The Performance Improvement Plan

The ride to the ranch took two hours. Two hours of Chloe bouncing on the back of a horse, clinging to Jericho’s leather belt, and listing every labor law violation she could remember from the 2024 handbook.

Jericho didn't say a word. He just rode, staring straight ahead at the endless expanse of rocks, cacti, and misery.

When they finally arrived, Chloe expected a plantation. Or at least a villain's fortress.

Instead, they pulled up to a rough-hewn log cabin that looked like it was held together by spit and prayers. A corral full of unimpressed cows stood to the left. A windmill creaked ominously to the right.

Jericho dismounted and helped her down. His hands lingered for a fraction of a second on her waist before he pulled away as if she were made of lava.

"Inside," he said, pointing to the door.

Chloe marched inside.

It was... a bachelor pad. 1885 edition.

There was a single room. A cot in the corner. A wood stove that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Civil War. A table with one chair. Dust bunnies the size of actual bunnies rolled across the floor.

"Okay," Chloe said, hands on hips. "First of all, the feng shui is atrocious. Second, where is the bathroom?"

Jericho hung his hat on a nail. "Out back. Two hundred yards. Watch for scorpions."

Chloe felt her soul leave her body. "No indoor plumbing. Okay. Great. I’m in hell. This is officially the Bad Place."

Jericho walked over to a sack of flour and a slab of cured bacon hanging from a hook. He dropped them on the table.

"Cook," he said.

Then he turned around and walked out the door.

Chloe stared at the flour. "Cook? Cook what? I don't see a microwave! I don't even see a Trader Joe's bag!"

She poked the sack of flour. It poofed dust at her.

"Okay, Chloe," she whispered to herself. "Adaptability is a core competency. You can do this. You watched *The Great British Bake Off*. How hard can bread be?"

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Two hours later, Jericho returned. He was covered in sweat and dust. He stopped in the doorway.

The cabin was filled with smoke.

Chloe was sitting on the floor, coughing, waving a towel. On the table sat a black, charred lump that looked like a meteorite.

"I made... croutons," Chloe wheezed. "Very large, singular croutons."

Jericho walked over to the table. He picked up the black lump. He tapped it against the wood. *Clack. Clack.*

He looked at Chloe. His expression wasn't angry. It was baffled.

"You're a woman," he said slowly.

"Did you just assume my gender roles?" Chloe snapped, standing up and dusting ash off her satin skirt. "Just because I have ovaries doesn't mean I came with a pre-installed recipe for biscuits, Jericho! My skillset is conflict resolution and spreadsheet management!"

Jericho stared at her. He looked at the "biscuit." Then, he did something unexpected.

He took a bite.

A loud *crunch* echoed through the room.

He chewed. His jaw muscles worked hard. He swallowed with visible effort.

"It's... crunchy," he said.

"It's carbon," Chloe corrected. "I tried to make a salad out of those dry bush things outside, but they were prickly."

"Tumbleweeds," Jericho said. "You tried to eat tumbleweeds."

"They looked like organic kale!"

Jericho sighed. It was a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He moved past her to the stove.

"Sit," he ordered.

Chloe sat on the only chair.

She watched as the terrifying gunman took a knife, sliced the bacon with surgical precision, mixed water and flour into a dough that actually looked like dough, and fried it all in a skillet.

Ten minutes later, he placed a plate of hot biscuits and bacon in front of her.

"Eat," he said. "Before you starve."

Chloe took a bite. It was heaven. Grease, salt, carbs.

"You cook?" she asked with a mouthful.

"I live alone," he grunted, leaning against the counter and eating straight from the skillet.

"So why did you buy me?" Chloe asked. "If you don't need a cook, and you clearly don't want a... companion."

Jericho stopped chewing. He looked at the floor. He shifted his weight. For a second, the scar on his face seemed less scary and more... sad.

"Salyard is a bad man," he muttered. "You looked like you were going to cry."

"I was sneezing!" Chloe defended. "It was the dust!"

"You looked soft," Jericho insisted. "You wouldn't last a day at the Gilded Lily. I needed a... hand. With the cows."

Chloe looked at him. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

*Oh my god,* she realized. *He’s a softie. He bought me because he felt bad, and now he’s stuck with a useless HR rep and he’s too awkward to admit it.*

She smiled. A real smile.

"Okay, Jericho," she said. "I accept the position. But we are going to need to discuss a chore chart. Because I am not touching the tumbleweeds again."

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