True Love at Silver Creek Ranch (5 page)

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.

Chapter Four

L
ate the next afternoon, Adam had his head under the kitchen sink, reinstalling the garbage disposal after the sink had clogged, when he saw his grandma's legs as she walked slowly toward him with the aid of her cane. She was wearing a dress, striped in bright orange, and he knew she hadn't been wearing that earlier. He would have remembered it. Ducking his head out from beneath the kitchen sink, he squinted up at her. She wore a matching orange bow in her blond wig.

“Going out for dinner?” he asked.

She smiled gently. “And so are you. The Thalbergs are celebratin' Sandy's discharge from the hospital, and they also want to thank you for helpin' Brooke rescue the horses.”

Adam frowned. “Brooke already thanked me.”

“Her parents didn't.” She raised a hand that faintly trembled. “And I didn't tell you because I knew you'd holler. Rosemary's already gone, and I need a ride. So shower and let's go.”

“I wouldn't holler,” he insisted as he rose to his feet. “And I'm bothered you think I wouldn't take you to the Thalbergs.”

“Oh, I knew you'd take me,” she said, smiling. “But I needed you to stay.” Her hand was still quivering where she rested it on the cane.

“Of course I'll stay, Grandma. Anything you'd like.”

“My, you're so accommodatin'.” She batted her wrinkled eyelids at him.

It was hard to smother a grin. “I'll shower quick.”

At the Silver Creek Ranch, Adam parked his truck outside the front door. As he helped his grandma up the stairs, the door opened, spilling a shaft of yellow light through the gently falling snow.

A man strode out onto the porch, and Adam recognized Doug Thalberg.

Mr. Thalberg reached out a hand. “Adam, good to see you.”

Adam took his hand in a firm grip. “Mr. Thalberg, sir, thank you for the invitation.”

“We're not all that formal,” Mr. Thalberg said, stepping aside to usher them in. “Your grandma is practically family, and that makes you the same.”

Which made Adam uncomfortable, but he had nothing to say. He glanced toward where he knew the ruins of the barn were.

“The burned smell still makes the cattle uneasy,” Mr. Thalberg said. “I'll never get used to the change myself. I've spent my life lookin' at that barn. But not much we can do to clean it up until winter is over.”

Adam escorted his grandma inside, noticing the massive stone hearth that must have been part of the original ranch before they'd expanded the house. Bookcases were built along each side, a modern touch. The furniture was dark, the rugs and pillow in greens and reds. It seemed like a man's room but one a woman would be comfortable in.

And through an open doorway, he saw Brooke bending over to pull a pan out of the oven. And immediately, his mind was focused on the curve of her hips in her dark pants and the way her blue sweater clung. He made himself look away.

Mrs. Thalberg wheeled her way toward him, and when she reached up, he took her hand. “Thank you for the invitation, ma'am.”

“Oh, please, Adam, the pleasure is all ours,” she said, her smile bright but a little tired at the edges.

“You didn't have to go to so much trouble for me.”

“It was mostly for my mom,” Nate Thalberg said, smiling as he reached to shake Adam's hand.

“Good.”

“But we're grateful to you, too.”

Adam nodded, even as he felt Nate studying him. That was smart. Never assume you knew what anyone was thinking—or how they'd changed over the years.

Josh came forward next and held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Adam.”

Josh was a couple years younger than Nate, and when he wasn't snowboarding, he'd stuck to the cowboy sports of bronc busting and steer wrestling. It hadn't brought them together much, so by Josh's grin, he figured the youngest Thalberg had a pretty open opinion of him.

Mr. Thalberg clapped him on the back. “We felt it only right to thank you proper for your help the other day.”

“That's good of you, sir. I'm sorry about your barn.”

He shrugged. “Insurance will help. I'm just grateful no one was hurt. Not sure you should have risked yourself like that.”

Brooke came into the room, setting a selection of cheese, crackers, and fruit on the coffee table.

Adam gestured toward her with his chin. “As if she weren't going to do it herself?”

Brooke frowned, Josh grinned, and Nate rolled his eyes.

“How about if we stuff ourselves with cheese and not talk about this anymore?” Brooke asked.

Adam couldn't agree more. He helped his grandma to sit in a rocker near the fireplace, where she'd be warm. She wasn't exactly skinny, thank goodness. The elder Mrs. Thalberg came out of the kitchen and joined them. But he couldn't help glancing again at Brooke near her mom, her face glowing, earrings dangling, the hair around her face bobby-pinned back. She was all made up for the evening, looking very different from the jeans-clad cowgirl of the other day.

He started to fix his grandma a small plate of appetizers when she took it out of his hands.

“Go talk to the young people, Adam,” she said, shaking her head. “Rosemary and I will keep each other company.”

He fixed a plate for himself and went to the bookshelves, turning his head to scan them. He couldn't miss how the younger Mrs. Thalberg nudged Brooke toward him. He felt an anticipation he hadn't felt in a long time. Her legs looked long and lean, and her breasts bounced gently as she moved toward him.

“Glad you could come,” she said, handing him a cold bottle of beer.

He accepted it, surprised to feel the touch of her fingers. “Thanks for the invitation.”

Brooke kept to herself that she hadn't even known about it until an hour ago. Her mom had acted all excited, like it was a big surprise, and maybe it had been. Grandma Thalberg and Mrs. Palmer must have cooked something up together, she thought, trying to hide a smile. That's what grandmas did when their offspring were unattached.

“How's your mom?” Adam asked.

Brooke glanced at her, able to tell that she was tired already. “It was hard to keep her out of the kitchen today even though the celebration was for her. She needs a lot more rest.”

“When was she diagnosed?”

“She's known since Nate was a toddler. Her first husband left her when he found out.”

Adam frowned, his eyes taking on the coldness of winter. “Scum.”

“Yeah. I can't even imagine dealing with that kind of betrayal. But it had a good outcome. She met my dad, and they fell in love. Dad adopted Nate, and they had me, then Josh. I can't complain about that.”

“I guess you can't,” he said, his expression pleasant but not quite smiling. “Will she be in a wheelchair for long?”

“The symptoms come and go. She usually uses a cane, and I'm hoping she can get back to that again.” Her voice trailed off, and she couldn't help glancing at her mom again. Taking a deep breath, she changed the subject. “I hear you got out of the boardinghouse at last.”

When he focused on her, dark brown eyes intent, she felt again that rush of nervous anticipation. He was wearing jeans and a forest green crewneck sweater that looked really good on him. He'd left the wound on his cheek bare, its long, thin scab healing well.

He smiled faintly. “I'd forgotten how fast news travels around here.”

She shrugged. “People talk about newcomers. It's even more interesting when someone they know comes home after a long time. So many people leave for the bigger towns and cities.”

“If so, you'd never know it. Valentine looks good, spruced up.”

“A lot of that has to do with our grandmothers. They like to preserve historic buildings and keep out bad businesses—and by that I mean chain stores, nothing else.”

He arched a brow.

“They're worried about some big department store coming in and forcing La Belle Femme or the Mystic Connection to close.”

“I'm not sure I know what those stores are.”

“A clothing store and a new age store. Your grandma is a major customer of the latter. Haven't you seen her room yet?”

“I replaced a cracked windowpane. She has so many crystals hanging in the sun, it's only a matter of time before another breeze blows them around.”

“She's very motivated to keep those little businesses open—for the tourists, of course,” she added innocently. “Surely you've seen the widows working over their papers.”

“Heard them late into the night, too. The Valentine Valley Preservation Fund committee,” he said, as if reciting something he'd had to memorize.

Brooke grinned, and his smile widened. She realized she hadn't seen that on his face, and that was probably a good thing, considering how flushed it made her. “There are other committee members, of course, but the widows do most of the work. My grandma handles the paperwork, the behind-the-scenes stuff about the grants themselves. Mrs. Ludlow is the legal eagle, sitting in on town-council meetings, press conferences, the investors' corporate board meetings.”

“If you're wondering, Mrs. Ludlow is visiting her grandchildren tonight.” He took a sip of his beer.

“I
was
wondering, thanks.”

Adam glanced at Mrs. Palmer, who was chatting with Grandma Thalberg. “And my grandma? What's her role on the committee?”

Brooke eyed the old woman, hiding her interest in what Mrs. Palmer was up to regarding her grandson. “She's the public face, helping at grand openings, the one who deals with the businesses applying for grants. That's usually fun, but when she has to deliver bad news . . . well, she knows how to handle that, too.”

Adam nodded. “She's always been good with people. Seems like a sedate hobby for elderly ladies.”

Brooke's mouth dropped open. “Sedate? I can't believe you're applying that adjective to our grandmas. Maybe Mrs. Ludlow, but that's about it.”

“What don't I know?”

“Surely you remember when they chained themselves to the old house that had been a mining-town brothel?”

She saw the memory dawn in his eyes.

He shook his head. “How could I have forgotten?”

“Maybe you've been a bit busy these last few years,” she said, her voice softening with compassion.

He ignored that. “Women's history,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Now I remember. The story of Chinese immigrant prostitutes. They're not still doing that stuff.”

Smiling, she tilted her head as she turned to walk away. “You go on thinking that, soldier.”

He caught her arm, and she stopped in surprise, feeling the strength of him. Their eyes met, held, and he let her go.

“You can't leave me hanging,” he insisted, then added, “About the widows.”

Brooke glanced around the living room. Nate and Josh were talking to their dad, beers in their hands. Sandy had joined the widows near the appetizers and was accepting a glass of wine from her mother-in-law. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them even though Adam had touched her. It was just on her arm, but she felt it reverberate right up her spine. It had been a while since she'd felt that with a man. The shared awareness made it feel like they were alone in the room.

“Tell me more about the widows' antics.”

She sighed as if she were put out, but it was no hardship to keep talking to him. “You do know she dresses up like a pioneer woman on the Fourth of July.”

His eyes lightened, even if he didn't grin. It made Brooke feel good to elicit some kind of amusement from him. She had a sense he didn't see life's humor much anymore.

“There's an old silver mine in the mountains up above us,” she continued, “and they got it into their heads that we needed a mining museum, like they have in Leadville or Creede. On the first warm spring day, they held a picnic up there, with lemonade stands and cookies and stuff for sale, all to lure investors. Did I mention the first warm day of spring? Seems the snakes that now live in the mine decided to come out after the winter. In a group.”

Adam chuckled. “No one was bitten, I hope.”

“Nope, lots of running around, and the state eventually declared it environmentally protected. Shall I tell you about the séance to drive away the ghosts in one of the B&Bs?”

He held up both hands. “Nope, spare me. The tarot cards are wacky enough. She keeps trying to give me a reading. To show me how it's done, she read them about you.”

Brooke blinked up at him in surprise. “Me? Do I want to know my future?”

He paused, and their eyes met and held, until she forced a laugh.

He cleared his throat. “Nothing bad. You're strong and independent. To me, that means you like to get your own way.”

“ 'Cause it's the right way,” she answered sweetly.

Oh now she was flirting—in front of her whole family. That didn't feel right. They'd start asking questions she couldn't answer because even she didn't know what was going on.

“So you like strong women now, but maybe not in high school. You did break up with Monica Shaw all those years ago.”

Brooke could almost see the wheels of memory turning in his head—how many women's faces did he have to go through to find the right one?

“Monica Shaw,” he echoed, nodding. “She still live here in town?”

“I just had dinner with her a couple nights ago. She remembers you.”

“I bet. I was pretty preoccupied with . . . football back then.”

Now it was her turn to chuckle. “You tell yourself that, soldier.”

“You gonna keep calling me that?”

Though he spoke good-naturedly, something about the question intrigued Brooke. “I might. You have a problem with it?”

He paused, then shook his head.

She excused herself to return to the kitchen, where the prime rib awaited slicing on the stove. Again, she wondered if he was watching her, thinking about her, because she certainly couldn't forget about him.