Her Cowboy Boss. Patricia Johns
a wince at his too-tight grasp. He was in his midforties with a potbelly and a white cowboy hat that shaded his heat-reddened face. His dark eyes were kind, and he gave her a cordial nod. He’d only have been nineteen when she was born, but somehow, she’d always imagined her father looking older than this.
With a quick look around the property, she could tell that he ran a clean ranch. The front yard had been recently mowed, and the drive was clear of vehicles. The fence that separated yard from pasture was well maintained, and she could make out some horses grazing in the distance. Farther off she could hear the growl of a tractor’s engine on the grass-scented June breeze. She’d have found this place relaxing if she weren’t so wound up.
“Avery, you said?” He released her hand, and she waited for some sort of recognition to dawn. It didn’t.
“Avery Southerly.”
He raised his eyebrows—still no recognition. She’d come out to Montana to introduce herself to her father, and she’d known it would be difficult. Since her mother passed away, she had a new desire to meet the father she’d never known. However, she was nervous enough that she’d come with an excuse: an advertisement for a cook at the Harmon Ranch that she’d spotted on a bulletin board in the coffee shop. If she couldn’t suss up the courage to tell him everything right away, then she’d simply apply for the job and wait for the right moment...maybe even get to know her father a little bit before there was all the pressure of surprise paternity.
He nodded toward the flyer in her hand. “I assume you’re here for the cook position.”
She looked down. It was now or never...
“Yes.” She gave a decisive nod. “I’m applying for the job, sir.”
“Glad you are because the competition is very thin right about now.” He laughed.
Well, that took care of that. Louis nodded toward the house and started walking away, so she followed him.
“The team isn’t too fussy,” he said over his shoulder. “They like the basics—griddle cakes, bacon, eggs, baked beans, steak once a week and as much corn bread as you can bake.”
He led the way along a path toward the side door of the low ranch-style house. It was large and sprawling, with one wing dedicated to a three-door garage. He pulled open the screen door and gestured her through.
“You can make corn bread, can’t you?” he asked.
“Uh—yes. I can make corn bread.”
She’d made corn bread once, at least, from a recipe she found online. She wasn’t a great cook, to be honest... She wasn’t completely inept in a kitchen, but she knew her limitations, and this idea was starting to unravel in her mind already. She should just come out with it—tell him the truth—but Actually, I’m here to inform you that I’m your daughter just wouldn’t come out of her mouth.
The kitchen table was stacked with books and ledgers, along with a smattering of papers. A horse bridle hung on the back of a kitchen chair, and Louis took off his hat and tossed it on the seat. He ran his hand over his salt-and-pepper gray hair. He definitely looked like he could be somebody’s dad, but hers?
At the age of twenty-four, Avery wasn’t looking for a father figure, just some answers. She wanted to know about the man who sired her and the story of his connection to her mother—the story her mother refused to tell. Maybe she could gather up some medical history. But she didn’t have a lot of time for this visit. Back in Salina, Kansas, she was about to reopen her mother’s flower shop, which had been closed since her mother entered hospice. She had two weeks until the June 24 opening date, and she wanted to make the most of that time. That store was her home—the place where she’d spent her formative years. But first, she wanted to learn about her father, whom her mom had only confessed on her deathbed.
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“You aren’t from Hope, are you?” he asked. “I’d recognize you if you were.”
“No, I’m from Kansas,” she replied.
“But you’re not in Kansas anymore,” Louis quipped, then chortled to himself at his little joke. “Sorry, that was a dumb one. You probably hear that all the time, don’t you?”
Avery smiled. “Only when I leave the state.”
She’d imagined what her father would be like a thousand times since she was a little girl, trying to piece together what he might look like from her own reflection in the mirror. Did he have red hair like hers? Did he hate tomatoes, too? But never in all her imaginings had she come up with a man who looked like Louis.
“Well, I’ll level with you, Avery,” Louis said. “I need a cook to start tomorrow, and you are the one and only applicant. I’m not too picky. If you can cook, and if you have a clean criminal record, I’ll give you a try.”
“Thanks for the opportunity, sir,” she said with a smile. “If you can show me the ropes...”
She was afraid to tell him the truth because he might not be thrilled to find out he had an illegitimate daughter, and from what she knew, her father had never been told about her existence. But she was wary for herself, too. She’d wanted a father so badly for so long, but only recently had she considered the possibility that her biological father might not be worthy of her. Her mother had given her an identity—they were the Southerlys. But who was she now that her mother was gone? And did Louis Harmon fit into that?
“The ropes” might not be enough to let her pass muster, but maybe she could search a few recipes online and not look like a complete incompetent. YouTube tutorials could prove useful...until she was certain that she wanted to declare herself.
“I pay the going rate.” He scratched a number on a slip of paper and handed it over.
“That seems fair.” Actually, she had no idea what the going rate was for ranch cooks, but she felt the need to commit to the part now that she’d started. This was ridiculous! She didn’t need extra money, and she didn’t need a job. But Louis seemed so pleased to have a cook that she just couldn’t let him down. Yet. She’d have to eventually.
The side door opened and a cowboy stepped inside, taking his hat off as the screen door slammed behind him. He was a tall man with sandy blond hair and a slim build. His bare forearms were roped with muscle and darkened by a tan. His face was lined from the sun, and blue eyes moved over her in quick evaluation, pausing just a beat longer than necessary.
“Ah, Hank.” Louis nodded to the newcomer. “Perfect timing. We have a cook.”
“Great.” Hank glanced toward her again, this time with more curiosity. He looked to be in his midthirties, and there was something in his perfectly professional gaze that sped her heart up just a little. Maybe it was the laser focus he directed at her, appraising her on the spot. Avery gave him a nod.
“Hank Granger is my ranch manager,” Louis said. “You’ll be answering to him. He can show you the canteen and make sure you’re set up.”
Hank leaned over and shook her hand, his grasp firm but gentle.
“Welcome aboard,” he said, a slight smile quirking up one side of his mouth. “And you are—”
“Avery Southerly,” she replied, pulling her hand back. She glanced toward Louis to see if repeating her name had sparked anything in his memory, but the older man’s expression didn’t change.
“I’ll get you settled,” Hank said. “We need you to stay on-site for this position, the hours being what they are. I hope that isn’t a problem for you.” When she shrugged her compliance, he added, “There’s a room in the bunkhouse—a private one—for the cook, so you should be comfortable enough. But first we’ll need some ID so we can do a background check.”
“Of course.” Avery provided the necessary identification, and Louis disappeared into the next room where the rattle and moan of