Read Online Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) by Leslie Budewitz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leslie Budewitz
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a lovely chestnut mare named Ribbons, who came to the split rail fence at the sound of my voice and seemed to enjoy our friendship as much as I did.
In the tack room, I gathered her saddle, blanket, and other gear. No sign of Kim. She’d canceled once or twice before because of work. She was probably tied up with the investigation. But no one minded if I rode out on my own.
I was adjusting Ribbons’s bridle when Gib Knox strode into the corral, summoning a tall Appaloosa named Kintla with a whistle. Mostly black with a speckled face and a black-and-white blanket pattern across the hips, the broad-shouldered Appie radiated power, though I knew he was a sweetheart.
“You ride?” I said.
“Why else do you think I came to Montana? For the food?”
Really, when was the man serious and when was he teasing?
“Saw your mug on the wall,” he continued, stroking the Appaloosa tenderly. “Never figured you for a Rodeo Queen.”
“It was kind of a fluke.” Senior year, I’d gotten lucky in a few barrel races and outscored Kim by enough to take the title that should have been hers. Since my horse had been stabled here, the head wrangler hung my picture on the wall in the tack room. The constant reminder would have bothered me if the tables had been turned, but Kim never said a thing.
“You waiting for someone?” he said. “Or can I tag along? I bet you know these trails by heart.”
“Saddle up,” I said.
For a big man, Gib was a surprisingly good rider, flexing easily with Kintla’s moves. And he was surprisingly decent company. The trail took off up a steep slope, switching back and forth through dense woods—pine, fir, larch, and the occasional white paper birch, its golden leaves rippling in the slight breeze we made. Eventually, the trail broke out into a flat-rock vista overlooking the lake. We paused, drinking in the view.
“This may be the most genuinely beautiful place I’ve ever been,” he said. “You folks don’t know what you have up here.”
“Sure we do,” I said, turning the mare back to the trail. “Why do you think we live here? There’s fresh water for the horses a little farther on.”
The stream rolled down the mountain into a perfect pool. We dismounted and let the horses drink. I yanked a water bottle out of my saddle bag and Gib did the same.
“So you knew Drew and Tara in L.A.?” I perched on a giant boulder.
He nodded, taking a long draw from his bottle. “We cooked together for Berndt King, in his original restaurant. Before King went corporate and sold his name to frozen food makers and slapped it on overpriced appliances.”
“Must be nice to reconnect.”
His harsh laugh startled Ribbons, who gazed around, then lowered her head back to the water.
“How the mighty have fallen, from the King’s favored son to this charming outpost. God knows why he’s so content here—lost all his ambition. Tara, on the other hand, has drive to spare. She’s pushing me to hire Pete permanently.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “And I just might.”
Ah. So was that what Tara had been telling Drew this morning, in the parking lot?
Not my business then or now. I kept one eye on the horses and changed the subject. “Where’d you learn to ride?”
He crouched, rinsed one hand in the pool, and ran it over his forehead. Even in August, the water was refreshingly cool.
“My father was a self-made snob. Riding was one of the things he insisted people of our social class should know how to do. About the only one I liked—and the only thing I liked that he ever approved of.”
That explained his English seat, quite different from our cowboy ways. “But you’re a big success. First as a chef, and then on TV.”
He stood, giving me a wry smile. “Poor bastard didn’t live to see me on TV. Committed suicide when the banking regulators came after him. But no, he wouldn’t have been impressed. ‘Still in a kitchen,’ he’d have said.”
When women cook, it’s
In the tack room, I gathered her saddle, blanket, and other gear. No sign of Kim. She’d canceled once or twice before because of work. She was probably tied up with the investigation. But no one minded if I rode out on my own.
I was adjusting Ribbons’s bridle when Gib Knox strode into the corral, summoning a tall Appaloosa named Kintla with a whistle. Mostly black with a speckled face and a black-and-white blanket pattern across the hips, the broad-shouldered Appie radiated power, though I knew he was a sweetheart.
“You ride?” I said.
“Why else do you think I came to Montana? For the food?”
Really, when was the man serious and when was he teasing?
“Saw your mug on the wall,” he continued, stroking the Appaloosa tenderly. “Never figured you for a Rodeo Queen.”
“It was kind of a fluke.” Senior year, I’d gotten lucky in a few barrel races and outscored Kim by enough to take the title that should have been hers. Since my horse had been stabled here, the head wrangler hung my picture on the wall in the tack room. The constant reminder would have bothered me if the tables had been turned, but Kim never said a thing.
“You waiting for someone?” he said. “Or can I tag along? I bet you know these trails by heart.”
“Saddle up,” I said.
For a big man, Gib was a surprisingly good rider, flexing easily with Kintla’s moves. And he was surprisingly decent company. The trail took off up a steep slope, switching back and forth through dense woods—pine, fir, larch, and the occasional white paper birch, its golden leaves rippling in the slight breeze we made. Eventually, the trail broke out into a flat-rock vista overlooking the lake. We paused, drinking in the view.
“This may be the most genuinely beautiful place I’ve ever been,” he said. “You folks don’t know what you have up here.”
“Sure we do,” I said, turning the mare back to the trail. “Why do you think we live here? There’s fresh water for the horses a little farther on.”
The stream rolled down the mountain into a perfect pool. We dismounted and let the horses drink. I yanked a water bottle out of my saddle bag and Gib did the same.
“So you knew Drew and Tara in L.A.?” I perched on a giant boulder.
He nodded, taking a long draw from his bottle. “We cooked together for Berndt King, in his original restaurant. Before King went corporate and sold his name to frozen food makers and slapped it on overpriced appliances.”
“Must be nice to reconnect.”
His harsh laugh startled Ribbons, who gazed around, then lowered her head back to the water.
“How the mighty have fallen, from the King’s favored son to this charming outpost. God knows why he’s so content here—lost all his ambition. Tara, on the other hand, has drive to spare. She’s pushing me to hire Pete permanently.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “And I just might.”
Ah. So was that what Tara had been telling Drew this morning, in the parking lot?
Not my business then or now. I kept one eye on the horses and changed the subject. “Where’d you learn to ride?”
He crouched, rinsed one hand in the pool, and ran it over his forehead. Even in August, the water was refreshingly cool.
“My father was a self-made snob. Riding was one of the things he insisted people of our social class should know how to do. About the only one I liked—and the only thing I liked that he ever approved of.”
That explained his English seat, quite different from our cowboy ways. “But you’re a big success. First as a chef, and then on TV.”
He stood, giving me a wry smile. “Poor bastard didn’t live to see me on TV. Committed suicide when the banking regulators came after him. But no, he wouldn’t have been impressed. ‘Still in a kitchen,’ he’d have said.”
When women cook, it’s
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