Mike raised both hands in surrender. "Yes ma'am." He turned to Liv. "Follow me, city girl. We'd best get you out of the heat and take care of your suitcase before Tiny tries to marry it."
Liv followed him into the lodge. The moment the door shut, cool air and the smell of coffee embraced her—and something else. Leather. Wood smoke. The faint sweetness of whatever was roasting in that oven.
The foyer was all honeyed wood and family pictures of sepia cowboys, little kids, a handsome older couple whose absence seemed to press at the edges. Liv felt it and decided not to look too closely. She probably wasn't the only one with ghosts.
The kitchen was the beating heart of the home, the kind that didn't hush itself up for company. Impressions flicked across her mind quickly. Stainless steel, cast iron, a long farm table where bowls and mixing spoons sat like an invitation. A woman in a floral apron and boots stood at the stove, wielding a spoon like a weapon. She had stormy gray hair, sharp eyes and an expression that assessed and forgave you in the same breath.
"Arletta," Mike said. "This is Liv. The pastry chef applicant I told you about."
"Mmph." Arletta wiped her hands and studied Liv a beat longer than strictly comfortable. "You look like trouble, but the good kind. You ever burned a roux?"
"No," Liv said.
"Then you're ahead of half the folks that blow through here. You from around here?"
Liv froze for an instant. Breathe. Don't blow it before you've even got a foot in the door.
"Now don't pry, Arletta," Mike said with a laugh. "I'm the one who conducts the interviews around here."
"Ha," Arletta huffed. "We nearly had to hog-tie you to get you to hire us some help in the kitchen. It's not like you've got tons of skill in that department."
"I'm from back east," Liv said, feeling a pang of terror at the admission. The less she said, the better it would be for everyone. Still, she couldn't just ignore the question. "I assure you, I can bake though."
"Well then," Arletta said, gesturing to a sack of flour and a jar labeled buttermilk. "We're low on biscuits. It's either you or Mr. Fancy Cast-Iron." She jerked her chin toward Mike. "Pick your poison."
Mike made a wounded sound and laughed again. Liv noticed that he did that a lot. Laugh. It was nice. "My biscuits are legend," he said.
"Your biscuits are edible," Arletta corrected.
Liv felt a bubble of laughter unspool in her chest, thin and surprised. This was the kind of banter she'd listened to from kitchen doors her whole life. The kind she'd always been too young to join or too busy to try. Something in her loosened. She shrugged out of her blazer, rolled up her sleeves and stepped forward, setting her ball cap on the counter top. Evidently her hands-on interview was about to begin. Which was fine. This was her area of expertise.
"Where do you keep your baking powder?" she asked, scanning the shelves.
"Top right," Mike said. "Above the honey."
"And your butter? Is it cold?" She opened the fridge. Metal shelving, Tupperware with leftovers, a stack of eggs.
"Always," he said. "Texas rule. Butter goes soft, you use it for corn. Not biscuits."
She found what she needed, almost sighing when she spied a well-loved pastry cutter sitting on the counter. The flour felt like silk as it feathered across her fingers. Liv let the noise around her fall into a familiar hum and let her hands do what they knew.
She didn't measure like a home cook. She measured like a professional—by sight, by texture, by the feel of the dough turning from messy to exactly right under her palms. She cut, folded, turned. A splash of buttermilk. A whisper of salt. A touch of honey because she wanted these to be a little sweet, a little delicate.
Mike gave her plenty of room, but he watched her closely, his attention penetrating her conscious like summer sunshine, warm and just a little disconcerting.
"Not bad," he murmured when she slid the tray into the oven.
She glanced up at him, then set the oven timer and took a moment to steady herself. The last time she'd baked anything for pleasure had been…before.
Before the blood on the marble floor.
Before the man in the tuxedo turned and looked right at her.
Before Detective Sanchez shoved a bus ticket in her hand and told her to disappear.
The thought tried to pull her under. She refused to allow it. Her hands shook slightly as she reached for a clean towel. "I…thank you. For the chance to test."
"This is the kind of place where food earns you the right to be here," Arletta said. "You bake good, you're family." She elbowed Mike. "You mess up my kitchen, I'll skin you."
