Page 11 of Death Valley

“Whooo boy,” Cole says, coming over and taking a seat at the end as he rubs his hands at the sight. “You’ve outdone yourself McGraw.”

“Hopefully it’s good enough for your liking,” Jensen says to me, a hint of derision in his low voice.

“Well, they tell me that any man who can cook like this can’t be all bad,” I comment, my stomach gurgling again.

That gets a genuine laugh from Eli, and even Jensen’s mouth quirks up at the corner. He starts plating the food with the kind of precision I associate with high-end restaurants.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask as he slides a plate in front of me.

“Here and there.” He finally sits, taking the empty stool between me and Red and I catch a whiff of sage and something resinous, like copal. I close my eyes briefly as I breathe it in, conscious of his body so close to mine. “Spent some time in Reno kitchens before coming back to the ranch.”

Something passes between him and Cole—a look I can’t quite interpret—but then everyone’s focused on eating, and the kitchen fills with the sounds of cutlery and appreciation.

The lamb is perfect, medium rare and seasoned with herbs with a bit of heat and heap of freshly ground mint and tomato jelly. I try to eat slowly so I don’t wolf it all down at once, but it’s the best meal I’ve had in months. When I was first put on leave, I started using my free time to cook better for myself, but that didn’t last long. Once I entered my downward spiral, I was popping in microwave meals and ordering delivery every chance I got. My body has been begging for a well-rounded home-cooked meal ever since.

“Careful there,” Red says, watching me clean my plate. “Mountain food’s heavier than what you’re used to. Wouldn’t want you getting sick during your lesson tomorrow.”

I set my fork down. “I’m sure I’ll manage. Though I must admit, this is exceptional.” I glance beside me at Jensen but his face remains impassive at my words.

“Jensen’s got hidden depths,” Eli says, which makes Cole snort.

“So, what made you leave the kitchen for ranching?” I ask Jensen, wondering if it will line up with what the twins at the bar had told me.

Jensen takes a slow drink of his beer. “Family business,” he says finally. “My father died and someone had to run it.”

“How’d you find us anyway?” Red asks, leaning back in his chair. “Ranch isn’t exactly on the tourist maps.”

I notice Jensen watching me carefully as I answer. “Started at Three Fingered Jack’s. Figured a local bar was my best bet for information.”

Something passes between the men that I can’t quite read. Jensen’s jaw tightens. “Candace tell you where to find me?”

“The bartender with the eyepatch? No, actually she seemed pretty determinednotto help. But I met some friendly locals. A pair of twins that looked like they might have been in ZZ Top at some point.”

“You’ve got quite the network of informants,” Jensen says. “First the news article, then the locals. You sure you’re not a reporter?”

“Not a reporter. Just desperate,” I say, putting my fork down. “When you’ve been looking for someone as long as I have, you learn to follow every lead.”

His expression softens for just a moment before he stands, gathering plates. “Dawn still comes early here. Eli, you’re on breakfast duty tomorrow. The rest of you know what needs doing.”

The dismissal is clear. Red and Cole abruptly get to their feet and head out through the mudroom, their boots echoing on the wooden floors. Eli starts putting away leftovers, humming a melancholy tune under his breath.

“I’ll walk you back,” Jensen says, staring down at me. It’s not a request.

Dinner is over.

He’s already by the door, slipping on his boots, by the time I reach him. He opens the door for me, a gentlemanly gesture, and the cool night air hits me after the warmth of the kitchen. Jensen walks slightly ahead, his stride long enough that I have to quicken my pace to keep up. The path is lit only by the stars and a sliver of moon beneath fast moving clouds.

“You should have called ahead,” he says suddenly.

“Even if I had found your number somehow, would you have answered?”

He doesn’t say anything, which means no.

We pass the barn, now quiet except for the occasional shuffle of horses. The mountains loom larger in the darkness, and I swear I can feel them watching us. A coyote calls in the distance, another answers closer. They sound so sorrowful that a chill runs down my spine.

“Those twins at the bar,” Jensen says, breaking the silence. “They talk too much.”

“They seemed fond of your father.”

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