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.”
Confused by the feeling she was missing something, she frowned. “Alain? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call your stepfather that before. You always called him Dad.”
“Yeah, but now that I’m all grown up I call him Alain.” He said it flippantly, adding, “I quit my job at WDIX and Alain wouldn’t hire me at Chez Charles, so there you have it. I’ve gone my own way and I’ve got to say I like it.”
“This is weird.” She shook her head. “Everybody in the family works at one or the other of the Lyon enterprises—except me of course. Even Leslie got suckered in to help with the fiftieth anniversary thing.”
“Now there’s two of us,” he said shortly. “Let’s change the subject. How come you’re living on just what you make as a reporter? I find it hard to believe you can’t afford to furnish your apartment or eat where you choose. The Sharlee I knew wouldn’t take that for five minutes.”
The comment hurt, even though once it would probably have been true.
Okay, would most assuredly
