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Rafe knew he could have found a newer, more affordable, more practical place to call home, but he had a silly attachment to this building. He had an unexpected fondness for Victorian architecture—a sense of history tucked into crazy corners and fancy turrets. Maybe because he’d spent too many years living in nondescript apartments in too many nondescript neighborhoods.
But it was more than that, somehow. Perhaps it was the odd belief that if he could bring the Three Bs back to its former grandeur, he could resurrect his old life here as well.
His father would probably laugh at that idea.
A door slammed behind him, and Rafe turned to find an older man getting out of a battered truck. In the front seat, the biggest German shepherd Rafe had ever seen hung out the window, whining like a puppy when the man joined Rafe on the sidewalk and left him behind.
The guy gave him a short nod, then tossed his chin toward the building. “Gonna be a mess of work to get this place back to what it once was.”
“Probably,” Rafe agreed. “But it will be worth it.”
“Heard you were back in town. You don’t remember me, do you?”
Rafe looked at the man more closely, but couldn’t place the face. “Afraid not.”
“Leo Waxman. Waxman Electric. Good friend of your father’s.”
Rafe held out his hand. “Of course, I do remember. You used to have a lot of shepherd pups in a shed behind your house.”
“Still do on occasion,” the man said, obviously warming to the subject. Behind him the dog began an earsplitting whine, and Leo turned toward the truck. “Hush up, Brutus.” He swung back to Rafe. “I missed the town council meeting the other day. Heard you got elected publicity chairman for the festival.”
“Yep. If you’re here to tell me you want the job, I won’t fight you for it.”
“Nah. I’ve got no interest in the festival, and definitely no interest in trying to get those three committee knuckleheads to agree on a plan.” He indicated the building again. “But I also heard you bought this place, among others, and that does interest me. You plan on living here, or selling for a profit?”
“I figure four spec condos, plus my own place. Then I want to see about redesigning a few other buildings I’ve picked up downtown on First Street.”
“You gonna need help with the electric? If so, I’m your man.”
Leo handed Rafe a business card, and for the next few minutes they talked about what it would take to bring the building up to code, the improvements and modifications Rafe wanted to make to the existing structure. The electrician seemed eager for the work, knowledgeable and forthright. In spite of the differences Rafe had with his father, he knew Sam would never have kept the friendship of someone who couldn’t be trusted to do an honest day’s work.
Agreeing to get together later in the week, Rafe and Leo shook hands.
Leo grinned. “You know the Three Bs history?”
“That’s part of what drew me to it in the first place.”
The Three Bs, built in the 1880s, had originally meant beds, baths and breakfast, and had catered to the area’s silver miners looking to strike it rich. But widow Ida Mae Culpepper had discovered a more profitable way to make a living, and the social club had become very “social” after a few months in operation. The Bs soon translated to betting, booze and bad women.
Then during the Korean War, Myrtle Culpepper had taken over, following in her great-grandmother’s foot- steps to transform the establishment into the perfect place for enlisted men to listen to lively music, drink good liquor and spend a few hours of pleasure in the company of what the newspapers of that time had called “agreeable companions.”
Evidently drawing on some memory, Leo laughed. “You know, your father and I spent many a night in this place.”
That Rafe didn’t know, and he was surprised. “Really?”
“Oh, not when it was that kind of place. That was before our time. After Vietnam it got turned into just a social club, a place where a bunch of old leathernecks could compare war stories and drink a few beers. I used to play piano back then. Your dad used to pick up extra bucks by playing fiddle with the band.” He slid an amused glance at Rafe from under bushy brows. “Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”
His father a musician? How could that be? No one, not even their mother, had ever hinted at such a thing. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I sure didn’t.”
“That’s because he was god-awful. Two cats fighting in an alley sounded better, but nobody threw us off the stage. You get a few drinks in a bunch of guys, tell a few war stories, and everyone gets mellow.”
“I’ve never seen him pick up a musical instrument.”
“He quit fooling around with it once you kids came along, and things got cranking up there at the lodge. Way too busy to devote the time. Kinda went by the wayside, the way lots of things do once you start a family and you realize what’s important.”
What’s important. For a moment Rafe could envision his father making that conscious decision, putting aside the idle playthings of his younger years and taking on the responsibility of home and family.
Sam had always been able to focus on what needed to get done. He was a practical, goal-oriented man who had never understood the desire to see over to the other side of the mountain when you had what you needed right in your own backyard. It must have been particularly galling to him that his youngest son had refused to toe the line.
“I’ll give you a discount, you being Sam’s son and all.” Leo Waxman cut into Rafe’s thoughts.
“Thanks. I’ll look forward to working with you.”
“You’re not afraid of this place?”
“You mean the rumors that it’s haunted? No.”
In his youth, Rafe had explored the building by popping a broken board off a back window. The place had been deserted for years. He had been fascinated, and the teenage girls he’d brought here had found his arms just the right protection against the whispery night shadows of abandoned rooms. Depending on who you talked to in town, the Three Bs was either haunted or hiding a secret treasure, or both.
“Probably kept the price down,” Leo speculated.
That was true. When Rafe had decided to bring Frannie home to the family, he couldn’t resist seeing if the old place was still up for sale. He had big plans for it, and he couldn’t wait to move himself and Frannie into the place he’d already decided would make a suitable home for them both.
He knew Frannie was benefiting by spending so much time with his family, but he was eager to get out of the lodge, where Frannie must feel confused by all the hustle and bustle that came with running a thriving business. Where the air around his father was thick with tension.
The foreman of the construction site waved at Rafe, and seeing the opportunity to break away from Leo, he shook hands one last time with the man, clapped him on the shoulder and left him at the curb. They were tearing down walls in the club’s front room today, and he was eager to see what kind of workmanship lay behind the flocked, garish wallpaper that the Culpeppers had thought so attractive.
Once Rafe was satisfied the work was progressing well, he could move on to his next mission—getting one newspaperwoman to buy into the idea that the second Broken Yoke summer festival wasn’t geared strictly to make money for its citizens. Downtown revitalization, worthwhile causes, civic pride rebuilt. Could he persuade her that there was good to be done?
Maybe he was worrying too much. After four years of working for Wendall Crews and his far- flung empire, Rafe had honed the art of gentle, and not-so-gentle, persuasion. He had the talent to spin the festival any way the town wanted it. And just how bright a journalist could this Danielle Bridgeton be if the paper had stuck her out here in no- man’s-land?
Besides, big brother Nick had been right. Rafe still had the D’Angelo charm, and though he liked to think he’d changed, that he wasn’t prone to the old ways anymore, he hadn’t forgotten any of the old tricks.
If all else failed, he’d lay it on thick and deep. He’d make Ms. Bridgeton feel as though she were the center of his universe. He’d have her eating out of his hand.
By the time he was finished with her, she’d give them more newspaper coverage than the winter Olympics.
MAYNE SHE WASN’T the world’s best journalist, but Dani thought she could recognize a losing proposition when she saw one. She regarded the three stories spread out on the desk in front of her.
It would be hard to say which would be more exciting. Or which one was more likely to put Gary to sleep when he read it.
She began to feel helplessly angry again at the fates that had dropped her into the dullest news corridor of Colorado. This certainly wasn’t the future her mother had scrimped and saved for her daughter to have.
If Wanda Bridgeton could have seen her now, how disappointed would she be?
Not wanting to give in to another fit of useless emotion, Dani decided that maybe a second opinion was called for. After all, she was biased about what interested people in this neck of the woods.
“Cissy,” she called out the open office door. “Could you come in here a moment?”
Although she was several years younger, Cissy had become Dani’s closest friend here in Broken Yoke. She was a savvy saleswoman when it came to selling advertising for the paper, and she and Dani had discovered a mutual interest in making a name for themselves.
Cissy sauntered in and perched on the side of one of the office chairs expectantly.
Dani picked up the first story. “Tell me which of these pieces would interest you the most if you picked up the Sunday paper.” She expelled a resigned breath. “The new forklift that Silver Ridge paid a fortune for this past winter is out of commission because the idiot driving it ran into a ravine.”
“Was the idiot killed?”
“No.”
“Then who cares?”
Dani picked up the second story. “A guy down at Berthold Pass has grown a squash that has markings like Abraham Lincoln.”
“Oh, please,” Cissy said, rolling her eyes.
“I’ve seen the picture the stringer took,” Dani said, referring to the photographer she sometimes used. “It really does look like Honest Abe, stovepipe hat and all.”
“And that would matter to whom?”
“True.” Dani slipped it to the bottom of the stack. She lifted her last and best. “A wolf got into a chicken coop and created havoc for some farmer in Manitou. Killed three of his prize Rhode Island Reds before he chased it off.”
“A dozen would be better. More dramatic.”
“Just three, I’m afraid. But Farmer Jenkins said his coop is so secure that the wolf had to be the canine equivalent of James Bond to break into it.”
Cissy lifted an elegantly shaped brow. “Are you making that up?”
“I swear, that’s what he said.”
The younger woman pursed her lips, tapping her bottom lip with her finger. “I’d go with that one.”
“Why?”
“Death. Destruction. Secret-agent wildlife. Definitely better than an Abe Lincoln rutabaga.”
“Squash.” Dani placed the story on the top of her pile. “All right. The Double-O-Seven wolf it is. Although Gary is still going to laugh when he reads it.”
“I’ve read your stuff. It’ll be great.”
“Thanks,” Dani told her, but then almost to herself she added, “I’ve just got to do better than this. There has to be something I can sink my teeth into.”
Cissy trotted off while Dani sighed again and reflected on how she’d once set aside a space on the top of her fireplace mantle for a Pulitzer. No secret-agent wolf was going to fill that hole on her shelf or in her life.
Damn you, Lorraine Jennings Mandeville. How could one woman mess up her world so completely? Dani wondered.
After she’d been exiled here, she’d briefly considered telling Gary she’d resign before being run out of town, but she wasn’t a quitter. Besides, it wasn’t forever. She could handle living in Broken Yoke a while longer. She could. It wasn’t a horrible place. Kind of postcard-pretty in a lot of ways.
Of course, by the time she finally made it back to Denver and her regular assignments, her career was going to be deader than Farmer Jenkins’s poor chickens.
She cupped her head in her hands, massaging a fresh headache with her fingertips. Surely there was some magic she could work with these stories.
She lifted her gaze to discover Cissy had come back in the doorway of her office. The woman had brightened considerably. Maybe she had come up with something. “Boss, Rafe D’Angelo—”
Dani held up a forestalling hand, too peeved at the moment to bother showing polite interest in a topic of conversation she was thoroughly sick of. “Please. Not one more word about the great Rafe D’Angelo. I don’t want to hear about how every woman in town wants him. He’s old news, and even if he wasn’t, I’m not interested in hearing about a guy who probably has an ego as big as this room. From now on, any discussion about him is off-limits. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cissy said from the doorway, looking uncomfortable. “But I think I should tell you one last thing. Rafe D’Angelo—”
“Is what?” Dani asked, pinning her with a disgusted look. “Is sexy? Is worth his weight in gold? Is the devil incarnate?”
“Is here,” Cissy finished for her.
Giving Dani a regretful smile, she stepped aside. In the next moment, the office doorway was filled with the tall, dark, unexpected presence of a complete stranger.
No. Not a stranger. Dani knew him instantly.
“Devil incarnate, huh?” the man remarked with a grin in his voice. “Interested in selling your soul?”
She popped up, feeling flustered at being taken unawares. Her stomach churned. Embarrassing. Really embarrassing. He had to know perfectly well that she hadn’t intended for him to hear a word she’d said, but it was too late to save face now. Better to brazen it out.
Dani came around the desk, a weak smile on her lips. “I’m so sorry, Mr. D’Angelo,” she began.
She got her first good look at his face. Her smile froze on her lips as she took in the sight of dark eyes, dark hair and a slightly crooked nose that kept this man from being classically handsome.
She remembered that nose. Those eyes. She remembered this man. How could this be the infamous local hotshot, Rafe D’Angelo? This was Oz, the casino pit boss she’d worked with briefly six years ago.
A man whom she may or may not have slept with.
The snake in the grass who had disappeared out of her life before she’d ever had the chance to find out.
Oh God. Did he recognize her?
It didn’t appear so. His features remained bland and unremarkable as he relaxed into the chair in front of her desk. She didn’t know whether she should be glad or unhappy about the fact that she hadn’t stirred his memory.
Of course, she’d looked different back then. Dolled up like the rest of the plastic princesses who had worked in Native Sun’s casino. The night she’d gone after the story of her life—city government employees who spent a hefty portion of taxpayer money on gambling and hookers—she’d worn enough makeup for the entire chorus.
In spite of years spent trying to put that incident out of her memory, she couldn’t help remembering how the tables had gotten turned. How the lowlife she’d gone after had slipped something in her drink. How he and his friend would have raped her if they’d had the chance.
This man—Oz—had evidently stopped that from happening. Her memory was fuzzy, but she definitely recalled waking up naked next to him. He’d seemed somewhat amused by her reaction when she’d rolled over and spotted him, propped up on one elbow beside her. He’d told her that she was safe, that he’d take care of her, and she’d believed him. It hadn’t helped that she’d fallen asleep shortly after that. At least, she thought she had.
Had they had sex?
She still wasn’t one hundred percent positive. When she’d finally come to again, she was still naked, but her head was clearer and Oz was gone. Vanished. From the room. From the casino. From her life.
Oh, it was too humiliating to think about, even now.
Given the way things had turned out, she realized she was perfectly happy not to take a trip down memory lane. No, better to stay away from that subject and hope that in addition to being the local ladies’ man, Rafe D’Angelo had a memory like a sieve.
She sat down limply behind her desk, suddenly conscious that her hair was a mess and she hadn’t bothered with makeup today. “Who—What brings you to my little part of town?” she asked, trying for her most professional tone.
