the fringed lamps, the velvet-upholstered furniture, the scent of lemon polish and wood. Tasteful maroon-and-beige wallpaper lent some ease to the tone of the room, but Conn wasnât feeling so easy at all.
They moved to the reception area, where tourists lingered, reading framed newspaper articles on the walls about the so-called ghosts that haunted this Old West establishmentâsupposedly a gentleman and a lovelorn woman from the 1930s. There would also be articles about the town founder, Tony Amati, and that was why these tourists had come to town on a warm November weekday, Conn thought. Theyâd been lured by a new mystery that had been uncovered by a couple of town reporters whoâd realized that old Tony, the former Texas Ranger, had died under a shroud of seeming conspiracy and strange circumstances.
To hear the tales, Amati, whoâd settled in these parts and founded St. Valentine way back in the late 1920s, had started to matter more than ever around here after a man who was his spitting image had wandered into town over four months ago, before Conn had arrived. People had started looking very closely at the pictures of the town founder then, comparing them to the stranger, the cryptic Jared Colton. Theyâd started getting very interested in Tony, tooâa man whoâd done so much for St. Valentine, yet had managed to remain a puzzle all the same.
Both Tony and this modern-day stranger had certainly captured everyoneâs romantic inclinations and imagination. And the town, which had suffered through rough economic times, was now starting to benefit from the story, attracting more and more tourists. Just how had Tony died? everyone wondered. And why had he been so darn reclusive? Everyone wanted to poke around and solve the mysteries. Magazine articles and travel shows had been sniffing around town, tooâthereâd even been some kind of TV ghost show that had camped out in the St. Valentine Hotel, the papers said.
Yup, Conn had sure done all the research he could about St. Valentine before coming out here. Not that it had helped with his own mysteries.
âAny of it look familiar?â Emmet asked.
âNot really.â
Emmet gestured toward the reception desk. âYou want to find out if you checked in here that night?â
The hotel had wanted to see some ID in person before giving out that kind of sensitive information. âYeah.â
Conn took a step toward the long desk, then stopped in his tracks, stilled by a bolt of electricity.
A woman with brown curly hair pulled into a side pony tail that flowed past her shoulder, her torso covered by a white old-fashioned, high-collared blouse that was obviously a part of the hotelâs uniform. She had a lush mouth in an angular face, and light-colored eyes that reflected the same blindsided attraction he was feeling.
All Conn could do was hold his hat to his stomach, which was flipping end over end, crackling with the tremors dancing through it. It was as if a bright light was blazing over his sight, a lightning strike that illuminated that night again.
White sheets on a bed ⦠a woman lying down on them, her hair curled over the pale linen. âCome here, cowboy,â she whispered â¦
Sheâd been in St. Valentine.
She was the reason he was here. Somehow, he knew that without a doubt.
When his vision cleared, she was still staring at him, just as if sheâd seen one of the ghosts that this hotel was supposed to house.
Did his knees ever go this weak with all those other women heâd supposedly been with? It sure as hell hadnât happened with the nurses at the hospital. Then again, they hadnât looked like this brunette.
Besides, something inside him told him that this had never happened before.
But how could he know for sure?
Clutching the necklace until its edges dug into his palm, Conn left Emmet and went to the desk. The woman was still behind it, by herself, but from the way she looked away from him, down at the counter, Conn could tell that she wished she had any guest but him in line for some service.
In fact, as she glanced up again, her gaze had gone from thunderstruck to steely, all in a tumultuous second.
He didnât even have the chance to utter a hello before she said in a low tone, âSo youâre back.â
Steely, all right. A gritted comment that nearly set him back on his heels.
This was the woman in his fragmented memories, right? The limpid-eyed lady whoâd begun to appear to him recently at night, giving him pleasant dreams. The one whoâd been so happy to be in his bed.
He showed her the necklace, the R split in half across his palm. She sucked in a breath, but then, as if she was real good at recovering quickly, that breath turned into a small laugh.
âYou came here to return this?â She was still talking quietly enough so that her voice didnât carry. âBetter late than never, I suppose.â
Return it? Why had he taken it in the first place? He thought that maybe he should apologize about something, but he wasnât sure just what it was he would be sorry for.
âCan we talk?â he asked. âI needââ
âTalk? Thatâs a good euphemism.â She laughed again, taking up a pile of paper and neatly straightening it on the desk. âIâll tell you what, cowboyâyou just keep that trophy of yours and weâll call it even.â She nodded at the necklace he was still holding. âYouâve had it for going on four months, anyway.â
Four months. She wouldâve been here, at the St. Valentine Hotel, during his fateful trip.
He glanced down at the necklace again. The letter R. Then he looked up at her name tag.
Rita.
Except, on the tag, her name in cursive was one continuous string, unlike the separated necklace. Unlike his life now.
She called over a young clerk who was straightening a rack of brochures, and once she was manning the desk, Rita walked to the far end of the structure, to a quiet corner where the desk still barred her from him. Conn could hear Emmet clearing his throat as he left him behind.
Conn peered over his shoulder at his brother, who was awkwardly standing there with a âSo? What gives?â expression. But it mightâve also been a âTold you this woman was just as temporary as the othersâ look.
Conn jerked his chin toward Rita, conveying that he still had a lot to take care of and that maybe Emmet should read some of those framed articles on the wall to pass the time. Emmet shrugged and wandered off.
As Rita shuffled papers, probably wishing Conn would think she was too busy to continue talking, he didnât take her none-too-subtle hint.
âI apologize for the inconvenience,â he said softly, not wanting to make a scene. Strangely, that woman-luring charm his brothers had commented on still came easily to him when not much else did. âBut I could really use your help.â
He added a smile for good measure. He had a feeling it had worked a million times.
âMy help?â She didnât look up at him. âAre you asking me for a place to stay the night again? A warm bed? A willing woman who doesnât know any better than to listen to your promises?â
Oops.
âBegging your pardon,â he said, âbut I hope youâll believe me when I tell you that I donât know anything I said to you that night. Thereâs a good reason I came back here, and it wasnât to return a necklace.â
Eyes narrowed, she waited for him to go on.
He leaned his elbow on the desk, setting his hat down on