When the Rancher Came to Town (2 page)

“What, you can't picture me and your other guests draped over a porch railing luring in customers?”

He wanted to hear her laugh, but all she did was wince.

“The other guests are members of a female country group, the Sassafras Girls,” she explained. “I didn't tell the widows, because I didn't want to give them ideas.”

“The widows?”

“That's what we call them. The three old ladies live in the Widows' Boardinghouse across the creek from me. And no, they don't take in boarders. They just like the name. They even have a sign out front labeled with it, but they're on Silver Creek Ranch land, so it's not like tourists see it as an advertisement for a place to stay.”

“They seem . . . busy.”

She chuckled, and he was glad she was beginning to thaw.

“
Busy
isn't even enough of a word for them. They're the main committee members of the Valentine Valley Preservation Fund. Everything they do is to support the town, encouraging small businesses and helping with historic renovations. From what the previous owner told me, they were instrumental in getting him a grant to remodel and create Connections.”

He looked around. “They did a great job. And it's obvious you keep it up real well.”

“Thank you. Now why don't you come into the library and you can check over the paperwork you filled out online. I'll need a form of identification and your credit card, please.”

She was swift and competent with the check-­in, then gave him a quick tour of the public rooms, including the dining room beyond the library, where drinks were available along with a bottomless cookie jar. She pointed through the French doors of the dining room to an expansive garden, complete with wandering paths, fountains, and a gazebo-­enclosed hot tub, all of which she assured him he was welcome to use.

At a brief flash of gray fur across the hall, he arched a brow at her, and she smiled.

“My cat, Blue,” she explained. “He's very respectful of closed doors. I did mention it on the website, in case of allergies . . .”

“No allergies, so no worries.”

They continued the tour, and he found himself studying Amanda Cramer more than the surroundings, asking himself why he was so curious about her. Her participation in the Wild West Weekend was her private business—­maybe it was the fact that she intended to skip the rodeo. He hated to think she worked so hard that she didn't enjoy life.

Of course, who was he to talk? Lately, it was hard to find a Saturday evening to hang out at the local bar.

At last he picked up his bag and followed Amanda up the carpeted stairs. He did his best to disguise the fact that he was checking her out from behind. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and he swiftly met her eyes.

“I thought I'd put you in Castle Peak, the only suite on the third floor. That way, if the Sassafras Girls get a little rowdy, at least it won't be over your head.”

“I'll try not to be too rowdy over their heads,” he teased.

She didn't turn around, only continued up to the next floor.

“Castle Peak?” he said. “Named after the mountain?”

“All four suites are named after the fourteeners of the Elk Mountains—­the ones at or above fourteen thousand feet. The others are Snowmass Peak, Pyramid Peak, and Capitol Peak.”

“Nice idea.”

“Thanks. It's better than Suite number one, number two . . .”

She opened a door on the third floor to a light, airy room, white curtains billowing from the breeze through the open windows. The ceiling with exposed beams sloped up to the top of the house, but it was high enough that he wouldn't hit his head. A large old-­fashioned white-­iron bed was directly beneath a skylight, bookended on each side by tables with those stacked-­globe lamps that made him think of the old west. A curved rocking chair rested before the gas fireplace. The marble-­topped bureau was adorned with fresh flowers. Old-­west accents decorated the room: a spittoon in the corner, a pitcher and basin on another table, framed black-­and-­white daguerreotypes on the walls. Through a door, he could see the clawfoot tub in the otherwise sleek and modern bathroom.

“You've done a nice job decorating everything in the house,” he said.

She smiled, and now that they were no longer talking about the rodeo or the Wild West Weekend, she seemed more relaxed, happier. She obviously loved her work. It softened the angles of her face, brought a sparkle to her deep blue eyes that had been missing.

“Thanks,” she said. “I admit I spend way too much time on eBay and craigslist, hunting down furniture and knickknacks.”

“And there're a lot of antique stores up and down the Roaring Fork Valley.”

She gave the briefest hesitation before saying, “Yes, you're right, and those are fun, too.”

She handed over a set of keys and became an innkeeper again, explaining the binder on the desk, where she'd listed the Wi-­Fi password, restaurants, maps, local sightseeing, and a schedule of events in Valentine that weekend. She pointed out her cell phone number on the key chain.

“I live here, but I can't guarantee I'm around during the day, so you can always reach my cell phone. The other tag is the keypad combination for the front door, in case it's locked. I'll freshen up the room during the day while you're gone, but I only change the sheets every three days, unless you request it.”

“No, that's fine.” He was starting to wonder what time it was, but didn't want to offend her by glancing at his watch.

“In the evening, there's always a snack in the parlor or the dining room, so you're welcome to help yourself if I'm not around. I serve a hot breakfast, but I need to know roughly when you'll be down.”

“Is eight all right? I have a nine o'clock meeting.”

“That's fine. Knock on the kitchen door if I don't hear you, but since these floors are old and creaky, I can usually tell when someone's coming down to eat.”

“I'll keep that in mind if I decide to explore the house.”

She grinned. “You're welcome to. Now I'll leave you in peace to get to your meeting. If you need something, give me a call. Enjoy your weekend at Connections.”

She closed the door behind her, and he heard the quiet squeak of the floorboards as she started down the stairs. At last he looked at his watch—­and grimaced. Good thing Valentine Valley wasn't a large town. He just hoped he wouldn't be late for his meeting at the Sweetheart Ranch.

But even as he took a quick shower and threw on a clean pair of jeans and Western shirt, he thought of Amanda, and why she was so against helping out the widows for a good cause. She seemed like a nice person—­but he knew all about showing the world only what you wanted everyone to see.

 

Chapter 2

T
WO HOURS LATER,
Amanda was baking a peach pie for that evening's snack under the sleepy, watchful eyes of Blue, when she heard the front door open and close. Since the rest of her guests weren't arriving until tomorrow, she knew it had to be Mason Lopez.

His march up the main staircase didn't have the quickness he'd shown on the way down; in fact, he sounded almost slow and ponderous—­certainly not the tread of a handsome, fit cowboy.

Okay, so he is handsome, she told herself, pushing a little harder on the rolling pin as she rolled out the dough. He had dark good looks, and his hair was short and shiny, with a little curl to it. His eyes were just as black as his hair, thick-­fringed enough that even she was envious. He had the straight, strong nose and cheekbones an art class would want to draw.

With those broad shoulders and muscular thighs encased in jeans, he looked like the other cowboys she occasionally saw striding along Main Street. There were plenty of small operations scattered between Aspen and Glenwood Springs. Mason's ranch wasn't in the valley but farther up into the Elk Mountains, south of Carbondale. Okay, so she'd been curious and had looked it up. Now she understood the “and Cattle Company” part of his family business. They provided horses, cattle, and bulls for rodeos. She wondered if that was why he was in town—­that, along with entering the rodeo himself. She couldn't help wincing at the thought of submitting yourself to that much pointless danger just to entertain a crowd of strangers.

The thought of being there made her shiver with unease, and she returned to her contemplation of her new guest. She was getting good at that, telling herself whenever she felt nervous, to just think of something less stressful.

Apparently Mason Lopez didn't quite have the good manners of a typical cowboy, because he'd stood in her front hall and eavesdropped. She let the crust drop into the glass pie plate, wishing it made a loud, satisfying thwack to show her annoyance. To be fair, he'd probably thought he was being polite, waiting his turn. She just didn't like knowing someone had overheard her denying the widows something that would help the community. She was even upset with herself at the speed of her refusal, knowing how hard she'd been working lately to step out of her comfort zone, to take chances in a public setting.

Reaching for the bowl of peach slices, she thought about why, deep in her gut, she was so against exposing herself to random groups of strangers walking in the door all weekend. She housed strangers on a regular basis and enjoyed it.

She'd been a lawyer, although she no longer practiced since buying the B&B. Talking to ­people had always come naturally—­until her friendliness had put her in the kind of danger that had cost her her self-­confidence and her belief in the decency of ­people.

Everyone had always told her that the residents of Washington, D.C., were ruthless, but when she'd lived there, she'd never believed it. The government had been her goal through college and law school; a summer internship with her senator had led to a job in his office upon graduation. She'd thought all her dreams had come true, that she'd been respected and had proven her skills both in court and in the senator's office.

And then it had all crashed down around her. She'd only lasted another year in Washington, feeling like an infamous outcast, whispered about wherever she'd gone. Oh, some of that whispering had been by supporters, some by enemies, but in the end, it had all felt the same. The worst had been good friends who'd turned against her. Sick at heart, she'd fled back to her parents' home in Denver. For a year she'd worked in a small firm there, going by her middle name, Amanda, rather than Lauren, but she'd found that even after several years in Denver, ­people had still known who she was.

She'd quit work with enough in the bank to last her a half dozen years if she was careful. She'd gone to Aspen to do some skiing, though she'd hated the thought of hotels where ­people might recognize her again. Instead, she'd discovered the calm, simple world of bed-­and-­breakfasts, the feeling of privacy and personal care they gave. She'd spent a month at a B&B, then the owner had asked her to manage the place for the weekend so that she could tend her sick mother. Amanda had discovered a love of nurturing and nesting she hadn't imagined existed beneath her cynical lawyer persona, and her hunt for her own B&B had started soon after. It had taken months of exploring the Rockies before she'd found Connections up for sale. Valentine Valley had been everything she'd wanted: small and quiet, with peaceful neighbors who—­mostly—­minded their own business. She'd lived here for a year now, still infatuated with her historic home, focused on growing her business.

She met new ­people every day; she couldn't be called a hermit, like her mom had accidentally let slip. Not even insulted, Amanda had laughed, but she hadn't realized until later the truth in her mother's innocent words. At the time, she'd told herself that not having a best friend or a boyfriend didn't make her a hermit. After all, not only her enemies had turned on her; so had her supposed friends. It was hard to trust ­people again.

But those had all been excuses.

With the pie in the oven, Amanda set the timer on her phone, changed into old clothes suitable for gardening, smeared on sunscreen, and headed outside. The grounds of the B&B took just as much work as the inside. She'd hired a landscaper for some of the major stuff like lawn and tree care, but the flowers, shrubs and design work were all hers. She felt at peace in her garden, with the high bushes that formed walls on either side. The terraced lawn sloped down amidst rock gardens to Silver Creek, where she kept kayaks, canoes, and paddleboards for her guests. She had little hidden walkways between tall shrubs, where unusual fountains greeted guests as a reward for their curiosity. She'd strung lights between the trees, and at night, her garden was like her own private fairy world.

One she had to share with guests, of course.

As she headed across the deck, which was partially covered by an arbor, she glanced toward the hot tub beneath the gazebo and did a double take. Mason Lopez sat alone on the edge of the hot tub, his jeans rolled up to his knees, his feet immersed. Though he stared at the bubbling water, he seemed to be looking inward.

She must have made a sound, because he suddenly turned his head. For a moment, she felt pinned by his gaze, aware of him as a man in a way she hadn't felt about anyone in a long time.

She shook it off and said, “Sorry to disturb you.” She was about to leave him in peace but found herself saying instead, “Is everything all right?”

He smiled, white teeth gleaming out of the shadows of the gazebo, but it was a tired smile that quickly died.

“Sure, everything's fine. My meeting just didn't go as expected.”

She felt frozen, unable to just leave him when he'd said something so personal. “I bet you'll be able to work it out.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “I'm glad you're sure of that.”

“You're not?” Where had that come from? And then she walked toward him, when she should have been giving him his privacy. But he looked so alone.

“Will you join me?” he asked.

She was surprised to hear a thread of hope in his voice. As a person who
enjoyed
being alone, this felt foreign to her, but the need to help a guest overruled that. She sat down cross-­legged beside him. They didn't talk at first, and she watched him rub his shoulder.

He noticed her stare and gave a chagrined smile. “I injured it years ago. It still occasionally aches.”

“I imagine the hard work of ranching contributes to that.”

“Yeah, it does, but it's worth it. I love working the land that's been in my family for almost seventy-­five years. But we've been going through a tough time, and it's been pretty obvious we need a championship bull to invigorate our breeding program. I thought if I met with some of the ranchers here, we could find some investment partners.”

“That was what your meeting was about today?”

“Yeah. But the Sweetheart Ranch is a large operation, and it's all they want to handle right now.”

“We have other ranches around here.”

He glanced at her and grinned. “Yeah, I have more meetings tomorrow.”

“I'm sure you'll be successful.” She looked away from him, the magnetism of his smile making her feel overheated though she was sitting in the shade. Or maybe it was the proximity to the hot tub, she told herself. “Is Lake Ridge Ranch a large operation?”

“Not really. There's me and two of my four sisters—­”

“Four sisters! I'm an only child—­I can't imagine so much togetherness. Are you the oldest, youngest, or in the middle?”

“I'm the baby of the family.”

She gave an exaggerated wince. “The apple of your mom's eye, I bet.”

“I might have gotten my way now and again,” he agreed with a wink.

They shared a smile that felt companionable and easy, something she didn't normally feel with ­people right away.

She cleared her throat and looked down at her fingers twisted in her lap. “So you and your sisters work the ranch?”

“And my dad, and an uncle who's a part-­time hand. Mom takes care of the house and the fruit and vegetable gardens. But my dad . . .”

He trailed off, and now she noticed the strain in his furrowed brow, the tension in his shoulders. She waited patiently.

“He was sick a few years back and made some decisions without telling the rest of us. He regrets it now, of course, but it put us in a shaky financial condition.”

“I'm so sorry, Mason. That's got to be tough for your dad and all of you.” She understood pride and worry for a family business, and a pang of sympathy made her put her hand on his forearm.

He nodded his gratitude but didn't speak, and she didn't move her hand. They sat there for several minutes, listening to the piercing whistle of chickadees calling to each other, the breeze bringing the moist, earthy scent of the creek.

“I hope sitting out here eases your thoughts,” she said in a soft voice. “I'm sure you'll make it work out—­you seem to be pretty driven. Is the rodeo your reward for working so hard?”

The tension seemed to ease out of him as he leaned back, bracing himself with his arms, palms on the deck. “I'm hoping that if I do well, I can get a certain rancher to notice me.”

“That might work,” she said, eyeing him with amusement. It must be difficult for ­people
not
to notice him, big and handsome as he was. “Of course, you'd probably have to win.”

“I always win,” he said with good-­natured arrogance.

They were smiling into each other's eyes, and she was suddenly intimately aware that they were alone. Her smile faded and her breathing grew shallow.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “You're a very good listener,” he said, his voice gone husky.

She was about to say
It comes with the business,
but she didn't want to break this spell that wove around them. “Thanks.”

But this
was
her business. As the owner, she had to be professional. She looked away from him but restrained herself from jumping so swiftly to her feet that it would seem rude.

“Well, I should get back to my gardening,” she said.

“Of course. You must be very busy, keeping this place up yourself.”

“Well, I do enjoy it, but I have an assistant innkeeper who helps me with the cooking and cleaning. Sometimes the garden can be put off, but I have some free time today, since the other guests won't start arriving until tomorrow.”

“So does that mean you'll have time to attend the Wild West Weekend meeting tonight?”

She lifted one brow. “So you're doing the bidding of the widows after all?”

He raised both hands and smiled. “No pressure, sorry. Though they're definitely an intimidating force, I wouldn't use the same tactics on you. I'm just curious why you're not interested.”

She made a face, resting one elbow on her knee and her chin on her fist. “It's awfully last minute.” She felt uncomfortable being put on the spot, but she couldn't imagine telling him the truth. That was her business, not his. And then he seemed to realize the same thing.

“I don't mean to intrude. I guess it's just . . . I spend a lot of my time trying to think of creative ways to advertise our stock contracting business. I just thought it was a simple way for you to advertise Connections, especially with its notorious past. I mean—­the widows chained themselves to your front porch!”

She gave a reluctant laugh. “I thought for sure you were going to mention the nineteenth-­century prostitutes.”

“Well, that's fascinating enough, but imagine how many ­people live in Valentine and know the widows.”

“My understanding is that that's everybody,” she said ruefully.

“Heck, the whole town might even have watched the festivities as the old ladies stopped a construction crew.”

“Oh, you're so sure it went that far?”

He chuckled. “No, but I have a vivid imagination. The details don't matter. But I bet there are a lot of locals who've never seen what this place was transformed into and are really curious. And that would lead to recommendations to their families and friends, right?”

“You are way too logical.”

“And brilliant, I know, but you still sound reluctant. Will it be that much work?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“And maybe it's not the extra work?” he asked, eyeing her curiously.

She looked away, swallowing hard. After the scandal that had destroyed her law career in politics, she'd lived with the feeling of anxiety for years, until she'd fled to the world of B&Bs and discovered a new kind of peace—­but a temporary one. The widows only wanted her to have fun, and it bothered her that she was still so reluctant.