Chapter 3

Ash

Jackson Darling is, in a word, trouble.

Or maybe, more accurately, I'm in so much trouble when it comes to him.

The man continues to show me around the kitchen, pointing out the mixer that's inside a low cupboard, but which pulls out and rises up on a moving platform so it's counter-height when in use. He points out where measuring cups are and whisks, of which there are three, and explains the general organizational system for the pantry. He even explains the different kinds of milk in the fridge because of course they use their own fresh pasteurized milk.

But the entire time Jackson is walking me through the job, my eyes are firmly on him.

If someone asked me to describe "cowboy in his prime," that would be Jackson Darling. He's rugged, his voice gravelly like he just woke up, a plaid shirt rolled to his elbows and worn jeans wrapped snug around his thighs. His hair is falling in a haphazard mess, pieces in front of his eyes like they just couldn't be contained. The brown is threaded through with the faintest hint of copper, the color a little more prominent in his close-shaven beard. And there's a roughness to the way he walks and the way he talks, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes speaking of a man who's seen a good few decades of life.

But those eyes, so crystalline blue, carry a softness I wasn't expecting.

Of course, when the man looks at me and grunts, "Did you catch that?" that softness all but disappears.

I hold in my smile. "Got it. Blue lid is whole milk. Red is buttermilk."

He grunts again, shutting the fridge door. "We've got some recipes in the book there," he says, pointing next to the utensil holder, "but you're welcome to cook whatever you'd like. We don't have any peanut allergies. No vegetarians. Ira is gluten-free, but he brings a bag lunch just in case."

"I can make gluten-free options. That's not a problem," I assure him.

He looks at me for a moment before humming, the sound short and to the point. "Let me show you the cleaning supplies. We don't expect you to keep it sparkling in here. It's a ranch house. It's gonna get dirty. But some basic upkeep when you've got time would be appreciated."

I nod along, following Jackson into the hall where there's a storage closet. The contents are pretty self-explanatory.

"And everyone eats together?" I check.

"Anyone who wants to eat," he says simply, waving me down the hall. "They come in if they're hungry. They know the time. It's not your job to feed the stragglers."

I huff a laugh, stilling when we step into a massive dining room at the back of the house. It looks like it might have been added as an extension, three of the walls made out of panels of glass that overlook the pastures. A porch wraps around the outside of the room, a few rocking chairs set atop the wood. Inside, a long, long table rests, easily able to fit the twenty or so workers the Darling Ranch employs.

"Where did you find a table like this?" I ask, stepping forward to run my hand along the wood. The outer edges are rough and uneven, like the bark on a tree. In fact, the entire piece looks as if it could have been made from a single vertical cut out of a massive tree trunk. Grain lines run along the top of the table, although they've been polished smooth.

Jackson grunts. "My dad made it."

"I'm sorry, what?" I say in shock. "Your dad made this? From scratch?"

He crosses his arms, expression neutral. "Mm. He has…hobbies."

"Jesus. My hobbies are reading and watching Drag Race ," I mutter.

"What's that?" Jackson asks.

I shake my head quickly. "So meals are served here. And people stay for dinner? They don't go home to eat with their families?"

He shrugs, leading me back out into the hall. "Some of them do, but some of 'em stay. They're…a close group. You'll see."

I notice how he says they're , as if excluding himself.

"And you?" I ask. "What do you do around here?"

He pauses at the base of the stairs, hand on the railing. "A bit of everything."

With that, he heads up, and I huff a laugh, following. Jackson peeks inside the guest room Mrs. Darling— Marigold , as she insisted I call her—showed me earlier. My bags are propped inside. Two measly suitcases. Everything I fled Maine with.

Jackson walks further down the hall. "Your bathroom will be here," he says, motioning to a full bath with a stone-walled shower. "You'll be sharing it with my brothers."

"They live here?"

He nods, opening another closet. "Towels and laundry," he says before explaining, "Colton and Remi live in-house. Lawson, too, now that… Well, he's in the middle of a divorce. That's why we needed somebody looking after the ranch house. Lawson's wife had the job before you. She's a great cook. But she left the position six months ago."

"Who's been doing the cooking since then?" I ask, following Jackson back downstairs.

"My mom," he says. "My dad, too. Me, sometimes."

"You've all been busy," I note.

He hums, not disagreeing.

"Well, I'm glad to be here," I tell him truthfully. "I'm not formally trained, but I've always loved cooking, and I don't think I'm half bad at it. And, frankly, I needed a job. Badly. I hadn't planned on moving, I just kind of…did? But then my friend told me you were hiring, and I talked to your mom, and it's almost like fate, you know? The timing couldn't have been better."

And geez, Ash. Stop talking already.

Jackson grunts, staring at me. I offer a smile, but his gaze flicks down the hall, to where another man is approaching.

"Hey," the younger guy says. He has honey-brown hair and blue eyes, like Jackson's.

"Hey," Jackson replies, waving a hand my way. "Remi, this is Ash, our new cook-slash-keeper."

Remi shakes his head, tapping his chin just below his mouth, and Jackson nods, his hands starting to fly in purposeful motions. I watch, surprised, as he signs to his brother in what appears to be fluent ASL. Halfway through, Jackson speaks up.

"Ash, this is my brother Remington. He's Deaf, and he's not wearing the sound processor for his cochlear implant, so he can't hear you."

Remi holds up his hand in a clear hello. I mirror the gesture, adding my own "Hello" and a smile.

Remi signs something, and Jackson interprets for me. "He says, ‘I'm excited to try your food. I'm sick of Jackson's spaghetti.'"

Jackson sends a gesture Remi's way, and based on Remi's responding laugh, I'm guessing it was impolite.

"Well, I'm happy to cook for you," I say. "Any favorite foods?"

Remi watches his brother's hands before looking at me and saying himself, "Biscuits."

I huff a laugh. "Biscuits. You got it."

Remi signs something else to Jackson, and the older man nods, adding his own, "Yeah, catch you later."

Remi gives me a wave, which I return, and then he jogs up the stairs to the second floor.

"He's quite a bit younger than you," I note.

Jackson rolls his eyes. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder. And he's twenty-eight. Hardly a kid anymore."

Still, I'd put Jackson closer to forty. That's a decent gap.

"I need to check on a few things before lunch," Jackson says, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. "Can I leave you on your own?"

"You're going to throw me to the wolves on my first day here?" I ask, grinning. "What if I mess up lunch?"

"I think you can handle it," he mutters.

I don't know if he truly has that much faith in me or if it's a test of some sort, but I hop on the chance, eager to get started.

"Yep, I got this," I tell him, heading past into the kitchen. The time on the stove says ten, which gives me a good hour to figure out a meal.

I'm looking through the old recipe book when I feel Jackson's presence behind me. I glance over my shoulder, finding him standing in the doorway, a serious expression on his face.

"You need help, you tell me," he says simply.

My lips twitch into a smile. "Will do, boss."

Jackson frowns for a beat, but then he nods and turns from the doorway. His heavy boots tread through the house before the sound of the front door opening and closing reaches my ears.

I think grumpy Jackson Darling might just have a heart of gold.

"I'm so fucked," I say to myself, spotting a recipe for buttermilk biscuits. "Ah. Bingo."

I can hear people laughing inside the house before I can see them. Lunch is already spread out on the long dining room table, ready to go, so I grab the two pitchers of lemonade I made up and head that way.

Inside the dining room, there's a door that leads directly out onto the porch. It's open now, and a couple individuals are trailing in. A few others are already seated, excited expressions on their faces. They notice me quickly.

"Hey," I say, giving the men and lone woman a smile. "I'm Ash. The new guy."

"Well, shit," one of the men says. He takes off his cowboy hat as he pulls out a chair. "I didn't even know we had a new guy. What's all this?"

I set the lemonade down as I answer him. "The soup is chicken pot pie. I didn't have time to make a real pot pie, so that's what the biscuits are for. It's my first day. Cut me some slack." There are a few chuckles at that, and I grin, going on. "There's also strawberry poppy seed salad, sweet potato fries, and ham sandwiches. I honestly didn't know how much twenty people would eat. I might've gone overboard."

"Son," an older man says, pouring himself a glass of lemonade, "I think you've done just right."

"This looks great," the woman adds, giving me a smile. "And shit . Here come the rest of the vultures."

She hastily ladles herself a bowl of soup as several more people come through the door, all of them stomping their boots on the porch before stepping into the dining room. No one, I notice, takes off their footwear.

"Is Ira here?" I ask, looking around at the eclectic mix of young and old. I notice Hank, the elder Mr. Darling, come through the house-side entrance to the dining room.

"That's me," one of the older gentlemen says. I'd estimate him to be around fifty.

"The biscuits in the blue bowl are gluten-free," I let him know. "There's no flour in the soup, so you should be all set there."

His eyes widen. "Well, dang. Thanks for that."

"No problem," I say, stepping back as the plates, bowls, and silverware at the end of the table are picked up. The ranchers start dishing up their food, and a rush of warmth fills my chest as I watch them.

"So, uh," one of the newer arrivals says. "Who are you?"

I bark a laugh and reintroduce myself. The occupants of the table go around, doing the same, but I know it'll take more than one introduction for me to remember everyone's names. As I'm stepping back into the kitchen, figuring I'd better start cleaning up, my skin prickles with awareness.

"Checking to make sure I didn't burn the place down?" I ask, smiling to myself as I wipe flour off the counter into my hand.

"Just checking," Jackson answers, his voice rumbling through the space between us.

"Did you eat yet?" I ask.

"Not yet. Did you?"

"Sampled as I went," I admit.

He gives a gruff hum. "Once lunch is done, you should take some time to unpack. It's up to you when you wanna fit in your time off, but today, take the afternoon."

"Got it," I tell him, tossing a smile his way. His brusque delivery doesn't fool me one bit. He's not the hardass he pretends to be.

He nods but hesitates at the doorway.

"Something else?" I ask.

"No. Just…smells good," he practically grunts. And then he's off, disappearing from sight to join the lunch crowd.

" Sooo much trouble," I mutter under my breath.

It only takes forty-five minutes for the table to get picked clean. I start collecting empty dishes as the ranchers head back to work, many of them thanking me, a few others patting their bellies before shoving their cowboy hats atop their heads. A gentle breeze blows in the door as they leave.

"Was it enough food?" I ask Hank, the only person left.

"Oh, it was plenty," he tells me, nursing his glass of lemonade. "Dang good, too. They couldn't stop eating, otherwise we'd have more leftovers."

"I'm glad everyone enjoyed it," I tell him honestly, nodding to Remi, who walks in and snags a biscuit.

The younger Darling says a quick, "Thanks," before he's gone.

"You don't have professional experience?" Hank asks me, seemingly in no hurry to get on with his day.

"None. I thought about going to culinary school at one point, but it just never happened. Went a different route instead."

"Well," he says, a little smile on his face. "I think we lucked out, snagging you."

I huff a laugh, pleased. "Thanks, Hank. I think I lucked out, too."

The older man hums at that, reminding me of the absent Jackson. I finish stacking plates before heading back into the kitchen. When there's a thunk against the doorframe, I jump and look over.

"Shit, did I miss it?" a new face asks. He has the Darling-blue eyes Hank passed to his sons but darker hair than Jackson's. He looks a little younger, too, though not by much.

"Lunch? Yeah, you did, but I think there are a few scraps left."

"Thanks," the guy says, taking a step away before backpedaling. He comes fully into the kitchen and holds out a hand. "Colton."

"Ash," I tell him.

"Welcome, man. Shit, I bet my brother loves you." Before I can ask which brother? he lets my hand go and adds, "Sorry to run. It's just been a day, and I'm fucking hungry, you know?"

"Go," I tell him, huffing a laugh.

He does, giving me a quick salute as he leaves the kitchen. I stand there a moment longer.

Which brother?

And good grief, are all the Darling men gifted with damn fine genes?

Shaking my head, I get back to work. It's only a moment later when I hear, "Ah hell, this is good." I smile, glad Colton is enjoying his food.

Once the kitchen has been put back to rights, I head upstairs to unpack. My bedroom overlooks the west end of the property, where the mountains sit in the distance. I can see a few cowboys —or ranchers, whatever the difference is—riding amongst the cattle. It's picturesque, almost too stunning for words.

After unpacking my measly bags, I plunk onto the edge of my bed and pick up my phone. Virginia answers quickly, the background of the call quiet, telling me she's likely not at work yet.

"Hey, baby boy," she greets. "How was your first day at the new job?"

"Ginnie," I say slowly, standing back up and heading over to the window. I crank it open, inhaling deeply and feeling the breeze dance across my cheeks. "Have I got a story to tell you."