A Town Called Valentine: A Valentine Valley Novel (7 page)

And there she went, downplaying her own sexiness. He’d thought her sexy enough that first night. Now she was just an annoyance, and it was better that way. Her indebtedness to him and his family—both father and grandmother—felt like another anchor around her neck as she struggled to stay afloat in the pursuit of her new life.

At least they hadn’t threatened her with foreclosing on the property, she reminded herself as she went into the kitchen. She would soon be able to repay it, once the building sold.

She hoped.

The widows were all in the kitchen as if waiting for her. Mrs. Thalberg seemed dressed for another casual day on the ranch, jeans and boots this time, and her red vest perfectly matched her hair. Mrs. Palmer was as colorful as a tulip beneath her blond wig, and Emily had realized that the prints and patterns in her dresses were just like her personality, big and vibrant. Mrs. Ludlow, dressed conservatively in tailored clothing, certainly didn’t let using a walker interfere with her self-respect.

“So let’s taste those muffins you made last night,” Mrs. Thalberg said brightly. “While we eat, you can tell us how you’re feeling. Nate called to make sure you got home all right.”

The word “home” struck her with a moment of sadness until she realized Nate was part of the same sentence. She smiled through gritted teeth, hating that she inspired anyone’s concern. “He felt the need to check up on me?”

“Of course he did!” Mrs. Palmer said sternly, with a hint of her Western drawl. “You could have full-blown altitude sickness, you know. You gotta take that seriously.”

“But I’m fine, and Nate could see that.” Emily turned to Mrs. Thalberg. “You know he wouldn’t have let me go, otherwise.”

It was true. He obviously liked to take control of every situation.

“Now let’s taste those muffins,” Emily said, changing the topic.

They weren’t perfect yet, so next time she’d alter a different ingredient, sugar instead of baking powder. Mrs. Thalberg said you just kept experimenting until you got it right. But the apple tarts, now those had turned out pretty good, and Emily carefully packaged plenty to take to Monica to thank her for lunch.

At her building, Emily had already cleared the beginning of a path through the downstairs restaurant and kitchen though now it looked like the maze of paths in a hoarder’s house. Braving a peek in the basement, she found more junk, but it could wait. Deciding to begin hauling out the garbage in the apartment, she headed upstairs until she heard a bell ring at her back door. Through the door window she could see a handsome, middle-aged man dressed stylishly in a sport coat and open-necked shirt, as if he’d just left a boardroom meeting in New York City. When she opened the door, he took off his sunglasses, his eyes widening as he looked past her.

“Good morning,” he said when he’d recovered. “I’m Cal Carpenter. Are you Emily Strong, granddaughter of Agatha Riley?”

She nodded curiously, but didn’t offer her married name. “What can I do for you, Mr. Carpenter?”

“I used to be with a law firm in Aspen although I live here now in blissful semiretirement.”

His toothpaste-commercial grin said he was more than enjoying himself in “semiretirement.” He seemed tanned and fit, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors.

“Your grandmother hired me before she died to take care of some legal matters.”

She blinked at him in surprise. That had to be over twenty-three years ago. “You mean her will?”

He nodded. “Among other things. Obviously, the will has long since been settled, but she left something for you.” He reached inside his breast pocket, withdrew a long envelope, and handed it to her. “Have a good day, Miss Strong.”

“Wait!” she said, before he could do more than begin to turn away from her.

He paused, eyebrow arched. He was so impeccably groomed, she wondered distractedly if he had those perfect eyebrows plucked.

“Why wasn’t I given this before?”

“I was under orders not to have it sent to you until you came to Valentine Valley to deal with this building.”

“And what if I never did?” she demanded with exasperation. “What if my mother sold it before she died?”

“I had other directions to follow.” He grinned. “But that didn’t happen, did it? And you still would have received the letter on your thirty-fifth birthday. Your grandmother said she was giving her daughter a chance to tell you herself.”

Emily felt a chill sweep over her. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t given all the details. Your grandmother was a private woman, even toward her own daughter.”

She couldn’t think straight, her mind was tumbling. But practicality intervened at last. “But—do I owe you something for your services?”

“No, it was all taken care of. Enjoy your day.” Then he glanced past her again and winced. “Or at least try to get out of here occasionally. Spring can be beautiful around here—as long as you don’t mind the mud.”

“Mud?” she said blankly.

“On the trails up in the mountains. At least I can still use my snowmobile farther up.” He smiled at her, then nodded toward the envelope. “Hope that’s good news.”

When he was gone, she stared at the envelope, tracing the faded lettering of her name. The handwriting was firm and bold, and she wished she’d thought to ask Mr. Carpenter if it was her grandmother’s. She had a faint memory of a warm kitchen smelling of pine from the nearby Christmas tree, and rolling out cookie dough with her grandmother. She was surprised to feel a sting of tears, and knew it wasn’t truly for the grandmother she couldn’t remember but because the homey memory made her long for a simple life. She’d chased that memory and longing through her life, first with her distracted mom, then in her marriage, but she’d never made it work.

With a sigh, she sat down on the only unbroken chair in the restaurant and opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper dated the year of Grandma Riley’s death, and it was addressed to her.

My dear Emily,

You’re a sweet little girl as I write this, knowing nothing about your history here in Valentine Valley. But I’m worried that your ma’s eagerness to forget the past will blind her to how lies hurt. She kept things from you—and from me—that were easier for her to forget. She was always free-spirited, and doing things without thinking. It usually didn’t hurt her. But she left town so fast after her high-school graduation, then married barely four months later to a man she just met. When she came home with you, I confronted her and she finally admitted the truth—Jacob Strong wasn’t your father.

With a gasp, Emily reread the last sentence over again. Her grandmother was saying her entire childhood was a fabrication.

She’d never questioned her mother’s impulsive decision to marry her father after knowing him so briefly. Since Delilah consulted the stars for so many things, it was hard to find more . . . grounded reasons for what she used to do. Half the time, Emily thought Delilah had picked her dad for his last name since she always said she liked how “Delilah Strong” sounded. Emily’s memories of him were of a warm, patient man who loved her and put up with her mother’s flitting in and out of their day with resignation mingled with affection.

But . . . he wasn’t her biological father.

Chapter Six

E
mily felt as if she’d reached the crest of a roller coaster, her stomach heaving as she wished desperately to stop time. But that couldn’t happen, and all her thoughts tumbled about in her head while she sat motionless in the disaster of her kitchen.

Another piece of her past was unraveling all because of her mother’s screwups. Did Delilah even love Jacob Strong, or had he been a convenient husband? That had been her worst fear growing up, that her mother hadn’t truly loved her dead father. Stumbling to her feet, Emily leaned heavily against a dull counter and stared around the kitchen wide-eyed. This had still been a general store in the early eighties, and her mother had worked here part-time. Teen pregnancies had still been somewhat of a scandal to most people. Had Delilah stood in this very spot, wondering what she’d do with her life, feeling unable to confide the truth in her own mother until forced? It made Emily wonder what kind of relationship they truly had. Delilah’s desperation must have forced her to flee Valentine Valley—leaving her family, and whoever Emily’s father might have been. Perhaps he hadn’t even known. Or perhaps her mom hadn’t known his identity. The way she’d gone through men, never being without one long, spoke a lot about her behavior.

She scanned the rest of the letter.

If Dorothy did right by you, this won’t come as a shock. I pray she came to her senses and told the truth, understanding that you deserved to know. But sometimes she gets it in her head that she’s right, damn the consequences. If you didn’t know—I’m sorry, child. Forgiveness is one of God’s graces, but he makes us work hard for it. I ask for your understanding on my own behalf, too, for not being able to reach my only child. It is a failure I pray over every night. Rosemary Thalberg says I obsess too much, that I did my best, that the next generation will heal the mistakes of the past. I tell her she’s a busybody, full of too much sunshine and rainbows. But deep in my crotchety old heart, I hope she’s right.

I pray for you, too, my little Emily. Your past may have some heartache, but only you can determine your future. And may it be a long and happy life. You have all my love.

Grandma Riley

A tear slid down Emily’s cheek, a wry smile twisted her lips. The letter sounded just like the grandma she remembered, the one who liked to walk in the rain wearing big rubber boots, who stubbornly spent hours in her garden even though vegetables refused to grow for her.

Part of Emily still didn’t want to believe Grandma could be telling the truth about her dad. And with everything going on in her life, it seemed too overwhelming to think about. Perhaps she didn’t even want to pursue it. What would it matter? All those important years after Jacob Strong died had been spent without a father, and looking for one at this late date seemed almost selfish. She might disrupt an entire family.

A family she should have been a part of. But it was too late.

And perhaps her mother had actually been protecting her from a man who didn’t deserve to be a father. Instead, Delilah had given her Jacob Strong, kind and wonderful, his memory still a balm when she needed to be soothed.

Hands shaking, she folded up the letter and thrust it into her purse, as if it were a live snake she didn’t want to touch again. She went back to relentlessly bagging garbage in the apartment, exhausting herself so she didn’t have to think, only taking a break when it was time for lunch. She pulled the container of apple tarts out of her backpack, then realized she’d left the lunch she’d packed back at the boardinghouse. Apple tarts would have to do.

She locked up the building—was that even necessary in broad daylight in Valentine Valley? But she was a city girl, and it just seemed wrong not to be careful. Forcing herself to look cheerful, she went next door and found Monica rearranging a display of crocheted baby afghans and looking relieved for the distraction.

Emily set the plastic container on the main counter. “I brought us something a bit more decadent to share than a salad. Dessert.”

“Oh, I haven’t eaten lunch yet,” Monica said, looking hungrily at the container.

“I already did, so I’ll leave you to finish yours.” She didn’t want Monica insisting on sharing two days in a row.

“Don’t rush off.” Monica lifted the lid, wafted the container under her nose, and groaned. “Ohh, it smells divine. You baked this?”

“Apple tarts.”

“Crust from scratch?” she asked, eyes going wide. “I thought everyone bought theirs nowadays.”

“Not me. Never have. But baking up in the mountains is tricky although you probably already know that.”

Monica snorted.

Emily reluctantly smiled. “I’ve been taking lessons in high-altitude baking from the widows, and this is one recipe that turned out okay the first time.”

“So you’re not experimenting on me?” Monica teased.

“Cross my heart.” Emily had to admit that it was nice having a conversation instead of spending too much time keeping dark thoughts at bay.

The bell above the door jangled, and they both turned to look.

Monica broke into a big grin as a young woman entered. “Brooke, just in time for lunch—or should I say Emily’s fantastic dessert?”

Brooke’s gaze focused on Emily with recognition as if she’d already heard about her. What is it with small towns? Emily wondered wryly. Brooke was a good half a foot taller than she was, her lean build shown off in tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a button-snapped Western shirt with a fleece vest over the top. She carried a cowboy hat at her side along with a small cooler, and in the other hand a paper bag.

“So you’re Emily Murphy,” Brooke said, a smile slowly forming. Then she lifted a brown paper sack. “You forgot your lunch.”

Emily gaped at her momentarily, trying to put together some sequence of events that could explain this.

Monica elbowed her. “Hey! You told me you already ate lunch.”

Emily stared at the smirking Brooke as she answered Monica. “If I’d have told you I forgot it, you’d have offered to share again, making me feel like an idiot. I had tarts, didn’t I? With healthy apples in them.” She took the bag from Brooke. “Thanks. Should I ask how you got my lunch?”

Brooke put out a hand. “I’m Brooke Thalberg.”

“Ah,” Emily said, as all the lightbulbs went off in her head. They shook hands, and she noticed Brooke’s firm grip, her skin rougher than most women’s. “Nate’s sister—and Mrs. Thalberg’s granddaughter. Did she call you?”

“Of course not. She called Nate.”

Brooke and Monica exchanged a knowing grin, then both women started to unpack their lunches. Emily hesitated, knowing she should make excuses and leave instead of being drawn into temporary friendships. But it just seemed too rude, so she reluctantly sat down on a stool.

Emily told herself she was glad Nate hadn’t shown up with her lunch himself. She didn’t have time for his sort of distraction although she was curious about his reaction to his grandmother’s call. While Monica helped a couple customers with an emergency birthday bouquet and long-stemmed roses for a dinner date, Brooke kept grinning at her, as if reading her thoughts.

When Monica returned to eat lunch, Emily said to Brooke, “I’m sorry you got drawn into this.”

“I’m not,” she answered cheerfully. “I wanted to meet the woman Nate brought to the Widows’ Boardinghouse. And he couldn’t help out with your lunch because he was having a tough time getting hold of a part we need.”

“I know I shouldn’t have imposed on your grandmother,” Emily said, after swallowing a bite of her turkey sandwich. “But Nate was pretty persuasive and . . .” Her words died off as she realized they were both watching her with speculation.

Brooke shook her head. “I don’t know if I want to hear how my brother was persuasive.”

Emily knew she was blushing when the women started to laugh. “It wasn’t like that!” she protested. “I tried to stay in my own building, but the heat wasn’t on, and he wouldn’t let me.”

“Damn, I thought there might be a better story than that,” Brooke grumbled, before taking a bite of her chicken drumstick.

Emily concentrated on her sandwich for a moment, controlling her tone, before saying, “Nope. But your grandmother is absolutely wonderful.”

“Thanks. And she really likes you. She says it’s a shame you’re leaving in a couple weeks.”

Emily explained about selling the building and moving on with her life.

“Doing what?” Monica asked.

Emily chewed a celery stick thoughtfully. “College. I’m enrolled at Berkeley for the fall semester. The first time I went, I was so in love, I dropped out to get married. It didn’t end well,” she murmured, and was grateful when the two women nodded with sympathy instead of asking questions. “Although I’m in liberal arts, I’m determined to find a more specific major that interests me.”

“You don’t sound like you did that before,” Brooke said.

Emily shrugged. “I didn’t. I’m hoping a school advisor can help me. Maybe take some kind of aptitude test or something. It’s sad to be thirty years old and not know what you want to do with your life. Monica, did you always know the flower shop was what you wanted?”

“No, I went to college. I took a lot of business courses because I knew I wanted to be my own boss. I’d always been creative—I used to draw and paint—so I tried interior design. That was when I realized it was the flowers I was drawn to more than the furniture or wallpaper. And luckily, the owner of the flower shop here in Valentine was ready to retire, so I assumed the lease. I keep taking classes, studying books, learning new things. And I love it.”

Emily was glad to hear that someone else had to figure out her career path—until Brooke spoke.

“I always knew what I would do.”

Monica groaned. “Isn’t she wonderful.”

“Hey, it’s a family business,” Brooke protested. “When you’re in the saddle by age three, guiding cattle to pasture by eight, and helping birth calves at fourteen, it’s kinda in your blood.”

Emily gaped at her. “I was playing soccer at fourteen—and even that seemed too complicated
.
Wow.”

“It’s not that impressive around here,” Brooke said with a shrug. “You smell like cow shit a lot. We were thigh deep in muddy irrigation ditches today, and I’ll be heading back there after lunch.”

“I bet Nate was there,” Monica said, using her carrots to scoop up a creamy dip even as she eyed Emily.

Emily ignored her.

“We all work the ranch together. My mom takes care of the books and keeping everyone fed. My dad and my two brothers work outside with me.” As they divided up the apple tarts, Brooke turned to Monica. “I saw your sister on TV last night.”

Emily glanced in surprise at Monica, who frowned.

“Oh, she likes being famous,” Monica answered flippantly.

“She’s a journalist at CNN,” Brooke explained. “She’s often out of the country covering whatever big disaster or battle is hot.”

“She likes the big-city life,” Monica said at last. “And I don’t. Kind of strange, for twins.”

“Twins?”

“Fraternal. We don’t look alike.”

“Sure you do,” Brooke said, rolling her eyes. “Like sisters, anyway. Okay, so Missy knows how to glam herself up.”

“Melissa,” Monica countered. “Let’s not forget that ‘Missy’ doesn’t sound professional. Doesn’t matter that’s what we all called her.”

“I’m sorry you and your sister aren’t getting along,” Emily said.

Monica smiled. “Thanks. You’re sweet. We used to. I never thought anything would separate us. We went off to college together, and afterward, she chose the big city, and I moved back home. Over the years, we seem to have . . . lost our connection.”

“I can’t believe that. You’re sisters.”

“Hey, you never know,” Brooke said, using her finger to swipe another crumb from the container. “I always thought my brothers got along great, but lately, I’ve sensed . . . I don’t know, tension or something.”

“Not Josh and Nate,” Monica said dismissively. “So they had an argument.”

Brooke shrugged, her eyes focused far away. So Fantasy Cowboy had some human weaknesses after all, Emily thought. It was a lot easier to hear about other people’s family problems than consider her own.

N
ate knew he shouldn’t go anywhere near Emily’s building, but Valentine Valley was a small town, and on his way to the feed store, he ended up driving his pickup past her block. He glanced down the alley—being cautious, he told himself—and saw Emily dragging a huge stuffed chair a couple inches at a time toward the Dumpster. Once again, he got that immediate sensation of awareness and interest and concern that didn’t bode well.

He took the next corner and came to a stop. He shouldn’t have driven that way. She was pretty upset that he was doing her “favors,” and he knew he should stop, knowing what happened when he got involved. But the chair looked heavy.

He pulled into the alley. Emily straightened and frowned. Her jeans and t-shirt had some dirt stains, and that strawberry blond hair of hers was falling down the back of her neck.
Damn, but she looks
good.
He got out of the truck.