Читать книгу Cowboy Strong - Stacy Finz - Страница 13

Chapter 4

Gina awoke to loud whoops and barks. For a second, she thought she’d died and gone to hell. Then she remembered where she was and realized she hadn’t died. But the rest of it was true.

It’s temporary, she reminded herself.

She crawled out of bed, padded to the window, and peeked through the blinds. In the distance, past the creek, close to a hundred cows lumbered across a field. Three men on horseback rode in formation, driving the cattle forward, whistling and shouting to keep them in line. Two dogs zigzagged in and out of the herd.

It was a sight to behold, even if it had roused her from a sound sleep. She stood at the window, watching. It was beautiful the way the cowboys seemed to have a sixth sense about which way the cows would move, turning their horses to and fro to keep the animals from straying. She’d never seen anything like it.

Gina grabbed her phone from the nightstand and wandered out onto the porch to snap a few pictures. She zoomed in with the lens and noticed that one of the cowboys was Sawyer. He didn’t look so surly on the back of a horse. No, he was actually smiling. And the cowboy hat…it was hot.

She was just about to post the picture to her Instagram account when she remembered that Wendy had warned her to stay off social media. So many haters had come out of the woodwork that she didn’t dare even lurk on Twitter or Facebook.

Her mother was probably laughing in her grave. How did someone like me wind up with someone like you? Gina forced her mother’s favorite refrain from her head and snapped a few more photos.

For the first time since she’d gotten here, she took the time to look around. Really look. The cabin was a squalid POS, but the land was gorgeous. The creek, the gentle rolling hills, the trees, and the mountains in the distance. And so green. Southern California was a sea of brown in July.

She looked for a place to sit to take it all in, started to take a spot on the upside-down wine barrel and thought better of it. All she had on was a nightshirt and the wood looked like it was splintering. Judging by the bottle rings on the oak, someone had been using it as beer rest, not a chair. Later, as soon as she showered and dressed, she’d do a little shopping on the Internet. Maybe buy a rocker.

The sun had made a full appearance, shining like a big orange ball in the sky. Gina went inside to look at the time. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. She thought about getting back in bed but was already wide awake.

She put a filter in the Mr. Coffee, scooped in some ground Starbucks, and flicked the switch. Another thing on her to-do list: Get a decent grind and brew and a bag of Italian beans. At least her trip to the Dry Creek Market would sustain her for a few days.

She searched through the cupboard until she found the powdered-sugar doughnuts she’d bought. They were a secret pleasure of hers, rooting back to when she was a kid and used to stash junk food under her bed.

While waiting for the coffee to brew, she jumped in the shower and dressed in a pair of denim shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. She mentally added jeans and a pair of sturdy hiking shoes or boots to her shopping list.

Last night, she’d felt like a colossal idiot in her Helmut Lang skirt and Fendi sling-backs. Had she lived in her own little bubble so long that she no longer knew how to dress appropriately to a family barbecue?

Well, she wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

Yet, everyone had been extraordinarily nice, especially Aubrey and Charlie. The two women had been kind enough not to mention Danny Clay and kept the conversation to cooking and ranch life. It was a relief to talk about something other than her imploding career.

The truth was Gina was so over herself that talking about Charlie and Jace’s upcoming wedding, about the women’s stepchildren—even about the weather—was a welcome relief. By the end of the evening, she’d so enjoyed herself that she’d forgotten to be miserable. Even Sawyer’s insistence that he drive her the short distance home hadn’t killed her buzz.

For all his dickness, he could be charming when he wanted to. She supposed a man who looked like Sawyer Dalton didn’t have to try too hard. He could scowl and hurl snarky one-liners all day long and still have women fawning over him like he was God’s gift to creation.

She hated men like that.

The coffee was done and she pulled out a mug she’d scoured after finding it hiding in the back of a cabinet. That was another thing she needed, dishes.

She sat at the table that had been left behind, dunked her doughnut in her coffee, and scrolled through her email.

So far, there weren’t any fires to put out. Then again, it wasn’t even nine yet.

She eyed the sad little cabin with distaste, wondering how long she’d have to stay here. Her Malibu house wasn’t a mansion by any stretch of the imagination, but it had a gourmet kitchen, a pool, a spa, and…running water.

It was weird not having to drive to a set or to her office. She was managing her business—or what was left of it—by email. Thank goodness she had a competent, dependable staff working for her that was picking up the slack in her absence. But she was bored. For her whole adult life, she’d worked hard, building her company.

She would think a break would give her a chance to breathe, a chance to sit back and take stock of her life. Yet, all it did was make her stir-crazy. At least she was cooking again. It had been so long that she’d forgotten how good it made her feel.

She washed and put her mug away, did a little internet shopping, and decided to take a stroll around the ranch. This time, she planned to hike on the road. After what Sawyer told her about ticks, she wasn’t taking any chances walking through the brush.

Plus, there were no cows on the road.

The property was vast. Gina didn’t know where it started and where it ended. But there were pastures that seemed to go on forever and lots of outbuildings and barns. Some in better shape than others.

She followed the creek in search of Charlie and Aubrey’s showroom and studio. At the barbecue, they’d mentioned their fledgling business of selling homemade furniture. Although Gina didn’t know a thing about design, she was all for women turning their passions into careers.

The risk was letting the career consume the passion. She knew about that firsthand.

Up ahead, an old weathered barn with a big wooden sign for Refind told her she’d found her destination. An electric tool buzzed as a crew of men framed an adjoining building to the barn. Country music played in the background and no one seemed to notice Gina, who’d had the foresight to wear her hat and sunglasses.

The barn’s large sliding doors were open. Gina popped her head inside, but no one appeared to be around. She felt funny about just walking in.

“Anyone here?” she called, doubtful that she’d be heard over the noise.

“Round back,” someone yelled.

Gina found Charlie sanding a dark wooden secretary that looked straight out of someone’s grandmother’s house. Next to the hutch was an unopened can of turquoise paint and a box of antique glass knobs.

“Hey.” Charlie stopped working and flipped up her goggles. “Welcome to Refind. Come on in. Aubrey’s in her office. I’ll get her so we can give you the grand tour.”

From Gina’s earlier peek, the store had been more than she’d expected. For some reason, she’d envisioned something like an antique mall, a mishmash of items laid out in no particular order. Instead, Refind reminded her of a chic showroom that had been built to look like a barn, rather than the other way around. It was like something you’d find in an upscale town in Vermont or wine country.

They entered from a side door. A section in the corner had been cordoned off for clients to sift through fabric and wood samples.

“That’s temporary,” Charlie said. “Until we get our offices and Aubrey’s studio built.”

The rest of the barn was set up in vignettes: Living rooms, bedrooms, dining rooms, even outdoor rooms. Light fixtures hung from the rafters, interesting art pieces were affixed to the walls, and there were throw pillows and various other textiles everywhere.

“This is amazing.” Gina turned in circles to take it all in. It was even larger than it had looked from the outside.

Charlie led her to the back where heavy canvas curtains partitioned off a makeshift office. “It’s a mess right now. The contractors started a few days ago and now it’s chaos. We’re adding an additional two-thousand square feet. Offices, a workspace for me, and a conference room for Aubrey where she can meet with clients…choose fabric swatches, wood finishes, paint colors, all that kind of stuff.”

Aubrey, who sat at an old farm table that had been turned into a desk, motioned that she was on the phone and made the five-minute sign.

They left her to finish her call while Gina wandered the showroom.

“You make all this stuff?” She sat in a club chair done in gorgeous geometric kilim fabric with leather accents and tried not to salivate.

“I find old pieces and either repurpose them or restore them. That came from a garage sale and was originally upholstered in green pleather.”

“This? You’re kidding.” Gina swiveled in the chair. It was as comfortable as it was stunning. “Can I buy it?”

Charlie laughed. “Of course you can. Where are you going to put it?”

It didn’t match the beachy theme of her Malibu home. Maybe she’d buy a mountain retreat just for the chair. “For now, the cabin.” May as well make the place a little less Bates Motel while she was here.

Aubrey slipped out from behind her fabric wall. “Well, what do you think?”

“I’m buying this.” Gina tested the chair’s rocking capabilities. Smooth ride. Oh yeah, she was going to spend hours in this chair. But for right now there was more to see. She got to her feet and didn’t know where to look first. “Everything is so original…and lovely. How do you both know how to do this?”

“I don’t,” Aubrey said. “I’m an interior designer. Charlie’s the creative one with all the vision.”

“Don’t let Aubrey kid you. She has an eye like you wouldn’t believe. Together we make an awesome team.” Charlie’s entire face lit up and her passion for her work—for this business—was palpable.

When was the last time Gina lit up like that while doing her show? So long ago, she couldn’t even remember.

“So did the two of you know each other before you met Cash and Jace?”

“Nope. Aubrey lived here first with Cash and Ellie. I came later.” Charlie let out a nervous laugh. “I was escaping an abusive relationship. Jace and his sons took me in. But that’s old news.” She brushed it away, clearly not wanting to talk about that part of her life. Gina didn’t press. “Anyway, I used to own a successful store in San Francisco, started trolling garage sales here and refurbishing pieces. Word got out, mostly thanks to Aubrey, who had lots of clients looking to furnish second homes. And little by little customers started showing up at the barn, where I’d set up a workshop, to purchase pieces.”

“Our aesthetics…well, it’s like we were separated at birth, we’re so in sync.” Aubrey gave Charlie a squeeze. “It only made sense for us to team up. Build on what Charlie had already started at the ranch. The rest is history.”

“How does it work?” Gina asked. “People come here to shop or do you and Aubrey go to people’s homes?”

“Both,” Aubrey said. “At least, that’s how we hope it works out. We’re still in the infancy stage, but the plan is that I use Charlie’s pieces in my design work and that Charlie’s clients use me to put together entire rooms or design their remodels.”

“Wouldn’t you be better off in town?” How would anyone find them in the middle of nowhere?

“Our goal is to lure people to Dry Creek Ranch. The ranch is our inspiration and we think it can be our clients’ inspiration too,” Aubrey said.

It was actually a brilliant branding strategy, Gina thought. Consumers these days liked the backstory on their products. Charlie and Aubrey had such a sweet and genuine narrative to tell.

She could see the tagline now: Home is where the heart is and that’s Dry Creek Ranch. Or: Home on the range. Gina could think of a dozen catchy slogans off the top of her head. Maybe use the ranch’s horseshoe brand on all their labels, she mused. It was really quite innovative.

“And you think people will come this far out?” she asked.

“We do.” Charlie nodded. “Especially if we make the ranch part of the Sierra foothills experience. Of course, we’ll have to offer more than just a home furnishings store and design studio to make Dry Creek Ranch a destination.”

“Like what?” Gina was curious.

“Perhaps a country mercantile, a farm stand, a bakery, even a florist,” Aubrey said. “We’re still working out the details but we have plans. Big plans.”

Gina liked the spirit of it, but Dry Creek Ranch was pretty off the beaten track. Turning it into a destination would need more than a few cutesy country stores. Maybe a theme park, like Knott’s Berry Farm, but her gut told her Sawyer and his cousins would never go for that.

Who would?

“Why do you want to turn it into a destination?” Gina had gotten the impression that the Daltons only cared about raising cattle. At least that’s how Sawyer had made it sound when he’d snidely pointed out that the ranch wasn’t a resort.

Thanks, Captain Obvious.

Charlie exchanged a glance with Aubrey and let out a breath. Clearly, they were deliberating on what or what not to say. For all intents and purposes she was a stranger, after all.

“We’d like the ranch to bring in more money,” Aubrey finally said, trying to sound as if it wasn’t critical, which only made Gina think it was.

“Money’s good.” She gave a nonchalant shrug. The Daltons’ finances were their business, not hers. And currently she was the last person to give advice.

She ran her hand over a cowhide ottoman to see if it was genuine, which of course it was, and moved on to a sofa that was upholstered in a complementary fabric to the club chair.

“How hard would it be to move all these pieces to the cabin?” She waved her hand at the collection. If she was going to be here for a few weeks she might as well furnish the place in stuff she loved, instead of the whole homeless encampment theme the former tenant had going on.

“Not hard,” Charlie said. “I could borrow Jace’s truck and between all of us we could carry everything.”

Gina rummaged through her wallet for her gold card. “Let’s do it.”

A few hours later, she sat in her new living room, admiring the changes. They’d managed to heft the old sofa into Jace’s truck for a dump run. The cabin still suffered from neglect and someone’s love of dirty beige. But the couch, chair, and ottoman were fabulous.

At two, she loaded her BMW and made the short drive to Sawyer’s. As usual, the front door was unlocked and she let herself in, hugging a boneless lamb shoulder and a bag of groceries.

Sawyer sat at the center island with his laptop. He lifted his gaze as she came in and went back to whatever he was doing.

She scanned the kitchen. “Do you have a tagine?”

“I left my last one in Morocco.” He rolled his eyes.

“How ’bout a Dutch oven?” She didn’t wait for him to answer and searched his cabinets, finding a nine-quart Le Creuset pot. “This’ll work.”

He shut the laptop and peered at her over his coffee mug. “What’s for dinner?”

“Spiced lamb tagine with couscous and a chickpea salad.” She found a cutting board in one of the drawers, put it on the counter, and eyed his plaid Carhartt short-sleeved shirt. “I see you have clothes on today.”

“Disappointed?”

The truth? Yes. He had lots of faults—crabby personality, for one—but the man had an extremely fine chest. Broad, bronzed, and cut. The rest of him wasn’t too shabby, either. Thick dark hair that begged for fingers, blue eyes that reminded her of a trip she’d taken to the Aegean Sea, and a body that was made for sin. Okay, she’d ripped that last line off from Working Girl, but it definitely applied to Sawyer.

“Not on your life, bucko.”

“Bucko?” He arched a brow, then turned his attention to the groceries she was spreading out on the countertop. “For the tagine, I presume. Didn’t know you did Middle Eastern food.”

“Just playing around with some new ideas.” For her show, everything had to be Italian, so it was nice to try something else for a change. Then there was the fact that there was nothing better to do here than cook. Unless, of course, she counted watching the toppling of her hard-won empire. She might as well test recipes. “I’ve got to let the lamb come to room temperature. It’ll take about an hour.”

In the meantime, she got to work on the chickpea salad, sliding a glance every now and again to Sawyer, who’d once again become engrossed in his laptop.

“What’s so interesting?” she asked.

“Working on a few things.” He flipped the cover down again, got up, and stuck his head in the fridge. “How long until that’s done?” He bobbed his head at the lamb.

“At least two hours, I’m afraid.” She shoved him out of the way, opened the fridge, and peered inside. There wasn’t a whole lot there, not even the leftovers from her soufflé. “I could make you a couple of eggs.”

“Nah, I’m not that hungry. The fridge thing is out of force of habit. I had a big breakfast over at Jace and Charlie’s after we moved the cattle this morning.”

“I saw you,” she said. “You woke me up.”

He looked at her and shook his head. “In the immortal words of my grandfather, ‘This ain’t no country club.’ Get used to it, princess.”

He let his eyes wander over her cutoffs. She couldn’t tell whether he was sneering or checking her out. Whatever. She didn’t care, she told herself, and finished making her chickpea salad.

“You have any plastic wrap?”

He got off the stool, rummaged through one of the drawers, and pulled out a box. She covered the salad and stowed it in the refrigerator.

“You don’t ever have to go into an office?” she asked, wondering how his journalism job worked.

“Nope. I’m freelance, so I mostly work from home when I’m not on assignment.”

“What does an assignment entail, exactly?” Most of the journalists she’d had experience with considered camping on her front lawn an assignment. She considered it trespassing.

“I spent much of last year embedded with Special Forces in Afghanistan. The year before, I lived in India for three months while working on a piece about sex trafficking and two months in Brazil, chronicling the start-up of a fair-trade coffee plantation owned by the workers. It just depends on what the story is and how deep my editor wants me to go.”

“It sounds dangerous.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s following a politician around and sleeping in a Marriott every night.”

“And you moonlight as a cowboy.”

“Not moonlight.” He jutted his chin at her. “Cowboying is a way of life. It’s what my family has done for more than a hundred years. It’s what we’ll continue to do long after I’m gone.”

Journalist-cowboy. Interesting combination, Gina thought. “Not your dad?” Gina had only met Dan Dalton a few times; she mostly worked with Wendy. But he was about as citified as you could get. Designer suits and shoes that had never touched a cow patty.

“Nope. My grandfather swore that ranching skipped a generation. Unlike his children, his grandkids were infected with the bug.”

“And turning the ranch into a business court…you’re okay with that?”

Sawyer jerked his head in surprise. “How’d you hear about that?”

“Charlie and Aubrey.” She didn’t think she was divulging secrets. Aubrey had made it seem that everyone in the Dalton clan was onboard with the idea.

“Let’s just say it’s a necessary evil to keep the place running.”

“I thought beef was a billion-dollar industry.” She put her hands on her hips, enjoying turning his own words on him. Just a reminder that she could out-condescend him any day of the week.

“It is. But on our scale—we only run about a hundred head—it’s barely enough to keep us afloat. Until we figure out a way for the ranch to make more money…we’re in the poorhouse.”

She was surprised by the revelation as much as she was by his honesty and felt a twinge of guilt for taking a shot at him. “Are you at risk of losing it?”

“Not yet,” he said and left it at that, making Gina wonder if the money situation at the ranch was more dire than he was even letting on.

She didn’t press. It wasn’t any of her business. Besides, she didn’t have any sage advice to dole out. Don’t get accused of screwing someone else’s spouse or you’ll lose everything.

Gina slid the lamb in the oven to bake for an hour and got started on steaming the couscous using one of Sawyer’s colanders snugly fitted over a pot. In her Malibu kitchen she would’ve used a traditional couscoussier to steam the wheat semolina. But here she had to improvise.

Sawyer rested his elbows on the counter and followed her step-by-step. Even though millions of viewers tuned in every day to see her cook, something about him watching so closely unnerved her. It was as if he knew she was a colossal phony and he wanted to catch her using the wrong ingredient or burning something.

“Anything new from ChefAid?” he asked, handing her the small box of star anise as she reached for it.

“Like what? I told you we were meeting in September.”

“Just wondered…you know, after the latest.”

“What latest?”

“You didn’t hear?”

Gina cut him a look and his face went slightly pale.

Shit.

She lunged for his laptop.

He rested his hand on the top before she could grab it.

“Hear what?” she yelled, her pulse doing a tap dance. It was a pretty good guess that whatever Sawyer was talking about was more bad news. Perhaps staying off the internet to avoid the haters wasn’t such a good idea.

She searched through her handbag for her phone. It had only been four or five hours since she’d last scrolled through her messages. But she’d seen lives ruined in the mere click of a keyboard.

She tapped on her phone and sure enough, she had five missed calls, ten texts, and at least six emails marked urgent. She sat on one of the stools, girding herself for whatever new crisis was about to get thrown at her, reading each message.

Sawyer stood over her shoulder. “Sorry, I thought by now you would’ve heard. But this time you’re not sticking me with the dishes.”