Cooking For Cowboy (Stampede Sizzlers) by Brenda Sinclair Page B

sunning in a bikini on the deck, reading a book under the huge apple tree in the far corner of the backyard, and sipping a glass of wine while sitting in the hot tub staring up at a ceiling of stars in the evenings. She was getting goose bumps just thinking about it.
    “That sounds promising. Maybe I won’t be hiring a new cook every month. As long as I can keep Mom away from you, I’ll have it made. You could just stay on forever,” suggested Chad, grinning.
    “Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far. Forever is a long, long time. Let’s just take this one day at a time.” Sierra rested her head on his shoulder for a few seconds. It felt good to have someone to lean on, to share your life with, even if it only lasted for a short time. She hadn’t had a steady man in her life in two years. Chad Parker might be one of those good guys she’d been looking for. But was Chad her Mr. Right?
    They wandered behind the barn to what appeared to be a racetrack. Chad stepped up onto the bottom railing of the fence. He leaned forward and said, “Watch this.”
    Sierra stepped onto the bottom rail and stood beside Chad, following his line of vision. At first, she couldn’t discern what she was supposed to be watching, and then she noticed a distant trail of dust stirred up by a chuckwagon moving toward the last turn in the track.
    “Is that your team of horses?” she blurted, and then grimaced. “That was a dumb question. Of course, it’s your team.”
    “Yep, that’s our substitutes. A team of four race at a time, but we have several that we train and change out depending on which barrel we draw and if there’s an injury,” explained Chad, tipping back his Stetson and leaning over the fence. “And we sell a lot of the Thoroughbreds that we breed here.”
    Just then, the team thundered past them pulling a wagon that no doubt had seen better days, harness jangling and hooves pounding the hard-packed ground. The driver hollered and slapped the reins, urging the team onward to the finish line the same as he would if it were an actual race. Dust swirled around the rig and drifted across the track. Chad pressed her head to his chest and she closed her eyes while the dust swirled around them and then passed by. Considering it had rained last night, the ground must be parched to create all that dust this morning.
    “Okay, you can look up again,” said Chad.
    She turned her attention back to the track and they watched the driver turn the team around and head back toward the finish line. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a hunched and bow-legged old fellow lumbering down the side of the track toward them. Wearing jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, he held a stopwatch in a tanned, arthritic-looking hand.
    “Hey, Charlie, how’s it going?” shouted Chad.
    The man’s weathered face matched the leather-tooled belt that circled his middle, and an enormous horse head buckle sparkled in the high-noon sunshine. A pair of dark brown eyes peeked out from under the largest Stetson Sierra had ever seen. “Doing just fine, Chad.”
    “Charlie is our ranch foreman, Sierra. Charlie, this is Sierra Griffin. She’s our new cook.”
    Sierra stuck out her hand, smiling. “Pleased to meet you, Charlie.”
    Charlie shook hands and whistled. “You’re mighty pretty, ma’am. If you cook half as good as you look, there’ll be some happy fellers here at the Whispering Pines.”
    Sierra laughed. “I’ll do my best.”
    “So, what’s for supper, ma’am?” asked Charlie, expectantly.
    “Um, well, I…” she stammered.
    “Give her a break, Charlie.” Chad slapped the old fellow on the back. “She only set foot on the ranch a half hour ago. Let her settle in and then I’m certain whatever she makes for supper will be delicious.”
    “Looking forward to it,” said the old fellow, nodding. “We ain’t had a decent meal in ages it seems. Well, I’m done timing that team, and I’m done checking fences for today. But I’ve