I’m not letting anyone see this disaster for a while.”
“You think they’ll fit in here?” Brooke asked. “This can be a conservative town.”
“Valentine Valley,” Emily emphasized the name. “Isn’t it all about romance? And what says romance better than honeymoon clothes?”
“I like it,” Monica said firmly.
“We’ll see if anyone else does.” Brooke looked doubtful.
“Don’t be pessimistic,” Emily said. “Someone has an actual interest in the building, and in this economy, I’ll take what I can get. Now if someone else is interested, and they start a bidding war . . . maybe I’ll have my college tuition paid for with lots to spare for a baby.” She hugged herself, pushing back her doubts and worries. “Back to work. I have to get to the hardware store.”
“And Mrs. Wilcox is probably panicking without me,” Monica said glumly.
“And Nate threatened to whip me if I didn’t help take care of some fences in the horse pasture.”
When Emily was alone, she let the peaceful happiness of friendship wash over her. Already, she felt like she could tell Brooke and Monica anything, and they’d understand and sympathize, or even tell her she was making a mistake. She realized, to her delight, that girlfriends were family, too.
Emily walked the one block to the hardware store, feeling cheerful and positive. She browsed in the windows of the Vista Gallery of Art, admiring its beautiful mountain landscapes, then inhaled the aroma from the coffee shop Espresso Yourself. She didn’t like coffee, but she loved the scent that drifted out the door when someone went inside. Several people sat outside at little wrought-iron two-person tables, even though the day was overcast. Emily nodded and smiled as people did the same to her. It still surprised her how friendly everyone was.
Hal’s Hardware, a clapboard structure built on a corner lot, rose three stories, a rarity in Valentine. Inside, she stopped in amazement at how much was crammed in each aisle, floor to ceiling. The first thing she saw was the paint department, where a large table was placed near a coffeemaker. Three men sat around the table, and turned to stare when she closed the door behind her. They were in their sixties and older, but it was hard to tell with men who spent their working lives outdoors.
Feeling as on display as a butterfly pinned to a board, Emily forced a smile. “Good morning.”
They all smiled back, to one degree or another, but the interest was obvious.
“Hey there, girl,” one grizzled old man called, taking off his cowboy hat as if to see her better with steel blue eyes. He wore a well-used tan Carhartt jacket, open over his overalls. “You lost?”
“Not if this is the hardware store,” she said pleasantly.
She glanced at the clerk behind the cash register, an older man who wore glasses above a beard laced with white like his sandy hair. His pleated denim shirt was monogrammed with the name “Hal.” Not a clerk then.
Hal smiled. “You’ve come to the right place, Miss . . .” He trailed off.
All the men seemed to wait in fascination for her identity, but before she could say it, another man at the table, balding, wearing the blue shirt of the US Postal Service, spoke up. “Emily Murphy.”
One of the men nodded as if his suspicions were confirmed, and the other seemed to cock his head to study her.
“Bill Chernoff,” she responded to the postal clerk, remembering what Monica had told her about rumors spreading.
He reddened, and the man in the Carhartt jacket guffawed. “How do you know my name?”
She put one hand on her hip. “Rumors fly, but I guess you already know that.”
Behind the counter, Hal snorted. “She’s got ya there, Bill. I’m Hal Abrams, Mrs. Murphy.”
So he knew she’d been married—but of course, that made sense, since everyone in town knew she didn’t have her mother’s last name.
“Your grandparents were good people,” said the third man, wearing a down vest over his flannel shirt. His gray mustache was twirled up at the ends, and he had bushy eyebrows to match. “And we’re doin’ nothing but confrontin’ you. I’m more polite than these cowpokes. Name’s Francis Osborne, of the Circle F Ranch, and this here’s”—he gestured toward the man in the Carhartt jacket, who nodded, even as he briefly said something into a cell phone before hanging up—“Deke Hutcheson of Paradise Mountain Ranch.”
“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” Emily said politely. She glanced at Hal. “I guess your coffee’s better than the brew at Espresso Yourself next