by Cheryl Holt
"I enjoyed it."
"You're a nice man."
"I try to be," he lied. He never tried to be nice. It simply wasn't in his nature.
"Goodbye."
She hustled out, and she had on sensible, flat-soled boots, so she was quicker than her sister had been. She was at the corner and across the street before he could scramble out onto the sidewalk.
"Amy!" he called.
She paused and glanced back.
"I want to see you again," he shouted.
The wind was howling, and she made a motion as if she couldn't hear him. He didn't know if she really couldn't or if she was pretending. She shrugged and waved, then whipped away and ran up the hill. In an instant, she was at the crest, then she vanished down the other side.
He nearly chased after her, and he just caught himself so he didn't race off like a crazy person. Who was she? Why had he wasted any energy on her ridiculous intrigues?
He had business to attend. He had gorgeous, glamorous Chantal waiting for him at the hotel. The autumn days were very short, the sun dropping behind the mountain peaks, and he was anxious to get on the road to Denver.
He turned the other way from where she'd gone and headed to the newspaper office.
CHAPTER TWO
"Did you talk to Pamela?"
"Just for a minute."
"Was she crazy as ever?"
"Of course."
Amy Dane walked to the kitchen table and set plates of jam toast in front of her twin half-sisters, Jessica and Jennifer. They were only ten years old, but in a world where Pamela was the axis at the center, there were no secrets.
At twenty-six, Amy was used to Pamela's idiocy. As to the twins, from a very young age, they'd been aware that Pamela wasn't normal. And Amy refused to sugarcoat or excuse Pamela's behavior.
"If she marries Chad," Jessica asked, "will we be invited to the wedding?"
"Ew!" Jennifer protested. "I hate Chad. He's so obnoxious. We wouldn't have to go, would we, Amy?"
They gazed up at her with green eyes that were an exact copy of Amy's. Unfortunately, they'd been born with her unruly brown hair, too. Rumor had it that Pamela had once had the same mop of riotous curls, but she spent a fortune on hairdressers to make her hair blond and straight and to wipe away any trace of what she really looked like or who she really was.
"We wouldn't be invited to the wedding," Amy assured them.
"Why wouldn't Pamela want us there?" Jess inquired.
The answers were so tragic and so conflicted that Amy couldn't begin to explain. She took the easy route.
"I'm betting they'd fly to Vegas or something like that. They wouldn't have a ceremony where we could attend even if we wanted to."
"Which we don't want to," Jennifer decreed, and she glared at Jessica.
Of the two of them, Jennifer was more like Amy, tired of Pamela's antics and unwilling to ignore them. Jessica was more tenderhearted. She yearned for all of them to get along—despite Pamela's disregard. Jessica craved a large family, parents and grandparents and cousins and Christmas dinners where everybody was smiling and happy.
But with Pamela as their mother—Amy's mother, too—their options were limited.
Pamela was a frivolous creature, an orphan and runaway who'd become pregnant with Amy when she was much too young. She'd had big dreams, had hoped to be an actress or model, so there had been no place for a kid in her life. She'd left Amy with their neighbor, Marge Beasley, and had never come back for her.
She'd had the twins when Amy was sixteen, and kindly Marge had taken them in, too. By the time Amy was twenty, she was their sole parent, paying rent on an apartment and working to support them, while Pamela was off pretending—as she always had—that she had no children.
She'd already had three husbands and was scheming for Chad to be number four. Although she was forty-two, she claimed to be thirty, and she insisted that Amy tell people they were sisters. She was convinced that no man—especially a rich, vain one like Chad—would have her if he knew her real age.
A fool and a liar, she flitted into town when it suited her, and Amy avoided her like the plague.
"Let's hit the road, guys"—she grabbed parkas and scarves from the hooks by the door—"or you'll be late."
"Do I have to wear a hat?" Jess asked.
"Yes. It's supposed to snow."
She helped them bundle up, zipped her own parka, then they headed out to school, clumping down the four flights of stairs to the street.
They lived in one of the old Merriweather mansions, the one built by George Merriweather for his favorite mistress. Over the decades, it had fallen into disrepair, had been maliciously chopped into tiny apartments.
Amy and the twins were on the top floor, in what used to be the attic. The small rooms had pitched roofs and oddly-shaped windows, and the pipes clanged and pinged, but it was cheap and quiet and cozy.
She ran her hand down the oak banister, unable to imagine how Lucas Merriweather could sell it to a developer. The house was a Merriweather heirloom. It was part of their history. Didn't he care about anything? His lack of sense boggled the mind, and she never quit haranguing about it at her job with the Gold Creek Gazette.
It wasn't much of a newspaper—it came out once a week—but it paid the bills and left her in a perfect position to fight Lucas Merriweather and win.
They reached the sidewalk and huffed up the street to the school. She watched through the fence until the twins went inside, then she proceeded to the newspaper office.
As she approached, Marge—the paper's only other employee—was locking the door, appearing very much as if she was leaving instead of opening for the day.
Marge was in her sixties and had never married. She'd been born in Gold Creek. She'd raised Amy, had given her her first job—emptying trash cans at the paper—when she was a kid. For the past forty years, she'd lived in a ground floor apartment in Amy's building, and she served as grandmother to the twins—a role Pamela would never fulfill.
"Marge," Amy said, "what are you doing?"
"I can't believe it, I just can't believe it," she was mumbling over and over.
"Can't believe what?"
"Mr. Lawrence phoned from Glenwood Springs."
Mr. Lawrence owned dozens of papers in the rural towns that dotted the Colorado high country, including the Gazette. He was the ideal boss. He never called, he never visited, and he never issued any orders or laid down any rules. He was a phantom, and if no problems arose, they never had to fuss with him.
"What did he want?" Amy asked.
"We're shut down."
"What?"
"He sold the paper."
"To who?"
"He didn't say, but we're supposed to lock up and go away."
"For how long?"
"For forever, I guess."
"The new owner won't keep publishing?"
"No."
Amy tugged at her ear—as if her hearing had been affected and Marge's words were jumbled.
The Gazette had been in print for a hundred and twenty years. What sort of maniac would buy it and shut it down?
"You're sure that's what he meant?"
"He was very clear."
They stared through the front window, at the counter and two desks behind it.
"Can I get my stuff?" Amy inquired.
"He said no. There's a clerk coming to conduct an inventory, and we can't touch anything until after it's finished."
"For heaven's sake," Amy grumbled.
She glanced over at Marge, noticing that the older woman had paled.
"Are you all right?" Amy asked. "Would you like to have a cup of coffee at the diner?"
"No, I think I'll head home."
She started off, and Amy spoke to her departing back. "Don't worry, Marge. I'll make some calls; I'll figure out what's happening."
Marge peered over her shoulder. "Our rent's due on the first, Amy. I'm sixty-four years old. What will I do?"
Amy frowned,
feeling grim, recognizing that cheery remarks were pointless. "Have some tea and rest, Marge. I'll investigate a bit, and I'll stop by later to let you know what I learn."
Marge nodded and trudged on, climbing the steep hill up to the mansion. Amy watched her until she was a speck in the distance, then she turned and strolled down Main Street.
She'd been expecting to work all day, to research Lucas Merriweather, to maybe dig up an address, then drive down to Denver and knock on his door. Now, she was at loose ends and too panicked to concentrate on any important tasks.
If the paper really closed, her own situation was even more precarious than Marge's. Marge didn't have any dependents, while Amy had Jessica and Jennifer. What would become of them if she was unemployed?
Jobs were scarce and times hard. Very quickly, they'd be in deep trouble.
She wandered aimlessly, trying to devise a plan, and as she reached the corner by the diner, the guy from the previous afternoon was sitting in a booth by the window. He was looking directly at her, so she couldn't pretend she hadn't seen him. He gestured to her, urging her to join him.
While she was usually confident and assertive, she was paralyzed with indecision.
When it came to men, she had too little experience and was too lacking in judgment. She always jumped in too far, too fast, and wound up making a fool of herself. She was too trusting—and too lonely—and she yearned for bonds and commitment, which were the exact things men never wanted.
He was precisely the type who would ignite her worst insecurities. With that head of thick black hair and those piercing, shrewd blue eyes, he was too handsome for his own good. He was tall and buff and tan and fit—a veritable feast of macho attributes. And he was rich, too.
So in nearly every way, he was perfect, but she hated rich people. Pamela's constant pursuit of a wealthy husband had cured Amy of any inclinations toward prosperity. Money didn't buy happiness. It bought rude personalities and vain character, and she would have no part of it.
She should have smiled and waved, then continued on, but she didn't, and vacillation was her undoing. He stood, slipped on his leather jacket and walked outside.
She was like a deer trapped in the headlights, eager to flee but unable to move. Silly as it sounded, it seemed as if her destiny had arrived, that Fate had dealt her a new hand and she couldn't avoid it.
He approached until they were toe to toe, and she gazed up at him, feeling overwhelmed and giddy.
They stared and stared, swaying slightly like a pair of halfwits, and she hoped no one drove by and saw her. She had to look like an idiot.
"I've been sitting for two hours," he claimed, "waiting for you to come by."
"You have not."
"I have, too." He grinned, the force of it making her knees weak. "I didn't learn your last name or how to contact you."
"I can't imagine why you'd want to contact me."
"Are you hiding from anybody today? Can I help?"
"No, I'm not hiding today. I don't need a human shield."
"That's too bad, because if you're searching for a knight in shining armor"—he spread his arms, offering himself—"I'm available."
She was suffering from the worst urge to step in and snuggle herself to him. The prior afternoon, she'd proceeded without a moment's hesitation, so she was aware of how comfortably she fit against his chest. She linked her fingers behind her back so she wouldn't reach out and touch him.
"You never told me your name, either," she said, "or what you're doing here."
"I didn't, did I?"
Which wasn't an answer.
"Why won't you say? Are you a criminal running from the law? Are you an ax murderer who'll take me out into the woods and hack me to pieces?"
He scowled. "Your mind works in the strangest ways."
"So I've heard."
"No, I'm not an ax murderer."
"Well, thank goodness for that."
"I'm buying a house."
"In Gold Creek?"
"Prices are cheaper than other places. I could get more for my money."
"I suppose, but honestly. Why here?"
"I have no idea."
He peered around, looking perplexed, as if he didn't understand his interest. As for herself, her stupid heart was pattering with excitement. If he bought a house, he might stay in Gold Creek full time. She'd see him often; they could date and…
Feeling absurd, she put the brakes on any romantic reveries. She'd talked to the man exactly twice, and she was already planning their future. What was wrong with her?
"If you want to live in Gold Creek," she said, "you're crazier than I am."
"Probably." He pointed into the diner. "Let me buy you breakfast."
"Why?"
"Because I'm charmed by your wonderful company, and I'd like to spend more time with you."
"Liar. Try again."
"Because I have designs on your hot body."
"If you think I have a hot body, you're blind. Try again."
"Because I'm a total narcissist, and I can't bear it when a woman tells me no."
"Now that I can believe."
"If you won't have breakfast with me—especially after I asked so nicely—my poor male ego will never survive the shock."
She chuckled, then gazed up at the sky. Angry clouds rolled by, promising the snow predicted in all the weather forecasts.
It was hard enough to find employment in the summer when the occasional tourist stopped by, when road repair crews needed lodging, or fire crews drove in to eat before moving on to the nearest blaze. Once winter began, it was doubly hard.
The town hunkered down. The snow would be so deep that they were cut off from the outside world for days or even weeks. Some years, it would start to snow in October and wouldn't quit until May. Sometimes, it never quit.
What on earth was she going to do?
When she looked at him again, she was mortified to realize that there were tears in her eyes. She was so tired of being alone, of barely getting by. She could live for six months on the money he'd spent on his watch.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I just found out that I lost my job."
"Where did you work?"
"At the newspaper."
"The Gold Creek Gazette?"
"Yes."
She thought he sucked in a quick breath of surprise, but she wasn't sure if that's what it had been.
"Why were you let go?"
"Somebody bought it, and he's not keeping it open." She sighed, her burdens crushing her. "There aren't many opportunities around here, so it will be tough to find a new job. The rent's due on the first, and I don't know how we'll pay it."
"We…?"
"My sisters live with me. They're ten. And our friend Marge Beasley worked at the paper with me. She's in her sixties, so what will become of her? I'll probably wind up taking care of her, too." The tears that had threatened welled and dribbled down her cheeks. "I'm sorry. It's just sinking in."
They stood frozen for a moment, then he pulled her to him and nestled her to his chest. She'd never had a man hold her when she cried before, and she had to admit that it was an amazing experience. She felt protected and safe, and she might have huddled there forever, but a car drove by, and the driver honked his horn. She didn't glance up to see who it was, but it would be someone she knew, someone who would be curious as to why she was standing on Main Street and hugging a stranger.
"I should go," she mumbled, and she tried to draw away, but he wouldn't release her.
"Let's walk for a bit," he said.
"Where to?"
"It doesn't matter. Let's just walk."
He tucked her under his arm, and they started off. She was too miserable to speak, and he was quiet and pensive. They wandered companionably up and down the neighborhoods, as he studied the houses and the mountain peaks up above them.
She didn't think they were headed in any particular direction, but gradually, it dawned on her that she was proceedin
g to her apartment in the old mansion at the top of the hill.
She hadn't meant to lead him home, but as she'd sensed at the diner, Fate was guiding her movements.
Who was she to rail against Fate?
* * *
Dustin assessed the mansion that had been built by his great, great grandfather. In its day, it had been a majestic residence, but due to typical Merriweather neglect, it was in bad shape.
"You live here?" he asked her.
"For most of my life."
He wondered what it must be like to be her, to work and worry and constantly struggle. She reminded him of Faith Benjamin, the woman Lucas was about to marry. Faith was poor, too, but kind and loyal and faithful. She took care of other people's children; she tended the elderly and befriended the friendless.
He didn't know anyone who was genuinely kind. He didn't know anyone who was truly compassionate. What would it be like to be Amy?
He couldn't imagine.
He stared down the canyon to the town of Gold Creek that clung to the sides of the mountain. From his higher vantage point, on the porch of his family's original Colorado mansion, the crumbling decay wasn't visible. The place looked charming, the sort of spot where a man could be happy forever.
Was that what his ancestor, George Merriweather, had been thinking when he'd founded the community? Had he arrived with lofty motives? Or had it all been about wealth and greed and tearing valuable minerals out of the land?
"What a beautiful house," he murmured, suddenly anxious to see the interior. "Would you give me a tour?"
"I will if you tell me your name."
"David." He used his deceased father's name, having no idea why he'd lie.
She'd been researching Lucas, so it was likely that the name Dustin would set off alarm bells. If she learned who he was, she'd stomp off in a huff, and she'd never talk to him again. He couldn't figure out why it mattered, but it did.
After his encounter with her the previous afternoon, his plan had been to jump in his car, to put as many miles as possible between himself and Gold Creek before the sun went down. But as the hours had dragged by, he'd kept finding excuses not to go.
Apparently, he was obsessed with her. Morning had dawned with him sitting in the diner, hoping she'd walk by. When she'd finally appeared, he'd been focused on her so intently that he felt as if he'd conjured her up, which was eerie.