Ruth Dale - Family Secrets

While he checked out her humble abode, she checked out him. She’d tried to forget how good-looking he was. Slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, he looked great in a lightweight summer suit and a blue shirt with striped tie. In fact, he looked sensational, although now that she thought about it, she realized there was something different about him. It took her a moment to figure out what it was.

Then she had it: his hair was much longer than she’d ever seen him wear it, actually curling below his ears. Somebody must be relaxing the rules at WDIX, she thought with amusement.

Brushing her blue skirt across her thighs, she stepped into low-heeled go-with-everything pumps. She’d refused to get really dressed up for him, since she had nothing to prove. Why should she care what he thought of her, her wardrobe or her lifestyle?

“I’m ready,” she said. Straightening, she found him looking at her with a puzzled frown on his face.

“Where’s your furniture?” he asked.

“I’m into minimalism,” she countered.

“Boy, have you changed.”

She resisted the urge to smile. “I planned this, you know.” She gestured at her sparse surroundings. “It’s all the rage.”

“In Colorado, maybe.” He turned toward the door. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. I warned you it’s quite a way, didn’t I?”

“Chère, if you don’t mind, I don’t mind.”

All the way up the mountain, she tried to forget he was already calling her chère, just like he used to.

SHARLEE KNEW GOOD FOOD—how to eat and appreciate it, not how to cook it.

Growing up in a family that employed a full-time cook and included a classy restaurant among its endeavors, she’d learned early to appreciate quality.

Unfortunately she could no longer afford a heck of a lot of quality. She’d dined only once before at The Fort and that had been a good year ago, again on somebody else’s ticket.

There wasn’t a chance she’d miss this opportunity. Without a qualm, she instructed Dev to aim the rental car west into the mountains.

The Fort lay just off the interstate near Morrison, perched on a red-rock hillside. Sharlee knew all the details from her previous journey here: how the structure had been patterned after Bent’s Fort, an 1830s’ fur-trading post in southeastern Colorado, how it had been constructed of 80,000 mud-andstraw adobe blocks. Since its opening in 1963, kings and presidents had dined here—and an occasional impoverished reporter.

The 27-star flag flying over the entrance was the American flag used before Texas was annexed to the union in 1845. The round tower to the left of the entryway was used for wine storage and tastings—she knew because she’d asked.

All this and more she related enthusiastically to her companion, finishing with, “I just love this place! Talk about history!”

“Do you come here often?” Dev inquired as they entered the courtyard.

“I wish.” She cocked her head to better hear the eerie sounds floating through the still evening air. “That’s Indian flute music,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “It is, but don’t change the subject. If you’re so crazy about this place, why don’t you come here more often?”

Might as well tell him the truth, she decided. “Because I can’t afford it on my salary. Tonight’s different—Grandmère’s paying.” She gave him a quick questioning look. “She is, isn’t she?”

“Would it make a difference?”

She considered. “Why should it?” she decided. “You’re a rising young television executive. You can afford it.” She led the way toward the door cattycomer to where they’d entered the courtyard.

“Actually—” he took her elbow to slow her headlong rush “—that’s not quite accurate, but I’ll explain later.”

She darted a startled glance over her shoulder, wondering what there was to tell. Further speculation was lost as they entered another century where they were greeted by staff in costumes of the fur-trading period—calico shirts, boots and pants. Escorted through a maze of rooms, they were finally seated on the patio out back.

The last rays of the sun lowering over the mountains gave a soft warm glow to their surroundings, and the air smelled fresh and fragrant. Admiring the fountain carved of pink Mexican limestone, Sharlee couldn’t keep from smiling.

She’d always been interested in history; it had been her college minor. She liked this place so much that her defenses slipped as her pleasure mounted.

She pointed to the south. “There’s Pikes Peak,” she said. “We’ll see the lights of Denver to the east as soon as it gets a little darker.”

He nodded, indicating the cannon just beyond the patio. “I guess you can’t have a fort without a cannon. D’you suppose that thing really works?”

“No, sir.” The busboy, dressed like a nineteenth-century fur trader responded as he filled their water glasses. “That’s Bertha, our six-pounder. Last time she was fired, modern powder blew out her innards.”

“That’s a shame.” Dev sounded amused. “What’ll we do in case of attack?”

The kid grinned. “We still have Sweetlips. She’s a twelve-pounder and that baby can still speak up. She’s fired once in a while on special occasions.”

The busboy finished his work and moved on. Dev looked around appreciatively and she was gratified to note his interest.

“I’m glad you picked this place,” he said. “It’s great looking but...” He raised his brows. “How’s the food?”

“Wonderful.” She dipped her head so she could peer at him obliquely. “Don’t think I’m not aware of the chance I’m taking, bringing you here. I just wanted to show you that we have nice places in Colorado, too.”

“Come on, Sharlee, you’ve never been afraid to take chances.”

That threw her. “I...” A menu was slipped onto her plate by the waiter. Dev’s intense gaze met hers and she fought the shiver that started in the vicinity of her backbone.

She had changed. This was the only chance she intended to take with him—ever, ever, ever!

THEY DRANK CONCOCTIONS touted as authentic to the fur-trading period 150 years ago; they ate sallat, an old-fashioned name for salad. The pièce de résistance was buffalo tenderloin, leaner and sweeter than beef, they agreed, although they could also have opted for elk or musk ox or even ostrich. The entrée was accompanied by potatoes dressed with onion, corn, red and green peppers and beans, which their server identified as Anasazi cliff-dweller beans, harvested from plants grown from nine-hundred-year-old beans found by archaeologists in Colorado.

And they talked—cautiously at times, easily at others, but never about anything that mattered: the weather, the mile-high altitude, the lack of humidity, his flight into Denver International. Finally, when the conversation wound down and she couldn’t eat another bite, she looked at him through the shadows and said, “Earlier you were about to tell me something about the life of a rising young executive?”

“I guess I was.” He cocked his head and an intriguing little dimple appeared at one corner of his mouth. “Fact is, I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“A rising young executive.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Papa didn’t fire you!”

“He wouldn’t, so I quit.”

“Because...?” She gestured, palm up, for him to explain.

“I wanted to try something else.” All of a sudden he looked uneasy. “I’m opening a restaurant in the Quarter with a friend.”

“Oh, come on, Dev. You expect me to believe that?” It made no sense. “If you wanted to go into the restaurant business, you could have worked at Chez Charles.”

“That’s just it, I couldn’t.” His gaze caught and held hers. “It was my first thought—family loyalty and the whole thing. Lyons stick together no matter what.” He grimaced. “Fortunately Alain wouldn’t allow it.”