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kitchen before. I don’t even know what half the words you use mean. And I can’t cut stuff anything like as fast as your cook does.”
    He shook his head. “You don’t have to know how to be a chef. This job is just washing, peeling and chopping, like I said. Probably around ten bucks an hour, although I’ll have to talk that over with the restaurant manager, Kit Maldonado.”
    Her eyes widened slightly. Apparently fifty bucks a day was a real draw. “How many days a week?”
    “Say five. We’re closed on Mondays, and Sundays we just do brunch. So Tuesday through Saturday.”
    “Starting when?”
    “Tomorrow. Give me a chance to tell Kit so she can get the paperwork ready to go when you show up.”
    An unholy squawk issued from the wire fence directly behind MG and she jumped. The rooster fluttered his wings, crowing as he did. MG stumbled back from the fence, narrowly dodging a ruffled hen. “Damn it, you stupid bird.”
    The rooster made another fluttering run at the fence, squawking furiously.
    Joe moved forward, picking up the nearest hen and tucking it in the crook of his arm. “Time to put the ladies back. Your guy’s getting a little agitated.”
    MG frowned. “That’s an interesting way to pick them up.”
    He opened the gate and pushed the hen inside the yard, then picked up the next one. “Just tuck it under your arm.”
    She looked at the other hens a little suspiciously, then leaned down to gather one carefully into her arms.
    “Grab it by the legs,” he said. “Then put one hand underneath. If you put your fingers between the legs you can hold onto one leg with your thumb and index finger.”
    The chicken settled into her arms easily enough. MG stared at him, eyes wide. “I’ve never been able to pick one up before.”
    “It’s easy when you know how.” He grinned again, picking up the last one.
    The rooster was still strutting around the yard, checking each hen carefully for something or other, maybe illicit congress with invisible roosters.
    Joe leaned against the fence, watching Robespierre as MG put the last hen back inside. “You ought to consider a few more. Ten or twelve would make big difference in your egg production.”
    “I’ll think about it.” She frowned watching the rooster stalk through his domain. “If I let some of the eggs hatch, won’t a few of the chicks be male? I definitely have all the rooster I can handle.”
    He shrugged. “Sell them for meat when they’re a few months older. Roosters are good for fricassee.”
    She turned toward him, wide-eyed. “I hadn’t…I don’t think I could do that. Kill them, I mean.”
    “Sell them to a processor, then.”
    She still didn’t look convinced.
    “You don’t want to get too attached to them. The hens stop laying when they’re two or three years old. Then you’d be running a chicken retirement home.”
    She blew out a breath. “I’ll think about that in two or three years. Right now, it’s hard to think beyond the end of the week.”
    He watched her for a moment. The sun poured across her shoulders, setting her hair alight. Barnyard Goddess personified. Time to go, Joseph. He pushed himself vertical again.
    “So come to the kitchen tomorrow. We’ll put you to work.”
    She smiled, a little hesitantly. “What time?”
    “Just bring the eggs and stick around. You can start the prep with breakfast.”
    The smile turned rueful. “Six in the morning? God help me.”
    “Hey, farmers and cooks, darlin’, we all got to get up in the morning.” He allowed himself one more slow smile, then turned to go.
    “See you tomorrow,” she called as he reached the side of the house.
    He turned once more, raising his hand. She stood silhouetted against the sun, her arms folded beneath her breasts. Barnyard Goddess, for sure.
    Yeah, okay, more than time to go. He gave her one quick wave and headed back up the road.

Chapter Four
    As she drove down the gravel road that led to the inn the next morning, MG wondered if