Lead Me Home by Vicki Lewis Thompson

planning the next day’s lunch menu, as he’d promised the cowhands he would do. It was important, after all, because planning successful menus would guarantee him the right to come back to see Aurelia every night. Next time he’d bring more than one condom.
    “Poulet demi-deuil.” Aurelia pointed to the picture in the cookbook. “It means—”
    “I know. Chicken in partial mourning. It’s the partial mourning that’s going to get you into trouble. Even if you can get the black truffles—”
    “I can. I’ve found a gourmet market in Jackson that has all sorts of great ingredients.”
    “But if you tuck those black truffles under the skin of the roasted chicken like the recipe says, every cowboy in the room, with the possible exception of Pete, who’s fairly sophisticated, will think that chicken has mange. Or it’s somehow decaying and you haven’t noticed.”
    “I can tell them it’s only black truffles. And they’ll learn something new.”
    “Aurelia, there are certain colors that don’t work with your average cowboy when it comes to food. Black is one of them. When he sees black food, he assumes it’s either burnt or it’s gone bad. It’s a mind-set that you’ll have trouble changing.”
    Her beautiful mouth formed the cutest little pout. If he left his chair and went over there, he could get rid of that pout and have a great time doing it. But they wouldn’t get the menu planned, and after they’d kissed and carried on, all without any satisfaction for him because he was without a second condom, she might go ahead with the chicken in partial mourning that she was so set on.
    Then he’d get slammed for not being able to influence her food choices. If he couldn’t do that, people might question what business he had coming up here every night, and the whole program would be in jeopardy. So he couldn’t leave his chair and kiss away her pout.
    “Use regular mushrooms instead of the black truffles and then you’ll be okay,” he said. “Oh, and where it tells you to puree all the veggies and pour them on the platter? Don’t puree the veggies. The guys will think you’re giving them baby food.”
    Aurelia propped her chin on her fist and stared at him. “Then it’s not the same dish.”
    “No, but it’s not fried chicken and potato salad, either.”
    “You’re no fun, Matthew.”
    He smiled at her. “That isn’t what you said in the laundry room.”
    Her cheeks turned pink. “Okay, you’re fun in that respect, but when it comes to cooking, you’re a total wet blanket.”
    “It’s my job.”
    “I think they’d be fascinated by the black truffles.”
    “Sure they would, as long as you didn’t serve them for lunch. When a man’s been mucking out stalls all morning, it’s best not to startle him with what’s on his plate for lunch. He wants something he recognizes, and black truffles don’t qualify.”
    “Okay, okay!” She held up her hands in surrender. “I’ll make it with regular mushrooms and I won’t puree the veggies. I can see your point about that part. A grown man doesn’t want his veggies put through a blender as if he has no teeth to chew with.”
    “Now you’re getting the idea. By the way, will the boys be eating dinner here tomorrow night?”
    “Yes.”
    “What are you going to serve them?” Matthew figured he might as well cover that base while he was at it.
    “Bifteck marchand de vin.”
    “I get the wine and steak part of that, but what’s the marchand in it?”
    “It’s shallot-red-wine sauce.”
    “Mmm.” Matthew could almost taste it. “Wish I could have some of that tomorrow night.”
    “Come on up. I’m sure Sarah wouldn’t care, and the boys would love it.”
    He considered that for a moment. “I think I’d better eat down at the bunkhouse. The guys like the fact that I’m hanging out down there, and if I started coming up here to eat dinner, I don’t know how that would go over. But I wouldn’t object if you saved me a little