A Town Called Valentine

chapter Six



Emily 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.

Nate 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.

She put her hands on her hips. “This can’t be a coincidence. Didn’t I just see you this morning?”

“I’m on my way to the feed store. What am I supposed to do when I see a woman in distress? My mom would beat me if I didn’t stop. Now move aside.”

He brushed past her, and she seemed to quickly get out of his way. She was being smarter than he was. He hefted the chair off the ground and walked the final twenty yards to the Dumpster. She raced ahead of him to open the lid, and he got to watch her jeans-clad butt as she stood on tiptoes to reach the top.

He tossed in the chair.

Wide-eyed, she said, “Okay, that was impressive.”

“That couldn’t have been a compliment. After all, I was rescuing you again.”

“So your mama raised you right. Thank you for your help.”

As she walked by him, she stole a glance at him that he couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t angry or defensive or affronted. So what was it?

He found himself walking beside her. “Did you get your lunch?”

She snorted, and he was surprised she wasn’t too ladylike for it.

“Do you doubt your sister?”

“Nope. Just checking up on her. Although now that I think about it, she did rave about some apple tarts. So I guess she had those with you.”

She climbed the couple stairs to her building and glanced at him over her shoulder. Luckily, he’d stopped checking out her butt in time.

“You don’t sound like you listen to your sister very well.”

He realized he’d lost track of the conversation. Damn. He climbed the first step, unaware she’d stopped until he almost bumped into her. Their eyes met and held for a moment before she glanced away. He found himself wanting to gather her wayward hair into his hands and . . . fix it for her. Not . . . caress it or anything.

“You brought up the apple tarts for a reason,” she said. “You country boys probably need to check out a woman’s cooking.”

“You baked them yourself?”

“Don’t sound so disbelieving,” she shot back.

He raised both hands. “Just surprised.”

“I like to cook.” She lifted her chin, as if daring him.

“Then I better try one,” he said, trying to remain serious when a grin was eating at him.

The kitchen was still a mess, but a lot of the junk was off the floor, and it had been swept.

“You’ve been working hard,” he said.

“Thank you.” She picked up a container and continued to walk into the restaurant. “Now that I have paths to the doors, I’ve been focusing on the apartment—so I don’t have to impose on your grandmother,” she added over her shoulder.

“You know she doesn’t consider you an imposition.”

“But you do.”

He didn’t know what to say—it had seemed true. And he was no longer certain why. After all, it wasn’t like he was forced to see her every day.

“No, you’re not an imposition. Not if you can cook, anyway.”

He thought she might have smiled, but since she was still ahead of him, and he was still focused on her butt, he wasn’t certain.

“There aren’t enough usable chairs in here,” she said. “We’ll sit outside on the bench.”

“So you’re not handing me a tart and sending me on my way?” he asked dryly.

“I considered it. But you’re Brooke’s brother, and I like her.”

But not me, he thought. He tried to tell himself that was a good thing, but already his mind was slyly protesting that she’d liked him well enough a couple nights ago. Damn, he shouldn’t have let his thoughts go there. Before he knew it, he was noticing how close they had to sit on the bench, and that when he sat naturally, his leg touched hers, so he pulled back. But he’d almost lingered.

She handed Nate a tart on a napkin. When their fingers touched, he didn’t pull away too quickly. She blushed, and he knew she was remembering Tony’s Tavern, too.

He took a bite, and as the sweet and tart flavor oozed across his tongue, he made a humming sound of approval.

“Thank you,” she answered, just as if he’d spoken.

“Oh, you’re good,” he rumbled, after swallowing.

Another answer that could be taken two ways.

She didn’t meet his eyes but let out a deep breath. “Look, there’s been this . . . tension between us since that first night.” As she glanced at him, her big blue eyes looked determined. “I’m going to be here for a couple weeks, and it’s a small town, and I’m living with your grandmother, and I’ll probably keep bumping into you.” She stopped, as if realizing her mouth was running away with her.

He kind of liked it. She was nervous about him.

“It’s silly for us to . . . go on like this,” she continued. “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry I drank too much and let things go too far between us. Regardless of what you might think, I’ve never done anything like that before, and when I realized what I was doing, I had to stop it. I don’t just . . . give myself to a guy I just met.”

He smiled. “ ‘Give’ yourself? That sounds pretty old-fashioned.”

“You know what I mean,” she said with exasperation.

She was watching him, looking anxious and hesitant, as if she cared what he thought. Something inside him eased.

He tipped his hat to her and grinned. “Apology accepted. I feel bad that things have been awkward between us. Regardless of what you might think, I don’t normally drink and proposition women in bars. But you were sitting there so . . .” His voice drifted into a soft rumble.

She was staring at him wide-eyed, fresh and innocent and embarrassed.

“Drunk?” she offered wryly.

“No. Pretty. Pretty and relaxed and funny. I’m a sucker for funny. But I apologize for going too far. I’ve been pretty mad at myself these last couple days for taking advantage.”

She blinked at him. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“For saying no?” He snorted. “Hardly. It wasn’t your fault.”

She smiled at last and kept glancing at him as if she didn’t know whether to believe him.

She stuck out her hand. “Could we start over? I’d like it if we could be friends.”

He slid his hand around hers, noticing how small and fragile it was, that he had to be careful not to squeeze too hard and hurt her.

“Friends,” he said, his voice too husky.

This was a bad idea, but he couldn’t stop himself.