by Meg Benjamin
Denham’s expression didn’t change. “Well, Miss Valero, please have a seat.”
Ronnie’s smile dimmed perceptibly. Most of the people she’d met in the last few weeks recognized her.
Monica scooted over to the far side of the car. “Come on in, Ronnie.”
Ronnie took her seat, staring straight ahead. Billy Joe managed to beat Brendan into the car so that he was sitting next to her with Brendan on the far side. Denham put Faisal’s equipment bag in the trunk, then climbed into the driver’s seat while Faisal and Paul slid in beside him in front.
Denham gave them an expression that approached a reluctant smile. “Well, folks, welcome to Salt Box. Hope you enjoy your stay, what there is of it.”
Paul glanced around the car, then leaned one shoulder against the window. “Believe me, I’m already enjoying this. And I have a feeling the fun’s just beginning.”
His brown curls drifted across his forehead, eyes dark in the afternoon sunlight. Monica’s pulse gave a quick thump.
Fun should be the last thing on your mind.
True, but right now it seemed to have moved up several places.
Chapter Seven
Paul leaned back against the seat, watching the scenery go by. He couldn’t remember if his family had ever visited Salt Box when he was young, but the landscape around here did look vaguely familiar. Not that that meant anything. Most of the Rockies looked vaguely familiar to him by now. He knew they’d never skied Elkhorn. No way they could have afforded the lift tickets.
The car simmered with that kind of uncomfortable silence that came from several people feeling miffed. Miffed was the right word too. Ronnie was definitely miffed. Monica would probably have to find a way to mollify her, although Paul wasn’t sure why she’d bother. In fact, he was amazed Monica had lasted as long as she had. He himself had been contemplating the pleasure of giving Ronnie a quick kick in the butt ever since they’d left Denver.
The driver, Denham, slowed at an intersection where another highway branched off. The sign at the crossroads said “Salt Box, 1 mile.”
“How far is the town from Elkhorn Run?” he asked.
Denham shrugged. “Ten or twelve miles. We get a lot of the tourists who don’t want to pay the prices at the resort.”
“Who do you get this time of year? Hikers and fishermen?”
“And kayakers. And bikers. And people touring on motorcycles.” He turned again following the river. “We’re pretty much a year-round tourist attraction. In the winter the crowds are bigger, but most of the skiers stay at the resort. We get the snowboarders and cross country people and some snow-shoers. There’s a state park outside town with a lot of trails.”
He took another turn, and they were suddenly staring up Main Street, Salt Box, Colorado. The town seemed to be laid out on a grid, the pattern of streets and alleys sandwiched between the river on one side and the towering peaks of the ski area on the other.
A cluster of umbrella tables along Main marked a café. Paul could see shop windows on either side of the long, curving street, along with what looked to be a lot of bars. Side streets branched off with a scattering of houses, including some vintage two-room miners’ cabins.
Several people walked the sidewalks—families with children in tow, college-age kids in cargo pants and T-shirts, with occasional mountain bikers dodging between the parked cars. Pickups and SUVs jockeyed for parking places, along with the occasional cattle truck. “Lot of traffic,” he mused.
“About normal for late summer.” Denham shrugged. “This time of day people start hitting the cafés for dinner.”
Several cars with kayaks strapped to the top racks and the occasional canoe were parked along the riverside.
“Is that the East Fork River?”
Denham nodded. “It’s down this time of year but people are still out there.”
“What the hell is that?” Faisal leaned forward staring up through the windshield.
Paul followed his pointing hand. A couple of comma-shaped objects glided through the sky above one of the nearby hills.
“Paragliders.” Denham shrugged. “Catching updrafts. Best in the late afternoon, long as there’s no thunderstorms. Then it can get a mite hairy.”
“Damn,” Faisal muttered. “And me without a camera.”
“We’ve got some point-and-shoot ones at the hotel,” Denham said.
Faisal shook his head. “I’ve got a still camera. It’s the video camera that got damaged in the wreck.”
Denham frowned slightly, turning up one of the side streets. “A guy here in town might be able to help. He does a lot of camera stuff. Maybe he can repair it for you.”
Faisal rolled his eyes, but Paul didn’t think Denham saw. He hoped so, anyway. No use getting a reputation for being snotty this early in their stay.
“What’s that?” Monica asked suddenly.
Paul stared through the windshield at a gray stone building at the end of the road that seemed like a cross between the Addams Family home and Blenheim Palace. It was perched on top of a small ridge, a large central structure, complete with turret and two wings extending out like arms that enclosed a stone courtyard.
“That,” said Denham, “is Praeger House. The hotel. Built in 1906 for Emanuel Praeger. Private residence for a lot of years, then it had some other owners including a school for troubled girls.” His mouth edged up into another dry smile. “Been a hotel since the mid-eighties. Current owner took over in 2006.”
“Wow,” Ronnie said softly. “It looks like something out of Harry Potter.”
“Or The Shining,” Faisal muttered.
“That’s in Estes Park,” Denham said calmly. “Steven King never set foot in this place far as I know. All our ghosts are home-grown.”
“Ghosts?” Ronnie whispered. “There are ghosts?”
Denham frowned, glancing at her curiously in the rearview mirror.
Paul could feel the tension in the car. “They’re all friendly,” he blurted. “Friendly ghosts. Like Casper.”
Faisal stared at him. He had a feeling Faisal wasn’t the only one. Denham looked like he was fighting another sardonic smile.
“Friendly?” Ronnie sounded doubtful.
“Right, well, they’re in a hotel,” Paul improvised. “They stayed around because they like people. I mean, if they didn’t like people, they wouldn’t haunt a place where there were so many people around, right?”
“Absolutely,” Monica said flatly. “No scary ghosts. Only friendly spirits. Look how beautiful it is, Ronnie. You’ll love it.”
“Beautiful.” Ronnie still sounded uncertain, but Denham was pulling in front of the main entrance now.
“Colleen’s at the front desk. She’ll help you. I’ll try to scare up somebody to go over to Monteith’s for your luggage.”
Paul climbed out, followed by Faisal, while Brendan and Billy Joe climbed out more or less together, trying to flank Ronnie.
Monica stepped up to Denham. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done, Mr. Denham.” Paul guessed she was trying to figure out how to give Denham a tip without embarrassing herself or him. “What’s the charge for chauffeuring us over here?”
Denham gave her a slow smile. “No charge. I’m always glad to chauffeur guests.”
“Oh.” She smiled a little tentatively. “I was afraid we might have interrupted your work.”
“It’s okay, this is part of my work,” Denham said gently. “I own the Praeger House, Ms. McKellar.”
“Oh,” she repeated. Her cheeks turned pink. Good lord, she was blushing! Paul resisted the urge to study her more closely. Monica kept revealing interesting new facets. Plus the pink cheeks showed off that creamy complexion. Strawberries and cream now. Still lickable.
“Go on in and let Colleen fix you up.” Denham nodded at the two of them. “Nice meeting you all.”
Monica watched the Lincoln head back down the driveway again. She still looked slightly pink. And delectable. After a moment, she shrugged.
“So I guess this is the resort part of town.”
“Apparently.” Paul nodded at the door. “After you.”
She started up the wide front stairs toward a pair of carved front doors. He resisted the urge to study that very nice ass as he followed her. The door handles looked like pieces of gnarled pine that had been stained a deep mahogany.
He reached across to pull the door open. “Oh my,” Monica murmured.
The lobby spread across most of the first floor. Couches and easy chairs were scattered around the room near shelves of books and magazines. A massive stone fireplace took up the far wall, disappearing into the dimness of the high ceiling.
Billy Joe, Brendan, Faisal and Ronnie stood in front of a desk at the side. They turned toward the two of them expectantly.
Monica sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I won’t have to share a room with Ronnie.”
“Not unless you want Brendan or Billy Joe to do it, which I wouldn’t suggest,” Paul muttered.
The woman behind the desk glanced their way, then folded her arms across her chest. She reminded Paul of his fourth grade teacher—very tall and solid, with iron gray hair clipped short around her pale face. Her mouth narrowed accusingly as they walked toward her.
“You the accident folks?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Monica said quickly.
“We don’t have many rooms available. Most people come with reservations.”
Monica blew out a breath. “If we’d known what was going to happen, I’d have been happy to make some myself. We’ll take anything you have.”
“I got two rooms. One with a queen, one with a twin bed and a fold-out—it’s a staff room, but it’s empty right now. We’ll give you a good break on the price. I hear there’s a room at the Black Rose too. I can call over there if you want.”
Billy Joe’s sneer was back. “A fold-out. What did I tell you? Sleeping on the couch.”
Monica gave him a baleful look, then turned back to the desk clerk. “Okay. Ronnie and I will take the room with the queen. Faisal and Paul can have the singles. And we’ll send Brendan and Billy Joe over to the Black Rose.” She narrowed her eyes at Billy Joe. “Whatever it is.”
Billy Joe’s jaw firmed, but Brendan grinned. “Sounds cool. Where is it?”
“Back down the street about a block,” the desk clerk said. “White frame house with blue trim. Set back from the street. I’ll call over and tell them you’re coming.”
“Let’s go,” Brendan said cheerfully. “First one there gets their choice on the bed.” He headed out the door at a brisk trot.
Billy Joe stared fixedly at the door, then back at Monica. “Seriously? I mean, seriously?”
She gave him a flat smile. “Seriously. Tell them to send the bill to me.”
The room wasn’t as bad as Paul had thought it might be. The fold-out had a decent mattress, and the single was a true single rather than a cot. Faisal dropped his equipment bag and flexed his shoulders. “I’m going to the bar down the street. I saw it on the way up.”
“Go ahead.” Paul settled onto the single bed, pulling out his cell phone. He had messages from Harriet and one from Darryl that he had no intention of answering, as well as a voice mail from his agent.
“No word from El Capitan yet, kid.” Leland’s voice sounded brisk on his voicemail. “I’m hearing unofficially that it’s still in the air, though. Keep the faith. Also, there’s a new Great Race rip-off coming on at Fox. Word is they’re looking for freelancers. Give me a call.”
Paul grimaced. The last thing he wanted was another gig in the reality television business, even if it was with a bigger production company.
The last number on his message list was Cathe’s. He stared at it for a long moment. He could always pretend he hadn’t gotten the message, but that wouldn’t keep her from calling back, multiple times. Might as well get it over with. He punched in her number, then leaned back against the pillows.
The phone rang three times and he began to hope she wasn’t around, but then she picked up. “Paul? Hi. Anything new? I’ve got a deadline coming up. Anything you can pass on would help.”
He rubbed his eyes. Cathe always had a deadline coming up. “Nothing interesting, Cath. You know how the business is.” No way in hell was he telling her about being in Salt Box, Colorado, much less about his current role in Finding Mr. Right. Even though she’d be really pissed when she found out once the episodes started airing. Maybe she’d be pissed enough to stop calling.
“Paulie,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a seductive purr, “there’s always something. Come on, give.”
“The company’s in Elkhorn Run, Colorado. They’re shooting at a hotel there. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.”
Cathe sighed. “That’s not much, but I guess I can go with it. They haven’t released their location yet.” Her voice warmed again. “Want to go out for sushi in an hour or so? Or, even better, stay in for sushi?”
Right. Not hardly. At least at the moment, he had an excellent excuse, being several hundred miles away. “I can’t,” he said carefully. “I’m working.”
“Oh? Any problems?” The seductiveness dropped away quickly. Paul could picture her hands poised over her keyboard.
“Not really. Just the usual last minute details.” Like going into a ditch and ending up in the Praeger House.
“Are you avoiding me, Paulie?”
“I’m busy right now. I’ll talk to you later. Take care.” He disconnected quickly before she could say anything else.
You’re a coward, Paul Dewitt. Probably true. You’ve already repaid her a dozen times over for whatever help she gave you going in. Almost certainly true. And once he got back to L.A., he’d have to do something about it. A sudden image of Monica flashed through his mind, with her creamy skin and butterscotch hair. Maybe seeing her would clear the sour taste of Cathe from his mouth.
Fortunately, the room Monica shared with Ronnie was very nice. It was decorated western style, with overstuffed chairs and a rustic-looking couch that was surprisingly comfortable. And the bed looked comfortable too. In fact, the bed looked so comfortable that it was all Monica could do not to curl up in it now. She hadn’t wanted to pull the covers up over her head since she was six, but at the moment she felt like it.
She was still trying to make up for yelling at Ronnie. All evidence to the contrary, Ronnie apparently didn’t get yelled at all that often. “I’m really sorry for snapping at you,” she said as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. “It’s just been one of those days.”
Ronnie lifted her chin, giving her a long-suffering look. “That’s okay. I know you didn’t really mean it. Do you think my stuff is here?”
Monica closed her eyes, counting to ten for perhaps the hundredth time that day. “No. Not yet. It’ll probably take a while. Why don’t you go down and order yourself some dinner?”
“Aren’t you going to have dinner with me?” Ronnie’s eyes were wide with hurt again.
Monica bit her lip. “Sure. Of course. But I have to make some calls first. I figured you wouldn’t want to wait around here for me to finish.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Ronnie gave her a glistening smile. “I don’t mind waiting.”
Monica sank into one of the overstuffed chairs, trying not to watch Ronnie watching her, and pulled out her cell phone. “Why don’t you turn on the television? This may take a while.”
Ronnie’s forehead wrinkled, as if tackling the television remote was somewhat daunting, but she was soon cheerfully channel surfing.
Monica started dialing.
The rental car agency was a pain in the ass. Glenn Donovan was a bigger one. She didn’t tell him about the broken camera. Let him find out when they arrived at Elkhorn Run. If they arrived at Elkhorn Run.
“Can we go eat now?” Ronnie asked brightly, flipping to another channel.
Monica sighed. Left to her own devices, she’d probably have ordered a burger from room service. Of course, she did
n’t know whether the Praeger House actually had room service. Or a restaurant.
“Sure,” she mumbled. “Let’s go see what there is.”
Colleen, the room clerk, still stood behind the desk where they’d checked in, clicking away at a computer screen.
“Excuse me. Does the hotel have a restaurant?” Monica asked.
Colleen shrugged without looking up. “It’s not open for dinner, just breakfast. We have some premade sandwiches and salads in the cooler and there’s chips on the rack.” She gestured toward a refrigerated case down the hall. “Or you can go downtown. Lots of restaurants. Closest is Lolly Madrid’s half a block up State, and if you go one street over to Third, there’s the Blarney Stone. They got burgers and stuff like that. Bar food.”
Presumably, they would also have the margarita that Monica had decided she desperately needed. “That would be fine,” she said firmly.
“A bar?” Ronnie said doubtfully. “We’re going to eat in a bar?”
“Indeed we are.”
The evening air had a bite, and Monica suddenly remembered they were in the mountains. She thought longingly of the sweater in her suitcase, which might be on its way from the garage. Briefly she considered waiting until their luggage arrived but then rejected the idea. Anything that slowed their progress toward margaritaville was to be avoided. She quickened her pace, swinging her arms for warmth.
“It’s cold!” Ronnie sounded annoyed, as if the temperature were a personal insult.
“We’re up about seven thousand feet. The evenings are cooler here.”
“This isn’t cool, it’s cold.” Ronnie clip-clopped along behind in her platform sandals.
The streets were an odd mixture of houses—large, contemporary A-frames, sprawling log cabins, and a few cottages that looked like only a single room. Warm pools of light from the streetlights were the only interruptions in the deep velvet darkness around them. Monica could hear the murmur of water somewhere nearby and smell the sweet lingering scent of willows.
She took in a deep breath that seemed to chill her lungs and then cleanse them. For the first time in days, her shoulders began to relax.