Chapter Four
Josh stared down into her face, the faint lights sparkling in the trees overhead giving her skin a soft glow and shining through her dark hair like little touches of glitter.
Touches of glitter?
He heard his own thoughts and should have laughed at himself, but somehow, he couldn’t.
Whitney was lovely in a way that captivated him, full of confidence, yet with a hint of vulnerability beneath, a hint that her life hadn’t always gone as she wished.
She had everything, didn’t she? A wealthy family, a successful business of her own. But sometimes he thought he saw a shadow when he looked in her mist gray eyes, a hint of something that reached for him, made him want to know more. She was a fascinating contradiction, and not like any other woman he’d ever met.
And damn, did she look good in the bright yellow dress, long legs, toned arms, and her black hair emphasizing her tanned shoulders. And the tops of her breasts—
Whoa, Josh, he told himself. Rein it in and quit putting the cart ahead of the horse.
“So when is this Aspen meeting?” she asked.
Did her voice sound a bit breathless? He was watching her mouth and thought for sure her glance had slipped to his mouth.
“Monday morning. It’s a half-hour drive. How about if I pick you up at nine thirty?”
“Sounds good.”
“Then it’s settled,” Sandy said, beaming, as she slipped her arm through Josh’s. “Whitney, have you seen Josh’s workshop yet?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then have him bring you over when you get back from Aspen. You should see all the stages he goes through to make each piece perfect.”
“Says my mother,” Josh said, shaking his head.
Whitney smiled at Sandy. “I’d love to. I can see how organized he is, considering all the promises he’s been making lately.”
And he could spend more time with her.
“I know how you became a rancher, of course, but how about the leather tooling? It’s not something every cowboy can do, I imagine.”
“My grandpa Thalberg used to make saddles and boots in his spare time.”
“All that spare time you cowboys have?” she teased.
“We have more time in the winter. I used to watch him for hours, and sometimes he let me try. I was twelve when he died and left me his tools. I practiced for several years, then worked on saddles, too, but they take too much time. I didn’t want to lose the skill, so I made smaller things with all the extra leather, mirror frames, checkbook covers, watch fobs, and sold them on consignment through Monica’s Flowers and Gifts. When that went well, Emily suggested shoulder bags.”
“Your sister-in-law knows talent when she sees it.”
“She’s another San Francisco girl,” he said huskily. “Guess my brother and I appreciate the same things.”
“No more flirting,” she said, smiling.
But she wasn’t exactly meeting his eyes.
After she said her good-byes to his family, and he walked her around the house toward her car, the darkness gradually swallowed them both. They could hear birds chirping, and the sound of more laughter as the party broke up. They stopped beside her SUV.
“I could have found it without you,” she said dryly, digging into her purse for her keys.
“The porch light isn’t very strong out here. And I would have taken a ribbing from my mother about my manners. So if it makes you feel better, I’m humoring her.”
She flashed him the smile that still haunted his dreams. Was there a dimple in one corner? And then he was thinking about kissing her there, and he put his hands in his pockets to stop himself from pulling her close.
“Good night,” she said, opening the door. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”
He closed the door behind her, then stepped back onto the grass and out of her way. After negotiating a three-point turn, she flashed her lights once, then sped off toward town. Josh watched her go. It was going to be a long weekend.
He rejoined his family, ready for more teasing, but someone must have put out the word, for the only things he heard were compliments about Whitney. And he agreed with them all.
As he took the wiped-down tablecloth off one of the picnic tables, his mom approached to help him fold it.
“Did you have a nice time with Whitney?” she asked, directly to the point.
As they came together with the folding of the cloth, he grinned. “We all did.”
“Hope you didn’t mind your grandma asking Whitney to join you in Aspen?”
“I think Grandma wasn’t alone in that.”
Sandy just smiled up at him, her black hair framing her face. The strain from last year’s flare-up had gone away, so slowly that he’d hardly realized it. She looked healthy and happy, tanned from spending hours every day in her gardens. He felt a surge of relief and leaned over to kiss her cheek.
“Not that I minded your interference,” he said.
“I didn’t think so. It looks like you need some help.”
“So that’s what the offer to see my workshop was all about?”
She gave him an innocent smile. “She really should see how you work.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you upset with me?”
“Not in the least.”
“I didn’t think so.” She took the folded tablecloth from him and winked.
By Sunday afternoon, Whitney was lonely, a true surprise. She was used to being busy—and she still was—but in between work in San Francisco, there were always friends to have lunch or dinner with, the premiere of a play, an opening at a museum.
Part of her disquiet was that she couldn’t yet place a purchase offer that would officially make the building hers. She told herself that she was choosing architects and waiting for a rough idea of what the renovation would cost, but… it was mostly feeling not wanted by the citizens of Valentine Valley.
She had made the mistake of having lunch Saturday at the True Grits Diner, and although the waitstaff was friendly, more than once, Sylvester Galimi, the owner and coordinator of the opposition, came out from the back and glared at her, as if wondering why it was taking her so long to eat. What did he think she’d do, drive away customers? People on the streets smiled at her, after all, in the usual small-town way. She used to think it annoying to constantly make eye contact in Valentine, which you didn’t do in the city, but lately it was reassuring.
She wasn’t used to being disliked. Even in her party-girl days, she’d been popular with her fans, and though tolerated by those who judged her morals, most seemed to like her. When had she developed a need to please everyone? Hell, she wouldn’t have become involved in the lingerie business if that had been important to her.
By Saturday night, when Debbie Fernandez, the owner of The Adelaide, took pity on her and asked if she wanted to go to a movie at the Royal Theater, Whitney hadn’t even hesitated. She’d been so busy admiring the nineteenth-century gilded décor and brothel red walls, she hadn’t even realized it was a silent movie festival until someone began playing an organ. She’d enjoyed herself.
But by Sunday, she was restless again and decided she had to get out. She had a temporary membership to the local fitness center, which like everything else in Valentine, was only a short walk—or jog—away, but that wasn’t what she wanted. The day was beautiful, brilliant blue skies, the occasional cloud like a solitary cotton ball floating by. She could see the mountains on the far side of the valley and was surprised how desertlike some of it looked, with cacti and low shrubs in reddish earth.
She walked up Main Street, and as usual, never tired of its quaint charm. Clapboard storefronts alternated with nineteenth-century sandstone two- and three-story buildings, built during the silver-boom days, when Valentine Valley was bursting with miners looking to spend their earnings. Before each store was an overflowing planter of flowers, and it might as well have been the Fourth of July with all the American flags hung from the old-fashioned lampposts. At the far end of Main Street, the town hall rose up against the backdrop of the mountains.
She peered in the store windows, and saw that some, like the women’s boutique La Belle Femme, would be right at home in San Francisco, while others mostly appealed to tourists, like the Back In Time Portrait Studio, with its clients dressed like sheriffs and saloon girls. Though her mouth watered looking into the Just Desserts, she spent the longest time lingering in front of the Vista Gallery of Art, taking in the Colorado landscapes and thinking she might have to buy one as a memento of her time there.
And then she passed Monica’s Flowers and Gifts, and did a double take. Monica had decorated one of her windows with a collection of leather frames hung from or surrounding beautiful vases of flowers. Whitney couldn’t help herself—she went inside, drawn by Josh’s work, just like she’d been last winter.
Monica Shaw was waiting on another customer at the counter that separated the front of the store from the giant coolers and the door to the back room beyond. But she saw Whitney, smiled and nodded, and continued showing flower samples for the man to choose from. Monica had black, shoulder-length curls and caramel-colored skin, with enviable cheekbones that set off her deep brown eyes. Dressed in an off-the-shoulder top and slim pants, she could have been walking down a runway. But she looked happiest surrounded by the flowers in her shop.
Whitney walked around the scattering of displays, seeing the variety of crafts from knitted layettes to ceramic plates. But of course, as usual, she was drawn to the leather, just like the first time she’d been in the shop. She picked up a journal with its leather cover and ran her fingers over the intricate tracings of vines that had such depth you felt they were swirling together. Josh had created shadows and three dimensions, and it made Whitney want to frame it instead of write inside. Once again, she could imagine this brilliant, one-of-a-kind work around a woman’s neck. She wanted to wear it herself, as if she would be marked by him.
She set down the journal and laughed at herself. There was no denying she was in lust.
The tinkling of the bell above the door startled her out of her thoughts, then Monica came out from behind the counter and gave her a hug. “Whitney! It’s so good to see you! How long has it been?”
“Eight months. Hard to believe,” she added, shaking her head. It felt like she’d never left, like this awareness of Josh had only intensified with the time apart. But she wasn’t going to say that.
“So you’re back to officially buy the building?” Monica asked. “We’ll be neighbors—okay, a block apart, but that’s pretty close.”
“I’m almost one hundred percent certain I’ll be buying it,” Whitney hedged.
Monica cocked her head with interest. “Guess you have some thinking to do.”
“I’ll hear what the architects and contractors say first.”
“Cautious and sensible, I guess.”
“That’s me,” Whitney said brightly.
Monica chuckled. “I see you looking over Josh’s work.” She ran a hand over a checkbook cover that had interlocking diamonds dyed different colors. “Having second thoughts about using our boy?”
“Not a bit. His work is exquisite, and I just know my customers will count themselves lucky to have something so unique.”
“Around their necks,” Monica said wryly.
Whitney grinned. “Around their necks.”
“Whew. I hate to think of his work in… other places.”
They both laughed.
Someone came through the back door, and Whitney saw a teenage girl setting her purse behind the counter, then using a hairband from her wrist to pull back her light brown hair. Her freckles had darkened with her summer tan.
“Hey, Karista,” Monica said. “Right on time as usual.” She introduced the girl as one of her sales associates, then narrowed her eyes in thought. “Whitney, do you have lunch plans?”
“I don’t, but I would love it if you’d join me.”
Monica smiled. “Karista, the place is yours for an hour. I’ll have my cell on.” She grabbed her purse and followed Whitney out.
“Where shall we go?” Whitney asked when they were back on the street and blinking at the summer sun.
“Have you been to the Silver Creek Café? It’s in an old house overlooking the creek, and we can eat on the back deck.”
“Sounds perfect.”
The walk was only a couple blocks, and soon they were entering another renovated Victorian with a wraparound porch that became a broad deck in the back. The hostess took them through the wood-paneled first-floor cafe, past huge windows and outside, where vine-covered trellises lined the deck, and another across the ceiling shaded them from the sun overhead. The view was spectacular, all lush green parkland with scattered picnic tables, grills, and swing sets. Towering trees bent low over Silver Creek, and she could glimpse the occasional kayak, the red hull peeking through the foliage like a tropical bird.
As she sat down at a table, Whitney asked, “Is that the boardinghouse down the way on the other side?”
“Yep. So the ranch isn’t that far off.”
Monica seemed to be studying her, so Whitney casually picked up her menu and started scanning it.
“I hear you had dinner there the other night,” Monica continued, making no attempt to hide her curiosity.
“It was nice of the widows to invite me.”
“You know they never do anything without a reason,” she warned, resting her chin on her hand.
“And that reason could be they know I’m a stranger here.”
“You tell yourself that.” Monica grinned as she picked up her own menu.
“Hi, Monica!”
A teenager approached their table, set down two glasses of ice water, and pulled out a notepad.
“Glad you’re our waitress,” Monica said. “Whitney, did you ever meet Emily’s sister, Steph Sweet?”
Whitney smiled up at her. Wearing a polo shirt and an apron over khaki shorts, Steph was pretty, with her bright blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her crystal blue eyes were wide with interest.
“You’re Whitney Winslow,” the girl said. “I heard all about your store from Em, and of course the bra tree at town hall is already famous. I checked your catalogue out online and ordered a few things.”
“Did you now?” Whitney answered, smiling.
Steph made a funny face. “I know, I know, I look young, but I’ll be eighteen in a few months, and I have my own money. My mom was cool with it. I saw her looking at the site, too, but I didn’t ask any questions.”
Monica pressed her lips together as if to hide laughter.
“Well, I appreciate your business,” Whitney said.
“Are you both ready to order?” Steph asked. She glanced past them and bit her lip but waited expectantly.
“I’ll take the salad with grilled chicken.” Whitney looked over her shoulder to see another customer, an older woman, frowning at them over her reading glasses—or more likely at Steph, who gave the woman an apologetic smile.
Monica ordered a turkey sandwich and coleslaw. Then Steph rushed straight to the other woman’s table, promising them their drinks in a moment.
“Guess it’s a busy day,” Monica said, then shook her head. “Eight months might have passed, but everyone still talks about the bra-tree demonstration. It was brilliant.”
Whitney put up both hands. “No thanks to me. It was all the widows. I knew nothing about it except that I was told to show up with a bra in hand.”
Growing up on the slopes, she’d seen the occasional bra tree beneath a rising ski lift, where skiers dropped strands of beads—or their bras—to land in the branches. The widows had thought to use the same idea to demonstrate on behalf of Leather and Lace. Whitney could still remember seeing Mrs. Ludlow push her walker beneath the tree and hang an old-fashioned white bra on the lowest branch. Others slung their bras up high, to the cheers of the crowd. They carried signs of protest, like I WEAR LEATHER AND LACE and WOMEN NEED PRETTY PANTIES. The widows had succeeded in making the fight against Leather and Lace a fight against women’s freedom, a little over the top, but it seemed to turn the tide. It had been a cold winter night, and people sold hot chocolate and hot pretzels like it was a festival. Mayor Galimi—Sylvester’s thankfully objective sister—had thought it amusing, and the town council eventually sided with Leather and Lace.
“You left pretty soon after that,” Monica said, eyeing her.
“It was almost Christmas, and I had plans with my family.”
“Where did you spend it?”
Whitney hesitated. “Rio.”
Monica blinked in surprise.
“My parents like beaches.”
“I get that. Bet it was fun.”
“Of course.” Whitney shrugged, knowing that she could hardly say that everyone amused themselves when their family got together at the holidays. Except for one big meal, she’d been on her own. She liked her sister-in-law, and they did some shopping and some beach-lounging, but… “What did you do for Christmas?”
Monica leaned closer with obvious excitement. “My twin sister Missy came home for an entire week.”
“There’s another one of you?”
“Fraternal, not identical, but we do look like sisters. She’s a reporter for CNN, and she’s always in some far-off part of the world. My brother Dom lives in town—oh, you’ll probably meet him because he hangs with Josh and their boys’ club crowd.”
“Brooke said they ‘batch up.’ ”
“Ooh, you’re learning the ranching lingo! Yeah, the guys like to hang together, just like we girls do. We talk about them, they talk about us. The way of the world.”
They both straightened when Steph brought their iced teas, looking a little more harried this time. She leaned close. “Sorry about the delay. As usual lately, they gave me six tables instead of four, and everyone ends up mad at me.”
“Not us,” Whitney promised. “You take your time.” She took a sip of tea, added a sugar packet, then gave Monica a frank look. “So what do you think of Josh doing work for me, as well as you?”
Monica looked baffled. “He doesn’t really work for me. It’s all consignment. If he wants to put things in my store, he’s welcome to.”
“So you won’t be offended if his necklaces for me or the shoulder bags for the Aspen boutique get so popular they need more of his attention?”
“Offended? Of course not,” she insisted, looking so surprised that Whitney was relieved.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Whitney said. “I’m concerned Josh is trying to please too many people.”
“Then you could always cancel your order,” Monica said, blinking innocently.
Whitney grinned. “Not on your life. His talent is going to take my store’s popularity to a new level. I just didn’t want to fight over him.”
“Fight over him?” Monica echoed, eyes narrowed with interest. “What an interesting way to phrase it.”
“Fight over his time—you know what I mean.”
Thankfully, Steph brought their food at the right moment, then hurried off to another table, where a guy was actually snapping his fingers at her.
“Jerk,” Whitney said under her breath.
“I was going to call him something far less civilized.” Monica slanted a glare at him. “Tourists.”
“You say that with disdain. Surely they comprise much of your business.”
“They do, and most of them are very pleasant. You’ll discover that soon enough. But there’s a class of tourist who believe themselves better than everyone else because they’re gracious enough to part with their money in our quaint shops and restaurants. Oh well, no point dwelling on the few rotten apples.”
While the breeze teased them with the damp freshness of the creek, they ate and talked, and Whitney enjoyed getting to know Monica better. When they were done, they left Steph a big tip, and she waved them a harried good-bye.
Whitney had been very tempted to ask more about Josh, but restrained herself, knowing how it might look—and knowing that it might be passed along to his sister. Or even Josh himself. She didn’t want him to know just yet that she was reconsidering turning down his offer of a night out.