Fearless Love

By Meg Benjamin

MG Carmody never figured her musical dreams would crash against the reality of Nashville. Now the only thing she has going for her is her late-grandfather’s chicken farm, which comes with a slew of problems and a huge mortgage held by a ruthless opponent—her Great Aunt Nedda.

MG needs extra money, fast. Even if it means carving out time for a job as a prep cook at The Rose—and resisting her attraction to its sexy head chef.

Joe LeBlanc has problems of his own. He’s got a kitchen full of temperamental cooks, a demanding cooking competition to prepare for, and an attraction to MG that could easily boil over into something tasty. If he could figure out the cause of the shy beauty’s lack of self-confidence.

Each book in the Konigsburg series is STANDALONE:
* Venus in Blue Jeans
* Wedding Bell Blues
* Be My Baby
* Long Time Gone
* Brand New Me
* Don’t Forget Me
* Fearless Love
* Hungry Heart

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Aug 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640633254

Meg Benjamin

Meg Benjamin is an award-winning author of romance. Along with her Luscious Delights series for Wild Rose Press, she’s also the author of the Konigsburg, Salt Box and Brewing Love series. Along with these contemporary romances, Meg is also the author of the paranormal Ramos Family trilogy and the Folk series. Meg’s books have won numerous awards, including an EPIC Award, a Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Holt Medallion from Virginia Romance Writers, the Beanpot Award from the New England Romance Writers, and the Award of Excellence from Colorado Romance Writers. Meg’s Web site is http://www.MegBenjamin.com. You can follow her on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/meg.benjamin1), Pinterest (http://pinterest.com/megbenjamin/), Twitter (http://twitter.com/megbenj1) and Instagram (meg_benjamin). Meg loves to hear from readers—contact her at [e-mail].

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Meg Benjamin. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Select Contemporary is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Lindsey Faber

Cover design by Fiona Jayde

Cover art from iStock

ISBN 978-1-64063-325-4

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition October 2012

Rerelease August 2017

Table of Contents

Dedication

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

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

About the Author

Discover more Entangled Select Contemporary titles…

Home is Where the Heat is

A Friendly Flirtation

Hidden Away

Far Too Tempting

To my family, Bill, Ben, Josh and Molly; my editor, Lindsey Faber; and my agent, Maureen Walters. And to all the wonderful Texas musicians and chefs who made my life in Texas so much more fun!

Chapter One

I’m not afraid of you, MG said.

Saying it would probably have been more effective if she could have kept that slight tremor out of her voice. They both knew she was lying.

Robespierre regarded her with a malevolent black gaze, his head slightly to the side, as if he were weighing how best to approach her. Slowly, he stalked toward her across the expanse of dirt, his eyes fixed on hers.

You’re a bully, MG said, slightly louder. Everybody knows that bullies are cowards deep down. She managed to hold her ground, but she rested one hand protectively on the wire fence.

Robespierre took another two stiff steps in her direction, black eyes glittering. He raised his head slightly.

You think you can lead some kind of freaking rebellion here. She dropped her hands to her sides. You know damn well I’m going to win. For one thing I’m three times bigger than you are.

Robespierre looked unimpressed. He continued his straight-legged prowl in her direction. In the wooden building behind him, the clucking seemed to increase. She could swear the damn hens were expressing solidarity with the nasty little twerp. Well, they’d probably rather have solidarity with him than with her—at least he didn’t steal their eggs.

Hell, maybe he really was inspiring rebellion. Like a true revolutionary.

Knock it off, you stupid chickens, she snapped, glancing briefly toward the few white shapes moving around the hen yard. You know you don’t really want to keep those eggs.

Robespierre gave a flick of his black tail feathers, his eyes glowing with malice. According to what she’d been able to glean from the Internet, leghorn roosters were more likely to attack other chickens than the people who approached them. Robespierre, however, had developed a deep loathing for her the first moment he’d seen her. For all she knew he’d had the same deep loathing for her grandfather, but frankly she doubted it. If Robespierre had tried pecking Harmon Carmody, the rooster would have been served up the following Sunday with browned potatoes and carrots.

Too bad she hadn’t yet developed her grandfather’s ability to dispatch a troublesome bird with a minimum of fuss.

It’s because you know I’m not good at this, she muttered. You’re taking advantage of me, you glorified feather duster.

The hens were still clucking in the background, scratching in the dirt around the entrance to the hen house. In all honesty, she wouldn’t have known the difference between everyday sounds and chicken cheers for Robespierre. Either way, she was stalling and they both knew it. She had to start raiding the nest boxes in the hen house, or she’d end up with poopy eggs, broken eggs, or a new set of chicks, none of which she wanted.

Beat it, fricassee, she snapped and advanced toward the hen house, leaving the back of her legs open to rooster attack. If she managed to move quickly, he might not have a clear shot.

In the yard, the hens were still making vaguely distressed sounds. Or vaguely disgruntled sounds. Vague sounds, anyway. Who the hell knew what constituted chicken emotions? They moved out of her way as she approached the door to the house.

The first few hens—Hens One through Eight, troopers all—had already moved off the nest boxes and out into the yard where they were industriously scratching in the dirt. MG moved quickly into the hen house. Some of the other hens were still on the roosts, but at least they’d moved off the boxes. She picked up the eggs and placed them in her basket, feeling, as she always did, like something out of Little House On the Prairie. As she reached for the next nest box, Hen Nine turned her head, clucking ominously.

MG sighed. She might not have been anywhere close to a chicken expert, but she knew exactly what that cluck signified. Just try it, smartass.

She moved closer to the nest box. Never show fear. Never show that you don’t know what you’re doing. Never show that you wish—oh, how you wish—that Grandpa was still waiting back in the house.

Hen Nine made a few decidedly threatening noises. MG took a deep breath and slid her hand under the plump, feathered body.

The pecks felt like somebody was jabbing at her with a not-particularly-sharp nail. You stupid fowl, she muttered between her teeth. You’d make great pillow stuffing. Keep that in mind. She jerked her hand back, careful to hold onto the egg as she did. Hen Nine rose halfway out of the box, flapping her wings as if she could take off.

MG staggered back, dropping the egg into her basket, then moved on to the next row of nest boxes. At least the hens were prolific. She’d managed to collect over two dozen eggs during the last few days. And she’d managed to sell most of them at the battered stand Grandpa had set up near the road in front, which gave her almost enough money to eat something other than eggs herself.

She glanced down at her arm. Fortunately, Hen Nine hadn’t managed to break the skin, although she could see a few red dots where she’d apparently done her best. Pillow stuffing, she muttered again as she stepped back through the hen house door.

Something squawked on her right and she glanced over her shoulder to see Robespierre advancing across the hen yard in her direction at a brisk clip, head down, wings flapping.

Shit. She began to trot toward the gate to the chicken yard, careful not to trip with her basket of eggs. She could hear Robespierre’s squawks issuing from somewhere to the left and increased her pace. Come on, MG, move it, she muttered to herself. If you’re not faster than a freaking chicken, you deserve to have your legs pecked.

The rooster gave a cackle of triumph as she dove for the gate, fiddling frantically with the latch. Already she could feel the air from his wings. Any second, it would be accompanied by pecks around the ankles and, if she was really unlucky, a few scratches from those talons on his feet. Shit, shit, shit.

Allow me. The voice at her side was close to basso profundo.

MG started so violently she almost dropped the basket, which would have been a victory for Robespierre even if he hadn’t caused it.

The man standing on the other side of the fence was massive. Or maybe he only seemed massive because he was blocking her path to freedom. His bald head shone with perspiration, along with his forehead and his biceps. Even his short beard and moustache looked damp. Now that she got a good look at him, she could see the sweat marks on his T-shirt stretching down his broad chest. Running shorts. New Balance shoes. Okay, that at least explained what the hell he was doing up and around this early in the morning, although how he came to be standing outside her chicken yard was still a bit of a mystery.

Who are you? she blurted.

He gave her a lazy grin. Darlin’ you’re being attacked by a rooster. Does it really matter who’s getting you out of there?

Something sharp hit the back of her leg. She glanced over her shoulder to see the enraged Robespierre dancing around behind her.

Ready? the man asked, his hand on the latch.

MG nodded, dodging around Robespierre’s forays. Don’t let the rooster out, okay?

No, ma’am, he rumbled, then pulled up the latch and opened the gate slightly. MG darted through, then turned to see him pull the gate closed behind her before Robespierre could adjust, flipping the latch across.

Got yourself a mean one there. He gave her another slow grin that made her toes feel like curling.

She nodded. He’s got attitude.

Joe LeBlanc. He extended his hand in her direction.

MG blinked. Pardon me?

The grin became slightly dry. My name. Which you requested.

Oh. I’m sorry. She wiped her hand on her shirt tail, then allowed her fingers to be engulfed in his palm. I’m MG Carmody. Thanks for rescuing me.

You ever tried showing him who’s boss? LeBlanc’s eyes were a strange shade of dark blue, almost navy. He arched one black eyebrow.

MG recollected herself long enough to shrug. I’ve tried to point it out. I’m bigger than he is, but that doesn’t seem to faze him much.

He leaned back against a fence post. Darlin’, some roosters always figure size is relative. If they can make you run, they win.

Yeah, well, I’m not sure what else to do about him. He doesn’t seem to scare easily. She shifted her basket to the other arm, trying for nonchalance that she really didn’t feel.

He folded his arms across his chest. His quite broad chest. Now that she had a moment to look at him she realized he really was as big as he’d seemed at first glance. That’s actually a good thing. You don’t want him to scare easily—his job is to protect his harem over there. He pointed his thumb at the hen house. You letting him in there to do his business or you trying to keep them apart?

She tried to place his accent—not Texan, subtle, sort of southern. She shook her head to clear it. I’d like to keep them separate, but I haven’t yet. I figure if I get the eggs out right after they’re laid, it won’t matter if they’re fertilized. I’m not set up right now to raise more chickens than I’ve got.

So you’re just an egg operation? The eyebrow arched again.

She nodded. For now.

What’s your production?

MG shrugged. Around eighteen a day. I’ve got twenty-five hens and they’re doing a decent job.

LeBlanc frowned. How many times a day do you check?

Once early, like now. Once around noon.

And you shut them in for the morning?

MG grimaced. It’s easier if they go outside. That way I can get to the eggs without having to fight with the hens.

Yeah, but if you leave them inside, they’re more likely to keep laying. Hens love to lay in the morning.

Don’t we all. She managed not to say it, though. LeBlanc’s grin was already sensual enough. I’ll keep that in mind. You have any tips for getting Robespierre to chill out?

Robespierre? One black eyebrow shot up again.

She felt her cheeks flush. The rooster. My grandpa named him.

He nodded slowly, still grinning. Really annoying, that grin. Also sort of, well, hot. Chances are right now he thinks you’re another rooster. A really big rooster. And you’re messing with his hens, which he doesn’t like. If you start giving him a handful of corn when you come in to get the eggs, that might confuse him enough that he’ll leave you alone. Not many roosters give each other corn.

Okay. Seems easy enough. Maybe I’ll give it a try. You raise chickens? He didn’t look like a chicken farmer, but then the only chicken farmer she’d ever known was her grandfather. And it almost went without saying that LeBlanc looked nothing whatsoever like Grandpa Harmon.

He shook his head. My folks did when I was a kid. Spent a lot of time taking care of them.

Oh. There didn’t seem to be much more to say to that, and she really wanted to get back inside to clean up. She was almost as sweaty as he was after her run away from Robespierre, and she had a feeling she probably smelled like chicken poop. She shifted her basket to the other arm. I’d better get these inside so I can clean them off and get them out to the stand.

LeBlanc narrowed his eyes. You’re not washing them, are you?

She shook her head. They’re not that dirty. I just brush them off if they need it. At least that was one thing Grandpa had been able to teach her—no water to avoid getting bacteria inside the shell.

How much are you selling them for?

She blew out a breath. A sale first thing in the morning would be a nice start to the day. Five dollars a dozen, three dollars a half dozen.

He gave her a long look. How much if we take your whole production?

MG blinked. You mean everything I’ve got?

His lips curved up. Yes, ma’am. That’s usually what ‘whole production’ means.

She bit back her automatic smartass reply. It had been a pretty dumb question, and having somebody buy up her entire stock would mean she wouldn’t have to open the stand. "Who is we?"

He sighed. "We is the Rose restaurant. I’m the head chef. We make breakfast for the guests and run a Sunday brunch."

MG blinked again. the Rose was part of the Woodrose Inn, an imposing luxury bed and breakfast at the end of the road that ran by the farm. She didn’t know how many guests it held, but she was guessing it was more than a dozen. But my whole production wouldn’t feed all your guests.

No, that it wouldn’t. LeBlanc shrugged. We’re already buying from some of the other farms around here. But we need a steady supply of fresh eggs, and you’re close. So how much?

MG pursed her lips. Produce negotiations weren’t exactly her forte since she had no idea what to ask. Four dollars a dozen?

LeBlanc’s brow arched. Two dollars.

Three. Which would be four fifty for what I’ve got on hand now.

He grinned. Make it five. That way we don’t have to mess with change.

Sold, she said quickly. You want me to clean these off for you?

Nah, they’re not that dirty. If we find any muck, we can just brush it off in the kitchen. His lips turned up again. Looks like you’re doing a good job keeping stuff clean around here.

Thanks. Yet another thing she’d learned from Grandpa. And since she’d cleaned the nest boxes and roosts when she was a kid, it hadn’t taken her long to get reacquainted with the way things worked.

LeBlanc’s smile started that thing with her toes again. Steady, MG. Her cheeks suddenly felt warm. Hang on a minute and I’ll get you a carton.

She trotted toward the storage shed, trying to get her pulse rate to slow down. He’s just a guy. And this ain’t your first rodeo. It’s not like you haven’t run into charmers before. Of course, a lot of those charmers had turned out to be snakes. She grabbed two of the cardboard cartons and headed back.

LeBlanc took them from her and started fitting the eggs into the depressions. Then he glanced up at her again, his blue gaze roaming lazily over her body. Looks like you got around fourteen eggs here. You got any more inside?

She blew out a breath. Right, yes. Stay right here. She ducked onto the back porch, then grabbed the last remaining eggs from yesterday from the cooler. She handed the carton to LeBlanc. That makes eighteen.

Right. What time can you bring the next bunch over tomorrow? We’ll need them as early as you can get there.

Tomorrow? She frowned. I don’t understand.

He shrugged. I bought your entire production, darlin’. That means everything your hens turn out, seven days a week. Beginning tomorrow.

Oh. Her cheeks burned again. Okay. That’s…great.

He nodded, tucking the cartons of eggs under his arm. Bring them around to the kitchen. Seven’s okay. Six is better.

Better? In what universe? She managed not to grimace. I’ll see what I can do. I may have to come back again later if the hens haven’t finished laying yet.

That’s okay. Bring the first load for breakfast, and then whatever you get later on we can use for the next day.

She nodded. Okay. I can do that. Maybe Robespierre would be asleep, but given that he was the earliest riser around the place, she doubted it.

LeBlanc glanced around the yard. You got anything else here?

Anything…? She frowned.

Vegetables. Fruit. Like that.

She shrugged. Well, there are four or five peach trees, but it’s not the right season for peaches yet. I don’t know what’s in the garden exactly.

He narrowed his eyes. Didn’t you plant it?

No. My grandpa planted it last year. There was an unexpected twinge somewhere around her heart. Grandpa had planted it before that stroke that had laid him out on the living room couch for the last three months of his life.

LeBlanc shifted the eggs to a more comfortable position. How long have you lived here?

About four months or so.

That eyebrow went up again. You brought the chickens with you?

No, they’re my grandfather’s chickens. I started taking care of them after he got sick. He died a couple of weeks ago.

So you’re running the farm on your own? LeBlanc didn’t really look incredulous, but she felt slightly annoyed all the same.

I used to stay with Grandpa part of the time in the summer. He taught me how to take care of the chickens. I know what I’m doing. Sort of.

Well, we’ll take the eggs, LeBlanc said, turning back toward the road. If it turns out you have any fresh vegetables for sale, we can maybe take them too, depending on quality. Nice doing business with you.

You too. She managed a smile. I’ll bring the eggs tomorrow.

He nodded at her, then headed back up the road. Even with the two cartons of eggs under his arms, he still managed a slight jog. She tried not to watch his muscular legs as he disappeared up the road and failed utterly.

A sale. She’d somehow managed to sell her eggs. All of them. Maybe things were finally looking up.

Thirty-five dollars a week. Oh well, at least it might provide her with Pop-Tarts and a few packages of ramen noodles.

She sighed and headed back into the house, glancing at her reflection in the hall mirror as she moved past.

Shit. Hell. Goddamn. Her hair was dappled with bits of hay, probably from changing the straw in the nest boxes. There was a slash of mud on her cheek. At least she hoped it was mud—in the henhouse there were always other possibilities. And she was, of course, wearing no make-up whatsoever.

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the wall. He was probably really impressed. A genuine salt of the earth type here.

Six months ago, she’d worn suede boots. Six months ago, her hair had highlights. Six months ago people were beginning to know her name. Hell, six months ago, she’d been… Not nearly as impressive as she’d thought at the time.

What you were isn’t important anymore. It’s what you are now that you need to concentrate on. It’s all you’ve got.

She sighed. She needed to spread some wood shavings around the nest boxes to make it harder for the hens to track in mud. And she should add some more ground oyster shells to the feed.

Ah yes, the glamorous life of a Hill Country chicken farmer. But if nothing else, it took her mind off her troubles. Even though those troubles were a big part of this life now.

If only Grandpa had left her advice on how to deal with Great-Aunt Nedda, who was a hell of a lot more dangerous than Robespierre could ever be.

…

Nedda Carmody turned on her computer, watching the screen slowly turn from black to gray. A new computer would boot up more quickly, of course, but a new computer qualified as a frill, as far as Nedda was concerned. Given her choice, she’d ignore the computer altogether, but she knew better than that. These days you couldn’t run a business without one, and Nedda had no intention of putting Pedernales Properties at risk.

Her spreadsheets opened slowly too, but that gave her time to look at the figures as they appeared on the screen. The bed and breakfast bookings were a little thinner than usual, but it was September, toward the end of the summer season. They’d pick up again when the wineries started releasing their new wines, and they’d peak when the Wine and Food Festival rolled around.

The rentals were a little slow too, but most of them were up to date on their payments. The punk renting the cabin near the railroad tracks was a week late, but she didn’t expect much from him. Sooner or later, she’d probably have to start eviction proceedings if the little pissant didn’t light out on his own.

Her gaze moved down to the final items on the list. The office building on Main with the store on the first floor. The empty lot on Spicewood she was planning to sell. The farm.

She stopped, studying that entry. The farm. Harmon’s farm. Correction: the Carmody family farm that used to belong to Harmon. Still down by a payment, the one Harmon had missed after that first stroke. Why Harmon chose to saddle that silly child with the place was something Nedda would never understand. There was no way she’d make enough money from chickens to pay off Harmon’s debts.

Or rather, she did understand what Harmon thought he was doing. She understood all too well. But it didn’t make any difference. Whatever Harmon had wanted to do, he’d still been stuck in the end—not enough money and not enough time. Maybe he didn’t want the farm in Nedda’s hands, but it wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter. He could try to postpone it, but he couldn’t change it. And, of course, he was dead. Which meant that whatever he’d planned was irrelevant.

Nedda studied the numbers on the screen again, letting her lips slide into a rare smile. Harmon had already lost, and she was going to win. Finally, after forty years, she was going to win.

Chapter Two

Joe had debated dropping the eggs off in the kitchen before he got his shower, but finally decided against it. He’d made a deal with himself back when he’d climbed out of his own personal pit—he’d never again show up in a kitchen in anything less than top shape. And that included being in chef’s whites. His pants might be black canvas with the Saints logo up the sides, but he held onto the white jacket as the mark of professionalism. For a while, it had been all he had to show that he was back on his game.

Now he walked into his kitchen, black chef’s beanie in place, bandana knotted around his neck. The tall white toques French chefs wore struck him as slightly ridiculous—the beanie was good enough to confirm his status as the chief rooster in this particular kitchen. Rooster made him think of his new egg producer, which in turn made him smile as he put the egg cartons on the counter.

Ms. MG Carmody looked a lot better than most of the chicken farmers he’d had dealings with over the years, even if she did give the impression of someone who wasn’t sure exactly of what she was doing. She also looked like someone who badly needed a second source of income. Twenty-five hens weren’t going to bring in enough to keep her farm going, unless she started producing something else along with the eggs.

He nodded toward one of the line chefs, Darcy, who was washing micro greens for lunch. Morning.

Darcy raised her head far enough for him to see the bright green tips of her hair and mumbled something that might have been a greeting or a curse.

He sighed. Darcy had wanted the sous chef position that he’d recently opened up in the kitchen, although she hadn’t actually applied for it because he hadn’t actually asked her to apply. Of the three cooks at the Rose, she was the most qualified for the job—she had a culinary degree, her cooking skills were first rate and she worked like a son of a bitch. On the other hand, her people skills were virtually non-existent. And the sous chef would be in charge of the kitchen when Joe wasn’t watching. He figured if he’d hired Darcy, his other two cooks would have quit within a week.

Of course, Darcy herself might quit now, given how pissed she was about the whole sous chef deal. The manager at the Silver Spur had already hired away Joe’s prep cook, and he happened to know Leo and Jorge were both getting offers. Fortunately, the salary and benefits package at the Rose was decent. Still, he needed to do something to smooth Darcy’s feathers. She might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she was a hell of a cook.

Found us a new egg producer. He opened the cartons, checking the eggs for dirt. She lives down the road here. Small operation, maybe eighteen or twenty eggs a day.

Darcy raised her eyebrow but said nothing, keeping her focus on the greens.

Joe felt like sighing again. The hell with it—time to face the problem head on. Okay, Darcy, let’s talk this out.

She turned to look at him, her chin elevated mutinously.

Joe raised his hands in what he hoped with a calming gesture. Look, darlin’, I know you’re pissed about not getting the job, and I know you’re a smokin’ cook. Hell, we both know that. If it was just cooking, you’d be a shoo-in. But that’s not all the job involves. Right now, you can’t talk to other people for shit, and we both know that too. If you want to be sous chef, you need to learn how to get other people to work with you. And at the moment, you’re not ready to do that.

Darcy froze, chin up, back rigid.

Oh crap, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

How am I supposed to learn to do that? she said between her teeth. I’m spending half my time washing fucking greens and peeling potatoes, for Christ’s sake.

He shrugged. "Okay, I know, we’re down on staff. We need somebody to do prep work, but prep cooks aren’t thick on the ground around here. I’ll work with Kit to find somebody long term, and maybe I can find someone to do the crap part of the job