True Love at Silver Creek Ranch (14 page)

Whitney's smile was nothing more than polite, and he found himself relaxing. At least she didn't seem to know that his grandma might have several motives for their evening.

Whitney spread her arms wide as if displaying the place. “Mr. Deering, the real-estate agent, left me the keys to give us some privacy.”

“That Howie Junior, so thoughtful.”

Adam remembered Howie—or “Deer” as they'd called him on the football team, for his fast speed at running back. If memory served him, he'd even dated Brooke in high school, but Adam seemed to remember hearing it hadn't gone too well. Though Deer had been fast on his feet, he was clumsy as an ox with girls.

“So what do you think?” Whitney asked, turning around slowly.

Adam saw a large bare room with a fireplace on one side, and huge, plate-glass windows facing the front porch. An intricately carved banister followed stairs up to the next floor. There were two doors at the rear.

“I plan to take out the wall into the dining room for one big showroom,” Whitney explained. “The fireplace will make it seem so intimate.”

So will the lingerie,
Adam almost said. But it was none of his business. He strolled around to peer into the kitchen and dining room while the two women went on and on about the lingerie catalogue online, until his ears were burning at hearing words like bustier and teddy come from his grandma's lips. He wondered if Brooke had seen his grandma order something online but spared his feelings by not telling him.

“I can't tell you how grateful I am for your support, Mrs. Palmer,” Whitney said. “We should have no problems.”

Grandma glanced at Adam as her smile dimmed a bit. “Well . . . that might not be true, my dear Whitney. There are some people in town who've heard you're inquirin' about a permit, and they're not too happy.”

Whitney turned a baffled expression on Adam, then back to his grandma. “But . . . I have two other stores, and I've never had a problem.”

“I heard about the one in San Francisco,” Grandma said. “Where's the other?”

“Las Vegas.”

“Ah well, there you have it.” Grandma shook her head. “They're big cities, and Valentine Valley is a small town with some small minds who can easily influence the rest of 'em.”

Whitney's expression turned pensive, and she rubbed her upper arms as if comforting herself.

“But don't worry, dear,” Grandma said in a cheerful voice. “You're not alone, as you can tell from that newspaper article.”

Whitney frowned. “Article?”

Grandma opened her purse and pulled out the folded
Valentine Gazette.
“So be at ease, knowin' you have help. We'll be there to back you at the town-council meetin'.”

Whitney sighed. “I didn't know I needed help.”

Grandma gave Adam a look, and he tensed with expectation.

“Now that we've put your mind at ease,” she said, “why not a tour of Valentine Valley? Adam here, would be free to—”

He held up a hand and interrupted. “Sorry, Grandma, but I haven't lived here for ten years.”

“Yes, yes,” Grandma said, nodding. “And you do work long hours at the ranch.” She smiled up at Whitney. “I'll give you the tour myself one of these days.”

And Whitney would get to hear every detail of Valentine's history—just what she needed, Adam thought, hiding a smile.

“We're going to the True Grits for dinner,” Grandma was saying. “Care to join us, Whitney?”

Dammit, she was arranging his dates now.

Whitney brightened. “I would love to! And I'll bring along my portfolio with sketches for next year's line. I'd like to hear your opinion.”

Adam could have groaned. Not more lingerie talk with his grandma!

Chapter Twelve

B
rooke was just setting the kitchen table for dinner when her cell phone rang and she saw Monica's ID. “Hey, Monica.”

“Are you busy?” Monica asked.

“I'm fine, thanks,” she teased, “and nope, not too busy.”

“I think you better come to the True Grits.”

Brooke frowned, holding a cup motionless above the table. “Why?”

“It's so crowded no one can get in, and people are saying Mrs. Palmer's in there with the owner of Leather and Lace. More than one whisper has gone around that Adam's in town at last—and he's in there with them.”

Brooke remembered hearing about Mrs. Palmer's last battle with Sylvester Galimi at the boardinghouse—and she'd gone to the man's diner? “Are you there now?”

“Nope, I'm at my store. If I couldn't get in, I'm not standing out on the street. It's freezing! Park near me, and we'll run down together.”

“I'll be right there.”

When she pulled into a parking space near the flower shop, Monica came rushing out the door, parka already zipped, fur hood falling to her eyebrows.

“I've got Karista to cover for me,” Monica said, referring to her teenage part-timer. “Wait!”

She ran next door to Sugar and Spice and leaned her head inside. Emily came out a moment later, wearing a long wool coat and tucking a scarf around her neck.

“Who's covering for you?” Brooke asked, as they walked across Third and headed past Espresso Yourself, which was ominously empty.

“Mrs. Ludlow.”

“So she's not in there raising hell with the other widows?” Monica demanded.

“She's just fine hearing all about it later. Brooke, she said
your
grandma is home doing paperwork, so it's only Mrs. Palmer in the eye of the storm.”

As they passed Hal's Hardware, Hal was standing outside, the red tip of his cigarette reflected in his glasses, eyeing the crowd the next block over in front of the diner. When he saw them, he quickly put out the cigarette.
Nice, a fireman who smokes,
Brooke thought with amusement.

“Do you know what's going on?” Hal asked, as they hurried past him.

“Nope,” Brooke said over her shoulder. “Except I hear one of the widows is involved.”

“Aah.” Hal nodded as if that explained everything.

By the time they reached the next block, Brooke was relieved to see it wasn't a huge crowd gathered outside the True Grits but only a few people looking in the plate-glass windows, which were outlined in red and green Christmas lights. Glad she was tall, Brooke peered over their shoulders to see a full crowd filling the booths and counter, people milling between the tables.

She marched to the door, and just as she reached it, a woman near the window said, “Good luck getting in there.”

Brooke didn't recognize her, which was always a surprise in Valentine. “You must be from out of town,” she said.

The woman, plump even in her winter coat, with a fur hat over hair that seemed too red, crossed her arms over her chest and looked perturbed. “I drove in for the day from Glenwood Springs just to see the Christmas lights and decorations. I thought I'd have an inexpensive meal—but look at this place!”

“It
is
the holiday weekend,” Emily said gently. “Try Carmina's Cucina two blocks back toward town hall. Good food and not too expensive.”

“Thank you,” the other woman said, then put her hand in the arm of an older man who wore a long-suffering expression, and marched off.

Another person at the window turned out to be Chris Sweet, Emily's brother. Unlike Steph, the brothers were rather intrigued to have a new sister. He worked the ranch with his father and occasionally helped out at the family's Sweetheart Inn. His blond hair beneath his cowboy hat had darkened since the summer, and he kept his hands shoved in his fur-lined jacket. He'd been a couple years behind Brooke at school—but on the football team with Adam, she remembered.

Emily gave him a hug. He kept an arm around her shoulders as she shivered.

“Do you know what's going on?” Emily asked.

“Nope, but I heard Adam Desantis is inside. I was fixing to say hi, but . . .” He gestured with his head toward the diner. “Guess it'll have to be another time. You ladies going in?”

“Someone's got to,” Emily said with conviction. “If the widows are up to something . . .”

Chris backed away, raising his gloved hands palm out. “Then you're braver than I am. But I might hang out and see the fireworks.”

Brooke opened the door and began to push her way past the broad shoulders of several ranchers in stained Carhartt jackets. There was some grumbling, but when they saw who she was, they let her pass through.

“Nate with you?” Francis Osborne asked. His mustache, twirled at the ends, couldn't hide his thinly pressed lips.

“Nope.”

“A shame, he could have stopped this. It's—it's unseemly.”

She sighed and came to a halt as she looked into the diner, all sleek chrome and red-upholstered booths. A display case near the hostess station showed off mouthwatering cakes, pies, and cheesecakes—many from Sugar and Spice—but Brooke ignored their allure. Handfuls of women walked between booths, talking and chattering in voices that kept increasing in volume as they strove to be heard over each other. Mrs. Palmer stood in the middle, both hands resting loosely on her cane, watching it all with motherly pride.

The center of attention was clothing sketches done in watercolor affixed to cardboard backing, propped up at the back of many of the tables and booths. No, not regular clothing—lingerie. Occasionally, Mrs. Palmer pointed at a sketch with her cane, then glanced guiltily behind her, as if she didn't want someone in particular to observe her perfect balance.

And then Brooke saw Adam, seated in a booth and eating as if he didn't really care what was going on around him. Brooke skirted the crowd of excited women of all ages, noticing that some of the older men were frowning and grumbling to each other. Waitresses in khakis, white buttoned-down shirts, and fifties soda-jerk hats were threading through people as best they could, clearing their way with heavily laden trays.

Brooke nodded to each call of her name and slid into the booth opposite Adam. “What the heck is going on? I get a call from Monica, and it sounds like the town is up in arms!”

He glanced at her mildly and finished swallowing. “This apple pie is incredible.”

“It's mine,” Emily said, grinning as she took the seat at Adam's side, and he gave her room.

“It can't top the brownies, but it's close.”

Brooke interrupted, “We're not here to discuss the food!”

“Sorry.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin from the silver dispenser near the wall. “I'm not sure how this all took on a life of its own. One minute Whitney was showing us the portfolio of her designs for next year—”

“Whitney?” Monica said, pushing Brooke farther into the booth with her hips.

“Whitney Winslow, the owner of Leather and Lace.” Adam ducked his head side to side, trying to see through the crowd of women, then pointed. “That's her, next to my grandma.”

Brooke put an arm across the back of the booth as she swiveled to look behind her. Whitney was thin and elegant, looking the picture of a boutique owner from San Francisco. She was talking animatedly to Julie Jacoby, the redheaded summer hostess from the Halftime Sports Bar, who must be home from college on Thanksgiving break. They seemed to be discussing one of the sketches of a long-legged woman in a black bustier, wearing black boots up above her knees.

“How did all these sketches come out?” Brooke asked, starting to feel uneasy. Men and women sat in booths or gathered in twos and threes, some looking affronted or worried. She recognized most of them, even the ones she didn't see regularly enough to know their names. A few were obviously tourists, some so in love they couldn't stop holding hands even though they sat side by side. Valentine Valley tended to do that to people for some inexplicable reason.

But she wasn't going to let it do that to her, not right now. And then Adam's boot touched hers, and lingered. She didn't meet his eyes. He was her secret, and she wasn't going to share him. It was more exciting than she could have imagined.

Adam slouched back in the booth. “Grandma had me take her to the building Whitney is thinking of buying. We broke the news to her about the resistance among some of the townspeople, so Grandma invited her to dinner.”

“Here?” Brooke asked, baffled.

“I made it a point to say it might not be wise. We haven't seen Galimi yet, so I'm hoping that means he's gone home for the day. Whitney had promised to show her next year's sketches, and before I knew it, Grandma was passing them around. It's getting kind of loud, isn't it?”

“And people can't get in the door,” Monica said, giving Brooke a worried look.

“I think we're pressing our luck hanging around this long,” Brooke said. “Let's you and I collect the sketches before Sylvester makes an appearance.”

No sooner had they all started to get out of the booth, then a man roared, “What the hell is going on in here?”

The rumble of voices died to a murmur as heads swiveled. Coming to her feet, Brooke could see that Sylvester must have just emerged from the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. He normally wore a suit every day, but he was in shirtsleeves now, his tie loosened, as if he'd been working in his office. He was red-faced with anger, and Brooke wouldn't have been surprised to see steam covering his glasses.

Mrs. Palmer limped toward the counter with the help of her cane. “Good evenin', Sylvester,” she said, her thick Western twang making her sound innocent and cheerful all at once.

“Are you here to disrupt my business just to punish me for disagreeing with you, Renee?” he demanded, looking around to make sure people got the point.

Brooke exchanged a glance with Adam, whose expression was no longer amiable but one of cold intensity.

“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Palmer said, her wrinkled face full of surprise. “We came to enjoy your staff's fine cookin'.”

“Then what's all this?” he demanded, coming around the counter.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw a sketch propped on the first booth table—a woman in a bra and thong so tiny . . . and what was obviously a leather collar around her neck.

Brooke winced.

“That—that's—” he sputtered, “that's—pornography!”

Voices rose again, this time the indignant ones.

“My children are here!”

“Where are your morals, Renee?”

“Whose filth is this?”

Brooke rolled her eyes and said to those around her, “Oh, please, your children can see lingerie at Walmart!”

Nobody was listening to her.

Whitney stepped forward, chin raised, to stand beside Mrs. Palmer. “My name is Whitney Winslow. These sketches are from my company, Leather and Lace.”

As gasps and cries of recognition filled the air, Brooke saw her brother Josh shoulder his way through the crowd by the door. Their glances met across the room. His incredulous frown said,
What's going on?
and she splayed her hands in the air on either side of her head, implying,
Beats me, but I'm panicking!

Sylvester literally backed up a step from Whitney, as if she smelled unpleasant. It was so over-the-top, Brooke could have laughed.

“You're the young lady—young . . . woman responsible for this pornography?” Sylvester said, gesturing wildly to the sketches.

“They're not pornography,” Whitney said, smiling her disbelief.

Brooke looked around at the women who'd just been excitedly examining Whitney's work. Most stood behind her resolutely, but a few had melted into the disapproving half of the restaurant. Julie, who'd been talking to Whitney moments before, quietly began to gather up all the sketches.

“Now, Sylvester,” Mrs. Palmer began, firmness overtaking the joviality in her voice.

Whitney interrupted. “These sketches are samples of my collection, underwear, nightgowns, robes. I don't know what the big deal is—”

“The ‘big deal,' Miss Winslow, is that we don't need your racy kind of store in our town.”

“But this is Valentine Valley,” Whitney said, her voice growing cooler. “I've done my research. Why do you think I picked your town? You're all about weddings and engagements and romance. And so is lingerie.”

Across the room, Josh was watching Whitney, his easygoing expression turning into admiration. He gave Brooke a nod as if to say,
She's handling herself just fine.

Julie brought the sketches to the booth. From beneath the table, Adam produced a large leather case and zipped the sketches away inside.

“People can buy it in brown paper packages off the Internet if they like,” Sylvester continued righteously, “but they don't want to see it displayed where innocent eyes will be watching.”

“My window displays are tasteful and beautiful,” Whitney responded with indignation. “There would be nothing inappropriate.”

“So you say now,” Sylvester responded, “but once you own the building, you'll reveal your real agenda, corrupting the morals of our children!”

Whitney's face went red, and her mouth dropped open.

Mrs. Palmer's eyes had gone cool with distaste. “That is unbelievably rude, Sylvester, to call our guest a liar.”

“This is over,” Adam murmured, and pushed forward to his grandma's side. He tossed some money on the counter. “For our bill, Harriet, darlin',” he said to the older waitress in her fifties, whose buttons on her too-small blouse looked like they might pop at any second. “Time to leave before anything worse is said.”

Brooke noticed he emphasized a deep drawl he didn't normally have, and Harriet's eyes softened. More than one woman was giving him the once-over, and Brooke could hear, “That's Adam Desantis,” from several booths and tables.