Cowboy in the Kitchen (3 page)

“And how was your meal?” He was fishing for a compliment.

“The snapper was overcooked and underseasoned. I sent it back to the kitchen.”

The ultimate insult hit the chef like a dart to his chest. Hunt melodramatically clutched his heart with both palms and mock-swooned against the kitchen wall, and Gillian could swear her own heart reacted, as well.

Being around this man was either going to be great fun or a great big mistake.

CHAPTER THREE

“D
ON
’
T
HOLD
BACK
,
little brother. Tell us how you
really
feel about your rich boss lady.” Joiner, the middle Temple brother, poked fun at Hunt’s diatribe over his new employer.

“I can’t help it. The more I listen to her big ideas, the more they worry me.” Hunt sank deeper into the sofa in McCarthy’s office. McCarthy sat behind the desk, and Joiner sprawled on the sofa beside Hunt. Cullen was in a corner, his nose in a book. “She’s determined to import a bunch of strangers so they can create a new ‘culture.’” He made quote marks in the air. “This is Texas, for pity’s sake. Why would anybody in their right mind want to replace the historical culture of Temple Territory that already exists? She’s on a collision course with reality, and I’m afraid my reputation as a chef could go down in flames with her.”

“Oh, get over yourself,
Cowboy Chef,
” Joiner said, making fun of Hunt’s television identity. A lifelong lover of horses, Joiner was the closest thing to a real cowboy in the family. He’d always held it over the heads of his younger brothers, whom he’d berated as a bookworm and a kitchen mouse, regardless of the fact that both could have played professional baseball.

“Life will continue,” Joiner insisted. “You have to move on to another dream now that McCarthy’s let the estate get away from you.”

“Just wait a doggone minute.” McCarthy’s dark stare landed on each of his brothers. “I’m fed up with you three holding me accountable for seeing Daddy’s mission to clear our name accomplished. We’ve all wasted a lot of years talking a good game, but none of us ever put our shoulder to the wheel and made things happen. You can’t blame me because the bank finally found a buyer, and reclaiming Pap’s place is never gonna happen.”

Cullen took a break from the textbook he was thumbing through. “I’m not so sure Daddy would want a lot of attention drawn to the Temple name now anyway, not after all the years it took for the gossip to die down. Why, wasn’t he in agreement with Pap’s decision not to come home after he got out of prison?”

“Yes, but he never dreamed he wouldn’t see Pap again,” McCarthy said.

“It’s the old man’s fault for going out to West Texas and getting himself killed working on that dangerous gas well. Otherwise we might have grown up with the flesh-and-blood Pap instead of this infamous legend Daddy spent his adult life trying to live down,” Cullen insisted.

McCarthy sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. He pushed out of his chair and moved to the foot of the desk.

“Pay attention while I spell this out for you knuckleheads one last time.” McCarthy slapped the tabletop to draw Joiner’s gaze away from his iPhone. “I was only a senior in high school when we had the conversation, but Daddy was clear on this subject, almost as if he sensed he wouldn’t be around to do it himself. Pap stayed away so Daddy and Mama wouldn’t have to raise us in earshot of constantly wagging tongues. Daddy was establishing himself at the hospital when Pap was paroled. Coming home would only have stirred the pot again. So he left well enough alone, and on the day he walked free, Pap went in the opposite direction.”

“So he pretty much abandoned Daddy.”

“Cullen, it’s not as if he was left on a doorstep in a basket. He was a grown man with four boys of his own. Pap did what he thought was right, and Daddy let him go. It was years before Daddy was finally able to put behind him the stigma that went along with Pap’s crime, and by then the old man was long dead. Still, Daddy felt he needed to forgive his father, and do something public to restore honor to our name.”

“Why didn’t Daddy just buy Temple Territory himself?”

“Like everybody else in Texas, he believed the place was jinxed, purchased and cursed by hot oil. But once he found out Pap had been killed, Daddy fixed his mind on going out to that well site to mark his father’s grave properly.”

“And they didn’t make it,” Cullen said quietly.

The private aircraft had gone down in the Apache Mountains, killing the two on board and leaving four teenage boys in Kilgore in the care of Alma and Felix Ortiz.

They all fell silent, and Hunt decided to change the mood of the room.

“Well, I never bought into that business about the property being cursed, and with any luck Pap’s place isn’t completely out of my reach yet,” Hunt announced.

Three pairs of expectant eyes waited for him to continue.

“How’s that?” McCarthy spoke up as he settled again into his chair.

“In case nobody’s been listening, I’ve got a job—at
Moore House.
I’m on the inside, and I plan to stay all up in that lady’s business to slow her down before she changes anything that can’t be put right.”

“Instead of fighting the inevitable, why don’t you tell some of those wealthy friends you’ve been feedin’ for free all these years that it’s payback time,” Joiner snapped. “Get them to invest in your own restaurant. You can call it Hunt’s Hangout or something equally sophisticated.”

“You have no idea how much capital that would require.” Hunt had already done the math for himself out of morbid curiosity and been depressed for days by the number.

“But I’m sure Gillian Moore does, and she didn’t seem to have any problem rounding up the cash. So instead of whining, why don’t you put on your big-boy boots and compete with her?” Cullen chucked a wad of paper at his twin.

It bounced off the center of Hunt’s forehead. He rubbed the spot where a pointy corner had poked his flesh. Instead of admonishing his brother for almost putting his eye out, Hunt marked the moment. He went all in. He’d always planned to have his own place one day. If somebody was going to change the fate of Temple Territory, why shouldn’t it be a Temple heir? And once Gillian Moore realized she’d bitten off more than she could chew, she might be willing to take a loss for the property and go home, leaving Pap’s place to its rightful owners. And leaving Hunt to repair the damage the made-for-TV Cowboy Chef had done to his real-life relationships in Kilgore.

* * *

“T
HESE
RIDICULOUS
DOORS
have to come down,” Gillian instructed a prospective contractor as they went room by room through the mansion several days later. For the past two hours she’d itemized the work that would give the interior of the house a crucial face-lift. The Italian renaissance exterior and tile roof were still in amazingly fine shape. But inside the fifty-year-old home, it was dark and cavernous, in desperate need of modern lighting and plumbing, just for starters.

“Yes, get rid of these first thing,” she repeated.

“You can’t be serious.” Hunt’s voice echoed in the dining room. Obviously he’d returned sooner than Gillian had expected. The man who’d be an asset once they opened was becoming a pebble in her pump during the renovations, prying into every detail of her plan.

She tucked her small notebook into her shoulder bag, gave a nod of apology to the contractor and turned to address Hunt. “Of course I’m serious. I can’t have Wild West saloon doors in the entrance to a European-themed restaurant.”

“Do you at least plan to recycle the doors and use them someplace else?”

She flicked one of the heavy panels. It creaked to and fro on rusty hinges. “I plan to make these sad old things the first layer of the bonfire.”

Hunt’s jaws clenched, as they had frequently in the past several days. Color shot from his collarbone to his hairline. As was the case with many a temperamental chef, the man took himself way too seriously.

“May I speak with you privately, please?” Keeping his voice low seemed to take effort.

Gillian followed his lead as he crossed the soon-to-be-expanded dining room floor and headed for the front foyer. When they were a safe distance from anyone who might repeat their conversation, he spun to face her.

“This is the first of what I hope will be many teachable moments.” The mercurial man seemed to struggle for self-control.

Gillian’s schedule was tight. She had back-to-back interviews with contractors. She wanted to dismiss this interruption by Hunt, but she
had
agreed to at least listen to his objections.

“So what’s the big deal about those slabs of wood?”

“Those
slabs of wood
are ax-hewn heart of loblolly pine. Antiques dealers scour the countryside for such quality reclaimed lumber.”

“Okay, so they’re worth a few bucks. We’ll put them in the yard-sale pile instead.” She turned away. Hunt caught her by the wrist, but let go as soon as her eyes met his again.

“The historic value is greater than the price of the wood. Those boards came from Temple Number One, the first wildcat well Pap brought in. He pried the pine from the drilling rig floor. Built and hung those swinging doors himself.”

“Well, then, he should have been convicted on an extra count for his bad taste.” Gillian knew instantly that her sorry excuse for a joke was a mistake. But instead of the angry response she deserved and expected, Hunt got quiet and moved to stare out the cracked bay window.

The roots of Gillian’s hair flushed hot, a sure sign a woman in the Moore family was embarrassed. Any moment she’d break into a sweat and her cheeks would glow as brightly as taillights in morning traffic.

“I’m sorry, Hunt.” She wanted for all the world to dig a hole and crawl into it. “What I said was cruel and I apologize.”

“What you said was fairly accurate.” He faced her, a hint of a smile curving his full lips. “Alma always said that Pap’s interior design left a lot to be desired. But he did things his own way.”

Hunt tipped his head up. His gaze scanned the dark walls and shadowy high ceilings of the foyer. “No matter what people said about him in the end, our daddy told us Pap had guts in spades—and an ornery nature any mule would envy.”

“The family resemblance is strong,” she cautiously teased. Hunt had kindly let her off when she deserved a boot in the behind for her snide comment.

The cell phone in her pocket buzzed. She checked the caller ID.

Dang it, Father, what is it now?

She sent him directly to voice mail, making a mental note to get to his message before her next appointment. Her father was driving her nuts, questioning and second-guessing her every decision. At least he was over a thousand miles away. Having her controlling father any closer would have made this project impossible.

“So how about a stay of execution for the doors?”

For a split second Gillian was tempted to give in to Hunt’s hopeful voice and appealing eyes just to make him go away and let her return to work. But the moment passed. She’d do things her way, and neither Hunt Temple nor James Moore would tell her what to do. Still, there was a story behind the pieces that added ambience, albeit in the wrong place.

She offered a compromise. “We can use them in the spa. We’ll work the doors into the decor of the juice bar.”

“Spa? You haven’t mentioned a spa.” Hunt’s brows scrunched in concern.

“Phase II,” she explained. And that was all the explanation he’d get on her future plans. She could just imagine his objections when he found out that smelly Caddo well would be filled in and covered over with a tile floor when she enclosed the courtyard. She’d keep that to herself until he needed to know, if ever.

Hunt squinted in thought, as if he was considering her alternative suggestion for the doors. Not that she could let his opinions matter too much in the end. Gillian would only get one grab at the brass ring. She hadn’t put her reputation and her parents’ retirement fund on the line to have her plans questioned by a professional foodie.

Even if the foodie was the talented, unpredictable and quite handsome Cowboy Chef.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I
HAVE
A
better idea for the doors.” Hunt tilted his head and motioned with his hand for Gillian to follow him. He smiled at the tapping of her heels behind him. He was making progress with the boss lady already.

“Hunt, I’m too busy for this right now.”

Maybe not so much progress after all.

He continued toward the old kitchen.

“You’re not listening to me,” she insisted, but remained close behind. “I’m booked solid this afternoon, and I have to return that call. Your granddaddy’s rustic old doors have been collecting dust for decades. There’s no reason to get in a dither about them right this minute.”

“All evidence to the contrary since you were about to put a piece of Texas history on the scrap pile. I’d say a dither is exactly what’s called for, and you might agree in about thirty seconds.”

He crossed the scuffed terra-cotta tiles that led to the large walk-in pantry. Once inside, he reached up to tug a length of kitchen twine dangling from overhead, weighted decades ago by a lead swivel sinker from somebody’s tackle box. A single bulb lit the space dimly, but the light was sufficient to make Hunt’s point. The roomy closet was lined with thick slabs of knotty pine, the golden color deepened with age to the hue of maple syrup.

Gillian stepped forward, ran her palm across the smooth wall, her face giving away her appreciation of the reclaimed timbers.

“I hadn’t given this closet any attention. Is this the same wood?”

Hunt nodded. “When the drilling derrick at Temple One was torn down to make room for a mechanical horse-head pump, Pap hauled the lumber here to be used in the construction of his home.”

“So, Mason Dixon Temple was a conservationist before conservation was cool.”

“I guess that’s as good a way to put it as any. How about if we hang those doors here? I presume you plan to offer an in-kitchen dining experience, and this pantry could be a focal point with an interesting story.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t considered the idea of special seating in the kitchen but I understand it’s become quite popular. If we include that in the plan, won’t the diners be in your way?”

“We’ll have plenty of additional space once that far wall is blown out to accommodate the walk-in cooler.” He pointed toward the row of windows she’d marked for demolition to expand the footprint. “We’ll put seating for eight along the south wall, and the pine pantry will be storage for our selection of fine wines. A dinner party in our kitchen will be on every hostess’s wish list for the New Year.”

The nod of her head was nearly imperceptible, but it was enough. He’d scored a point. She stepped into the open space he’d envisioned for the prep stations and cooking surfaces.

“Have you given any thought to the layout of the countertops and appliances?”

It took every shred of manners his mama taught him to hold back the rude response that rushed to his lips. Gillian Moore wasn’t stupid, and he was pretty sure she wasn’t downright mean. He could only surmise it hadn’t crossed the woman’s mind that he’d wandered the halls of Temple Territory for countless hours, dreaming and planning of what he’d do with the place. But he’d never imagined it would all be for somebody else.

“I’ve laid out this kitchen nine ways from Friday and I’ve planned out exactly how it should operate. I’ve been remodeling it in my mind since I was sixteen and fried my first green tomato.”

“Then why didn’t you make it happen yourself?” There was annoyance in the way she barked the question.

“I never imagined anybody would make the investment in this place, given its reputation.” Hearing his excuse made Hunt feel like the whiner his brothers had accused him of being that very same morning.

“Well, you were wrong. It only took me one walk-through to realize this property could be spectacular.”

“So you’ve already told me.” He scuffed his hand through his hair, Gillian’s aggravation spilling over to him. “Just give me the budget and I’ll get the best return for your investment.”

She retrieved a notepad from her purse, flipped over a few pages and then held it up so Hunt could read the bottom-line figure, circled in red ink. “We must stay within that amount.”

Hunt exhaled a soft whistle. He’d be bitter about her ability to exercise such generosity if he wasn’t going to enjoy spending the rich girl’s money.

“Well, can you make it work?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He feigned uncertainty. “There’s wiggle room, of course.”

“None whatsoever.” She flipped her notepad closed and poked it into her bag. “I don’t intend to rob Peter to pay Paul during this project. I’ve worked this budget out with my financial advisor
nine ways from Friday,
as you so eloquently put it. There’s no reason we can’t open Moore House on schedule and without breaking the bank.”

Moore House.
Cold chills rippled up Hunt’s spine each time he heard the name. Surely the sensation was caused by Pap rolling over in his unmarked grave.

* * *

M
OORE
H
OUSE
. J
UST
the mention of it comforted Gillian like a thick quilt on a bleak winter day. Her parents’ investment of their years of vigilant saving simply had to bear fruit, and in a big way. There could be no other outcome, or her folks would be working the rest of their lives, and she’d never hear the end of it from her father.

Gillian loved the hospitality business and would work in corporate service if there was no other choice. But caring for her own guests under her own roof was her dream.

She’d been short with Hunt just now about his ambitions, but the man had dragged his feet and let a golden opportunity pass him by. That was his issue. She had plenty of her own.

Highest on the list was to meet her grand opening deadline to make the most of the holiday season. To do it, she’d personally have to watch every penny, and that meant keeping a close eye on Hunt. Everything he put on his inventory list had to be absolutely necessary and the best value possible. She’d drive a rental truck to Dallas and pick up the stainless-steel appliances herself if it would save a buck.

“You’re the boss,” Hunt reminded Gillian, returning her attention to their discussion. “Far be it from me to argue if you want to cut corners.”

“You can’t be serious.” His crooked smirk revealed that the man was intentionally goading her. “That’s a very generous budget. If you’re not able to handle the job, I’m sure I can find a capable chef, even if I have to take a risk on an unknown,” she bluffed.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. We made a deal, and I intend to keep my end of the bargain.”

Her cell buzzed again. Gillian slipped her hand inside the pocket of her shoulder bag, retrieved the phone and, no surprise, noted her father had called twice in the past fifteen minutes.

“My knickers are none of your concern. But our contract certainly is, so speak now or be legally bound through the end of the year.”

He held his palms outward. “I apologize, that comment was inappropriate. How can I make it up to you?”

The phone sounded once more. She held up her index finger to indicate she needed a minute to take the call. With the phone to her ear, she turned away, briefly but firmly telling her father she would call him shortly. Then she faced Hunt again, the enormity of the undertaking hitting her. Maybe she could delegate.

“Since you offered, would you meet with the kitchen designer for me? He’s on his way, and I still have a lot to cover with the contractor in the other room who’s probably charging me by the hour for this meeting. So I’ve got to go. Can I trust you to handle things with the designer and report to me as soon as your meeting is finished?”

“Of course. How about if I give you a full rundown over dinner tonight?”

“Dinner?” She wasn’t sure it was wise to spend an hour with Hunt away from the workplace. Tongues would wag in this small Texas town. “Where?”

“My brother’s house, unless you’d rather go out.”

“Actually, a home-cooked meal sounds wonderful.”

It had only been a week, but Gillian was already tired of the small restaurant in the chain hotel where she was staying.

“Any special requests?” Hunt asked.

“I’m game for something local, whatever’s in season.”

“Right now, squirrel is in season.” He clamped his lips together to suppress a grin.

She slanted her eyes at some invisible point above him and considered how to respond.

“Surprise me,” she finally challenged.

“Consider it done. Now go take care of your remodeling man, and I’ll deal with the kitchen guy. What’s his name, by the way?”

She checked her notes. “Steve Froehlich.”

“Froehlich? I don’t know of any Froehlichs in these parts.”

“He’s from Houston. Since he’s working another job in Tyler at the moment, he agreed to drive over.”

“Did you invite anybody local to bid? I’m sure I could make a good recommendation if you’ll give me a day to ask around.” He snapped his fingers. “I played ball with a guy named Karl Gates who works with his dad. They’re the best carpenters in Rusk County. What do you say I give him a call?”

She raised a palm against his offer. “Don’t start with that good-old-boy network business. I’m aware of how you guys operate.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your suspicion.” Hunt took offense.

“You haven’t done anything
yet.
” Gillian motioned with two fingers from her eyes to Hunt’s, then turned and hurried away. The clock was ticking and she was spending her parents’ money.

But in her rush to get things done, had she put too much trust in Hunt too soon?

* * *

T
HE
MAN
WHO
answered the front door of the home that evening was the mirror image of Hunt, but Gillian realized instantly it was his twin. Hunt’s dark brown hair was neatly cropped; his face always clean-shaven.

This man’s hair was on the shaggy side with a couple days’ worth of very appealing stubble on his chin. And in contrast to Hunt’s
GQ
style, this twin was dressed comfortably in a flannel shirt and jeans faded by years of wear.

“Gillian Moore?” he asked. When she smiled, he offered his hand and drew her across the threshold. “I’m Hunt’s older and better-lookin’ twin brother, Cullen.”

“Go ahead and admit that you’re also smarter than the rest of us,” Hunt called from inside the house. “You’ll reveal your brilliance eventually, you always do, so get it over with up front.”

“He’s right,” Cullen agreed, lowering his chin modestly. “I am the best-educated of the Temple brothers, but I’m not so sure that makes me smarter than anybody besides Hunt, which ain’t sayin’ much.”

“Whoa, I always heard twins were kindred souls, each protective of the other.”

“Yeah, that’s what the experts say, but if Hunt didn’t resemble me quite so much, I’d figure our folks had brought home the wrong kid.”

Gillian followed Cullen across the herringbone entryway and into a family room. The floor-to-ceiling shelves on three walls were so tightly packed with hardbound volumes that the space resembled a library in need of organization. An oversize sofa and chairs occupied the center of the room that was strewn with newspapers. A large partner’s desk laden with a desktop computer, a laptop and many more books crowded one corner. As she took in the homey clutter, she knew this was definitely not the meticulous lifestyle of her executive chef.

Hunt emerged from behind the kitchen bar where he’d served her breakfast a few days earlier. An apron covered his clothing from the waist down, but the stark white seemed to accentuate the fit of his red polo shirt and the definition in his arms. The man was a feast for the eyes.

“I’d apologize for my brother’s cluttered home if it would make him change, but this mess is part of who he is. His quirky personality just happens to have tipped over and spilled everywhere.”

Hunt’s gaze swept the room, followed by a disbelieving shake of his head.

“While our mama was alive, she made Cullen keep the books in his bedroom. But once we lost our parents, all restraints were off. And instead of growing out of his obsession for academia, this big galoot and his size-twelve feet grew into it.”

Gillian stepped close to one shelf and stared in awe at the private collection, many of which were textbooks.

“If you must have a touch of OCD,” Gillian said, “I agree that the printed word is a great obsession to choose. And if you’ve read each of these, you must be very smart, indeed, Cullen.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Hunt said that you were sharp as a new pickax and pretty as a baby goat, but he didn’t mention you’re a good judge of character, too.”

“Uh-huh.” Hunt cleared his throat, making the point that the conversation had gone on long enough.

“Yes, little bro. I remember the instructions you gave me. Let the pretty woman into the house and then make myself scarce.”

Cullen glanced at Gillian and raised his gaze to the rafters overhead. “This is the thanks I get for taking in my sibling and letting him have the run of my kitchen.”

“If you expect to share in this meal, you’ll get out while the gettin’ is still good, or I’ll put you to work.”

“I sure hope you’re partial to squirrel, Miss Moore,” Cullen said with a grin before ambling down the long hallway and turning out of sight.