"I know. I asked around about you before I agreed to hire you." Ridgewell pushed off the desk and walked to the window, looking out over his ranch. "Your father died owing money. Your brother's a drunk.
Your family's about to lose everything. That about sum it up?" The casual way he laid out her life's disasters stung more than it should have. "That sums it up." "So, you're desperate."
"I prefer motivated." He turned back to face her, and she thought she saw the ghost of something like amusement in his eyes. "Fair enough. Here's how this works. You've got a trial period of 1 week.
You'll cook three meals a day for the ranch hands in the bunkhouse kitchen. Breakfast at 5:30, lunch at noon, dinner at 6:30. The men work hard and they eat accordingly. You run out of food, you fail. You serve them inedible garbage, you fail.
You cause trouble or can't handle the work, you fail." "And if I don't fail?" "Then you've got a job for 6 months at $40 a month plus room and board. You'll also help my housekeeper, Mrs. Chen, with meals for the main house when needed. My daughter eats with me in the evenings." $40 a month was more money than Evelyn had seen in a year.
She tried not to let her relief show. "That's acceptable." "One more thing." Ridgewell's voice dropped, getting harder. I don't tolerate any nonsense between my workers.
No romantic entanglements, no drama, no games. You're here to cook, not to socialize. Any man who bothers you, you tell Holloway or you tell me. We'll handle it. But if you're encouraging it or playing games, you're gone.
Clear? Evelyn felt her temper spark. Perfectly clear. And while we're laying down rules, I don't tolerate being grabbed, harassed, or treated like I'm less than human just because I'm a woman. Any man who tries it will regret it.
Ridgewell's eyebrows went up slightly. You planning to fight my ranch hands? If I have to. For a long moment, he just looked at her. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
A small thing, but genuine. You might actually last more than 3 days. Holloway, show Miss Harper to her quarters and the kitchen. She starts tomorrow morning. Yes, sir.
Holloway gestured for Evelyn to follow him. She turned to go, then paused. Mr. Ridgewell, thank you for the opportunity. Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the kitchen.
Mites. Holloway wasn't kidding. The bunkhouse kitchen was a disaster. It occupied one end of the long building that housed the ranch hands, separated from the sleeping quarters by a wall that looked like it might fall over if someone leaned on it too hard. The room itself was maybe 20 by 15 ft with a massive cast iron stove that had seen better days, a scarred wooden prep table, and shelves that held a chaotic jumble of pots, pans, and supplies.