slammed open her notebook, flipping to the sheet cake frosting recipe she’d perfected for Faith. Her recipe notebook was thick with cakes, cookies, and pastries of all kinds, which she’d created and mastered when she’d planned to open a restaurant with another chef who turned out to be a crook. All Grace’s hopes and dreams had flown when the man had disappeared in the night with all the funds, after Grace had made a down payment on the restaurant and co-signed for a start-up loan.
She’d been shocked, betrayed, financially devastated, and plain mad. Being all-around cook to a local ranching family wasn’t her end goal, but when Grant, the second oldest Campbell brother had suggested it, Grace leapt at the chance.
Because I need the money, Grace had told herself. She was stuck paying back the loans the con man had left her with. And something to do to take my mind off things.
Bull. She’d jumped at the offer to work here so she’d have an excuse to be near Carter Sullivan, the Campbells’ adopted brother. She’d been gone on him since high school, when he’d been the cool kid, untouchable and mysterious.
At first, Grace had thought her crush had stemmed from the fact that Carter was forbidden fruit, but over the years, she’d changed her mind. She simply liked him, everything about him—from his Houston drawl, to his long silences, to his hard face and the tatts that laced down his arms. And, all right, his hot body and great ass.
But the man never noticed her.
A thump on the kitchen door broke Grace out of her contemplation. She’d been staring at the recipe while she daydreamed about Carter and not seeing a word of it.
No one was home at the Campbell house—the family was out and about doing various things that took them to the far corners of River County, and Faith was at school. It was a fine September day, with a blue arch of sky and floating white clouds, warm but not too hot. Perfect weather.
The guys—and a few gals—who worked down in the stables rarely came to the house, calling on the phone when they needed something. But maybe they’d smelled baking and come looking for something to eat. They knew Grace liked feeding people.
Grace closed her notebook and moved across the kitchen floor to the little alcove that led to the back door.
“Grace’s Kitchen,” she sang as she flung the door open. “How can I help … ?”
Her words died as she took in the woman on the doorstep. Grace had no idea who she was, which was odd, because Grace knew everyone in Riverbend.
The woman was on the small side, about an inch shorter than Grace, and very slender. She wore stained jeans and a black, close fitting tank top with wide shoulder straps, and carried a leather jacket slung over one arm.
Her hair was short and spiky, dyed a flat, soot black. She wore no makeup on her pale face, the lines about her eyes incongruous with her apparent youth. She had lines around her mouth too, and a pinched look that Grace thought, but wasn’t sure, came from certain types of addictive drugs.
“I’m sorry,” Grace said, the politeness she’d learned at her mother’s knee coming to her rescue. “I thought it was one of the stablemen coming to ask for a sandwich. Were you looking for someone?”
The woman already made her uncomfortable, but Grace refused to let herself judge too quickly. She might simply have gotten lost on the back highways that crisscrossed Hill Country and need directions.
The woman looked Grace up and down with hard, brown eyes. Grace did not know her, yet there was something familiar about those eyes, in the shape of them and the way they narrowed.
“Who are you?” the woman snapped. Her voice was gravelly, too deep for such a young throat.
“I’m the cook,” Grace said. “I work here.” Normally, Grace was far friendlier, offering her name and her life story to anyone she met, but her instincts were telling her to be reticent.
“Carter still live here?”
“Yes,” Grace said slowly. Lying would do no good—the woman could ask anyone in town that question and get the same answer. “But he’s not here. Can I tell him who stopped by?”
“You his wife?” The woman gave her a surly stare.
“No.” Grace’s wariness grew, straining her politeness. “As I said, I cook for the family. They’re out today, but if you want to leave a message, I’ll see that they get