Page 1 of The Way to a Cowboy's Heart

Chapter One

Emily Quinn hurriedup the steep stairs from the Broadway subway station, half-running toward the Wall Street crosswalk and the offices of Bledsoe, Tamarin, and Carter. Even from here, the building that housed their offices towered over the street known for behemoths. A monument to greed made of glass, stone and ambition.

She glanced at her watch as she hurried down the street. It read 7:56 a.m.

She was late. For that, she blamed the flourless chocolate tart that had taken its own sweet time baking at the crack of dawn. But the result was worth it. It was perfection if she did say so herself.

Which put her forty minutes behind. Nate would notice. Nate always noticed. She had, however, earned a few minutes of grace. Particularly since, without any life to speak of, she never took vacations or sick days. And her weekends were inevitably spent right here, too. All of which made tonight’s monthly gathering—hersupper club—the thing that made it all tolerable.

There was a notable dearth of stonks—more politely known as Wall Streeters—on the sidewalk at this hour. Since the partners had called everyone back to the office to work, all or most, were safely ensconced—some would say held hostage—by seven a.m. and up to their necks in trades, shorts, or some kind of high finance. Some likely selling their souls for a bigger piece of the action.

Working in that particular hell wasn’t her actual job anymore, though she had been especially good at it. Good enough to climb above all that and secure a corner office with a view since returning after working from home. Though, her reputation for prescience in the investment world was not, in her opinion, a gift she could take credit for. Maybe it was God-given or plain luck. Maybe it was simply her path. Though lately, she’d begun to wonder ifchoosingthat world was really a choice at all or merely accepting the inevitable.

Her father had worked in the British parliament and his father before him. Her older brother was the darling of a London think tank that specialized in environmental economics and was destined for parliament, too. So, what chance did she have, really? Six years ago, she had run away from all that, across the pond, headlong into a world that seemed to now settle over her like an ill-fitting coat. A coat for which she was both grateful and weirdly ambivalent. She’d survived, sacrificed, and bled for those years.

And even as she rushed up this canyon of skyscrapers to get to the place that paid handsomely for her life, all she could think about was that flourless chocolate cake and how it would taste tonight, decorated with tiny carved mint leaves and the snipped lavender blossoms she’d collected from her windowsill garden.

It was Valentine’s Day. And with no one to send her flowers, she’d had some delivered to herself. A big bouquet of roses, lilies, and hydrangeas that her sister would be there to receive. She could almost smell the flowers as she walked.

The intersection of Wall Street and Broadway was alive with noisy traffic, a handful of yellow cabs speeding by, and the unhoused guy she knew as Pete standing on the corner, asking for money. She kept a ten-dollar bill in her pocket for him in case he was there, simply because she liked him.

As she reached him at the corner, he smiled at her through his scraggly beard, his clothes looking decidedly worse for the wear. He had a scarf around his neck and a ragged knit cap that could have been either blue or brown, but hardly seemed sufficient against the February cold.

He wasn’t old. Not even forty, she guessed. She wasn’t even sure how he’d come to be here alone on the streets of New York City. She suspected he was a veteran because he always irreverently saluted her when they crossed paths. But she didn’t ask about his history. It wasn’t her place.

“You’re running late today, ma’am.” Stating the obvious was one of his talents.

“Thank God I have you to remind me,” she said with a grin, slowing down long enough to hand him the money. He always seemed embarrassed to take money from her, but he did anyway. “You warm enough, Pete?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, lowering his sign to touch the edge of his knit cap in a thank you gesture. “Those socks you gave me last week are sure fine. Warm. I’ll buy me some coffee with this.”

“Good and maybe a bite to eat,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t wait too long. It’s about to rain again.”

“Take care, Ms. Quinn. Those shoes of yours ain’t made for running.”

“They absolutely are not. Cheers!” Her red, Louboutin heels were certainly not made for New York City streets nor wet February weather, but they would have to do. The light changed and she stepped into the crosswalk.

From out of nowhere, a yellow cab screeched around the corner, nearly hitting her but Pete shouted, “Watch out!” and she managed to dodge the cab in time.

Shaken, she threw her hands up in the air, with a “Wanker!” thrown in for good measure, but the driver barely glanced her way.

But Pete… Pete Frisbeed his folded cardboard sign at the cabbie’s window, shouting, “Hey! You blind!? Ya’ll don’t see her walking here?” before finishing with something decidedly spicier.

If the driver had seen her, he didn’t care. Then again, maybe she was invisible? Sometimes, in this city, she felt like she was. She pointed at Pete with a thank-you shake of her head. He did the same and waved her on.

It didn’t hurt to have a guardian angel on the streets of NYC.

With two blocks to go, she looked up as a fat, wet drop of freezing rain splatted against her cheek. Then another. Perfect. Late and drenched, too.

Instead of worrying, she turned her thoughts to tonight’s dinner party.

It was a bit of a symphony, all the food, the way it came together. She’d prepped most of it into the wee hours of last night, which accounted for her lateness now, but the execution required most dishes be completed on the spot. Muriel, her younger sister who was visiting from England, would have the table set up by tonight and have the apartment looking great by the time Emily got home from work.

On the menu, there were only a few touches left to do. The delicate shallot infused vinaigrette that would dress the bibb lettuce and baby greens, which would need some chive flowers cut at the last second. Halved cherry tomatoes, some shaved Parmesan cheese… and some of the croutons she’d toasted last night. She’d already sourced some organic pansies for the salad from Joseph, her favorite organic gardener, on the rooftop of their building. He had snagged several invitations for that, and his other contributions.

Then there was the seared halibut on its bed of creamy Parmesan polenta topped with broiled asparagus and capers. Milton, her favorite fishmonger down the street, had graced her with the most beautiful, thick halibut filets, and she couldn’t wait to serve them to her friends.

And for the dessert, the flourless chocolate cake drizzled with more rich, dark chocolate and a scoop of fresh whipped cream and, of course, the herbs.

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