Rough Stock (Lost Creek Rodeo #3) - Heather B. Moore Page 0,21
show me some of your cooking magic. I’m here to learn.”
“I don’t know about magic,” Silvia said, wiping at her eyes. “Like I said, sometimes I should keep my mouth shut.”
Glory set her hands on her hips. “Never.”
Silvia took a deep, stuttering breath. “All right. Well, how about you start on the seasoning for the corn on the cob?”
Glory pulled a face. “The what?”
Silvia laughed. “You’ll love it. We need celery salt, onion salt, black pepper, oregano, and bacon bits.”
Glory set to work, muttering to herself as to why they couldn’t just use Season-All like regular folk.
Silvia smiled at she assembled ingredients for homemade barbeque sauce and let all the flavors marinate together. Then she began chopping veggies for fresh salsa while Glory was instructed to fry up corn tortillas. The chicken would need to be started in about an hour—not too early, since Silvia wanted it perfect.
She grabbed a white onion and was beginning to chop when someone knocked at the back kitchen door.
Strange to have someone knock; the women came and went as they wished. Although Silvia suspected no one would come into the kitchen unless they wanted to be roped into helping.
“Can you get that?” Glory said. “I’m up to my elbows in frying grease here. Why we need homemade tortilla chips is beyond me. There’s a giant bag in the pantry—”
Silvia brushed off her hands and opened the back door as Glory continued to prattle. It wasn’t any of the women, or Kellie, or even one of the ranch hands that she’d seen about the property.
No.
It was a cowboy. A bull rider, to be exact.
Westin was taller than she remembered, or maybe it was because she was barefoot. He was still wearing that old cowboy hat, and he had on a fitted t-shirt, jeans, and yep, those boots.
“Hi, um, can I help you?” Why did she feel flustered? He was probably looking for Kellie.
“How are you?” he asked, his voice a rumble, his eyes on her.
“Good. How are you?”
His mouth curved, and she almost smiled, too, at their stilted formality.
“Do you need Kellie?” How were his eyes so impossibly dark green? And it was obvious he’d showered, but not shaved.
“No. I’m here to help.”
Silvia wasn’t sure she understood what he was referring to. “Help?”
“With dinner.” Westin looked past her into the kitchen.
“Come on in, hon,” Glory said in a cheerful voice. “We can use all the help we can get. Silvia here is demanding homemade this and homemade that.”
“We’re fine,” Silvia said. “We don’t need—”
Westin walked right past her. Apparently listening to Glory. Silvia caught the scent of clean soap.
“Homemade tortillas? Wow.”
Silvia wavered between rolling her eyes or allowing a little pride to work its way in. She joined them in the kitchen, sure some rule was being broken. If Kellie complained, then Silvia could say that Glory had invited him.
Might as well put the cowboy to work now that he was here. “Wanna cut the onions or make guac?” Silvia asked.
Westin took off his hat and scrubbed a hand through his short hair. Then he hung up his hat on a peg by the door that Silvia hadn’t even noticed.
“Well, seeing as I’m allergic to onions, I guess I’ll make the guac.”
“You’re allergic?” Glory asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I’ll be . . . Does your throat swell up, or you break out in hives all over?” Glory asked.
Westin chuckled. “Not exactly. I just cry like a baby.”
Glory laughed, and Silvia smirked.
At least he had a creative way to get out of chopping onions.
“The avocados are there. You can peel and mash them. The limes are on the counter. You’ll want about three.”
Westin picked up an avocado and started to dig his thumbnail into the tough skin.
“Not like that,” Silvia said. “Use a paring knife.”
Westin looked up from his futile peeling. “A what knife?”
“Here.” Silvia snatched the small paring knife from the knife block and handed it over, handle first.
Westin made a cut in the avocado, then began to peel. Once he had several peeled, he seemed to be stumped again.
Silvia scooped the chopped onions into a bowl, then started on chopping cilantro.
“Cut them in half and pop out the core pit,” she said. “Once you have the avocado mashed, squeeze lime juice in to keep it from browning and to pull out the flavor. I’m almost done with the veggies.”
Westin looked at the cutting board. “Lettuce?”
She couldn’t tell if he was kidding. “Cilantro.”
His brow furrowed, and she still wasn’t sure if he was this clueless. She returned