A Promise at Bluebell Hill (19 page)

He cocked a brow. “Aren't we?”

And then Kyle, in his enthusiastic digging, accidentally flung dirt all over Travis's shirt.

Monica's laughter turned into a snort, and she covered her mouth, horrified. “Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Because I got dirty? Please. But maybe you should go find his dad before the poor guy panics.” He leaned back into the bin and tossed dirt onto both Kyle's and the other boy's paintbrushes. “So where's the dinosaur buried?”

Monica rose to her feet, but before she could take one step—­

“Kyle!” shouted a man.

“Howie, over here!” she called.

Travis glanced up to see a slightly overweight man roughly his own age, with receding brown hair and a worried expression. Then he recognized the man from the group photo shoot at the hot springs.

“You found Kyle,” Howie said to Monica, relief lightening his gaze.

“Not me,” she said, “but Special Agent Beaumont.”

Howie noticed him and paled. “I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, Agent Beaumont. You must be on duty—­”

“Not tonight,” Travis assured him. “Nothing better to do than dig in the dirt. Right, Kyle?”

The little boy handed him the slightly soggy stuffed dinosaur so he could use both sticky hands in the dirt. They were quickly covered in a layer of filth.

Howie still held a limp Cave Dust Bunny in one hand, so Travis could see where Kyle's stickiness came from. Howie squatted down, and soon enough, Kyle grew bored with the dirt. Monica used a moist towelette on his face and hands, and soon he and his grateful father were on their way.

Right hand gripped by his dad, Kyle managed to look over his shoulder and wave his stuffed dinosaur at Travis, who waved back.

Travis brushed the dirt from his shirt. “Now that was a dinosaur dig.”

She was still looking him over as if she didn't know who he was, but then a little girl joined the boy headfirst in her bin, and Monica went back to work.

Travis didn't plan to go far. He was enjoying watching her with the kids, heck, hadn't minded playing himself.

Damn, where did all these kid thoughts come from?

He pretended he was looking at a wall poster when he really was watching her. She shot contemplative glances his way, too. There was something different about her tonight, not that she could possibly be more beautiful, but . . . he didn't know what it was.

And then he did a double take because a stunning black woman with really short hair walked past him, and her profile made him think—­

The woman stopped next to Monica, the two of them smiled at each other, and then he knew. This was her twin sister, Missy, who worked for CNN . . . who would, of course, have come to cover the president in her hometown.

And then they both turned to look at him. There was no use pretending he wasn't watching, so he approached them, and Monica rose to her feet.

“Hey, Missy, I want you to meet Special Agent Travis Beaumont of the Secret Ser­vice.”

Missy wore a polite smile, then that smile deepened, and she gave her sister a quick, unreadable glance.

“Travis, my sister, Missy Shaw,” Monica continued as if she hadn't noticed. “Or Melissa, if you want to go by her CNN name.”

Missy wrinkled her nose. “I'm just Missy at home.”

Travis held out a hand. “Missy, nice to meet you.”

She shook hands, and he was surprised how alike the two women smiled, the way their brown eyes slanted. Missy looked a little thinner, with hollows in her cheeks, but he imagined the pressures of TV could get to anybody. But there was something about the way she held herself, the elegance of her clothes, the smooth, model-­like way she had of moving, that seemed very different from her sister, who was sassy, sexy, and curvy like the girl next door.

“So you're Travis,” Missy said, holding his hand a second too long as she stared at him. “You think I'd have noticed you in Washington.”

“I'm usually behind the scenes,” he said.

“So I hear you're commandeering my sister's flower shop.”

Travis arched a brow as he glanced at Monica, who winced, and quickly said, “I didn't say that, Missy.”

“Well, wait until the president arrives,” her sister responded. “You might feel differently.”

“We won't be interrupting her business,” Travis said.

“Oh, that's right, you'll be
upstairs,
” Missy answered.

Monica shot her sister another unreadable look. Travis could have sworn they spoke telepathically, as if they didn't need words.

“So Travis,” Missy continued, “I don't suppose I could interview you?”

“I believe you framed the question like that,” he said, “because you knew what my response would be. I cannot speak about the president's attending the private wedding of her son.”

Missy sighed. “Yeah, I thought you might say that. Can't blame a girl for trying.”

Even their voices seemed alike. But there was something in Monica's expression that was just . . . her, the mischievous light in her eyes, the way she saw the humor in everything and seemed to be secretly smiling.

And then she looked past him and waved at someone. “Hi, Royce! Come here and let me introduce my sister.”

Royce was grinning before he even came to a stop. “There are two of you?”

Missy eyed his bald head, and the way his casual jacket didn't cover the fact that he had an impressive build.

“Royce Ames,” he said, grinning down at her. “You look very familiar—­and not because you're Monica's sister.”

Monica leaned forward to get in their line of sight, but they were only looking at each other. “She's a reporter for CNN. You two live in the same town.”

Royce shook his head with regret. “Reporters and Secret Ser­vice agents—­we don't exactly get along. But what if I buy you a Cave Dust Bunny? You might think better of me then.”

Missy blinked. “A Cave Dust Bunny? For that, I might tell my camera crew to take a break.”

Monica looked around. “You're filming tonight?”

“Isn't that what you want, national attention for your cause?” Missy asked with feigned confusion.

“It is!” Monica grinned at her sister. “Thank you!”

“I was hoping representatives from the Renaissance Spa would come. I sent them word, asking for an interview tonight. Do you see anyone?”

“No, but I'm not surprised,” Monica said. “They can't take the heat—­not that that means they've changed their minds.”

“Too bad,” Missy said.

Monica turned to Royce. “Now don't distract her from her job.”

“I'm easily distracted,” Missy confided, and the two of them walked off arm in arm toward the food aisle.

For some reason, Travis felt immensely relieved that Royce had his own Shaw sister to focus on.

And
his
Shaw sister was giving him the sweetest smile.

“I have to get back to work,” she said.

“No Cave Dust Bunnies for you?”

“On my next break. Although if Kyle was any example, they're pretty messy. I'm really a carnivore.”

“Turkey leg, got it.”

“Are you sure we should eat together?” she asked.

And then he remembered his professional duties. “I think we could sit side by side.” He lowered his voice. “I might be able to keep my hands off you.”

Her gaze lowered almost shyly, then met his again. “You make me feel so good,” she whispered.

He wanted to cup her face in his hands, to kiss that upturned nose, to nibble her ear and smell the scent that was only Monica.

“Agent Beaumont?”

He recognized that voice and gave Monica a rueful grin. “Duty calls.” He turned toward the silver-­haired lady bearing down on him. “Mayor Galimi, it's good to see you again.”

He ended up explaining that once again, he would have to see what the president decided about her schedule. Soon he was alone, watching as the town turned out. He found it moving, how much the ­people around here cared about their causes. He didn't mind the mayor, or
Valentine Gazette
reporter Jessica Fitzjames wondering if the president had heard about the mammoth dig. Another person had sent him a note to see if the president wanted to be informed about natural-­gas testing and drilling.

He liked the ambiance of Valentine. He never would have thought he could feel nostalgic for the small-­town life he'd left behind. Though he had an important job to do, he felt more relaxed than he had in a long time—­but that was a mistake, he reminded himself. He was in charge, he had to prove himself, and part of that was figuring out this protest and keeping everyone safe. So he wandered around the Mammoth Party, talking to the widows, who were manning various booths, and met Brenda Hutcheson for the first time.

When Monica finally had a break, they sat in the chairs between speeches to eat their turkey legs and corn. Lots of ­people sat around them, so they didn't stand out as a ­couple. Travis had seen several of his own ­people wandering around, enjoying themselves.

“I passed the flower shop several times this afternoon and never saw you,” he said, watching as Monica chewed her turkey leg with gusto. When she wiped barbecue sauce from the corner of her mouth with a napkin, he wished it could have been his tongue.

Her dark eyes teased him. “And why were you looking for me?”

“Well, after a night like we had, I would normally send flowers, but that might not work this time.”

She grinned. “Probably not. Extra work for me. I like anything made with sugar, of course—­you could impress me with a Cave Dust Bunny. And before you ask again, I'll happily tell you where I was today—­at the widows', getting ready for this.”

“I believe it. You all went to a lot of trouble for the scientific community. It's an impressive event.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

“But it's not your only event.”

She took several bites along the length of her ear of corn, ignoring him.

Travis changed the subject. “So are your parents here?”

“One night with me, and you want to meet the parents?” she teased.

He watched her gaze search the room and her expression grow troubled. He saw her mom manning the dinosaur-­kit sales booth, but he'd never met her dad.

“Monica, is everything all right?”

“Yes—­no, I don't know. Oh, I'm fine, it's just my parents. They seem to have hit a rough spot in their marriage, and the three of us are worried about them. I haven't seen my dad at all tonight.”

“That's too bad.”

“I don't even see Dom—­he's avoiding me and Missy.” She lifted a hand. “Never mind, it's just an old quarrel. You don't need to hear all this.”

“I like hearing about you.”

She smiled at him, softly, sweetly, and he felt something stir inside him that wasn't just lust, and that had been happening more and more lately. He liked knowing everything about her.

“You better stop looking at me like that,” she said, “or ­people will get suspicious. Where are your sunglasses? They always make you look remote.”

“I don't feel very remote lately.”

But they continued to stare at each other until someone called Monica's name, and she looked away.

Travis widened his eyes as someone dressed as a purple
Tyrannosaurus rex
approached. “I thought this party was about a mammoth,” he said to Monica.

She laughed, even as the “mascot” pulled off his head to reveal a young man, with a red face and light brown hair matted down with sweat.

“I don't think this is a good idea, Monica,” the man said, flinging his stubby purple arms wide with great drama. “This was the only dinosaur costume I could get, but kids are laughing at me.”

“That's the point,” Monica said patiently. “They're having a good time, Matt. Have you met Special Agent Travis Beaumont? Travis, this is Matt Sweet, Emily's cousin.”

Travis automatically reached to shake hands, and ended up holding a rough purple paw. More than one onlooker chuckled—­including kids. So he made a big show of keeping it solemn and serious, and was rewarded when the kids laughed, too.

Monica eyed him with a soft, sweet gaze, as if he'd done something heroic instead of just shaking a dinosaur's hand.

Whitney walked slowly toward them, her belly clearing the aisle in front of her. She was accompanied by a young man with deep dimples and black spiky hair.

“Hi, Travis,” Whitney said, wearing a very knowing smile that made him wonder what she knew about him.

Whitney turned to Monica. “I wanted to introduce my personal assistant, Ryan Garcia. He flew up from San Francisco to . . . uh . . . help out.”

“The lingerie business must be very busy during such a big wedding,” Monica said straight-­faced. “And you so close to delivering, too.”

“Right!”

“I came for the wedding,” Ryan admitted with enthusiastic honesty. “I know I'm not invited, but I'll have fun watching all the fuss.” He glanced once, then twice at Matt Sweet, his smile slowly growing as he said with wide-­eyed sincerity, “I couldn't believe Valentine Valley could be more interesting than San Francisco, but you were right, Whitney.”

Matt held out a hand. “Hi, Ryan, I'm Matt Sweet, aka cuddly dinosaur.”

The two guys smiled at each other, and Travis couldn't help wondering if he and Monica gave off such an obvious interested-­in-­each-­other vibe as the two young men did.

Matt startled struggling to put the dinosaur head back on, and Ryan helped, then offered to guide him through the crowded aisles.

Monica watched them go, practically beaming, before leaning close to murmur, “It's sometimes hard in our macho ranching community for Matt to find a date.”

“And Ryan's single,” Whitney said.

Travis had almost forgotten Whitney was there since he'd been busy inhaling the scent of Monica's perfume.