As I walk away from the barn, my fists are balled and the blood is pounding in my veins, but I revel in my disobedience. It felt invigorating to be able to threaten someone with the force of the law like that, have them quake in their boots with fear, and immediately back down. What must it be like to have that kind of power for real? No wonder Tamara is such a bitch.

As I get to the house, my anger turns toward Lars. That will teach him for setting me up with a complete douchebag. I walk around the side of the house and go in through my patio door into my living quarters. I have a quick shower, change into clean clothes, and go into the kitchen. Emma Jean is just beginning to gather the ingredients for dinner.

“Need help?” I ask her. She looks surprised to see me.

“What are you doing back so early? Aren’t you supposed to be having a riding lesson?” she asks with a frown.

“Nope. I’m done for the day. I don’t have anything to do but lend you a hand.” And it’s true. I’ve already called Jesse and given her a brief synopsis of the day’s events. During my lunch break, I contacted Mrs. Carter and begged her to please help me by paying my dad’s hospital bill from what I’ve already earned. She agreed to do it in the morning. I’ve also called hospice to check that my dad’s condition is stable. It is. So, I truly have nothing else to do with my time.

“Do you know how to cook?” Emma Jean asks.

“Not a clue,” I admit with a big grin. “But I wouldn’t mind learning from you. You’re easily the most amazing cook I know.”

Emma Jean preens at the compliment. She looks at the ingredients laid out on the counter and then back at me. “Well, then. Neither my son nor daughter ever wanted to learn to cook, and their ankle biters are too young to teach, so you can be my girl for the evening.”

“I would love to.” A warm sensation fills my stomach. My life would be perfect if I could live here forever on this ranch with her.

“I’m making stuffed shells. Have you ever had ‘em?” she asks, tossing me a box full of giant pasta shells. I catch them midair and study the box curiously.

“I think I’ve eaten them before,” I reply slowly. “But it may have been spaghetti and shells.”

“There is no mixing up the two. If you’ve had ‘em, you’d know. There’s nothing like stuffed shells and pork chops if you know what you’re doing.” She gives me a big smile. “And I’ve been known to make the best stuffed shells this side of Montana if I do say so myself.” She fills a pan three-fourths full with water. Waving me away, she carries it to the stove, sets it down, and turns the knob to the highest setting. Blue flames spring to life.

“I hope I don’t ruin anything.”

“Don’t you worry, Poppet,” she says, tipping salt into the water and covering the pan with a lid. “They’ll never notice anyway. They come in so hungry they’ll quite happily eat the north end of a south bound bear.”

I smile at the description, but there is no way that is true. She’s trying to make out they’ll eat a scabby donkey, but in the time I’ve been here, everything I’ve tasted has been superb. Better than anything I’ve ever had in Chicago. I licked the plate for Pete’s sake.

“Can I dump these in now?” I ask, shaking the box of pasta.

She gives me a sideways glance. “Does that water look like it is boiling yet?”

I shake my head.

“There’s your answer.”

“Right. The water has to be boiling to soften pasta?”

She looks at me curiously. “Haven’t you ever cooked ramen noodles before, child?”

“I stick them in the microwave. Four minutes, max,” I say with a grin.

“Oh, Lord help your soul,” Emma Jean prays. “Then again, I suppose with your lifestyle there’s not much call for cooking. You’re probably dining in them fancy restaurants most of the time.”

I nod, say a silent sorry for the lie, and don’t tell her that far from fancy restaurants, my dad and I lived almost entirely on takeout and frozen dinners. Cooking wasn’t our thing. My mom died when I was so young that I have no memory of her at all. All I have are photos of a smiling, fair-haired woman holding me as a baby.

Growing up, people used to look at me with sympathy. I was too proud to let them pity me, so I shrugged and told them it’s difficult to miss something you never had. But there was always something missing, and I’m forever subconsciously drawn to surrogate mother figures.

“I’ll be your new teacher, honey,” Emma Jean breaks into my thoughts. “By the time you leave this ranch, you’ll be an expert on all things culinary.”

At the tail end of her sentence, the front door opens and slams shut so hard, the decorations on the walls tremble.

Emma Jean sighs and murmurs, “Oh dear.”

“Tamara,” Lars roars.

I widen my eyes and bite my lip.

“We may have to wait until tomorrow to teach you to cook,” Emma Jean says.

What did I do this time?