Vicki Lewis Thompson - Rolling Like Thunder

The reception area and an adjacent parlor matched the exterior. Antique furniture and gilt-framed mirrors reminded Finn of the pictures his grandfather had showed him of his great-grandparents’ house. Vases of fresh flowers were everywhere.

A middle-aged woman with blond hair rose from behind an antique desk and came forward when they walked in. “You must be Finn and Chelsea.”

“We are.” Chelsea held out her hand. “And you must be Pam Mulholland. I recognize you from your picture on the website.”

“I’m Pam.” She took Chelsea’s hand in both of hers. “And I’m so excited about Thunder Mountain Academy. I’ve been talking to everyone I know. You should have a good crowd at the Last Chance tomorrow afternoon.”

“My goodness, thank you!”

“The project sounds amazing.” She squeezed Chelsea’s hand and released it. “And, Finn, I’m delighted to meet you.”

“Same here, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I also want to thank you for getting the word out about tomorrow. Thunder Mountain means a great deal to a lot of people, me included.”

“I’m sure it does. When Cade visited last month he kept us all entertained with stories about the days when you boys lived there.”

He smiled. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“So you weren’t the one who glued the toilet seats shut and put salt in the sugar bowl?”

“Uh, well...” He made a mental note to have a talk with his old buddy Cade.

Pam laughed. “You wouldn’t be normal kids if you hadn’t pulled a few pranks. According to Sarah, the Chance boys—”

A grandfather clock in the parlor chimed, interrupting her. “Whoops. Time to get moving.” She hurried behind the desk and grabbed two sets of keys from a board on the wall. “The bigger one opens the front door when I’m not here and the smaller one’s a room key. You can both sign the register later. You two are my only guests this weekend, so we can be more informal.”

“That sounds nice,” Chelsea said.

“I won’t abandon all the protocol, but I’ve dispensed with our usual happy hour for obvious reasons. You’ll be at Spirits and Spurs tonight and at the ranch for dinner tomorrow. We can see about Sunday night’s happy hour if you end up hanging around here.”

“We might,” Finn said. “It’s a great house.”

“Thank you.” Pam looked pleased. “I love it. Oh, and if you should need anything while you’re here, dial zero from the phone in your room. It’ll connect to me, or if I’m not here, it goes to the housekeeper’s room. Yvonne will take care of you. Are you walking over to Spirits and Spurs or driving?”

“Walking,” Chelsea said without hesitation.

“Then I’ll walk with you. Come on down whenever you’re ready and we’ll head over. Everyone’s so eager to meet you.” Pam glanced at Finn. “Josie has the beer you shipped chilling even as we speak. Nice touch.”

Chelsea swung around to gaze at him. “You sent beer? What a great idea.”

“Testing the market.”

“Smart.” She glanced at the number attached to her set of keys. “Which way is Room Three?”

“Up the stairs and to your left.” She handed Finn the other key. “You’re in Four, right next to her. They’re my two favorites.”

Finn took the key with a smile. “Much obliged, ma’am.” From the corner of his eye he caught Chelsea’s smirk. But he was in cowboy country now. He’d felt it the minute they’d landed in Jackson, and the Western atmosphere brought back all his cowboy manners. He hefted both suitcases and started toward the stairs.

“Oh, and in case I get caught up in the dancing and forget to mention it,” Pam said, “breakfast is at eight. Just follow your nose to the coffee and you’ll find the breakfast room.”

“Dancing?” Finn paused to glance back at her.

“At the Spirits and Spurs. There’s a live band and a dance floor. You and Chelsea will have to try it out.”

“Definitely,” Chelsea called over her shoulder as she started up the stairs. “Right, Finn?”

“Right.” Good Lord, would he really have to do that? He followed her up the stairs and down the carpeted hallway. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he said quietly as he set her suitcase by her door.

“Me, either.”

“Really? Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No, really.” She unlocked the door and turned to face him. “I hung out with the brainy kids. We considered ourselves too cool to go to dances, so I never really learned how. I sort of regret it now.”

“That’s surprising. I pictured you being into the whole social thing, maybe even the homecoming queen.”

She burst out laughing. “Oh, Finn, you have a lot to learn about me. You can start tonight as you steer me awkwardly around the dance floor.”

“We’re not actually going to do it, are we?” He stared at her in horror.

“Of course we are. Pam’s remark tells me that these folks love their dancing. It’s like when you’re in a country where you don’t speak the language. The locals appreciate it if you at least give it a try. Sitting there like bumps on a log would be a mistake. We should dance, even if we’re bad at it. It’ll be excellent PR.”

“It’ll be a disaster.”

“No, it won’t.” She gazed up at him. “It’ll do us both good. We’ve established that we’re both perfectionists and we probably carry that to an extreme.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I’m speaking for both of us. Let’s see if we can tolerate dancing badly.”

He groaned.

“Man up, O’Roarke. Have a few beers. Cut loose. I know you have it in you after hearing about the toilet seats and the sugar-to-salt routine.”

“Okay, but you’ll be sorry. You’re wearing sandals, don’t forget, and I’m wearing boots. Don’t blame me if you’re limping by the end of the night.”

“I won’t blame you, but I might ask you to give me a foot rub.”

His breath caught.

“See you in five minutes, cowboy.” Grabbing her suitcase, she handed him his laptop, ducked inside her door and closed it in his face.

He stared at the closed door for several seconds. A foot rub. She was taunting him, which wasn’t very nice of her, all things considered. But, God, how he loved it.

* * *

TWENTY MINUTES LATER when Chelsea walked into the Spirits and Spurs, she recognized immediately that this was the real deal. She’d seen places that gave the appearance of being historic frontier watering holes, but this saloon had earned its ambience the old-fashioned way through years of serving drinks to thirsty cowhands.

The tables were scarred but sturdy, while the polished wooden bar, complete with beveled mirror behind it and plenty of shelves and brass fittings, was a thing to behold. Finn must be wild with envy—it was the kind of bar he’d lusted after but hadn’t been able to afford. These beauties, most of them shipped from back East more than a century ago, didn’t come cheap.

Chelsea could easily imagine miners, cattlemen and gamblers bellying up to that bar in days gone by. Obviously this saloon had seen it all and then some. The band was tuning up, so the party was about to get started.

A woman wearing jeans and a Western shirt walked toward them. A long blond braid hung down her back and she moved with assurance, as if she owned the place. Chelsea was willing to bet that she did.

She confirmed it immediately. “I’m Josie Chance, and you must be Chelsea and Finn,” she said as she shook hands with both of them. “Welcome to Spirits and Spurs. Thanks for escorting them over here, Pam.”

“Fortunately they came peacefully.” Pam grinned at them. “But if you’ll excuse me, I see my darling husband over at the bar and we haven’t checked in with each other in a couple of days.”