Deanna wondered what Shep would say to the idea that had struck both her and the surveyor as they'd looked around at the vintage setting. "What would you say if I told you that you have a gold mine all right, but it doesn't have any gold? Just the potential for making money."
Shep gave her a quizzical look.
"If I were you, I'd restore Hopewell and open it as a frontier town where families could not only stay, but learn about the Old West. Kind of like Williamsburg, Western style."
"Right." He snorted. "And where is the gold going to come from to finance such a thing?"
"You'd have to put together a corporation with investors... a partner at least. I've seen it done a zillion times. One puts up the hard assets—in your case the town—and the others the liquid assets or the cash."
"It'd be like living in a circus."
"Do you want to live in that little house forever?"
"No, I've got a place picked out for a homestead someday," he answered slowly, "but—"
"One would pay for the other." Deanna leaned forward as the idea took hold. "You could start off by remodeling the hotel. There's not a hotel within forty miles of here. Miss Esther's isn't even open half the time. The men you take hunting could stay there at the first. Later, when there's more to do, they could bring their families. And the wife and kids would have plenty to do while they hunt. Just imagine, staying in a real ghost town. We could have a pool and make the saloon a restaurant and maybe even have shows."
"Whoa, slow down, pardner." Shep threw up his hands. "When you get on a horse, you ride it hard, don't you?"
"It's just something I think would fly It would take some checking out, for sure, but I could do that for you... get statistics, find out the pros and cons—"
"Not if you're going back to New York."
The laconic reply pulled the rug out from under Deanna's excitement. She could do it from New York... if she wasn't rubbed out by thugs or put in jail by the authorities.
"Well, look who we have here," someone exclaimed, breaking the charged silence at the table.
Reverend Lawrence stood next to their booth holding his dinner tray Next to him was a petite woman with a sweet, grandmotherly smile and gorgeous white hair.
"Ruth, this is Miss Manetti, the young lady who came up with the idea for the roof-raising contest. The word's out, and we've got more volunteers than we need," the reverend exclaimed in delight. "Miss Manetti, this is my better half, Ruth."
Deanna received a warm handshake. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs.—"
"Ruth, dear. Or if you must, Miss Ruth will do." The spritelike twinkle in Ruth's eyes and the lotion softness of her hands reminded Deanna instantly of Gram.
"Miss Ruth, Reverend, sit down and join us," Shep offered after introductions were made.
"Thanks, but no thanks, son," the reverend said. "After forty-two years, I've learned that every once in a while it's good to take Ruth for a big night out, just the two of us." He gave his petite wife a squeeze with his arm. "And this is it, so you folks'll just have to make do on your own."
Deanna watched as the minister found a table and helped Ruth to her seat before taking his own. "They are precious," she marveled as the pair shared one extra large slush with two straws. "With that snow white hair and those twinkling blue eyes, they look like a matched set. Even her dress is the same shade of blue as his collared shirt. Guess they're among those lucky ones who met and married their match."
Would she ever sit across a restaurant booth some day with her match mate?
Deanna glanced back at Shep, surprised to see him contemplating her. Was there a kindred thought behind those gorgeous, incredibly intense eyes, or was it just a renegade French fry that caused the quickening in her gut?
"You got a little sun today."
It was a fry. At least the sun exposure would cover the heat that crept to her cheeks as she pretended to study her lightly pinkened arm.
"At least it doesn't clash with my outfit." She pointed to the gaudy pink-and-lime polka dot of her hand-me-down capris, a grin masking her melancholy. A body would have to be blind not to see how mismatched she and Shepard Jones were.
"Maybe we should pick up some suntan lotion while we're at it."
"What, you think I'll be around long enough to get a good tan?"
She was grasping at straws and for what? Her muscles ached. She thought the habits of horses were disgusting. She was a fish out of water.
Because in spite of all of the above, another argued, she was enjoying her venture into rustic living under Shep's watchful eye. Granted, it was usually a grumpy eye, but at least she had his attention. And he had apologized.
"Are you through?" He nodded at her half-eaten sandwich and the few remaining fries.
"I filled up on soda, I guess." The hot and cold ebb and flow of her emotions had dashed her appetite along with the fleeting sparks of hope. "Speaking of which, I'd better check out the little girls' room."
She started to gather up her trash, when Shep preempted her. "I'll get it. You go on. I thought we'd stop by the garage on the way home and see if Charlie's had any luck finding those parts for your car."
Why don't you just crank him up on your radio? Whenever she forgot there was no chance for a future at Hopewell, Shep was quick on the draw to remind her. Keeping the acrid thought to herself, Deanna retreated to the bathroom door, punching it open. One minute she thought he wanted her to stay, the next, he made it obvious he wanted her to leave. Plucking petals from a daisy was more reliable than the mixed signals she detected.
Shep stood talking to the Lawrences when she emerged. Refusing to become one of those women who cried their hearts out in the ladies' room, she'd fortified herself by a mental vent of her exasperation with the man. And he didn't even know he'd been told off.
She listened as they fixed the date of the roof raising to coordinate with the end of one of the area's big roundups. Ruth had a handle on the women's end of things—food, bake and craft tables, and entertainment and game booths for the children. Beneath that grandma exterior, Deanna sensed executive material.
"So what do you think of the West, dear?" the reverend's wife asked when all the bases for the fund-raiser had been covered.
"It's definitely not home, but it has its pluses."
Reverend Lawrence patted her on the arm. "Just remember, Miss Manetti, home is where the heart is."
"Or where you hang your hat." Shep tipped his to Mrs. Lawrence. "Folks, we'll see you tomorrow in church."
"I look forward to it," Reverend Lawrence called after them.
Shep opened the passenger door for Deanna and then walked around to the driver's side. Her legs weren't nearly as stiff getting into the Jeep as they'd been earlier getting out. Maybe the aspirin had helped. Unfortunately, the ache she suffered from now had no ready pill to relieve it.
Nineteen
Shep followed Deanna in silence at the Smart Mart. He couldn't put a finger on what had dampened her humor, but something had. The resilient spirit he admired in her, that grin-and-bear-it way she rose to any occasion had given way to a seemingly forlorn silence. She wasn't a coward by nature, but a can-do person. So why did she run, and from whom? Had her romantic interest in her boss been the final straw, adding betrayal of the heart to framing her for his crime? Something wasn't right about this, but what it was, he had no idea—and she wasn't talking.
At least he knew the source of the burr in his humor, he thought, waiting while Deanna read the label on yet another brand of yogurt. He'd been happy with Hopewell as it was, moving along as he could toward his dream, but obviously that wouldn't move him ahead fast enough for someone who was running with the big money dogs. Maybe he was chasing his tail rather than a dream.
One thing was for certain—he would have never thought of turning Hopewell into a Western vacation spot. Where he saw dilapidation, Deanna saw opportunity. Shep would enjoy sharing his passion for horses by teaching greenhorns to ride like he had at nearby stables b
ack East when he was assigned to the D.C. office, but there was a big hole in her plan—his decided lack of liquid capital. Building the ranch his way, a little at a time as he could afford, was attainable. His was safer, both for his heart and his pocketbook—especially if she moved back East.
"Do you have to read the ingredients on every label of everything on the list?" he snapped, disappointment and discomfort contributing to his testy humor. He shifted his weight unobtrusively from his aching knee to his good one. "Beans are beans. At this rate, we'll close the store."
"But some have more fat content than others, and the pricing is misleading. It's a major marketing tool. You have to compare the price per lot to get the cheapest with the right content when you have more time than money."
Shep winced inwardly at Deanna's lash of reality. "Like me?"
His cryptic question seemed to puzzle her. "Like both of us."
Except he hadn't been driving around in a car that cost more than most people's homes. Her silk blouse and trousers probably cost more than one of the tailored suits left over from Shep's more lucrative days in the service. He hadn't traveled in circles like hers since he'd left D.C—and Ellen.
"Well, let's save money and time," he said, glancing at his watch. "I want to stop by Charlie's and see how much longer I'll be buying bean sprouts and all-natural yogurt."
Deanna flinched as though he'd physically slapped her. The raw hurt on her face made Shep feel twice as condemned. Her eyes pooled with tears as though pumped there by her quivering chin. Remorse locked horns with the anger and frustration that had provoked Shep's barbed response in the first place. He was taking his own shortcomings out on her.
"Look, Deanna—"
She cut his apology short. "If I had somewhere else to go and the means to go there, I would, Mr. Jones."
Burying her attention in the grocery list as though she couldn't quite make out her own writing, she walked stiffly down the aisle.
"Deanna, wait—"
Shep's effort to apologize was pointless. Each time he caught up with her, she tossed something in the cart and flitted off again like a bird that'd allowed the cat too close. Grim-mouthed, Shep followed in her icy wake. Not until they reached the drapery department was she forced to stop.
"Which one do you like?" She pointed to the entire row filled on both sides with curtains of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Her upper lip wasn't exactly stiff, but the wounded jut of her chin had become so.
This was going nowhere but downhill... and fast. "You pick something out... please."
"I need to read the labels for material content, so that washing doesn't ruin them," she mumbled self-consciously "And to get the right sizes."
Shep leaned on the handle of the cart as if he had all day. "Take your time. I mean it," he said as obligingly as he could.
After a moment's pause, the wary brow she raised at him faded. Clearly humoring him, Deanna began to dig through the racks of curtains with the thoroughness of a crime scene investigator. Not a package escaped her critical examination. Sooner than speak to him, she chatted to herself. One style was perfect, but it didn't have the right size. The right-sized curtains didn't seem to match the decor in the room. The ones that matched were a material that required dry cleaning.
"You don't want dry clean only curtains in your kitchen," she pointed out, finally acknowledging he was there. "Especially with all the windows you have."
"Of course not," Shep agreed, distracted by the increasing irritation of his knee and the conflict between guilt and his impatience. Of all the times for him to have skipped his medicine.
Climbing in the high country didn't aggravate it half as much as walking on city concrete, but then, God created the former. The majesty alone was enough to distract him from his discomfort—something the big department store was sadly lacking.
"Okay, I've narrowed it down to two choices."
Shep sent a prayer dart heavenward. Thank You, Lord.
"Which do you like? The white with the checkered green trim isn't quite as kitcheny as the one with the fruit on the hem, though I think either one would brighten up the wood paneled walls." She held up the two packages so Shep could see the pictures on them.
"Either one is fine and dandy with me." He glanced at his watch. They'd been in the store over an hour. If he took the spare pill he kept in the Jeep as soon as they got out, it might be too early to take another one at bedtime.
"You didn't even look. It's your house." Her terse disapproval was eighty-grit sandpaper to his diminishing patience.
"Then get the white ones." It never occurred to him that letting her make the decision was a wrong approach. From the angry sparks flecking her eyes, he was going to wind up wearing them.
"Which white ones?"
"The fruit. I like fruit."
"Fruit it is."
Shep let out his breath in relief as Deanna put the other package back.
"Although the check would lend itself more to the family room part of the kitchen," she countered thoughtfully. "I mean, how will all those animals look surrounded by dancing apples and pears? Checks are more masculine, like a master-of-the-hunt motif."
As if he walked on eggs, Shep ventured guardedly "I totally agree. I hadn't thought about the compatibility of the trophies and the curtains. The checks are far more appropriate for wildlife than the fruit."
"Now you're patronizing me." Deanna snatched up six packages and slammed them into the cart. The force jammed the knee Shep had favored.
His agony was not lessened by the fact that she had no idea what she'd done, but somehow he reined the explosion of pain just short of it reaching his tongue. It occurred to him to run the cart over his good foot as distraction, but instead, he threw up his hands in surrender, trying hard to react in the opposite direction of his primary urge to shake her till her eyeballs rolled.
"No, I'm not." His controlled calm could have aced an Oscar. "I think the check is so right that we should get these pillows for the sofa to replace those ratty old brown ones that put a crick in my neck." He reached down, despite his discomfort, and added two checked pillows displayed beneath the curtains. "And what about a rug? One for the door and one in front of the sink? They'll cover those worn spots in the linoleum." If the woman wanted to shop, then by golly, he'd shop. He scanned the display a moment and found a set of dish towels and a dishcloth to match. "And what about these?"
Deanna shrugged. "It's your money But while you're at it, there are some potholders that match, too." She pointed to the set with a grating sniff.
Shep pulled the set off the hanging bar and tossed them into the cart. "There! I think we have every blessed checked thing in the store. No, wait." He took off with exaggerated glee toward placemats on display farther down the aisle, ignoring the aggravation to his aching knee. Picking up two, he added them to the checkered heap in the cart. "What do you think?"
"They're easier to maintain than a tablecloth."
"My thoughts exactly." Good thing they'd chosen checks over fruit. The latter would have withered from the chill in her response. With a pained smile, Shep pushed the cart to the checkout. Deanna followed him.
"I'll be outside," she said, breaking her cross-armed silence as he started to put the goods on the black conveyor belt.
Trapped between guilt and grudge, Shep waited as the register blipped its way toward an escalating total. Good job, Jones. Now they were both miserable. Avoiding the curious glances of the clerk, who had to have been deaf and blind not to notice the thick tension between him and Deanna, Shep looked at the magazine rack behind him.
10 Tips for Men: How to Make Her Want You. The article title leapt off the display at him. Once certain no one was paying any attention to him, he picked it up and flipped through the pages in a nonchalant manner until he reached the cover feature.
"Hey, do you want that woman's magazine or what?"
"Nah, just looking." He put the magazine back as if the same wildfire spreading up his neck an
d face had set it ablaze, too. As he turned toward the register, he caught sight of fresh-cut flowers displayed on a metal stand next to the candy display. Above them was a sign reading Romantic Bouquets.
"That'll be one hundred twenty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents," the young clerk said, her speech slightly distorted by the braces brightening her smile. "Do you have any coupons?"
"No." Shep couldn't recall the last time he'd spent that much in one place since leaving Washington, but a few more bucks wasn't going to break him now. "But I'll take a bunch of these flowers, too."
He handed them to the clerk and fished out his wallet as she rang up the final tally. Shep had always wondered who bought fresh flowers in a food-and-everything-else market. Now he had a pretty good idea.
***
What a fool she'd been, Deanna thought, staring straight ahead as Shep turned onto the dirt road leading to Hopewell's main street. They had stopped at Charlie Long's garage, but the older man wasn't home. Limping noticeably, Shep got a drink from the vending machine in front of the garage and took a pill he'd found in the Jeep console. If he'd only said something, she'd have insisted on coming back another time.
As it was, the groceries rattling in the back of the Jeep made more noise than the two of them together. Shep concentrated on the road ahead. Deanna leaned into the wind rushing through the open passenger window like a dog, hair flying away from her face. Unlike a blissfully content pooch, she hoped the wind would dry her tears and cool her scalded cheeks or at least disguise her misery.
All those silly notions that Shepard Jones might somehow be interested in her were nothing more than wishful thinking. He didn't want her around one second more than she had to be. And after she'd tried so hard to prove her worth.
Deanna let out a shaky breath and dug with her finger for a runaway tear that had whipped from the corner of her eye into her ear. Great. Now she lived an old country song she used to mimic by holding her nose and wailing something about tears in her ears from lying on her back while crying over a long gone love. Her relationship with C. R. had been a sham. Now even the hope of finding someone to share her life with seemed dashed.
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