of Emma. Finally, he had enough of his own company and went to look for her, hoping she had not shut herself in her room for the night.
But she had. He had to remember it was for the best.
Monday, they returned to their regular work routine. Late that day local meteorologists began to warn of a large, early storm from the west predicted to reach Texas on Thursday or Friday. Each day they checked the weather, Emma surprised that Zach ate lunch and dinner with her, flirting, friendly and heightening desire with every encounter.
By Thursday, pictures were coming in from the west of all the snow. “We’re ready for the storm, here at the ranch,” Zach told Emma. “We have supplies of every sort and enough food for weeks. I think you’re stuck, Emma, unless you want to take off work and head to Dallas this afternoon.” They both listened as the TV weatherman showed a massive storm dumping twelve inches of snow in the mountains in New Mexico and blanketing Interstate 40, closing it down.
“Now they’re predicting it’ll come in here Friday,” Zach repeated. “If you beat the storm home, you’ll be stuck there, which is fine if you want to do that.”
“I can miss one weekend at home,” she said. “Actually, I can go ahead and work and get more of the letters read and go through things.”
“If you’re sure. I’ve told Nigel and Rosie the same thing. Rosie’s cooking up a storm herself, but if we get what they’re predicting, neither of them will come in. I’ve told them to stay home.”
“I’ll stay here, Zach. I don’t want to get caught in bad weather. From what they’re predicting, it will come and go and be clear for me to go home for Thanksgiving next week.”
“If you decide to stay, I’ll pay you overtime.”
“That isn’t necessary. I’m happy to be out of the storm. Mom’s already called worrying about me.”
“Call her so she can stop worrying.”
“Thanks, Zach.”
“I wish I could take you out dancing Saturday night, but that’s out because of the storm and my foot. We can have a steak dinner—I’ll cook. We can have our own party here.”
She laughed. “Sounds great, but you don’t have to do that.”
His blue eyes held a lusty darkness and his voice lowered. “I want to. Even though it might not be the wisest thing for either one of us, a cozy evening in front of a fire while it snows outside sounds fun. Now I can’t wait for the first flakes to fall.”
Shaking her head, she smiled at him while her insides fluttered. Saturday night with Zach would not be the same as working together in a spacious office. “In the meantime, let’s go back to work,” she said, pulling her chair close to the open box of letters.
She read more letters—some were by his great-grandfather, most by his great-great-grandfather, all of them mixed together. She had trays she would place them in according to generation. She had made trays labeled by dates, water rights, and “boundary disputes.” She tried to sort them all the ways that would be helpful. If she had time before the job ended, she would put them in chronological order.
She had read five letters when she shoved her hand into the box to get more and felt a hard lump beneath the letters. She moved them carefully, placing them to one side in the box, and found two objects wrapped in cloth. “Zach, there are some things in this box. They’re wrapped in rags.” She carefully continued to remove letters as he crossed the room. He bent over to plunge his hand in.
“Zach, be careful with the letters.”
“Ah, Emma, these letters are not priceless heirlooms.”
“They may be to some of your family.”
“I’ll be damned,” he said, grasping something wrapped in cloth and pulling it out of the box. He tossed away the rags. “This is a Colt. It’s a beauty.” He checked to see if it was loaded—it wasn’t. “This is fantastic. You said there were two things.”
He placed the Colt on an empty chair and turned to reach into the box to withdraw the other object wrapped in cloth.
“It’s a rifle,” he said, unwrapping strips of rags that had yellowed with age. Zach tossed them into a trash basket and held the rifle in his hands, checking to be certain it was not loaded. “It’s a Henry. I’ll say my ancestors knew their weapons. A Colt revolver and a Henry rifle.” He raised it to aim toward the patio. “This is a find. Why would anyone stick these in with a bunch of letters? If I had been the only descendant, I would have pitched the boxes and never given them another thought.”
“Well, aren’t we all glad keeping the heirlooms was not left to you alone,” she said sweetly and he grinned.
“The Henry was a repeating rifle that came out about the time the Civil War began. This is fabulous,” he said, running his hand over it. “Now I can feel a tie with my ancestors with these two weapons. Ryan is going to love both of these. So will Will.”
“You make it sound as if all of you are gun-toting cowboys, which I know is not the case. Far from it. You’re a man of cities.”
“I still love this. It’s a beaut and Will and Ryan are going to love it. Garrett—he’s a family friend—won’t be so wound up over it, I don’t think. He’s the city person, which makes it funny that Dad willed this ranch to Garrett and not to any of his sons. It’s also why Garrett is in no rush to claim it. This Henry is something.”
She picked up an envelope. “If you’ll excuse me, you can go drool over your guns while I read.” She withdrew a letter. “Want me to read aloud?”
“I don’t think so, thank you,” he said, smiling. He picked up the revolver and carried a weapon in each hand back to place them on his desk. As soon as he sat, he called Will to tell him about the latest find.
They talked at length before he told Will goodbye and then called Ryan to tell him about the revolver and the rifle. She shook her head and bent over the latest letter, still thinking the letters were the real treasure.
It was an hour before he finished talking to both brothers. With his hands on his hips, he looked at the boxes. “Some of the boxes have objects of value. There’s one more box. I wonder if each one will hold its own treasure. I’ll start looking through this box,” he said, sitting down and pulling a box close. He took out a bunch of letters and put them on the floor.
“These letters are not packed away in any apparent order,” she said. “Put the letters in this box because it’s almost empty now. You’ll tear them up, dumping them out like that. I’ll help you.”
“The precious letters. I’ll take more care,” he said, and began to shift them to the box she had beside her. When his box was three-fourths empty, hers had been filled. He bent over his box and felt around. “I don’t feel anything, except letters.”
“Try reading a few,” she suggested.
He frowned slightly and picked up a letter to skim over it. “Nothing,” he said, tossing it into the discard box and taking another. After an hour, Zach was clearly tired of his fruitless search. “I can’t find anything worth keeping.”
“Maybe I should get in the car and go home now. It’s sort of tempting fate to stay.”
“You made a decision to stay. If you were going you should have left hours ago. You made your decision, so stick with it. If you leave now, you could get caught if the storm comes in early. You’d be in the snow in the dark. Not a good combination. Just stay.”
Stay, she’d have to.
On Friday the storm arrived as predicted, the first big flakes falling late morning. Emma went to