The Time of Aspen Falls Read online

  She plunged the key into the ignition and started the car. How would she ever settle down at work for the rest of the day? How would she settle down for the rest of the week? As she pulled out of the parking lot, gazing one last time at the Clock Shop, she began to worry. Handsome guys were trouble! They were always vain, conceited, self-centered, and usually way too confident in their overpowering effect on women. She thought of Brad Spencer—of his expectations that a ticket to the rodeo was worth some sort of physical give-in from his date.

  Aspen shook her head and tried to dispel thoughts of lumping Rake Locker in with the rest of the men who had disappointed her. The fact that his name was Rake did little to reassure her. The constantly referencing thesaurus in her mind began to list off synonyms at breakneck speed.

  “Rake,” Aspen began aloud. “Synonyms are…rogue, rascal, rounder…seducer, Don Juan, playboy, womanizer, Casanova…blackguard, charlatan, knave, scoundrel, and, of course, rapscallion.” She shook her head and mumbled, “Too many synonyms bouncing around in your head, Aspen. Let it go. Just let it go and have fun.”

  Later, as she entered the Book Nook, her gaze was instantly drawn to a new poster on the wall, near the little café in one corner. It was a poster advertising a new book.

  “Lambs to the Slaughter: Serial Killers Among Us,” she read aloud. “Oh, that’s nice. Just great.” Her anxieties over accepting a date with a man she didn’t know began to return.

  “Excuse me. Do you work here?”

  Aspen turned to see a group of teenage girls standing behind her. There were five of them, and they all wore excited expressions of anticipation.

  “Looking for the Twilight series?” Aspen asked. These girls were classic Stephenie Meyer fans. Being one herself, Aspen could spot them a mile away.

  “We totally love Stephenie Meyer!” one of the girls exclaimed.

  “Well then, she’s—” Aspen began.

  “But we’ve read them all already,” another girl interrupted. “We’re looking for that new book about the girl who goes out with this totally hot guy…only he turns out to be, like, totally a serial killer or something. Do you know which one we mean?”

  Aspen couldn’t keep from shaking her head and smiling at the irony. “Do you know the name of the author?”

  Five inquisitive sets of brows puckered at her.

  “No,” the first girl said. “You work here. We thought you would know.”

  Aspen took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sure we can find it for you,” she said.

  As she walked to the computer, she glanced up at the clock on the wall. Four more hours and she’d be in Old Goldie with Gina. Four more hours. Four more days and she’d be on a date with the handsome Rake Locker—the bull-riding, watchmaking, potential serial killer.

  

  “That’s because you read too many creepy mystery novels when you were in high school,” Gina said.

  Aspen watched as Gina dipped a crudely cut apple slice into the plastic container of caramel on her thigh. She smiled, amused by Gina’s dragging a container of caramel and a pocket knife up into Old Goldie’s branches.

  “That is not true,” Aspen argued. “Just watch the news or read the paper. Serial killers are a dime a dozen these days.”

  “Hottie jogger Rake Locker is not a serial killer…even if he is a clock guy.”

  “What does being a clock guy have to do with it?”

  Gina shrugged and licked caramel off the back of her hand. “I read that creepy Edgar Allan Poe thing in school…the one with the ticking thing going on. It freaked me out. Why do they make kids read that kind of crap in school anyway? If you ask me, it does nothing to encourage literacy. Making kids read stuff they hate just makes them not want to read at all.”

  “First of all, it was a heart beating…not a clock ticking,” Aspen explained. “Though I do think there’s a clock striking it in.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. ‘The Tell-Tale Clock.’”

  “‘The Tell-Tale Heart’…and it is an awful story. I hated it too. And you’re right. Why don’t they choose good, uplifting stuff for kids to read?”

  Gina nodded and, using the old pocket knife, sliced another piece off the apple in her hand. “Remember that awful one about the boys on the island or something? Stupid.”

  “But what if he’s a nut job?” Aspen asked. She knew Gina was right—that there was really no reason to suspect Rake Locker of being some kind of deviant criminal. Yet he was just too good to be true—too handsome—too charming. There had to be something wrong with him.

  “He’s not a nut job, Aspen,” Gina whined. “Just go out with him, and see what happens.” Gina dunked the apple slice in the caramel bowl. She hadn’t finished chewing yet when she said, “I mean…how can a guy whose grandma looks like Mrs. Santa be a nut job?”

  “I’m sure even Jack the Ripper had a grandma, Gina,” Aspen said.

  “Not one that looked like Mrs. Santa.”

  Aspen laughed, and Gina smiled. Gina was so funny! Her dry sense of humor was so often just what Aspen needed to help her cast away her cares and worries.

  “Let’s worry about Mr. Rake Locker later,” Aspen sighed. “How was work?”

  “Oh my heck!” Gina began. “It was total drama today! You know the blond bimbo Kellie…new tech at the urgent care?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So her boyfriend comes in, and he’s all mad because I guess he saw her out with another guy Saturday night, right? So they get in this big argument—in front of all the patients and everything—and Kellie gets mad and slaps him, and it turns into this big thing, and Doctor Ortega walked by. You know Dr. Ortega? Anyway, Dr. Ortega had to call the cops, and, like, Kellie is freaking out, crying, screaming, and the boyfriend was, like, shouting and threatening. It was like one of those Spanish soap operas you see on late-night TV…only without the benefit of Erik Estrada.” Gina frowned, puzzling. “How did Erik Estrada end up on those lame soap operas anyway?”

  Aspen giggled, delighted by her friend’s amusing narrative. “How do you even know who Erik Estrada is?”

  “I watch the CHiPs reruns on the TV Land channel. How do you even know who he is?” Gina ate another bite of caramel-covered apple.

  “My mom used to like him when she was a kid,” Aspen said. She leaned back against Old Goldie’s trunk and sighed. “I love these autumn evenings.”

  “Me too,” Gina said. “The cottonwoods down by the river are starting to change a little. Did you notice?”

  “Mmm hmm!” Aspen breathed, inhaling the warm autumn air and relishing the scent of the ripening fruit all around her. “They’ll really be starting to turn by the time the balloons launch.”

  The Albuquerque International Balloon Festival was one of Aspen’s favorite things in life. Every year, thousands of hot air balloons and their pilots arrived in Albuquerque for the event—two weeks of mass ascensions, Special Shapes Rodeos, balloon glows, and a myriad of other events involving hot air ballooning. It was fantastic, and Aspen loved it!

  One of Aspen’s favorite childhood memories, in fact, involved early October mornings, waking to the sound of a hot air balloon burner and then a shadow moving lazily across the early sun. With joy and delight bursting about in her bosom, Aspen would leap out of bed and dash to the window in time to see a low-flying balloon or two drift past her window. If she was quick enough, she could run outside—pajamas and all—to wave to the pilot and crew. They always waved back.

  Aspen’s parents’ house was situated in a perfect location for viewing the balloons. Waves and waves—hundreds and hundreds—of colorful hot air balloons would drift over their house and yard, many of them quite low—low enough to wave and shout hello. It was magical, and the balloons had been the most exciting, beautiful things of Aspen’s childhood. She still loved them, in fact. On the early October mornings when she was scheduled for the later shift, Aspen would get up early and drive to her parents’ house. Her mom would always have hot chocolate and law
n chairs waiting. Aspen, her parents, and her younger brother would sit out in the yard, sipping hot chocolate and watching as the beautiful orbs of color and wonderment drifted lazily through the morning air.

  “Did you ask for time off for the Special Shapes Rodeo?” Gina asked.

  “I did!” Aspen assured her. Gina offered a high-five, and Aspen met it.

  “I hope the buccaneer balloon is back this year. This will be our fourth year on the field, and we still haven’t seen it again!” Gina noted.

  “I know. And I did buy an extra memory card for my camera this time.”

  Gina nodded her approval and dunked another apple slice in her bowl of caramel.

  “You’re sure he’s not a serial killer?” Aspen asked. For all their lighthearted talk of the past few minutes, Aspen was still nervous about her date with Rake Locker.

  “Of course he’s not!” Gina exclaimed, exasperated. “I mean,” she began, shrugging her shoulders, “he might be a pervert…try to overpower you and—”

  “Okay, shut up,” Aspen interrupted. “I’ll stop.”

  “What’s the song playing in your head when you see him?” Gina asked.

  Aspen smiled. Gina knew a song was always running through Aspen’s head. It had always been that way. Aspen called it her “life soundtrack.” She found that the songs that would pop into her head during events in her life often matched the situation—or person.

  “I mean,” Gina continued, “is ‘Kiss Me’ by Sixpence None the Richer playing when you see him? Or is it some screamy, vocal-chord ripping, head-banger noise?”

  Aspen smiled and giggled. “‘Come Away with Me,’” she answered.

  “Norah Jones?” Gina exclaimed, a delighted smile spreading across her face. “That’s a total make-out song!”

  “Well, it’s calming, if nothing else,” Aspen said. She agreed with Gina, however. It was a song to do some serious romantic kissing by.

  “It’s a good sign, Aspen,” Gina sighed. “And he looks like he’ll be a fabulous kisser!”

  Aspen smiled. Gina was so funny. And it was a good sign—that “Come Away with Me” was the song playing in her mind whenever she saw Rake Locker. She was suddenly encouraged—relaxed about her upcoming date. Her anxieties suddenly washed away, and as Gina leaned back against Old Goldie’s trunk too, there was nothing but the autumn breeze—the autumn breeze, the fragrance of harvest, and the comfort and company of a true friend.

  Chapter Four

  Aspen tried to calm herself—tried to stay seated on the couch—tried to keep her hands from wringing. She was so nervous! She stood and began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth in front of the couch—waiting. What if her hair didn’t look right? What if the jeans and white blouse she wore weren’t a nice enough outfit? What if he didn’t show up? What if he’d changed his mind about taking her out?

  Yet, in the next moment, the doorbell rang. Aspen stopped breathing for a moment; her heart was pounding so franticly within her chest that it hurt. It was him! She knew when she opened the door it would be to find Rake Locker waiting on the other side.

  Swallowing the lump of pure nerves in her throat, Aspen inhaled a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and opened the door. She was instantly rendered breathless once more, however, for the sight of the handsome, gorgeous, delicious-looking Rake Locker momentarily paralyzed her.

  “Hi,” he said, flashing his movie-star smile.

  “Hi,” Aspen managed. He wore a pair of faded Levi’s and a red button-up shirt and stood with his hands shoved casually in his front pockets.

  “You ready to have the time of your life?” he asked.

  Aspen smiled and felt a little calmer. He was so charming! And she was ready—ready to have the time of her life. Eye candy or not, shallow and conceited or not, Rake Locker would be nothing if not a good time, Aspen was sure.

  “Sure,” she said, stepping out of her apartment and closing the locked door behind her.

  “You didn’t eat yet, did you?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Aspen answered, distracted by the dark fire in his eyes.

  “Good.” Rake nodded in the direction of the parking lot. “It’s the old white pickup over there.” Aspen’s smile broadened as she saw an old, pretty banged-up pickup parked near the walkway leading to her apartment. “I was thinking Sadie’s for dinner.” Rake added, motioning for her to precede him.

  “I love Sadie’s!” Aspen exclaimed. And she did. Sadie’s was absolutely her favorite restaurant.

  Nestled in an older part of the north valley, Sadie’s Mexican Restaurant served up the best food in the entire world! Aspen’s mouth began to water at the thought of Sadie’s carne adovada enchiladas. At least she assumed it was the thought of carne adovada. Yet when she reached the pickup and Rake opened the door for her, she glanced at him and wasn’t sure whether it was the anticipation of carne adovada or simply being in Rake Locker’s presence that was making her salivate.

  “And we’ll probably have a long wait,” he said.

  “Sadie’s is worth a long wait,” Aspen assured him. Ooo—a long wait at her favorite restaurant with the likes of Rake Locker? Fabulous!

  Aspen watched—couldn’t keep from smiling as Rake stepped up into his pickup and turned the key in the ignition. The old engine smoothly roared to life, and Rake pulled out of the parking lot.

  “So you like Sadie’s, huh?” he asked as he turned onto the main street.

  “I love it!” Aspen admitted. “I don’t go there very often because…I don’t know about you, but I tend to way overeat when I go there.”

  Rake chuckled and said, “Yeah. I’m usually pretty uncomfortable after the chips and salsa…not to mention the meal.”

  “I know!” Aspen exclaimed. “But…you can’t stop! The salsa is so good, but if you stop…”

  “You can’t stop,” he said, filling in the silence of her pause. “It’s too good and too hot. If you stop…”

  “It just totally burns too much,” Aspen said, filling in the silence of his pause.

  “You are a Sadie’s girl,” he chuckled.

  “You have no idea!”

  Rake changed lanes. “Do you mind going Alameda?”

  “Not at all,” Aspen said. “I’d rather go Alameda. Paseo is so congested anymore.”

  “So how was work?” he asked.

  “Fine. Not much to tell,” Aspen answered.

  “Are you a reader? I mean…you do work at a bookstore.”

  Aspen shrugged. “I like to read, but I’m kind of picky. And I can’t read a ton, ton, ton. How about you?” Aspen was amazed how comfortable she felt. Her nerves had settled so very quickly—it wasn’t normal for her.

  “I read some,” he answered. “I read the paper, college football magazines, and stuff. I’m not much into…you know…books.” Aspen giggled. “Though I do like biographies. Now that I think about it, I read a couple of those a year.”

  “Really?” Aspen asked. How intriguing! “Biographies about who?”

  “Let’s see,” he began, his brow puckering a bit as he mused. “I read one on Ronald Reagan last Christmas, one on Johnny Unitas that my mom gave me for my birthday…um…a Clarence Thomas memoir, and…let’s see…oh yeah! I really like the one someone gave me about Jimmy Stewart’s bomber pilot experience.”

  “Impressive!” Aspen said.

  Rake shook his head and added, “Not really. I still prefer college football magazines.” He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “I bet you’re one of those Jane Austen fans. Am I right?”

  Aspen’s smiled. “Oh, I see. You must have sisters—at least one—and you must think every girl reads Jane Austen.”

  He smiled. “I do have a sister, yes…but it’s the clock that makes me think you like that old Jane Austen stuff.”

  Aspen was curious. Why would the clock clue him into her delight in Jane Austen’s works? “The clock?” she asked.

  “Sure! That clock has been well cared for. I can tell it’s been wound re
gularly, run constantly. The fact you brought it in, it shows you have an affinity for the things of the past. That’s why I think you like that old stuff like Jane Austen.” He smiled, chuckled, and added, “That and, I’ll admit, the fact that my sister says all women love Jane Austen’s books.”

  “Well, I do like Jane Austen,” Aspen admitted. “But she’s not my very favorite.”

  “Who’s your very favorite?” The pickup’s right blinker blinked rhythmically as Rake turned onto Fourth Street.

  “Elizabeth Gaskell…though Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë is my favorite book.”

  Rake shook his head. “Like I said, I read the seasonal college football magazines and an occasional biography…and that’s a stretch.”

  Aspen giggled. He was charming—so engaging when it came to conversation! Definitely too good to be true. She studied him for a moment, trying to discern any physical faults or odd expressions that would tip her off to his character flaws.

  “Well, I can barely wind a clock…let alone fix one,” she said. “And wild cow milking certainly isn’t on my résumé.”

  “Got your attention with that, did I?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she admitted. She wondered then—about what his grandma said about his giving up bull riding for watchmaking. “Your grandma said you used to ride bulls?”

  Rake chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, no!” he breathed. “How long were you in the Clock Shop before I showed up the other day?”

  “Five or ten minutes,” Aspen answered. She could’ve sworn his cheeks were a little red, as if he were embarrassed. It was adorable!

  “Gramma sure gives a lot of information in a short amount of time,” he said.

  “Well?” Aspen prodded.

  He drew in a deep breath and began, “Well…it’s true. My mom and dad were ranchers when I was younger. They ran a spread my grandpa owned between here and Santa Fe. I started out mutton busting when I was about four and was riding bulls as soon as my mom would let me. I’ve got a little nephew who mutton busts now. That’s why I was at the rodeo the other night…to watch him. The wild cow milking thing just sorta happened because an old buddy of mine was short a team member.”