A Town Called Valentine

chapter Three



Nate loved the privacy of the log cabin he’d renovated on the edge of the Silver Creek Ranch, which had been owned by his family for generations. He’d torn down walls, creating a large open living space with a bedroom at the back, and a loft above for his office. Though he spent most of each day at the ranch, his free evenings were in his own private sanctuary, where he seldom invited women.

But the cabin had one drawback: it was within a half mile of the boardinghouse, and tonight that was too close. He was already imagining Emily getting ready for bed, and wondered what she wore, or if she wore anything at all . . .

Stop it, he told himself.

Scout took up his customary perch on the back of a couch up against the window, where he could look out over his domain. Nate smiled and ruffled between the dog’s ears, making Scout pant and look up at him with adoration. A dog only wanted affection, and that was so easy to return.

With a sigh, Nate turned away. He should get to bed, for the next day would be another long one. He was getting less and less sleep each night. Preparations for the Silver Creek Rodeo, run by his family, were heating up, and there were always the day’s chores at a cattle ranch. Instead, he paced, remembering Emily, and the way she’d insisted on going to her building instead of a motel. She really would have stayed in that unheated mess if he hadn’t insisted she leave. And all of that told him she was desperate, with little money and nowhere else to go. When he felt his sympathy being churned up again, he should have run the other way.

Instead, he’d put her with his grandmother and her friends, the town busybodies. They knew everything and everyone. Certainly, they could inform Emily all about her mother’s family. But they could also discuss Nate. And he didn’t want to be a topic of conversation, especially not after the way he’d behaved tonight at Tony’s Tavern.

After undressing, he stepped into the shower to remove the tantalizing scent of Emily still on his clothes, on his skin. If only cold water could remove memories.

It was still dark when Emily awoke at the beep of her cell-phone alarm. She didn’t hit snooze but sat right up. For just a moment, she’d thought she was at home, but she didn’t have a home anymore. Greg had remained in their elegant apartment in San Francisco, close to his law firm in Nob Hill, and she’d found a temporary little sublet across the bay. She’d been so furious with him, so disappointed and heartbroken at his betrayal, she hadn’t wanted to be tied to him in any way, so she’d refused alimony—his guilt money.

Sometimes it seemed like every decision she made led to a mistake. She’d fallen in love with Greg, a law student, while she’d been in college, and when he graduated, she quit school to marry him. She’d never enjoyed school although she’d gotten good grades, and had only gone to college because it seemed the thing to do. After her crazy upbringing, all she’d ever wanted was to be a wife, to make a home, to have a family. She still had warm memories of her father, Jacob Strong, the scent of his aftershave when he hugged her, how special she felt when he exclaimed over every art project she brought home from school. She’d dreamed of re-creating those simple but heartfelt moments for her own family.

But after her dad’s death, her mom had spent most of her time on her new age shop and the various men in her life, making Emily feel . . . inconvenient. It was how she had first discovered she loved to cook, for fast food or late meals had grown irritating. Delilah often forgot to come home to make dinner after work. But at least she always spent nights at home, and never at some guy’s place. It had taken Emily until adulthood to appreciate that. Her mom always said she wished she’d been born early enough to be a hippie, so she lived the life, from practicing reiki to insisting Emily call her “Delilah,” not Mom or even “Dorothy,” the name she’d been born with.

It had all come to a head for Emily on the opening night of her school musical. She had the lead, the youngest ever at fifteen, and thought for sure she’d given her mom a reason to be proud of her, a reason to care. But her mom hadn’t remembered to come. Every other kid had a parent—hell, a whole family—meet them backstage with flowers and hugs and praise. Delilah could charm a forget-me-not blossom and keep it in her purse to remember a date with a man, but her daughter’s musical was not that important. Emily had stood alone, feeling as if the last joy in her accomplishment was crushed beneath her mother’s indifference. She was achingly alone, would always be—until she made her own family. That had become her guiding force through the rest of high school and into college.

She thought she’d succeeded with Greg, a man whose extended family made her feel included. For several years, she’d given elegant dinners for their friends and the partners at Greg’s firm. Greg’s family lived on the opposite coast, and year after year, he couldn’t find vacation time to visit them. At first, she pretended not to see that she’d exchanged one lonely life for another. She volunteered at the local hospital, crocheted blankets for premature babies, and occasionally worked as an emergency backup for her friend’s catering business by baking desserts and pastries, waiting for the day she had a baby.

But that day never came, and her marriage fell apart in ways that still hurt too much to think about, a well of grief so raw it was a physical ache. She’d lost her baby and her husband and her dreams all within a week. Emily had known she had to find a way to support herself, but each day she could barely get out of bed. She was skirting the edges of depression, replaying the tragedy of her marriage and Greg’s cruelty over and over again in her mind. Her money running out had finally awakened her to the pitiful excuse her life had become, the way she wallowed in self-pity. Though Greg was gone, she was still letting him control her. She didn’t need a man to create her own family.

But she did need a career, something she’d so conveniently ignored when she was head over heels in love with Greg. College just hadn’t seemed important—but it was important now. She’d already registered for the fall semester back at UC Berkeley. She had to find a way to support herself even though she didn’t have a clue what to major in. That was what advisors were for. Perhaps her two years’ worth of credits would still count for something.

When she sold her mother’s building, she’d use that money to pay her tuition. Once gainfully employed, she would save enough to adopt. She’d gone the husband route, and it had failed. But there were plenty of children around the world desperate to be part of a family.

She thought she’d taken control of her life by coming to Valentine Valley, but on the first night, she made out with a stranger, her car wouldn’t start, and she had found that her building was severely damaged. It was as if life was giving her a good kick for her efforts.

She wasn’t going to let “life” get away with it. Sitting up, she threw back the covers with determination. She’d had a couple setbacks, that was all. She would lay out a plan to repair her building as quickly as possible. Her future was waiting for her.

But in the present, she was a stranger in a home with elderly women who hadn’t even been consulted about the arrangement. Nate Thalberg had made decisions for everybody.

But he’d also given her a place to stay for the night, and she would force herself to feel gratitude instead of resentment that she hadn’t been able to do that for herself.

As for the ladies, she only had one way to show her gratitude, and that was in the kitchen. After a quick shower, she dressed again in a long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans. After reading the note Nate had left for his grandmother in the formal dining room—it was short and to the point, but didn’t make her sound too pathetic—she went to take stock of the pantry. The kitchen itself was full of windows to let in the rising sun, a little breakfast nook, oak cabinets that gleamed, and a decorative theme of . . . cows. There were bowls of fruit decorated with black-and-white cow spots, two lowing cows held up napkins, horns sprouted near the back door for hanging jackets. Cows everywhere. It made Emily smile. If Nate was a cowboy, perhaps his whole family was involved.

The house remained quiet as, from memory, she began to assemble muffins and banana bread on the spacious granite countertops, then started a pot of coffee while they baked.

With twenty minutes to spare, she stepped outside onto the porch, rubbing her arms at the brisk chill, then catching her breath in wonder. The mountains loomed above her, so high and magnificent and close that they didn’t seem real. Snow dusted the peaks even as spring had brought out the green below the tree line. During the drive up, she’d gaped up at the towering peaks and narrow canyons, finding it difficult to concentrate on her driving. But now she was in a wide valley between two mountain ranges, carved out over time by the Roaring Fork River, according to her map. The Silver Creek in Valentine joined with the river down valley. She could see farm fields with high stalks of some kind of grain stretching off into the distance, and a glimpse of what might be a red-roofed ranch house, but no cows.

Emily let the beautiful scene bring her a moment’s peace, then went back inside, knowing she had a long day ahead of her. To her shock, the baking was a disaster. She should have realized something was wrong when the batter seemed too thick. The muffins were flattened when she pulled them out of the oven, and the bread was still batter at the bottom of the pan, though the top seemed done.

She was glaring at her creations when she heard someone enter the room. She turned about, and to her relief, it wasn’t Nate but three elderly ladies, one leaning on a walker, another clapping her hands together with excitement, the third holding Nate’s note.

“Good morning!” said the cheerful one with the note. “I’m Grandma Thalberg. You must be Emily.”

Emily smiled cautiously. “How nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Thalberg had the reddest shade of curly hair Emily had ever seen. She wore a battery of makeup, though skillfully applied, and a colorful housecoat and slippers. She introduced her companions. Mrs. Ludlow, the trim, white-haired lady leaning on her walker, was already dressed for the day in slacks and a bright blue blouse. Mrs. Palmer, plump and vibrant in a paisley dress, pearls, and what must be a blond wig, nodded at Emily and began to wash dishes.

“Oh no!” Emily said quickly. “Breakfast is my way of thanking you for allowing me to spend the night. You mustn’t clean up. Not that I’ve made much of a treat . . .” She trailed off, embarrassed.

Mrs. Thalberg glanced at Emily’s failed muffins and banana bread. “Oh dear, let me guess—you’ve never baked at altitude before.”

Emily smacked her forehead. “I never thought of that! I’ve seen it mentioned on boxed mixes, but I never cook with those.”

“They’ll still taste lovely,” Mrs. Ludlow said kindly.

“Not the banana bread. It’s practically batter at the bottom.”

Mrs. Palmer broke out the aluminum foil. “We’ll cover it and cook it a bit longer. Next time, use a tube pan. We swear by it!”

Emily stared around her as the ladies—widows all? she wondered—began to bring out china and silverware. She didn’t know where anything was, so she brought out the milk and butter.

Then they sat down at the table in the sunny corner of the kitchen and looked at her expectantly. Emily sank down opposite them. They exclaimed over her flattened muffins until at last Emily tried one. They weren’t horrible, but she was known for her baking talents, and this was just upsetting.

Mrs. Thalberg gave a kindly smile. “I’d love to give you the little baking tips we mountain dwellers have learned from childhood.”

“That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Thalberg, but I won’t be in town very long.”

Mrs. Ludlow elegantly patted her lips with a cloth napkin. “Where are you in such a hurry to return?”

“San Francisco, ma’am. I was born and raised there, and I’m going back to college this fall.”

“Good for you. Nate says your mother was born in Valentine Valley.” Mrs. Thalberg shook her head even as she clucked her tongue. “But he didn’t say her name, the silly boy. Yours is Murphy, but that’s not familiar to me.”

“I’m divorced,” Emily said, trying not to feel humiliation, her constant companion these last six months before she’d realized her future could only begin with her. “My mother’s maiden name was Riley.”

Mrs. Palmer, who kept straightening things on the table as if she couldn’t sit still, now froze. “Agatha Riley was your grandmother?”

Mrs. Thalberg gasped, and Mrs. Ludlow put a hand to her heart.

“Yes.” Emily felt a sudden warm glow as she realized these ladies had known her grandmother, and it was as if they had opened up a connection to a past when she still had a family. “She died when I was eight, so I don’t remember her well.”

“Agatha Riley was such a treasure,” Mrs. Thalberg gushed, patting Emily’s hand. “You look like her!”

Emily felt a flush of warmth.

“That lovely shade of strawberry blond hair,” Mrs. Thalberg continued. “I was always so jealous.”

Emily hid a smile as she regarded the flaming color the old lady had chosen.

“She was a teacher before she married, and loved children,” Mrs. Thalberg continued. “I always thought it such a shame she only had one herself. When her husband died, she took over the general store and seemed to find a new calling.”

Mrs. Ludlow sighed. “A shame she sometimes had such terrible arguments with her daughter.” Then her eyes widened as if she suddenly remembered she was discussing Emily’s mother. “Oh dear.”

Emily smiled. “I know everything about my mother, Mrs. Ludlow, so you’re not offending me.” She wished she could change the subject, for thinking about her mother was something she seldom did. She didn’t want to imagine Delilah growing up in this town, worrying her own mother endlessly. However, had Delilah discovered her passion for a Wiccan lifestyle in Valentine Valley?

“We often wondered how she supported herself,” Mrs. Thalberg said quietly. “She left Valentine at such a young age.”

“But don’t you remember?” Mrs. Palmer said, waving both wrinkled hands. “Agatha told us that Dorothy started her own business. Imagine that!”

“She changed her name to Delilah,” Emily said, shaking her head.

“How exotic!” Mrs. Palmer exclaimed.

For the first time, Emily thought of her mother from someone else’s viewpoint, and knew that with little education, her mother had provided for her, and in an expensive city, no less. But that didn’t make up for the simpler things she’d lacked, a mother’s love, an interest in her life. There were no school paintings taped to the refrigerator at the Strong house, at least not after her dad died. He’d left his favorites up so long—the Hall of Fame, he’d called them—that they yellowed at the edges. Emily still had a vivid memory of her mother throwing them away, stone-faced, right after her father’s death.

“Nate wrote that your mother died, and you’ve come back to sell the family building,” Mrs. Thalberg said, watching her too closely. “How did she die? She was far too young.”

“A car accident,” Emily replied, feeling a twinge of regret. “It was very sudden, but she didn’t suffer.”

They offered condolences, then sat for a moment, nodding, their silence respectfully spiritual, as if they were kneeling in church.

“You lost her too soon,” Mrs. Thalberg said, “but it’s obvious she raised a fine girl.”

Sometimes Emily believed she raised herself, but she wouldn’t say that aloud. She’d been doing her own laundry by the time she was eight. At least it made her self-sufficient.

“We were sad that Dorothy—Delilah—didn’t return when she sold this house,” Mrs. Palmer said.

Emily stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“Ah, then you don’t remember visiting here at all?” Mrs. Thalberg chimed in. “This was Agatha’s home while she lived.”

“For some reason, I thought she lived above the store,” Emily said slowly.

“No, no, she rented out that apartment,” Mrs. Ludlow said, picking up the tale. “After she died, your mother arranged to sell this old house to the Thalbergs.”

“I always liked it,” Mrs. Thalberg said in a confidential tone. “Agatha and I were close neighbors, of course, and time and again I told her if she ever wanted to sell, she should come to us.”

Close neighbors? Emily thought, not remembering seeing any houses on the near side of the creek. “Oh, the ranch!” she said, smiling. “So that’s your family ranch behind us?”

“The Silver Creek Ranch,” she said with pride. “My husband’s grandfather came to Colorado when they were mining silver in the 1880s. Someone had to provide food for all those miners, so he started running cattle. When the silver went bust, it was the ranches and farms that kept this valley going.”

“And then Aspen became so popular,” Mrs. Ludlow said with a sigh. “Things changed around here. Lots of new people.”

“Things always change,” Mrs. Palmer said firmly. “We change or die.”

“But Renée, the price of land!” Mrs. Ludlow protested. “My granddaughter works in Aspen, and she can’t even afford to live there.”

“So she lives in Basalt, which is closer to us, Connie.” Mrs. Thalberg patted her friend’s arm. “And isn’t that a blessing?”

Mrs. Ludlow gave a slow smile and whispered to Emily, “Don’t tell my granddaughter that I agree with Rosemary about anything.”

Emily smiled, then turned to Mrs. Thalberg. “It was very kind of Nate to allow me to spend the night, but you ladies don’t know me, and I feel like I’m imposing.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Thalberg said with a grin. “This house is as much his as mine since my son owns it. And not know you? You’re Agatha’s granddaughter, and that’s good enough for me. Nate must think you’re special to bring you here.”

All three women leaned toward her, and Emily almost leaned back. “We only met briefly last night. I stopped for dinner, and then my car broke down. Nate took me to the building, but . . .” She trailed off, not knowing how to explain the condition in which she had found things.

Mrs. Palmer’s eyes narrowed. “That little restaurant closed without any notice. I never did trust those people. They didn’t make friends—”

“Which is very foolish for a restaurant needing customers,” Mrs. Ludlow interrupted. “And they would set trash outside their back door rather than take it right to the Dumpster. Unsightly.”

“Well, they weren’t nice people,” Emily said, “judging by the condition they left the building. I’ll have a lot of cleaning and repairing to do before I can sell it.”

“You don’t want to keep it for yourself?” Mrs. Thalberg asked, studying her. “Or rent it out again?”

“That’s too difficult from San Francisco. And I need to finish my degree, so the money will come in handy.”

All three ladies nodded.

Then Mrs. Thalberg’s eyes twinkled as she said, “Nate lives just down the road.”

Back to Nate again, Emily thought, forcing a smile even as she was trying to control a blush. If these sweet old ladies knew what she’d been doing with him on top of a pool table . . .

She excused herself to remove the banana bread from the oven. The top was overdone, but when she cut several steaming slices, it didn’t look too bad. She sat down and offered everyone some, then buttered herself a slice.

“Connie,” Mrs. Thalberg said to Mrs. Ludlow, “did you know Nate remodeled this house all by himself?”

“I did not,” Mrs. Ludlow exclaimed, blinking with feigned astonishment. “He’s very talented.”

As if Mrs. Thalberg would ever keep that a secret, Emily thought, biting her lip to hide a smile. She kept her gaze innocent and polite.

“And when you see that boy on a horse, you know God meant him to ride.”

Mrs. Palmer nodded solemnly. “He’s so devoted to the family ranch.”

And he gets drunk and tries to seduce strange women, then gets mad when he’s rejected, Emily thought with a touch of sarcasm. She sighed, knowing she’d been “strange” enough to allow it. And not just allow, but participate with hungry enthusiasm.

“He renovated the cabin, too,” Mrs. Thalberg said, nodding. “It’s one of the original buildings on the ranch, and he made it so cozy.”

“And he takes such good care of us,” Mrs. Palmer intoned solemnly.

They might as well call him Saint Nate.

“But he doesn’t only work hard,” Mrs. Thalberg continued, oblivious to Emily’s discomfort. “He knows what it’s like to enjoy himself.”

Emily coughed on a piece of banana bread, and Mrs. Palmer whacked her on the back.

“He snowboards, of course—don’t all the young people?” Mrs. Thalberg beamed. “And he still rides a bike—up on that mountain that towers over our heads! Ever since high school, where he played so many sports, it’s like he’s a daredevil. Now it’s climbing rocks.” She shook her head, tsking.

“They do what makes them happy,” Mrs. Ludlow said with a sigh. “Look at my granddaughter—she drives a snowmobile too fast!”

The discussion degenerated into the dangerous mountain sports each of their grandchildren participated in, and Emily used their distraction to finish the dishes and find plastic containers for the food. She needed to escape the Nate festival, and she desperately wanted to see her building in broad daylight.

When at last the ladies noticed that she’d come to stand next to the table, Emily said, “Mrs. Thalberg, I’m going into Valentine today. Are there any errands I can run for you ladies? I don’t know what time I’ll be back . . .”

“I’ll drive you!” Mrs. Thalberg insisted, rising to her feet in her housecoat and slippers.

“No, ma’am, I truly need the exercise. And it’s not far, not even a mile.”

“Well, that’s true . . .” she said, still looking concerned.

“It’s a beautiful day, and I’ll enjoy being outside before being cooped up for the rest of the day.”

They still looked concerned when Emily emerged from the small apartment with her purse and a backpack with a few supplies.

“Promise you won’t work too hard.” Mrs. Thalberg offered her a bottle of water.

Emily took it and smiled, already enjoying the company of these three women. “I won’t. And thank you again for welcoming me into your home. I promise to look into a room at the motel today, too.”

“No!” all three ladies said at once.

“We will not hear of it,” Mrs. Thalberg said firmly, in the tone of voice of a woman used to being in command.

Emily remembered that she’d probably been actively involved at the ranch for many years.

“We’re enjoying getting to know Agatha’s granddaughter,” Mrs. Ludlow added smoothly. “You cannot deny us that.”

“Every day is always the same.” Mrs. Palmer spread her hands.

Looking at the ladies, Emily doubted that. “Then I insist you allow me to pay rent.”

Mrs. Thalberg smiled in triumph. “We’ll think about it. Have a good day!”

With a wave, Emily went out the back door, shaking her head at how easily they’d maneuvered her. As she walked down the driveway to the gravel road, she glanced about worriedly, wondering if she could see Nate’s cabin—if he could see her. But wherever it was, it was well hidden. She relaxed, letting the scenery bring a moment’s peace. Silver Creek rushed along, muddy and turbulent, close to the height of its banks. This was springtime, and the runoff from the mountains must affect every river and stream. Across the creek, she could see the buildings of Valentine Valley, most only one or two stories tall. Between the creek and the town, a park ran along the banks, scattered with picnic pavilions, playgrounds, and a couple hundred yards down, a large white gazebo.

As Emily reached the bridge, the road she was on continued sloping up toward the mountain, and across the green rise were scattered the jutting gray headstones of a cemetery. She was tempted to go peek at the dates on the stones, then reminded herself that she had a purpose. After crossing the bridge, a couple blocks ahead of her she could see the tall stone building with a clock tower that must be city hall. With its back to the towering cliffs of the mountains, it presided over the town. When she reached it, she saw she was on Main Street, and turned down toward her building.

She walked past the storefronts butting against one another for several long blocks. A beautiful old theater marquee advertised a forties movie festival that weekend. Clapboard storefronts with bay windows on each side of front doors alternated with sandstone edifices with arches rainbowing over windows. Planters overflowing with spring flowers lined the sidewalks, and US flags hung from the antique light poles in a long line down the street. She passed a local history museum, a toy and gift shop, restaurants, and the Open Book, a corner bookstore that made her peer longingly in the windows. She could see the beautiful white steeple of a church rising from behind the Main Street buildings.

Villagers swept the sidewalks in front of their stores and greeted her, leaving her a little surprised. In San Francisco, no one looked at passersby, and now she felt on display, as if everyone knew her secrets. For all she knew, Nate Thalberg could have bragged to his buddies about the fun time he’d had at Tony’s Tavern. But no, that was too cynical of her, especially toward a man who’d given her a safe place to stay. Surely the businesspeople of Valentine Valley thought her just another tourist, and there were plenty of those, people taking pictures of the town hall framed by the Elk Mountains, or of the long row of flat-fronted stores painted various pastel colors. Young lovers—and those not so young—were everywhere, holding hands and looking about with delight. In a town named Valentine, she saw plenty of hearts and cupids and red accents.

Her own storefront restaurant was shuttered and dark, looking so forlorn between Wine Country and Monica’s Flowers and Gifts. It was still too early for them to be open, so she took a moment to admire the Hotel Colorado across the street, three stories with arched columns running the length of the block, like a grand old duchess, with sparkling glimpses of its youth. She tried to imagine all of this in the nineteenth century, when the wide dirt street would have been teeming with mule trains, and the hotel full of newly rich miners, come down from the mountains to enjoy themselves. Okay, so she’d done her research before driving up.

But she couldn’t delay any longer, regardless of the sunshine and the beautiful spring day. She had to face something ugly and deliberately ruined, and she reminded herself that this was not an omen of her future. It was like her marriage, something she could eventually put in the past as a bad memory. Taking out her keys, she tried the front door. The lock turned with a little effort, and she went inside, tripping almost immediately over a toppled table in the gloom. She opened one of the shutters partway, not wanting people to be able to see the disaster.

And then she sighed. A corner bar that would have once served drinks was now spattered with paint, as if someone had just tossed an open container. Every upended table and chair seemed to be missing legs. The mirror that lined one wall to make the room seem more open had giant cracks running through it, like an ancient face. And someone must have taken a sledgehammer to the walls. Even the trim and baseboards had been gouged. The security deposit they’d forfeited was miniscule compared to all this.

Emily could have cried.

But she was done crying. It had gotten her nowhere, solved none of her problems. She didn’t even know where her tenants had gone, and she could hardly afford a private investigator to find them. She could do this on her own; she’d pull out her notebook and start her lists: jobs to be done, supplies to be purchased, repairs to be made. She didn’t have the money to hire someone, so she would do it herself. With access to the Internet, she could learn how to do anything.

But first, the electricity. She placed a call, glad that her cell phone worked, when she knew reception could be spotty in the mountains. To her dismay, the power company couldn’t give her an appointment for another three days, much as she tried to explain the circumstances. They compromised on two days, but that was it. At least the days were growing longer, so she could work when the sun was up.

She took out her notebook and spent an hour cataloging the damages and making her to-do lists. After discovering a Dumpster in the back alley, she began dragging out the worst of the garbage, trying to clear a path from the front of the restaurant to the kitchen. She was so engrossed in her chores, she didn’t hear the front door open until a dog’s bark alerted her.

She whirled around in surprise and saw Nate Thalberg grimacing as he looked about, and Scout, off leash, nosing into a pile of garbage. Nate’s cowboy clothes had been replaced with loose shorts, sneakers, and a t-shirt that outlined his biceps as he held the door open. She could berate herself for the previous night, but damn, she couldn’t fault her choice of men. Yet he’d seen her at her worst, offering herself to him in a way she’d never done with any man before. And he’d accepted it all, as if he was used to women throwing themselves at him. He made her feel flustered even though she was sober. She’d never been nervous around people, always the gracious host and volunteer. But with him, she didn’t know how to behave or what to say.

Stiffening, she tried to think about being polite and neutral, hoping he’d leave. She looked a mess after all, sweaty, disheveled, and covered in dust and dirt. But then his eyes locked on her, and suddenly she was back in the bar, his mouth on hers, his hands making her feel like a woman once again.