Cowboy Strong. Stacy Finz
shrugged. “It was mostly a bunch of journalists drinking and networking. At least while I was there, I did a few interviews for a piece I’m working on for Forbes about globalization.” He was happy to be back in the swing of things. For the last year, he’d been chained to a desk, writing a book about the war in Afghanistan.
The microwave dinged and Sawyer took his food to the breakfast table. “You on call today?”
“I’m always on call; the joy of being sheriff. So far, though, it’s been a slow Saturday.”
“Nice,” Sawyer said around a mouthful. “What’s Cash up to?”
“Dunno. Probably with Ellie. She might’ve had a horse show today. Have you seen her jump? The kid’s good. We might have an Olympian on our hands.”
“Sounds like she takes after Angie, huh?” Unlike the rest of them—and much to their grandfather’s horror—Sawyer’s sister had preferred English riding to Western. Grandpa Dalton had given her no end of grief about her preference.
Sawyer would do anything to be able to tease her about it again.
He ate the last of his meat loaf and potatoes and polished off the rest of his beer. A second wave of exhaustion hit him and he considered taking a dip in the creek to wake himself up.
“Thanks for the meat loaf.” He cleared his plate. “We grilling tomorrow?” It was a Sunday tradition Jace had started last summer. They gathered in his backyard around the outdoor kitchen for suppertime and ended the evening with the kids roasting marshmallows over the firepit.
“Yep,” Jace said. “Bring beer. None of that weird shit.”
Sawyer rolled his eyes. Jace’s taste was as pedestrian as anyone’s. Cash’s wasn’t much better. “Sure, something from 7-Eleven, preferably in a can. While I’m at it, I’ll get some boxed wine.” He headed out, calling behind him, “See you tomorrow.”
When he got home there were four missed calls on his phone. All from his mother.
Chapter 2
Gina walked around the cabin, trying to decide whether to find the nearest hotel or haul ass back to Los Angeles. Ultimately, the prospect of the paparazzi chasing her down Interstate 5 convinced her to stay put.
But this place.
She held her nose and spent the next ten minutes wheeling her suitcases into what served as the master bedroom. With an old dish towel from the kitchen, she dusted down the closet and bureau before unpacking. Terry cloth wasn’t enough to clean the bathroom. A gallon of gasoline and a match might be the only way to save it.
Nevertheless, she found a can of scouring powder and some steel wool under the kitchen sink and went to work on the tub, then the toilet and sink. It didn’t sparkle when she finished, but at least she was no longer afraid of contracting a disease.
The white tile floor was next on her agenda and she went in search of a mop. At home, in Malibu, she had people to scrub her floors and do just about anything else she didn’t have time for, including cooking.
Which was ironic.
But she was too busy running a multimillion-dollar company and taping thirteen episodes a season of her show, Now That’s Italian!, for FoodFlicks. Even her cookbooks were written by someone else now. Sometimes she wondered if she even remembered how to make scrambled eggs.
Stop whining.
She reminded herself that she’d achieved the dream. Not the cooking so much, which had been her escape, her joy, the one thing that made her feel loved. No, her kitchen skills had never started out as part of the master plan. But being rich and famous…yeah, that had always been the goal.
And now she stood a good chance of losing it all.
There wasn’t a mop anywhere. Not in the pantry or the laundry room, or in the hallway linen closet. But she did find soap, a bucket, and a scrub brush. On her hands and knees, she cleaned the floor, which wasn’t as dirty as it looked. Just old and chipped and faded.
And the physical labor did her good, even in the ninety-degree weather. It helped work off her nervous energy.
Her T-shirt stuck to her like a second skin. Outside, she could hear the creek flowing and for a rash second considered going in. Sawyer had said something about fishing off the porch and Gina didn’t swim where she ate.
Sawyer…ugh…what a jerk. She was trying to escape the press, not shack up next door to it.
After he’d dumped her off here, Gina had called Wendy to give her a piece of her mind. Wendy had used that calming voice of hers to talk her off a ledge. She trusted Wendy’s judgment; she really did. Dalton and Associates was the best in the business when it came to quelling a crisis and Gina’s situation had morphed into full-blown catastrophe. But she was out of her depth in Dry Creek Ranch. Raised in Beverly Hills, dirt roads and cattle crossings gave her hives.
At least Sawyer’s apartment had been modern and rather gorgeous, though it pained her to admit it. This place, though, didn’t even have a decent stove. It was freaking electric and not even induction. And a Mr. Coffee? Who even used those anymore? She planned to remedy that as soon as possible and hoped to God UPS, FedEx, or the US Postal Service delivered here in the middle of nowhere.
She tugged off her sticky T-shirt and slipped off her shorts for a quick shower, letting a stream of cool water sluice over her. After twenty minutes, she got out of the tub, feeling human again.
She rummaged through her newly-hung clothes, trying to find something that wouldn’t draw attention to herself. Gina finally settled on a lightweight peasant dress she’d bought at Fred Segal ages ago because she’d liked the way the blue fabric had matched her eyes. The dress still had the tags on it. Slipping on a pair of sandals, she grabbed her purse and hiked to Sawyer’s garage to fetch her car.
His Range Rover was still parked in the driveway. She stared up at the barn loft, but couldn’t make out any signs of life through the big picture windows, not that she cared. How hard could it be to find the coffee shop he’d told her about? That’s what GPS was for.
She pushed her oversized sunglasses up on her nose, adjusted her floppy hat, and opened the garage door. There was probably a switch that did it automatically, but she had no idea where it was.
She backed her BMW out. Instead of taking the dirt road again, she used the same blacktop driveway she’d taken the night before and followed it to the gate. There, she set her GPS for the center of Dry Creek.
Ten minutes later, she was hopelessly lost on a back road. The highway was nowhere in sight and nothing looked familiar. Just a lot of barns, cows, goats, and an occasional house. She couldn’t deny that the scenery was picturesque. It kind of reminded her of the Tuscan countryside where her father had grown up.
But hunger and frustration killed any chance of enjoying the view.
There hadn’t been much food in Sawyer’s house. Just a jar of beluga caviar, a heel of Manchego cheese, and some stale crackers. She’d helped herself to all of it, as well as to Sawyer’s excellent wine collection. The man had good taste, she’d give him that.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled at her GPS, which had the good grace not to yell back. She’d managed to navigate Los Angeles’s labyrinth of freeways just fine. But a tiny backwater…She threw up her hands, then hung a U-turn.
“Recalculating,” the damned GPS whined.
She drove for what seemed like miles. But this time, judging by the Dry Creek sign—Welcome to the best cowtown in America—the fickle piece of equipment had come through. She cruised Mother Lode Road, peering through her window at the sights. Or rather the lack of them. Sawyer’s coffee shop, which didn’t appear to have a name. The obligatory supermarket, a seamstress shop with the cutesy name of Sew What, and a mishmash of other stores.
She