“How’s the cowboy camp coming along?” She smiled up at him. At forty-eight, his mother was still a beautiful woman. Coal-black hair that fell to her shoulders and dark eyes that always seemed to dance with joy, even though her life hadn’t always been joyous.
“It’s coming. I just got out of a meeting with the event planner for the Lumber Baron. We’re trying to do some cross promotion and work out a few packages that would include both our facilities.”
“The runaway bride?”
He shook his head. “Samantha Dunsbury, a nice-looking redhead from Connecticut.”
“That’s her. You don’t know her story?” She looked scandalized, then proceeded to tell him the whole sordid tale. “Everyone in Nugget calls her the runaway bride. You know, like that Julia Roberts movie.”
“Don’t you like her?” Most of the time Cecilia Rodriguez was a good judge of character. Unfortunately, not so much with Lucky’s dad, who’d bailed the minute his son was born.
“I don’t know her,
mijo
. But if you like her, I’m sure she’s a very nice person. You want posole?” She dished him up a large bowl of the hominy-and-pork stew from the pot on the stove and warmed a few tortillas in the oven.
He dug in. He’d missed her cooking out on the road. Although Mexican food had become popular across the United States, most of it sucked. Hard-shell tacos and flavorless black beans. Yuck. “This is good.”
“I have brownies for dessert.” He didn’t know how his mother stayed so slender cooking the way she did.
“I saw Raylene at the Ponderosa.”
“Oh?” Cecilia scowled, having never made her disapproval of Raylene a secret.
“Ah, come on, Mom. Cut her some slack. You yourself said you felt sorry for her.”
“I’ve known her since she was a little girl. So of course I feel bad about what happened to her. But, Lucky, that girl is no good for you. Stay away,
mijo
.”
He couldn’t really argue. Raylene had nearly cost Cecilia her job, not to mention ruining Lucky.
“Tell me about this Samantha Dunsbury. Does she seem as rich as everyone says?”
“Not really,” Lucky said. “She dresses pretty slick, but she seems down-to-earth. Sam denies it, but I get the impression she and Nate Breyer, the owner of the Lumber Baron, have something going on. You know him?”
Cecilia shook her head. “Only the sister, Maddy. She’s married to Rhys Shepard. Remember him?” Lucky nodded. “Both of them, sweethearts. Rhys’s father died last summer. He had two kids from another marriage. One of them is grown, but the younger one, a boy, Rhys is raising now. Such a good man.”
Lucky had gotten pretty well caught up since he’d gotten back. Except for the bit about Sam, nothing his mom said was new. But he let her talk, because like everyone else in Nugget, she liked to gossip. Nothing ever ugly, though. Cecilia Rodriguez didn’t have a mean bone in her body.
“Hey, Ma, Clay McCreedy invited me to his wedding. You going?”
“Of course. You want to go together?”
“Sure.” But Lucky had to wonder why after all these years his mother didn’t have a man. Granted, Nugget didn’t exactly have a lot of eligible bachelors his mother’s age, but someone from one of her church organizations should’ve set her up. “You think Raylene got invited?”
“Probably,” Cecilia said, and didn’t sound happy about it. “The McCreedys have always been friendly with the Rossers. There’s a couple of lovely new girls in town. Remember little Darla, Owen’s daughter? She’s running the barbershop now. And her best friend, Harlee Roberts, owns the
Nugget Tribune
. Darla is dating Wyatt Lambert and Harlee is engaged, but I bet they know some nice single women your age.”
It wasn’t like Lucky was hard up for women, but he knew his mother wanted to steer him away from Raylene. “Mom, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
But after having seen Raylene at the Ponderosa, he wasn’t so sure that was true.
Chapter 12
N
ate had only been back at the Lumber Baron ten minutes before Sam rushed into his office. He’d pulled in sometime before three after making the long drive from San Francisco, had barely taken off his jacket and gotten his computer booted up, to find her lurking in his doorway, looking as put together as usual. Today she had on a tight skirt and some kind of wraparound top that tied at the side. Her hair curled around her face in that choppy style Darla had given her and she wore red lipstick.
He looked her up and down. “The president coming to town?”
“We have a hot prospect to fill the chef’s job.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because he’s waiting in the lobby and I wanted to warn you first.”
“Warn me about what?” Nate kicked his feet up on the desk.
“He has tattoos covering his entire arms. Crazy, intricate designs that are a little scary, but kind of arty too.”
“But can he cook?”
“We’re not sure yet, but he dropped off a résumé yesterday. Emily knows some of the restaurants and she says they’re good.”
“Where’s he from?” Nate asked.
“Charleston, originally. LA more recently.”
Nate didn’t like the sound of that. People coming up from big cities often got this romantic notion of living and working in a small town, until they did it for a few months and got bored out of their skulls. “How old would you say he is?” Employers weren’t allowed to ask.
Sam lifted her palms in the air. “Late twenties, early thirties?”
Young was even worse. Not a lot of entertainment options unless you went to Reno. “I’ll talk to him,” Nate said. But he wasn’t too hopeful.
“Nate, we need someone sooner rather than later. Emily is only filling in on the condition that we find someone permanently. Soon.”
“All right, I’ll talk to him.” Hadn’t he already said that? Pushy thing.
“Should we do it in the conference room?”
“Nah. We’ll do it in here. But bring me his résumé, so I look like I know what I’m talking about.”
She dashed off and returned with a neatly typed page. He quickly scanned the contents. The guy did seem to have a fair amount of cooking chops. Then again, people were known to lie on résumés. The test would be seeing what he could do in the kitchen. “Bring him in,” Nate said.
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” Sam curtsied.
Yeah, he’d missed her mouth.
Sam came back with the guy, and sure enough he had serious ink. Sleeves going up both arms. Nate stood up and shook his hand.
According to his résumé, the man was Brady Benson, and he looked a little saddle worn. Nate offered him a seat and took his own. Sam sat on the couch.
“You live around here?” Nate asked.
“Nope. Just passing through.”
“The job would require that you live here, or at least pretty close by.” Nate wanted to ensure that this chef would stick for a while.
“That’s what I figured,” Brady said. “I’m down with that.”
“You have a family?”
“Just me,” the man of few words said.
Hell, Nate didn’t care if the guy was a mute if he could cook and showed up on time. “If we were to hire you, when could you start?”
“Now.”
Nate caught Sam’s eye as if to say
What’s with this guy?
“Brady, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” Sam said.
“Not much to tell.” Brady looked from Sam to Nate. “I cook. And I really need a job.”
Unfazed, Sam continued. “What would you say your style of cooking is?”
“New American.”
“I’ll be right back,” Sam said, and quickly left the room. Nate wondered where the hell she’d disappeared to.
“What brought you through Nugget?” Nate liked stability in his employees, but it didn’t seem like Brady had roots, not if he could settle here on a dime.
“Like I said, I was just passing through.”
Sam rushed back in the room with a folder. “These have been our menus for the past two weeks. What would you do differently?”
Brady took the folder and slowly sorted through the menus. “These look pretty good, but instead of the croissants with olallieberry jam, I’d do biscuits and gravy with house-made sausage. Heartier and what people expect at a country inn. In fall, when berries go out of season, I’d replace the coulis-drizzled Belgian waffles with toasted-pecan pain perdu and apple compote.
“I’ve seen a lot of cattle ranches up here, so I’d probably do a chicken-fried steak using regional beef,” he continued, surprising Nate with his sudden verbosity. “And I’d definitely make huevos rancheros one day a week using farm-fresh eggs and a nice
queso fresco
. For the afternoon wine and cheese, I’d stick with the local cheeses—I like to go local whenever possible—but I would add in some house-cured meats. I do killer
salumi
, and since you have the beef, a nice
bresaola
would be good. You have a cellar?”
“We have a crawl space that you can stand up in. I wouldn’t exactly call it food safe, though,” Nate said. Brady might be a mystery, but he had good ideas. So far, Nate had liked everything, he just didn’t want it to cost him an arm and a leg.
“I can work with it,” Brady said.
“Would you be willing to do a test run of a few of your dishes for Emily, our temporary chef?” Sam asked.
“Sure. Is she here now?”
“She left after breakfast, but I could try to get her back.” Sam looked at Nate, who nodded in agreement, and slipped out to call Emily.
“I’ll be honest with you, Brady. I like your ideas, but I’m worried there’s not much to hold you here. It’s a small town. Not a lot for a young single person.”
“I’ll make do,” he said.
Sam came back. “She’ll be here in ten. Why don’t I take you into the kitchen and you can familiarize yourself with the equipment and help yourself to whatever ingredients we have.”
Nate would give it to Sam. For someone who’d never worked a day in her life, she certainly had a knack for taking charge. It must’ve been all the charity events she’d planned. Part of the reason Maddy had been impressed with Sam in the first place was that she’d chaired so many big fund-raisers. Who knew Miss Junior League would come in so handy?
He let Sam get Brady situated in the kitchen and returned a few phone calls. He’d only left Tracy a few hours ago and already she was hounding him about the opera gala. Supposedly, the event organizer was turning out to be a real pain in the ass.
“The woman is certifiable,” Tracy screeched into the phone. “She wants us to get Thomas Keller to cater the affair. I tried to explain to her that the Theodore does its own in-house catering, but she won’t have it.”
Nate didn’t want to lose the event. It could be an annual feather in his cap. In the past, the ball had been held in San Francisco City Hall. But there had been a lot of political noise that the elite event—tickets cost thousands of dollars a head—being held in a public building was pissing off the 99 percent.
“Can we get Keller?” he asked.
“Uh, when pigs fly out of my ass. The man has two bicoastal Michelin three-star restaurants to run. Kind of busy.”
“You want me to talk to her?” Nate offered.
“What can you say that I haven’t, unless you have a direct pipeline to Alain Ducasse. That’s her second chef choice. He doesn’t even have a restaurant in the Bay Area. Seriously, the woman makes me want to kill myself.”
“Well, don’t do it on Breyer Hotel property. It’s bad publicity, not to mention the mess.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Tracy said.
“Trace, work this out, please. There’s a bonus in it for you.”
“When this is over, Nate, I want an all-expense-paid vacation in Hawaii.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Wanna come with me? Nothing but sun and fun.”
“Not happening, Trace. Make nice with the lady, okay?” Sam walked in, and the idea of going to Hawaii with her seemed much more appealing than Tracy. He started to visualize Sam in a bikini and stopped himself. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Have good news for me when I call you tomorrow.”
Nate hung up and Sam said, “Brady’s doing prep. I’ll call you when he has something for you to try.”
“Sounds good.”
A half hour later, Sam motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen, where delicious smells made his mouth water. Both Brady and Emily wore chef whites and stood over a large frittata and some kind of potato dish.
“Sour cream coffee cake is still in the oven,” Emily said. “But dig in while it’s hot.”
Nate didn’t need to be asked twice. He hadn’t had lunch and was starved. Emily handed him a fork and he dug into the egg dish first. “Jesus Christ, this is good.”
“Not Jesus, just me,” Brady said, and Nate was surprised to find that the reticent chef had a sense of humor.
Nate made eye contact with Emily and she gave him an affirmative nod. The message clear: Brady Benson could cook. Nate tried the potatoes, which were equally good, and decided to hang out in the kitchen until the coffee cake was done.
Brady seemed to loosen up. Maybe he felt more comfortable around a stove.
“You have any prospects on a place to live?” Nate asked.
“Does that mean I have the job?”
“We’ll have to discuss salary first. I’ll need to talk to a few of your references. You know the drill. But if everything checks out, the job is yours.” It’s not like Nate had a lot of trained cooks banging on his door.
The oven timer buzzed and Brady pulled the cake out. “Sounds good. Any of you know a cheap place I can rent?”
“I might,” Nate said. “Let me make a few calls.”
First, Nate wanted to talk money. As soon as Brady got a load of the pay, there was a good chance he’d turn the job down. But just one bite of the coffee cake, and Nate knew he had to strike a deal.
When Sam got home from work, her answering machine was lit up like Times Square. Two calls, which was peculiar, because no one used the landline. She dug her cell out of her purse only to find it dead. That explained that.
She plugged it into her docking station to charge and pressed the button on the answering machine.
“Oh. My. God.” Wendy sounded positively apoplectic. “You would not believe what that turd, Royce Whitley, has done. Call me.”
The next call was from her father. For the last couple of days they’d played phone tag—Sam intentionally calling him at hours when she knew he wouldn’t pick up. She just didn’t have the fortitude to fight with him.
“Samantha, I really wish you would stop ducking my calls.” While he droned on about her being the worst daughter since Lizzie Borden, she changed out of her work clothes into something loose and comfortable. “I’ve been trying to let you know that Royce has gotten engaged and has let it leak that it was he who broke it off with you. Some rubbish about him being in love with Carolyn Bradley. That’s who he’s engaged to, by the way. Please have the decency to call me back.”
Sam erased both messages. Carolyn Bradley? The woman was a year older than Sam, skinny as a toothpick and dull as C-SPAN. Sam should’ve been outraged, or at the very least insulted, that Royce was so desperate for an acceptable wife that he would choose anyone with the right last name. Instead, she felt nothing. Frankly, she couldn’t be bothered, not even for her father’s sake. That’s what he got for being superficial. And Royce, well, he’d proven to be a complete phony.
In the time she’d lived in Nugget, last names and people’s financial worth had ceased to matter. No one here cared about her bank account or the fact that she was a Dunsbury. If anything it seemed to be a liability, especially where Nate was concerned.
She peeked outside her window to see if he was home yet. Watching his house had become her latest preoccupation. But before leaving the inn for the day, he’d told her that he was heading over to Sophie and Mariah’s house to see Lilly. He was devoted to that baby, and she wondered if it was difficult for him not having a more permanent place in the child’s life. If not for Lilly, Nate never would have struck her as daddy material. He’d told her himself that he was a confirmed bachelor.
And today she was pretty sure she’d caught him flirting with Tracy on the phone. No question the woman wanted him in the worst way. Sam could tell from their first meeting. Tracy had practically drooled over him, shoving her breasts in his face every chance she got. Sam had gotten the distinct impression that Nate wasn’t interested. But maybe while he was in San Francisco, Tracy had worked him over with those boobs of hers.
She certainly was attractive enough. Clearly, Nate thought she was the best event planner on the face of the earth. Sam, not so much. Good old Tracy had nearly blown the Landon Lowery deal. It had been Sam who’d saved it using some of the basic tricks she’d learned planning charity events. Getting people to cough up megabucks year after year for the same event took a certain degree of ingenuity. Every event had to have a gimmick, whether it was a big-name entertainer or a fantastic prize that wasn’t otherwise available for any price. Like dinner with the
Times
restaurant critic, or winemaking with Helen Turley, or being Lady Gaga’s roadie for the day. In order to snag these plums, you had to know people. So Sam had made it her business to know everyone, just like she’d been doing in Nugget.
As a result she’d managed to raise millions for organizations like the Make-a-Wish Foundation, Wounded Warrior Project, and United Way. Event planning for a hotel wasn’t that different. If anything, it was easier.
Sam took a quick glance out the window again. Still no sign of Nate. If he knew how often she checked for him, he’d slap her with a restraining order. But she liked knowing he was there. Not because she was afraid of being alone. Griffin lived just a short distance away and there were others scattered across the development. It was just that Nate . . . Oh hell, she didn’t know why. She just liked him. Like really liked him. Stupid, since he’d made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t interested.