Victoria Chancellor - The C.e.o. & The Cookie Queen

He stated the offhand compliment with an intimate kind of amusement that made Carole blush. She hadn’t blushed in years. She thought she’d forgotten how.

“And you are…?”

“I’m sorry. I’m still excited about my daughter’s win. Carole Jacks,” she said, forcing herself to smile pleasantly when she wanted to gawk at the blue-green eyes of the stranger like a sixteen-year-old.

His expression changed from intimate interest to disbelief in a flash. Seconds later he blinked and schooled his features into a painfully benign mask. “You…I don’t suppose you have another relative by the same name. A mother or aunt, perhaps?”

The C.E.O. & The Cookie Queen

Victoria Chancellor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my daughter April and her roommate Becky for all the hours watching Trading Spaces and Survivor, for help with cookie recipes, for our great Kentucky road trip and all the other fun things we do together

After twenty-eight years in Texas, Victoria Chancellor has almost qualified for “naturalized Texan” status. She lives in a suburb of Dallas with her husband of thirty-one years, next door to her daughter, who is an English teacher. When not writing, she tends her “zoo” of four cats, a ferret, five tortoises, a wide assortment of wild birds, three visiting chickens and several families of raccoons and opossums. For more information on past and future releases, please visit her Web site at www.victoriachancellor.com.

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

844—THE BACHELOR PROJECT

884—THE BEST BLIND DATE IN TEXAS

955—THE PRINCE’S COWBOY DOUBLE*

959—THE PRINCE’S TEXAS BRIDE*

992—THE C.E.O. & THE COOKIE QUEEN

Hello. My name is Jennifer and I’m Ms. Carole’s daughter. Last summer my new dad met my mom and me at the arena where my steer, Puff, won first place. Most steers don’t get a second chance because they get barbecued, but Puff is really happy now in my aunt Cheryl’s petting zoo. He really loves this cookie my mom created. I know you’ll like it, too.

PUFFALICIOUS WHOLE WHEAT APPLESAUCE COOKIES

½ cup brown sugar

½ cup butter or margarine

¾ cup all-natural applesauce

½ cup all purpose flour

½ cup whole wheat flour

¼ cup wheat germ

½ tsp baking powder

¼ tsp baking soda

¼ salt

½ tsp ground cinnamon

½ tsp ground nutmeg

¼ tsp ground cloves

½ cup dried cranberries (or substitute raisins)

½ cup chopped walnuts (optional)

Preheat oven to 375°F. Spray baking sheet with nonstick spray. In a bowl cream together butter or margarine and sugar. Strain applesauce if there is excessive liquid. Beat in applesauce. Sift in flour and other dry ingredients. Stir to blend thoroughly. Fold in cranberries or raisins and walnuts. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto baking sheet, spacing cookies approximately two inches apart. Bake for 8–10 minutes until golden brown. Transfer to wire rack to cool. Makes approximately 36 cookies.

Note: Make two batches if you are feeding them to a hungry steer!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Greg gripped the metal fence, resisting the urge to step backward as a wild-eyed black-and-white calf ran right at him. Following closely on the poor animal’s heels, charged an evil-eyed horse and determined rider. Dirt sprayed across Greg’s new snakeskin-and-cowhide boots as the calf suddenly turned and raced down the arena.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he watched the pursuing cowboy swing a rope overhead, then toss it in the direction of the calf. The noose settled over the desperate calf’s neck. The rope cinched tight and flipped the animal to the ground. Greg winced.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” he asked the tall, raw-boned man next to him.

Both eyebrows raised, the man pushed his sweat-and dust-caked hat higher on his forehead. “Hurt what?”

“The cow,” Greg answered, nodding toward the rodeo drama unfolding in the arena.

The man narrowed his eyes, gave Greg a look that said, “I can’t believe you asked that,” then asked, “You’re not from around here, are ya?” He raised a battered red soft drink can to his lips and spat into it. Gross. Chewing tobacco, Greg suspected, or perhaps the disgusting snuff that permanently imprinted the back pockets of many of these cowboys.

The contestant threw the calf to the ground after it struggled to get up, then proceeded to loop another rope around three of its legs. “Yeah, but it’s just a baby.”

The man shook his head. “Son, ain’t you never been around beef cattle?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Ever eat any veal?” the man asked with a gaptoothed grin. Greg silently thanked the orthodontist his parents had dragged him to. They might not have given him everything, but he did have good teeth.

Instead of answering the man—or thinking about where veal came from—he turned back to the action in the ring. The cowboy finished looping the rope, then stood up and thrust both hands in the air. Showoff, Greg wanted to mutter. So what if the guy could wrestle a poor defenseless animal to the ground and tie it up? Should he get some kind of medal?

“Ten point three seconds,” the announcer reported. “That puts Tim Roberts in third place. Nice try, Tim. And that wraps up today’s calf roping competition.”

A smattering of applause and a few “whoops” followed the recitation of the winner and second-place finisher. From the end of the arena, a loud tractor entered, pulling a devise that smoothed the surface of the dirt into some version of level. A small cloud of dust rose only slightly from the ground, then settled back as though it was also hot and tired in the summer heat.

If the rest of the crowd could tolerate dust up to their knees and sweat pouring down their backs, Greg could, too. Besides, he had a real good reason for traveling to Texas in August, then standing in a metal barn that could have doubled as one of Huntington Foods’ huge ovens. He wasn’t going to let the dirt and hot temperatures keep him from his goal.

The man who had been standing beside Greg wandered off. Unsure what was coming next, he reached into his back pocket—where his round, flat canister of snuff would have been if he were a real cowboy—and retrieved the rolled-up flyer listing the county 4-H events. Sure enough, the junior steer competition was next. Greg wasn’t sure whether that meant the people showing them were young, or the steers were young, but whatever was going to happen next in the arena involved Ms. Carole Jacks.