Page 1 of Yummy Cowboy
Chapter One – Summer
Snowberry Springs Ranch, Montana
Saturday, June 11
“Summer, I’m so happy that you agreed to stay for a while,” said Grandma Abigail as she entered the ranch house’s old-fashioned kitchen.
As usual, her frosted blonde hair was flawless and her makeup was impeccable above a severely cut blazer and pleated skirt of unrelieved black. But even skillfully-applied foundation and concealer couldn’t entirely erase the marks of sleeplessness and grief from her fine-boned face.
“Anything to help. I owe you so much,” Summer replied.
Her phone, tucked into the back pocket of her checkered chef’s pants, suddenly squawked like a chicken while simultaneously vibrating.
She’d found the ringtone hilarious when she first installed it, but now it sounded jarringly out of place.
She pulled out her phone and glanced at the number. Then she stabbed her finger at the screen, forcefully rejecting the call.
“Sweetie, are yousureyou can stay until Labor Day weekend?” Grandma sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. “You really aren’t needed at your restaurant?”
Summer shook her head. She’d hoped to put off this conversation for a while longer. “It’s closed right now,” she said, sticking to the official story. “We’re making some major changes. Planning to reopen in the fall with a whole new look.”
Then the oven timer went off.Saved by the bell, she thought with relief.
Knowing that her mother’s vintage avocado-green wall oven ran hot, Summer hastily opened the oven door and pulled out a pan of mushroom caps stuffed with a mixture of breadcrumbs, Parmesan cheese, fresh herbs from the garden, garlic, and the ranch’s own Italian-style pork sausage.
She was relieved to see that the appetizers were perfectly browned on top. As the professional chef in the family, it had fallen to her to cater Grandpa Frank’s Celebration of Life here in her childhood home. And she had been happy to do it.
She loved feeding people. Especially people she cared about. And being able to cook like this felt like a tribute to the man who had paid to send her to the Culinary Institute of America in Napa, California.
As she set the baking tray down on a metal trivet to protect the old but well-kept desert gold Formica counter, she listened to the sounds of conversation drifting in from the living room and through the open windows.
Outside, on the ranch house’s wraparound porch, some of Grandpa’s longtime friends were drinking beer and sharing memories.
It was a beautiful June day in Montana.Much too nice for a funeral, thought Summer.
She overheard a few snatches of speculation about what would become of the Snowberry Springs Ranch now that Mom and Dad had inherited the place.
Truth was, Dad and Summer’s older brother Spring had been doing most of the day-to-day work of managing the property for a few years now, ever since Grandpa Frank’s first stroke.
“I mean, I do feel bad about keeping you away from San Francisco,” Grandma Abigail continued, “but I really need your help right now, Summer.”
Bullet dodged, Summer smiled at her grandmother. “And I’ll be happy to do whatever you need,” she said in her most reassuring tone.
Then she picked up a spatula and began transferring the mushroom caps and their savory golden-brown toppings to a serving dish.
“But your restaurant?” Apparently, her grandmother wasn’t ready to let go of the subject.
“It’s fine. Really,” Summer said, glad that she had her back turned. Grandma had always been sharply observant, and Summer didn’t want her expression to betray her. She added, “In fact, I can stay as long as you need.”
“Are yousureabout that?” Grandma’s tone was politely disbelieving. “We all know how hard you’ve been working, sweetie. Why, you couldn’t even make it home for the holidays last year!”
“Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year were our busiest time,” Summer explained. She couldn’t suppress a pang when she thought of the restaurant that so proudly bore her name. “But things are going just fine without me right now. I can handle anything that comes up by phone or email.”
She ruthlessly suppressed the stab of guilt at the half-truth.It wouldn’t be fair to burden Grandma with a full explanation, she told herself.Not on the day of Grandpa Frank’s funeral.
On cue, her phone squawked again. She silenced it with an apologetic glance at her grandmother. “Andnothingis more important right now than being here, for you,” she added, and returned to arranging the appetizers on the serving dish.
“I don’t know if I ever told you how proud Frank and I were of you when we read about all those reviews you’ve received. I’ve saved copies of all those newspapers,” Grandma said.