Now that Dad had retired from running the ranch and handed control to my older brother Griffin, Mom and Dad seemed in a hurry to offload the rest of their business ventures to us kids.
That, and Dad had gotten spooked. As Uncle Briggs’s dementia progressed, Dad had all but convinced himself that he’d be next. While his mind was fresh, he wanted his estate settled.
Griffin had always loved the Eden ranch. The land was a part of his soul. Maybe that was why the rest of us hadn’t taken an interest in the cattle business. Because Griffin was the oldest and had claimed that passion first. Or maybe that passion was just a part of his blood. Our family had ranched for generations and he’d inherited a joy for it beyond anything the rest of us could comprehend.
Mom always said that Dad gave his love of the ranch to Griffin while she’d passed her love of cooking to my sister Lyla and me.
My dream had always been to run a restaurant. Lyla’s too, though she preferred something small, and owning Eden Coffee fit her perfectly.
Talia hadn’t taken an interest in any of the family businesses so she’d used her inheritance of brains to attend medical school.
Mateo was still young. At twenty-three, he hadn’t yet decided what he wanted to do. He worked on the ranch for Griffin. He pulled a few shifts every week for Eloise, covering
when she was short staffed at the front desk—which was often.
Eloise loved The Eloise Inn and working as the hotel’s manager.
My sister was the pulse of this hotel. She loved it like I loved cooking. Like Griffin loved ranching. But my parents hadn’t approached her about taking over.
Instead, they’d come to me.
Their reasons were solid. I was thirty years old. Eloise was twenty-five. I had more experience with business management and more dollars in my bank account to fall back on. And though Eloise loved this hotel, she had a soft and gentle heart.
It was the reason Mom and Dad had just come out of a nasty lawsuit.
Her tender heart was also the reason she’d hired Memphis.
That, and desperation.
Our proximity to Glacier National Park brought people from across the world to Quincy. Tourists flocked to this area of Montana. Given that The Eloise was our town’s best hotel, during the summer months, we were booked solid.
Turnover in the housekeeping department was constant and we’d recently lost two employees to desk jobs. Their vacancies had been open for six weeks.
Eloise had taken to cleaning rooms. So had Mateo. So had Mom. With the holiday rush fast approaching, we couldn’t afford to be understaffed. When Memphis had applied and agreed to move to Quincy, Eloise had been ecstatic.
Not only was Memphis an able human body—a sexy, lithe body at that—but she was also so overqualified for a
housekeeping job that, at first, Eloise had thought her application a joke. After their virtual interview, Eloise had said it was really a dream come true.
I’d been happy for my sister because solid hires were hard to find. That happiness had lasted a whole week until Eloise had shown up at my doorstep and begged me to let Memphis live in the loft.
I favored a solitary life. I preferred to go home to an empty house. I liked peace and quiet.
There’d be none of that with Memphis and her baby in the loft. That kid had cried for hours last night, so loud I’d heard it all the way from the garage.
There was a reason I’d built my house on Juniper Hill and not on a plot on the ranch. Distance. My family could visit and if they needed to spend the night because they drank too much, well . . . they could crash in the loft. No pavement. No traffic.
No neighbors.
My sanctuary.
Until now.
“It’s temporary,” I told myself for the thousandth time.
The swinging door that led to the restaurant flew open and Eloise waltzed in once more, a wide smile on her face.
I glanced past her shoulder, looking for Memphis, but Eloise was alone. “What’s up?”
“What are you making?” She hovered over my shoulder.
“Pico de gallo.” I didn’t have a huge menu, but it was enough to give the locals and hotel guests some variety. Each weekend, the dinner menu featured a special entrée. But for the most part, breakfast and lunch were consistent.
“Yum. Will you make Memphis a plate of tacos?”
The knife in my hand froze. “What?”
“Or whatever else you have on hand. I noticed that she didn’t bring anything with her this morning.”
The clock on the wall showed it was ten thirty. My two waitresses were in the dining room, rolling silverware into cloth napkins and refilling salt and pepper shakers. Mondays weren’t typically busy, but they weren’t quiet either.