“Hunt, what is it going to take to get through to you on this?
I own this property. Temple Territory is going to become Moore House. You can roll with the punches or punch out. I will meet my opening deadline, with or without you. So which will it be?”
Hunt folded his arms, did an about-face and seemed to study something outside the window. His white knit shirt stretched tight across solid shoulders, revealing the body of a man who could have played professional baseball—if everybody who ever mentioned him to her was to be believed. Those powerful arms could definitely swing a bat.
Or hold a woman close.
Maybe she’d been hasty. What if he walked away? She’d be out more than an executive chef.
Oh, knock it off. Don’t let your emotions get in the way of your plans.
“Well, what’s it going to be?”
Dear Reader,
“In the great oilfield piracy trials of 1960, many were tried, many were sued, many faced a jury, many heard the prosecutors condemn them as thieves and crooks and pirates. But no one went to jail. No one went to prison… When it came time for a jury of twelve good men to make a decision that would forever affect the lives of their community, they no longer talked about the thieves and crooks and pirates. They felt a close kinship with a bunch of good, hard-working, and unfortunate neighbors, businessmen, and church deacons who weren’t guilty of anything but hauling out a little black gold that the Good Lord had put in the earth.”—Author Caleb Pirtle III
As an oil-well survey engineer and witness for the prosecution, my father was part of the trial proceedings mentioned above. Daddy told me stories of being chaperoned by a Texas Ranger, sitting in local restaurants with his back to the wall and his face to the door and of having his expert testimony challenged on the witness stand as if he were the one on trial for oil piracy. In the end, no one went to prison for the crimes committed against the major oil companies. But my daddy’s memories fueled my writer’s hunger to tell a “what if” story about the lives of brothers, two generations later, who’d grown up in a small East Texas town in the shameful shadow of their grandfather’s scapegoat conviction.
My Deep in the Heart series is about brothers Hunt, Cullen, Joiner and McCarthy Temple. Each brother, in his own way, struggles with their family history and, in his own way, rises above the past to create a life and future worthy of the Lone Star State. Please enjoy Hunt’s story, Cowboy in the Kitchen.
Until we meet again, let your light shine!
Mae Nunn
Cowboy in the Kitchen
Mae Nunn
MAE NUNN grew up in Houston and graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in communications. When she fell for a transplanted Englishman living in Atlanta, she moved to Georgia and made an effort to behave like a Southern belle. But when she found that her husband was quite agreeable to life as a born-again Texan, Mae happily returned to her cowgirl roots and cowboy boots! In 2008 Mae retired from thirty years of corporate life to focus on her career as a full-time author.
This book is for my daddy, Ward Cooper, whose life experiences inspired me to create the Deep in the Heart series. And it’s also for my aunt, Lucille Cooper Perry, who inspired me to keep writing when I was quite happy to rest on my laurels. Daddy and Aunt Lucille, you are each amazing in your own right, and I thank God that I still have both of you in my life.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
GILLIAN MOORE STOOD between Hunt Temple and the morning sun of a cool September day as effectively as she stood between him and his heritage. It wasn’t enough that she’d cast a shadow across his life by purchasing his grandfather’s estate, she had to block his reading light, too. Hunt’s quiet moments on the back steps of what was once Pap’s home had come to an end.
Possibly for the last time.
“Would you mind if I join you?” she asked.
Without waiting for his response, the lady gracefully folded her tall, slender body to perch on the edge of the step nearby. She shrugged off the shoulder strap of a glitzy red-leather handbag and settled it beside her on the fieldstone ledge—where she had not been asked to have a seat.
But as the property’s future owner she hardly required his invitation.
Slanted rays of East Texas sunlight glinted off her fancy dark glasses. Even a guy like Hunt, who’d spent most of his life in a kitchen, recognized the pricey logo on the rich-girl shades. Besides, he’d noticed it splashed all over Paris during his recent trip to visit old friends at Le Cordon Bleu.
The attractive woman offered a smile his way that