A Town Called Valentine: A Valentine Valley Novel (25 page)

“I just . . . do what’s necessary to keep the ranch running. And I want my mom and dad to enjoy getting older rather than worrying about the little stuff.”

“Ah,” she said, tilting her head. “So it’s about your parents. You’re the oldest child. Makes sense.”

He sighed. “I don’t like that there’s a part of my mom that feels bad for me because of what her first husband did. She’s always saying that because we were on our own for a while, I learned way too early to do things myself, to . . . I don’t know.”

“Protect her? Help her?”

He shrugged.

“Or maybe there’s something else going on,” she said quietly. “You’re adopted, after all, and you weren’t an infant when it happened. But what if your problems are connected to Doug? You’ve been a great right-hand man to him.”

He frowned at her. “He raised me to be what I am. I’d do anything for him.”

“With all the stuff you coordinate around the ranch, are you still trying to prove how much you love him, love the ranching lifestyle?”

Nate opened his mouth, but an answer didn’t come. After a moment, he murmured, “I didn’t like how stressed the family became when I went to college. I always thought Dad believed I was choosing another life instead of his.”

“Did you want to?”

“Never, not once,” he said, shaking his head. But hadn’t there been moments since when he regretted being pulled away from a conference call about the breeding program he’d invested in, or a new method of getting organic produce into the most markets, just to do chores that other people could do? But he
loved
the satisfaction of those chores, of making the ranch succeed.

“Maybe you’re still trying to prove your loyalty to the ranch by being everything you think you should be. Josh knows you well enough to see you’re feeling torn.”

Nate stared at her thoughtfully. Were his problems at the ranch all because he knew deep down that he was being drawn toward the business end of the ranch, and he was fighting it? “Okay, Doc,” he said instead. “I’m not used to being dissected.”

“It’s good for the soul,” she insisted. “And after all, aren’t you the one who thinks he’s always
doing
the dissecting?”

He reared back, pretending she’d slapped him. “Ouch.”

They smiled at each other.

As her salmon and his steak were served, Emily studied Nate’s face, which she was growing to know too well. He wasn’t only the easygoing cowboy he presented to the world. He’d had heartache as a little boy, and she knew it was probably worse than he was saying. But she’d given him something to think about, and she wouldn’t harm the evening by pushing anymore.

So while they ate, she told him about his grandmother’s reaction to Leather and Lace, and the newest garage-sale treasure, a scarred old blanket chest, she’d found for her bedroom. She’d come to realize she loved decorating something to suit her own simple tastes, not Greg’s more expensive ones.

When Nate asked about the painting she’d been doing in the restaurant, she mentioned she was almost done, and they both got quiet. She didn’t want to think about the painting because when she was finished, she’d be selling and leaving. That was the plan, and it was a good one. But there was an ache inside her that didn’t have a name, something she couldn’t look at too closely.

After dinner, when she gasped over the dessert tray, and Nate mentioned to the waitress that Emily baked, she found herself being escorted back into the kitchen to see the area where the pastry chef worked. She almost turned down the tour, but her refusal might make Nate wonder why, and she didn’t want to explain the crazy idea she and Monica had been batting around, the one that kept reappearing in her mind just before she went to sleep, disturbing her dreams.

The pastry area was a separate room off the hot kitchen, with its own walk-in refrigerator and freezer, and a stand mixer as tall as she was. Utensils hung from hooks within easy reach. Stainless-steel shelves were filled with sheet pans and trays, every size base for cakes. The upper shelves overflowed with ingredients like sugars from around the world, and various imported fine chocolates. She gaped at them, imagining what she could create, suddenly longing to do so. She stood outside a glass-walled cooler filled with the finished products for the evening’s guests, sumptuous cakes and pies and chocolate decadence. Another set of shelves on wheels contained unrefrigerated pastries, scones, and breads. Nate seemed to keep studying her, and she felt uneasy and vulnerable. She hated worrying if every decision she made was the right one.

It was a relief when he took her to their room, with its fireplace and curtained four-poster bed. Their little balcony overlooked the mountains they couldn’t see at night, and she thought about the decadence of sitting there in the morning.

Nate came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You seem quiet.”

She glanced back at him, resting her hands on top of his for a moment. Then she turned into his arms and kissed him, not wanting to talk about anything else.

W
hen Nate suggested a dawn hike to the hot springs up behind the inn, Emily practically had to be dragged out of the comfortable bed. But when she saw the little built-up rock pool along the bank of a tumbling stream, steam rising in the flickering light between the trees, she gave a little gasp. There was even a little bench, and an overflow of bushes and plants and flowers for privacy. Nate stripped and waded in, while she looked back down the path in indecision. But upon hearing his satisfied sigh as he settled into the hot water, she took off her clothes and joined him.

They relaxed for an hour, enjoying the sun and the steam and each other, before returning to the inn for breakfast on the stone terrace.

They’d only just sat down when Nate called, “Joe!”

Emily stiffened and turned her head to see a lean man wearing a white cowboy hat raise his hand to Nate and smile. As he walked toward them, Emily studied him and saw a good-looking older man with a day’s growth of light stubble on his face. And those eyes, as clear and bright as if they could see past the horizon. He swept off his hat when he saw her, displaying his unruly white-blond hair, long enough to brush his collar.

“Hey, Nate,” Joe Sweet said good-naturedly.

Emily just stared at him.

“Joe, I’d like you to meet Emily Murphy.” Nate hesitated, then without asking how she meant to proceed, added, “Her mom was Dorothy Riley.”

An immediate change came over Joe’s face, cheerfulness turning into wary interest. He studied her with an intensity that made her feel all charged up and strange inside.
Oh, God, it’s all true
.

“That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” Joe finally said, nodding to her. “Emily, it’s nice to meet you, although I think I met you once when you were a little girl.”

“You did?” She swallowed and gestured to a chair. “Would you mind joining us?”

Joe kept looking at her, and she kept looking at him, and she didn’t know what she felt—was she supposed to experience a bang of revelation? An instant yearning? Instead, she simply felt anxious and intrigued all at the same time.

Nate signaled for the waiter, who filled all their coffee cups. “You want coffee?” he asked Emily in surprise.

She stared at her cup. “Oh, of course not.” She smiled distractedly at the waiter. “Could I have a glass of orange juice, please?”

When he’d gone, she watched Joe put cream but no sugar in his coffee. “So you . . . met me?” she began cautiously.

He smiled at her. “One of the rare times your mom came back to town. You were only a couple years old at the time. Cute as a button then, and you’ve grown into a pretty young woman.”

She smiled nervously at his compliment. He couldn’t possibly know he was her father, not by the way he was acting.

“Mr. Sweet—”

“Joe,” he said affably.

“Joe.” She was almost glad when her orange juice arrived, and she took a sip. Nate said nothing, letting her take the lead. Joe seemed to realize she needed a moment, for he remained silent, too. “Joe, I don’t know if you know this, but my mom died last year.”

His face clouded over. “I heard about the accident. You have my condolences, young lady. No one should die so young.”

She nodded. “Thank you. When I returned to Valentine to sell the building I inherited from her, I discovered that she’d lied to me my whole life. The man she married when she left here wasn’t really my dad.”

His sympathetic expression faded into confusion.

She rushed on. “I recently discovered she was pregnant when she left town at eighteen.”

Now Joe’s skin turned pale, mottled with red. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured. “Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Emily stared at him, not certain what he was thinking. Was he angry?

Whatever struggle was going on inside Joe’s head, he seemed to shake it off with a sigh. “How’d you get my name?” he asked. “It’s obvious you came to speak to me.”

“Doug Thalberg said you used to hang around my grandparents’ store. You weren’t the only one, of course, and I still have two men to talk to.”

“Forget about them,” he said flatly. “I was dating her.”

His gaze was sharp on her face, as if he needed to examine her every feature. She felt a little faint with nervousness.

“You were?” she whispered. “Did you . . .” And then she couldn’t go on.

“I didn’t know she was pregnant,” he said, running a hand down his face. “She broke it off, and she left town. When I saw her again—with you—she knew what I was thinking. She—she lied about your age, right to my face. Said she was happily married to your dad, and I believed her. Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.” Emily barely saw Nate wave away the waiter, so focused on Joe was she. She gripped her orange juice, shaking so badly she almost spilled it, then sat back and fidgeted with the napkin in her lap. “In some ways, I never understood my mother. We didn’t exactly . . . get along. I didn’t like the way she ran her life, and she thought I was crazy for getting married young—just like her.” She added that last part with faint sarcasm.

And still they stared at each other.

“I think—” Joe broke off and cleared his throat. “I think she never liked it here, and didn’t want to be forced to stay.”

Emily nodded gravely.

“And she didn’t like my family,” he continued, a trace of bitterness in his voice now. “She thought they were too concerned with us and what we did. She didn’t like that the ranch and the inn were so important to me, often saying they were more important than she was.” He winced. “But that’s no excuse for . . .” He gestured toward her. “For
this.
”

Emily flinched.

Joe’s eyes went wide, and he reached toward her, but stopped before touching her hand. “That came out wrong. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to call this—this situation between us. I mean . . . I think you’re my daughter.”

He didn’t sound angry so much as bewildered and hesitant, and something in Emily relaxed the tiniest bit.

“Until a couple weeks ago,” she whispered, “I had the memory of a wonderful man as my dad, even though he died when I was seven. I’d feel better if we had a DNA test just to make sure. We really don’t know who else my mother might have . . .”

And then she trailed off, because she couldn’t stop looking at him, and he seemed to be feeling the same thing.

“No problem,” he said in a husky voice. “But I think . . . I think . . . you look like my mom.”

Emily was almost shocked when a tear rolled down her cheek. And then he touched her hand, and he was trembling as much as she was. Her mind, which had been so focused on him, started reeling. It was true—she really had another family, brothers, a sister.

She drew her hand away. “I . . . I heard you’re married, right?”

He nodded, not looking offended by her withdrawal. “My wife’s name is Faith, and we’ve been together thirty years.”

“Right after my mom left?”

He winced and glanced at Nate. “Faith was a good friend and helped me realize what true love was. We have three sons and a daughter.”

He kind of stumbled on the last word, and she smiled awkwardly, wondering if he would someday include her as another daughter when he talked about his family.

Her
family. Three brothers and a sister. She’d wanted nothing but a close family her whole life, and had failed time and again, first with her mom, then with her own marriage. And now there were all these new people. Joe looked . . . okay with it so far, even eager, but how would his wife feel? His children? Would that make him change his mind about his own feelings?

It seemed overwhelming, all these people she was now connected to in Valentine, Nate and Joe, Monica and Brooke, the widows at the boardinghouse—so many people, so many new ways to be hurt. It was suddenly too much.

Joe cleared his throat. “Maybe . . . maybe you could come to dinner sometime.”

She stood up hastily. “I—I don’t know. I’ll be leaving town soon—oh, but of course, I promise I’ll visit, and we can get to know each other. But—but I can’t stay, not really. I grew up in San Francisco, and my life is there.”