True Love at Silver Creek Ranch

Chapter Three

On the way back to Valentine, Brooke’s throat was so tight she couldn’t talk about her mother. She was glad when Emily received a text from Monica asking them to meet her for dinner at the Halftime Sports Bar. When they reached town, they drove down Main Street, lined with clapboard storefronts, all brightly colored, one to three floors in height. Interspersed were the occasional stone buildings like the Royal Opera or the Hotel Colorado, each of which took up most of a block. The Halftime was nestled between the deli and the Open Book. Neon beer signs winked in the two windows that bracketed the front door, and inside, sports memorabilia covered darkly paneled walls. Flat screen TVs gave perfect viewing to every table in the place. The bar was overflowing with the after-work crowd, most of whom raised a hand or called a greeting when Brooke and Emily entered.

“Brooke!” Monica called from a table near the back.

They bypassed the hostess, and Brooke grinned at her best friend since childhood. Monica Shaw was a slim, black woman with curls that just brushed her shoulders. She had the high cheekbones and exotic eyes of a model, if not the towering height. In truth, she was a small-town girl, now the owner of Monica’s Flowers and Gifts. She’d never wanted to move to the big city, like her twin sister, a reporter for CNN. That had caused some family problems, but they’d had a good talk and cry, and now Monica was excited about her spring trip to visit Melissa. Her store was right next to Sugar and Spice, so it was Monica who’d first befriended Emily and helped convince her to stay in town. Nate owed Monica for his good fortune—as Monica was always quick to remind him.

“I heard the news!” Monica said, shoving her plate of nachos into the center of the table.

“News?” Brooke’s thoughts immediately went to the recent arrival of Adam. She dipped a nacho and groaned with happiness as she devoured it. She’d forgotten to eat lunch in the middle of that crazy day.

“The barn fire?” Monica answered, her face full of disbelief. She glanced at Emily. “Are you sure she didn’t get hit on the head?”

Emily only shrugged as she concentrated on the nachos.

“Sorry,” Brooke said sheepishly. “I’ve explained it so many times today, I thought I’d already told you!” She had herself better under control now, and wouldn’t worry her friends by falling apart. She could treat this lightly, as if she risked her life every day. Well, okay, sometimes she did, where the occasional runaway bull was concerned.

After they ordered beer and salad and chicken wings, she gave a brief account to Monica—and then to several of the guys from the bar, who went back and told their friends.

“Surely everyone knows by now,” Brooke said with a groan. “But I can’t blame them. Every rancher worries all the time during the dry season that a windstorm will send a fire our way. Thank God it’s almost winter, or this could have been worse.”

Their waitress, Linda, a mom with school-age kids who often biked with Nate and his friends, looked Brooke over as she set a bottle of beer before each of them. “I won’t make you repeat the story, as I’m sure the guys’ll be talking about it at the bar. But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Brooke smiled. “Thanks, Linda. Believe me, I’m glad, too.”

“She had help,” Emily said. “Do you remember Adam Desantis?” she asked both Linda and Monica.

Linda blinked in surprise. “He was a few years behind me at school, but yeah, who could forget?”

Emily grinned. “Now that I’ve met him, I can see why he’s so memorable.”

Monica turned on Brooke with speculation. “He’s back from the Marines?”

“Visiting his grandma like a good boy,” Brooke said.

As she walked away, Linda called over her shoulder, “ ‘A good boy’ isn’t how I remember him.”

The three women laughed. Brooke watched as Linda started a conversation at one end of the bar, then each head turned, relaying the news of Adam’s return like falling dominoes.

“I remember him, too,” Monica said, leaning back in her chair with a little sigh.

“Of course she does,” Brooke said conspiratorially to Emily, even as she snatched the last nacho. “She dated him.”

Emily gasped and leaned toward Monica. “Really?”

Monica waved her hand delicately. “It only lasted a few weeks. He was a football player, and I was a cheerleader. It’s amazing how those stereotypes just keep happening, generation after generation.” When their laughter faded, she asked, “So has he changed?”

“Wait, wait, I need to know more about the actual dating,” Emily said.

“He was a good kisser,” Monica admitted, “but I wasn’t interested in going farther, not right away. So we broke up.”

“Told you he was a jerk,” Brooke said. “Poor Monica would call me for sympathy. We shared a lot of ice cream those few weeks.”

“He could be funny, too,” Monica pointed out.

“You’re defending a guy who broke up with you because you wouldn’t put out?” Brooke still felt defensive on her behalf.

“Oh, please, he was a hormonal kid. So has he changed?” Monica repeated patiently.

Brooke hesitated, trying to ignore how very curious Adam made her. “He seems kind of a quiet guy now. I never thought I’d say that about him.”

“He might have seen some bad things,” Emily said.

They all sobered. Brooke couldn’t help thinking how very young he’d been to go off to war. Just eighteen. She could only imagine how Mrs. Palmer must have felt, and he her only grandchild. Many men never came back. She’d known one of those, someone who’d gone to Colorado State with Nate. Though she’d only met him once or twice, it had been a blow to know he’d died such a terrible death. And the poor man’s family . . . She’d been so glad to hear that Valentine Valley had begun a program to help returning veterans. She didn’t know much about it, but she’d mention it to Mrs. Palmer when she got the chance. Of course, the widows probably knew all about it.

Thank God Mrs. Palmer hadn’t lost Adam. He was the only blood family she had left. Her older brother was dead, and she’d only had one daughter. But she liked to say that the widows were the sisters she’d never had. Brooke’s gaze traveled from Monica to Emily, and she realized she knew exactly what Mrs. Palmer meant. She didn’t know how she’d function without her girlfriends.

“At least Adam’s back, and he’s safe,” Monica said, breaking their somber moment of reflection.

Brooke smiled at Linda, who set down individual salads for each woman, and a huge plate of wings in the center of the table.

“I’ll be back with another round of drinks,” Linda called.

Monica wiggled her eyebrows at Brooke. “I’m sure Adam grew up to be fine-lookin’.”

Brooke and Emily glanced at each other, then broke into grins.

“Okay, yes, he’s fine-looking,” Brooke said, lifting both hands in a placating manner.

“More than fine-looking,” Emily breathed, leaning over the table and lowering her voice. “Downright sexy.”

Brooke cleared her throat pointedly, even as she felt overly warm at the thought.

“Well, of course, not as sexy as Nate,” Emily smoothly added.

Brooke winced. “I don’t want to hear that about my brother. Speaking of the two of you”—she rounded on her future sister-in-law—“do we have a wedding date?”

Emily actually blushed. “No,” she whispered.

Monica and Brooke groaned.

Brooke took the first bite of her salad, chewed, and swallowed. “I thought you and Nate were in discussion about that.”

“If Nate had his way, the date would be next week,” Emily said glumly, using her fork to toy with a piece of lettuce.

“Well, we know that’s not going to happen.” Monica reached to touch Emily’s hand. “I know you both want a pretty wedding you’ll remember forever, but you could be planning it now. What’s going on, Em?”

“It’s Stephanie,” Emily said with a heavy sigh.

“Your sister?” Brooke asked, uncomprehending.

“My half sister.” Emily’s voice took on a touch of bitterness. “Or so she keeps reminding me.”

When Emily had come to town earlier that year, she’d discovered that the father she’d thought of as her own, the one who’d died when she was seven, had in fact been her stepfather, and that her biological dad was right in town, oblivious that he had another daughter. Brooke and Monica had both encouraged Emily to face the truth, and through some investigating, Emily had discovered that her father was Joe Sweet, part of the family who owned the elegant Sweetheart Inn, as well as an extensive ranch. Though shocked, Joe had been delighted to add another daughter to the brood that already included three sons in their twenties and a sixteen-year-old daughter, Stephanie. Brooke knew that the young men were fine with Emily, and understood their dad’s teenage love affair. Steph hadn’t taken it well upon discovering that she wasn’t Daddy’s only little girl, and that Daddy hadn’t been perfect. To Joe’s frustration, she hadn’t blamed him—she’d focused her anger on Emily.

“Wait, wait,” Brooke said. “You asked her to be a bridesmaid. I saw her face—she was thrilled!”

“I thought so, too.” Emily’s voice trembled. “I thought it was something we could share while getting to know each other. But it’s not working out that way. Suddenly, my wedding and I are the focus of every Sunday-dinner discussion.”

Monica winced. “That might be a problem.”

“I play it down, or steer the conversation away,” Emily insisted, shredding her napkin on the table.

“She’s gotta grow up sometime,” Brooke said. “You can’t keep delaying your wedding. Everyone wants to see me in a fancy dress! Because, of course, I clean up well,” she added, hoping to lift her friend’s spirits.

Emily smiled sadly. “You sound like your brother—although not about the dress.” Her smile strengthened. “But we only just became engaged last month. I think we have time. And now that the . . . newness of my arrival is wearing off, perhaps Steph can begin to move past it.”

“Or perhaps she’ll think she’s gotten her way,” Brooke pointed out, feeling affronted on Emily’s behalf.

“Ooh, now who’s the pessimist here?” Monica picked up her first chicken wing. “I think Emily’s right. There’s time. It’s not like they have to be celibate until the wedding night.”

Brooke practically snorted into her beer, sending the other two into fits of laughter.

“Couldn’t you have waited until I swallowed?” she demanded, wiping at her lips with the back of her hand.

Emily finally stopped giggling enough to say, “Look, my youngest brother Daniel is closest to her, but he’s away at college. When he comes back for Thanksgiving, we’re going to put our heads together and come up with a plan.”

“Works for me,” Monica said, starting on the next chicken wing.

“And I was thinking about finding another way to get involved in Steph’s life,” Emily said hesitantly. “She’s a member of the teen group that meets at the community center. Maybe they need volunteers . . .”

“No,” Brooke said with compassion. “You don’t want Steph to think you’re pushing into her life without her permission. I think she’ll see right through that.”

Emily’s shoulders slumped. “Really? But I’ve got to find some way to get her talking to me.”

“You will,” Monica insisted. “Give it more time.”

They ate their way through most of the chicken wings, then sat back with satisfaction.

“I have interesting news,” Brooke said.

“More interesting news?” Monica fanned herself. “How will I bear the excitement?”

Brooke grinned, then glanced at Emily. “Remember Leather and Lace?”

“Of course, the naughty lingerie store that was interested in buying my building. I felt like I let them down when I decided to open Sugar and Spice.”

“You didn’t let them down too much. They haven’t given up on making Valentine Valley the home of their third store. They’re looking into purchasing another building, and will be visiting soon. The owner’s written to the preservation-fund committee about a grant to renovate a run-down building on Grace Street, behind Hal’s Hardware.”

“That’s right across the street from Wild Thing,” Monica said with a grin. “It’ll fit right in with the nightclub crowd.”

“Hey, I’ve seen their store in San Francisco,” Emily said. “It’s a classy, upscale place.”

“Nothing naughty?” Brooke asked, feigning disappointment.

Emily smiled. “Well, I didn’t say that.”

Monica turned her suspicious gaze on Brooke. “And since when do you need naughty lingerie? Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Brooke had a momentary flash of Adam and how she’d felt when they’d been standing close. “Nothing going on here,” she insisted.

“Girlfriend, join the club,” Monica said. “Maybe the Valentine mojo only works for some people.”

They clinked the last two chicken wings together as Emily smiled and shrugged.

Before the explosion, Adam had dreaded the idea of leaving the Marines for a civilian existence. He thought life would be vanilla without all the constant alertness and threat of danger.

But he’d changed his mind, having had enough of danger and the consequences of one wrong move. But that didn’t mean he wanted vanilla, either. For the first time, he understood what that truly meant. Oh, he got in long runs every day like a good Marine, even through the snow. But he had absolutely nothing else to do. He was starting to go stir-crazy, and the memories of his dead friends were getting too close to the surface. Since his discharge, he’d been able to battle those memories into the furthest corners of his mind through physically demanding work. It had been good to think of nothing but the job, then be so exhausted that he could sometimes keep even the nightmares away.

But he didn’t have that anymore, and he was starting to think of his buddies, of Eric, who used to be afraid of heights but was so proud of the jump wings he’d won at Army Airborne School, of Zach, a young dad who’d collected rocks for his son. And then there was Paul, the cookie thief, a greenie with an attitude and ego that had taken a blistering in boot camp. It had been Adam’s job to show the young man that his training had prepared him for anything the mountains of Afghanistan could dish out. As their sergeant, it had been Adam’s job to keep them all safe, and he’d failed.

And still he pushed the memories away. Two days had passed since the fire, and when the wind was right, he could still smell the residue. When he wasn’t talking to his grandma, he did odd jobs around the boardinghouse—fixing a drip in an upstairs bathroom; hanging a framed photo for Mrs. Thalberg; nailing a spindle back in place on the porch railing that Mrs. Ludlow’s walker had slammed into. The widow sedately assured him she hadn’t been hurt, but the skunk she’d been scaring away ran fast.

So far none of the jobs required a trip to a hardware store, but Grandma had more on her list, and soon he’d be forced to go into town. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. Most people would remember him and would ask all about his service with the Marines, his part in the war. To acquaintances, he was good at deflecting, but with people who believed they knew him and deserved every answer? He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

Grandma Palmer had made it easy. He’d said he didn’t want to talk about Afghanistan, and she’d never asked again. She was giving him time, he knew, assuming he’d eventually open up. She didn’t know what had happened, and it was best that way. No point in anyone else suffering. He deserved to take it all on himself. His grandma didn’t need to know about such sorrow. Together, they used to make annual trips to the cemetery to honor their deceased relatives, especially her husband, his grandpa. She’d told him stories that even she chuckled over, but as a boy who was used to gauging his parents’ moods, he’d seen the old sadness in her eyes. He was kind of surprised she hadn’t suggested the cemetery yet, considering his own parents were there now. Not that he cared to visit them.

He’d found himself outside a lot over the past two days, whenever he needed to get away from sweetly chattering voices. The snow-covered mountains still loomed as majestically as ever, but they were familiar, his mountains, unlike the mountains of Afghanistan, rugged and barren in places, permeated with danger.

And then there was the Silver Creek Ranch. All he had to do to see it was stand on the back porch. The boardinghouse was part of the ranch property, so after a line of evergreens and aspens, he could see Thalberg cattle leisurely milling across snowy pastures, or huddling together for warmth when the late-autumn wind swept across the Roaring Fork Valley from Glenwood Springs to Aspen. He saw the occasional rider, too, but because of the distance, it was hard to know whether it was Brooke or not.

He found himself thinking about her too much, which surprised him. Since leaving the Marines, he hadn’t given much thought to women at all. Certainly he’d met them on the Gulf, where he’d been a longshoreman unloading cargo south of New Orleans. But it was as if he didn’t know what to do with one anymore. That had panicked him a couple months ago, so he had a one-night stand. All the parts worked, and he made sure she had a good time; he was just uninterested in more, so he didn’t try to date. He knew, during those months, it wouldn’t have been fair to burden a woman with his problems. His life had been work, TV, and the occasional evening out drinking with the men from the shipyard. And books, of course. He enjoyed a good mystery. Grandma offered to take him to the Open Book when he was ready.

Instead of beer-drinking buddies with sports conversation to help him forget, he had tea-drinking ladies and their committee discussions about preserving the town. He wasn’t very interested—Valentine had never really felt like home. Grandma would have loved to discuss that, too, but he shut down any conversation about his parents. They’d been self-centered and negligent; they weren’t worth thinking about.

But in idle moments, his thoughts returned to Brooke. She hadn’t been on his radar in high school, and, truth be told, he hadn’t thought about her in years. But ever since she’d raced with him into a burning building to save her horses, she’d lingered in his mind. Maybe his mind was trying to tell him he needed a woman, because hell, he’d gotten a hard-on the moment she’d put her hands on his face to clean his cut. She’d been leaning over him, and although she was dressed as a cowgirl, he’d been able to see the edge of her lacy blue bra, and he hadn’t stopped looking. So if thoughts of her plagued him, it was only what he deserved.

But he really needed something more to do. And when his grandma spread out her tarot cards in front of him late that afternoon, he decided it was time to head into town. He could have walked it—Valentine was only about eight blocks wide and long. But he felt a little more invisible in his pickup.

The preservation-fund committee must have been doing good work because everything looked so polished and clean. Though there was a little more than a week until Thanksgiving, Christmas decorations lined Main Street—banners hung from the light poles, red and green ribbons tied everywhere. Businesses had already turned on the twinkling lights in their windows as dusk approached, fake candles in the apartment windows above. Each evergreen had been transformed into a Christmas tree, with gleaming decorations peeking from beneath a dusting of snow. Adam knew it must help their tourism business. The area was packed with skiers looking for sightseeing and shopping opportunities when they weren’t on the slopes, and Valentine Valley was only a half hour’s drive from Aspen. But this wasn’t the part of town he’d come from.

He kept driving past the “historic downtown,” past the old homes and the bed-and-breakfasts until he reached the trailer park on the outskirts of town, near the highway. Rusted single-wides were mixed in with newer models, and some had Christmas lights, too, but it all felt . . . forced, as if they were pretending everything was fine this holiday. And maybe for them it was.

He reached the spot where his parents’ trailer had been, and there was nothing there, as if it were haunted. He imagined that beneath the layer of snow, the earth was still scorched. A gang of kids threw a football around nearby, slipping in the snow, laughing. Adam smiled because that used to be him. Other kids in Valentine were snowboarding today, but these probably couldn’t afford to. It had been difficult to be a kid in the Rockies who didn’t snowboard, another thing to set you apart.

But life was what you made of it, and Adam had used his childhood to motivate him to change himself. These kids would, too. And in some ways, Adam had been lucky. He’d had a horse to love and take care of. His father rode it when he was hired on as a temporary hand at the nearby ranches—including the Silver Creek. Adam’s job had been to look after old Star, feed him, exercise him. Being responsible for something other than himself had been satisfying though he hadn’t realized it at the time. His dad must have sold the animal, he mused. Surely, it had a better home now.

He wasn’t ready to go back to the boardinghouse and his grandmother’s patient glances, so he stopped in to Tony’s Tavern for a beer. The tavern was close to the highway, and there was usually a motorcycle or two. Inside, the décor was full of neon signs between mounted deer heads. The bar ran the length of the front room, flat screen TVs showed college basketball, and the dartboard had a line of men waiting to use it. In back, he glimpsed a pool table under a spotlight.

The bartender glanced up as Adam hung his coat on a hook by the door, then slowly grinned. “Adam Desantis,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

Adam smiled and strode to the bar, where they shook hands across the top. “Tony De Luca.”

Tony had shaggy brown hair that still seemed long to Adam after the high and tight haircuts of jarheads. But Tony’s expression was open and friendly, and Adam knew there would be no judgment here, no expected answers to questions he didn’t want. Tony was a few years older than him, but they’d known of each other. And talking to someone else would help him forget other bars in foreign countries, and the ghosts of other men.

Adam ordered a beer and took a seat at the bar. “Still playing hockey?”

“I’m on a few teams. I’ve even got my boy playing.”

“Wow, a family man.”

Tony shrugged his burly shoulders beneath the flannel shirt. “Not so good at the family part, but my son and I are a team.”

He set a bottle down in front of Adam, who took a welcome sip.

“Divorced?” Adam asked.

Tony nodded. “You?”

“Out of the Marines now. No family—except my grandma.”

“Glad to see you’ve come back. Valentine always welcomes its heroes. A group of vets meets here regularly for a darts league.”

Adam’s smile faded. He was putting the past behind him and had no wish to relive someone’s idea of the “glory days.” “I’m nobody’s hero, Tony. I just did my job.”

Tony nodded and turned to ring up another customer. When he came back, he asked, “Are you sticking around town for long?”

It wasn’t the first time Adam had been asked. “I don’t know. Depends on how my grandma is doing. And don’t tell me you need a guy for your team. You know I didn’t play.”

“I know. Just wondering if you were looking for something to do.”

“You have no idea,” he said dryly.

“Having fun at the boardinghouse?”

“Word gets around.”

“Hey, you gotta expect that. Heard you were involved in some excitement at the Silver Creek Ranch.”

“Then you heard it was nothing much. Horses are safe.”

“And Brooke.” Tony watched him closely as he dried a beer mug.

“She’s safe, too.” Adam took a swig of beer, meaning that in more than one way.

There was a sudden bark of laughter from the back room, and inside, he felt the flinch he always got at loud noises. His weakness really pissed him off.

Before Tony’s innocent questions could go further—how had he forgotten how nosy everyone was in a small town?—he said, “I’ll check out the game in back.”

Adam could feel Tony watching him as he headed for the back room, but at least it was friendly interest. As he moved down the length of the bar, others gave him curious looks. A couple guys were close to his own age, and if given a moment, he might have recognized them, but he kept moving.

The bikers in their leather vests and jeans had taken over the pool table, and Adam worked his way into the lineup and won a few games. He was a master at the concentration required to line up a good shot, after all his years with the rifle as his constant companion. As a civilian, he didn’t carry a gun, only a pocketknife. It bothered him that he still thought of ways he would defend himself if necessary, but after all those years at war, it was hard to abandon the mind-set. But the bikers were good sports and didn’t mind being defeated.

There were women in the bar, too, and as he left, more than one gave him a “Welcome home, soldier” glance, but he couldn’t muster up the interest. As he got in his pickup, it dawned on him that that was the story of his life lately, no interest in anything. It was time to get on with it, to accept his ghosts, to find a better reason for life than just existing.