These were the neighbors in Wildrose Valley.
Taylor offered the new woman the dessert tray.
“I already had one, thank you.” This lady was impatient, determined to speak her piece.
Everyone in the group had either taken cheesecake or refused. Taylor was supposed to move on. So she turned away and pretended to be offering her tray to the same group as before.
“Since Valerie shot Macalister with the BB gun, we have been absolute freaks about keeping guns in the safe. But this was a brand-new Glock I had bought for Peter for Christmas. I hid it in the—”
“Excuse me, could I have one of those?”
It took a minute for Taylor to register that the tall woman to her left was hovering, waiting for dessert.
“Of course!” Taylor handed her a napkin, and waited for her to make her choice from among all the identical desserts.
“These are low calorie, right?” The woman winked. She was tall, blond, in her forties, with a pleasant expression.
“… finally thought it was me … I’m so absentminded … had to ask … everyone denied…”
Taylor smiled. “Calories are relative, aren’t they?”
“They’re my relatives, for sure. At least, they hang around like they are!” The woman laughed and stroked one hand down her hip.
Taylor laughed, too, and wished this woman would shut up and move off. She could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation behind her.
“… but one box of the bullets was still there, so I wasn’t mistaken!”
Murmurs of dismay rose from the group.
The newest cheesecake-desiring woman swung to face them. “What are you talking about? Carolyn, is there something missing from your house? Because Cissie swears she did not take my screwdriver or the scissors.”
My God. That was Susan Renner. Taylor had been so intent on the conversation behind her, she hadn’t recognized …
She glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.
Georg stood there, arms crossed, glaring at her.
She glided away, offering her cheesecake bites until the tray was clear.
By the time the party was winding down, voices had grown loud and stories expansive, Mr. and Mrs. Brothers had raised over half a million dollars for next year’s rodeo scholarships, and Taylor’s feet and back hurt.
At a signal from Georg, she made her way back to the kitchen.
Servers were collapsing in chairs around the table.
Taylor started to take a seat next to Jasmine, a vivacious, pretty young blonde, but Jasmine turned her shoulder and said to the girl beside her, “Georg is too nice. He is always picking up the trash.”
Taylor jerked back. Jasmine was talking about her . Which shouldn’t matter. This kid looked like she just got out of high school. The trouble was, Taylor hurt like a teenager, reborn into a world that didn’t understand her, where only the fittest survived—and she didn’t yet know if she was one of those fittest.
Then she remembered who she was, how successful she had been with her business, that she had survived a murder attempt and the harshest of conditions … and she seated herself next to Jasmine and smiled. She could take this kid out with one hand tied behind her back. She needed to remember that. The kid needed to realize it.
Sarah shouted to the assembled staff, “Quiet! Georg wishes to speak.”
A hush fell, and the chefs moved around the table.
Georg stepped into the center and sadly shook his head. “You all did as well as can be expected.” He pointed his finger at them, one at a time. “But next week, we have a cocktail party for a thousand on Friday, and on Saturday, a sit-down dinner for two hundred. The cooks must be brilliant.” His gaze lingered meaningfully on Taylor. “The servers must be swift and unobtrusive.”
She looked down.
He continued, “Next week, get a good night’s rest before work, and prepare to shine!”
Heads nodded.
Taylor nodded.
“Sarah will divide the leftovers among anyone who wants them,” he said.
Taylor almost jumped for
Taylor offered the new woman the dessert tray.
“I already had one, thank you.” This lady was impatient, determined to speak her piece.
Everyone in the group had either taken cheesecake or refused. Taylor was supposed to move on. So she turned away and pretended to be offering her tray to the same group as before.
“Since Valerie shot Macalister with the BB gun, we have been absolute freaks about keeping guns in the safe. But this was a brand-new Glock I had bought for Peter for Christmas. I hid it in the—”
“Excuse me, could I have one of those?”
It took a minute for Taylor to register that the tall woman to her left was hovering, waiting for dessert.
“Of course!” Taylor handed her a napkin, and waited for her to make her choice from among all the identical desserts.
“These are low calorie, right?” The woman winked. She was tall, blond, in her forties, with a pleasant expression.
“… finally thought it was me … I’m so absentminded … had to ask … everyone denied…”
Taylor smiled. “Calories are relative, aren’t they?”
“They’re my relatives, for sure. At least, they hang around like they are!” The woman laughed and stroked one hand down her hip.
Taylor laughed, too, and wished this woman would shut up and move off. She could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation behind her.
“… but one box of the bullets was still there, so I wasn’t mistaken!”
Murmurs of dismay rose from the group.
The newest cheesecake-desiring woman swung to face them. “What are you talking about? Carolyn, is there something missing from your house? Because Cissie swears she did not take my screwdriver or the scissors.”
My God. That was Susan Renner. Taylor had been so intent on the conversation behind her, she hadn’t recognized …
She glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.
Georg stood there, arms crossed, glaring at her.
She glided away, offering her cheesecake bites until the tray was clear.
By the time the party was winding down, voices had grown loud and stories expansive, Mr. and Mrs. Brothers had raised over half a million dollars for next year’s rodeo scholarships, and Taylor’s feet and back hurt.
At a signal from Georg, she made her way back to the kitchen.
Servers were collapsing in chairs around the table.
Taylor started to take a seat next to Jasmine, a vivacious, pretty young blonde, but Jasmine turned her shoulder and said to the girl beside her, “Georg is too nice. He is always picking up the trash.”
Taylor jerked back. Jasmine was talking about her . Which shouldn’t matter. This kid looked like she just got out of high school. The trouble was, Taylor hurt like a teenager, reborn into a world that didn’t understand her, where only the fittest survived—and she didn’t yet know if she was one of those fittest.
Then she remembered who she was, how successful she had been with her business, that she had survived a murder attempt and the harshest of conditions … and she seated herself next to Jasmine and smiled. She could take this kid out with one hand tied behind her back. She needed to remember that. The kid needed to realize it.
Sarah shouted to the assembled staff, “Quiet! Georg wishes to speak.”
A hush fell, and the chefs moved around the table.
Georg stepped into the center and sadly shook his head. “You all did as well as can be expected.” He pointed his finger at them, one at a time. “But next week, we have a cocktail party for a thousand on Friday, and on Saturday, a sit-down dinner for two hundred. The cooks must be brilliant.” His gaze lingered meaningfully on Taylor. “The servers must be swift and unobtrusive.”
She looked down.
He continued, “Next week, get a good night’s rest before work, and prepare to shine!”
Heads nodded.
Taylor nodded.
“Sarah will divide the leftovers among anyone who wants them,” he said.
Taylor almost jumped for
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