A Town Called Valentine(8)

She felt her face heat. “Excuse me?”

“With how land is selling in Valentine Valley,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “you’ll have no problem getting a decent price, and you’ll be able to keep most of it.”

Swallowing, she knew it was best to keep her temper until she saw those papers. She’d thought she was on her own, independent at last, and now to find out someone else controlled her, after everything that had happened in her marriage . . . To her mortification, she felt her eyes sting. Thank goodness for the darkness.

Nate was still watching her. She stiffened and met his gaze with what she hoped was a look of cool defiance and a tilt of her chin.

“I’m glad you’re being calm and reasonable about this,” he said. “That means you’ll also understand that you can’t stay here tonight. It may be spring, but the nights are cold in the mountains. I have a place you can stay.” When she drew in a furious breath, he held up both hands. “Not with me. My grandmother has a boardinghouse for her and all her friends, and I do occasional work for her. There’s an empty room right now, and you can stay there until you figure things out.”

For a crazy moment, Emily wanted to refuse, to kick him out, to hunker down in the only place that was hers. But common sense intervened at last, and she let out a frustrated breath. “I guess I don’t have a choice. I’m sorry you’re forced to help me once again.”

He didn’t answer, just stood looking at her. She was suddenly very conscious of the quiet, of the lateness of the hour, of how very alone they were. Without thinking about where she was, she took an instinctive step back—and hit her heel on the next step and started to fall backward.

He caught both her arms and briefly steadied her. Even that little touch brought back those hot moments when he’d stood between her thighs and kissed her.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, and walked out of the building into the rain.

Emily took a few minutes to lock both interior doors, then the outside one, before running back to the pickup. She received a sniff to the back of the neck from Scout, but she’d been prepared this time.

Without a word, Nate drove slowly down the alley and out onto a street. Within a few minutes, they left behind the twinkling lights of Valentine Valley, and she got the impression of immense darkness rising on one side of the pickup. They were driving closer to the Elk Mountains, if she remembered her map correctly, and they must blot out the stars. After crossing a bridge, they turned and followed the creek for several hundred yards before pulling up in front of a huge old three-story Victorian home. Lights illuminated the wraparound porch, and she could see decorative gingerbread trim. A huge, cheerfully lettered sign read, WIDOWS’ BOARDINGHOUSE.

Emily glanced at Nate, raising an eyebrow.

“I didn’t name it,” he said impassively. “They think it’s funny.”

Except for the porch lights, there was no illumination in the house. With a glance at the dashboard clock, she realized it was past one in the morning.

“Nate . . .” she began.

“Most of them wear hearing aids, and your room is on the first floor in the back.”

“But—”

He got out of the pickup, and this time Scout followed him to do his business at the base of the sign before bounding up on the front porch to watch them alertly. Emily at last got a good look at the dog, all black-and-white irregular patterns in his furry coat, a cute pointed nose that almost looked delicate, and eyes that watched Nate with adoration and readiness.

Like every woman he met, she thought with sarcasm. Herself included.

“Stay, Scout,” Nate said, pulling her suitcase out of the pickup and closing the door.

“I can carry my own—”

He strode past her. With a sigh, she followed him onto the porch and all the way around to the rear of the house. After letting himself in with a key, he led her through a neat kitchen, lit only with a dim light above the sink. She thought she could smell the lingering scent of pumpkin pie, and it gave her a stab of homesickness for the world she’d left behind. She didn’t have time to examine the kitchen, her favorite room in any house, but had to follow him through a door and down a small hall to another door. He opened it and turned the light on, leading the way into a small sitting room.

He pointed to a key ring on a table next to the door. “A set of keys for this room and the outside doors. You don’t have a private kitchen—this is more of an ‘assisted living facility,’ or so I’ve heard people call it. The widows share the kitchen. A woman comes in to do their laundry and the general cleaning. There’s a bedroom through that door, and a bathroom beyond. The linen closet will have sheets and towels.”