By three-thirty, the kitchen is standing room only.
Bear walks in through the back security entrance, his heavy leather cut dusty from six hours on road patrol. He stops dead in his tracks three feet inside the doorway, his nose lifting into the air like a grizzly picking up a scent across a valley.
"Tell me that’s pork, I swear,” Bear says, his deep voice vibrating through the floorboards. "Zara, please tell me my mind ain’t playing tricks on me."
"It's slow-braised pork shoulder, Bear," I say, pulling a tray of golden, steaming cornbread out of the oven and setting it on a heat-proof trivet. "And if you don't go wash that highway dirt off your hands right now, you're not getting a single bite."
"I'm going! I'm going!" Bear yells, turning on his heel and practically sprinting down the
