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“I hate to fly. I’d rather have a root canal. Once during a flight from Greece to Costa Rica, I got vertigo. Those were the longest and most miserable hours of my life.” Hunt closed his eyes for a moment against the recollection. “There was nothing I could do but let the world spin around me while the plane thumped through one pocket of turbulence after another. Once the aircraft landed in San José, I still had to suffer a wild ride with a Nigerian taxi driver to the nearest clinica. When I finally got enough medication in me to calm the vertigo, I prayed I’d never be in such a vulnerable position again.”
Gillian listened with her sandy blond brows pulled together in concern, a “what’s your point?” question in her all-business eyes and a not-so-surreptitious glance at her wristwatch.
“I know.” He bobbed his head in respect for her busy schedule. “But I told you that story so I could tell you this story. When I sat down with my three brothers yesterday morning, and McCarthy gave us the news that Temple Territory had been purchased, it was like being on that awful flight. For the past twenty-four hours, the world has been spinning out of control.” Hunt smiled. He needed to appear and sound sincere. “I guess, in a way, you’ve given me some hope, and for that I should be grateful.”
Her shoulders relaxed and a glimmer of relief appeared on the face that he had to admit was Katherine Heigl beautiful.
“So, you’ll accept my offer?”
There was cautious expectation in her voice. Maybe she didn’t have a third option up her sleeve after all.
“It’s more complicated than that.” He squinted and pressed his molars together, trying to seem stressed, as if he had a big decision to make. “You’re not the only person who’s aware I’ve left the Four Seasons. I have several other opportunities on the table already, so staying here even temporarily could cost me a much bigger deal.”
It might have been true. There was no offer at the moment, but his agent was working on it. He’d had a steady stream of offers since winning a reality cooking show that had given him the nickname “the Cowboy Chef.” Something would come along soon. Sadly, that something would likely take him far away from his hometown. And this is where he needed to be, if he was ever to become as close to his brothers as he’d once been.
“I’ll make it worth your while financially.”
He held a palm outward and shook his head.
“If I hang around, it won’t be because of the money, it’ll be for my family’s sake. Dad would want one of his sons to keep an eye on what you’re doin’ with Pap’s place.”
Gillian crossed her arms, and lowered her pointed chin a bit, causing long strands of blond hair to fall across her shoulders. “You do understand you’d have no vote in my plans, correct?”
“I didn’t ask for a vote, just a voice. An astute businesswoman should be open-minded, willing to listen to another opinion.”
She nodded, seemed to accept his logic. “So, do we have an agreement?”
“Not yet. I do have one condition, and it’s a deal breaker.”
“Let me guess. You want an offer in writing.”
“Yeah, but I want the offer in writing to Alma and Felix. You make them part of your staff for as long as you own the property, and I’ll stick around for a while. Between the three of us, we can teach you the history of our neck of the woods.”
* * *
FINALLY. THE MAN got to the bottom line.
Fair enough. Gillian appreciated a rousing negotiation and admired his family loyalty. She’d benefit from Hunt’s ability to help her design a state-of-the-art kitchen, then cook fabulous food and charm her well-heeled patrons with his Cowboy Chef persona for as long as she could afford him. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the man’s opinions, and she definitely hadn’t asked for his historical mentoring.
“As I’ve mentioned, I do my homework, and I’m pretty confident that I’m up to speed on Texas history.” She lifted her cup and took another sip.
“Is that a fact? So you’ve heard all about the monster sea snake that lives in Lake Cherokee, have you?”
Gillian sloshed a few drops from her cup. The dark brew splashed on her scarlet bag, a treasure from her favorite resale shop in Old Town Alexandria.
“And you’re aware that this very parcel of land was farmed for hundreds of years by members of the Caddo Nation?” He pointed toward the ground beneath their feet. “What’s left of the Caddo tribe regularly tries to lay claim to Temple Territory, pointing to the well their ancestors dug as proof of their rights. Pap built the mansion around the well out of respect for the spirits they believe still abide here.”
She shook her head, wondering if she should speak to her lawyer concerning this nonsense about that nasty old well in the courtyard.
“And, of course, you’ve heard Temple Territory is cursed, right? In all these years, no honest business would touch it because my Pap was branded as a thief who made his fortune stealing a few hundred million barrels from a major oil company.”
“No, I wasn’t aware of any of that,” she admitted. This was all fresh news.
It was true she’d been reading about East Texas in general but hadn’t yet found the hours to dig into local folklore. He was right. She could definitely use area experts and storytellers who’d share the fantasies as well as the facts of the place. Like Hunt himself, some of it could become part of the new ambience she’d use to entice and entertain the guests at Moore House.
Gillian pulled a tissue from inside her bag and swiped at the drizzling droplets of coffee atop it while she considered the appeal of Alma’s homemade pastries, made fresh each day. A smart hotelier offered her guests an experience they could not have elsewhere. What was the use in having the Cowboy Chef in her kitchen even short-term if she didn’t have the tall Texas tales to go along with him?
“Say something. What’s your gut reaction?” Hunt mocked her earlier question.
She shifted her attention from the coffee stain on her favorite purse to the alluring face of the youngest Temple brother. She’d never considered she could attract the reality television celebrity, but that was before her real estate agent had insisted Gillian get on the next flight for a visit to Temple Territory. Finding the perfect property that just happened to be connected to Hunt Temple couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than providence.
Gillian recognized her equal in the man beside her. He’d turned a problem to his advantage, just as she’d have done. Another item on the list of critical information she’d keep to herself.
Hunt still had the body of an athlete, was slap-your-sister hot and possessed a cache of local secrets. He was well traveled in spite of his fear of flying, and probably spoke a few phrases in several languages. So she steamrolled ahead with her plan, just as her father would do in her shoes.
“My gut tells me to meet your condition—if you promise to stay for as long as I require your help.” That would help her rush a grand opening during the holiday season and establish her no-nonsense reputation. Maybe she’d even convince him to stick around longer. Or not.
“I’ll have the agreement drawn up by my lawyer, and he’ll be in touch with you later today.”
She offered her hand to make it official. “Deal?”
He took her fingers gently in his, raised them to his face and kissed the backside of them lightly.
“Deal,” he murmured.
A shiver ran from her knuckles to the pleasure center of her brain. She gave a nod to acknowledge the gesture, and then slipped her hand away from his touch.
Needing a distraction from the warmth of his lips still on her flesh, she glanced down at the paper sack and then reached in for a homemade sopaipilla.
The crispy pastry melted on her tongue, leaving a hint of honey and earthy sweetness.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“No,” she mumbled, savoring another bite.
“My brother Cullen’s place is only a couple miles from here. If Alma’s there, she’ll be happy to whip up some killer huevos rancheros. Her tortillas are always made from scratch.” His eyes sparked at the mention of the Mexican favorites.
“Maybe another morning. Today I’m in the mood for something French prepared by my new executive chef.”
“Does an omelet au fromage appeal to you?”
“Does Limburger cheese stink?”
“Well, then, let’s go.” Without hesitation he stood and offered his hand to help her to her feet, then swept his palm toward the side drive where both their vehicles were parked. She stepped toward her rental car with his footsteps a respectful distance behind.
“I’ll follow you in my car.”
He was being suspiciously agreeable. Over the course of their brief negotiation, the man had morphed from righteous indignation to effusive gratitude. Somewhere in that pendulum swing of emotion was the real Hunt Temple, and given long enough she might be able to sift through the chaff and find the grain. If not, that was okay, too.
She’d come to Texas to realize her dream, not analyze a man.
* * *
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Gillian stepped across the threshold of Cullen’s home and followed his lead straight to the kitchen. The hacienda-style room was cozy and welcoming. Hunt pulled a tall hand-tooled stool away from the mosaic-tile counter and held the chair while she stepped up onto it and settled in to watch him work. He took a knee-length white apron from a drawer and secured it around his waist. Then he reached for a skillet, sprinkled it with oil and positioned it on a lit burner.
He grabbed two eggs from the fridge and cracked them against the side of a clear mixing bowl. A shard of white shell fell atop the golden yellow yolks.
“Glad I’ve already got the job,” he said as he fished out the fragment.
“Am I making you nervous?”
“In a way,” he admitted, above the fury of his whisk. “It’s a bit unusual to be hired before you ever serve a meal to the boss.”
“Oh, you’ve served me before.”
Hunt turned puzzled eyes her way, the brows above his slate-colored irises raised in question.
“I was checking out the small hotels in Cancun last summer. I had the opportunity to eat in your restaurant on an evening when you were expediting the kitchen.”
“And how was your meal?” He was fishing for a compliment.
“The snapper was overcooked and underseasoned. I sent it back to the kitchen.”
The ultimate insult hit the chef like a dart to his chest. Hunt melodramatically clutched his heart with both palms and mock-swooned against the kitchen wall, and Gillian could swear her own heart reacted, as well.
Being around this man was either going to be great fun or a great big mistake.
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.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I HAVE A better idea for the doors.” Hunt tilted his head and motioned with his hand for Gillian to follow him. He smiled at the tapping of her heels behind him. He was making progress with the boss lady already.
“Hunt, I’m too busy for this right now.”
Maybe not so much progress after all.
He continued toward the old kitchen.
“You’re not listening to me,” she insisted, but remained close behind. “I’m booked solid this afternoon, and I have to return that call. Your granddaddy’s rustic old doors have been collecting dust for decades. There’s no reason to get in a dither about them right this minute.”
“All evidence to the contrary since you were about to put a piece of Texas history on the scrap pile. I’d say a dither is exactly what’s called for, and you might agree in about thirty seconds.”
He crossed the scuffed terra-cotta tiles that led to the large walk-in pantry. Once inside, he reached up to tug a length of kitchen twine dangling from overhead, weighted decades ago by a lead swivel sinker from somebody’s tackle box. A single bulb lit the space dimly, but the light was sufficient to make Hunt’s point. The roomy closet was lined with thick slabs of knotty pine, the golden color deepened with age to the hue of maple syrup.
Gillian stepped forward, ran her palm across the smooth wall, her face giving away her appreciation of the reclaimed timbers.
“I hadn’t given this closet any attention. Is this the same wood?”
Hunt nodded. “When the drilling derrick at Temple One was torn down to make room for a mechanical horse-head pump, Pap hauled the lumber here to be used in the construction of his home.”