Page 3 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

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Willow slid the last of her homemade chicken pot pies into the oven, set the timer, then stepped back. It was late afternoon, and the familiar aroma would be filling the enormous kitchen soon. Part of her couldn’t wait, while the other dreaded it because that smell carried with it memories that would never be again.

She let out a sigh and looped a stray tendril of hair over her ear. No sense brooding over the past. Or worse, divulging to anyone here that she’d made this move to be closer to her mother, something she could not have done without this job. Most of their past had been sold, and the more she learned to move forward, the better off she would be.

Thankfully, she had her mama’s recipes to keep her company through the long, hard days of running a kitchen for hungry ranchers. Hard work and honesty had been knitted into the fabric of who she was, so a thread of guilt always seemed to work its way loose whenever she found herself thinking too long about this position she had accepted.

Willow found her way to the far end of the meandering, scarred kitchen island, the one topped with wood gouged by years’ worth of meals. She poured herself a glass of lemonade from the pitcher on the island and drank it down, letting the coolness of it refresh her while waiting for dinner to cook.

She glanced around, taking it all in. By all accounts, Patsy, her predecessor, had run this place without error. The woman had been friendly by nature, yet tough when she needed to be. And her food was above reproach. Not to mention … complicated. More than once, Willow’s eyes had tired from taking in the long lists of ingredients that Patsy filled the pantry with and often rolled into her dishes as deftly as she might have pulled on a sock.

When Willow had heard about this position up here in Topa Springs, right near where she needed to be, she believed she’d been given a gift from God himself. He had made a way for her amid a trial she couldn’t fathom.

And yet, had she been completely honest when she had accepted the position as cook, knowing well that her cooking skills had been tested mainly on only her mother and herself?

A door from the outside opened, slamming against a wall, followed by the heavy sound of boots landing on freshly washed and dried tile floors. Chance marched into the room and tossed his hat onto the island. He opened the fridge with such force that the condiments on the door rattled, and he hauled out a head of lettuce, sliced cheddar, roast beef, mustard, and a gallon of milk. He spun toward the cabinets, yanked open a silverware drawer, and tossed out a butter knife, letting it bounce across the wooden surface. From an upper cabinet, he retrieved a plate and a mug, then slammed the door shut.

Willow winced at that show of hostility, hoping the intricately etched glass inlaid in that cabinet door had not just gained a fracture. She watched as he proceeded to make himself the most haphazard, asymmetrical sandwich she’d ever seen. He gobbled it down after that, still unaware that he had an audience.

It might’ve stayed that way if he hadn’t slammed down his mug after gulping back his milk in one long swig.

Willow cleared her throat.

Chance stopped cold when he spotted her sitting there, his hand still wrapped around that empty mug. Was that a milk mustache?

When she saw the fury in his dark eyes, she chose to keep that question to herself. And a small part of her had a mind to apologize for taking a break at all. The other part of her remembered her mother’s voice in her head, admonishing her to stand up for herself.

Even if, in this case, that meant staying seated.

He nodded once. “Willow.”

“Chance.”

“You been there the whole time?”

“I have.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded. Then picked up his dishes and dumped the whole mess into the sink with a clatter.

Willow reached him in a few quick steps, placing herself between Chance and the sink. She leaned her backside against the counter and crossed her arms.

He furrowed his brow, confusion in his eyes. “You mad about something?”

“I’d appreciate it if you would be more careful with the dishes.”

He appeared to shrug off her statement, a cocky half-grin rising on his face.

Willow stiffened, pulling her crossed arms more tightly around her. She sucked in a breath. “Listen, you coming in here banging drawers and throwing food around like a hungry beast less than an hour before supper is—is, well, it’s a little insulting.”

“That right?” He groaned like an angry child and ran a hand through his full head of burnished brown hair. His face still wore the scruff from this morning, only now it had turned thicker, darker. If he were going to shave it off in time for dinner, he’d better get a move on.

Unless he had decided to defy Ace’s request?

Willow bit the inside of her lip. Growing up the only daughter of a single mother had not prepared her for the insolence of men, especially directed toward each other. How had Patsy handled their sparring? By ignoring it or by chasing them out of the kitchen with a broom?

She laughed.

Chance shrank back. “What’s so funny?”

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