A Town Called Valentine

chapter Eight



Emily walked slowly through the dark dining room, wishing Mrs. Thalberg would’ve come with her. But the old woman had mentioned Nate, then disappeared up the back staircase, wiggling her fingers good-bye. Emily saw a box on the dining table, and much as she wanted to open it, she kept on going. The living room—or the parlor, as the widows enjoyed calling it—was decorated in country-printed fabrics and seemed to be the focus of whatever crafting talents the women possessed. There were crocheted pillows and afghans, needlepoint scenes on the walls, even a pile of rocks glued together—surely the talents of someone’s grandchild. But beneath the country charm, she could see modern touches: brand-new windows, newly stained floorboards, and elegant trim.

It was homey and feminine, which was why the sight of Nate sprawled across the too-small couch seemed out of place. His legs dangled over one armrest, and his hand rested on the floor. The ever-present cowboy hat was perched on his chest, rising and falling with his even breathing.

Emily tiptoed closer and stared down at him. Without her being able to see the knowing look he often wore, he seemed younger, more relaxed. The lines fanning out from his eyes were less evident. She found herself wanting to touch his unruly hair, straighten it.

And then he opened his eyes, and she jumped back with a gasp.

“God, you scared me!” she said in a loud whisper.

“I could say the same thing.” He swung his feet to the floor and sat up, setting his hat beside him and running his hands through his hair.

“It’s still sticking up,” Emily said, unable to help herself.

He rolled his eyes even as he absently fingered it again. Glancing at the grandfather clock standing guard in the corner, he said, “It’s past midnight.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Your point?”

“My sister’s cranky when she doesn’t get enough sleep.”

“She’s a big girl.”

He rose to his feet, six-plus feet of him, taking her breath away with his lean, rangy height and all that masculinity.

“You smell like beer,” he said.

And suddenly she remembered what had happened the last time she had a beer with him. The bar had had the same dark shadows as now enfolded them in the parlor, making her feel like they were alone in the world.

“I was much more careful this time,” she said.

The corners of his lips turned up with a touch of bad-boy humor.

“Do you dance as well as your sister?” she asked.

“Is that an invitation?”

The awkwardness she’d been hoping to avoid returned with a vengeance. “Sorry, I was only teasing.”

He ran a hand down his face. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be flirting. It’s a habit with me and the female of the species. You’ll have to break me of it.”

She laughed. “You’re probably not thinking straight, having just woken up. I guess I should’ve called your grandmother to let her know how late I’d be.”

“No curfew at the Widows’ Boardinghouse. That Mrs. Ludlow likes to party all night long.”

Emily covered her mouth although a snort of laughter escaped.

“I decided to hang around,” Nate continued, grinning. “There’s always something that needs fixing.”

“Really?” She wandered away from him, toward the front hall and the beautifully carved woodwork of the staircase banister. “From the way your grandmother talks—and from what I’ve seen myself—you did a superb job the first time you worked on this house. You really did it all yourself?”

He shrugged. “I grew up helping my dad in his woodworking shop.”

“There must be a lot of things to fix on a ranch.”

“I like making things work.”

She leaned against the banister even as Nate came closer, standing beneath the arched entrance of the parlor. “What did you work on tonight?”

He pointed to the banister behind her head, and she jumped away with a wince.

He laughed softly. “No, I was just teasing. That’s solid and well over a hundred years old. I sanded and stained it a couple years ago, but that’s all. The kitchen faucet had a leak. You didn’t notice this morning?”

She frowned and shook her head. “I was baking, too, so I think I would have . . .” She trailed off in realization.

“Yep. I think Grandma does it deliberately to get me over here. Makes me feel like a bad grandson,” he said with bemusement, “that she thinks I need to be coerced to be here.”

“No, don’t think that,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.

They both went still, and he looked down at her hand before meeting her eyes.

She patted him briefly and let go, glad of her outward calm even though her heart had picked up speed. “She’s very proud that you and Brooke and Josh call her on her cell phone. She knows you pay attention. Maybe she just likes seeing you.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and when Emily felt like she could get lost in his green eyes, she cleared her throat, and said, “Your grandma tells me you brought me something?”

“Oh, yeah, follow me.” He led her into the dining room, turned on the old-fashioned chandelier—that gleamed with newness despite its design—and gestured to the box. “You know how this house used to be your grandma Riley’s? When I remodeled, I found mostly junk in the attic, but I collected a few things that I thought someone might come looking for someday.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Why, Nate, how sensitive of you.”

“Just too lazy to throw anything more away.” He folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “I think it was Grandma’s idea.”

Though she doubted that, she didn’t dispute him, seeing how uncomfortable he was. It was hard to hide a smile, but she made the effort. “What’s inside?”

“Go ahead and look.”

She slowly unfolded each tab of the box, reminding herself that she wasn’t worried about the past, that her grandmother was just too sensitive where Delilah was concerned. But would she find something here that would change how she thought about everything? And did she want to discover it in front of Nate?

But the box was open, and she let herself explore like it was Christmas morning. There was a jewelry box with several pieces of costume jewelry that might make a cool vintage statement in San Francisco. Her feelings of Christmas became even stronger as she found some homemade tree ornaments that made her gasp with delight. An empty carved wooden box must have meant the craftsman had been close to her grandmother.

And then she found more modern items, childhood toys from the sixties, several of which had images of the moon, which she knew had always captivated her mother. Even when in a hurry, if they stepped outside under a full moon, Delilah would raise her face to it for a moment’s peace. She never preached to Emily about the things she believed in, another private part of herself that she kept distant. Emily never knew if Delilah didn’t want to be ridiculed or didn’t care enough to teach her daughter.

She shook off her memories and went back to the box, finding high-school yearbooks from the early eighties, and even the fifties, a legacy of her grandparents to add to the few other mementoes she had of theirs. Lastly, there were clothbound books that might be diaries. Her mother’s diaries? she wondered, feeling both intrigued and dismayed. Did she want to be sucked into her mother’s life again, to learn secrets that might hurt her even more? Although what could hurt her more than hearing that her father had been a lie? Had the poor man even known?

“You don’t look happy,” Nate said quietly.

Startled, she glanced up, having almost forgotten he was there. He was watching her too closely, as if he could read her thoughts.

She forced a smile. “I was just remembering my mother. We didn’t get along well.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

She cocked her head as she watched him. “I hope you don’t understand what that’s like.”

“I don’t,” he answered simply. “My mother helped my father raise us even when she suffered her worst attacks of MS.”

“She sounds wonderful and brave. I’ll have to meet her sometime.”

To her surprise, he didn’t respond, even out of politeness. Protective, was he?

He gestured to the box. “Well, good night then. Hope you find something in there you’re looking for.”

She wished him the same and briefly watched him walk into the kitchen. She was staring at the box again when the back door opened and closed. The box couldn’t contain anything she was looking for because she wanted the future, not the past. She folded it shut.

The next morning at dawn, Nate was working side by side with Josh in the horse barn, raking dirty straw and loading it in the back of a flatbed. The barn was still cold before the spring day could warm it, and the horses occasionally neighed to one another, or butted Nate’s arm when he passed. Scout moved in and out of the stalls, yipping at the horses as if greeting old friends.

“So have you been to Outlaws recently?” Nate asked. “It’s been a long time since you offered to be my wingman.”

Josh laughed, for neither brother ever needed help approaching a woman. Nate tended to be more open and sociable, filling time with words instead of having to answer questions, while Josh let the soulful-cowboy thing work for him.

Josh stepped out of an empty stall and regarded him with interest. “Funny you should mention that. I was at Outlaws, and saw Brooke and Monica with that new woman everyone’s talkin’ about.”

Pretending nonchalance, Nate looked at the time on his phone, then put in his earpiece. The calls would begin soon. He realized Josh was still watching him. “Brooke didn’t mention seeing you.”

“I didn’t want to be noticed by my sister,” Josh said dryly.

Nate chuckled.

He leaned on the end of his rake. “Nice dodge, big brother.”

Nate shoveled a pile of straw into the wheelbarrow. “Dodge?” He didn’t want to talk about Emily. But now she was there in his mind, her expression full of hesitation and hope and even wariness in the shadowy dining room looking at the box from her past.

And then his phone rang on his belt and relief washed over him. He tipped it toward him to read the ID. “Give me a sec. It’s about the grandstands for the rodeo.” He kept the conversation brief, then tapped his earpiece to hang up. “So what happened at Outlaws?”

“It’s amazing how you go from one thing to another without missing a beat.” Josh smiled, shaking his head, and took his towering wheelbarrow outside to shove onto the flatbed.

Nate piled his own wheelbarrow a bit higher than his brother’s had been.

“You have an amazing mind,” Josh continued, returning to lean against the empty stall, “able to do so many things at once—too many things. You can’t possibly keep functioning this way, doing everything, being everything to everybody.”

“Josh, you sound like I’m an old man who needs to slow down. I’m in my prime, boy!” he said, keeping his voice light, even though Josh was irritating the hell out of him.

“I’m glad about your new girl, really I am.”

Nate kept his face impassive. “She’s not my girl.”

“Tony De Luca said you met her the first night she was in town. That’s good. She might help you remember there’s more to life than work.”

Nate turned his back. “I played some pool that night, and that was all.”

“Really? Besides Tony, there were others doing some talking.”

Nate rubbed his forearm across his perspiring face. “Let me guess—Ned and Ted.”

As Josh gave a knowing grin, Nate’s phone rang again. The strangest expression came over Josh’s face. Nate let the phone ring.

“Get that,” Josh said seriously. “It’s important to you.”

“Everything’s important to me. And I treat it all that way.”

Nate answered, continuing to rake while he talked to Joe Sweet about Valentine’s organic farms co-op. Joe was a fellow rancher whose family also owned the Sweetheart Inn. As if Joe didn’t have enough to do, he’d gotten involved in coordinating the distribution of organic produce to restaurants in Aspen and the rest of the Roaring Fork Valley.

When he hung up, Josh was coming back in with the empty wheelbarrow. The phone rang again, and Nate silenced it without looking.

Josh sighed. “I know you. You’ll regret not taking that. You try to be there for every fence post we put in a hole, every horse that needs to be shoed—and every report about the winery or the farm. You can’t keep this pace up. Maybe this woman will help you see that you have to make choices, Nate.”

“That’s enough,” Nate said shortly.

“For now,” Josh shot back, and stalked out of the barn.

Emily slept a bit too late for a long run, so she decided to walk through Valentine Valley for her exercise. On leaving her room, she glanced at her mother’s box, then away again. It seemed to stare at her as she left. She was being an idiot. Remembering the lunch she’d packed the night before, she realized she would have to do another grocery run soon, further depleting her savings.

Rain had fallen through the night, making everything glisten with the morning sun, like the world had been sprayed with glitter. The Silver Creek was running even higher as she crossed the bridge, flecks of foam spraying into the air. She walked the streets parallel to Main, enjoying that they were all named after women: Nellie Street, Clara Street, Grace, Mabel, and Bessie, names that must have been popular in the late nineteenth century when the town was new. Past the town hall, an inn gleamed with old-fashioned elegance, perched on the slope of the Elk Mountains. She’d heard more than once that she should try the restaurant there, the finest dining in town, but that would be too big a strain on her wallet.

A landscaped rose garden made up a city block, complete with a fountain and a stone bridge over a fishpond. Four bed-and-breakfasts presided, one at each corner. Monica had called them the Four Sisters, and with the cupolas, gingerbread trim, and wraparound porches, they were elegant reminders of another era. A van was parked in the driveway of one of them, unloading tables and chairs, and Emily imagined an outdoor engagement party or wedding reception.

And everywhere, even at midmorning, were the lovers. She spotted them kissing under vine-covered trellises or biking side by side. At the rose garden, she was asked to take a couple’s picture on the bridge, and they confided he’d asked her to marry him on that same spot fifty years ago.

As far as love was concerned, Emily felt even more ancient than they were. How did a relationship last so long?

She was feeling a little down by the time she approached her building, turning into the alley. She came up short on seeing Nate’s pickup, dismayed to find herself feeling a jolt of interest. Oh, this wasn’t good.

And then Brooke came out of Monica’s Flowers and Gifts, keys dangling from her hand, and noticed her arrival. “Hey, Em, you’re just in time. Give me a hand with this mattress.”

Em? Even her mother hadn’t been so casual with her, so . . . familiar. She kind of liked it.

Brooke pulled down the rear door of the pickup, and Emily saw a plastic-draped mattress.

“It’s the one Monica mentioned. Mrs. Shaw was thrilled to get rid of it without a fuss. I borrowed Nate’s pickup.”

“But—what do I owe her?”

“I asked, and she said it was twenty years old, and she hoped you wouldn’t ask for money to take it.”

They smiled at each other.

“Let me unlock the doors and set down my backpack,” Emily said, suddenly eager.

Between the two of them, they dragged the mattress upstairs and plopped it into the frame. Emily was breathing a little hard, but Brooke only wiggled her eyebrows and made a muscle with one arm to emphasize her strength.

After hearing someone come through the door, they left the bedroom to see Monica.

“Hey, this is just like my place,” Monica said, smiling.

Emily looked around her, trying to see the apartment as others did, now that the garbage had been removed. It still needed a good cleaning, of course, and scuffmarks and nail holes decorated the white walls. The two bedrooms—one larger than the other—and bathroom were in the rear of the apartment, overlooking the alley. The main living area was open, with a view of Main Street. The galley kitchen had a small window set in the wall between it and the living room, and a table and two chairs sat nearby. But the big front window let in a lot of light. The place had promise, and hopefully whoever purchased the building would agree.

The only other piece of furniture was a couch with torn cushions, sitting forlornly in the middle of the dull wood floor.

“You don’t plan to use that,” Monica began doubtfully.

Emily shook her head. “No, but I needed another person to help move it.”

“Then let’s go,” Brooke said.

After it had been removed to the Dumpster, Emily led the way into the restaurant kitchen, saying, “Come on in for a soda.”

As they drank, Brooke walked around the place, peering into the dining room. “Hey, what’s this?” she called, walking to the front entrance. She bent down and picked up something that had been slipped under the door. “Guess this is for you.”

Emily’s name was scrawled across a Deering Family Real Estate envelope.

“I was wondering when Howie Junior would get to you,” Brooke said, shaking her head.

“ ‘Get to’ me?”

“Brooke, that’s not fair,” Monica said. “It’s his business to discuss property that’s for sale.”

“Shouldn’t I be talking to him?” Emily asked.

Brooke sighed. “I dated him in high school. He liked to kiss and tell.”

“He’s grown up since then.” Monica shook her head. “Brooke just doesn’t like her private life discussed.”

Emily almost said Just like her brother, but she stopped herself in time.

“And I’m certain she kisses better now,” Monica added solemnly.

“You people all know each other!” Emily said with a laugh. “Is there anyone in town who doesn’t have a story to tell about someone else?”

Brooke and Monica shrugged at each other, then said in unison, “Nope.”

“I took a walk around town this morning, and although people were all friendly, sometimes I felt like everyone was staring at me, just waiting for me to do something worth talking about.”

Monica bit her lip. “Girl, I think you already did. It seems the plumbers—”

“Ned and Ted Ferguson,” Emily interrupted.

“Well, they told Bill Chernoff at the post office, who told Sally Gillroy from the mayor’s office—”

“The mayor!” Emily cried.

“No, she’s the clerk, but she told my mom, who’s a receptionist for Doc Ericson, who told me.”

“Told you what?” Emily asked with a sigh. Rumors could transform into ugly things.

“That you and Nate got a little drunk the first night you were in town.”

Brooke gaped at her. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“So I’m supposed to tell you about your brother?” Emily threw her hands wide. “Anything else?”

“That you went into the back room to play pool, and a half hour later, you came hurrying out red-faced, and Nate looked angry.”

Well, at least the whole town didn’t know how far things had gone. “This is embarrassing.”

“You don’t need to tell us if you don’t want to,” Monica said soothingly.

“There’s nothing to really tell,” Emily insisted. “We bet a kiss on the pool game, and in the middle of the kiss, I stopped it. I’ve never drunkenly kissed a stranger before, and I was just mortified.”

“That’s all?” Brooke said, obviously a little disappointed.

“Well . . . there might have been some groping.” She closed her eyes with a groan when the two women glanced at each other and chuckled. “I don’t want to talk about my horrible behavior that night. We’ve since apologized to each other, and we’re friends.”

“Groping friends,” Monica mused thoughtfully. “Maybe I should try that.”

“We’re not groping anymore,” Emily shot back.

“Sorry if we’re too nosy,” Monica soothed. “Neither of us is dating anyone, so even hearing about drunken groping sounds more exciting than our lives have been lately.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Emily said wearily. “It’s just that . . . I’ve recently come away from a terrible marriage, and I’ll be leaving in a few weeks, and dating would just be too complicated. Nate’s been a friend.”

“That’s my brother,” Brooke drawled. “Nooo self-interest there.”

“We’re not dating!” Emily insisted. The merest thought of trusting a man again, especially now that she’d put her own future first . . . no, she had new priorities, things to accomplish on her own. “Now can I see the envelope addressed to me?” she asked sweetly.

Brooke handed it over. Emily scanned the contents, written in a cheerful manner by Howard Deering—though she could only think of him as Howie Junior, thanks to Brooke.

“Someone is interested in my building!” Emily said, grinning at her two friends.

Monica smiled. “Good for you. Do we know the person?”

“Howie—Mr. Deering—didn’t say.”

“It’s kind of strange that he wouldn’t mention the buyer,” Brooke mused.

“I’ll call.” Emily dialed the real-estate office and reached a receptionist, who gave her Howie’s cell phone. To her surprise, he hesitated about revealing the interested party, and when at last he did, she understood his reluctance. After hanging up, she put on an innocent air and took another sip of her Diet Coke.

“Well?” Brooke demanded.

Emily laughed. “You’re going to love this. The name of the company is Leather and Lace. They have another store in San Francisco, and they’re beginning to branch out. Take a guess what they sell.”

“Leather and Lace . . .” Brooke mused. “Decorated saddles?”

“You would go there.” Monica rolled her eyes. “S & M?”

“Close,” Emily said. “Naughty lingerie.”

“Ooh.” Monica looked thoughtful. “However will I concentrate on work with that next store?”

“They’re very sexy, and apparently run the gamut from really naughty to tasteful. And who says I’ll accept their offer?” she added. “They’re not making one until they see the building. And I’m not letting anyone see this disaster for a while.”

“You think they’ll fit in here?” Brooke asked. “This can be a conservative town.”

“Valentine Valley,” Emily emphasized the name. “Isn’t it all about romance? And what says romance better than honeymoon clothes?”

“I like it,” Monica said firmly.

“We’ll see if anyone else does.” Brooke looked doubtful.

“Don’t be pessimistic,” Emily said. “Someone has an actual interest in the building, and in this economy, I’ll take what I can get. Now if someone else is interested, and they start a bidding war . . . maybe I’ll have my college tuition paid for with lots to spare for a baby.” She hugged herself, pushing back her doubts and worries. “Back to work. I have to get to the hardware store.”

“And Mrs. Wilcox is probably panicking without me,” Monica said glumly.

“And Nate threatened to whip me if I didn’t help take care of some fences in the horse pasture.”

When Emily was alone, she let the peaceful happiness of friendship wash over her. Already, she felt like she could tell Brooke and Monica anything, and they’d understand and sympathize, or even tell her she was making a mistake. She realized, to her delight, that girlfriends were family, too.

Emily walked the one block to the hardware store, feeling cheerful and positive. She browsed in the windows of the Vista Gallery of Art, admiring its beautiful mountain landscapes, then inhaled the aroma from the coffee shop Espresso Yourself. She didn’t like coffee, but she loved the scent that drifted out the door when someone went inside. Several people sat outside at little wrought-iron two-person tables, even though the day was overcast. Emily nodded and smiled as people did the same to her. It still surprised her how friendly everyone was.

Hal’s Hardware, a clapboard structure built on a corner lot, rose three stories, a rarity in Valentine. Inside, she stopped in amazement at how much was crammed in each aisle, floor to ceiling. The first thing she saw was the paint department, where a large table was placed near a coffeemaker. Three men sat around the table, and turned to stare when she closed the door behind her. They were in their sixties and older, but it was hard to tell with men who spent their working lives outdoors.

Feeling as on display as a butterfly pinned to a board, Emily forced a smile. “Good morning.”

They all smiled back, to one degree or another, but the interest was obvious.

“Hey there, girl,” one grizzled old man called, taking off his cowboy hat as if to see her better with steel blue eyes. He wore a well-used tan Carhartt jacket, open over his overalls. “You lost?”

“Not if this is the hardware store,” she said pleasantly.

She glanced at the clerk behind the cash register, an older man who wore glasses above a beard laced with white like his sandy hair. His pleated denim shirt was monogrammed with the name “Hal.” Not a clerk then.

Hal smiled. “You’ve come to the right place, Miss . . .” He trailed off.

All the men seemed to wait in fascination for her identity, but before she could say it, another man at the table, balding, wearing the blue shirt of the US Postal Service, spoke up. “Emily Murphy.”

One of the men nodded as if his suspicions were confirmed, and the other seemed to cock his head to study her.

“Bill Chernoff,” she responded to the postal clerk, remembering what Monica had told her about rumors spreading.

He reddened, and the man in the Carhartt jacket guffawed. “How do you know my name?”

She put one hand on her hip. “Rumors fly, but I guess you already know that.”

Behind the counter, Hal snorted. “She’s got ya there, Bill. I’m Hal Abrams, Mrs. Murphy.”

So he knew she’d been married—but of course, that made sense, since everyone in town knew she didn’t have her mother’s last name.

“Your grandparents were good people,” said the third man, wearing a down vest over his flannel shirt. His gray mustache was twirled up at the ends, and he had bushy eyebrows to match. “And we’re doin’ nothing but confrontin’ you. I’m more polite than these cowpokes. Name’s Francis Osborne, of the Circle F Ranch, and this here’s”—he gestured toward the man in the Carhartt jacket, who nodded, even as he briefly said something into a cell phone before hanging up—“Deke Hutcheson of Paradise Mountain Ranch.”

“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” Emily said politely. She glanced at Hal. “I guess your coffee’s better than the brew at Espresso Yourself next door.”

Deke shuddered. “Naw, this tastes like horse piss, but the company’s not bad.”

Bill Chernoff patted his slight paunch. “No Sweetheart Inn cookies to tempt me.”

She narrowed her eyes in puzzlement. “Sweetheart Inn cookies?”

“That’s where Suzie gets her coffee-dippin’ cookies next door.”

“I see.” She glanced at Hal and smiled. She was about to ask him where the drywall was, when Deke spoke.

“Never did get to eat at the restaurant that rented your grandma’s store. What are you doing with the place?”

All four eyed her, suddenly serious.

“I’m selling the building and returning home to San Francisco.”

“But your people come from here,” Francis said, bushy brows lowered in confusion.

For just a moment, she thought about asking questions about her mother even though these men were older than Delilah. But this was a very public forum—and she didn’t want to know, she reminded herself. “I wasn’t born here, but thanks for including me. It would have been nice to be raised in such a beautiful place.”

“It’s hard work keeping it beautiful,” Bill said. “You’ll find out when you put the building up for sale. Only certain stores fit in.”

Was he on the preservation-fund committee? she wondered with amusement.

“You never know who wants to move here,” Francis said, shaking his head. “Big-city folk from Denver want everything left ‘unspoiled,’ they say, as if our hundred-year-old ranches don’t belong here.”

“And then there’s the tourists,” Deke practically spat.

“They look harmless to me,” she said, “holding hands and taking pictures and eating at your restaurants.”

“But then they rent their ATVs. Punk-ass kids take down my NO TRESPASSING signs and ride through my hay like it’s just grass in a meadow.”

They all seemed to grumble under their breaths, nodding in agreement.

“Strangers bought up that house my boy’s been saving for,” Francis said. “Cash money, too.”

Hal shrugged at her, his expression regretful, as if he knew she had better things to do at his store.

The door jangled, and she glanced over her shoulder, stiffening as Nate Thalberg walked in, Scout at his heels. He had work gloves tucked into his belt and a scarf around his neck as if he’d just come from the ranch.

Deke patted his cell phone on the table. “These little things can be handy.”