The Rebel Read Free Page B

the dining room door, George had stopped with the cookie halfway on a return trip to his mouth. They were obviously waiting for her to explode.
    She looked at the chicken and then back at the man who by now had picked up a long knife and was poised over the carcass. With that tool in his hand, he was all business.
    â€œYou’re a cook?” she asked.
    â€œNo, a blacksmith.”
    As she stared up at him, the challenge in those hazel eyes was as clear as the bind she was in.
    She had a choice. Rely on her skills, which had already resulted in the incineration of a sizable hunk of protein. Or take a gamble on this stranger and his flashy set of knives.
    â€œTwo parties of two. One six top,” she said briskly.
    â€œOkay, here’s what I’m going to need.” He looked over at her sister and when he spoke next, his voice was back to being gentle. “Angel, honey, I need you to take one of those pots over there and put it on the gas with two cups of water in it.”
    Joy leaped into service.
    â€œGeorge, is that your name?” the man asked. George nodded, happier now that the tension had dispersed and his cookie was finished. “I want you to pick up that head of lettuce and run it under the cold water, stroking each leaf like it was a cat. You got it?”
    George beamed and started on his job. By this time, Joy had filled the pot and put it on a burner.
    The stranger started in with the chicken, peeling off the skin with deft movements of his fingers and the knife. He worked with such speed and confidence, she was momentarily captivated.
    â€œNow, Angel—” back with the soft voice “—I want you to bring me a pound of butter, some cream, three eggs and all the curry powder you can find. And do you have any frozen vegetables?”
    Frankie cut in, feeling ignored. “We’ve got fresh Brussels sprouts, broccoli—”
    â€œAngel, I need something small. Peas? Cubed carrots?”
    â€œWe’ve got corn, I think,” Joy said enthusiastically.
    â€œGood. Bring it over and get some twine.”
    Frankie stepped back, feeling more panicked now than when things were disorganized and she had no options.
    She should be doing something, she thought.
    George came back with the lettuce and Frankie was impressed. Chuck, the former cook, had never been able to get him to do anything right, but here he was with perfectly cleaned romaine leaves.
    â€œGood job, George, that’s perfect.” The stranger handed George a knife. “Now cut it up in strips as wide as your thumb. But do not use your thumb to measure. It doesn’t have to be exact. Do it across from me so I can watch you, okay?”
    Joy came up to him with the bag of corn and the twine. She was smiling, so eager to please. “Do I put the corn in the water?”
    â€œNo.” He lifted his left leg. “Tie it onto my ankle. The damn thing’s killing me.”

CHAPTER TWO
    L ESS THAN TEN MINUTES LATER, Frankie took out the salads. They had a dressing on them that the man had whipped up out of some spices, olive oil and lemon juice. George, bless his heart, had cut up the crisp lettuce perfectly and had triumphed with the strips of red, yellow and orange peppers, as well.
    By this time, the local diners had left because they had perfectly good kitchens of their own to go home to, but the B & B’s guests were like zoo animals they were so hungry. She had no idea what the stuff tasted like, but figured the Littles and the other couple were so hypoglycemic they probably wouldn’t have cared if she’d served them dog food.
    After she put the plates down in front of them, the Littles glared at her as they stabbed at the salad.
    â€œGlad you finally got around to it,” Mr. Little snapped. “What were you doing, growing the leaves back there?”
    She gave him and his anemic, stressed-out wife a frozen smile, glad she hadn’t sent George or Joy out. She