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One
She hoped it was a good omen.
Lured by the Help Wanted sign in the window of the one and only restaurant in Catamount, Colorado, Fleur Barclay stepped out of her beat-up car to inquire inside. The heat of the summer sun warmed her face; the scent of barbecue carried on the breeze. The Cowboy Kitchen was a local institution that had been in business when Fleur and her family used to visit her grandmother in Catamount when she was a kid. The restaurant had remained a local staple through her teen years when Fleur had been the only Barclay still visiting Gran after her parents split and her sisters had chosen sides in the acrimonious divorce.
Now, five years removed from when Fleur fled this small town in the wake of an unhappy split of her own, she was heartened to see Cowboy Kitchen still in business. And in need of help.
Given that she was currently unemployed and needed to remain in town until she settled her grandmother’s estate, Fleur chose to view the ad as a sign that her recent string of bad luck was changing.
The past few months had brought her beloved Gran’s passing, and a spate of inappropriate advances by her boss that had made her work life impossible. She’d felt forced to leave her assistant chef position. The only tiny silver lining? At least she could live on her Gran’s ranch while she readied the place for sale. She wouldn’t have been able to pay her rent in Dallas for much longer anyhow, especially since finding a good gig in Texas would have been a challenge without her boss’s recommendation.
Something she’d obviously never receive since she’d filed a discrimination complaint with the State.
Unwilling to think about that now, Fleur skirted through a handful of parked cars in front of the lodge-style building that housed a small hardware store and a post office service window in addition to the eatery. Well,diner, really. But she could hardly afford to be choosy when the place was just a few miles from Crooked Elm, Gran’s ranch. She needed an income to pay her bills. She couldn’t bear the thought of touching the savings earmarked for opening her own restaurant one day. And “one day” might come all the sooner if she could make enough from the sale of her grandmother’s property.
A rusted bell chimed overhead as she stepped through the entrance. The scent of bacon hung heavy in the air even though it was long past noon. The decor remained the same as ever—white countertops, black-and-white laminate floors, chrome barstools with turquoise seats from a bygone era. The only thing remotely Western about the Cowboy Kitchen was the oversize painting of a faded brown Stetson on the wall above the counter. If there’d been a lunch crowd, it had since departed. A couple of old-timers dressed in faded coveralls sat at a table near the window, hunched over coffee cups. Another patron—younger but dressed like the others in boots and denim—scrolled through his phone at the counter.
“Be right with you!” A feminine voice called from somewhere in the back, probably in response to the doorbell.
Smoothing her blue cotton skirt wrinkled from travel, Fleur moved closer to the counter where a sleek computer monitor sat beside a simple credit card reader. The decor might be from another era, but someone had clearly upgraded the tech. Was that another good sign that a chef role would pay a reasonable wage? Fleur already knew there was no cash in Gran’s estate, so until she could sell the Crooked Elm and split the proceeds evenly with her older sisters, she needed to be careful of her expenses.
And wasn’t that the same as ever? Her property developer father had cut her off financially the day she’d turned eighteen, perceiving Fleur’s efforts at smoothing the family rifts to be “taking her mother’s side” in the never-ending divorce war. The feud was so over-the-top it would be laughable if it weren’t heartbreaking at the same time. Another frustration she shoved to the back of her mind.
“And...how can I help you?” A smiling brunette pushed her way through the white swinging door from the kitchen to greet her. “Table for one?”
The woman had bright pink lipstick and an abundance of freckles, her dark hair in a long ponytail. She wore an all-white uniform with a silver name tag that read “Marta.”
That’s right. Marta Macon. Her family lived on the outskirts of town. Fleur thought her dad might work at the hardware store.
“Actually, no. I was here about the sign in the window. Are you still hiring?” Fleur knew certain people in Catamount would view a diner job in her grandmother’s rural hometown as a step down for her. Plenty of locals knew the great lengths she’d gone to in order to earn enough money for culinary school tuition.
Some of her peers had deemed entering regional pageants to earn scholarships as “giving herself airs.” One man in particular had scoffed at her path, spouting tired opinions about rodeo pageants reinforcing gendered power dynamics and contributing to the objectification of women. Easy for wealthy Drake Alexander to judge her when he’d never had to worry about paying his own way for anything.
And just how had Drake crept into her thoughts after all this time? She chased him out of her head.
“We are most definitely hiring.” Marta bent to retrieve a paper from beneath the counter while a Patsy Cline tune played on an overhead speaker. “You’re one of the Barclay girls, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. I’m Fleur.” She smiled politely, though she wasn’t sure many people would recall her older sisters since neither Lark nor Jessamyn had spent time in Catamount for years. “We were in 4-H together.”
Crooked Elm Ranch had been her summer home every year until she’d finished high school. Then she’d spent two straight years living in Colorado, working multiple jobs to save enough for culinary school.
Until she’d had no choice but to leave.
“I remember you. Have you waitressed before?”
“Yes.” Was there any support role she hadn’t taken in the restaurant world? “But I hoped you might need help on the cook staff.”
“Sorry.” The other woman shook her head, dark ponytail shadowing her movements as she began straightening some napkins spilling out of a dispenser. “We’re all set in the kitchen. Stella McRory never misses a shift, and she’s been here longer than I have.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. Not that she objected to food service. But the public-facing position would practically ensure she’d have to smile at too many people she hoped never to see again. Mostly Drake Alexander. “I’ll have to think about it, in that case. Do you mind if I take the form?”
There would only be so much work available around town, after all. In another couple of weeks, she wouldn’t have the option to be choosy when her savings dwindled.
“Sure thing.” Marta moved on to the next napkin dispenser, straightening the paper products. “Just swing by with it if you decide to apply. It’s a fun place to work. Everybody stops in sooner or later.”
Just as she feared.
Fleur backed up a step, folding the application in half. Before she could reply, Marta continued.
