Welcome to Thorn Ridge. Evelyn Harper. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Harper. Fair warning, the kitchen's a disaster. Cookie left in kind of a hurry after the foreman threatened to strangle him with his own apron strings.
Before Evelyn could respond, a sharp voice cut across the yard. Carson, those horses won't shoe themselves. Billy straightened up fast, the grin disappearing. Yes, sir, Mr. Holloway. He hurried off, and Evelyn looked toward the source of the voice.
A tall, lean man in his 40s was walking toward the wagon, his face weathered by sun and wind into something hard and unyielding. This had to be the foreman. Miss Harper. It wasn't a question. I'm Jack Holloway, foreman of this ranch.
Mr. Ridgewell's up at the main house, but he'll want to meet you before you settle in. All right. Holloway's eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to figure her out. You know what you signed on for here? I'm the cook.
I cook. You're the cook if Mr. Ridgewell says you are. He's particular about who works for him. He gestured toward the main house. Come on.
Bring your things. Evelyn grabbed her bag and climbed down from the wagon, trying not to show how nervous she suddenly was. The walk to the main house felt like a mile, though it couldn't have been more than a hundred yards. She was acutely aware of every man on the ranch watching her, measuring her, probably betting on how long she'd last. The main house up close was even more impressive than it had looked from a distance.
Someone had put real care into building it. Solid timber construction, a shingled roof in good repair, and that wide porch with actual furniture on it. Wind chimes hung from one corner making soft music in the breeze. Holloway led her up the porch steps and knocked twice on the door before opening it. Mr. Ridgewell, the new cook's here.
The interior of the house was cool and dim after the bright sunlight. Evelyn's eyes took a moment to adjust, and when they did, she found herself in a front room that was surprisingly well-kept. Furniture that matched, rugs on the floor, curtains on the windows. A woman's touch, even if the woman was long gone. Bring her in.
The voice came from deeper in the house. Holloway led her through to what looked like an office. Walls lined with ledgers and ranch records, a large desk covered in papers and maps, and behind that desk, a man who could only be Dawson Ridgewell. He was younger than Evelyn had expected, maybe 35, with dark hair starting to go gray at the temples and eyes that looked like they'd seen more than their share of hard times. He was clean-shaven, dressed in simple work clothes, and when he looked up at her, his expression gave away absolutely nothing.
This is Evelyn Harper, Holloway said, from Red Hollow. Ridgewell stood, and Evelyn realized he was tall, well over 6 ft with the kind of build that came from actual hard work rather than just sitting behind a desk. He came around and leaned against the front of the desk, arms crossed, studying her with an intensity that made her want to squirm. "You're the cook," he finally said. "Yes, sir."
"You know how to cook for 20 men?" "I've cooked for crowds before." "Define crowds." Evelyn lifted her chin. "My father ran a boarding house.
We had up to 15 people staying at any given time plus day workers. I've been cooking since I was 12." "That was a while ago." She felt her face heat. "I'm 25."