A Promise at Bluebell Hill (23 page)

“Protecting ­people is the job.”

“It's not just the job with you,” she said softly, tiredly.

“But—­”

“Never mind.” She held up both hands. “It's in the past. But I do have a question. When I first saw you in the hall, frankly, I was worried about your reaction to my promotion. Does it bother you that I made the PPD?”

He touched her hand. “Not a bit. You deserve it, and I'm proud of you.”

To his surprise, her hand actually trembled beneath his before she pulled it away.

“I'm glad,” she said, her voice threaded with relief. “You've changed, Travis. There was a time you couldn't even express an emotion like pride to me. When we married, I logically understood you'd been affected by your sister's injury—­anyone would be. But it took a long time for me to admit you'd simply . . . shut down, and that I couldn't change you.”

He flinched as a sick feeling of shock and sadness clenched his gut. He'd told himself that stress and living apart had caused them to grow apart, and, of course, that was part of it. But . . . he thought back to their marriage, to his inability to protect his very capable wife from the dangers of the job—­his inability to protect Kelly.

“Maybe you're right,” he said slowly, soberly. “It was easier to focus on the job than all the things I couldn't control, the ­people I couldn't protect.”

She looked at him regretfully as if she knew all this and was still hurt it took him so long to admit the truth. He hadn't seen it, hadn't understood it then.

“I didn't need your protection, Travis—­it made me feel like you thought I couldn't do my job.”

“It was never about that,” he insisted.

“It took me a while to figure that out, but I finally get it.”

He knew he'd been trying to protect Monica, even from herself and the consequences of her freely chosen actions. God, she must be really frustrated with him.

“I'm sorry.” He stared into his drink, knowing he'd already failed once. Would recognizing his failures help him make better choices?

Mikayla touched his hand. “Really, forget about this. We're the past, and neither of us should dwell on regrets. Are things better now? I talked to some of the guys, and they said they actually saw your work mask crack with a smile.”

“This place makes it pretty easy to smile.”

Her eyes were full of curiosity, and he hoped she didn't ask about women—­that would be too awkward with his ex-­wife.

“How's your family doing?” she asked. “They must be proud of your new assignment.”

So he started telling her about what his sisters were up to, leading to laughter as well as the knowledge that he and Mikayla could maybe be friends.

T
hursday brought a lot of nerves, Monica thought, as she dressed at her parents' house before dawn and went off to work. Today, a big tractor trailer would be making the delivery to the Silver Creek Ranch, going in unobtrusively by the back roads to the south.

And there were flowers, of course, dozens of arrangements in urns and vases and huge displays. They'd be on different elevations of stands, and at the base of church columns, a display of the outdoors, of Mother Nature's incredible, natural decorations. She'd been working steadily and felt on top of things, but there was so much to do!

And then she got the call from Travis just after nine, telling her that President Torres had agreed to meet the mayor and speak to the residents of Valentine Valley at the community center late that morning. Agent Nguyen dropped off several press passes at the flower shop, so she and her friends could be up close for the ceremony. She was reluctantly touched that Travis had thought of her.

Before lunch, she, Emily, Brooke, Whitney, and Heather pushed through the crowds spilling out of the community center and showed their passes to the uniformed men at the door. They submitted to being searched, wanded, and magged—­Monica bandied the term about like she was in the know—­until at last they were in the large reception room, where red, white, and blue bunting was draped on the walls. A raised dais had been erected with stairs leading up to it. Standing intimidatingly at those stairs was Travis, wearing sunglasses, earpiece, and a tailored suit that showed off his impressive shoulders.

“He looks scary,” Whitney said in Monica's ear.

Monica was guarding her front, so no one would bump into the pregnant woman.

“Bet you're turned on by that,” Brooke said.

Monica rolled her eyes. But, God, he looked good, coolly official, handsome in that square-­jawed way that made her feel all melty in her stomach.
It's just desire,
she reminded herself.
Just desire.
But then she thought of his willingness to die for his president, and how much she admired him—­even though he'd been a real jerk.

To distract herself while they awaited the president's arrival, she gathered the women about her.

“Guess who showed up at my flower shop this ­morning?”

“The First Husband!” Whitney practically squealed.

Monica shot her a mock frown.

“Well, of course I know; Josh told me all about it.”

“But we want to hear a firsthand account,” Emily urged in her usual diplomatic way.

“Two agents came in to check things out,” Monica said, letting the excitement take her over once again. “That's how I knew something big was going to happen. I mean, I heard he wanted to visit, but I didn't know if he'd make the time.”

“But he did!” Heather clapped her hands together. “You must have been thrilled.”

“Well, I was practical—­he was there to see Josh's work. And luckily, when I called, Josh was able to hop in his truck and arrive quickly.” She turned to Whitney. “Did he tell you he was stopped in the alley by the Secret Ser­vice?”

Whitney covered her mouth as laughter escaped. “Oh, he left that detail out.”

“He was gracious about the misunderstanding, and Dr. Torres actually apologized. The man seemed pretty starstruck.”

“To think I knew my brother before he was famous,” Brooke said, shaking her head.

“Josh gave the First Husband one of his beautiful framed mirrors,” Monica continued, “and a shoulder bag for the president. Dr. Torres tried to pay him, but, of course, Josh wanted it to be a gift. I was pretty happy with everything, because after he left, customers entered in droves to ask what Dr. Torres had done, what he'd bought, etc. He even bought some roses for his wife, which was very nice of him,” she added, smiling.

“Oh, look, it's Ashley!” Brooke said, as both Ashley and her fiancé appeared, hands clasped, smiles broad. As wild applause broke out, Brooke leaned in to whisper in Monica's ear. “She gave me a call to thank me and say she's doing better. I guess a lot of Jeremy attention did the trick.” She smirked.

And then Secret Ser­vice agents emerged from a side door, preceding President Torres. A roar of excitement rose through the crowd. The president was dressed in navy blue pants and a patterned jacket, waving cheerfully. Though her dark hair was conservatively pulled up on her head, without the glasses she wore when giving a formal speech she looked younger. And of course happier—­and why wouldn't she, when her only child was getting married?

Monica found herself scrutinizing the agents standing near the president, facing outward, watching the crowd. She spotted the tall blond immediately, the only woman among a group of men. Travis hadn't mentioned she was gorgeous, Monica thought, vaguely disgruntled.

She leaned back to the girls and tried to enunciate so they'd hear her over the crowd, telling them about Travis's ex-­wife. Much more gawking ensued.

“Does it make you nervous?” Heather asked.

“No, because what right would I have to
be
nervous? He's leaving in a ­couple days, and I've barely seen him lately. We've mostly talked on the phone.” And though he'd hurt her badly, and she still suspected his motives, he seemed to be trying to make up for it. But could he? And could she find a way to believe she meant something to him, so that she could look back on their time together without feeling bitter?

Brooke eyed her, but there wasn't any chance to talk because Mayor Galimi went to the podium for her welcome speech, then handed President Torres the symbolic key to the town. The president spoke about Valentine's graciousness and welcome, how it gave her son his bride Ashley, making him so happy. Though a ­couple reporters called out questions—­including Missy, Monica noticed with a sympathetic wince—­the president ignored them, saying that she hoped everyone understood they'd like some privacy for this momentous event for their family. And then she left the dais, Travis's ex right behind her.

“Good luck with any privacy in this town.”

Monica heard the deep voice at her side and turned to find her brother there, as the crowd began to stream for the exits. “I think ­people understand about a ­wedding.”

He snorted. “We'll see.” He glanced at her friends, who were hanging back, chatting about the president, and spoke in a lower voice. “So did you tell Travis about the photo?”

“Dom, I told you it's Missy's call, so of course I've kept quiet.”

He put up both hands. “I'm not trying to antagonize you. I've just been thinking how hard a relationship is when you're not honest.”

“He and I don't have a relationship, not a long-­lasting one.” And had he ever been honest?

“I don't know. I've seen him with you. He seems possessive, serious.”

She felt a flash of heat. “Really? No, never mind.”

“And Monica, he needs to see that you're the kind of person who would do whatever it took for someone you loved.”

She swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears. “Dom . . .”

“I may not agree with them, but you've got strong beliefs, and you don't compromise on them. That's important to a guy. There, I've said my piece.”

“I . . . thank you. That was nice.”

He nodded. “Gotta go. I'm meeting a client soon.”

And then he kissed her cheek, and she gaped, touching the spot.

“Was that really your brother or some kind of clone?” Brooke asked.

Monica didn't answer. Dom had forgiven her and said something nice! But . . . did he believe her to be in love with Travis? Did he think Travis was in love with her? She had a hard time believing guys could see those kinds of emotions in each other. And she didn't want it to be true because it would complicate everything.

Because if she loved him—­no, no, she couldn't love him, because if she did, she'd have to believe in him, to accept that he hadn't wanted to use their intimacy for his personal gain. She'd have to experience all the pain of loss when he left.

But wasn't she already experiencing pain now?

 

Chapter Twenty-one

B
rooke and Monica eventually returned to the flower shop. Emily had to bake, of course, and Heather was going to help. Whitney looked so tired that Monica insisted she go rest, since the parade was the next day. It ended up just being Brooke and Monica in the workroom, while Mrs. Wilcox and Karista dealt with customers through the lunch hour.

Brooke was an old pro at making bows, so Monica could focus on the expansive spray of roses, delphinium, and lilies meant for the church altar.

“I know you didn't want to talk in the crowd, but did our package arrive?” Monica asked quietly, eyeing the swinging door separating them from her employees.

“It did! You can't believe this incredible trailer with an air-­circulating system for cooling, and small living quarters for the caretaker.”

“Did anyone see the unloading?”

“Like I said, I made sure my parents were gone, and Josh was at the flower shop with you. I tried to hide it from Nate, but he got a phone call about the ­couple riding lessons I'd canceled, and he came to the arena to see what was going on. He'll keep quiet. Oh, and the widows are coming over tonight. Will you be there?”

“Can you handle it yourself? I have to work. I also might try to get more facts about the president's schedule—­probably not through Travis. He can't give me details.”

“Can you blame him?”

“No, but . . . I'm hurt he doesn't trust me to keep a handle on things.”

“That sounds like an impasse.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You really care about him.”

Monica hesitated and gently put down the long delphinium. “I do. I don't want to, but I do. He's leaving, Brooke. I've got to stop feeling this way.”

“You can't
make
your feelings go away. I tried hard enough with Adam, didn't I?”

Monica gave a faint smile.

“And you know,” Brooke said in a softer voice, putting down the ribbon and looking into Monica's eyes. “Maybe you should just tell him about the protest.”

Monica frowned. “But—­”

“If you feel so much for him, then you should trust him. Maybe your instincts are trying to tell you that.”

“But what if he tries to stop it?”

“What can he do? It's not illegal—­my grandma even got a permit from the town!”

“So she says. I never actually saw a piece of paper.”

“She sweet-­talked somebody,” Brooke insisted.

Monica let that point go. If there was a permit, surely Travis would have heard about it and come right to her. “Even if I wanted to talk to him, I have nowhere to do it—­the Secret Ser­vice has my apartment, his hotel room is off-­limits to us common citizens, and I certainly can't talk at my parents'. We've been reduced to talking in the alley or on cell phones.”

Brooke dug in her purse and pulled out a ring of keys. “How about my apartment? Adam and I'll be at the bunkhouse.”

Monica hesitated. Did she want to talk to him, to hear his explanations, to question whether they rang true? “Thanks,” she murmured.

“Don't get too excited.” Brooke took the key off the ring and threaded a piece of ribbon through it. “And don't turn it into a den of iniquity like Ashley did the bunkhouse.”

“Like you and many generations hadn't already christened that bunkhouse before.”

“Yeah, well . . . oh, okay, do what you must. But I'll need details.”

J
ust after midday, Travis received a text from Monica.

I'm at Brooke's apartment above Sugar and Spice. I have too much pizza.

He smiled with relief.

“I'm beginnin' to recognize who your good humor is about these days,” Royce said quietly from where he sat in front of a computer screen in the command center. Around them, men and women briskly circulated among computers, phones, and whiteboards.

Travis shrugged. “Can't help it. She's pretty ­amazing.”

“So is her sister. We had dinner together last night.”

“She was only trying to get an interview with the president,” Travis said, keeping a straight face.

“And Monica is tryin' to get . . .
what
out of you?”

And that made Travis remember that she thought he'd lied to get the truth out of her.

“Gotta go.” He grabbed his phone and keys and headed for the door.

“Never mind, she's already got everythin' she wants from you,” Royce called, laughing, then glanced over his shoulder guiltily as more than one person turned to look.

Only everything I've been willing to give,
Travis thought, and that hadn't been a lot where the women in his life had been concerned.

The doorway in the alley was right next to Monica's, and when Travis rang, she was there to meet him with a polite but wary smile. They stared at each other for a moment.

“Hi,” she said.

Her voice was a little soft and breathless. He felt the need to put her against the wall again because he could never seem to be patient with her. But how they proceeded now would take every bit of his caution—­because it mattered so much, and he was only just realizing that with every moment of their separation.

She led him upstairs, where he found an identical apartment layout to hers, but with a big couch underneath the main picture window and lots of books on every surface. There were several framed photos of a woman racing her chestnut horse around a barrel, leaning at an impossible angle.

“Brooke?” he asked.

Monica nodded. “She's got championship belts and everything.” She sat down at the two-­person little table against the wall near the galley kitchen and pointed to the pizza box. “Beer or Coke in the fridge. Brooke's treat.”

She took a swig from her own beer bottle and silently toasted him as he shrugged out of his suit coat and went for a Coke before sitting down opposite her.

They ate their first slices in silence, just looking at each other—­and he enjoyed the view. She wore a V-­necked pink top that revealed just a little cleavage, enough to whet his appetite for more.

Monica set down her beer, and her expression changed into something that hovered between serious and sad.

“Monica?”

“You know, Travis, we started out as just fun and flirty, at least on my part. I wanted to get you to relax, to maybe see the guy underneath. I partly succeeded, but only partly.”

“And that was my fault, I know.”

“But things aren't just fun and flirty with us anymore. They've become serious and important, and I can't just ignore that.”

“We're important?” he asked quietly, trying to see past the reserve that now filled her eyes when she looked at him.

“I think we are,” she said ruefully. “I wanted your trust—­I wanted to believe you'd never use me to further your work agenda.”

“I never wanted you to have that impression,” he insisted. “It all came out wrong that night. I'm so sorry you were hurt. I've honestly been trying to protect you from the beginning.”

“I know you're saying the right words now, but it all comes down to trust, doesn't it? I want to be able to trust you, and now I don't know if I can.”

“Monica, I hope you can forgive me. I—­”

“Just wait, please. Because if I want you to trust me, then I should trust you all the way. I can't justify keeping things from you even if maybe I should.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “We're having a parade tomorrow along Main Street to protest the closing of the archaeology dig. There'll be ­people walking, holding signs that say stuff like,
ANCIENT HISTORY IS
A
S
I
M
P
O
R
T
A
N
T
A
S
P
R
E
S
I
D
E
N
T
I
A
L
H
I
S
T
O
R
Y
.
”

“Impressive writing.” He was hoping to be both serious and teasing at the same time. Though a corner of her mouth curved, she didn't really smile.

“Thanks. Knew you'd like it.”

He studied her, thinking how . . . basic this little parade seemed, how unnecessary the secrecy. “Just a parade? Just signs?”

“Well . . . there will be a surprise during the parade.”

“Aah. Does this have something to do with all those ghillie suits you wouldn't talk about before?”

She sighed. “Of course it does.”

“I'm grateful you're trusting me with the truth, Monica, when I know I've hurt you. And I'm so sorry for that. I would never use you for my job, regardless of how it looked, or how my questions made it sound. I just let your secrecy screw with my head, and in some ways, it was like you weren't letting me help—­letting me protect you. I know that's not my job, and maybe I go overboard with the worry—­especially with worry that you'd try to live up to that photo and get hurt. Sometimes that's what all your secrecy seems to be about.”

She winced. “I appreciate your apology, Travis, and I do accept it. I just don't know if it changes things. As for that photo, it isn't even me. I'm not the ‘Heroine of the Revolution,' or whatever mythic figure that photo made ­people think of.”

He smiled. “The moment I met Missy, I knew it was her, not you. I even rechecked the photo to confirm it. The hell with the facial-­recognition software.”

She gaped at him. “You knew? No one figured it out—­not my family, not . . . anyone.”

“I'm not just anyone.”

They stared at each other for a long moment until she looked away.

“We were college students,” she said quietly, “and it was true we didn't even realize someone took that photo until it started circulating on the Internet. They tracked us down, and Missy was in tears at the thought of what such notoriety could do to her future journalism career. So I said it was me. She was angry when she found out, but I insisted. What did I care, after all? I was going to own a flower shop, not pass background checks.”

He took in Monica again, amazed anew at how selfless she was. “You do too much for everyone else,” he said roughly.

“But they're my family, Travis, or friends as close as family. They're who I owe my loyalty to, the ­people I've spent my life with. Why else would I hold back the details of this protest? You're just going to leave, right?”

“I wish—­” He broke off. He wasn't sure what he wished, and it would be bad to try to come up with the right words out loud.

“It's okay,” she said sadly. “It's been nice, but this can't go anywhere, so maybe we should just end it now instead of dragging it out for a few more days.”

“I don't want that, Monica. I know I'm not good at emotions. In the past, I've let them overwhelm me, so it was better not to feel them at all. But that's not healthy either.”

“I don't want to feel anything, Travis,” she said bleakly. “It'll just make it worse in the end. Go on, get back to work.”

When he hesitated, she reached for his jacket and handed it to him.

“Please, Travis.”

“Can we talk later?”

When she nodded, he crossed to the hallway. After closing the door behind him at the top of the stairs, he stood still a moment, feeling shell-­shocked. What the hell had just happened? And then he thought he heard Monica crying, and the sound tore at his gut. He put a hand on the knob—­and stopped himself. Was she right? Would emotions make everything worse when they had to say good-­bye? He still hadn't brought up the idea of a long-­distance relationship, and now that they were having trouble when they were still together, he didn't know what to think.

But Monica's grief clenched his chest painfully, and he wanted to be there for her, to make it better, to protect her from pain. But was that the right thing to do? Or would he fall into the same behavior again and drive another good woman away? After his marriage, he'd kept all his emotions inside and focused on the job. When was the last time he'd even had fun before Monica and Valentine Valley? She'd changed him, made him want to see his mistakes and become a better man.

He was walking down the alley toward the hotel, a light misty rain starting to fall, when he realized that she hadn't even told him what the ghillie suits were for. And he knew she'd meant to.

Suddenly, it didn't matter. Before he could think about the consequences, he texted her:
She'll be in her suite between ten and twelve.
His mouth was suddenly dry as he realized what he'd done. He'd told a protest group the president's schedule.

But he
trusted
Monica. And he wanted to earn back her trust.

Had he fallen in love with her? If so, he didn't have the faintest idea what to do about any of it.

M
onica stared at her cell phone in disbelief. Travis had given her President Torres's schedule. Even after that argument—­hadn't she broken their relationship off by the end? Did this mean something? No, she wasn't about to question it.

Without thinking too deeply, she sent an e-­mail to the Double Ds with the details, and soon got a reply that they'd all meet at the indoor arena at 9:00
A
.
M
. It looked like all the pieces for their protest were lining up—­hopefully nothing would go wrong.

But late that afternoon, she got a call from her mom telling her to come home for dinner. When Monica tried to protest that she had to work, Janet simply insisted that everyone had to eat, and she was to attend. Monica cut her grumbling short, reminding herself that maybe her parents needed help remembering how wonderful they were as a family. Now that things were better between her and Dom, that could only help.