriate. How can I make it up to you?”

The phone sounded once more. She held up her index finger to indicate she needed a minute to take the call. With the phone to her ear, she turned away, briefly but firmly telling her father she would call him shortly. Then she faced Hunt again, the enormity of the undertaking hitting her. Maybe she could delegate.

“Since you offered, would you meet with the kitchen designer for me? He’s on his way, and I still have a lot to cover with the contractor in the other room who’s probably charging me by the hour for this meeting. So I’ve got to go. Can I trust you to handle things with the designer and report to me as soon as your meeting is finished?”

“Of course. How about if I give you a full rundown over dinner tonight?”

“Dinner?” She wasn’t sure it was wise to spend an hour with Hunt away from the workplace. Tongues would wag in this small Texas town. “Where?”

“My brother’s house, unless you’d rather go out.”

“Actually, a home-cooked meal sounds wonderful.”

It had only been a week, but Gillian was already tired of the small restaurant in the chain hotel where she was staying.

“Any special requests?” Hunt asked.

“I’m game for something local, whatever’s in season.”

“Right now, squirrel is in season.” He clamped his lips together to suppress a grin.

She slanted her eyes at some invisible point above him and considered how to respond.

“Surprise me,” she finally challenged.

“Consider it done. Now go take care of your remodeling man, and I’ll deal with the kitchen guy. What’s his name, by the way?”

She checked her notes. “Steve Froehlich.”

“Froehlich? I don’t know of any Froehlichs in these parts.”

“He’s from Houston. Since he’s working another job in Tyler at the moment, he agreed to drive over.”

“Did you invite anybody local to bid? I’m sure I could make a good recommendation if you’ll give me a day to ask around.” He snapped his fingers. “I played ball with a guy named Karl Gates who works with his dad. They’re the best carpenters in Rusk County. What do you say I give him a call?”

She raised a palm against his offer. “Don’t start with that good-old-boy network business. I’m aware of how you guys operate.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your suspicion.” Hunt took offense.

“You haven’t done anything yet.” Gillian motioned with two fingers from her eyes to Hunt’s, then turned and hurried away. The clock was ticking and she was spending her parents’ money.

But in her rush to get things done, had she put too much trust in Hunt too soon?

* * *

THE MAN WHO answered the front door of the home that evening was the mirror image of Hunt, but Gillian realized instantly it was his twin. Hunt’s dark brown hair was neatly cropped; his face always clean-shaven.

This man’s hair was on the shaggy side with a couple days’ worth of very appealing stubble on his chin. And in contrast to Hunt’s GQ style, this twin was dressed comfortably in a flannel shirt and jeans faded by years of wear.

“Gillian Moore?” he asked. When she smiled, he offered his hand and drew her across the threshold. “I’m Hunt’s older and better-lookin’ twin brother, Cullen.”

“Go ahead and admit that you’re also smarter than the rest of us,” Hunt called from inside the house. “You’ll reveal your brilliance eventually, you always do, so get it over with up front.”

“He’s right,” Cullen agreed, lowering his chin modestly. “I am the best-educated of the Temple brothers, but I’m not so sure that makes me smarter than anybody besides Hunt, which ain’t sayin’ much.”

“Whoa, I always heard twins were kindred souls, each protective of the other.”

“Yeah, that’s what the experts say, but if Hunt didn’t resemble me quite so much, I’d figure our folks had brought home the wrong kid.”

Gillian followed Cullen across the herringbone entryway and into a family room. The floor-to-ceiling shelves on three walls were so tightly packed with hardbound volumes that the space resembled a library in need of organization. An oversize sofa and chairs occupied the center of the room that was strewn with newspapers. A large partner’s desk laden with a desktop computer, a laptop and many more books crowded one corner. As she took in the homey clutter, she knew this was definitely not the meticulous lifestyle of her executive chef.

Hunt emerged from behind the kitchen bar where he’d served her breakfast a few days earlier. An apron covered his clothing from the waist down, but the stark white seemed to accentuate the fit of his red polo shirt and the definition in his arms. The man was a feast for the eyes.

“I’d apologize for my brother’s cluttered home if it would make him change, but this mess is part of who he is. His quirky personality just happens to have tipped over and spilled everywhere.”

Hunt’s gaze swept the room, followed by a disbelieving shake of his head.

“While our mama was alive, she made Cullen keep the books in his bedroom. But once we lost our parents, all restraints were off. And instead of growing out of his obsession for academia, this big galoot and his size-twelve feet grew into it.”

Gillian stepped close to one shelf and stared in awe at the private collection, many of which were textbooks.

“If you must have a touch of OCD,” Gillian said, “I agree that the printed word is a great obsession to choose. And if you’ve read each of these, you must be very smart, indeed, Cullen.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Hunt said that you were sharp as a new pickax and pretty as a baby goat, but he didn’t mention you’re a good judge of character, too.”

“Uh-huh.” Hunt cleared his throat, making the point that the conversation had gone on long enough.

“Yes, little bro. I remember the instructions you gave me. Let the pretty woman into the house and then make myself scarce.”

Cullen glanced at Gillian and raised his gaze to the rafters overhead. “This is the thanks I get for taking in my sibling and letting him have the run of my kitchen.”

“If you expect to share in this meal, you’ll get out while the gettin’ is still good, or I’ll put you to work.”

“I sure hope you’re partial to squirrel, Miss Moore,” Cullen said with a grin before ambling down the long hallway and turning out of sight.

CHAPTER FIVE

“SQUIRREL?” GILLIAN SQUEAKED the question and Hunt smiled inwardly.

“Yep, and you’re in luck. These two tree-dwelling rodents were flying through the pines just this morning. Felix was honored to donate them for our dinner.”

He saw her swallow.

“Well, I did leave the menu up to you, and whatever it is you’re preparing smells divine,” she said.

“That’s nice to hear. Some say people eat with their eyes first, but I believe the aroma sets the mood for the meal. May I start you off this evening with a drop of the grape?”

He stooped to open a wine cabinet and pulled out two uncorked bottles. “When Cullen was working on one of his degrees, French history maybe, he became a wine aficionado. I gotta admit he keeps a pretty nice selection in the house.”

Hunt angled the bottles for her to inspect the labels. Her violet eyes widened with recognition.

“I’d love to sample the Rothschild Bordeaux, but I’m driving, and I have a lot more work to do tonight, so I hope you’ll give me a rain check. Some sparkling water will be fine, if you have it.”

“That we do.”

He returned the wine bottles to the rack and busied himself dropping ice into two chilled glasses before filling both with Perrier. He set Gillian’s glass on a cocktail napkin and motioned for her to have a seat at the tall counter tiled with a hacienda-style colorful mosaic.

“Pardon my backside, but I should see how the braising is coming along.” He lifted the lid off a deep cast-iron skillet and poked at the contents inside with a long-handled fork. “Tell me about the rest of your day.”

“You first,” she countered. “How did things go with Mr. Froehlich?”

Hunt replaced the lid on the skillet and transferred the pan to a hot oven, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not convinced your fellow from Houston is the right man for this job.”

“Now, why was that exactly what I expected to hear from you?”

“I beg your pardon.” He gave her a wide-eyed glare for a moment, then reached for the panko bread crumbs. He upended the box into a mixing bowl.

“Cut the innocent act, Hunt. Did you even review his drawings?”

“I certainly did, but Froehlich doesn’t share our vision for retaining the integrity of Pap’s original design.”

She slapped her palm on the tile countertop.

“Listen to me! There is no such thing as our vision. I can’t afford to pacify your need to maintain some emotional connection to a place that was your grandfather’s half a century ago.”

Her words stung. Not because she was right, but because she was giving Hunt credit he didn’t deserve.

If he truly felt a deep-seated yearning to bridge the family connection to Temple Territory, wouldn’t he have made it happen long before now? Wasn’t all his talk at this point more selfish than selfless?

Man, he hated moments of revelation. It was why he avoided psychotherapy like a swarm of mosquitos.

So now what? Let the boss lady continue to believe he might be altruistic, or admit he’d only been pursuing his own aspirations? He wasn’t ready to tip his hand quite yet.

“You’re right.” He reached into the fridge for the colander of zucchini, keeping his eyes averted so she couldn’t read the lie he was about to voice.

“This isn’t about me and my warped sense of family pride. My obligation is to you and to doing everything in my power to help you meet your deadlines.”

She was quiet while he busied himself slicing the dark green squash and tossing uniform discs into the bread crumbs.

“Cat got your tongue?” He glanced up from the cutting board.

“For a moment, yes.” She took a sip from her glass. “I seem to be criticizing you a lot. That’s not fair or normally my nature to be so judgmental. But I’m out of my element right now, and I’m determined to keep a laser focus on the prize.”

Hunt set a small bowl of spiced pecan halves on the ledge before Gillian. “Alma says these are good for the digestion.”

“Am I going to require digestive help after this meal?” She scooped up several pecans and popped them into her mouth.

He took one of the homemade treats as well and savored Alma’s special combination of cinnamon and cloves.

“Only if you eat too much squirrel,” he warned. “So, what is your element? You can tell mine is a kitchen. How would you describe your comfort zone?”

“That’s a question without an easy answer.” She reached for more pecans.

“And that’s a stall tactic.”

“Not this time.” As she shook her head, the blunt tips of silky blond hair brushed her shoulders. “I love everything about the boutique hotel business. The buzz of a reservation line. The hush of a linen closet. The madness of a busy front desk. The clink of silver on china in the dining room.”

“The cha-ching of the cash register,” he interjected.

“That, too,” she laughed.

He enjoyed the sound of her laughter, so relaxed and different from the way she barked orders.

“The point is that I’m more at home in a hotel than I’ve ever been in our family’s house. Now I’ll have both under one roof.”

“So you plan to live there?” He hadn’t considered the possibility.

“Oh, certainly. I can just imagine the luxury of coffee on that back terrace every morning.”

He raised his brows. “Can you now?”

She dipped her chin in apology.

His guest seemed to keep forgetting he’d had many years to consider what life at the landmark mansion had to offer.

He tossed the mixing bowl to coat each slice of zucchini with bread crumbs and then eased the silver-dollar-sized pieces into hot canola oil where they would fry up crispy and light.

“Can I do anything to help?” she offered.

“You can set the table, if you don’t mind. Cullen keeps his dishes and flatware in that hutch against the wall.” He motioned with a slotted metal spoon, and then stooped to check the flame beneath his frying pan. “I hope it won’t offend you to eat in the kitchen. There’s a perfectly good dining room across the hall, but my doofus brother uses it to store his research files instead of for the purpose God intended.”

Cullen appeared, relaxed and lazy, as always. How he’d managed to get four degrees without breaking a sweat was a mystery to Hunt, who stressed over every element on a plate.

“Are you talkin’ about me again, little bro?”

“Guilty as charged. How about giving Gillian a hand? And if you own a cloth napkin, could you show her where you hide them?”

Cullen reached over Gillian’s head to retrieve colorful Fiestaware plates from the top shelf. “I only own a couple, and they’re in the hall bathroom.”

Gillian’s eyes gleamed with humor as they met Hunt’s.

“Is there any point in asking why?”

“I should do laundry soon. All the company hand towels are in the hamper, and the napkins fit that little short bar in there.”

“Il n’est pas juste,” Hunt muttered.

“I could write a book on Louis XIV, but I don’t speak a word of French, and Hunt knows it,” Cullen complained to Gillian.

“He said you’re not right.”

“Oh, he says that regularly.” Cullen waived away his twin’s comment and carried the dishes to the pedestal table that had come from their childhood kitchen. “Hey, where’d you find this?” Cullen ran his fingers over the white cloth that was draped across the scarred family heirloom.

“In one of Mama’s trunks.” Rummaging through the linens Alma had saved for him was always bittersweet. It was still surprising that he missed his folks so much after all these years. “Thanks for letting me store her things here until I have a permanent place of my own.”

“Hey, what are big brothers for?”

“That’s a question I ask myself frequently.”

* * *

GILLIAN LISTENED TO the banter between the men and wondered what it must have been like with a house full of siblings. Being an only child was lonely. Probably another reason she enjoyed the hotel business so much. There was always someone to talk with, someone to learn from, someone to help out.

This good-natured rivalry was so different. Nice. Evidence that Hunt had been reared by people who loved him and in a town where he felt at home. No wonder he’d found it hard to settle down in another city, much less another country.

“Gillian, would you please do the honors?” Hunt handed her the open bottle of Perrier and gestured toward the fresh stemware on the table Cullen was clumsily preparing. As she moved to each place setting to fill the goblet, she rearranged the cutlery and positioned the plates just so.

Hunt rewarded her surreptitious efforts with a smile that showed even white teeth. His appeal struck her with a fresh punch each time he caught her eye. No wonder he’d been such a hit on reality TV.

The heat of attraction crept up her neck. To cover her discomfort, Gillian dropped into a chair and took a sip from the glass she’d just poured.

“Hunt, our guest has claimed her spot at the table, so can we sit down and eat now?”

“By all means.” Hunt motioned for Cullen to take a seat, and then put serving bowls and a woven basket on the table. With care he placed a thick trivet in the center to protect his mother’s cloth, and then transferred the heavy iron skillet from the oven to the table. He whisked away the lid to reveal the steaming, mouthwatering contents.

“What do you think, Gilly? Do you mind if I call you Gilly?” Cullen asked what seemed to be a rhetorical question. “That’s a Texas-sized squirrel if I’ve ever encountered one.”

She leaned toward the skillet and peered at the bubbling cream sauce and mystery meat that was not so mysterious after all.

“That’s not a squirrel.” She cast an accusing glare at Hunt.

“Most folks say squirrel tastes like chicken anyway, so I figured I might as well fix the real thing.”

“Chicken fricassee!” Cullen exclaimed. “Now that’s some French I understand.” Cullen grabbed a long-handled spoon, served Gillian a hearty portion, then did the same for himself. Hunt suppressed a grin as he took the bread basket, unfolded one corner of the warming towel and offered her the basket.

“Hot biscuit, Gilly?” Hunt mimicked his brother.

“Ms. Moore or Gillian on the grounds of Moore House, please.”

She waited until he nodded agreement and then gave her attention to the meal before her. He was right. The tempting aroma won her over before a morsel had even passed her lips.

“Oh, Chef,” she mumbled with her mouth full. “This sauce is incredibly silky.”

“I thicken the sour cream sauce by whisking in an egg yolk.”

“It’s decadently rich.” She closed her eyes, savoring the flavors.

“Believe it or not, this is my light version—no heavy cream.”

“Well, I’m sold.”

“That’s what I hoped you’d say. I’ll make it a featured item on my menu.” Hunt smiled and winked at his brother, a signal between the two.

Gillian paused in her feeding frenzy to consider what had just occurred. She rested against the chair to settle a heart that thumped hard in her chest. She’d unwittingly fallen for an impromptu tasting and been drawn in completely by her talented and wily chef.

She’d expected to discuss the menu with Hunt and, when absolutely necessary, to defer to his experience. But Gillian hadn’t intended to fall under his culinary spell so quickly or in the name of chicken fricassee.

It seemed her earlier fears about trusting the man were well-founded.

CHAPTER SIX

ON THE DRIVE to Temple Territory the next day, Hunt prepared himself to be in the doghouse with Gillian. He’d called twice that morning, and it’d gone to voice mail both times. Yep, he was on her bad side, he just wasn’t certain why. She’d enjoyed the meal, cleaned her plate and even agreed the fricassee was a dish worthy of his menu.

Correction. Her menu.

“I gotta stop acting as if I’m running this show,” he muttered to himself. “That’s probably why she took off before I got a chance to serve the crème brûlée.”

In fairness, she had come in the door last night making noise about having to work later that evening. But it was just as likely the hotel heiress had to report to her daddy as to how she was spending his money. Hunt could just imagine her observations—the East Texas locals were slow as molasses in Minnesota, and as easy as shootin’ fish in a barrel. Flash some cash and these folks will go along with anything.