A Promise at Bluebell Hill (16 page)

“We're almost there.”

Not five minutes later, the ground leveled out, and the dirt tracks disappeared into thigh-­high wild grass bordering a broad grove of white-­barked aspen trees that blocked the view of the valley. The mountains continued to rise behind the trees, jagged against the brilliant blue sky.

“Park right here,” she said, then unbuckled her seat belt and got out of the car. “We're coming just at the right time of year,” she added, excitement lacing her voice. “This way, through the trees.”

He reached for her hand, and she smiled up at him tenderly, giving him a little squeeze before leading him through the tall grass and into the trees.

The ground began to slope down almost immediately. Birds chirped as they swooped from tree to tree. The grasses brushed their thighs; the breeze played through the leaves over their heads.

And then the grass just seemed to change right in front of him, turning blue and purple everywhere the eye could see, as the bluebells drooped their bell-­shaped heads on tall green stalks. The sun slanted through the trees, like fingers of light combing through the flowers. For a moment, he just looked at Monica, framed in bluebells, the way her orange-­and-­white-­striped sundress blew against her long legs, cinched in at her waist with a little belt, then angled up her back to the little capped sleeves.

“This is gorgeous,” he murmured, unwilling to raise his voice, as if the sound of human speech would change the magical landscape back into the ordinary.
You're gorgeous, Monica.

“Just wait,” she promised, luring him deeper.

At last, the trees began to thin, and he could see the slope of the hill, slanting down and away from him, covered in bluebells. The long narrow Roaring Fork Valley spread out below, from Aspen in the southeast all the way to Glenwood Springs in the northwest. The sky was azure blue, not a cloud to mar its perfection. And everywhere, bluebells swayed in the sun, clustered even closer together along a stream that flowed from rock to rock down the mountainside.

Still holding his hand, Monica spoke solemnly, quietly. “Now you can see why I had to save this place. As a kid, I thought it was a fairy wonderland in early summer. I used to bring my sketchbook and draw the bluebells, the streams, the aspen trees. Brooke and I talked about . . . everything, our families, our friendship, and, eventually, boys, of course,” she added, smiling up at him.

“You rode horses up here—­did you have your own?”

She shook her head. “I was a villager, not a rancher. But the Thalbergs generously allowed me my choice to ride. I always picked Misty, a flea-­bitten gray, they called her, though she was white as snow. She's still alive. I haven't ridden her in a while,” she added, a faint line appearing between her brows. “I should make more time.”

“It's so easy to be caught up in work, isn't it?” he asked, drawing her toward the stream and sitting down on a boulder. He pulled her onto his lap, and she relaxed back against his chest without a protest, as if she belonged in his arms. “We talked about our hobbies yesterday, but lately they feel in my past rather than something I do right now.”

“I've noticed that about you, almost from the beginning,” she said, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

Her curls tickled his chin, and he used his hand, to gently tame them. “What do you mean?”

“I just . . . I wanted to help you, almost from the moment I saw you—­and not just about the presidential wedding. Don't take this the wrong way, but you seemed sort of . . . lost, rigidly disciplined, unable even to relax off duty. Are you offended?” she asked, her gaze turning troubled.

“No, I'm flattered that you care.”

“I care, Travis. I sort of made a promise to myself.”

“A promise about me?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes. I promised myself I'd find a way to get you to relax, to open up, to enjoy yourself here in Valentine Valley. It's such a beautiful town, and you were missing it all.”

“I didn't miss you,” he answered quietly. “I couldn't miss you. You were like . . . sunshine the moment I first saw you.” He rolled his eyes self-­consciously. “Okay, I don't know where that came from. I'm not a poet.”

She smiled tenderly. “Bluebell Hill brings out the poet in everyone, I think. That's how I saved it in the end, you know. I made the owner come up when it looked like this, bluebells everywhere, the valley so distant below, God's sky like a brilliant blue umbrella covering the world.” She laughed. “Now I sound like a poet.”

“You're a poet with flowers,” he said. “Everything I've seen of your work paints a picture, no words necessary.”

Her brown eyes were wide with wonder as she stared up at him. Then her hands touched his face and brought his head down until their mouths met. The kiss was as tender as he felt, moving in a way that made his chest ache. From the beginning, they'd both been drawn to each other, brought together by a promise she'd made to herself about him—­and to think, without that, he would have missed all of this—­would have missed knowing her.

The kiss grew rougher, deeper, and he found himself turning her about in his arms until she straddled him. Hungrily, he let his hands roam up the outside of her thighs so that he could grip her hips and bring her against him, her softness cradling his hardness. In unison, they groaned into each other's mouths. He kissed his way down her cheek and past her ear, burying his face in her neck, inhaling the dizzying scent of her hair, of her skin, the scents blending into all that was Monica.

She tilted her head back as he let his tongue brush the hollow at the base of her throat. Through half-­closed eyes, he saw the sun bathe her face, making it glow. He arched her back across his lap, holding her shoulders securely, licking a path down to her neckline, letting his tongue slide beneath until she shuddered in his arms. She tasted sweet and salty, felt so womanly in his arms. He let his cheek rest against her breast and thought of all he wanted to experience with her.

“Travis?” she whispered his name.

He lifted his head and looked into her face, framed against the mountains and valleys of her home, the bluebells like a carpet he could have laid her down on. “I know you need to get back,” he said huskily. “I just . . .” And the words didn't come.

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him sweetly on the lips. “I know just how you feel.”

Did she? Even he didn't know how he felt. But he let her stand up with silent regret and walked at her side back up the slope of Bluebell Hill and into the dappled shade of the trees. They never said another word, even during the car ride winding back down into the valley. He didn't need to talk with her; theirs was a silent communion that seemed powerful, even a little awe-­inspiring.

In the alley behind her flower shop, he put the car into park just as his cell phone buzzed. Back to the real world—­and his job. He glanced at the text message, then did a double take. “Give me a sec.”

He called one of his agents in the command center and listened in disbelief. When he hung up, Monica was staring at him.

“Can I ask what that was about?” she said. “Unless it's a national secret, of course. But you look . . . confused.”

“Oh, I'm confused, all right. Apparently there's a runaway sheep on Main Street.”

She covered her mouth even as a giggle escaped, then tried to speak between her fingers. “What—­” Another giggle.

“Do you want to hear the rest or what?”

She nodded, wide eyes beginning to glisten, still holding her laugh inside with her hand.

“It's no ordinary sheep. Someone painted it with words.
FOSSILS RULE
. Know anything about that?”

She shook her head quickly, then spoke in a quivering voice. “I swear to God, I haven't a clue. The widows are far too busy with the shower tonight and the Mammoth Party tomorrow. But I'm all for the democratic process and free speech, even for a—­for a—­sheep.” She burst out laughing, bent over as far as the seat belt would allow.

He sighed. “You'll be happy to know that no one's succeeding in catching it yet.”

“Has it gone . . . underground?” She practically snorted.

He smiled at her. “A bad joke.”

She sniffed and dabbed at the corner of her eyes with her fingertips. “Sorry. I'm sure it'll wander back home. Maybe you can assign someone to—­to follow it.” Her lips trembled as she tried not to laugh.

He leaned across the seat and kissed her, and those trembling lips opened to him on a moan. In his mind, they were surrounded by bluebells.

“Are you done laughing?” he said against her mouth, taking tiny little kisses along the curve.

“No. You might have to stop me some more.”

They kissed for a long while, in broad daylight, until the buzzing of Travis's phone interrupted them repeatedly.

He pulled back. “I've got to go. Can I see you tonight?”

She smiled. “I have the shower, remember?”

He harrumphed, frowning.

“But I may be free afterward . . .”

He eyed her. “I'll make sure I'm free, too.”

This was going beyond professional, and Travis couldn't seem to stop himself.

“If the sheep takes precedence, I understand,” Monica said soberly, her eyes twinkling.

 

Chapter Fifteen

T
he shower started at five, and Heather's As You Like It Catering outdid itself with miniquiches, sushi, and lobster avocado spoons. Monica tried not to hover around the dining-­room table and eat too much, but that was practically impossible. Close to twenty women milled through the boardinghouse, eating wherever they found a place to perch, and children ran among them. Ashley's sister and matron of honor, Kim Avicolli, had two daughters, Zana, seven—­“Short for Susannah,” the little girl said in a high, serious voice—­and Miri, five. Both girls were dark-­haired, with bright, eager eyes as they repeatedly told all the guests that they were going to be flower girls in the wedding. They focused on Monica when they heard she was going to be in charge of the flowers they might carry.

The widows had organized games, of course, like guessing the identity of the celebrity bride from published wedding photos, and matching items in your purse to an immense list. It was no surprise when Mrs. Sweet, matriarch of the inn family, had the most obscure items in her purse, including
two
rosaries. Nobody was beating her.

And running late, just as the games were over, Missy rushed in. Monica had known her twin sister was coming, of course, but she was swept up with a feeling of warmth and love and excitement as they hugged each other for a long minute. They'd seen each other at Christmas, and talked at least several times a week on the phone, but being together was just . . . different.

They grinned at each other, briefly holding hands. It wasn't like looking in a mirror of course—­they weren't identical. But they were sisters, and the genes ran strong in them. But where Monica had springy curls that sometimes stood out like a sunburst, Missy wore her hair close-­cropped and elegant, her jewelry big and tastefully flashy, her clothes of silk and linen and cashmere. She flew around the world to cover stories for CNN—­and now to have her back in their small town more than once in a year was a special thrill.

Ashley gave a little squeak of happiness when she and Missy hugged. “You made it! I'm so glad. It's like college all over again.”

Not quite, Monica thought.

Missy rolled her eyes. “We had lunch three weeks ago—­and you
still
didn't tell me about your wedding.”

Ashley and Missy both lived in D.C., while Monica had never moved away from Valentine, if you didn't count college—­she never wanted to leave. But as she watched the two of them talk, she knew they shared a relationship she never would, one of the big city, nights out at different bars and restaurants, fast-­paced living where political gossip ruled, not the small-­town woes of love lost and—­and runaway sheep. Monica smiled, thinking of Travis's expression when he heard about the protesting sheep. She loved small-­town gossip just the same.

“How could I talk about the wedding when my future mother-­in-­law asked me not to?” Ashley said, hands on her hips. “But you found out in time, and here you are.”

Missy grinned. “I pulled a lot of strings I didn't know I wielded. But my local connection to the story helped the most.” She slung an arm over Monica's shoulders. “And here I am, in the town I know best, with my favorite ­people.”

Their mom came in from the kitchen, and with a cry of delight, hugged Missy long and hard.

As they chatted happily, Whitney came to stand beside them, hand massaging her lower back. “It's eerie how alike you two seem.”

Brooke shook her head. “Nah, it's a sister illusion, nothing more. They're pretty different—­though still really close,” she amended hastily, grinning at Monica. “I was very jealous back in middle school. Missy was popular, and I was worried she'd drag Monica into the cool crowd and leave me behind with my horses and cows.”

Monica grinned. “No worries there.”

“Hey, you were a cheerleader,” Emily pointed out. “Or so I heard.”

“A cheerleader who once dated my fiancé,” Brooke said with mock sternness.

Monica spread her hands wide. “I had some popular moments, too.” To Whitney, she said, “Missy and I may look alike, but she's the glamorous D.C. version of me.”

After they opened presents and were sitting around having Emily's delicious vanilla cake with sea-­salt-­caramel filling, Heather took a break from the kitchen so she could watch Ashley open presents. She sat down next to Monica with a slice of cake.

“I had another talk with your special agent,” Heather said.

Monica smiled even as she avoided Missy's raised eyebrows. “Let me guess—­background checks.”

“How did you know? Yeah, I'm doing some of the catering in the presidential suite. I have to say—­he's really handsome.”

“We like to call him yummy,” Emily said, leaning around Monica so she could meet Heather's amused eyes. Her own gaze dropped, and she gasped. “Is that a diamond?”

Heather's eyes went wide, and she shot a glance at the bride, sitting with the older ladies. “I meant to take this off,” she whispered, yanking on the ring. “This day isn't about me.”

“Did my brother ask you to marry him?” Emily hissed, grabbing her hand before Heather could get the ring off. She eyed it with delight.

Heather gave a fiery-­redhead blush. “Yeah, he did. I was shocked. We were out riding yesterday and took a break, and he actually dropped to one knee.”

There were oohs and aahs, and although Monica was thrilled for Chris and Heather, that was one less single girl in Valentine. It was like some kind of countdown.

Missy met Monica's gaze. “You should come to the big city, Monica. You know there are a lot more career-­driven girls there. You'd fit right in.”

Career-­driven?
Was that what she was? Weren't career-­driven women all about the job, with no time for a social life or a husband? Monica didn't feel that way. She had lots of friends and activities—­just no man.

“We've had this discussion before,” Monica reminded her sister. “I haven't changed my mind about where I belong.”

Missy gave an exaggerated sigh. “I had to try.”

When Ashley was done opening gifts and began to mingle again with the guests, Missy excitedly asked her, “So how's the planning going for a presidential wedding?”

Ashley shrugged, wearing a brave smile. “It's quick, but I'm marrying Jeremy, so I'm happy. I only wish . . . no, never mind.”

Her mom, Donna, who'd been helping Miri and Zana color pictures of flowers and wedding bells, looked up sharply. “I
knew
it. What's going on, Ashley? You sound frustrated more than happy lately.”

The women's conversations died, and Ashley looked around uneasily as she became the focus once again. “I'm happy!” she insisted. “There's just this presidential staffer, Samantha Weichert, who seems to think my wedding is her big project, the way to prove herself to President Torres. Just to keep her happy and out of my way, I allowed her to deal with the wedding favors, and now it's like she's my wedding planner.”

“Do you want me to speak with her?” Donna asked.

“She might listen to me,” Mrs. Ludlow said.

Donna gave her mother-­in-­law a patient smile. “Mom, I think—­”

“I'm handling it,” Ashley insisted tightly. “I know her type—­no one in authority ever said no to her, including her parents. I have no trouble saying no.” She turned a bright smile on Monica and Whitney. “My future father-­in-­law is still talking about seeing Josh's work.”

“And Josh said he was flattered,” Whitney answered.

“And he'd come to my shop anytime the First Husband would like,” Monica said.

Ashley continued to diffuse the tension by happily looking at all her gifts with the older ladies.

Missy pulled Monica aside, turning her back on their mom before speaking in a low voice. “What the heck is going on with Mom and Dad? I was only home for a ­couple hours, and they were all smiles, but . . . something's not right.”

Monica sighed. “I don't know. They seem to be . . . growing apart or something. Dad's into his cars, and Mom has decided she needs to find something else to do to fill her time. She was so busy when we were growing up.”

“I thought they'd find stuff to do together,” Missy said worriedly.

“Me, too.”

“Would you mind if I stay with you? It's hard to concentrate on my job with the weight of all that tension.”

Monica hesitated, thinking of Travis, knowing he meant to stop by that night. “Don't hate me, but I have to say no.”

Missy blinked at her. “Why? Oh, wait—­it can only be a guy. Someone mentioned a Secret Ser­vice agent?”

Monica shrugged. “Well . . .”

“It
is
about a guy!”

To Monica's relief, Missy looked excited rather than perturbed. “Well . . . yeah. You promise you won't use any of this on CNN?”

Missy rolled her eyes. “Like I'd talk about my sister's love life to the world?”

Monica laughed. “Just kidding. I've got to tell you, you can tell you're from D.C. You're the first person who hasn't been intrigued so much by what Travis does as the fact that we're hanging out.”

“His job's not too much of a mystery to me. I've traveled on Air Force One before. But I
am
surprised you'd go after a guy you know won't be around long.”

“I didn't go after him—­not to date him anyway. And you haven't seen him yet,” Monica reminded her.

“Hot?”

“Hot.”

Missy grinned. “So you, Miss Down Home 2014, will settle for a brief affair?”

That took Monica aback. Was that really where this was headed? “It's not an affair,” Monica said, glancing guiltily over her shoulder at their mom. “We're . . . having fun.”

“So much so that your long-­absent sister will get in the way.”

“Well . . . yeah.”

They looked at each other and shared a grin—­and then shared a second piece of cake, taking turns dipping their forks in.

“You know,” Missy said thoughtfully, “I wasn't home an hour when our dear brother brought up that awful flag-­burning photo again. I honestly think it was accidental—­he was talking about how Travis was doing background checks, and his worry sort of slipped out.”

“Worry?” Monica winced. “I thought it was because the presidential trip has his patriotic fervor in high gear. Forget about it.”

Missy gripped her fork tightly, her expression turning sad. “I don't think I can. He seems to believe that between him and me, we should be able to talk you down from whatever protest you're planning now. And he thinks it's all because of that damned photo!”

Monica leaned closer, and said with serious intent, “No, he's thinking it because there
is
a protest being planned. That photo has nothing to do with it.”

Missy's lips trembled. “I don't think I can take it anymore. I want to tell him the truth.”

“No!” Monica took her sister's elbow and dragged her toward the picture window, farther away from the other guests.

“But it's not right that he's mad at you! He should be mad at me. I never should have let you take the blame all those years ago.”

“The whole picture was an accident,” Monica insisted. “And it didn't matter to my reputation like it mattered to yours.” She thought of Travis and knew that photo had deepened his suspicions about their protest—­but she wasn't going to tell her sister that!

“My keeping quiet
wasn't
an accident,” Missy insisted. “I was a coward. And why should it matter if we tell our own brother the truth? He's not about to bring it up again to our friends and family.”

“But he'll be all riled up, and for no reason.”

“But if I tell the truth, won't it help you with your guy?”

Monica waved a hand dismissively. “Hell, I think that's half the reason Travis is attracted to me—­my untamed, protesting past. He's ex-­military, so conservative and patriotic he makes Dom look like a wild man.”

“And
you're
attracted to him?”

Before Monica could figure out a response that didn't involve waxing romantic about her afternoon with Travis at Bluebell Hill, Emily approached with Brooke and Whitney in tow.

“Did I hear you say something about your protest?” Emily asked.

Brooke's gaze skittered away, and she practically whistled with innocence.

“I need more details,” Missy said suspiciously. “You can't possibly protest something and date a Secret Ser­vice agent.”

“Did you hear about the mammoth dig on the grounds of the Renaissance Spa?” Emily said.

Missy nodded. “Mom keeps me informed.” She frowned at Monica. “You've been strangely quiet about it.”

“I have it under control. Travis was even out here today, and he saw the signs and stuff for the Mammoth Party. He's cool with it.”

“What's a Mammoth Party, and should I bring a camera crew?” Missy asked.

“That's a great idea,” Monica enthused, not daring to meet Brooke's eyes. She wasn't ready for the details of the protest to leak any further yet. She suspected her nosy sister wasn't convinced that's all that was going on, but she could wait, along with everyone else.

The elderly Mrs. Sweet looked between Monica and the widows. “Mammoth Party?” she sniffed. “Why do I get the feeling there's more you're not telling the rest of us, Connie?”

Mrs. Ludlow smiled. “We're keeping the party details secret, so you can be just as surprised as the schoolchildren by what you learn about the mammoth dig, about how important our scientific history is.”

Mrs. Sweet shook her head. “You're willing to risk Valentine Valley's reputation for a mammoth that can be excavated another time?”