by Tracy March
Starting with the oldest one, he turned to January and began reading the notations written in tight, cursive handwriting that looked like a string of knots. It took him a while to decipher each one, yet there were only a few each month. He read through the first calendar, then the second, and began to realize that the notations in the date boxes were similar to the headlines that had been circled in the newspapers, yet worded differently. No new information so far, but something about them nagged at him. He kept reading, determined to figure out what it was.
As he read, his coffee cup ran dry, and the bells on the door rang countless times. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he made it to the final notation on the last calendar.
FORECLOSURE.
Bryce leaned back in his seat, raised his arms over his head, and stretched, disappointed that he’d just read through a shorthand rerun of last night. He propped his elbow on the table and rested his prickly chin in his hand, tapping his fingers on the picture on the calendar—light purple and yellow wildflowers in the foreground, a silvery-green-leafed aspen grove in the near distance, and jagged gray peaks beyond.
Wildflowers and green-leafed trees?
He glanced at the month.
June.
But the lodge had been foreclosed nearly five years ago…in October. He remembered this vividly because the newspaper with the foreclosure article had come out several days before Halloween. A picture of his father had run above the fold, and a picture of a man dressed as a vampire had appeared below it. Bryce had thought, What’s the difference?
Struggling to remember the dates, he flipped through the calendars again, pinpointing numerous notations he’d swear didn’t match the dates on which they had occurred. The notations preceded the newspaper articles by weeks, even months in some cases.
Bryce’s pulse pounded, and not just from caffeine. The calendars predicted what had happened, as if they’d been a to-do list. There might be a couple of instances where what was written on the calendars hadn’t occurred, or what was reported in the papers hadn’t been noted in the calendars. But overall, things matched. He’d have to compare them with the newspapers to be sure, but he’d bet his big fat loan on the lodge that he was right.
Someone planned for nearly every bad thing that happened?
Bryce could hardly wrap his head around such a crazy thought, yet he couldn’t chase it out of his mind. He traced his fingers over one of the notations on the calendar. Despite its knotty look, the handwriting was distinctly feminine, at least to his eye—another thing he’d be willing to bet on.
Had the woman from the suite been the evil mastermind behind the Lodge at Wild Rose Ridge? Or had she been the recording secretary for his father, who’d had a dastardly plan from the get-go? Bryce had never considered that the trouble that had besieged the lodge had been premeditated. His stomach soured just thinking about it. He’d assumed an entirely different scenario, which had his father as a slippery salesman whose experience couldn’t back up his blather. Both the lodge and its finances had been mismanaged, and people had suffered because of it. The newspaper articles had alluded to a common sentiment that Bryce’s father had little remorse for the trouble he’d caused people and businesses. The story hadn’t been pretty but, until now, it was the one that Bryce had believed in. Now everything had turned upside down.
No matter how the story had unfolded, the new information brought Bryce no closer to identifying the woman and finding out what had become of her. Discovering the box of bullets with several missing, and the birth control pills left behind mid-cycle, had only ratcheted up his worry that something tragic had happened. He had to find out the truth before anyone else saw the suite and started talking. But all he had to go on were initials from a ring that might not have belonged to her, and a picture of her with his father. Just in case he ever had the occasion to ask someone about her, he’d taken a photo of the picture and cropped out his father, leaving the woman smiling but alone.
He also had the identity of the man in the picture from the late 1800s, if it hadn’t simply been part of the lodge’s décor.
Warner Montgomery III.
Lindsey had identified him as the guy who’d saved Thistle Bend by bringing the railroad to town. Surely someone with an accomplishment of such magnitude would be featured in the museum. Bryce gazed out of the huge picture window at the large white-clapboard building on the corner across the street—Thistle Bend Mountain Heritage Museum. It might not hurt to take a little tour of it and see what he could find.
He stuffed the calendars into his backpack, tossed his coffee cup in the trash, and headed out, thankful it was the last time today he’d hear the jingling bells on the door. Outside, a town employee tended to the vibrant wildflowers in one of numerous wooden planters that flanked the street.
“Mornin’,” Bryce said to the middle-aged woman who wore a hat with a patch on it that said Town of Thistle Bend. She stood straight, pruners in hand, and smoothed her hand down the front of her reflective vest.
He smiled, admiring the array colorful flowers. “Fine job you’re doin’ there.”
“Why, thank you,” she said.
Bryce could’ve sworn she blushed.
He crossed the street, remembering something about the museum having once been a gas station and hardware store. Sure enough, an old-timey gas pump still stood out front. He stepped inside the museum—vast, cool, and quiet, with the ceiling open to the rafters. Clearly the place had been a hardware store, because they’d left the display cases intact with merchandise from years ago. He liked the authenticity of the place—that they embraced the history of the building instead of forcing in a design that didn’t fit.
A dark-haired woman with a pleasant face stood behind the counter, dressed in jeans and a lightweight yellow sweater. “Like to have a look around?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bryce paid his admission fee and began his tour. As determined as he was to find Warner Montgomery III, he couldn’t help but stop and marvel at the model town that was the centerpiece of the main hall. The plaque on the front noted that the layout and buildings were historically accurate from the 1920s. A little train hitched with plenty of coal cars sat still on the tracks surrounding the town.
As if he were five again, Bryce was itching to see it run. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a quarter, and dropped it in the gumball-machine-style box mounted at the corner of the model. The coin clanked as it hit bottom, and the train took off, chugging around the track, whistle blowing. He smiled as it made its way through tunnels, around to the coal tipple, and past the depot. In the town, tiny people played baseball, tended gardens, and hung clothes out to dry. He spotted the museum, where a couple sat out front on a bench. The model was so intricate and well constructed that Bryce stood awestruck by it. He fed three more quarters into the box, kicking back as the train made its rounds, noticing something new each time he shifted his gaze.
The train stopped and Bryce tore himself away from the model. Nearby he found an interesting exhibit about coal mining in Thistle Bend, the lifeline of the town until the mines had closed in the early fifties. Another exhibit, about skiing and mountain biking, answered the question of what saved the town from dying after the mines shut down.
Bryce made his way to the Movers and Shakers exhibit in the front corner of the second hall, where he hit the mother lode. His pulse ticked faster as he stared at a life-sized version of the picture of Warner Montgomery III that he and Holly had seen in the suite at the lodge. Just as Lindsey had noted in her text to Holly, the exhibit illustrated how he’d brought the railroad to Thistle Bend, even displaying his handsome antique-gold pocket watch with filigreed arms and bold roman numerals, chain and winding keys attached. Bryce read the accompanying placard.
The railroads needed highly accurate, precision timepieces so their locomotive engineers could maintain strict schedules and avoid collisions. The one belonging to Warner Montgomery III is a rare McIntyre with twenty-five jewels. Still precise—nearly to the
second.
“Bryce?”
Surprised to hear his name, he turned. “Lindsey?” He was nearly certain the girl standing beside him was her. He’d met her only once, but she was super-good-looking and hard to forget. He stifled a grin, remembering how blindsided he’d been when he’d walked into Holly’s office and found her and Lindsey there—two beautiful women; one, the elusive perfect ten.
“Nice to see you again.” She had a southern twang that Bryce hadn’t picked up on before. Her outfit looked just like something Holly would wear—black jeans and boots, a gauzy white blouse, and long necklaces beaded with silver and turquoise.
“Likewise,” he said.
She shifted her gaze from him to Warner Montgomery and back, then pointed at the picture. “This is the same photo Holly texted me, right?”
Bryce had no idea what Holly had told her about the suite, if anything. He nodded, debating what he could say to her without revealing too much. “She came with me on a walk-through of the lodge. We found his picture in one of the suites, and were curious who he was.”
Lindsey tipped her head, her brow furrowed. “I thought the lodge was stripped bare. It’s kinda weird that you found a picture of him in there.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
“We thought the former owner might’ve added a touch of history to the place by using pictures of Thistle Bend’s influential residents as décor in the rooms.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never heard that, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. I could ask around if it’s something you’re really curious about.”
Holly had offered too, and Bryce still felt the same about the idea. “Nah. I’m more about the future of the place than its past.” He glanced back at the placard displayed with Warner Montgomery’s pocket watch. Lindsey had grabbed his attention before he’d gotten the chance to read the fine print.
Donated by Millicent and Merribelle Montgomery.
“Do you know the ladies who donated his watch?” he asked.
She smiled brightly. “Sure. Everybody does. The Montgomery sisters are his granddaughters—the sweetest, quirkiest old ladies you’ll ever meet. They’ve been around here for eighty-some years. Lots of people think they have special powers, mostly because they make tonics and tinctures to cure all kinds of ills, and everything they bake is magically delicious.”
Something in her eyes told Bryce that she believed it, too.
“They have an amazing home and garden up beyond Narrowleaf Pass, but they come to town every Sunday morning to work their booth at the farmers market. You should stop by tomorrow and introduce yourself.”
“I’d love to meet them.”
And ask them a few things about the lodge.
Lindsey looked him up and down, and raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Believe me, they’d love to meet you, too.”
This time, Bryce almost blushed.
“You can’t go wrong with anything you buy at their booth, but definitely try the homemade oatmeal cream pies, and the chocolate-chip-cookie-dough truffles.” She pressed her palm against her flat belly. “Mmm. Indescribably tasty. Fair warning, though. One bite and you’ll be addicted.”
He could see why Holly liked Lindsey. She was upbeat and animated and real.
“I’ll be in line first thing,” he said lightly.
“That might not be soon enough. They sell out every Sunday. Last week was the first farmers market this season. People got in line at their booth an hour early.”
“Were you one of the early birds?”
“Nope.” She grinned, leaned in close, and whispered, “I have an inside connection with Milly and Merri.”
“Do you now?” he teased.
She nodded, bunching her lips and raising her eyebrows.
“Then maybe you should introduce me.” That would be a whole lot better than his waiting in line and trying to properly introduce himself while the ladies were busy selling their tonics and treats. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was hold up a line of people intent on a sugar rush. They’d dislike him even before they found out he was buying the lodge.
“I’d be happy to. Let me get in touch with them and find out whether before or after market hours would work better for them.” Lindsey pulled her phone from her back pocket, brought the screen to life, tapped an icon, and handed him the phone. “Give me your digits. I’ll text you and let you know what Milly and Merri say.”
“Deal.” Bryce typed in his name and number, and returned the phone to Lindsey.
“I’d also like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Carden, sometime.” Lindsey got all starry-eyed.
The manure guy?
She smiled. “You two seem to be a lot alike.”
Bryce had no idea what to say to that.
“Since you’re new in town, maybe you and Carden could go grab a beer sometime,” she said. “Just like you, I came to Thistle Bend alone. Thank goodness I met Holly. She was the first friend I made here, and the best one by far. Maybe you and Carden will hit it off, too.”
Bryce’s stomach growled. He smoothed his hand down the front of his long-sleeved T-shirt and shook his head. “I knew I should’ve had a cinnamon roll while I was hanging out at Calypso Coffee.”
“Best cinnamon rolls in the Rockies,” Lindsey said. “Know why?”
He shook his head. “No clue.”
“It’s the Montgomery sisters’ recipe.” Clearly Lindsey was a fan.
The woman from the front desk came around the corner, stopping short when she saw him and Lindsey. “Excuse me,” she said. “Lindsey, Mrs. Crenshaw is on line two for you.”
Lindsey nodded. “Thanks, Darlene.”
“You bet.” Darlene hurried off as quickly as she’d arrived.
“Mrs. Crenshaw is Carden’s grandmother. Thistle Bend royalty,” Lindsey said in another conspiratorial whisper. “Board member, big donor, potential in-law. Gotta run.”
“One more question, now that you’ve got my stomach growling.” Bryce flattened his hand over his abs. “Where can I get a killer sandwich for lunch?”
Chapter 14
Holly kneeled in her grandpa’s garden, planting the last row of pea seedlings, the soil rich with a loamy scent. The day was perfect for gardening—lower seventies, with clouds drifting in front of the sun at steady intervals, lending welcome shade. Her grandpa worked in a section across the garden, where the spinach would sprout soon.
Fortunately, yesterday’s hail hadn’t done too much damage to the seedlings they had already planted. Each year, they phased in the garden to reduce the risk of losing too many plants to a late frost. But hail was equally unpredictable and destructive. Turquoise Lake was only a short hike from the farm, and her grandpa said the ground had been covered with cotton-ball-sized hail, just as Holly and Bryce had seen there. Despite the threat, most of the plants had perked up this morning, and her grandpa seemed relieved. She’d been pleased to find him more upbeat than she’d expected, considering what Dean had said at Pie in the Sky yesterday about him and the lodge situation.
“Been on his mind 24/7 ever since Carden brought that manure over and finally got you to admit which property Mr. Bennett is buying.”
Even so, there was an undertone between them of unspoken business that needed to be addressed.
Feeling lighthearted after Bryce’s visit this morning, Holly had headed to the farm, hoping to address the lodge issue—the Bryce issue—with her grandpa first thing. Yet he’d already been busy in the garden when she’d arrived, checking for hail damage, and determined to get the planting done in case a storm cropped up and cut their working hours short. He’d taken a break to give her a warm hug and kindly instructions, but then he’d quickly gotten back to getting the garlic seedlings in the ground.
That left Holly to worry the rest of the morning about how the conversation might go. With lunchtime nearing, her stomach growled, but her nerves would keep her from eating until things were resolved between them.
She care
fully planted the last pea seedling, smiling at the memory of her grandma reading her “The Princess and the Pea,” Holly’s favorite bedtime story when she was little. As a child, she had spent nearly every Saturday night at the farm. Her dad had always told her that the sleepovers would give her grandparents special “Holly time.” Looking back, she suspected that having a weekly date night with her mom was also one of his motives. Regardless, he’d never had to convince her to go. She had looked forward to being spoiled on Saturday nights, and to her grandma reading “The Princess and the Pea” over and over again. Holly had saved the tattered storybook and tucked it away in the cedar chest her mom and dad had left behind when they moved. Her stomach knotted at the thought of them.
I have to talk to them about the lodge, too.
Holly picked up her spade, the seedling trays, and the bucket of wood ash that she’d used as a soil additive. She headed to the greenhouse, filled a huge watering can, and returned to the rows of pea seedlings, watering each of them with care.
In the near distance, gravel crunched beneath tires. She turned to see who was coming, but the house blocked her view of the long driveway. She squeezed her eyes closed for a second.
Please don’t be Dean.
She and her grandpa needed to have their talk alone. Despite Dean’s concern for her grandpa, he was likely to be full of chatter about meeting Bryce, his conversation with her and Bryce yesterday at Pie in the Sky, and his wish that they had razed the lodge when they had a chance. Holly winced, imagining how Bryce must have felt after Dean said that to him. Even if Dean didn’t mention the lodge, Holly did not want company right now. She wanted to get things squared away with her grandpa—just the two of them.
Rushing to devise a new plan of action, she watered the last seedling, and caught her grandpa staring curiously toward the house as a large shadow appeared from around the corner and a man stepped into her view. Despite the shade of her grandmother’s wide-brimmed hat, Holly squinted against the sun, pretty certain she was looking at Carden. But…
Her heart leapt into her throat. Clearly her grandpa was staring at a stranger, but Holly certainly was not.