A Town Called Valentine(32)

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 is. We have a McDonald’s by the highway, right? It’s not just the widows—everyone wants the locals to benefit the most from tourists. And what tourists will be drawn by chain restaurants and stores they can find anywhere?”

Emily smiled. “So you’re not talking about censorship or favoritism.”

“God, no.”

“You know I didn’t mean to imply that your grandmother would be a part of something so . . .”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her what you were thinking,” he said in a confidential tone.

She rolled her eyes.

“She’s sharp as a tack, my grandma.” He shook his head. “She deals with the paperwork of the committee, handling the behind-the-scenes stuff, preparing the grants for the committee and the investors. Mrs. Palmer, in all her Western-drawl glory, is the public face, the one at every opening, the one who delivers the good news and the bad.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

He grinned. “Mrs. Ludlow handles the legalities, attending the mayor’s press conferences, or sitting in on corporate board meetings, anything involved with the investors. Those three women are pretty formidable when they’re all together. Once, they chained themselves to a broken-down old house that had been a mining-town brothel.”

“No!” Emily clapped her hands to her cheeks, eyes wide with humor.

“The mayor wanted to tear it down, but they claimed it stood for women’s history since Chinese immigrant women had been the original whores—uh, prostitutes.”