“Still,” she said, “even though Rex was complaining, those new men are working out just fine.”
“Did my uncle tell you that?” Blake turned to her, his arm brushing hers again. His gaze zeroed in on her, and her steps slowed.
“Yes, he did, and I believe him. I grew up on a small spread myself, and while I’m no expert, I think some of Rex’s complaints are over the top.”
“I’m surprised that Sam didn’t hire more experienced hands,” Blake said.
“That’s because Chloe couldn’t afford to pay the higher salaries those men required, although we’re all hopeful things will start looking up soon.” In fact, Sam had refused to take a paycheck for himself, probably for that reason. He understood profit-and-loss statements. So did the owners. That’s also why Joe Martinez, Chloe’s husband, was getting an MBA. He hoped to learn more ways to generate funds, including donations.
But Shannon had probably said too much already to Sam’s nephew, the attorney. So she held her tongue. No need to see him get riled up about that. He seemed to have enough bothering him already.
There was another reason she kept quiet. One she didn’t like pondering.
Blake had finally ditched his scowl, and Shannon liked seeing him smile. Especially with that gleam in his blue eyes, the change in expression made him just as good-looking as she’d thought it would.
And if what she’d heard about him was true, he was the worst possible man in the entire world for her to find attractive. To make matters even worse, he might soon be considered family. And she would bet her last dollar he wouldn’t be the least bit thrilled to hear that news.
The brunette wearing the yellow apron turned out to be the ranch cook—and she was an excellent one, at that.
After serving Blake and the residents in the dining room, she returned to the kitchen, where Sam was eating with the hired hands. When she’d first asked Blake to sit at the table with the oldsters, he’d gotten the feeling that his uncle might have come up with the seating arrangement in order to avoid him. But then he’d wondered whether Sam might have wanted to separate the working men from the residents for one reason or another.
Either way, Blake now found himself seated across from Nurse Shannon and flanked by Rex and another elderly man, whose name escaped him. However, Shannon had just gotten up to take a phone call, so her chair was now empty.
“By the way,” Rex said to no one in particular, “there’s going to be a rodeo at the Wexler Fairgrounds next spring. It’ll be in April, I think. Anyway, I have a friend who works with the outfit promoting it, and he said the head honcho is looking for worthwhile local charities to support. I told him all about Rocking Chair Ranch. He liked the idea of sponsoring us and is going to talk to his boss.”
“Good for you,” another retired cowboy said. “That’s one way to make sure we can keep the doors open. I’d hate to have to move back to that place in town.”
If Rex suggested that a rodeo sponsor the ranch, then it sounded as if they might be struggling to keep things afloat. Shannon had implied there were financial concerns about hiring more-experienced hands, but he hadn’t realized they feared going out of business. He’d only been here a short while, but he could see why these men would prefer to live in a setting like this.
Moments later, when Shannon returned to the table and took her seat, Blake shot a glance at her, then at Rex. But the old cowboy didn’t repeat his announcement.
Did Shannon already know what he’d asked of his rodeo buddy?
Rex elbowed Blake. “Don’t hoard all those warm biscuits, Fancy Pants. Pass them down, will you?”
Apparently word had spread that Sam had given Blake that nickname. He found the moniker bothersome, but he’d have to live with a few verbal jabs—at least while he was here.
So he shook off his annoyance, reached for the bread basket and passed it to Rex. “Here you go. Do you want butter, too?”
“Yep. And the honey, if you don’t mind. Thanks.”
Blake returned his focus to his plate, which the cook had filled with a working man’s portion of tender short ribs, mashed potatoes and glazed carrots. He picked up his fork and continued to chow down.
Chow down? He hadn’t used a phrase like that in ages. Not since he was a kid hanging out on Sam’s ranch, tagging along after the cowboys and hoping to be one himself someday.
Back then, the Western way of life had become so ingrained in his mind that he’d always returned home to California at summer’s end talking like a true Texan, a habit that usually hadn’t worn off until Christmas.
Ever since his arrival on the Rocking C, ever since he’d caught the first familiar whiff of alfalfa and spotted the cattle grazing in the pasture, he’d found himself thinking in terms of the cowboy vernacular he’d favored as a boy. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to stay here so long that he returned to Beverly Hills talking in a slow Texas drawl. Wouldn’t his partners in the firm give him grief about that.
He reached for his sweet tea and took a couple of chugs. He’d forgotten how thirst-quenching an ice-cold glass could be—when it was made just right.
Next he took a warm biscuit from the cloth-covered basket, split it open and smothered it with butter. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal like this since... Well, not since his last visit with his aunt and uncle. Nellie had been an amazing cook, too. That’s one of the many things Blake missed about her.
Sometimes at a restaurant, although it wasn’t often, he’d spot chicken fried steak on the menu and order it for old times’ sake. But he’d never tasted anything that could compare with the way his aunt used to make it.
He wondered if the Rocking C cook had a special recipe of her own. He hoped so, but hers might not be able to compete, either.
As he continued to eat his fill, he listened to the lunchtime conversation. Whether the retired cowboys were discussing the weather, the cost of cattle or the best stock-car drivers of all time, they were an entertaining lot.
Still, he was more interested in the pretty RN seated across from him. In fact, he was so downright intrigued by her and the thoughts that had kept her quiet for most of the meal that, whenever he suspected he could get away with it, he would steal a glance her way.
Sometime this morning, while he’d been napping at Sam’s place, she’d twisted her long curls into a topknot. He would have preferred to see her hair hanging loose, though. But he did note her delicate neck, as well as a dainty pair of silver hooped earrings that indicated she had a great sense of style.
Not that she or her appearance really mattered. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be distracted or to let his focus drift away from the task he’d set out to do.
He’d yet to run across the woman who was chasing after his uncle. All he knew was that her name was Joy. Was she the woman who’d made this amazing meal? It was possible, he supposed. After all, there was that old proverb that said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. Maybe he’d ask the cook what her name was—that is, if she ever had a free minute. The woman buzzed through the dining room every once in a while, checking on the oldsters, then she would hurry back to the kitchen.
Blake cut into a tender piece of meat, speared it with his fork and popped it into his mouth. Damn, it was good.
“Hey, Shannon,” Rex said, drawing the nurse from her musing. “Doc’s coming to play poker with us again this evening. Are you gonna give us a chance to win back what we lost to you last week?”
Blake nearly choked. Had he heard that right? Was