A Promise at Bluebell Hill (15 page)

“Hi, Monica!” called Harriet, the chubby waitress in her fifties. She wore a white buttoned-­down shirt and khakis beneath her apron, and a fifties pointed cap in her bright blond curls. “Ben, your daughter's here!”

He looked up from his newspaper, and his blank expression morphed into pleasure. Monica kissed his cheek, felt the reassuring brush of his beard against her chin, and suddenly she was just his daughter again.

“Hi, Dad!”

She slid into the booth opposite him, then turned her coffee cup right side up in the saucer for Harriet to fill. Ben already had a full plate of bacon, eggs, and hash browns. She snagged a triangle piece of toast.

“Know what you want, Monica?” Harriet asked.

“A piece of ham and broccoli quiche, thanks.”

“I don't even need to write that down. You never change.”

When Harriet left, Ben leaned toward Monica and pointed at her with his fork. “I thought you didn't come here anymore since Sylvester protested against Leather and Lace last year.”

Monica shrugged and swallowed the piece of toast. “I've decided to forgive and forget—­I have too many good memories of our Sunday mornings here.”

They grinned at each other.

“And you can't do without their quiche,” Ben said.

Monica licked her lips. “Okay, okay, you got me. The forgiveness was a little harder to manage.”

They chatted about the presidential wedding for a while, and it wasn't until Monica had taken her first delicious bite of quiche that she hesitated, thoughts sobering.

“Spill it, baby girl,” Ben said, wiping his mouth. “I know that expression.”

“I was just wondering how the vintage-­car-­racing scene is going.”

His brown eyes lit up. “Great! I've really been enjoying myself. Once I got the Mustang running last winter, there's always a race within an hour or two driving distance. I don't do it every weekend, but once or twice a month. There are some great guys on the circuit.”

She wiped her own mouth to hide her smile. The racing circuit, huh? A bunch of older guys enjoying reliving their youth. Everyone had a hobby. But was that all it was?

“So do you go overnight on these trips?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.

“Sometimes, why?”

“Do you ask Mom to go?” She kept her tone lightly curious.

“She doesn't like cars. It's just not her thing.”

He answered easily, without an evasion, and Monica began to feel a little bit better.

“Well, if you're going away every other weekend, what do you do with Mom when you're home?”

He sighed. “Your mom always has her own stuff to do, her charities, her girlfriends, you kids—­and now whatever she's doing with you on such a frequent basis,” he added meaningfully. “She said it's going to be every night this week?”

Monica gave him a bright smile. “We're just helping out the widows, Dad. It's really no big deal. But we're trying to keep it a surprise.”

He held up a hand. “Fine, fine, I don't need to know. Your mom is busy, and I'm sure that makes her happy. The car is something I do for myself.”

“It does sound fun to get away occasionally to new places,” Monica mused, after taking another bite of her quiche. “I sometimes think Mom was
always
busy, what with raising us and taking care of Grandpa Shaw, all while working part-­time. Not that you didn't take care of your dad, too,” she added hastily.

“But your mom did the majority of the work,” he agreed. “My father really appreciated her, and so did—­do I.” But he frowned.

“I guess it's easy for all of us to get too busy and just assume everything will stay the same. I mean, our households become different, right? I've been on my own for a while, and sometimes it's still strange to be alone in the evening. And you two are down to just yourselves, after all these years of taking care of everyone else. I'm glad you've found a hobby to replace some of those hours.”

She smiled at him, and though he smiled back, she thought she might have made him think about a few things in a new light.

She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Guess what? You can't tell anyone, but the Secret Ser­vice is going to use my apartment as an observation post!”

 

Chapter Fourteen

W
hen Travis picked Monica up, he gave her his usual impassive nod, and she was a little disappointed. Where was that sexy smile that was all for her? Was it because he was visiting the widows for business reasons? Was he trying to restore their supposedly professional relationship? He wore a suit, one tailored so perfectly to conceal his gun. Because the widows were dangerous, she thought, and almost snorted a laugh again. Lately, she wasn't very elegant when she laughed.

It didn't take long to cross the bridge over Silver Creek and turn down the gravel road to the boardinghouse.

“Nice sign,” he said, when they pulled past it to drive around back. “Don't ­people think the Widows' Boardinghouse is some kind of bed-­and-­breakfast? Or apartments for rent? It is a pretty big Victorian.”

“If so, they don't think it for long,” she answered, getting out of his SUV. “And it's not right in town, so ­people don't drive by unless they mean to. Farther down this road is the remodeled cabin Nate and Emily live in.” She pointed through the trees. “And you can just catch a glimpse of the Silver Creek Ranch—­see those red roofs?”

He nodded, even taking off his sunglasses to see where she pointed.

She touched his arm. “So we're on the clock here? All business?”

He looked down at her seriously. “What else can we be while we're here? The widows expect me to do my job—­they
want
me to do my job, I suspect. So I have to be in my Secret-­Ser­vice-­agent persona.”

She saw the little quirk in his lip, and it cheered her. “Okay, then.”

The back door opened while they were still climbing the porch stairs.

“Agent Beaumont!” Mrs. Palmer called happily, her bright purple housecoat billowing in the breeze. Then she saw Monica and seemed just tickled. “And our dear Monica. Our company has arrived, girls!”

They entered the kitchen, and Monica watched Travis take in the cow-­themed décor—­the white-­and-­brown-­spotted platters, the horns on which to hang coats, lovely curtains that, if you looked close, had tiny cows printed on them.

Preparations were obviously under way for Ashley's wedding shower that night: platters spread on the counters, some with dip bowls nearby, others with an unopened bag of chips sitting on top. Several unfolded accordion wedding bells perched in the center of the kitchen table, waiting to be distributed around the house. The oven was on, and the smell was incredible.

“Agent Beaumont,” Mrs. Thalberg said, “please, let us show you our home.”

As they walked around the first floor, there were no ghillie suits, of course. Monica wondered if they were hidden in the basement, or even out in the garage, just in case. She did see a stack of Mammoth Party posters and signs in the first-­floor bedroom suite they often used for guests.

When she saw he'd noticed the signs, Mrs. Ludlow leaned forward on her walker and regarded him. “You're coming to the Mammoth Party tomorrow night, aren't you, Agent Beaumont?”

“Please call me Travis, ma'am. Thank you for the invitation. If I'm not too busy, I'll attend.”

“We're doing our part to encourage the Renaissance Spa to hold off their construction so the museum has more time for their archaeology dig. A pool can be delayed—­”

“And there are other pools ­people can swim in!” Mrs. Palmer pointed out indignantly.

“—­and those fossils are so fragile,” Mrs. Ludlow continued in a cool, even voice.

She should be on the stage, Monica thought. As for Travis, she liked how he was making a big production of checking everything out, as if the widows were dangerous, and he took them seriously. It was a sweet thing to do for the old ladies, to make them feel special and important. For an unemotional, ex-­military guy, he was surprisingly thoughtful.

The widows had them take a seat in the parlor, offered coffee or iced tea, and brought out little appetizers of veggie pizza: veggies and a seasoned cream cheese on crescent-­roll pastry.

Mrs. Ludlow returned to the topic of the Mammoth Party, which was so close to the truth it made Monica a little nervous.

“We've informed the schools about the party since it's all about science. I was once a schoolteacher, you know,” she added. “I taught Monica when she was in the second grade. She was such a cute little dear.”

Monica gave Travis a hokey smile, but he just nodded and ate another appetizer. He was working the Secret Ser­vice angle all the way, and the widows were eating it up.

“We'll be bringin' in archaeologists from the museum in Denver,” Mrs. Palmer. “We're just hopin' the spa can see how badly ­people are takin' their stubbornness. They don't seem to care they might lose customers.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “It's our last chance to make them see sense.”

“That's very civic-­minded of you all,” Travis said. “Who else is helping you out?”

“Monica, of course,” Mrs. Thalberg said warmly. “She's like one of our granddaughters.”

Monica smiled at all three of them, knowing she'd do just about anything for them—­and she was going against the might of the US government, too, represented by Special Agent Travis Beaumont.

“Who else?” Travis asked pointedly.

“Theresa and Matt Sweet,” Mrs. Thalberg said, “cousins to our Emily. There's Monica's mom, Janet—­have you met her?”

Travis nodded. “At Doc Ericson's.” He glanced at Monica, no suspicion in his voice as he added, “It's good that a mother and daughter can find things to do together.”

Monica gave him a bland smile.

“Anyone else?” he asked.

“Brenda Hutcheson, from Paradise Mountain Ranch.”

“That's a good-­size group. Sounds like you'll need it to staff the community center.”

Suddenly, they could hear the back door open, and Nate called, “Grandma, am I interrupting?”

Mrs. Thalberg's happy blush was almost as red as her hair. “Nate! What a surprise!”

After a moment, he came through the dining room and into the parlor in his socks. He shook hands with Travis, then gave Monica and each of the widows a kiss on the cheek.

“Saw your SUV,” he said to Travis, then tossed a ­couple veggie pizza squares in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed with relish. “Thought you might want a tour of the ranch, like we talked about a ­couple days ago. You game?”

Travis briefly consulted his phone, then nodded. “I have an hour. I'd enjoy that.”

“Us, too!” said Mrs. Palmer.

Obviously, they had the shower preparations well in hand.

Before Monica knew it, she and Travis were driving Mrs. Ludlow and Mrs. Palmer over to the ranch, following Nate and his grandma. In the yard in front of the sprawling ranch house made of logs, Nate gave a little history about the ranch, starting in the silver-­mining days of the nineteenth century. He mentioned the herd grazing up in the White River National Forest, and the hay harvest coming in June, for which Brooke and Adam were out moving irrigation dams. He talked about the fire that wiped out the old barn, and how Brooke had recently built an indoor arena for her riding school.

Monica glanced at the arena surreptitiously. To her surprise, there were already a few newly cut tree trunks nearby. She couldn't help wondering what Brooke had told her family . . .

“You know,” Nate was saying, as they stood beside the barn, “Monica has her own fame where our mountains are concerned.”

She felt a little warm at the way Travis looked at her, blue eyes alight. “Nate, that's a boring story.” She hardly wanted to emphasize her activist past.

“It's not boring,” Mrs. Thalberg insisted, backing up her grandson. “The Silver Creek Ranch came close to having a high-­priced development overlooking us, right in the foothills of our own mountains. If not for Monica, it might have happened.”

“And what did Monica do?”

Travis asked the question with interest rather than the censure she might once have thought him capable of.

“There's this beautiful meadow called Bluebell Hill, in the foothills of our Elk Mountains,” Mrs. Thalberg said, pointing into the distance, where the mountains rose like sentinels guarding the ranch.

Nate squinted into the sun. “It was always the place my sister and Monica rode their horses when they wanted to be alone and gossip.”

“We weren't gossiping,” Monica scolded, then had to laugh at herself. “Okay, sometimes. But it's just such a peaceful place, with a stream running through it and beautiful wild bluebells scattered everywhere. When I heard that developers planned town houses there, something inside me just snapped, and I had to get involved.”

“How old were you?” Travis asked.

“Seventeen. The summer before my senior year.”

“And she spent it going door to door to anyone who'd listen,” Mrs. Ludlow said with pride. “She built a website, got petitions signed, went to every town-­council meeting. And in the end, she triumphed, persuading the owner to let it be absorbed by the White River National Forest, forever wild.”

“You make it sound like I did it all alone,” Monica said, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. She couldn't believe Travis was actually looking at her with admiration, when she was so used to his serious concern about the Double Ds' protest.

“No, you weren't alone,” Mrs. Palmer said, putting her arm around Monica. “You made us all care—­you made the town care. We were so proud.”

Monica was surprised to feel a rush of tears that she quickly blinked away, hoping to hide her ­sentimentality.

And Travis was still watching her, that faint smile so clearly for her.

A
n hour later, after meeting Nate's parents and getting a tour of Josh's workshop, Travis drove Monica back into Valentine. He wasn't any closer to knowing what she and the widows were up to—­although they'd tried hard to convince him the Mammoth Party was all they were throwing.

He didn't believe it for a moment, especially not since he could now connect their little activist group to the ghillie suits through Brenda Hutcheson, he thought with relief. He was glad to know the ghillie suits were most likely in the widows' hands rather than with someone unscrupulous.

Not that he'd seen the suits, or any evidence of what they intended to do with them. He'd keep looking into it because it was obvious someone had to keep these women from making a mistake.

Monica sent him an amused look, as if she were reading his thoughts. “So, did touring the ranch help your job?”

“Not really. The Thalbergs seem too busy to cause a problem for the president.” He glanced at her. “You spent a lot of time there?”

“A lot of my childhood. Brooke and I have been best friends since kindergarten. I apparently was crying for my mom on the first day of school—­not that I remember actually crying, you understand—­and she promised I could visit her ranch and ride her pony. Our friendship was sealed.”

“You're easily pleased by material things,” he teased.

“Hey, this was a
pony
! What little girl doesn't think they're magical?”

He smiled. “All right, I admit I'm curious about you as a little girl. I think I want to see this Bluebell Hill.”

“You're kidding, right?” she said, eyeing him with surprise.

“I'm not. It can't be that far if you rode your horses. Can we drive there?”

“Yes, but . . . aren't you busy?”

“I've got time. And your shower's not 'til this evening, right?”

“Five o'clock.”

“Plenty of time,” he said with satisfaction.

“But Travis . . . it's a reminder of my antiestablishment days.”

“You were standing up for nature, for what you believe in. It's a pretty impressive accomplishment for a seventeen-­year-­old. Give me directions.”

Wide-­eyed, she said, “We'll have to turn back around and head southwest, past the ranch.”

He turned around at the entrance to the road that led to the cemetery.

“It'll be about a thirty-­minute drive.”

“That's a short drive in D.C.”

They lapsed into a contented silence. He found himself thinking of Whitney, who'd arrived at the ranch just before he and Monica left, and how Josh had come running out to help her inside. Their apartment was on the second floor of the barn, newly renovated by Josh himself.

They were obviously thrilled to be parents soon, and he realized it was something he'd never given much thought to. He'd been building his career throughout his twenties and early thirties, and even when he'd been married, they'd never even had any meaningful discussions about having kids. It was like it hadn't occurred to him. Soon, he might be in the craziest part of the job, the Presidential Protective Detail, when he'd be even more busy than he was now. And he wasn't getting any younger.

He saw pregnant women all the time on the street—­why was he suddenly thinking about babies and families? Maybe because the Thalbergs all worked together and didn't seem to get on each other's nerves and loved what they did. And they were all preparing for the first of a new generation.

Monica directed him to turn off the gravel road onto a dirt path with two lanes for tire tracks. They'd been steadily rising higher, the valley floor falling away behind them, but this path became even steeper.

“How old are you?” Travis asked.

She stared at him in surprise. “Thirty. Why?”

“You don't look it.”

“Thanks. But why did you ask?”

Do you ever think about kids?
No, he wasn't going to ask that. She'd think him an idiot—­or get the wrong idea.

“Just curious. I'm thirty-­five.”

“You don't look it either.”

He was driving slowly now, the ride rough and uneven. “Good thing I rented an SUV,” he muttered.