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