A Holiday Romance

The cowboy tradition is alive and well in the American Southwest. Visit the authentic frontier town, Rawhide, at Wildhorse Pass.

July 22

Dear Jay,

Well, your big sister made it through her first full day of vacation relatively intact, except for sweating away about five pounds in the heat and suffering a bruised ego after a fall—my first attempt at horseback riding. It’s not as easy as it looks to “cowboy up.” Tomorrow they’re setting me loose in the desert for a nature hike. Watch out, cacti and scorpions!

XOXO,

Alice

CHAPTER FOUR

“I NCOMPETENTS .” Chef Rodrigo Chavez’s florid face was the same pinkish-purple as the sugar flower on the tip of his finger. “I am surrounded by incompetents!”

The resort’s catering manager and wedding coordinator exchanged wary looks. Stumbling over each other’s words, they tried to salve the chef’s legendary temper, which was matched in size only by his towering ego.

A flick of his meaty hand sent the offending sugar flower zinging past the manager’s head. It splatted against the kitchen wall. “Puce!” he roared. “I could vomit out a better wedding cake than the tripe you’re giving me.”

Behind him stood two of his staff, eyes downcast, looking defeated in their aprons and white hats. On the steel surface before them was the product of countless hours of work—the various layers and decorations that would become a wedding cake. Trays of meticulously handmade sugar flowers had been laid out in preparation for the final assembly.

“Puce!” Chavez repeatedly smashed the fragile creations, flattening them to pancakes. “I ask for lavender and these idiots insult me with puce. ”

The chef failed to notice that Kyle, summoned by the catering manager, had arrived through the secondary service entrance.

For once, Kyle had been grateful for the interruption. He’d had trouble concentrating on his work. Two nights in a row now—almost a habit. Dealing with a temperamental chef was a welcome distraction from the idea that he might possibly not be as disciplined as he’d always believed.

“Chef Chavez,” he said.

Down went the man’s fist. Bam. Bam. Bam. Trays rattled as they knocked together. One, filled with arched stems of sugar orchids, tipped over the edge of the counter and crashed to the floor. Everyone but Chavez flinched. The man was as oblivious as a toddler in a tantrum.

Kyle raised his voice. “Chavez.”

“Who…” The chef swung around, jowls swaying. Seeing Kyle, he snorted and scooped up one of the iced layers of cakes.

The wedding coordinator covered her eyes.

Kyle had hoped to save the situation; now he saw there was only one way to go. Quick, clean and direct.

“Chef Chavez,” he said, “you’re fired.”

“Fired? Rodrigo Chavez?” the chef sputtered. The cake in his fingers teetered wildly. “I am winner of the Soledad Ecole gold medal two years running. You can’t even think of firing me.”