A Promise at Bluebell Hill (3 page)

He nodded, and, again, she was hoping for a smile, but she was disappointed. Maybe his smile would be too powerfully handsome for her, a mere mortal, to bear. But all kidding aside, everyone should smile more, even if only to make themselves feel better. She smiled a lot while she worked, but then again, she was dealing with beautiful flowers and customers who were happy to give them as gifts or decorate their homes. She wondered what Travis really dealt with on the job. Maybe he didn't have much of a reason to smile, and that was sad.

“Anyway,” she continued, “they were bulldozing an expansion of the reservoir in Snowmass Village and unearthed thousands of mammoth bones: mastodons, an Ice Age bison, and lots of others. Over thirty mas­todons, the biggest mastodon find in the world. The museum in Denver will be doing years of preservation and research. But they had to close the site up after seven weeks of searching, and it's all capped with clay and back underwater. Well, a few months ago, we found our own little archaeological site when the Renaissance Spa, south of the Silver Creek Ranch, started working on its expansion. The spa is saying they have to start building again, so their indoor pool can be done before winter. The scientists are claiming they're not being given enough time to investigate. The public is on mammoth overload—­some ­people are even asking why they should bother digging here for one little mammoth after the huge find in Snowmass? But it's our history, you know?”

“Sounds like you're on the side of science,” he said, reaching past her to grab some popcorn.

She could smell his citrusy aftershave, and it made her a little dizzy. She briefly closed her eyes, both amused and exasperated with herself. “Yeah, these mountains have always needed protection. They're dotted with old silver-­mining holes. Think of all the forests that have been cut down, and now the government is leasing way too much protected wilderness for natural-­gas exploration.” She leaned closer. “Shh, you didn't hear me say that. My dad is an engineer for a natural-­gas company.”

“My lips are sealed.”

And that, of course, made her look at his lips, and she had the strangest momentary sensation that he was looking at hers. Then he glanced back at his friends—­to get himself under control? Remind himself of his position? She didn't think he needed to be reminded of that too often. He seemed to take whatever he did very seriously. She was dying to ask about his job again, but he'd already rebuffed her today. She'd play it cool.

Clearing her throat, she said, “So there's a local group of environmentalists trying to keep ­people interested in the dig, and if enough are interested, maybe the spa will delay its new pool a ­couple more weeks.”

“I hope it turns out for the best.”

She sighed, already knowing that her dear friends, the widows, were involved. Three old ladies, activists all, lived at the Widows' Boardinghouse. They worked part-­time for Emily while actively directing the Valentine Valley Preservation Fund, which offered grants for new and renovating businesses. They used their committee to make sure they were in on all the happenings in Valentine—­and they created their own “happenings,” too. They'd already started work on their plans to highlight the plight of Valentine's mammoth.

He sipped his beer and looked around the growing crowd in the poolroom. His friend, he of the bulging muscles, seemed to take that as permission to approach.

“Travis, we're goin' to play some darts,” the man said, a Southern drawl making his deep voice musical. “You and your friend up for it?” He turned and flashed her a gleaming white grin.

She held out her hand. “Hi, I'm Monica Shaw.”

His hand encompassed hers in a warm grip. “Royce Ames. Good to meet you.”

“I'm up for darts,” she said. “I've never played a real game, just shot at the board. You guys can show me, right?”

Nodding, Royce pulled her toward the dartboard in the corner. She glanced over her shoulder at Travis and tossed her head toward the corner, welcoming him to join them. He shook his head, and she gave a little shrug as she turned back to Royce. That was too bad because she thought Travis needed to find something fun to focus on instead of examining the room as if for enemy combatants. It seemed he wanted his “team” to relax but not so much himself.

Royce and two of his friends taught her a game, and they were much more easygoing than their “leader.” Royce had a naughty sense of humor, and it was obvious he was interested in her. But there was something about Travis, the way he stood alone, shoulders back, in command, that captured her attention and concern. The Royces of the world didn't need help to let off steam, but the Travises sure did.

“Would you like to dance?” Royce asked after a second game of darts was over.

He'd put aside his beer unfinished, as if he weren't allowed to touch it anymore. Stranger and stranger.

But it was an up-­tempo song that she was already tapping her toes to. “Sure.”

She moved her hips to the music, and though she made a show of having a good time with Royce, she could feel Travis watching her. It made her feel overheated, sexily self-­conscious, and even more curious about her mysterious ex-­Marine.

After a second dance, Royce looked over her head, then grimaced. “Time to go. Have to work in the mornin'.”

He must have gotten some kind of signal from Travis.

“What do you do?” she asked innocently, as the song ended.

He grinned. “Can't say right now. I'm under orders.”

“You're all making me too curious.”

Royce shrugged good-­naturedly. Why couldn't she like someone this easygoing? But no, she had to be drawn to the mysterious, intense loner whose idea of fun seemed to be watching others having it. But she knew herself well—­his behavior was the very reason she was interested and curious. It was obvious he needed to let loose once in a while.

Travis approached. “Are you staying, Monica?”

Royce waved good-­bye to her and returned to his coworkers.

She smiled up at Travis. “I have to work in the morning, too, so I'll head home.”

“Let me walk you to your car.”

“Because Valentine Valley is such a scary place after dark?”

“Because I'm a polite kind of guy.”

She could feel her smile fade as she briefly studied him. Usually, this was when even a polite guy tried to kiss her, but she didn't worry that was going to happen with Travis. She nodded, grabbed the sweater she'd left on her stool, and preceded him through the bar, leaving his friends behind to put on their jackets and settle up their bills.

Outside, the May evening was already brisk, into the fifties and dropping steadily, so she slid her arms into her sweater.

“I parked around back—­even more reason for a big man to escort me,” she teased.

Again, he gave her that faint lip quirk that might have been the very beginnings of a smile. Why did he hide himself behind impassivity?

Overhead, the sky was pitch-­black, and brilliant stars were scattered like glitter tossed by schoolkids. Beyond the parking lot, she could see the lights of the only apartment complex in Valentine. But she didn't see any ­people, and besides the muted sound of music from inside Tony's, she and Travis seemed totally alone.

And then she heard the faint sound of off-­key whistling. Travis was already alert, his head moving side to side as if he thought everything that crossed his path could mean life or death. It would have been amusing, except at that moment, a shadow seemed to extend from a Dumpster behind the bar, just to her right. Everything proceeded to happen both in an instant and in slow motion.

“Hey, baby,” said a man with a slurred voice. He reached forward as if to grab her arm, beer breath leading the way. Startled, she dropped her purse.

And then, suddenly, Travis had the man against the Dumpster, a hand at his throat. The shadowy stranger made a single strangled sound that was abruptly cut off, and he grabbed Travis's hand in both of his, as if to pry him away. His feet kicked feebly.

Monica stumbled sideways in shock, barely having felt Travis move past her. By the light on the back wall of the tavern, she could see the impassive planes of his face, the deadly cold expression, his eyes shadowed and dark.

“Bad idea to approach the lady,” Travis said in a low voice.

Before she could protest that the guy couldn't breathe, Travis let him go, and he collapsed to his knees, coughing and wheezing. Travis stepped away and watched, fists on his hips as if holding himself back.

“Just—­just takin' a piss, man,” the stranger gasped, hands at his throat, his eyes a little wild in the meager light.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you you don't scare women by approaching them out of the dark?” Travis demanded, hauling the man up by his jacket collar and sending him reeling toward the front of the tavern. “And you
never
touch them without permission.”

“Right—­sorry,” he said hoarsely, then gasped another, “Sorry!” at her. He turned and tried to run although he veered sideways before righting himself and staggering out of the parking lot.

Monica simply gaped at Travis, who still stood stiff and defensive, as if expecting an army to attack.

“Uh . . . thanks,” she said, gathering her wits. “You move fast.”

He shrugged, and some of the tension left his shoulders. “Training. Hope I didn't scare you.”

“No, a drunk trying to grab me did, though.”

“Did he touch you? I wasn't quite sure if your purse fell, or he tried to grab it.”

“It was all clumsy me, I'm afraid. Not sure what that guy was trying to do.”

They both dropped to their knees by her purse, and she couldn't be surprised when Travis produced a flashlight from his pocket like a magician.

“He was pretty drunk,” Travis said, and now his voice sounded a little regretful. “He probably didn't intend much except to hit on you, but I couldn't take that chance. I couldn't see if he had a weapon.”

“That's okay. Not sure anyone's protected me like that before. If he'd have had a knife . . .” She shuddered, and suddenly her hands were shaking in the tiny beam of the flashlight.

To her surprise, Travis put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” she said, giving a shaky laugh. “Not used to surprises—­or unpleasant ones, anyway. Thanks for your help.”

They silently gathered up her wallet, cell phone, and everything else. He slid a tube of lip gloss into her purse, then took her hand to help her to her feet. She stared up at him for a lingering moment. They both seemed to realize they were still holding hands and let go at the same time.

“Thanks,” Monica said, repeating herself. She turned and led the way through the parked cars. She noticed that he remained behind her, as if that guy would be stupid enough to come after her. Of course, he could have gone to friends for backup . . .

No, she wasn't thinking that way. He'd seemed a harmless drunk in the end, and Travis had certainly scared him off.

And impressed the hell out of her.

“This is mine,” she said, leaning against the minivan and looking up at him. She gave him a bright smile and tried to be normal again. “Bet you think it's a sexy ride for a single girl.”

“It's a curious choice,” he said.

“I have a larger van for flower deliveries, but during all the major seasons, I sometimes need more vehicles. It just made sense. Fits my ski equipment, too. Do you ski?”

“Not regularly, but I used to back in Montana growing up.”

“Black diamond runs?”

“Of course.”

“So you can be competitive—­just not at darts.”

“I can be competitive at anything, but I know when to stand down.”

“More military talk. What do you mean?”

She leaned against her van while he stood with his hands behind his back, as if he was used to remaining at attention all the time.

“I've told you those ­people in there work for me—­we're stuck together twenty-­four hours a day when we travel, but that doesn't mean I need to subject them to my presence every moment of the day. You forget, they probably need some time away from the boss.”

“Royce doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd let your presence inhibit him.”

Travis released his breath in almost a little snort. Of laughter? Disbelief?

“Royce isn't bothered by much of anything, and since we room together when quarters are tight, he's pretty tolerant of me. But the others don't seem as free to be themselves around me.”

“Then you're being a nice boss.”

He cocked a brow. “Nice? I think I'm being prac­tical.”

“Oh, sorry, practical.”

She gave him her best smile, and although he studied her, he didn't smile back. She couldn't think of another thing to say, only found herself noticing the way the shadows molded the strong bones of his face. He was a man who protected ­people, a thoughtful boss who put his employees first—­she liked that. But if he was always so concerned for his ­people, when did he let loose himself?

“You have your keys?” he asked quietly.

She gave a little jerk, coming out of her trance. “Sure. Right here. Good night. And thank you again for your help.”

“You're welcome.”

She dug them out of her purse and got into the van. The engine turned over immediately, and when she glanced out of her window, he was already striding back toward the front of the tavern.

Who
was
this guy, and why did he bring out her curiosity and fascination?

 

Chapter Three

B
ack at the Hotel Colorado, Travis changed into sweats and tried to relax even though his adrenaline was still high from the encounter with that drunk—­or maybe from the evening spent watching Monica light up Tony's Tavern with her smile and bubbling personality.

He had to share a room with his good friend, lead advance agent for the countersniper team, Royce Ames. Rooms were at a premium since the hotel would soon have to vacate the entire second and third floors for the presidential visit. President Torres had given permission to release dates in advance, and the hotel had been glad to accommodate them since they were in on the secret of the president's eventual arrival.

Now Royce was stretched out on his bed, remote in hand, flicking through channel after channel. Travis sat at the desk, reading a civil-­war book, but he wasn't seeing the pages.

He was remembering the way Monica Shaw danced, arms upraised above her head, hips bumping to each beat of the music. Her face had been full of sensual pleasure at the movement of her body, and it made him think of—­

No, he wasn't going there. And she hadn't been dancing with
him
—­but she'd wanted him to ask, he damn well knew it.

He couldn't afford to be distracted. His job was to keep the president safe, not to party with the locals. A ­couple years back, the agency had implemented new rules, one of which was no drinking less than ten hours before shift. It made it easier to keep his detail under control, but it also left an occasional hour for TV, books, and thinking about a beautiful woman whom he'd be running into far too much—­running into temptation. And dwelling on it wasn't like him.

T
he next day, on a misty Thursday afternoon, Monica went to the Widows' Boardinghouse early to help set up for Whitney's baby shower. The widows, with their energy and enthusiasm never flagging, had already done much of the decorating in their big old Victorian. Emily's husband, Nate, had renovated the house for his grandma a few years back, and now they had a comfy kitchen with a breakfast nook and gleaming oak cabinets, all decorated in a cow theme—­fitting, since the boardinghouse was part of the Silver Creek Ranch, and Mrs. Thalberg, a rancher's widow, lived there.

Monica had slept surprisingly well after the incident in Tony's parking lot. She'd felt protected and safe, and now that time had passed, told herself the guy was only drunk anyway and probably wouldn't have hurt her. But in the dark night, she couldn't have known that, and neither could Travis. He hadn't hesitated to put himself between her and danger. She shivered, and it wasn't from fear. Damn.

She was chopping vegetables and laying them out on a cow-­spotted tray while Heather Armstrong set up food warmers in the dining room. Heather, short red hair still windblown, was Emily's best friend from San Francisco, who'd recently moved to Valentine Valley to start anew with her business, As You Like It Catering. Last year, she'd met and fallen in love with Emily's brother, Chris Sweet, in what was a whirlwind affair, even for Valentine Valley.

Emily and Brooke were admiring the cake from Sugar and Spice, formed to look like a baby carriage.

“Didn't Steph do a great job with the decorating?” Emily gushed. “Those roses along the bottom are all hers!”

Steph, Emily's teenage sister, was a high-­school senior, blonder than her older sister, who'd taken Emily's surprise appearance into their family pretty badly a ­couple years ago. Since then, she and her sister had grown so close that she now worked part-­time at the bakery, with plans to become a full partner someday.

Steph walked in from the parlor, pink and blue crepe dangling around her neck. “If I'm so good, guess I can skip college. I did manage the bakery just fine when you were on your honeymoon.”

“You will not skip college!” Emily said with mock sternness before morphing into pride. “Did you guys hear she's going to Johnson and Wales University in Denver? Culinary arts
and
business. My sister is so smart!”

Steph made a big production of rolling her eyes as she looked for the best place to hang more decorations, but Monica could see the pleased pink in her cheeks.

“Are you going to barrel race there?” Brooke asked.

Brooke had been training the teenager for years. It was amazing how fast the two of them could make their horses circle the barrels.

“It's not one of their sports,” Steph said, “but I'll pick up a few tournaments here and there.”

“But your studies come first,” Emily reminded her.

“Yes,
Mom,
” Steph said heavily, even as she elbowed her sister.

Monica looked around the kitchen, her smile broadening as the widows bustled in from various parts of the house. She loved all these women, old and young, whom she'd spent her life with, who'd taken care of her. The widows had been the grandmothers she'd been denied—­her mom's mom had lived on the East Coast, and while she'd been alive, they'd only been able to see her once or twice a year. Her dad's mom had died when Monica was a toddler. Mrs. Thalberg, Brooke's grandma, with her brilliantly dyed red hair and artful makeup, had been a rancher's wife, and she'd adopted jeans and vests, when most other women of her generation still preferred tailored pants. She'd treated Monica and her twin sister Missy like the sisters Brooke had never had. When Mrs. Thalberg came for Grandparents' Day back in elementary school, she'd acted as Monica and Missy's grandma, too, since their own grandpa was always too sick to attend—­though he did remember to send wonderful notes that they'd find in their desks on that special day.

Mrs. Palmer, Brooke's future grandma-­in-­law, was the odd one of the three, with her big blond wig and boldly patterned dresses she must have made herself, because Monica had never seen dress fabric with giant stars (like she sometimes wore when she read tarot cards). Only one of the widows, Mrs. Ludlow, seemed like your typical grandma, with her blouses and slacks, cloud of white hair, and a walker. None of them were strangers to activism, due to their various causes around Valentine, but Mrs. Ludlow had a secret—­she'd actually been arrested. Not that Monica brought it up because she herself was a little notorious in environmentalists' circles. She didn't dwell on it.

More of the guests began to arrive, including some of Monica's family, too. Her sister Missy could never come to these kinds of things. Monica knew that her mom was always disappointed though she never showed it. Missy was a reporter for CNN in Washington, D.C., and didn't get all that much time off.

The guest of honor arrived last, and although the shower was hardly a surprise, when Whitney saw all the women gathered—­including her jet-­setting mom—­the pink decorations for her baby girl, and the beautiful cake, she burst into happy tears.

All through lunch, the house was full of the cheerful sounds of women talking. Heather was teased because she should be the next one engaged, and Brooke, too, who hadn't set a wedding date yet. Since Whitney already knew that she was having a girl, the adorable baby clothes she received were in a rainbow of pastels, pink and purple and yellow, sized from birth up to a year. She even received some bigger items, a stroller, two car seats, and a portable play yard.

“Didn't those used to be called playpens?” Monica's mom said, shaking her head as everyone smiled.

Janet Shaw had close-­cropped hair and darker skin than Monica. Her dad always used to call her his princess, but come to think of it, lately Monica hadn't heard that. She frowned at her mom. Did she look a little . . . tired? Maybe preoccupied? When she saw Monica watching, she smiled the same old smile, but Monica wasn't convinced that all was right in the world.

“Missy wishes she could have been here,” Janet said to Whitney, as everyone began to go through the gifts piled on a side table. “She went in on the stroller with us.”

“And I've only met her once, last Christmas,” Whitney said, surprised. “That was very nice of her.”

Monica tried to hide her frown as she studied her mom. She hadn't heard about Missy's involvement. Why couldn't she get away from this feeling that something seemed off with her mom?

Later, as everyone was having cake, Mrs. Ludlow called for attention from her rocker near the fireplace. “I have a wonderful announcement to make,” she said. “You all know that my granddaughter, Ashley, is a lawyer in Washington, D.C.”

Monica knew a lot about Ashley. After being involved in student government together in high school, they'd gone on to the same college and dove into environmental activism. Together, they'd tied themselves to ancient trees about to be cut down and spent a month one summer living in a tree house in a forest scheduled to make way for more coal mining. Monica became well-­known for writing grant proposals to further the interests of their various groups. Ashley took that to the next level, becoming an environmental lawyer, working from the inside to help important causes. But not before Ashley had chickened out on the biggest protest Monica had ever been involved in—­the one that gained her the most notoriety.

There'd been another rumor she'd heard about Ashley, but Mrs. Ludlow had never confirmed it, saying it was Ashley's private business.

“I haven't talked about it much, because my granddaughter asked me to keep quiet,” Mrs. Ludlow continued, “but for over two years, she's been dating the son of President Torres.”

Though she said it matter-­of-­factly, her cheeks blushed with pride, even as gasps and murmurs circulated through the parlor.
That
was the rumor, Monica mused, glancing at Brooke, who nodded back at her in confirmation.

“And now they're getting married,” Mrs. Ludlow added.

The “mom” corner of middle-­aged women called out their congratulations, and the younger crowd looked at each other in wonder. What would it be like to plan a presidential wedding?

“Are they getting married in the White House?” Monica asked.

“What if we're invited!” Brooke said excitedly.

Mrs. Ludlow shook her head, then took a sip of iced tea. As she patted her lips with her napkin, Monica could barely restrain her curiosity.
Come on, Mrs. L., spill!

“No, Ashley wants a more traditional wedding in her hometown, so she'd like it to be at St. John's Church and the Sweetheart Inn. But we cannot breathe a word beyond this room, not yet.”

More excited gasps. Monica glanced in surprise at the elder Mrs. Sweet, Emily's grandma and the owner of the Sweetheart Inn, dressed far more elegantly than anyone else—­except maybe Whitney's mother. Surely, the inn needed at least a year's notice to hold such a wedding. But Mrs. Sweet, cool and serene, her white hair drawn back beneath a broad-­brimmed straw hat, just gave the smallest, knowing smile. So she'd been asked in advance. Mrs. Palmer and Mrs. Thalberg, not close friends of the other woman, exchanged a resigned look. They'd been on the receiving end of Mrs. Sweet's “airs,” as they liked to call it, their whole lives. Emily said she sometimes felt trapped between her real grandmother and her other newly acquired ones.

Mrs. Ludlow raised a hand as the questions began. “I can't tell you more details right now. You all surely understand that a presidential wedding has far more complications than any of us can imagine.”

Emily's jaw dropped. “The president . . . she's coming here?”

For a moment, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

At last, Mrs. Ludlow beamed. “Of course she is. Isn't it wonderful? Now, of course, I'll want to host a bridal shower. Monica, I shall need to talk to you about flowers, and perhaps some kind of little craft item for favors, and—­”

“But when is the wedding?” Vanessa Winslow asked impatiently.

Whitney frowned at her mom, but everyone knew that Vanessa moved in wealthy circles, and she probably wanted to make sure she was in town for such an event. She'd recently bought a condo in Aspen to be near her daughter part of each year.

“Soon, is all I'm allowed to say.” Mrs. Ludlow used her walker to rise to her feet, like a queen finished with her audience. “Ashley would like me to tell Monica and Emily that she'll be contacting you both about wedding details. We all understand it's terribly last-­minute, but she'd love to use your ser­vices during the wedding weekend—­you, too, Heather, my dear.”

The three young women stared wide-­eyed at each other, and Monica knew just what the other two were thinking—­being part of a presidential wedding could put their businesses on the map. Even Aspen residents and tourists would have to take notice after that. She felt a thrill of awareness, various flowers cascading through her mind like a rain shower, demanding to be chosen for the rare honor of a presidential wedding. They might need flowers for the hotel, too, where the president would be—­

And then she stiffened, realization dawning. Travis!
That
was why he was in town, looking all mysterious and military-­ish—­he had something to do with the president and the wedding. And who else dealt with a president? The Secret Ser­vice. If it was true, he was taking the “secret” part very seriously, but now all the protectiveness he'd displayed on her behalf made sense.

Monica now understood that Mrs. Ludlow had been ordered to keep things under wraps, just like Travis had been. No wonder he'd been walking the streets of Valentine, looking things over. He had a very important job to do.

Or was she jumping to conclusions?

“Ladies, you know what we have to do,” Mrs. Palmer suddenly said in a loud voice, her Western drawl cutting across all the other conversations. “We have to speed up our ‘Men of Valentine Valley' calendar photo shoot.” She rushed on, acting as if she hadn't heard the groans. “Think of all the ­people who'll be in town to purchase our calendar, raisin' money for a good cause.”