A Promise at Bluebell Hill (9 page)

“I played soccer rather than football,” he said, “so I tended to have to go against football players to date the pretty girls.”

“Monica was a cheerleader!” Mrs. Palmer gushed.

Monica sank into a chair and waited with resignation. He was kind of enjoying watching her embarrassment. She didn't get angry or leave in a huff—­she took it good-­naturedly because, obviously, all these women were important to her, and she'd never hurt their feelings.

“I was interested in this one girl, and I saw her talking to a football player who knew about my crush, and I was pissed—­upset, pardon me, ma'am.”

“So polite!” Mrs. Thalberg said in a not-­very-­quiet aside to Emily at the cash register.

“I lost my temper and kicked my soccer ball at him just to make him look like an idiot. Instead, I hit her.”

All the women shared an audible gasp, then a wince. Monica, eyes sparkling, clapped her hands over her mouth to hide laughter.

“Needless to say, that girl lost any interest in me. So you're right, Monica, we all did stupid things in high school.”

He wasn't quite sure why he'd felt the need to reveal that, but she'd seemed so . . . good-­naturedly picked upon that he'd taken pity on her. To forestall any other reminiscences, he glanced at the cooler in the back of the room. “So what's the best cheesecake?”

He ended up at a little table with Monica, eating triple layer cheesecake while she dug into a slice of carrot cake. Emily brought their coffee and pulled up a chair, and the two women waved good-­bye as the widows took off their aprons and headed home for the evening, turning the sign in the front window to
CLOSED
as they left.

Monica was focused on her cake, but she spared a glance for Emily. “Damn, you can bake.”

Emily grinned. “Thanks.” She eyed Travis for a moment. “So you're from a small town, too. Nearby?”

He swallowed a bite, then wiped his mouth. “Montana.”

“So why are you visiting Valentine Valley? We can't be too much different than where you're from.”

“I grew up in a small town, but I live in Washington, D.C., now. I'm here on business.” He glanced at Monica and gave a nod, then enjoyed her pleased expression.

“I didn't reveal his title in front of everyone else, Em, but this is Special Agent Travis Beaumont with the Secret Ser­vice.”

Emily's eyes widened, and she lightly smacked her forehead. “I can't believe I didn't make the connection to the presidential wedding. At least now I know why you were examining Valentine Valley like a tourist—­a tourist who stuck out in our laid-­back town, I might add.”

With his fork, he pointed at her. “But you didn't figure it out.”

“True, very true,” she admitted with teasing regret.

The door opened, and the frown Emily turned on it suddenly melted away as a tall man entered, removing his Stetson. He wore jeans and a t-­shirt with a faded jacket over it.

“Nate!” she said, rising to walk toward the door. “I didn't know you were coming. You just missed your grandma.” They shared a quick kiss and a longer hug, then she turned back to their table. “Travis Beaumont, this is my husband, Nate Thalberg. Nate, Travis is with the Secret Ser­vice.” She shot a troubled look at Travis. “Was I allowed to mention it to my husband? I noticed Monica didn't reveal your identity to the others.”

Travis stood up, and they shook hands. “I'm sure your husband can keep quiet until the wedding is public knowledge.”

Nate had wavy black hair creased by his hat and green eyes that studied Travis shrewdly. Travis knew small-­town grapevines well, and figured everyone was curious about the stranger with Monica. Everyone who cared about her anyway, and he guessed just from the few days of knowing her, that that was the whole town.

“Nice to meet you,” Nate said. He turned back to his wife. “Just thought I'd keep you company while you closed tonight, but you didn't need me.”

She slid her arm in his and leaned against his shoulder. “I always need you.”

Monica tilted her head at Travis. “They can be sickening sometimes.”

Nate pulled up a chair, too.

Travis turned to Emily. “I'm starting to meet all the vendors who'll be associated with the wedding. I'm the lead agent, but you'll probably be hearing from the hotel agent assigned to the Sweetheart Inn. I'm just trying to get a feel for the town and the ­people involved. We will do routine background checks, and an agent will be assigned to watch you bake desserts meant for the president.”

Emily's eyes were getting wider and wider.

“But I'm getting the impression I don't have to worry too much about you,” he assured her, then looked down at the cheesecake smeared on his fork and resisted the urge to lick it. “And since this is incredible, I'm sure the president will be pleased with your work.”

Emily blushed even as her husband squeezed her hand.

To put the woman at ease, Travis started asking Nate about the ranch. He learned that local ranches grazed their cows up in the White River National Forest, and during the late-­spring season, they were busy preparing for their hay harvest, so the cows would have food come winter. Travis asked Emily about opening her bakery, and heard the story of how she'd first come to Valentine Valley only temporarily, clueless about her future as a pastry chef.

Monica enjoyed her carrot cake and listened to the flow of conversation. Travis was still pretty formal in his responses and mannerisms. She knew he was asking questions to gauge reactions, but she guessed Emily didn't mind. It was all part of the high honor in being involved in a presidential wedding.

As for his first introduction to the widows—­Monica had been a wreck during that. She herself had told Travis about the protest against the Renaissance Spa's handling of the dig. There was no reason he'd connect the widows to the environmentalists, but he did seem awfully interested in them. Of course, they probably needed background checks, too, because they worked in the bakery. She wasn't quite sure what those reports would turn up . . .

Travis's story about hitting the girl with a soccer ball? At least he didn't take himself seriously all the time, and she wouldn't have thought him capable of that before. It made her feel . . . lighter, somehow. Maybe there was hope that a more carefree man lurked inside the dutiful special agent. She wasn't quite sure why it felt important to her, but she'd always trusted her instincts.

The hour in the bakery almost felt like a double date; at least that's how Nate and Em were treating it. And for the first time, Monica felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of Travis's departure. She'd forgotten what it was like to be part of a ­couple, chatting with another ­couple. Not that they were a ­couple, of course, she hastily reminded herself.

She excused herself to use the restroom, and when she returned, Travis was standing near the door with Nate.

“Come on out to the ranch anytime,” Nate said. “I'd be happy to show you around.”

“Not sure how much time I have, but I appreciate the offer.”

They shook hands.

“I'll get out of your way,” Monica said to Emily and Nate, as Travis opened the door for her. “Have a good evening!”

Out on Main Street, the sky was dark, the street lit by old-­fashioned lamps. Many ­couples strolled by, off to a late dinner or maybe the film festival at the Royal Theater. Travis didn't have far to escort her. Her door was already closed and locked, only the faint night-­light on inside. She fished her keys out of her purse.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked.

With streetlights behind him, his face was shadowed, and she couldn't quite read his expression. But the pause was long enough that she wondered if he was considering it—­and wondered what she'd do if he took her up on her impulsive offer. She felt so aware of him, her body coming to life, her mind intrigued though she kept warning herself off. But . . . he was just so interesting, so different than most of the men she knew. And he needed her help—­in more ways than one.

He shook his head. “I've put off my paperwork long enough. But thank you for the introduction to Emily and some of her employees. Meeting the ­people feeding President Torres helps me feel confident going into the wedding.”

“I don't blame you. Very interesting that agents watch the food prep. It really is a huge production, isn't it?”

“It is. Have a good night, Monica.” He nodded and turned toward the street.

He looked both ways, then crossed at a brisk, confident pace. She leaned back against the door, unable to help watching the way his shoulders moved beneath the windbreaker. She felt a sense of regret that he'd declined her invitation though it was probably better that way. Helping a man relax and lighten up didn't mean the two of them had to be alone . . .

He disappeared into the hotel, and, as she unlocked the front door, she heard her phone chirp. After digging in her purse, she found an e-­mail from the widows, letting the Dig Defenders know that their next meeting was tomorrow evening. She sighed and locked the door behind her for another quiet night. She had a lot of those lately, now that her best friends were all either married or engaged. She could have hung out with any one of them with just a phone call, but tonight . . . tonight she'd rather be alone and eat ice cream. A second dessert. Yeah, that would hit the spot as she thought about Travis. She'd just run an extra mile tomorrow.

And maybe she'd see him in his running shorts.

 

Chapter Eight

I
nside the hotel's front doors, Travis found himself turning to look through the glass at the flower shop across Main Street. Normally, he'd have waited on her doorstep until the woman he'd spent the evening with was inside and safe, but he'd been worried he'd join her in that darkened shop and kiss her like he wanted to—­like
she
wanted him to.

Gritting his teeth, he turned toward the lobby, old-­fashioned with red-­patterned wallpaper, antique gas sconces on the walls. A round plush ottoman dominated the center of the lobby, across from the registration desk, with a huge vase of flowers rising up through the center.

A young woman came toward him, and although they'd never met, he recognized her immediately from photos: Ashley Ludlow, the bride in this huge “production,” as Monica had called it.

She put out a hand. “Special Agent Beaumont?”

She was obviously waiting just for him. He shook her hand. “Good evening, Miss Ludlow.”

She smiled and blushed. “Please, it's Ashley. And you know me by sight already? Guess I'm not surprised, with all that the Secret Ser­vice does.”

“Please call me Travis. Did you need my help?” he asked.

“I honestly don't know if you
can
help. I'm having a problem with one of the president's junior staffers. I've been dealing with her about the wedding schedule—­she's sort of my liaison. Anyway, she's been a little . . . difficult to deal with. Have you heard of her, Samantha Weichert?”

“I've heard the name, but have had no dealings with her.”

“You probably will. She just arrived yesterday, on the same plane as me. She even insisted we sit together. I had to plead exhaustion and pretend to sleep just to get her to leave me alone.”

“Sorry about that. I can tell you the type—­often from a wealthy family, went to an excellent college, smart enough to land a position in the White House, and believes she's better than everyone else.”

Her tense expression relaxed into relief. “Yes! You captured her perfectly.”

“That type tends to think the Secret Ser­vice is the hired help and often asks us to carry luggage.”

Her eyes widened. “Wow, that's presumptuous. I know there's not a lot you can do about her, but if there's some way to get her to back off about the wedding itself, like she's my wedding planner and knows best, I'd really appreciate it.”

“I will make a point of meeting her.”

“Thank you. Will she give you a wedding schedule, or do you need that from me?”

“One from you would be great, then I can confer with the president's staff as well.”

“There's one other thing.” Almost nervously, she glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “I have reason to believe there might be some kind of protest during my wedding weekend—­not against the president!” she amended quickly.

And her grandmother was one of the notorious widows, so she might have reason to suspect. “I have heard that ­people are upset about the closing of an archaeological dig.”

“They are strongly concerned about the environment around here, and when I was younger, I was also involved in that kind of concern, so I get it. And I'm not even upset about it. I just don't want
you
to be taken unawares.”

Travis wondered if she wanted a possible protest stopped but couldn't quite bring herself to say it. Or perhaps she was simply trying to protect everyone involved by bringing him into the loop.

“You might wonder how I know about this,” she continued, blushing. “My grandmother is one of the ‘rabble-­rousers' ”—­she used air quotes around the words—­“but she's a wonderful person and is even throwing me a wedding shower. The president won't be there, so maybe that doesn't have anything to do with you.”

“No, but my work will probably intersect, so thanks for the advance notice.”

Ashley seemed almost lighter as she waved good-­bye and headed out onto the street. It couldn't be easy being a bride who had to do everything at the last minute—­and on a world stage.

As Travis took the stairs to the third floor, he thought about Monica's closeness to the widows. Did she know what was going on? Could she even be involved? It was a troubling thought. He didn't want to see her get in any kind of trouble.

Hanging out with her might have the side benefit of figuring out if she was involved, or maybe even stopping the protest altogether. That was his job, after all, smoothing everything out for a presidential visit, keeping everyone safe. He made a mental note to go order background checks on the notorious widows.

A
fter spending much of the morning working on presidential wedding plans, including trying to convince a harried wholesaler that Monica needed exotic flowers guaranteed quickly—­without revealing details—­she took a break to attend the “Men of Valentine Valley” photo shoot at the Sweetheart Inn hot springs. This was the last shot necessary to complete the calendar, one big group photo for the month of July. It had been her idea to surprise the men, and Brooke, Emily, Heather, and Whitney had all gone along with it. Whitney was thrilled just to be moving around because Josh often “encouraged” her to remain at home or at Leather and Lace—­like she was an invalid, she complained. The women had ordered subs from the Mountainside Deli, cookies from Sugar and Spice, and now carried the bags and pulled a ­couple coolers full of water and soda.

When the girls walked up the path, they came upon eleven of their favorite men in various states of undressing, and the middle-­aged photographer from the Back In Time Portrait Studio, Carolyn Covich, watching them all in bemusement. She saw the women approach first, and to Carolyn's credit, Monica couldn't tell whether she was annoyed or relieved.

“Do we have an audience?” Carolyn called.

Monica had to laugh as Chris Sweet, in the process of pulling off jeans to reveal swim trunks, actually stumbled and had to catch himself on the bench.

His girlfriend, Heather, snorted through her nose as she tried to stop her laughter, before saying, “Good thing he only had to read by the fire for January. He might have broken a bone doing anything more ­athletic.”

He gave her a good-­natured grimace.

“Aren't you guys going to be cold?” Monica called. “It's still spring weather around here.”

“It's a
hot spring,
” Josh Thalberg called.

His wife, Whitney, gave a groan at his joke, and he left his shirt half-­unbuttoned to run to her.

“Are you okay?”

She smiled up at him and put his hand on her swollen stomach. “I'm more than okay, and this little one agrees. I just came to watch her daddy pose in the nude.”

“We are not posing in the nude,” Josh said mildly, his gaze unfocused as he moved his hand around on Whitney's belly. “She's pretty active.”

“It was a long walk up here,” Brooke told her brother. “Maybe you should get the clothes off the bench and let your wife sit down.”

Several of the guys cleared off the bench while Josh led her to it.

Emily perched next to Whitney and looked at the group of men expectantly. “Don't let us stop you!”

Some of the men seemed a little more reluctant, and others, like Emily's brothers Will and Daniel, quickly stripped off their shirts and jeans to reveal swim trunks. Since there wasn't room for all of them to be in the tiny hot spring, Carolyn began to arrange the men the way she thought best. Monica had never seen so many gorgeous torsos—­except for poor Howie Deering Jr., he of the receding hair and freckled face. Now that he had a wife and two small kids, it was pretty obvious he'd let go of any kind of exercise besides walking to the houses he sold. Monica worried he felt truly out of place. But she'd seen pictures of his March photo shoot on a snowmobile, and Carolyn had done a great job, letting him wear a vest and capturing the feel of having a good time in winter.

To Howie's credit, he stripped off his t-­shirt, let a towel drape around his neck, and knelt behind the group of guys already in the hot spring. Monica cheered for him, and he grinned.

“Did we miss it?”

That was Mrs. Palmer's twang. Monica turned to see the three widows making their slow way around the curve in the path—­even Mrs. Ludlow, with her walker, a sweater draped around her shoulders, moving almost briskly.

“Grandma, you aren't exactly helping!” called Adam Desantis. He was waist deep in the hot spring already, frowning.

Mrs. Palmer gave him a big grin. “But this is our idea, Adam! O' course we want to be here for the final picture-­takin'. Just pretend we're not here when you look sexy.”

He shuddered, and Nate tossed a towel into his face.

Mrs. Palmer turned around. “And we had a kind gentleman give us a hand.”

Monica felt a little thrill start in the pit of her stomach when she saw Travis at the tail end, carrying lawn chairs for the widows. He was once again dressed casually, his sunglasses in place, hiding his eyes. She wondered if he wore the jacket to conceal his gun. It wasn't that she felt he was dangerous, but there was always the possibility that he'd have to
do
something dangerous.

“He came,” Emily said in a low, satisfied voice.

Monica whirled to face her, and whispered, “You invited him?”

“Sure, while you were in the bathroom last night. He said he'd consider it.” She smirked. “Guess he considered it.”

Monica tried to look serious, but a smile broke through. “You're bad.”

“I know,” Emily said, chin raised in satisfaction. “But he needs to have some fun, doesn't he?”

“That's exactly what I was thinking—­although I'm pretty sure watching a bunch of guys pose for a calendar isn't all that fun for a straight guy.”

“You're sure he's straight?”

Monica chuckled. “I'm sure. My gaydar is pretty good.”

“No other reason you'd know he was straight?”

“Of course not,” Monica chided, but she kept her eyes on the Secret Ser­vice agent. He just . . . drew her gaze.

After Travis finished setting up the chairs, Mrs. Thalberg gave him a little push toward Monica. “Introduce your young man, my dear.”

Monica waited for him to contradict her, but he didn't. She suspected Travis was using the widows' assumption to his benefit to meet more residents of Valentine Valley.

She turned and swept an arm wide, encompassing everyone. “Men of Valentine Valley, meet Travis Beaumont, a guest at the Hotel Colorado.”

A few of the men called out a greeting, some eyed him with curiosity, but her brother, Dom, leaned his dark, muscular arms on the rock ledge surrounding the spring, and said, “A guest at the hotel? What does that mean?”

Monica shrugged. “Just what I said.” She put her hands on her hips and leaned down toward her brother. “You got a problem with it?”

Several ­people “oohed,” but Dom only shrugged. “Guess you know what you're doing. Just be careful.”

She put a hand on her chest. “Such protectiveness. I'm speechless.”

“You're never speechless,” said Josh.

She stuck out a leg as if she'd trip him on his way back to the spring. He laughed and pretended to jump.

“Hey, can we finish this up?” Carolyn called. “I've got an appointment with a baby.” She eyed Travis. “You want to join in on this photo shoot? I'm sure the women of Valentine wouldn't mind.”

“No, thanks,” he said politely.

Monica and the other girls backed away, Travis helped the widows set up their chairs, then Carolyn took control of her photo shoot. For a half hour, she posed the men in various positions, some in the hot spring, some surrounding it. Sometimes, she just let them have fun choosing their own poses, and she continued to snap pictures throughout the whole thing.

From her place standing behind the bench, Monica couldn't help glancing at Travis, who'd taken up what was almost a military stance beside the widows, as if protecting them from roaming terrorists. She found it kind of cute. She was pretty sure he met her gaze from behind his sunglasses and arched an eyebrow, wearing that faint almost smile that was growing on her. And then he pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the screen.

“You just can't stop looking at him,” Brooke said quietly.

Monica turned back to the photo shoot but gave Brooke a rueful smile. “I know. He's easy to look at.”

“Seems exciting to have a guy like that trying to get close to you.”

“Well . . . I think that's overstating his interest.”

“He's here, isn't he?”

Emily looked up and back at them from her seat on the bench. “Because of me, remember!”

Whitney eyed her. “She's not likely to forget. Now, Monica, why don't you forget about us and go talk to him?”

Monica grinned at them all and turned away. Travis met her a little way from the widows' viewing place. They turned to watch the photo shoot together, and Monica felt a stir as he seemed to deliberately brush shoulders with her. Or was it an accident?

“So why didn't you tell me you were coming?” she asked quietly.

“I didn't know if I could get away. It
is
a workday.”

“Which made the photo-­shoot coordination hard. Everyone agreed to take the morning off because it's for such a good cause. But you seem to make your own hours.”

“That, and it's not easy to outright refuse Emily Thalberg,” he said with the seriousness given state negotiations.

Monica laughed. “She is pretty strong and persuasive. And now she's full of herself, too. Thanks for that. You do know that since only a few of us know you're here to spy, everyone else thinks you're interested in me.”

“Spy? That's pretty harsh. I happen to be taking advantage of a new friendship to meet more ­people.”