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He tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear—that was one of the things he hated about cell phones, how tough it was to tuck the fuckers between your shoulder and your ear and what in Christ was he supposed to do with the crutch? It took a few seconds before he managed to juggle the crutch, the phone and the kettle, but finally he turned on the water and filled it.
“She knows we’re in the mountains?”
“She knows you’re in Montana, sir, of course.”
“She knows she’ll be cooking for a bunch of misfits?”
“She is a trained and experienced chef, Mr. Bannister.”
“I need a cook, not a chef.” Nick plugged in the kettle and reached for the coffee canister. The Newf nosed his thigh and Nick sighed, dug his hand into a tin of dog biscuits that stood on the counter and held one out.
Slurp.
The biscuit vanished into a wet, eager maw.
“She’s up for this job?”
“She is.”
“Why?”
“Why what, sir?”
“You said she’s a chef. So why does she want to work here?”
“She needs a new position.”
“Meaning what? Nobody else will hire her?”
“Meaning, sir, you need a cook and Lissa Wilde needs employment.”
Nick started to measure out the coffee, thought the hell with it and dumped the coffee into the Chemex straight from the canister. The pot was the one affectation he’d held on to, the one link he still maintained between the man he’d been and—let’s be blunt, Gentry—the cripple he’d become.
“Bravely spoken,” he said. “But I’m telling you right now, if this Liza Wile doesn’t work out, I’m going to drag your sorry ass up here and hand you a frying pan and a spatula.”
“It’s Lissa, sir. Lissa Wilde. W-i-l-d-e.” Marcia made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “And, believe me, Mr. Bannister, with all due respect, I’d sooner labor in the fires of hell than go to the ass-end of nowhere and cook for a bunch of cowboys.”
Nick laughed. The sound was rusty, but he hadn’t been doing much laughing lately.
“I told her you’d provide her with an automobile.”
“Do I sound like a car dealer?”
“You sound like a man who needs a cook. I thought we’d already established that. Sir.”
Nick ran his hand through his hair. What the hell. There were half a dozen vehicles parked around the ranch. Giving the new cook the keys to one of them wouldn’t be a problem.
“Yeah. Right. OK, Lowry. I’m gonna hope this works out.”
“The same here. Good night, Mr. Bannister.”
Nick disconnected. The kettle gave a thin whistle and he picked it up and poured boiling water into the Chemex.
The last cook had simply up and left two days ago.
“This ain’t no ranch,” he’d said, “it’s a hellhole. And you is one nasty son of a bitch to work for, Gentry.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Nick had said, “and the name is Bannister.”
