Page 25 of The Way to a Cowboy's Heart

Liam shrugged. “It’s chemistry as much as the food. If we choose the wrong person, it throws the whole operation off.” He couldn’t help but think of Emily and that night around her table back in New York. The food, the comradery… It had all seemed so easy for her. She’d even made it feel easy for him… no easy task after spending most of his life interacting with cattle. But Emily was a rare commodity, that he knew for sure. And that became even more obvious as they met and rejected chef prospects for their operation.

“Maybe we should go to a cooking school and find someone looking to make a name for him or herself? Or take a trip to Seattle to try to steal a chef!” Shay said.

“Nobody is going to give up a good position at a top restaurant to come here to this untried place in the middle of nowhere when we haven’t even opened yet. We’ve got to find someone who’s in transition. Or… unhappy where they are. Then again, I suppose polka music is still an option.”

“Noooo!” Shay said with a moan. They both laughed.

Sarah and Ray came through the kitchen door just then, back from the grocery store in town.

“What are you two cackling about in here?” she asked. “I hope it’s not about the sound my truck’s making, whose muffler just went kaput driving down our driveway.”

Liam and Shay pulled themselves together and tried to look serious. “Your muffler went bad?” he said. “What happened to it?”

“It was the weirdest thing. We were just coming home, and we passed this car with… withpolkamusic blasting out of it and just like that, the muffler blew up.”

He and Shay cracked up again.

“What?” Sarah said, confused.

Shay patted Liam’s arm. “Let’s just say the dogs and we are sympathetic to your muffler.”

Outside, another car pulled up, a Range Rover that looked more than a couple of years old, but nice. Out stepped a diminutive man in his forties, who tucked his chef’s knife roll under his arm and headed to their door.

Shay rolled her eyes. “Maybe I have PTSD, but I am not hopeful.”

“Give him a chance. This must be that guy from Missoula. He’s the last one on our list for the week.”

“Gary Nevers,” the man said, extending his hand to Liam once inside.

He reminded Liam of Sean Astin in a weird way and not just because of his dark hair and eyes. There was a cockiness to him that kind of preceded him.

“Nice to meet you,” Gary went on. “I’m a Michelin chef—only one star, but still. Here’s my resume.” He handed over a piece of paper to Liam. “I think you’ll find it more than adequate for your needs.”

“Please, come in,” Shay said, sitting him down at the table. She sent Liam a quick eyebrow lift as she looked over his resume.

“Mr. Nevers,” Liam began. “That’s impressive, that Michelin ranking. Earning any stars at all is quite an achievement.”

“That is true. They aren’t given out lightly. Though I would have liked two.”

“We’re not looking for anything too out there for our menus here at the Hard Eight. But we do like down-to-earth innovation and creativity,” Shay told him. “But this is a family operation, and we hope to attract both families and couples here looking for good food and a ranching adventure.”

“Perfect,” Nevers said, folding his hands atop the table, directing his answers to Liam. “I’m looking for that myself. After working in high-pressure kitchens around the world, I’m wanting to return to the art of cooking and not the pursuit of yet another star. Do you understand?”

“Makes sense,” he said. “We do weddings on this property as well, which call for bigger receptions and more extensive catering. Often, people will bring in their own caterer, but in case they don’t, we want to provide that service as well. Is that something you’d be comfortable with?”

“Of course. With my eyes closed,” he said with confidence. “But I don’t expect you to hire me without tasting my food. I can arrange to cook a tasting for you if you’d like. What are your facilities?”

Shay and Liam exchanged looks. “We’ve just completed our new kitchen, which is housed in that small building just off the main house.”

“May I see it?” Nevers asked. “One must see where one might be working.”

“Of course.” Shay led the way and Nevers inspected everything from the gas stove to the water pressure in the sinks.

“This will do,” he said, setting down his knives as a kind of possessive punctuation mark to their interview. “Though the placement of the dishwashing facility… I would have moved it to that side. At any rate, when shall we schedule a tasting?”

“Would two days from now be too soon?”

“I can do tomorrow if you’d like.”

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