realized she’d left the lunch she’d packed back at the boardinghouse. Apple tarts would have to do.
She locked up the building—was that even necessary in broad daylight in Valentine Valley? But she was a city girl, and it just seemed wrong not to be careful. Forcing herself to look cheerful, she went next door and found Monica rearranging a display of crocheted baby afghans and looking relieved for the distraction.
Emily set the plastic container on the main counter. “I brought us something a bit more decadent to share than a salad. Dessert.”
“Oh, I haven’t eaten lunch yet,” Monica said, looking hungrily at the container.
“I already did, so I’ll leave you to finish yours.” She didn’t want Monica insisting on sharing two days in a row.
“Don’t rush off.” Monica lifted the lid, wafted the container under her nose, and groaned. “Ohh, it smells divine. You baked this?”
“Apple tarts.”
“Crust from scratch?” she asked, eyes going wide. “I thought everyone bought theirs nowadays.”
“Not me. Never have. But baking up in the mountains is tricky although you probably already know that.”
Monica snorted.
Emily reluctantly smiled. “I’ve been taking lessons in high-altitude baking from the widows, and this is one recipe that turned out okay the first time.”
“So you’re not experimenting on me?” Monica teased.
“Cross my heart.” Emily had to admit that it was nice having a conversation instead of spending too much time keeping dark thoughts at bay.
The bell above the door jangled, and they both turned to look.
Monica broke into a big grin as a young woman entered. “Brooke, just in time for lunch—or should I say Emily’s fantastic dessert?”
Brooke’s gaze focused on Emily with recognition as if she’d already heard about her. What is it with small towns? Emily wondered wryly. Brooke was a good half a foot taller than she was, her lean build shown off in tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a button-snapped Western shirt with a fleece vest over the top. She carried a cowboy hat at her side along with a small cooler, and in the other hand a paper bag.
“So you’re Emily Murphy,” Brooke said, a smile slowly forming. Then she lifted a brown paper sack. “You forgot your lunch.”
Emily gaped at her momentarily, trying to put together some sequence of events that could explain this.
Monica elbowed her. “Hey! You told me you already ate lunch.”
Emily stared at the smirking Brooke as she answered Monica. “If I’d have told you I forgot it, you’d have offered to share again, making me feel like an idiot. I had tarts, didn’t I? With healthy apples in them.” She took the bag from Brooke. “Thanks. Should I ask how you got my lunch?”
Brooke put out a hand. “I’m Brooke Thalberg.”
“Ah,” Emily said, as all the lightbulbs went off in her head. They shook hands, and she noticed Brooke’s firm grip, her skin rougher than most women’s. “Nate’s sister—and Mrs. Thalberg’s granddaughter. Did she call you?”
“Of course not. She called Nate.”
Brooke and Monica exchanged a knowing grin, then both women started to unpack their lunches. Emily hesitated, knowing she should make excuses and leave instead of being drawn into temporary friendships. But it just seemed too rude, so she reluctantly sat down on a stool.
Emily told herself she was glad Nate hadn’t shown up with her lunch himself. She didn’t have time for his sort of distraction although she was curious about his reaction to his grandmother’s call. While Monica helped a couple customers with an emergency birthday bouquet and long-stemmed roses for a dinner date, Brooke kept grinning at her, as if reading her thoughts.
When Monica returned to eat lunch, Emily said to Brooke, “I’m sorry you got drawn into this.”
“I’m not,” she answered cheerfully. “I wanted to meet the woman Nate brought to the Widows’ Boardinghouse. And he couldn’t help out with your lunch because he was having a tough time getting hold of a part we need.”
“I know I shouldn’t have imposed on your grandmother,” Emily said, after swallowing a bite of her turkey sandwich. “But Nate was pretty persuasive and . . .” Her words died off as she realized they were both watching her with speculation.
Brooke shook her head. “I don’t know if I want to hear how my brother was persuasive.”
Emily knew she was blushing when the women started to laugh. “It wasn’t like that!” she protested. “I tried to stay in my own building, but the heat wasn’t on, and he wouldn’t let me.”
“Damn, I thought there might be a better story than that,” Brooke