like to make sure it stays true to its small-town roots while still encouraging the right improvements, the kind that preserve the history of our buildings for the enjoyment of our residents and visitors.”
“You mean tourists,” Nate said dryly.
“There is nothing wrong with tourists,” Mrs. Ludlow scolded.
“You don’t like visitors?” Emily asked him sweetly.
He knew she was amusing herself at his expense. He let his eyes remind her just how welcoming he’d been to her, a visitor. She blushed.
“I like visitors and tourists just fine,” he drawled.
“Others don’t,” Mrs. Ludlow said. “But we simply can’t let our historic buildings fall down around us—or allow an inappropriate business to give people the wrong idea. Rosemary, Renée, and I oversee the Valentine Valley Preservation Fund.”
Nate didn’t like where the conversation was heading.
“A preservation fund sounds very worthwhile,” Emily said politely.
“And the town has been the better for it. We’re the ones who encouraged businesses like Back in Time Portrait Studio to open here.”
“Mrs. Palmer just likes dressing up in costumes like his customers do,” Nate said dryly.
“She’s loyal to our roots here in the West,” Mrs. Ludlow insisted.
“She goes around like a pioneer woman on the Fourth of July,” Nate said to Emily in an exaggerated undertone.
“What a wonderful idea,” Emily said. “I bet the tourists love it.”
Mrs. Ludlow smiled with superiority at Nate, before continuing, “Main Street’s flourishing, more and more Aspen tourists are taking a day to come relax with us, and our little Victorian gingerbread houses don’t stay on the market more than a day.”
“And some would say the prices are getting pretty high,” Nate volunteered.
Emily’s glance morphed into skepticism as she studied him.
“Beautiful craftsmanship always draws the connoisseur.” Mrs. Ludlow lifted her nose in the air.
Nate lifted both hands, palms out. “I know all about a free-market economy. I studied it in college.”
“I think it’s a wonderful thing you’re doing,” Emily said to the old woman. “How does it work?”
As Mrs. Ludlow explained the application process, and the widows’ coordination of donations and grants, Nate waited with resignation for her to mention his connection. Much as he tried to keep his business private, that was hard to do in a town the size of Valentine. To his surprise, she left him out of it.
“I think you should apply for yourself,” Mrs. Ludlow finished.
Emily blinked. “For myself? But Mrs. Ludlow, I’m selling the property as soon as I can. I don’t even know who’ll end up buying the place. Surely the funds should be used by those who intend to stay and be a part of the town.”
She didn’t jump at the offer of money, and Nate respected her for it. Eventually, Mrs. Ludlow and Miri were on their way, and Emily was perched on the edge of the bench. She shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him. He sat back down.
“Brooke said your whole family works on the ranch,” she said. “You raise cattle?”
He nodded.
“I didn’t see any cows when I was jogging—or should I say trespassing—on your property.”
He gestured with his head toward the mountains. “They’re in summer pasture, grazing our allotment in the White River National Forest.”
“So you have to ride up there”—wide-eyed, she pointed to the same mountains—“to check up on them?”
“We drive pickups pulling horse and ATV trailers, then we ride around to check up on them.”
“Not very Old West of you,” she said wryly. “But I love steak as much as the next person, and I certainly don’t want it to be even more expensive.”
“I prefer being on a horse although Scout might disagree. He likes to perch behind me on the ATV.”
She smiled. “I’m very relieved that you project a traditional cowboy image. The hat’s important, of course, and you don’t fall down on the job there.”
“Complimented on my hat,” he said dryly. “That might be a first for me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I think you’ll take compliments where you can get them.”
“Now you’re implying I’m desperate.”
“Oh, your grandmother doesn’t think so. She thinks women are too easy on you, lining up to be your casual dates.”
He leaned back on the bench, lowering his hat over his eyes. “I knew taking you to the boardinghouse would be a mistake.”
She laughed again, and it made him feel too good to take her mind off her troubles—he glanced at her bare ring finger again—whatever they might be.
“About that preservation fund,” she began. “So the widows try to keep certain businesses out?”
Nate’s shoulders relaxed. “That sounds worse than it really