Читать книгу Cowboy In The Kitchen - Mae Nunn - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

“DON’T HOLD BACK, little brother. Tell us how you really feel about your rich boss lady.” Joiner, the middle Temple brother, poked fun at Hunt’s diatribe over his new employer.

“I can’t help it. The more I listen to her big ideas, the more they worry me.” Hunt sank deeper into the sofa in McCarthy’s office. McCarthy sat behind the desk, and Joiner sprawled on the sofa beside Hunt. Cullen was in a corner, his nose in a book. “She’s determined to import a bunch of strangers so they can create a new ‘culture.’” He made quote marks in the air. “This is Texas, for pity’s sake. Why would anybody in their right mind want to replace the historical culture of Temple Territory that already exists? She’s on a collision course with reality, and I’m afraid my reputation as a chef could go down in flames with her.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Cowboy Chef,” Joiner said, making fun of Hunt’s television identity. A lifelong lover of horses, Joiner was the closest thing to a real cowboy in the family. He’d always held it over the heads of his younger brothers, whom he’d berated as a bookworm and a kitchen mouse, regardless of the fact that both could have played professional baseball.

“Life will continue,” Joiner insisted. “You have to move on to another dream now that McCarthy’s let the estate get away from you.”

“Just wait a doggone minute.” McCarthy’s dark stare landed on each of his brothers. “I’m fed up with you three holding me accountable for seeing Daddy’s mission to clear our name accomplished. We’ve all wasted a lot of years talking a good game, but none of us ever put our shoulder to the wheel and made things happen. You can’t blame me because the bank finally found a buyer, and reclaiming Pap’s place is never gonna happen.”

Cullen took a break from the textbook he was thumbing through. “I’m not so sure Daddy would want a lot of attention drawn to the Temple name now anyway, not after all the years it took for the gossip to die down. Why, wasn’t he in agreement with Pap’s decision not to come home after he got out of prison?”

“Yes, but he never dreamed he wouldn’t see Pap again,” McCarthy said.

“It’s the old man’s fault for going out to West Texas and getting himself killed working on that dangerous gas well. Otherwise we might have grown up with the flesh-and-blood Pap instead of this infamous legend Daddy spent his adult life trying to live down,” Cullen insisted.

McCarthy sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. He pushed out of his chair and moved to the foot of the desk.

“Pay attention while I spell this out for you knuckleheads one last time.” McCarthy slapped the tabletop to draw Joiner’s gaze away from his iPhone. “I was only a senior in high school when we had the conversation, but Daddy was clear on this subject, almost as if he sensed he wouldn’t be around to do it himself. Pap stayed away so Daddy and Mama wouldn’t have to raise us in earshot of constantly wagging tongues. Daddy was establishing himself at the hospital when Pap was paroled. Coming home would only have stirred the pot again. So he left well enough alone, and on the day he walked free, Pap went in the opposite direction.”

“So he pretty much abandoned Daddy.”

“Cullen, it’s not as if he was left on a doorstep in a basket. He was a grown man with four boys of his own. Pap did what he thought was right, and Daddy let him go. It was years before Daddy was finally able to put behind him the stigma that went along with Pap’s crime, and by then the old man was long dead. Still, Daddy felt he needed to forgive his father, and do something public to restore honor to our name.”

“Why didn’t Daddy just buy Temple Territory himself?”

“Like everybody else in Texas, he believed the place was jinxed, purchased and cursed by hot oil. But once he found out Pap had been killed, Daddy fixed his mind on going out to that well site to mark his father’s grave properly.”

“And they didn’t make it,” Cullen said quietly.

The private aircraft had gone down in the Apache Mountains, killing the two on board and leaving four teenage boys in Kilgore in the care of Alma and Felix Ortiz.

They all fell silent, and Hunt decided to change the mood of the room.

“Well, I never bought into that business about the property being cursed, and with any luck Pap’s place isn’t completely out of my reach yet,” Hunt announced.

Three pairs of expectant eyes waited for him to continue.

“How’s that?” McCarthy spoke up as he settled again into his chair.

“In case nobody’s been listening, I’ve got a job—at Moore House. I’m on the inside, and I plan to stay all up in that lady’s business to slow her down before she changes anything that can’t be put right.”

“Instead of fighting the inevitable, why don’t you tell some of those wealthy friends you’ve been feedin’ for free all these years that it’s payback time,” Joiner snapped. “Get them to invest in your own restaurant. You can call it Hunt’s Hangout or something equally sophisticated.”

“You have no idea how much capital that would require.” Hunt had already done the math for himself out of morbid curiosity and been depressed for days by the number.

“But I’m sure Gillian Moore does, and she didn’t seem to have any problem rounding up the cash. So instead of whining, why don’t you put on your big-boy boots and compete with her?” Cullen chucked a wad of paper at his twin.

It bounced off the center of Hunt’s forehead. He rubbed the spot where a pointy corner had poked his flesh. Instead of admonishing his brother for almost putting his eye out, Hunt marked the moment. He went all in. He’d always planned to have his own place one day. If somebody was going to change the fate of Temple Territory, why shouldn’t it be a Temple heir? And once Gillian Moore realized she’d bitten off more than she could chew, she might be willing to take a loss for the property and go home, leaving Pap’s place to its rightful owners. And leaving Hunt to repair the damage the made-for-TV Cowboy Chef had done to his real-life relationships in Kilgore.

* * *

“THESE RIDICULOUS DOORS have to come down,” Gillian instructed a prospective contractor as they went room by room through the mansion several days later. For the past two hours she’d itemized the work that would give the interior of the house a crucial face-lift. The Italian renaissance exterior and tile roof were still in amazingly fine shape. But inside the fifty-year-old home, it was dark and cavernous, in desperate need of modern lighting and plumbing, just for starters.

“Yes, get rid of these first thing,” she repeated.

“You can’t be serious.” Hunt’s voice echoed in the dining room. Obviously he’d returned sooner than Gillian had expected. The man who’d be an asset once they opened was becoming a pebble in her pump during the renovations, prying into every detail of her plan.

She tucked her small notebook into her shoulder bag, gave a nod of apology to the contractor and turned to address Hunt. “Of course I’m serious. I can’t have Wild West saloon doors in the entrance to a European-themed restaurant.”

“Do you at least plan to recycle the doors and use them someplace else?”

She flicked one of the heavy panels. It creaked to and fro on rusty hinges. “I plan to make these sad old things the first layer of the bonfire.”

Hunt’s jaws clenched, as they had frequently in the past several days. Color shot from his collarbone to his hairline. As was the case with many a temperamental chef, the man took himself way too seriously.

“May I speak with you privately, please?” Keeping his voice low seemed to take effort.

Gillian followed his lead as he crossed the soon-to-be-expanded dining room floor and headed for the front foyer. When they were a safe distance from anyone who might repeat their conversation, he spun to face her.

“This is the first of what I hope will be many teachable moments.” The mercurial man seemed to struggle for self-control.

Gillian’s schedule was tight. She had back-to-back interviews with contractors. She wanted to dismiss this interruption by Hunt, but she had agreed to at least listen to his objections.

“So what’s the big deal about those slabs of wood?”

“Those slabs of wood are ax-hewn heart of loblolly pine. Antiques dealers scour the countryside for such quality reclaimed lumber.”

“Okay, so they’re worth a few bucks. We’ll put them in the yard-sale pile instead.” She turned away. Hunt caught her by the wrist, but let go as soon as her eyes met his again.

“The historic value is greater than the price of the wood. Those boards came from Temple Number One, the first wildcat well Pap brought in. He pried the pine from the drilling rig floor. Built and hung those swinging doors himself.”

“Well, then, he should have been convicted on an extra count for his bad taste.” Gillian knew instantly that her sorry excuse for a joke was a mistake. But instead of the angry response she deserved and expected, Hunt got quiet and moved to stare out the cracked bay window.

The roots of Gillian’s hair flushed hot, a sure sign a woman in the Moore family was embarrassed. Any moment she’d break into a sweat and her cheeks would glow as brightly as taillights in morning traffic.

“I’m sorry, Hunt.” She wanted for all the world to dig a hole and crawl into it. “What I said was cruel and I apologize.”

“What you said was fairly accurate.” He faced her, a hint of a smile curving his full lips. “Alma always said that Pap’s interior design left a lot to be desired. But he did things his own way.”

Hunt tipped his head up. His gaze scanned the dark walls and shadowy high ceilings of the foyer. “No matter what people said about him in the end, our daddy told us Pap had guts in spades—and an ornery nature any mule would envy.”

“The family resemblance is strong,” she cautiously teased. Hunt had kindly let her off when she deserved a boot in the behind for her snide comment.

The cell phone in her pocket buzzed. She checked the caller ID.

Dang it, Father, what is it now?

She sent him directly to voice mail, making a mental note to get to his message before her next appointment. Her father was driving her nuts, questioning and second-guessing her every decision. At least he was over a thousand miles away. Having her controlling father any closer would have made this project impossible.

“So how about a stay of execution for the doors?”

For a split second Gillian was tempted to give in to Hunt’s hopeful voice and appealing eyes just to make him go away and let her return to work. But the moment passed. She’d do things her way, and neither Hunt Temple nor James Moore would tell her what to do. Still, there was a story behind the pieces that added ambience, albeit in the wrong place.

She offered a compromise. “We can use them in the spa. We’ll work the doors into the decor of the juice bar.”

“Spa? You haven’t mentioned a spa.” Hunt’s brows scrunched in concern.

“Phase II,” she explained. And that was all the explanation he’d get on her future plans. She could just imagine his objections when he found out that smelly Caddo well would be filled in and covered over with a tile floor when she enclosed the courtyard. She’d keep that to herself until he needed to know, if ever.

Hunt squinted in thought, as if he was considering her alternative suggestion for the doors. Not that she could let his opinions matter too much in the end. Gillian would only get one grab at the brass ring. She hadn’t put her reputation and her parents’ retirement fund on the line to have her plans questioned by a professional foodie.

Even if the foodie was the talented, unpredictable and quite handsome Cowboy Chef.