Wrangling the Cowboy (Circle B Ranch #3) - Kennedy Fox Page 0,6
muffins, blueberry pancakes, omelets, and scrambled eggs. For lunch, I planned fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and rolls. Dinner is beef tips with gravy and rice, corn bread and veggies on the side, and finally, triple chocolate cake for dessert.”
“I’m sure the ranch hands are gonna love that,” Dad says with a laugh. “I mean, the guests.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will.” I cut my eyes to him, but all he does is shrug. The ranch workers eating at the B&B is a tradition my uncles started in their twenties. Uncle Jackson’s to blame, but everyone knows he can’t be controlled. After realizing he was gonna keep eating and inviting half the ranch to join him, Grandma made it a perk for the workers. By the time I got out of culinary school, I knew exactly what I was signing up for when I took the job.
I cook quadruple servings each day because the workers eat like horses, and I still need enough for the guests. There usually aren’t any leftovers, so at least nothing’s wasted. Knowing people appreciate my cooking does make me feel good, but I still give them shit for liking it so much. Then again, so does Dad.
Once my mug is empty and I’m more awake, I stand and grab my keys. Mom tells me to have a good day, and Dad says he’s right behind me. I give them a wave and leave. Though the sun won’t be up for another hour, it doesn’t bother me. I enjoy getting up before the roosters and like the stillness of my surroundings.
When I arrive, the big farmhouse lights are dimmed, and I take my time turning them on. I walk into the kitchen to grind the coffee beans and then put them in the maker to brew. After I pull out the menu I’ve planned, I start pulling the ingredients from the cabinets. There’s no canned food or anything pre-made served here. It’s all mixed and made with love.
I’ve wanted to be a chef since I was a little girl, thanks to Grandma. As the fifth oldest grandkid but only the second girl, I spent a lot of time with her growing up. When I was five, she had me baking homemade blueberry muffins by memory. My childhood was different from my cousins because my biological mother passed away from cancer nine weeks after I was born. Dad had no idea I existed until I was left on the porch of the B&B. Raising a newborn wasn’t something he knew how to do, so he hired Mila to be my nanny and help him adjust to being a single parent. They fell madly in love, and the rest is history. She raised me as her own and is the only mother I’ve ever known. Soon after, they were married, and Mila got pregnant with Kenzie. Once my sister was born, our family was complete. While I wish I knew more about my biological mother at times, I’m thankful for the family I do have.
Jane and Sandra arrive right on time and immediately take over for me, then finish with the omelets, scrambled eggs, and the muffins. I restack the plates, refill the silverware bin, and then bring out the vat of coffee to the dining area. The three of us work together like a well-oiled machine. While I’m in charge, I never have to micromanage because they know what I expect them to do each day.
We have a list of a hundred different recipes we rotate in and out, and we occasionally throw in new ones to see how people like them. The ranch hands are opinionated but no one has ever hated anything we’ve served. If they have, they’ve kept their damn mouths shut and rightfully so.
We run food out to the burners, and when I look up at the clock, I’m shocked we only have five minutes until breakfast begins. It never fails to amaze me how fast time passes when I’m here.
Dad enters and gives me a grin. “Smells good.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bishop,” Sandra says. I look over my shoulder and give him a big smile.
After everything is set and ready for the breakfast rush, we immediately start making the second and third rounds of food because it’ll go fast. Soon, the dining room is full of chatter. Sandra checks every ten minutes and makes a list of what we need to replenish.
“More sausage and pancakes,” she says at the door. “And coffee, but I’ll