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.
Then his gaze slid past her to Brooke, unreadable, but enough to make her nervous. And she was never nervous.
Emily glanced over her shoulder at Brooke, eyes wide with innocence. “Brooke said you were very brave, going into a burning building.”
Brooke forced herself not to roll her eyes.
“It must be all that Marine training,” Emily added, when he said nothing.
He gave her a small smile. Brooke tried not to study him, but it was difficult. He seemed so . . . different. She remembered a young man who would jump into every conversation to make himself a part of it. For a boy whose grades weren’t all that great, he’d always raised his hand in class even if he didn’t know the answer. He liked to be in the spotlight. He had opinions, and a belief in himself that was a bit overinflated . . . more than a bit. Now there was a calmness