True Love at Silver Creek Ranch(8)

Brooke thought Emily’s idea to visit the widows a good one, and she tried to tell herself it wasn’t because Adam Desantis was staying there.

The two women went back to the main house, so Brooke could shower, then drove Brooke’s Jeep to the boardinghouse on the edge of the property overlooking Silver Creek. The house was a white, three-story Victorian, with pretty gingerbread trim and wraparound porches where you could always find a perfect view of the mountains. A sign out front said WIDOWS’ BOARDINGHOUSE as if they took in guests. Not paying guests, but they certainly sheltered the occasional lost person who needed a home. As if Emily was thinking the same thing, the two women shared a grin.

“I still miss it here,” Emily said, as they drove around behind and parked near the back porch.

“Really?” Brooke asked in disbelief. “You have your own apartment, no one to report your every movement to.”

Emily smiled. “I felt cared for.”

Together, they crossed the porch and entered the kitchen. Brooke never failed to smile when she saw all the cow decorations, from the horns on the wall where she now hung her coat, to the cow and bull salt and pepper shakers, to the pastoral scenes of grazing cows during all four seasons that lined the walls.

The three widows were gathered in the breakfast nook, papers spread across the table, but they all looked up with various exclamations of surprise and relief when they saw their visitors. Adam wasn’t among them, and Brooke felt a little disappointed, although she told herself it was natural to be curious about him.

The widows tried to unobtrusively gather together their papers, as if they had something to hide. Brooke exchanged a glance with Emily, who pressed her lips together to conceal a knowing smile. Brooke wondered what new project the widows were working on for the Valentine Valley Preservation Fund. They were the most active ladies on the committee, from handling the grant applications to dealing with possible investors. But they always kept their projects private until they were ready to reveal them. And then sometimes all hell broke loose.

Grandma Thalberg rushed forward first, her hair unnaturally red and curly above a face skillfully highlighted with makeup. She wore crisp jeans and a turtleneck, with a corduroy vest for added warmth. Her eyes filled with tears. “Brooke!” she cried, throwing her arms around her granddaughter. “Oh, you brave, brave girl!”

Hugging her back, Brooke found herself sniffing at the powerful emotions that surged between them. Her grandma spent more time at the ranch than not, the home she’d once ruled over with Grandpa Thalberg. Brooke remembered countless hours on her knees weeding the garden at her side, hearing the stories of the ranch from the silver-boom days, tales that had been passed down through the generations.

Brooke looked over her shoulder at the other two ladies. Mrs. Ludlow resembled someone’s perfect vision of a grandma, with her cloud of white hair, pressed slacks and blouse, and her smooth use of a walker. Then Brooke saw Mrs. Palmer, and she remembered Adam’s concern. Mrs. Palmer’s blond wig was still perched atop her head like a crown. Her face was devoid of her usual makeup, making the lines of age starkly visible, though she was wearing a bright red-and-green polka-dotted dress as a token of the approaching holiday season. She had a cane over her arm, but at least she didn’t use it as she rose smoothly from her chair.

“Oh, Brooke, I was so worried about you!” Grandma Thalberg said, managing to give Emily a quick hug before continuing her scrutiny of Brooke.

“When Adam saw smoke,” Mrs. Palmer said excitedly, “he just ran off before I could ask anythin’.”

She didn’t sound any different, Brooke thought with relief, and her stride was brisk as she approached.

“Everyone is okay.” Brooke towered over the three old women and Emily, and felt like a mother duck trying to reassure her ducklings.

“I could hardly stop to explain.”

Brooke heard the deep male voice, and her breath gave a little hitch of surprise. Adam was standing in the doorway that led to the first-floor bedroom suite the widows used for guests. He was wearing only a t-shirt and jeans over boots, and his short, sandy hair was damp and wavy. The bandage was a white patch on his tanned cheek. His shoulders seemed to touch both edges of the doorframe, then he leaned against one side and crossed his arms. His somber eyes regarded the newcomers, and she felt flustered. That, she thought, was an alien word to her—“intrigued” was far better.

Emily gave the sweetest smile and walked toward him, hand outstretched. “Adam, I’m Emily Murphy, Nate’s fiancée.”

“Adam Desantis. A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he said, as they shook hands.