Page 24 of The Way to a Cowboy's Heart

“So…” he hedged. “I assume I know what brings you here today. Am I correct?”

“If you think I’m looking for work, then you would be correct. Yes. We might as well dispense with the small talk. You know what my company went through. And through no fault of my own or anyone else but—”

“Let me stop you right there, Emily.”

She blushed furiously, sure she knew what was coming. She’d heard the same thing all over town.

“I like you. I’ve even talked to my bosses about you. Talked you up. Everyone knows your talent. But this business… it’s about trust. Without trust, we have nothing. We are nothing. William Bledsoe broke that trust, big-time. And I think you know it’s not about what’s true or accurate. It’s about what itlookslike.”

“I’ve heard that before, too,” she said. “But surely once they prove it was all him…”

“That,” he said, “could take years.”

“I don’t have years. I’m here in the US on a work visa. Which will expire soon if I don’t find a job. I’m willing to start small if I have to, Stephen. I can build that trust. I promise you, if I—”

“If it were up to me, I’d hire you. But… the partners have already vetoed it. Vetoedyou. Anyone from your firm, in fact. In a few years, it’s possible things may loosen up. Or not. People in New York have long memories about this kind of thing. What about London?”

She swallowed hard.London.She would have to go crawling back home, a failure. Ruined. And her overachiever brother would quietly gloat forever about that. Her father… well, she didn’t want to imagine his disappointment or how that would play out between them. All her years of hard work, for nothing.

Her eyes stung. Ruthlessly, she shoved the tears back and got to her feet. She wouldn’t beg. She’d figure something out. She had to. She had less than two weeks in this country before they made her leave.

“Thank you for your time, though, Stephen. I hope we meet again someday.”

“You, too, Emily. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you.”

She hurried out of the building and into the sunny, April morning, holding back tears. She wouldn’t cry. What was the point anyway? It wouldn’t change anything. William Bledsoe’s criminality had cost all of them—including his poor clients—dearly. And now they just had to face the consequences. She was getting used to this kind of rejection.

Perhaps she needed to rethink her entire life. Perhaps she needed a fresh tack.

When she was a girl, her father would take her and her brother sailing off the coast. The waters were always choppy and rough and the wind, ever changing. Managing a smallish sailboat was tricky at best, but the one thing she learned was that when the wind changed, it required you to change with it. And if you didn’t, you would sink. Simple as that. Tacking the sails became a life lesson, as did most things with her father. Not fun. But still useful.

That was what she needed to do now. Rethink, shift the sails, turn the boat into the waves.

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at nothing.

Maybe you need to get out of town for a while. See things fresh. Come to Montana, he’d said. Maybe that was exactly what she needed.

*

They’d been throughat least a half-dozen cooks, chefs, and wannabe chefs in the last month, interviewing for the position at the Hard Eight starting this spring. Shay was in charge, but Liam sat in on a few of them. They were looking for a high-end chef who would build a reputation for the guest ranch as an A-plus destination, aside from everything else they would be supplying. But finding one was proving more difficult than they’d expected. Excellent food here at the guest ranch was a critical element and they’d had to narrow down what they wanted as their list of applicants’ experience was varied and unique—and few.

Babe Pratt, one of their early applicants, was a local chuckwagon cook who’d worked on several spreads in the area and trail drives Liam himself had organized. Babe’s specialty was grilling beef—and more beef—over an open fire pit. Some grilled potatoes and beans likely found their way onto the plate as well. When pressed, coleslaw was a possibility.

“We were looking for a menu with a little more diversity,” Shay told him gently.

“Diversity? I do a mean chuck roast, a rib eye, my beef stew is always ate up. Then there’s my ground rib-eye burgers with sautéed red onion, cooked down and smothered with ketchup and some dill pickles. None of my cowboys ever complained over my cookin’,” he argued with a twang that belonged in the Montana high country. “I candochicken, too.” He argued. “If I have to, but all them chichi vegetables? Little tiny portions are for the birds, and they ain’t gonna see you through a hot summer cattle drive down from the mountains. No siree.”

Since they wouldn’t be doing any of those with their clientele, they thanked Babe and moved on.

They were excited to meet Jacque DeBris, an actual trained chef from Vancouver, Canada, who came prepared to cook them some food, which they had to admit was excellent, but a background check explained that he’d left at least five jobs in the last year because of the toxic environment he created wherever he went. His unfriendly reaction to that question proved his former employers’ point. They moved on.

Over the course of the next week, they’d met a few more cooks, some just plain home cooks looking to do something different. But none of them were up to their standards. It was beginning to look like the job might fall to Liam’s mother, Sarah, who had already told them she had no intention of filling that position. They resorted to another round of ads in nearby regional papers.

Then came Petra Schwarzig, a home-trained Austrian cook who’d been cooking her way across the USAto gather up new recipes. She did, in fact, bring a great variety to her repertoire including some lovely Austrian dishes, low-country Louisiana food, and Midwestern BBQ. “There is only one demand I have,” she announced in her brusque Austrian accent as they tasted her schnitzel. “I must have music while I cook. I cannot waver on this requirement,ya? You vill love it, ya?” She pressed the button on her portable CD player which blasted polka music until the pups in the next room howled.

They thanked her for coming and said they’d be in touch.

After, Shay poured them both another cup of coffee. “Why is this so hard?”

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