Epilogue
The Grand Opening of Leather and Lace took place in the second week of October, in plenty of time for the holidays and the ski season. To Whitney’s surprise, her mom came, and Vanessa insisted that her dad would have come, too, but Chasz had an appointment to face the board. The two men actually sent a huge vase of flowers, which Monica personally delivered, knowing how thrilled Whitney would be.
And she was thrilled. She had everything she wanted, a new store with old-fashioned touches to fit in perfectly with the picturesque mountain town of Valentine Valley.
She had the final celebrity appearance of the famous Josh Thalberg, who insisted he was retiring from public life after the Opening.
And then there was Brooke, who was still teasing her baby brother for copying her and getting engaged only days later than she had.
Whitney pulled Josh away from his sister and through the crowd of people admiring the beautiful, romantic lingerie lying across antique hatboxes and pooling amidst old costume jewelry.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Josh said.
She kept her arm around his waist. “You won’t be thanking me for long. Guess what my mom just told me? They’ve bought a condo in Aspen to spend part of each year here.”
“And you think I wouldn’t like that my soon-to-be wife can see her family on a regular basis?”
“Your parents might not like sharing grandparent privileges all the time.”
“We have a while before we worry about that…” His voice trailed off, and he stared at her. “Don’t we?”
She shrugged and gave him a tentative smile. “Apparently we don’t have as much time as I thought. I’m not quite sure how it happened but—”
Josh let out a whoop and swung her around, shouting, “I’m gonna be a dad! Hey, you better make me a husband first.”
Can’t get enough of Valentine Valley?
Good news, there is so much more to come!
When the wedding of the century comes to town,
flower shop owner, Monica Shaw,
finds herself falling for a Secret Service agent.
Keep reading for a look at
A Promise at Bluebell Hill
coming in March 2014…
Chapter One
In the workroom of Monica’s Flowers and Gifts, Monica Shaw stood at a large table, critically studying the flower arrangement for a wedding the next day. It was May in Valentine Valley, Colorado, the start of wedding season, one of her busiest times of the year. She loved every moment of it, from helping a nervous man find the perfect flowers to ask his girl to marry him, to making the bride feel like she was the centerpiece of the altar, framed in beautiful flowers: roses, tulips and dahlias, with a spray of white delphiniums. And she was good at what she did, as more and more of her customers confided that they’d been referred by their satisfied friends. The walls of the workroom were covered in photos from her successful events and reminded her of happy occasions and a job well done.
The bell at the front door jingled, and she glanced through the window that separated the workroom from the showroom. The door swung closed behind a tall man dressed in khakis, a dark blue polo shirt, and a windbreaker. He looked good—broad, muscled shoulders tapering to narrow hips. He had a square-jawed Captain-America face, beneath a military cut of deep auburn hair, and carried himself with a regality that seemed out of place in a flower shop—heck, in the whole town.
Dark sunglasses still hid his eyes as his head briefly turned from side to side. She knew the girly stuff he saw in her showroom: flowers, terrariums, plants in baskets along one side, and on the other, homemade crafts she took in on consignment, like quilted baby blankets, knitted layettes, ceramic vases, and leather frames. Behind the front counter were coolers full of flower arrangements anyone off the street could buy. Surely he was there for roses—he looked like a rose sort of lady’s man, no spontaneously picked wildflowers for him.
He finally took off the sunglasses, revealing the deepest blue eyes Monica had ever seen, piercing and intelligent, cool and impassive, above a nose with a slight crook in it, as if he’d broken it once and hadn’t bothered having it fixed. With those eyes he took in her work, her life, and didn’t even twitch a lip in a smile. Monica immediately didn’t want to like him, just from that lack of expression—but she was far too fascinated already.
Through the window, Monica watched Karista, her freckle-faced teenage sales associate, drop the tissue she’d shredded just looking at the stranger, to approach the counter and speak to him. The words were too muffled for Monica to hear, but when the man turned away, it was obvious he meant to browse. He glanced at Sugar and Spice’s daily pastry laid out on the little wrought-iron table, today a raspberry torte, but moved on. How could he resist that? Not many people did.
Perhaps he was a Josh Thalberg groupie, trying to score leather-carved goods before they were all gone. Josh’s fame had started in her store, but now he was creating expensive shoulder bags for an Aspen boutique and exclusive necklaces for his wife’s lingerie store, Leather and Lace. He didn’t have as much time for the checkbook covers, key chains, and frames he’d done for her in the past. People were starting to express their disappointment that she didn’t have a larger selection, and she was surprised how much his popularity was playing with her head—as if her flower arrangements weren’t enough to lure customers anymore.
The stranger did pause to look at Josh’s work, intricate and unusual, standing out next to the crocheted baby bonnets. Then he gave Karista a nod, slid his sunglasses back on his face, and headed outside.
Monica hurried through the swinging door and said, “Who was that?” just as Karista exclaimed, “Did you see him?”
They laughed together.
“He can’t be from around here,” Karista said, light brown ponytail bobbing as she shook her head. “But he doesn’t exactly look like a tourist either.”
“And he was just browsing?”
“That’s all he said. Real deep voice, too. Called me ‘miss,’ all formal.”
Monica came around the counter and moved through her shop until she reached the big plate glass windows that bracketed the front door. She leaned across her flower displays and could just see the stranger studying the sign above the shop connected to her own, SUGAR AND SPICE, before going inside the bakery.
“Do you see him?” Karista asked as she reached her side.
“He just went into Em’s place.”
Emily Thalberg was one of Monica’s best friends. She’d arrived in Valentine Valley a couple years before to sell a building she’d inherited, but ended up finding a passion for pastry and marrying a local cowboy, instead.
“And now he’s left Em’s empty-handed—guess he was browsing there, too—and is heading into Wine Country. Weird.”
“He could just be sight-seeing. You never know what tourists want to see,” Karista added, with a teenager’s faint disdain.
Monica grinned. “He doesn’t look like a tourist.” Then her stomach growled. “Hey, Karista, I’m going to take my lunch outside and sit in the sun.”
“You just want to spy on him,” the girl teased.
“And maybe I do. I’ll let you know while you slave over those bows that need to be made.”
Karista gave a cute, fake pout and followed her behind the counter. Monica took her salad out from the flower cooler, grabbed a fork, napkin and her water bottle, and headed outside to sit on the bench in front of her big window. It was one of those crisp mountain days, brilliant blue sky encompassing the nearby Elk Mountains like an umbrella. Some of the hardier summer perennials were already filling planters along Main Street. Freestanding display signs stood on the sidewalk outside several businesses, advertising the day’s specials. Her block was filled with two-story clapboard buildings painted blue and yellow and red like a field of flowers. At the end of the street, closest to the mountains, the stone tower of town hall rose up, the highest point in Valentine. The Hotel Colorado took up the whole block directly opposite her, three stories of stone, with arched columns along the first floor like the vaulted ceilings she’d seen in photos of castles.
Was the stranger noticing the prettiness of this little town? Or did he have something else in mind? He didn’t seem like a browsing tourist. Sure enough, as she worked her way through the salad, she saw him appear out of another couple stores along the north side, then cross the street and go from store to store along the south, too, making his way slowly back toward her. Occasionally he answered a phone call or text. She didn’t hide her curiosity, and she noticed him look at her. When he came out of another store, he glanced again, and this time she gave a little wave. What the hell. Maybe he’d come talk to her, and she’d figure out what was going on without having to chase him down. He didn’t wave back.
She noticed the oddest thing about him, how he looked at every person he passed, even glancing down at their hands, both men and women. He seemed so… alert, not caught up in his “browsing,” not like a tourist out for a sightseeing stroll. And if he was killing time before some kind of event, well, he’d chosen an odd way. Most guys would find a bar and watch a game. In fact, he’d already gone into the Halftime Sports Bar and come back out again.
He reached the hotel and put a hand on the big glass door to go inside—and then turned and looked at her again. She stiffened, waiting, then felt a sharp sizzle as he headed back across the street and straight toward her. Why was she letting this guy get to her? He was staying at the hotel, obviously just passing through, and man, did he look full of himself. And they hadn’t even exchanged a word!
That was about to change.
He stepped onto the sidewalk and stopped in front of her. A couple strolling hand-in-hand shot him a look as they had to veer around him. They went inside her shop.
“Excuse me,” he said, in the deepest, most delicious voice she’d heard in a long time, “but is there a reason you’re watching me?”
Shielding her eyes with one hand, Monica gave him a sunny smile. “Is there a reason you’re going from shop to shop, staying nowhere long, like someone casing each place?”
From behind the sunglasses, he lifted an eyebrow. “I’m new to town—you’re bothered that I’m checking out places I might like to shop or eat?”
She thought she detected the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, as if he were trying to suppress it.
“Or you might want to buy flowers? Or jewelry?” she asked sweetly.
“I’m here a few weeks for business. Have to fill my time somehow,” he added lightly. He glanced from her lunch spread to the flower shop sign. “So you work here?”
“I’m the owner.”
He nodded as if in understanding. “No wonder you feel like you can interrogate customers.”
She laughed. “Only ones who are trying to appear mysterious.” She put out a hand. “I’m Monica Shaw. I don’t suppose you want to sit down on this bench so I don’t pull something in my neck trying to get a good look at you.”
“Travis Beaumont.”
His handshake was firm and warm. He sat down beside her, his back as straight as a character from one of her favorite historical romances—the duke who deigned to visit a commoner. But he didn’t seem to be arrogant, just… alert, as his gaze scanned the street before resting with interest on her face again.
“Nice name, Travis Beaumont.”
“Thank you. Not that I had anything to do with it.”
“Your parents gave it to you, and you didn’t make it up here on the spot?”
He cocked his head, his voice pleasant as he said, “If I didn’t want you to know my name, I wouldn’t have told you.”
“Right, like the mysterious business trip.” She held up a bag of almonds. “Want some?”
“No, thank you.”
She got the feeling that he was waiting to see what she’d come up with next. Maybe he was flattered by her curiosity. “Have you ever been to Valentine Valley before?”
“No. I’ve been to Denver, but that was it. Have you lived here your whole life?”
“Yep. A small town girl, that’s me. Except for college, of course.”
“Where did you attend?”
“Think you know me from somewhere?”
“No, because I’m pretty sure I’d remember you.”
“Flatterer.” She took another bite of her salad, chewed, and swallowed before answering. “I have a business degree from Colorado State, and took courses in floral design. So I’ve answered your question, and now maybe you’ll answer another of mine. Where are you from?”
“Right now, Washington, D.C.”
“But that’s not where you’re originally from, of course.”
He linked his hands together, forearms resting on his thighs. “I’m from a small town in Montana that you would never have heard of. My turn to ask. Do you own the shop with anyone else?”
Now that was a curious question. “Nope, I’m the sole owner.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry if I’m out of line. You just seem young.”
For some reason, she got the feeling that wasn’t the whole explanation.
“I was going to ask the concierge a question,” he continued, “but maybe you can help me. Do you know a place off the beaten path where my men can relax this evening?”
His men. Spoken like a soldier. Travis Beaumont seemed nothing like the laid-back guys she knew. But that was most of his appeal. And his handsome face, of course.
“Tony’s Tavern. It’s on Nellie Street, by Highway 82. Dark bar, pool table, darts. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
He stood up. “Thanks for the information. Nice meeting you.” After nodding, he headed back across the street and disappeared inside the hotel.
Monica slowly gathered her lunch and took it inside. The strolling couple were just taking a bag from Karista, and they smiled as they passed Monica and went outside.
The door had barely closed when Karista said, “I could hardly concentrate on them—what was that hot guy saying to you?”
“Not much, but it was fun anyway.”
Now she’d have to decide if she actually meant to search out Travis Beaumont at Tony’s. There was something far too intriguing about him.
Secret Service Special Agent Travis Beaumont stood at the window of the third floor hotel room that he’d begun to transform into a command center. He stared thoughtfully at Monica’s Flowers and Gifts down below, with its backdrop of mountains, some still dusted with snow at the peaks. Behind him a number of agents set up conference tables, radios, printers, and computers, which would eventually connect all of the agents on the ground with headquarters and the White House. President Alanna Torres would be visiting Valentine Valley within two weeks, attending her son’s wedding—not that more than a handful of people in town knew those details yet. Travis had been entrusted with his first assignment as lead agent with the advance team. And he wasn’t about to blow it because of a cute, flirtatious woman with the most incredible deep brown eyes.
He told himself to stop, that he was sounding hung up on her. But there was no denying she was gorgeous, with a head full of black curls like a starburst, light brown flawless skin, and high cheekbones that gave her an exotic look. Her slim cropped pants had hugged her hips, while her short-sleeve top had shown off toned arms. It had taken everything in him not to stare at her, to pretend indifference. It had been awhile since he felt this attracted to someone. After his divorce two years ago, he’d shied away from dating altogether, then occasionally had a meal out, mostly with women his buddies had set him up with. Nothing had clicked.
But all he’d had to do was look at Monica Shaw’s wry grin to feel his pulse rev up. And that was bad news.
Walking the streets of Valentine Valley had almost reminded him of his own hometown, where as a boy, he could race the streets, playing cop or soldier, and someone would always be looking out for him, prepared to tell his mom if he was up to no good—or prepared to keep him safe. But this small town was now part of his job, and he would have to know it inside out, meeting with the police and fire chiefs, even the medical personnel at the closest hospital. And if he didn’t have an exact presidential itinerary yet? Well, that was nothing new. Sometimes the president’s junior staffers were clueless.
But at least there were parts of his job that were easy. His site agent had already scheduled a meeting with the Sweetheart Inn, where the wedding would take place. His transportation agent would be meeting with the local cops to get a feel for every street in town. He’d soon have 3-D models of Main Street from the Forensic Services Division, so they could find every vulnerability to guard the presidential motorcade. To that end, he’d spent his first afternoon looking at the street from on the ground, checking out the stores, the amount of customers, the sightseers. He also needed a place for an observation post, with a great sight line to the front entrance of the hotel, since the president would be staying there.
His team would be doing background checks on all the owners, of course, but the flower shop had an ideal location, right across the street, and a second floor. He saw the curtains of an apartment, not a business. The countersniper team would have a tactical advantage from such a location.
It didn’t hurt that the owner was easy on the eyes, and that she’d sort of flirted with him. That usually didn’t happen. He knew he gave off a serious, no-nonsense vibe, and most women were looking for fun. Not that he’d ever get involved with someone while on the job—it was difficult enough to deal with an ex-wife who was also an agent and the constant travel. He didn’t have time for anything else. It was serious, crucial work, protecting the president, especially the first female president. The usual average of ten threats a day against a president were fifty percent higher for President Torres. All of them were taken seriously. He was focused on his job, and nothing would stand in his way.
But part of his job was making sure his team relaxed when they needed to, letting off steam during their brief hours away so they could be more alert on the job. Even though he didn’t take advantage of the fun—besides a good beer and maybe a game of pool—he was one of them. He wanted to lead by example, and he wanted their respect.
And if they saw Monica flirting with him—well, it couldn’t hurt him, as far as his men were concerned. And meanwhile, he’d be sizing her up, deciding if she’d be the perfect host for a countersniper team. He found himself hoping she’d show up at Tony’s Tavern.
Keep reading for a look at where it all began
in
A Town Called Valentine
and
True Love at Silver Creek Ranch
and
A Wedding in Valentine
Available Now!
An Excerpt from
A Town Called Valentine
The car gave one last shudder as Emily Murphy came to a stop in a parking space just beneath the blinking sign of Tony’s Tavern. She turned off the ignition and leaned back against the headrest as the rain drummed on the roof, and the evening’s darkness settled around her. The car will be all right, she told herself firmly. Taking a deep breath, she willed her shoulders to relax after a long, stressful day driving up into the Colorado Rockies. Though the trip had been full of stunning mountain vistas still topped by snow in May, she had never let her focus waver from her mission.
She glanced up at the flashing neon sign, and her stomach growled. The tavern was near the highway and wasn’t the most welcoming place. There were only two pickups and a motorcycle beside her car on this wet night.
Her stomach gurgled again, and with a sigh, she tugged up the hood of her raincoat, grabbed her purse, and stepped out into the rain. Gingerly jumping over puddles, she made it beneath the overhang above the door and went inside. A blast of heat and the smell of beer hit her face. The tavern was sparsely furnished, with a half dozen tables and a long bar on the right side of the room. Between neon signs advertising beer, mounted animal heads peered down at the half dozen customers. A man and a woman sat at one table, watching a baseball game on the flat screen TV—at least there was one other woman in the place. Another couple men hunched at the bar, glancing from beneath their cowboy hats at her before turning away. No surprise there.
When she hesitated, the bartender, a man in his thirties, with shaggy dark hair and pleasant features, gave her a nod. “Sit anywhere you’d like.”
Smiling gratefully, she slipped off her raincoat, hung it on one of the many hooks near the door, and sat down. She discovered her table was opposite the only man at a table by himself. He was directly in her line of vision, making it hard to notice anything else. He was tall, by the length of his denim-clad legs. Beneath the shadowing brim of his cowboy hat, she could see an angular face and the faint lines at the corner of his eyes of a man who spent much of his day squinting in the sun. She thought he might be older than her thirty years but not by much.
When he tipped his hat back and met her eyes, Emily gave a start, realizing she’d been caught staring. It had been so long since she’d looked at any man but her ex-husband. Her face got hot, and she quickly pulled the slightly sticky menu out from its place between a napkin dispenser and a condiment basket.
A shadow loomed over her, and for a moment, she thought she’d given the cowboy some kind of signal. Maybe her presence alone in a bar late at night was enough.
But it was only the bartender, who gave her a tired smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”
She almost said a Diet Coke, but the weariness of the day overtook her, and she found herself ordering a beer. She studied the menu while he was gone, remembered her lack of funds, and asked for a burger when he returned. Some protein, some carbs, and with lettuce and tomato, it made a pretty well-rounded meal. She had to laugh at herself.
“I didn’t know the menu was that funny,” said a deep voice.
Not the bartender. Emily glanced up and met the solitary cowboy’s gaze. Even from one table over, she could see the gleam of his green eyes. His big hand lifted a bottle of beer to his lips, yet he never stopped watching her.
Was a cowboy trying to pick her up in a mountain bar? She blinked at him and tried to contain her smile. “No, I was smiling at something else,” she said, trying to sound polite but cool.
To her surprise, the cowboy simply nodded, took another swig of his beer, and glanced back at the TV. She did the same, drinking absentmindedly and trying to pretend she liked baseball. Her ex-husband had been a fan of the San Francisco Giants, so she’d gone to an occasional game when one of the partners couldn’t attend.
By the time her hamburger arrived, she’d finished her beer. The cowboy was watching her again, and she recklessly ordered another. Why not? Though she hadn’t eaten much today, the burger would certainly offset the alcohol. Hungrily, she dug in. The two men at the bar started to play darts, and she watched them for a while. The cowboy did, too, but he watched her more.
She studied him back. “Don’t cowboys have to get up early? You’re out awful late.” What was she doing? Talking to a stranger in a tavern?
But she was away from home, and everything she’d thought about herself had gone up in flames this past year. Her belly had warmed with food and the pleasant buzz of her second beer. Emily Murphy would never talk to a man in a bar—but Greg had made sure she didn’t feel like Emily Murphy anymore. Changing back to her maiden name would be a formality.
And then the cowboy gave her a slow smile, and she saw the dimples that creased the leanness of his cheeks and the amusement hovering in those grass green eyes. “Yes, ma’am, it’s well past my bedtime.”
She bit her lip, ready to finish her burger and scurry back to her car, like the old, properly married Emily would have done. But she wasn’t that person anymore. A person was made up of what she wanted, and everything Emily had thought she wanted had fallen apart. She was becoming a new woman, an independent woman, who didn’t need a husband, or a mother, to make a success of her life.
But tonight, she was also just a single woman in a bar. And who was that hurting if she was? She could smile at a man, even flirt a bit. She wasn’t exactly dressed for the part, in her black sweater and jeans, but the cowboy didn’t seem to mind looking at her. She felt a flush of reaction that surprised her. How long had it been since she’d felt desirable instead of just empty inside? Too long.
“You’ll hear this a lot if you stick around,” the cowboy continued, “but you’re a stranger around here.”
“Yes, I am,” she said, taking the last swig of her beer. Her second beer, she thought. “I’ve just driven from San Francisco.”
“Been here before?” he asked.
She grinned as she glanced at the mounted hunting trophies on the walls. “Not right here. But Valentine Valley? Yes, but it’s been a long, long time. Since my childhood in fact. So no one will know me.”
“Don’t worry,” he said dryly. “Everyone will make it their business to fix that.”
She eased back in her chair, tilting her head as she eyed him. “You don’t like that?”
He shrugged. “It’s all I’ve ever known.” Leaning his forearms on the table, he said, “Someone waiting for you tonight?”
“No.” A little shiver of pleasure stirred deep in her stomach. She wouldn’t let herself enjoy this too much. She was a free woman, flirting in a bar to pass the time after an exhausting day. It didn’t mean anything. The bartender brought over another beer, and she didn’t protest. “None of my family lives here anymore.”
For a moment, the cowboy looked as if he would question that, but instead, he glanced at the bartender. “Tony, since the dartboard’s taken, mind if we use the back room?”
Emily gaped at him.
The cowboy grinned as if he could read her mind. “Pool table. Do you play?”
She giggled. Oh, she’d really had too much to drink. But it was dark and raining, and she had no family here, and no one who cared what she did. She got to her feet and grabbed her beer. “Not since college. And I was never good. But if you need a reason to stay up past your bedtime…”
His laugh was a pleasurable, deep rumble. As she passed his table, he stood up, and for the first time she got a good look at the size of him, the width of his shoulders thanks to whatever work he did, the flannel shirt open over a dark t-shirt, those snug jeans following long legs down to well-used cowboy boots. Damn. He could really work a pair of jeans. And who would have thought she’d find cowboy boots hot? She’d always been drawn to a tailored suit and the subtle hint of a well-paid profession.
The back room was deserted on this stormy night. Low central lights hung over the table, brightly illuminating the playing surface but leaving the corners of the room in the shadows. Emily set her beer down on a nearby table, and the cowboy did the same.
He chose a cue stick. As she was pulling her hair back in a quick ponytail, he turned and came to a stop, watching her. His hungry gaze traveled down her body, and though she realized her posture emphasized her breasts, she didn’t stop until her hair was out of her face. It had been so long since a man looked at her with admiration and desire and need. Surely she’d be flustered—if it wasn’t for the beer.
She took the cue stick from him and smiled, saying, “Thanks,” knowing he’d chosen for himself.
He laughed and put several quarters in the table to release the balls. She watched him, drinking her beer and having a handful of mixed nuts from a basket on the table. Normally, she never would have eaten from food that could have been sampled by anyone. Tonight, it didn’t matter. She was a new woman.
“Do you have a name, cowboy?”
He’d been leaning over the table to rack the balls, but he straightened and looked at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “Nate.”
No last names. She felt a thrill of danger. “Emily.”
“Pretty.”
Though she normally would have blushed, this new, adventurous Emily smiled. “Thank you. But then I had no say in it.”
“I wasn’t talking about your name.” His voice was a low drawl, his eyes narrowed and glittering.
Had it gotten warmer in here? she wondered, unable to stop looking at him. Though there were several windows, they were streaked with rain, and it would be foolish to open them. Her sweater felt like it clung to her damply.
“So, Nate,” she said brightly, “are you going to take me for all my money?”
“I’m a high roller,” he said. “I might bet all of a dollar.”
She snorted, then covered her mouth.
“Or I might bet a kiss.”
She stared at him, still smiling, playing his game and not thinking. She was so tired of thinking. “Is that the prize if I win or what I owe if I lose?”
He chuckled. “Depends, I guess. Am I worth it?”
She couldn’t seem to take a deep enough breath. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to play and find out.”
They didn’t speak during the game, only watched each other play. Emily had to be honest with herself—she was watching him move. She liked the way his jeans tightened over his butt, how she could glimpse the muscles in his arms when he stretched out over the table. He took his hat off, and the waves in his black hair glinted under the light. The tension between them sizzled, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a hiss. They walked about the table, about each other, as if in a choreographed dance of evasion and teasing. This was flirtation as a high art, and he was far better at it than she’d ever been.
But the beer was helping. When it was her turn to lean over the table to line up a shot, she knew he was watching her hips, knew what, as a man, he was thinking. And although she would never have sex with a stranger, the thought that he desired her gave her a heady, powerful feeling. This new Emily, in the next stage of her life, could be lusty.
But not with a stranger, she reminded herself.
And then she lost the game, as she knew she would. She still had so many balls on the table as he sank his last one and slowly straightened to look at her.
“I’ll take that kiss,” he said, coming around the table.
Oh God. She was breathless already, looking up and up into those narrowed green eyes. He stopped right in front of her, her breasts almost touching his chest. She could feel the heat of him, the tension, the tug of danger, but it wasn’t exactly him she was afraid of. She was drunk enough that she was afraid what she might do if she tasted him.
But she was also drunk enough to try it. As she stepped forward, their bodies brushed. His inhalation was sexy in itself, letting her know that she could affect him. She waited for him to lean down over her, arched her neck—and then he put his hands on her waist. She gasped as he lifted her off her feet and set her on the edge of the pool table. With wide eyes, feeling breathless, she watched him, unaware that she kept her legs pressed together until he leaned against them.
He smiled, she smiled, and then she parted her knees, holding her breath as he stepped between them. Their faces were almost level.
He leaned in and very lightly touched his lips to hers. “Breathe,” he whispered, softly laughing.
She did with a sudden inhalation. What was she supposed to do with her hands? She was beginning to feel nervous and foolish and that she was making a mistake. And then he put his hands on the outside of her thighs and slowly slid them up, past the roundness of her hips to the dip in her waist.
“So delicate,” he murmured huskily, and kissed her again.
Part of her had expected a drunken kiss of triumph, but he took his time, his slightly parted lips taking hers with soft, little strokes. Soon she couldn’t keep herself from touching him, sliding her hands up his arms, feeling each ripple of muscle with an answering ripple of desire deep in her belly. Her thighs tightened around his hips, she slid her hands into his hair, then, as one, they deepened the kiss. He tasted of beer, and it was an aphrodisiac on this lost, lonely night. The rasp of his tongue along hers made her moan, and he pulled her tighter against him. She was lost in the heat of him, the feel of his warm, hard body in her arms. He tugged the band from her hair, and it spilled around her shoulders. She had no idea how long they kissed, only reveled in feeling absolutely wonderful. It had been so long.
He leaned over her, and she fell back, body arched beneath him, moaning again as he began to trail kisses down her jaw, then her neck. His big hands cupped her shoulders as he held her in place, her own hands clasped his head to her as if she would never let him go.
Deep inside, a whisper grew louder, that this was wrong. Another languid voice said no, they both wanted this, just a little while longer…
His mouth lightly touched the center V of her sweater; his hands cupped her ribs, his thumbs riding the outer curves of her breasts. The anticipation was unbearable; she wanted to writhe even as his hand slid up and over her breast as if feeling its weight. His thumb flicked across her nipple, and she jerked with pleasure. His hips were hard against hers, her legs spread to encompass him…
On a pool table, where anyone could walk into the back room and see them. The thrill of danger and excitement receded as guilt and worry rose up like hot bubbling water.
She was leading him on; he probably thought he could take her home and—
Torn between passion and mortification, she stiffened. “No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No, please stop.”
His hand froze, his head lifted until their eyes met.
She bit her lip, knowing she looked pathetic and remorseful and guilty. “I can’t do this. Our bet was only for a kiss.”
As he let his breath out, he straightened, pulling her up with him. He stayed between her thighs, watching her mouth. “Are you sure?” he whispered.
When she nodded, he stepped back as she jumped off the table. She stood there a moment, feeling shaky and foolish.
“I should go,” she said, turning away and heading back to the bar.
At her table, she couldn’t bear to wait for her bill, knowing that the bartender and the two dart players might have heard her moan. Her face was hot, her hands trembled, and she prayed that the TV had been loud enough. She threw down far more money than was probably necessary, but she just couldn’t face the bartender. Grabbing her raincoat off the hook, she ran out into the rain, jumped into her car, and sat there, feeling so stupid. She’d never done anything like that in her life. That man—Nate, she remembered—must think her the worst tease.
After a minute’s fumbling in the depths of her purse, she found her keys and slid them into the ignition. The car tried to turn over several times, but nothing happened. Emily closed her eyes and silently prayed. Please, not now.
She turned the ignition again, and although the engine strained once or twice, it wouldn’t start. She stared out the rain-streaked windshield at the glowing sign for Tony’s Tavern. She couldn’t go back in there. Her brain was fuzzy from too much alcohol as she tried to remember what she’d driven past when she left the highway. A motel perhaps? She’d been so worried about her car and the pouring rain and her growling stomach. How far could she walk at midnight in a strange town in a storm?
With a groan, she closed her eyes, feeling moisture from the rain trickle down her neck.
An Excerpt from
True Love at Silver Creek Ranch
Her chestnut quarter horse, Sugar, was the first to notice something wrong, startling Brooke Thalberg from her troubled thoughts. The November wind high in the Colorado Rockies, just outside Valentine Valley, was unseasonably brutal, whipping snow off the peaks of the Elk Mountains like lumbering giants exhaling icy puffs of breath. Sugar raised her head, sniffing that wind, ears twitching, leaving Brooke unsettled, uneasy, as she rode the pastures of the Silver Creek Ranch. She was checking the fence line so that the cattle didn’t find their way through and wander toward someone else’s land.
It was usually peaceful work, but today she was looking down the long road of her future and feeling that something was… wrong. And she hated to feel that way because she’d been blessed with so much.
Sugar lifted her head and shook her mane, neighing, her body tensing. Whatever she sensed wasn’t going away. Brooke lifted her own head—
And smelled smoke.
A shot of fear made her vault upright in the stirrups. She scanned her family’s land, focusing on the house first, framed between clusters of evergreens and aspens. But its two-story log walls seemed as sturdy as always, a faint haze of smoke rising from the stone chimney. The newer barn and sheds nearest the house seemed fine, and gradually she widened her search until she saw the old horse barn, farthest from the house—smoke billowing through the open double doors.
She kicked Sugar into a gallop, leaning forward over the horse’s twitching ears, the breath frozen in her throat. Oh, God, the horses. Frantically, she saw that several trotted nervously around the corral as if they, too, knew something was wrong. She tried to count them, but it was as if her brain had seized with the terror of what she was seeing.
Sugar’s hooves thundered beneath her, faster than even in her barrel-racing days, the ground a blur. The smoke pouring out of the open door grew darker and more menacing, twisting Brooke’s fear ever higher.
At last she reached the barn and threw herself off Sugar’s back, stumbling momentarily in the dirt before she found her balance. The smoke made her lungs spasm in a cough, but even that didn’t make her second-guess what she had to do. She pulled her neck scarf up over the lower half of her face and ran inside, keeping to a crouch. Immediately, the world became darker as the smoke swirled around her. Her shallow breathing was hot and stifled beneath the scarf. If she let herself panic, she could become disoriented, lost, so she kept a firm grip on her emotions. She’d yet to see flames, but she could hear several horses, their neighs more like screams that tore at her heart.
“I’m coming!” she cried, flailing toward the stalls.
She ran into something hard and was only saved from falling to the ground by hands that clasped the front of her coat.
A man pulled her toward him, a stranger, tall and broad-shouldered, his face beneath his cowboy hat obscured by a scarf just like hers was. She could only see a glimpse of his narrowed, glittering eyes, focused intently on her. Who was he? Had he set the fire? she wondered with outrage.
“Are you all right?” He shouted to be heard above the growing roar of the fire and the frightened cries of the horses. “How many horses are there?”
For a moment, her mouth moved, and nothing came out. She saw the tack-room door hanging ajar, its interior full of fire that crackled and writhed. The sight momentarily stunned and mesmerized her, then she suddenly snapped into a sharp awareness. She couldn’t worry about who this man was or what he was doing there. He’d offered to help, and that was all that mattered. Mentally, she counted the horses she’d seen out in the corral. “Should be two inside—no three!”
“I’ll take that side”—he pointed through the smoke toward the west side of the barn—“and you start here.”
She nodded and turned her back, beginning to fling open each stall door. At the fourth door, she was met by hooves pawing through the air. She cried out, diving sideways as they slammed into the wall right beside her. Before Dusty could rear again, she grabbed a blanket hung near the door, flung it over his head, and grabbed ahold of his halter. For a moment he fought her, but she wouldn’t give up.
“Please, Dusty, be a good boy. Come on!”
At last he seemed to dance toward her, and she felt a momentary triumph. She started to run, leading him toward the double doors open to the corral. As they reached fresh air, she pulled the blanket off Dusty’s head and he charged to the far end, where the other horses huddled nervously.
Brooke turned around to head back into the barn, only to see the stranger leading two terrified horses outside. Thank God, she prayed silently. But could she have counted wrong? How could she take the chance? She tried to race past him back into the barn, but he caught her arm and wouldn’t let go.
“You said three horses!” he shouted from beneath the scarf.
A groan seemed to emanate from the barn timbers, turning both their heads. Smoke wafted out in great streams to the sky, but the fire still seemed contained in the tack room.
“I can’t be sure until I check each stall!” She tried to yank her elbow away, but his grip was strong. A blast of heat wafted out, engulfing her, making her sweat even more beneath her layers of winter clothing. She felt almost light-headed.
He loomed over her, and now she could see the sandy waves of hair plastered above his ears, and his narrowed eyes, brown as the sides of the barn but so intent on her.
“I checked all six on the west side. I didn’t hear anything more coming from the east after you’d gone.”
“I can’t take that chance. I only got through four stalls on my side.” She stared at the herd of horses clustered uneasily at the far end of the corral. Nate’s horse, Apollo—was he there? She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to him. And then she saw the dappled gray gelding, and relief shuddered down her spine.
The man didn’t answer her, and she turned to see him disappear into the barn, the smoke swirling out and around him as if to draw him deep inside. A stab of fear shocked her—why was he risking himself for her? Her eyes stung as she reached the entrance, but he was there again, stumbling into her, the upper half of his face dirtied by the soot, his eyes streaming.
“It’s empty!” he called.
She could have staggered with relief that her beloved horses were all right—that this brave man hadn’t been injured.
But relief was only momentary as she began to think about the structure itself, built by her family well over a hundred years before. She hugged herself against the sadness.
As if reading her mind, he said, “You can’t do anything now. And I hear sirens.”
The fire engine from Valentine Valley roared down the dirt road that wound its way through the ranch. The horses were going to be even more frightened, so she ran to the end of the corral and opened the gate so they could escape into the next pasture.
When she returned to the stranger’s side, they were pushed out of the way by the trained professionals. Most were volunteers, like Sally Gillroy from the mayor’s office, who liked to gossip, and Hal Abrams, the owner of the hardware store where her dad and Nate met fellow ranchers for coffee. She recognized all these men and women, but it was strange to see their grim faces rather than easygoing smiles.
“Are you all right?” Hal demanded, his glasses reflecting the flames that had begun to shoot out both doors.
Brooke nodded, still hugging herself, feeling the presence of the stranger at her back. She almost took comfort from it, and that was strange.
“Horses all saved?”
She nodded again, and was surprised to feel a wave of pride and even excitement. Knowing she’d risked herself made her feel more alive and aware than she’d felt in a long time. Everything in life could be so transitory, and she’d just been accepting things that happened to her rather than making choices. She couldn’t live that way anymore. She had to find something that made her feel this alive, that gave her more purpose and focus.
And it scared the hell out of her.
“You’re in the way,” Hal said. “Go on up to the house and clean up. We’ll wet down any nearby buildings to keep them safe. But the barn is a goner.” He turned his shrewd eyes on the stranger. “Is that blood?”
Brooke spun around and saw that the stranger had lowered his scarf. In another situation, she might have been amused at the dark upper half of his face and the white lower half, but she saw blood oozing from a cut across his cheek.
“I’m fine.” The stranger used his gloved hand to swipe at his cheek and made everything worse.
“Come on,” Brooke said wearily, refusing to glance one last time at her family’s barn although she could hear the crackle and roar of the fire. “The bunkhouse is close. We’ll wash up there and see to your face.”
And she could look into his eyes and see if he was the sort who set fires for fun. He didn’t seem it, for he didn’t look back at the fire either, only trudged behind her.
The bunkhouse was an old log cabin, another of the original buildings from the nineteenth-century silver-boom days, when cattle from the Silver Creek Ranch had fed thousands of miners coming down from their claims to spend their riches in Valentine Valley. Brooke’s father had updated the interior of the cabin to house the occasional temporary workers they needed during branding or haying season. There were a couple sets of bunk beds along the walls, an old couch before the stone hearth, a battered table and chairs, kitchen cabinets and basic appliances at the far end of the open room, and two doors that led into a single bedroom and bathroom.
The walls were filled with unframed photos of the various hands they’d employed to work the ranch over the years. Some of those photos, tacked up haphazardly and curling at the edges, were old black-and-whites going almost as far back as photography did.
Brooke shivered with a chill even as she removed her coat. The heat was only high enough to keep the pipes from freezing, and she went to raise the thermostat. When she turned around, the stranger had removed his hat and was shrugging out of his Carhartt jacket, revealing matted-down hair and a soot-stained face. He was wearing a long-sleeve red flannel shirt and jeans over cowboy boots.
To keep from staring at him, she pointed to the second door. “Go on and wash up in the bathroom. I’ll find a first-aid kit.”
He silently nodded and moved past her, limping slightly, shutting the door behind him. He might be hurt worse than he was saying, she thought with a wince. As she opened cabinet doors, she realized the kit was probably in the bathroom. Sighing even as she rolled up her sleeves, she let the water run in the kitchen sink until it was hot, then soaped up her black hands and started on her face. If her hair hadn’t been in a long braid down her back, she’d have dunked her whole head under. She’d have to wait for a shower. Grabbing paper towels, she patted her skin dry.
A few minutes later, the stranger came out of the bathroom, his hair sticking up in short, damp curls, the first-aid kit in his hand. His face was clean now, and she could see that the two-inch cut was still bleeding.
“You probably need stitches,” she said, even as the first inkling of recognition began to tease her. “You don’t want a scar.”
He met her gaze and held it, and she saw the faintest spark of amusement, as if he knew something she didn’t.
“Don’t worry about it, Brooke.”
She hadn’t told him her name. “So I do know you.”
“It’s been a long time,” he said, eyeing her as openly as she was doing to him.
He was taller than her, well muscled beneath the flannel shirt that he’d pushed up to his elbows.
And then his name suddenly echoed like a shot in her mind. “Adam Desantis,” she breathed. “It’s been over ten years since you went off to join the Marines.”
He gave a short nod.
No wonder he looked to be in such great physical shape. Feeling awkward, she forced her gaze back to his face. He’d been good-looking in high school—and knew it—but now his face was rugged and masculine, a man grown.
She got flashes of memory then—Adam as the cool wide receiver all the high-school girls wanted, with his posse of arrogant sidekicks. He’d been able to rule the school, doing whatever he wanted—because his parents hadn’t cared, she reminded herself. And then she had another memory of the sixth-grade science fair, where all the parents had helped their kids with experiments, except for his. His display had been crude and unfinished, and his mother had drunkenly told him so in front of every kid within hearing range. Whenever Brooke thought badly of his antics in high school, that was the memory that crept back up, making her feel ill with pity and sorrow.
“Your grandma talks about you all the time,” she finally said. Mrs. Palmer spoke of him with glowing pride as he rose through the ranks to staff sergeant, a rarity at his age.
“Hope she doesn’t bore everybody,” he answered, showing sincerity rather than just tossing off something he didn’t mean. “I hear she lives with your grandma. The Widows’ Boardinghouse?”
“The name was their idea. They’re kind of famous now, but those are stories for another day. Come here and let me look at your cheek.” He moved toward her slowly, as if she were a horse needing to be calmed, which amused her.
“I can take care of it,” he said.
“Sit down.”
“I said—”
“Sit down!” She pulled out a kitchen chair and pointed. “I can’t reach your face. I’m tall, but not that tall.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered gruffly.
She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
He eased into the chair just a touch slowly, but somehow she knew he didn’t want any more questions about his health. Adam Desantis, she told herself again, shaking her head. He wasn’t a stranger—and he wouldn’t have started the fire, regardless of the trouble he’d once gotten into. She told herself to relax, but her body still tensed with an awareness that surprised her. She was just curious about him, that was all. She cleared her throat and tried to speak lightly. “I imagine you’re used to taking orders.”
“Not for the last six months. I left after my enlistment was up.”
Tearing open an antiseptic towelette, she leaned toward him, feeling almost nervous. Nervous? she thought in surprise. She worked what most would call a man’s job and dealt with men all day. What was her problem? She got a whiff of smoke from his clothes, but his face was scrubbed clean of it. She tilted his head, her fingers touching his whisker-rough square chin, marked with a deep cleft in the center. His eyes studied her, and she was so close she could see golden flecks deep inside the brown. She stared into them, and he stared back, and in that moment, she felt a rush of heat and embarrassment all rolled together. Hoping he hadn’t noticed, she began to dab at his wound, feeling him tense with the sting of the antiseptic.
Damn it all, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t been attracted to him in high school—he’d been an idiot, as far as she was concerned. She’d been focused on her family ranch and barrel racing and was not the kind of girl who would lavish all her attention on a boy, as he seemed to require. Brooke always felt that she had her own life to live and didn’t need a boyfriend as some kind of status symbol.
But ten years later, Adam returned as an ex-Marine who saved her horses, a man with a square-cut face, faint lines fanning out from his eyes as if he’d squinted under desert suns, and she was turning into a schoolgirl all over again.
Adam stared into Brooke Thalberg’s face as she bent over him, not bothering to hide his powerful curiosity. He remembered her, of course—who wouldn’t? She was as tall as many guys and probably as strong, too, from all the hard work on her family ranch.
A brave woman, he admitted, remembering her fearlessness running into the fire, her concern for the horses more than herself. Now her hazel eyes stared at his face intently, their mix of browns and greens vivid and changeable. She turned away to search the med kit, and his gaze lingered on her slim back, covered in a checked Western shirt that was tucked into her belt. Her long braid tumbled down her back, almost to the sway of her jeans-clad hips. It’s not like he hadn’t seen a woman before. And this woman had been a pest through his childhood, too smart for her own good—seeing into his troubled life the things he’d tried to keep hidden—too confident in her own talent. She had a family who believed in her, and that gave a kid a special kind of confidence. He hadn’t had that sort of family, so he recognized it when he saw it.
He wondered if she’d changed at all—he certainly had. After discovering his own confidence, he’d built a place and a name for himself in the Marines. His overconfidence had destroyed that, leaving him in a fog of uncertainty that had been hovering around him for half a year now.
Kind of like being in a barn fire, he guessed, feeling your way around, wondering if you were ever going to get out again. He still didn’t know.
After using butterfly bandages to keep the wound closed, Brooke taped a small square of gauze to his face, then straightened, hands on her hips, to judge her handiwork. “You might need stitches if you want to avoid a scar.”
He shrugged. “Got enough of those. One more won’t hurt.”
He rose slowly to his feet, feeling the stiffness in his leg that never quite went away. The docs had got most of the shrapnel out, but not quite all of it. The exertion of the fire had irritated the old wound, but that would ease with time. He was used to it by now, and the reminder that he was alive was more than he deserved, when there were so many men beneath the ground.
After closing the kit, Brooke turned back to face him, tilting her head to look up. They stared at each other a moment, too close, almost too intimate alone there. Drops of water still sparkled in her dark lashes, and her skin was fresh-scrubbed and free of makeup. She looked prettier than he remembered, a woman instead of the skinny girl.
Adam was surprised at the sensations her nearness inspired in him, this awareness of her as a woman, when back in high school she’d barely registered as that to him. He’d dated party girls and cheerleaders—including her best friend, Monica Shaw—not cowgirls. Now she held herself so tall and easily, with a confidence born of hard work and years of testing her body to the limits.
She cleared her throat, and her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth, then his shirtfront. “You have a limp,” she said. “Did one of the horses kick you?”
“Had the limp on and off for a while. Nothing new.”
She nodded, then stepped past him to return the med kit to the bathroom. When she came back out, she was wearing a fixed, polite smile, which, to his surprise, amused him. Not much amused him anymore.
“I’m glad you’re not hurt bad,” she said. “You did me—us—a big favor, and I can’t thank you enough for helping rescue the horses. How’d you see the fire?”
“I was at the boardinghouse and saw the smoke out the window.” If the trees hadn’t been winter-bare, he might not have seen it at all, which made him think uneasily of Brooke, battling the fire alone. “Where are your brothers? They might have come in handy if I hadn’t seen the fire. I assume they still work on the ranch?”
She nodded. “They’re at the hospital with my dad, visiting my mom. Did you remember she has MS?”
He shook his head. “I never knew.”
“She never talked about it much, so I’m not surprised. Most of the time, she only needs a cane, but she’s battling a flare-up that’s weakened her legs. The guys took their turn at the hospital today, while I rode fence. Guess I found more than I bargained for.” She eyed him with speculation. “So you’re back to visit your grandma.”
She put her hands in her back pockets and rocked once on her heels, as if she didn’t know what to do with herself. That stretched her shirt across her breasts, and he had to force himself to keep his gaze on her face.
“Grandma’s letters were off,” he admitted. “She seemed almost scattered.”
Brooke focused on him with a frown. “Scattered? Your grandma?”
“My instincts were right. I got here, and she was a lot more frail, and she’s using a cane now.”
“A cane? That’s new. And I see her often, so maybe I just didn’t notice she’d slowly been…” She trailed off.
“Declining?” He almost grumbled the words. Grandma Palmer was in her seventies, but some part of him thought she never changed. She’d been the one woman who could briefly get him away from his parents to sleep on sheets that didn’t smell of smoke, to eat meals that didn’t come from a drive-thru. He was never hungry at Grandma Palmer’s, whether for food or for love. There weren’t holidays or birthdays unless Grandma had them. All he’d been to his teenage parents was an unwanted kid, the result of a broken condom, and they blamed him for making so little of their lives. He saw that now, but at the time? He’d been relieved to enlist in the Marines and start his life over.
Now he and Grandma Palmer only had each other. His parents had died after falling asleep in bed with cigarettes a few years back, and he hadn’t experienced anywhere near the grief he now felt in worrying about her. He might have only seen her once or twice a year, but he’d written faithfully, and so had she. The packages she’d sent had been filled with his favorite books and food, enough to share with his buddies. He felt a spasm of pain at the memories. Some of those buddies were dead now. Good memories mingled with the bad, and he could still see Paul Ivanick cheerfully holding back Adam’s care package until he promised to share Grandma Palmer’s cookies.
Paul was dead now.
When Adam was discharged, it took everything in him not to run to his grandma like a little boy. But no one could make things right, not for him, or for the men who had died. The men, his Marine brothers, who were dead because of him. He didn’t want to imagine what his grandma would think about him if she knew the truth.
“Those old women still seem strong,” Brooke insisted. “Mrs. Ludlow may use a walker, and your grandma now a cane, but they have enough… well, gumption, to use their word, for ten women.”
He shrugged. “All I know is what I see.”
And then they stood there, two strangers who’d grown up in the same small town but never really knew each other.
“So what have you been up to?” Brooke asked, rocking on her heels again.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Nothing much.”
In a small town like Valentine Valley, everyone thought they deserved to know their neighbor’s business. Brooke wouldn’t think any different—hell, he remembered how she used to butt into his in high school, when they weren’t even friends. She’d been curious about his studies, a do-gooder who thought she could change the world.
She hadn’t seen the world and its cruelties, hadn’t left the safety of this town, or her family, as far as he knew. He’d seen the world—too much of it. There was nothing he could tell her—nothing he wanted to remember.
“Oo-kay then,” she said, drawing out the word.
He wondered if she felt as aware of the simmering tension between them and as uneasy as he did. He wouldn’t let himself feel like this, uncertain whether he even deserved a normal life.
“What am I thinking?” she suddenly burst out, digging her hand into her pocket and coming out with a cell phone. “I haven’t even called my dad.”
She turned her back and stared out the window, where the firemen were hosing down the smoldering ruins of her family barn. For just a moment, Adam remembered coming to the Silver Creek Ranch as a kid when his dad would do the occasional odd jobs for the Thalbergs. He’d seen the close, teasing relationships between Brooke and her brothers, the way their parents guided and nurtured them with love. Their life had seemed so different, so foreign to him.
And now Brooke would never be able to understand the life he’d been leading. So he turned and quietly walked out the door.
An Excerpt from
A Wedding in Valentine
Heather Armstrong gasped as the plane dropped down between the Colorado mountains, which were painted a myriad of greens below the tree line, barren and brown at the top, awaiting the next winter’s snow. The ground seemed to rush up, and only when they touched down at the small Aspen airport did she let her exhilaration at her first mountain landing subside back into wedding excitement. She was about to be a bridesmaid in the June wedding of an old friend, Emily Murphy.
As she waited for a call from Emily, she wandered the small airport. It bustled with people dressed casually for the outdoors, many carrying cases for fishing equipment, a pastime this valley was known for in the summer. She’d always preferred being a people watcher, a person in the background rather than commanding attention to herself. It was one of the reasons she’d never enjoyed being in charge of a restaurant’s kitchen, and had opened her own catering business. But now her people-watching skills made her halt in her tracks as she caught a glimpse of a familiar face.
A man wearing a cowboy hat slouched in a chair near the main doors, as if he, too, was waiting for someone. With his head bent over a book, she couldn’t quite see his face. A feeling of unease shivered up her spine and made her so wary that she backed up to where she was partially hidden around the corner. Peeking out again, she studied his pale blond hair beneath the hat, the checked Western shirt that snugly outlined his broad chest, the long legs encased in faded jeans above worn cowboy boots.
The bang of dropped luggage drew his attention, and he looked up. Heather recognized him instantly, and with a gasp, she retreated behind the safety of the wall. His name was Chris, and that was all she’d known when they’d been snowbound together in the Denver airport seven months ago. Late night drinks at the bar and mutual attraction—make that lust—shared with Chris had turned her into a person she’d never been before, a daring flirt who’d ended up in bed with a cowboy. They’d spent two wild days together, exploring and laughing and connecting on an intimate level that had surprised her with its depth, considering they’d been strangers and all. Though she’d left him her number, assuming they’d see each other again, he’d never called. She’d felt like an idiot, a slut, and whatever other bad names she’d called herself over the following months.
Gradually she’d accepted the “adventure” as a risk she’d obviously wanted to take, and had learned from. She wasn’t cut out for one-night stands. She felt too much, expected too much. A man pursuing such a brief affair wanted only that and nothing else.
Today had been the first day airports hadn’t made her think about him, she thought bitterly. Tough luck for her.
To find some peace, she’d chalked the experience up to a valuable lesson. Other women had done stupid things in college, but not her. She’d been too focused on her business degree, and then culinary school, the future her goal, little lured by frat parties and wild drinking. She’d had a boyfriend or two, of course, serious engineering or business students, and that same pattern had continued throughout most of her twenties. Never time for an intense relationship—until Andrew, four years before. She’d thought everything so perfect, so wonderful, and hadn’t even seen that he was pulling away from her, that their sex life was full of desperation more than real passion. Everything on the surface had been too good to be true. The breakup with him was probably what had launched her desperation that snowy night in Denver.
But Chris’s face had haunted her a long time, lean and sculpted, his blue eyes almost startling in their intensity. She hadn’t been with another man since him, had been ready to change her life, find a new place to start over, all to forget her past and find more peaceful surroundings.
Heather had always thought she’d be the first one to give up the hectic, stressful pace of the city, not Emily. She’d gone to San Francisco for culinary school, and to make a name for herself, eventually establishing her own catering business. She came from a small town herself, but her own mountain town in California would never be able to support a fulltime catering business. Emily had assured her that Valentine Valley could. And who could resist a name like Valentine?
But was seeing Chris some kind of cosmic sign that a move here wasn’t for her? She didn’t believe in that sort of stuff, but still found herself praying that he was just passing through Aspen…
And then Emily Murphy walked through the outer doors, strawberry-blond hair bobbing in a ponytail, a bright yellow sundress matching the brilliance of her smile framed in her heart-shaped face. And why shouldn’t she smile? She was the bride, about to marry her very own cowboy, Nate Thalberg. Heather felt tender affection relax her own worried expression, and she scolded herself for her panicky thoughts. She would find a way to avoid Chris and a possible scene. She wouldn’t do anything to disrupt Emily’s weekend.
But to her dismay, Chris rose to his feet and enfolded Emily in a big hug. They knew each other? Heather thought with disbelief. From her cowardly hiding place, she could hear their conversation.
“I thought you wanted me to pick up your friend?” Chris said.
Emily shrugged. “I know, but I got some things done and I just couldn’t wait. You don’t mind your big sister dropping in, do you?”
Big sister? Heather focused on those words in shock. She’d known Emily had found her biological father and stepmother in Valentine Valley, and more than once she’d mentioned her new siblings, but mostly Stephanie, the teenager who hadn’t been exactly happy to meet Emily.
And then Heather covered her mouth as realization dawned. She’d confessed her fling to Emily, having needed to confide in someone—what would Emily say if she found out her own brother was the mystery man? Not that Heather had given her any details like where or when. That had seemed too private even to share with a best friend. Heather didn’t know if she could live down the embarrassment, nor could she stand the thought of destroying their friendship if Emily took it badly—and on her wedding weekend, too!
Emily gave Chris a curious tilt of the head. “So how did you plan to recognize Heather?”
“Well, you said she was a redhead. How could I miss?” He grinned when Emily put her hands on her hips skeptically. “Naw, really, I brought a sign with her name on it. It’s folded in my book somewhere.”
“You and your books,” she teased. “She might have walked right past you.”
“I was being careful.”
Their conversation faded as Heather stiffened her shoulders with resolve. Her plans for a relaxing weekend were shot out the window, and there was nothing to do but grit her teeth and bear it for Emily’s sake—and her own. She hoped it wouldn’t be difficult to convince Chris to keep their affair a secret. Surely he cared about his sister’s feelings. She prayed he’d keep his thoughts to himself until they had a chance to talk in private.
And as for how he’d treated Heather herself? She wasn’t going to show this thoughtless cowboy that he’d hurt her by not calling. She’d make it perfectly clear that she was a worldly woman of the big city, who understood how unimportant a fling was.
If only she was that sort of woman… if only the thought of Emily being upset about their relationship didn’t unnerve her. She’d never do anything to risk losing her friendship—but now it looked like she’d already risked everything.
She couldn’t hide forever, she thought, taking a deep, cleansing breath to steady her nerves. Adjusting the large purse on her shoulder, she started to walk, pulling her suitcase behind. She felt like the entire airport was staring; instead it was just Chris who noticed her first. She couldn’t read his expression, but experienced the magnetism of his blue eyes as if she were back in biology class, a butterfly pinned to a display board on the teacher’s wall.
Did he recognize her? Did his heartbeat speed up like hers did—like hers had the first time she’d seen him in the Denver baggage area, trying to persuade a shuttle to drive through a rising snowstorm from the nearest hotel? His voice had been commanding but polite, and he’d at last won the operator over with easygoing cowboy charm, though she’d seen the tension in his fisted hands. The discrepancy had fascinated her, and she’d found her gaze constantly returning to him, as she waited in line to use the same hotel phone. And then he’d smiled at her, and she was lost. Now, months later, he was looking at her again, inspiring a mass of conflicting emotions: anger, hurt, and the undercurrent of desire that still flamed just as strong.
Emily must have realized Chris was looking past her shoulder, and she turned, her smile widening when she saw Heather. With a squeal, Emily opened her arms wide for a hug. After letting go of her suitcase, Heather enjoyed the temporary respite of being enfolded in Emily’s warmth and caring.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” Emily said, taking a step back, but still squeezing Heather’s upper arms.
“Me, too,” Heather answered, her attention firmly focused on her friend rather than the looming man behind Emily. “I can’t believe you’re getting married!”
“And in two days! I feel like there’s so much to do, but that’s just panic, I think. Nate says I need to calm down and enjoy the festivities, and of course, he’s right.” Emily laughed at herself. “Oh, and you may be wondering about this handsome guy behind me. I asked him to come get you, but then I was able to get away, too, so here we both are. Heather Armstrong this is my brother, Chris Sweet.”
And then Heather was forced to meet his eyes again, and she didn’t know how she kept up her polite smile. She was just as captivated as the first time, but if she was waiting for—dreading—an answering smolder of awareness, she got nothing, only a friendly smile in return. She swallowed hard, not knowing whether to be confused or grateful that he didn’t spill out the truth. Oh, I’ve met Heather before. Let me tell you the whole story…
“Nice to meet you, Heather,” Chris said, in that deep cowboy drawl that had once made her melt right on her bar stool when they’d decided to get a drink to pass the long snowbound evening.
She broke eye contact and chirped, “You, too!” She smiled at Emily, trying to smother her nervousness. She wasn’t the kind of woman used to hiding secrets—which is why she’d confessed the fling. She wished she could link arms with Emily and march out of there, leaving Chris in the dust, but she wouldn’t be so impolite. “Thanks for offering to pick me up.”
“No problem,” he said, giving his hat a polite tug.
Emily gave her brother a quick hug. “I’ll let you head back to the ranch. Are you coming to the party tonight?”
“Of course.”
Emily had sent a schedule ahead, so Heather knew exactly what they were talking about—a co-ed bachelor/bachelorette party. She’d probably see Chris Sweet at every single event over the weekend. She could have groaned. With her luck, they’d be paired up walking down the aisle!
“I’ll leave you two girls to chat,” Chris said. “See you later.”
Had that been directed right at her? Heather wondered. But she put it aside, feeling slightly relieved as he walked away. If only she could have ignored the way his jeans clung to his hips—hadn’t that gotten her in trouble with him the first time?
The half-hour drive through the Roaring Fork valley was beautiful, the mountains tall sentinels on either side of the highway, their peaks jutting unevenly above the tree line. The women’s conversation flowed fast, and Heather was relieved to simply catch up in person rather than over the phone. When they were driving down Main Street in Valentine Valley, she let Emily’s enthusiasm for her new hometown sweep over her. Beneath a vivid blue sky dotted with cotton-ball clouds, everything was so picturesque, like an old-fashioned postcard. One- and two-story clapboard or brick stores were interspersed with more majestic stone buildings like the Hotel Colorado and the Royal Theater. Emily slowed down to point toward her bakery, Sugar and Spice, with plate glass windows on either side of the door overflowing with mouthwatering displays of her creative genius, cakes and pastries and tarts. Everywhere planters spilled over with summer flowers, and U.S. flags heralded the coming Fourth of July holiday. People strolled arm in arm down the sidewalks, window-shopping or already carrying loaded bags.
“Do you see all those couples in love?” Emily said happily. “We’re known for romance around here—and romance needs food. You really should move here, Heather. You’ve made no secret that you don’t like living in the city. And we don’t have a full-time caterer.”
“So you’ve said,” Heather began, looking over her shoulder at the hotel they’d just passed. “But that place looks like it would have a wonderful restaurant.”
“It does, Main Street Steakhouse—and they get their beef from our ranch,” she added proudly, before insisting, “But they’re very busy—too busy for a lot of catering.”
“Our ranch” was the Silver Creek Ranch, which Emily had told her had been in her fiancé’s family for well over a hundred years. They’d raised cattle for generations, working together as a family. Even the groom’s sister, Brooke, rode alongside her two brothers and shared in every chore.
They turned the corner where Main Street ended at the imposing town hall, with its clock tower jutting into the sky. And then Heather inhaled at the sight of a beautiful, sprawling Victorian mansion, nestled in the foothills of the nearby mountain range. Turrets rose up through three stories of the beautiful old home, and sunburst trim spanned between every porch rail.
“So this is the Sweetheart Inn,” Heather breathed, reluctant to leave the car. “It’s as beautiful as you said—with another great restaurant that caters, I bet. And your grandmother owns it?”
Emily nodded as she pulled the keys from the ignition and tossed them in her purse. “My dad mostly works their ranch, but several of my family help out around here. And the restaurant would be relieved to reduce its catering load. They turn away too many customers as it is.”
Heather gave a reluctant smile. “You’ve done your research.”
“You bet I have,” Emily shot back, opening her car door.
As Heather walked around to the trunk she couldn’t help wondering if Chris would be hanging around the inn. She wasn’t going to ask about him, of course. If Emily suspected even a hint of interest, she would be trying to fix them up. Now that would be a laugh, she thought, seeing some humor in the situation for the first time.
Emily paused with her hand on the closed trunk and spoke in a sober voice. “You know, the Sweets could have rejected me. I was the child of a teenage romance, and my mom had lied to Joe Sweet for years about my true parentage. She never did confess before she died, not even to me.”
Heather gently touched Emily’s arm. “You don’t need to relive this again. Memories can be so painful.”
“I know you’ve heard it all before, but when you meet all of my family, I wanted you to remember how special they are. Dad was gentle and understanding about the crazy news, and so glad to know me. My brothers were open to a relationship, even happy they had another sister to tease—though I was their ‘big’ sister. I know I complained a lot to you about Steph disliking me, but she’s really come around, and things are so much better.”
Heather pulled her suitcase out of the trunk. So Chris was a nice guy when life threw the family a curve ball. That didn’t change the fact that he’d picked her up in a bar—and that she’d let him, encouraged him, even. Emily wouldn’t want to know such things about the brother she was just getting to know.
Heather forced a determined smile. “You sound so happy.”
Emily bit her lip, as if to withhold a quiver. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted—and a wonderful man to share my life with. I can’t wait for you to meet him tonight!”
Emily slammed the trunk and they began to walk up the path toward the wide front porch.
“I’m sure his pictures don’t even do him justice. You sound like the perfect bride,” Heather added, feeling a mild pang of envy. She cleared her throat. “You’re lucky all your wedding guests can stay right where the reception is.”
Emily gave her sidelong grin. “A change of topic from all the mushy stuff. I get it. Most of the guests live right here in town, but I’m sure there’ll be a few to keep you company—not that I plan on letting you have a moment to yourself. We have such a packed schedule! But I’ll give you a couple hours to relax. Can I pick you up around seven for the party? Don’t wear anything fancy—it’s a jeans-and-cowboy-boots kind of crowd.”
Heather smiled. “Who’d have guessed?”
Checking in was painless, and she was able to meet Mrs. Sweet, Emily’s very proper grandmother. Her room had an incredible view of the mountains, and for a while she busied herself unpacking. To her surprise, she ended up dozing with her e-reader in her lap, then had to rush to get dressed. She debated over what to wear—everything was too proper or too relaxed. But when she and Emily met up in the lobby, and both were wearing short jean skirts, they burst out laughing and slung their arms around each other. It was as if they’d never been apart.
After a short drive across the little town and closer to the highway, Heather saw that the party was at a dive of a place where the blinking neon sign read TONY’S TAVERN.
Emily laughed at Heather’s skeptical look. “This is where Nate and I first met. It holds a special place in my heart, and the owner is a wonderful man, one of Nate’s good friends. All the guys hang out here pretty regularly.”
The tavern had more neon signs between mounted animal heads and flat screen TVs. As they walked past the bar running along their right, Emily grinned and acknowledged all the well-wishes from jean-clad guys and girls wearing t-shirts and ball caps or cowboy hats.
When they entered a back room furnished with a pool table amidst scattered tables and chairs, there was a burst of cheering that made Emily put a hand to her chest and blink rapidly. “Oh my!”
People rushed forward, and Heather found herself overwhelmed by faces and names. She told herself she’d focus on learning the bridal party’s names as soon as she could. At last she met Emily’s groom, Nate Thalberg, a tall cowboy with dark wavy hair, and green eyes that barely saw anything beyond Emily. His tender gaze gave Heather all the proof she needed to know that her friend was in good and loving hands.
The bridal couple was swept away in the crowd, and for a moment, she was alone. She eyed a table filled with appetizers, nachos, veggies, and cheese trays, but her stomach was too clenched to eat. Someone put a beer in her hand and she took a cautious sip, knowing she had to stay coldly sober that night. She stiffened as she saw Emily say something to her brother Chris, and then his gaze darted Heather’s way.
Oh God.
Alone, he purposefully came toward her, and it was all too much, the worry and the anxiety that had been building up since the moment she’d seen him again. She held up both hands until he came to a stop, then whispered urgently, “Look, you don’t need to keep an eye on me. We don’t owe each other anything. Nothing’s going to happen between us, so let’s just pretend—”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted, his stare full of confusion, “but I don’t understand what’s going on. I’ve never met you before today at the airport, have I?”
Heather could only gape at him. She’d been nervous all afternoon over how this first meeting alone would go—and he didn’t even remember her?