"You can't quit, Pr—" Corrine Sweetwater started to say
"Private" but caught herself an instant before the word
slipped out.
She wasn't a warrant officer anymore, and the young man with
tattoos covering his arms, neck and forehead wasn't her
subordinate. Too bad. A few days on garbage detail might
improve his attitude.
"The hell I can't." Danny or Donny or Johnny or whatever his
name was stormed out of the kitchen.
Her assistant cook, Gerrie, removed a steaming pan of
lasagna from the top rack of an oversize convection oven.
Closing the door with her hip, she hummed "Another One Bites
the Dust" by Queen.
Corrine had just lost her second dishwasher in as many
weeks. Her third since arriving at Bear Creek Ranch, the
guest resort owned by her family.
But who was counting?
Apparently Pat, the cook's helper and relief busgirl, was.
"What's that make now? Three?"
In Corrine's opinion, Pat needed to get a hobby. "Have you
cut up the salad greens?"
"Yes."
Corrine stood, waiting out of a habit she couldn't seem to
break for a "ma'am" to follow that answer. It didn't come.
How long until she stopped expecting her subordinates— make
that staff—to snap to attention when she entered the
kitchen? Stopped thinking of her cousin, Jake Tucker, the
manager of Bear Creek Ranch, as her commanding officer?
Stopped demanding complete and unquestioning obedience from
her dishwashers?
Seven weeks obviously wasn't long enough for her to adjust
to civilian life.
"What are you going to do?" Gerrie asked, the barest hint of
snideness in her voice.
Like the six, down from seven, coworkers busy at their
various stations, Corrine's assistant cook had been employed
here for a number of years. Their long-standing service to
the Tucker family was probably the reason they hadn't
followed Danny or Donny out the door. It certainly wasn't
because they liked Corrine or, as Gerrie had put it when she
didn't think Corrine was listening, her "anal retentive
micromanaging."
"I'll figure something out." She finished wrapping the last
of forty loaves of garlic bread in aluminum foil, and
stacked it on a tray alongside the others. "Any of you
interested in a little overtime?"
"Nope."
"Can't."
"Not tonight."
The excuses chimed one after another, sounding a lot like
grade-schoolers' responses to attendance call.
"Fine."
"Figuring something out" would probably entail her working
until midnight again—alone, unless she roped one of her
sisters, parents or extended family into helping. They were
getting tired of her asking—she could see it in their faces—
and they no doubt wondered how Corrine had managed to feed
thousands of soldiers, often under extreme conditions, but
couldn't run a small kitchen with a staff of ten.
She wondered the same thing herself.
"Employees aren't soldiers," Jake had gently reminded her
more than once. "And what motivates them to do a good job is
different than what you're used to. If you want to win them
over, you're going to have to modify your techniques."
And therein lay the problem. Corrine might have been
honorably discharged after eight years of exemplary service,
preceded by four years in the ROTC, but in her heart, she
was still a member of the U.S. Army Corps and probably
always would be. She'd lived a large part of her life in a
world where orders were obeyed without question, and
certainly without attitude. Respect was automatically given
to anyone of higher rank. Duty and responsibility were
placed above all else.
It was a world she liked and missed.
Jake was right when he said employees weren't soldiers. But
Corrine didn't think expecting them to do the job and do it
well was out of line.
A buzzing timer, signaling that the cherry cobbler was done,
snapped her back to the moment. "Luke, go get the vanilla
ice cream."
The lanky eighteen-year-old shuffled toward the walk-in freezer.
Gerrie mouthed to Pat, "She could ask nice," then
blushed and averted her head when she realized Corrine had
been watching.
Luke emerged a moment later toting a twenty-gallon tub of
ice cream. He dumped it on the closest counter. "This is
only a third full, and it's all we got."
"What do you mean? I ordered a new shipment last week. It
was supposed to be here yesterday!"
"Guess it didn't come." Luke shrugged.
"Gerrie." Corrine whirled on her assistant cook. "Didn't you
follow up like I told you?"
"Yeah." The other woman's defenses visibly shot up. "They
said there was a snag and to expect delivery today."
"Well, it's today. Five in the afternoon to be exact, and
there's no ice cream." Corrine pressed both hands to her
head. "We have two hundred guests expecting cherry cobbler à
la mode, and enough ice cream for maybe fifty of them." Her
gaze landed on Gerrie. Hard. "What happened?"
"I…forgot. I'm sorry," she answered in a voice that shook.
With chagrin? Embarrassment?
More likely anger, thought Corrine.
"Don't let it happen again," she said with a calm she didn't
feel. The slip was inexcusable and deserved a reprimand. She
didn't give it, however. She couldn't afford to have another
employee walk out. Not today. "How much whipping cream do we
have?"
"Enough for the cobbler." Gerrie had regained her composure.
"Snap to it."
A second employee jumped in to help.
Corrine opened the oven, squeezing her eyes shut against a
blast of hot air, and put in a dozen loaves of the garlic
bread. She chided herself for the tiny twinge of remorse she
felt over her treatment of Gerrie. Her assistant cook had
failed at her task. Not only had she forgotten to follow up
with the late delivery, she hadn't told Corrine about it.
Two strikes. In the army…
Employees aren't soldiers.
Corrine swallowed the painful lump that had formed
unexpectedly in the back of her throat. She refused to cry.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of the employees. Forget her
pride; this dinner was too important.
The Tuckers were welcoming a special guest tonight, someone
who would be staying with them for six weeks over the
summer: Greg Pfitser, professional fisherman, bestselling
author and star of the hit cable TV show Fishing with
Pfitser.
Bear Creek, which ran through the three hundred acre ranch,
offered some of the best trout fishing in Arizona, if not
the entire southwestern United States. It was stocked from
nearby hatcheries and fed by mountain springs, and
record-breaking rainbows and Apaches were pulled from its
waters on a regular basis, making the ranch a favorite
recreation spot for amateur and professional fishermen alike.
Personally, Corrine wasn't all that impressed with their
celebrity guest, but the trout-fishing tournament he was
hosting in early August would give the ranch a much-needed
boost. Twelve years away hadn't diminished her love for her
family, and Corrine would do almost anything for them,
including biting her tongue.
"Hey, there's a dog in here!" Luke appeared in the pantry
doorway, a fifty pound sack of sugar in his arms.
"A dog?" several people echoed.
"It's in the garbage."
Corrine flew across the kitchen, following the same winding
path she'd taken earlier. "How the heck did it get in here?"
"Dimitri must have left the door open."
"Who?"
"The guy who just quit."
"Yeah, right." Dimitri? Where had she gotten the
name Donny?
Corrine reached the pantry and came to a halt. She stared at
the floor, horrified. There was a dog in her
kitchen. At least, she thought it was a dog. A stubby tail
attached to a pair of short black-and-white legs stuck out
from a spilled bag of trash. A bag that should not have been
left by the back door to be tripped over or ransacked by
small scavengers.
"Where'd it come from?" one of the helpers asked.
"I don't know." Because of the danger from wild animals that
occasionally wandered into the ranch, or the possibility of
being kicked or trampled by one of the horses, guests
weren't allowed to have pets in their cabins. "It must be a
stray."
"A hungry stray." Luke dumped the sack of sugar on the
nearest counter.
"Hey," Corrine said sternly to the dog's backside. "Get out
of there."
The stubby tail wagged in response.
"Luke, grab him."
"Seriously?"
"We can't have a dog in the kitchen. The health department
will shut us down."
"I ain't grabbing no strange dog. What if it bites me?"
Corrine was about to rephrase her order with more authority
when Jake's gently delivered advice came back to her. If the
dog did indeed bite Luke, there would be more than a
workmen's compensation claim to pay. He could sue the ranch,
the Tuckers and Corrine.
Definitely not the army anymore.
"Fine. I'll do it."
She reached down, clasped the dog by its middle and pulled.
The animal's toenails scraped across the linoleum floor as
she did, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
Fortunately, it didn't seem inclined to bite. How could it
with a plastic bread bag halfway down its throat?
"Don't eat that." With one hand on the dog's collar—it
definitely wasn't a stray—Corrine ripped the bag from its
mouth. "You'll choke and die."
In a flash, the dog twisted around and went for her hand— to
lick, not bite. She couldn't resist and gave its head a good
scratching. Until she'd left for college, she and her three
sisters had always owned a dog or two and a couple of cats.
"That's one ugly dog," Luke said, with more emotion than
Corrine had heard him display in all the time they'd worked
together.
She had to agree. Rounded mouse ears sat atop a wide,
squished-in face with loose, floppy lips and bulging eyes.
The dog opened its mouth to pant, and a huge pink tongue
fell out the side.
"I think it's kind of cute," another helper said.
"All right, people, back to work. We have a dinner to serve
in fifteen minutes."
The staff returned to their tasks, and Corrine bent to lift
the dog, intending to shut it in the employee restroom and
then phone maintenance. One problem. It didn't want to go,
not when there was more trash to investigate. While she
attempted to get a solid hold around its middle, the animal
nosed through broken eggshells and an empty half-gallon can
of cherry pie filling.
"Don't your owners ever feed you?"
She had its back legs suspended in midair when the door to
the kitchen banged opened. Corrine wasn't sure which of
them, her or the dog, jumped higher.
"I see her," called a high-pitched voice. "She's in here."
"Hurry," said a second voice.
From the sound of the pounding footsteps, Corrine guessed
that young children were about to converge on the kitchen.
Great. What else could go wrong today?
She grunted and stood, the squirming, licking dog locked
firmly in her grip. With a sense of triumph, she spun, ready
to deliver a tirade to the careless juvenile owners about
dogs on the ranch. The words died on her lips.
The children, two bright-eyed, grinning cherubs, weren't
alone. A man was with them. A very tall man. Corrine had to
tip her head back to get a good look at him.
"I see you found Belle," he said with the laziest, sexiest
drawl she'd ever heard.
Not since her sophomore year in high school had a member of
the opposite sex disarmed Corrine. Handsome faces and broad
shoulders didn't impress her. She'd seen plenty of them in
the army and knew what was inside a man counted for a whole
lot more, especially if lives were in the balance.
She handed the wiggling dog to its young owners. "Belle?"
she asked.
"It's French for beautiful." Matching dimples cut into the
man's ruggedly chiseled cheeks. A lock of dark, wavy hair
refused to lie flat and fell charmingly over twinkling brown
eyes.
"Which confuses me. Don't take this wrong, but your dog is
ugly."
"Not to everyone."
Corrine's gaze went to the children, who were obviously
overjoyed at being reunited with their pet and just as
obviously indifferent to its Peter Lorre-like features.
"And, since she's a French bulldog," the man added, "the
name fit."
Did he ever stop smiling?
Corrine's shield, the one she'd honed long before joining
the army, dropped into place. "I'm sorry to inform you, but
guests aren't allowed to have dogs on the ranch. You're
going to have to keep it—her—in your cabin until you can
make other arrangements."
"I do apologize for the mess she made, but here's the
thing," he said smoothly. "The owners gave me permission."
"Really?" Corrine drew back. She didn't remember any such
exception to ranch rules being raised at the last family
business meeting. "And who was that?"
His smile widened rather than diminished, proving that,
unlike most people, whether soldier or civilian, he wasn't
the least bit intimidated by her. "Jake Tucker and Millie
Sweetwater."
Hmm. Corrine's cousin and mother. She'd have to
speak to them and find out what was going on.
"Well, I'm one of the owners, too. And I don't remember
giving my permission."
"You are? " He took in her disheveled appearance with the
same aggravating laziness. "I'm Greg Pfitser," he said, and
extended his hand.
The professional fisherman. Their guest of honor at
tonight's dinner. The pieces fell suddenly into place. No
wonder her family had bent the rules in order to accommodate
him.
To her great annoyance, she'd have to bend them, too. Except
where her kitchen was concerned.
"Corrine Sweetwater." She accepted his outstretched hand and
liked that he returned her grip with equal strength. Weak
handshakes, in her opinion, were a sign of weak character.
"Welcome to Bear Creek Ranch."
"Thank you." He released her hand only when she gave a
slight tug. "Any relation to Millie?"
Corrine didn't like that she needed a moment to collect
herself before answering. "Guilty as charged. I'm her
daughter. The ranch is family owned and operated."
"These are my kids, Annie and Benjamin."
"Ben," the boy corrected, while craning his neck to avoid
slobbery dog kisses.
Corrine looked down at the children. She remembered someone
telling her they were twins and…what? Five years old?
"Permission aside, you are going to have to keep the dog on
a leash at all times when outside your cabin, and away from
public areas. Which includes the kitchen." When they didn't
immediately get the message, she clarified, her tone
authoritative, "Take the dog outside now."
When they still didn't respond, their father said calmly,
"Go on, now."
The twins all but ignored him, apparently more interested in
fighting over which of them got to carry the dog outside.
"Hurry," he reiterated, in a tone only marginally firmer.
Through sheer willpower, Corrine kept her mouth shut. Her
family wouldn't be happy if she offended their all-important
guest by criticizing his parenting skills. Finally, the
children left, each carrying one end of the dog.
"Please excuse me," she said, backing away. "We have a
dinner to serve." A quick glance told her her staff was
nowhere close to being ready. Everyone was too busy gawking
at Greg.
Dinner would be late again.
"Will I see you in the dining hall?" His brows lifted
inquisitively.