The Starlight Motel

Chapter Two

Reservations trickled into the motel management system while Kada reconciled invoices. Accountancy was a weak spot, but if Pops could do it, she could, too. When happy hour began in the cantina, the late afternoon lull that let her consider her mural would come to a sudden halt. She had twenty minutes.

A truck horn sounded.

She rolled her shoulders and set aside the paperwork for the delivery driver whose announcement gave her a moment to collect her thoughts.

He walked into the reception area carrying a clipboard. “Where do you want the crate?”

Rounding the motel desk, she rubbed together her hands and peered past his shoulder. She had tracked the package for the last week and worried it wouldn’t arrive in time for New Year’s Eve. Even if the crate did arrive, she questioned how she would fulfill the ignition team’s contract terms. Thinking about housing volatile explosives made the hair on her arms stand on end, and she rubbed away the chill seeping past the forced heat. “Can you stage the fireworks supplies inside the building?”

He scratched his head, turned in place, and hip-checked the foyer tables. Glass ornaments rattled. “Um, lady, the crate weighs a couple of hundred pounds. I have a lift. I can stage it anywhere, but it won’t match your décor.”

“Right.” She wanted to pry open the box and examine the ridiculously expensive pyrotechnics she ordered, but the driver was right. She also had too much work to do and zero dates to spend the next hour checking invoices. “Bring the crate around back to the service entrance and leave it by the loading door.”

“You’re the boss.” He offered the clipboard and pulled it back at the last minute. “Just so you know, this delivery is box one of two. The other part of the shipment is delayed.”

“Oh.” She dropped her shoulders. What would she do with half as many fireworks? “Does it say what’s missing?”

“Bases. Punks.” He scratched his head and looked around the lobby. “Maybe your crew will bring them the day of the event?”

She frowned. “So the crate has zero fireworks?”

He lowered the clipboard to his thigh. “Who ships explosives in commercial freight?”

Hiding her confusion, she extended a hand for the manifesto, signed her name, and wondered how late the vendor took phone calls. On the bright side, motel guests wouldn’t get their hands on anything more dangerous than a sparkler, but she wanted to see the festive explosives up close. Downplaying her disappointment, she focused on the driver and offered him a bottle of water. “Thanks for the help.”

He took the bottle, saluted, and returned to his truck.

She wondered if she could barter firework supplies for dates. Local ordinances permitted “safe and sane” fireworks, but she wanted to go out with a bang. By hiring an operator with a California Pyrotechnics License, she would get a professional show and a lasting memory.

The company representative had waxed poetic about candles like comets, screamers, and shells.

She envisioned bright lights and doodled on a notepad.

The rep described mines, comets, and waterfalls.

Suddenly able to visualize the show, she interrupted his pitch with her credit card number, confirmed the company representative would arrive on New Year’s Eve, and directed supplies to the motel. Naively, she had thought the juiced sparklers would arrive ahead of time. She still had so much to learn.

The door opened.

A man wearing a yellow-and-white patterned shirt, a blue fedora, and a long, white beard stepped into the entryway. He held two metallic, hard-sided suitcases. Setting down a suitcase, he pulled off a pair of black sunglasses and hooked them on his shirt. “Am I too late for check-in?”

Smiling, she woke the laptop. “Of course not! What’s your name?”

“Chris,” he said.

“Last name?”

“Chris. Chris Nicholson.” He winked. “I know it’s a mouthful.”

She struggled not to laugh. The name conjured up tall tales and snowy nights. His parents might have had a sense of humor, but if he had received the name “Fred,” she doubted he would have grown a long, white beard. “I love your name. It’s a great name.”

“Of course, it is!” He puffed out his chest. “I come from a long line of great men.”

Keeping her smile and paging through the reservation system, she found him booked for the next day and looked up. “You’re a day early, but we have plenty of casitas available.”

He rubbed together his hands. “Excellent. This year, I found good help, and I started my vacation with gusto. The younger generation”—he laughed, and his belly shook—“is so eager to take on challenges.”

“Mmm hmm.” She double-checked her system. “Have you stayed with us before?”

“I come for every New Year. I served with Hall himself.”

At the mention of her grandfather’s name, she looked up. Chris might be a decade younger than Pops, but she treasured anyone who could share memories of him. Pops served in three military branches and had daring stories from the Merchant Marines, the Marines, and the Navy. Along the way, he made a thousand eclectic friends like Chris Nicholas.

Wanting to offer Chris a cigar and listen to his stories, she blinked back the tears welling in her eyes. She missed Pops like crazy. He taught her so much about the desert, but she thought she would have more time with him. She cleared her throat. “Hall was one of a kind.”

“You look just like him.” He tapped his temple. “You’re a little crazy around the eyes. I like it.”

She processed the compliment and offered him a wide, surprised smile.

“That old man was as stubborn as a goat. Well, given the locale, we’ll say a ram.”

She grinned and leaned an elbow on the counter. “I believe you.”

To beat back the desert sun, Pops had proudly rotated his veteran hats.

One time, she asked him why he spent so long in the services.

He took off his hat and scratched his full head of white hair. “Just stubborn, I guess. Your great-grandfather was a tough old man. I thought I could be tougher.”

She had believed him. She also thought Pops would live forever, and she bit her lip to keep from ending up an emotional mess at Chris’ feet.

Chris ran a hand over his jaw. “I’ll sure miss that old fart. And which descendant are you?”

Clearing her throat, she straightened. “His granddaughter.”

“Ahh, the muralist.” Taking off his fedora, he bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her cheeks warmed. She had the credentials and the experience to create great works of art, but most guests treated her like anonymous staff. Hearing someone describe her as a muralist validated the tiny flame she kept alight on dark nights. “You, as well.”

Randi delivered a cup of coffee and set it on the desk.

Looking up, Kada smiled. “Thanks.”

Dates . Randi silently mouthed the word and backed away.

“Right.” Kada returned her attention back to Chris, walked around the peninsula, and jerked her head toward the door. “Let’s get you situated in the turquoise casita , sir. It’s close to the lobby.”

He picked up a suitcase. “If I’m lucky, the ladies will clear out of the pool so I can dip my old bones in the water and cool off.”

Laughing, she picked up his second suitcase. “I’ll declare a happy hour special and clear the pool.”

“Just save me a dance at midnight.” He dropped his voice like a weary soldier hoping for respite. “Does that tradition still stand?”

“Of course, the tradition stands.” Every year, guests ushered in the New Year by the pool. Wind pushed peppermint-shaped floats along the pool’s surface, mist fans softened the dry air, and patio lights swung in the breeze. The guest counts and the musical accompaniment varied, but at the stroke of midnight, someone sang “Auld Lang Syne,” and the motel served a champagne toast. Pops and his caterwauling peers always stole the show by leading the finale. “If I dropped the ball on that tradition, I know Hall would haunt me.”

“Probably.” Chris peered through the window. “You said the turquoise casita ?”

She opened the front door and led him into the fading sunlight. Each building sported a vibrantly painted door and a palm frond wreath. If guests grew up in the area, they appreciated the balance between sustainability and sun-kissed luxury. If they grew up elsewhere, they wanted to feel like Marilyn Monroe, and vibrant doors gave them a sense of celebrity panache. S he grabbed the luggage cart, loaded the suitcase, and gestured for Chris to do the same.

He braced his back and stretched. “I carried two inside the motel. I can carry out one.”

“True, but if you wear out your arms, you can’t dance with me.” She pushed the cart toward him.

Grumbling about impudent young women, he dropped the suitcase in place and followed.

The sky shifted toward pink, and the sunset cast the San Jacinto Mountains into silhouette, but remnants of daylight remained. She pushed the cart along the path and admired the patio lights shining over the garden and the landscape spots illuminating the plants. Pool lights shimmered beneath the turquoise pool waters. “How did it get so late?”

“I ask myself that every day,” Chris said.

Honoring the weariness in his tone, she led him to the turquoise casita , handed him the brass key on a red plastic tag, and stepped back. The early evening wind blew her hair in her face, and she gathered the strands into a loose ponytail and tucked it inside her shirt. “You have plenty of time to get settled. If you need anything, pick up the phone and let me know, okay? The night is young.”

“Sure thing.” He unlocked the door and lifted down the first suitcase from the luggage cart. His arms shook, but measured footsteps helped him accomplish his goal.

She would dig through the record collection and send a few of the best LPs to his room.

A moment later, he returned for the second suitcase. “All good.”

Smiling, she left him and pushed the cart back toward the main building. Before she could take ten steps, a flash of light on the hillside caught her gaze, and she turned toward the aerial show.

Heat lightning happened during the summer months, but December’s cooler temperatures usually kept the natural wonder at bay. The fall had been unusually rainy, and the December rain gauge had recorded three inches of rain, but desert weather could be fickle. Given warming trends, she wouldn’t be surprised to see another storm roll into the valley, but the cloudless sky suggested a dry night.

Shaking off the flash, she considered the half-completed mural on the turquoise casita . The ocotillo plant’s twenty-foot tall, spiny stems looked too regal for an incomplete stucco canvas. A fat lizard sat at the edge of the design. Deep breaths moved its chest in and out with the lazy, contented sigh of a full meal, but the work was incomplete.

After prepping the wall, she used the grid method to split her design into proportional squares that fit the wall’s dimensions. Strings let her mark squares on the casita’s wall, and she created a low-tech canvas that allowed her to scale up her design. What if her original design had an error? What if locals spotted a mistake?

A deep, steadying breath calmed her uncertainty. She would have to finish the design without disturbing Chris Nicholson. Maybe she should have given him a different room.

A long shadow crept up the wall.

Turning, she found two men on horseback, picking their way through the desert toward motel property. Both men wore cowboy hats. The shorter man rode a Palomino. Its lighter coat, white mane, and long tail nearly glowed in the low light. The second man rode a taller, chestnut horse with a black mane and a black tail. Both animals were the most handsome horses she had ever seen.

She straightened her shoulders. Instead of admiring the horses’ gaits, she should order the pair back to their Hollywood lot and return to the mountain of waiting paperwork. In Wyoming, she saw plenty of cowboys, and she could do without the riders’ souped-up swagger…or the mess two tethered horses would make.

Determined to send the cowboys packing, she noticed a horseshoe nailed to a casita header for good luck and thought of Pops. For years, he worked with a local barn to provide trail rides for motel guests. The concession worked throughout the early 2000s, but when modern cowboys on dune buggies spooked a horse and endangered a guest, he tabled the outings. Maybe she should welcome the visitors.

She thought of the complications. Sorry, no shirts, no shoes, no horses. Except, she always kept the vacancy sign lit. Her family and her grandfather’s legacy depended on her. She prepped a smile.

The first man on horseback kicked his boots, and the horse quickened his pace. Drawing up, he pulled off his hat and draped it over his thigh. “Miss Kada Ritchie?”

Tucking her chin, she checked her button-up shirt for a nametag before looking around. Nobody else could answer to that name, but if she needed help, she didn’t want to rely on an eighty-year-old veteran who had missed World War II. “Who’s asking?”

The men exchanged glances.

“I’m Dane Palmer,” the man on the chestnut horse said. “My family owns the land next door.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” She shaded her gaze. “I’ve heard about you.” For as long as her family owned the motel, the Palmer family owned the surrounding farmland. Once or twice, the Palmer patriarch offered to buy the Starlight Motel, but Pops resisted and counted the family as friends. They produced the area’s top vegetable crops, cultivated table grapes, and managed fields of fruit trees. Every once in a while, Dane’s mother, Mariah, came by the motel to visit and give her business advice, but Dane and his younger brother remained enigmas. She exhaled. “I’ve met your mother.”

“I’m sure,” Dane said. “She gets around.”

The second man laughed like a rusted pail swinging in the wind.

Dane glanced at the seated cowboy. “This is Walter. He’s the farm’s crew manager.”

Tipping his hat, Walter nodded.

She tented her gaze. “Could you two get down? Between the horses and the low sun, I can’t see you to save my life.”

Hanging his hat on the saddle horn, Dane handed his horse’s reins to Walter. He threw his leg over the horse’s saddle and slid down its side with an easy, athletic grace.

Standing, he was six feet tall, long, rangy, and reserved. He wore boots, jeans, a dark shirt, and a fleece-lined leather jacket that beat back the wind. A hat had smashed his sun-kissed brown hair against his forehead, but he wiped away the mess, cocked his head, and held out his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

Maybe the local cowboys had a leg up on the Wyoming variety. Dark lashes framed his tawny, golden eyes, and full, chapped lips softened his square jaw. If she needed help cleaning gutters or rounding up stray guests, she would know which local heartthrob to call to her side. She took his hand, shook it quickly, dismissed a small jolt of static electricity, and nodded her thanks. “Likewise. That’s much better. What brings you to the motel?”

Opening a saddlebag, he withdrew a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with red-and-white cotton twine. He turned and offered it. “Mom said she had the feeling she should send over a bit of warmth and love.”

Kada eyed the package and wiped her hands on her jeans. After her afternoon, she needed more than a nailbrush to remove the paint and dust from beneath her nails, but curiosity compelled her to reach for the package. Taking the brown paper, she avoided brushing her fingers against his fingers and stepped back. “Thanks. Most people would drive.”

He shrugged and crossed his arms. “I’m not most people.”

Walter dismounted and cleared his throat. “Don’t mind him. He’s been on the trail all day.”

At eye level, she could see he was also a remarkably handsome man with weathered, dark skin and a bright, Hollywood smile. She could line up the pair for a photo shoot and redo the motel’s branding. “Why are you riding horses?”

Walter adjusted his mount’s bit. “Less impact on the crops. If you’d prefer, we can go back for the tractor. Farming rarely requires speed.”

The last year of her life felt like a race to the finish. She shifted her weight and hefted the package from the Palmer family. “What is this thing? A brick of butter?”

“Date cake,” Dane said.

She groaned. The homemade delicacy would be a treat, but every bite would remind her of her quest. “Awesome.”

Walter choked on a laugh and slapped his chest. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“No.” She held up a hand to apologize. “Mariah’s gift is generous, and thank you both for bringing it over. It’s just, I’m fresh out of dates, and we have a travel writer staying at the motel. If I could find a pound of local fruit, I’d pay twice the price.” She tilted her head and eyed the package she held. “Maybe the writer likes date cake.”

Dane turned and removed a large plastic bag from his horse’s saddlebag. He thrust the bag into her arms. “Here.”

Taken aback, she gripped the bag and balanced both loads. “What’s this?”

He frowned. “Dates.”

“You carry dates?” She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, but running a business required propriety. She retained a shred, but throwing herself at a handsome cowboy might be a fine way to go out. Instead of indulging her impulse, she cleared her throat.

“I’m a date farmer.” He plucked at his black cotton shirt and pulled it away from his chest. Flexing his arms, he worked his hands, a smile ticked up the side of his mouth. “Among other things.”

She wet her lips, but her reaction had nothing to do with the dates. Mariah had been holding out. “Good to know.”

He scratched his chin. “Maybe we can make a deal to get you out of this pickle. A lifetime supply of dates in exchange for the motel deed.”

“Huh.” She tilted her head. “What a generous offer. How could a woman refuse?”

He barked out a laugh, pulled his hat from the saddle horn, and tipped it on his head. “Worth a try.”

She had tried many things, but bartering for her family’s future would be a new low. Dane’s rusty laugh intrigued her, and she imagined painting his broad back beneath the desert sun, but obligations kept her from exploring her interest. They didn’t keep her from being practical. Looking past his shoulder, she tilted her head and considered the horse’s smooth, oiled saddlebag. “What else do you have in those bags?”

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Opportunistic.”

He laughed. “Not much.”

The heartfelt sound dampened her impulses. She would write Mariah a thank-you note for the date cake, but she refused to annex acreage for emergency supplies. “Too bad, but I appreciate the cake.”

“My pleasure.” He turned and lifted one foot to a hanging stirrup. His thigh muscles bunched and strained his jeans.

Her interest in his saddlebag flared into a steady warmth in her core. “Wait!” She gripped the dates. “I mean, hold up.”

Both men stared.

Her throat went dry. “Can I offer you a drink?”

Dane shook his head. “We have to get back to the farm. Walter’s family is in town for the holidays, and I promised my mother I would be home before sunset.”

She looked at the shadows creeping down the mountains. The idea of a grown man obeying his mother and running errands on horseback amused her, but holidays were the perfect time for whimsy and cheer. If this pair visited the motel more frequently, then she could incorporate the two handsome, rangy cowboys into her next mural. The possibilities sparked her creativity, but she doubted she would be on-site long enough to captures their subtleties. “You’d better hurry home.”

Lifting into the saddle, Dane placed his hat on his head. He accepted his horse’s reins from Walter.

Walter swung up to the Palomino’s back and tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

She grinned. “Evening.”

The pair of horses and riders set off at an easy walk.

She watched their dignified retreat. What a mighty good lookin’ pair of…

Lightning cracked overhead. A brilliant display arced across the sky. She covered her ears and inhaled the ozone remnants.

Dane’s chestnut horse reared and came down hard on a rock. The animal’s whinny ricocheted between the casitas and turned the heads of motel guests.

Horses reared in movies, but watching the muscled animal paw the air amazed and scared her more than any celluloid scene. If twelve hundred pounds of horseflesh decided to careen through the motel’s grounds, she would need more than a happy hour to soothe startled nerves. Then again, if the horse came out fine, her motel guests might enjoy the show. She held her breath.

Leaning over the horse’s shoulder, Dane patted its heaving chest and spoke softly.

The horse stepped and shifted.

He urged him forward a few steps.

Even to Kada’s untrained eye, she saw the horse’s gait looked off. Lowering her hands from her ears, she waited for Dane to lead the animal home.

Dismounting, Dane ran a hand along the horse’s leg and then picked up the hoof.

She exhaled and empathized with the startled animal. “Hurt?”

Dane nodded. “He’s tender and warming.” He looked at Walter. “Same foot. He’s lame again.”

“Too bad.” Walter shook his head.

Looking back and forth between the pair, she wanted to comfort the horse, but she felt clueless. After running the motel for a year, the feeling should be familiar.

“I’ll stay with Smoky until you get the trailer.” Walter looked over his shoulder toward where she stood. “Could you get Dane a ride back to the farmhouse?”

She adjusted the bag of dates and the wrapped bread she held. “Sure. Let me deliver these gifts to the kitchen, and I’ll find someone to give Dane a lift home.”

“No.” Dane stood and soothed Smoky’s sidestepping jitters. “I’ll stay. Walter, take your horse back to the house and send one of the guys to come get Smoky and me. We’ll be fine for a few hours. Your family’s waiting.”

Walter ran his tongue over his teeth and used a thumb to scratch out a spec of food. “You’re hiding from your mama.”

“I’m no good in the kitchen.” Dane ran a comforting hand along the horse’s neck. “The holidays upend my routine, and I never finish my work enough to relax. Who needs a dozen types of cookies anyway?”

Mariah’s cookies could win awards. She raised a hand.

Neither man acknowledged the gesture.

“All right,” Walter said. “I’ll tell Mariah to expect you in an hour or two, but I’m eating your cookies.”

Dane winked. “Make it three hours.”

Walter laughed and rode off toward the farm.

Gripping Smoky’s bridle, Dane turned the animal and oriented him toward the motel. “I guess you’re stuck with us.”

“Is he okay?” Watching the horse move, she looked for signs of distress. She didn’t have a barn, but she was sure she could find a few carrots and an apple to ease the animal’s discomfort. “That was quite the bolt of energy. I might have jumped, too.”

“He’ll be okay. An old injury crops up sometimes. We think we have a handle on it, but it flares up when we least expect it.”

Shifting her bounty to her left hand, she held out her right hand and hoped the gelding was friendly toward out-of-work muralists running quirky, desert motels.

Dane loosened his grip on the bridle.

Smoky swung his great head, sniffed her fingers, and left a friendly nose wipe along her white shirt.

She appreciated the affection, but after scratching the horse’s sleek coat, she pulled back a hand and rubbed the gelding’s hair off her fingers. “Yep, now I definitely need a shower.”

Dane and the horse snorted.

The horse’s shallow huff reminded her of lazy afternoons watching Pops prep for a trail ride. She ached to return to Los Angeles, and she simultaneously feared she hadn’t done enough during her year in the desert. “The dates…”

“Don’t mention it.” Dane pulled lower his hat.

Smoky pawed the ground.

He looked around. “Do you have any outbuildings?”

She rubbed her arms against the cooling wind and considered the motel from a stranger’s point of view. She had twenty casitas , studios, and standard rooms. A listing, aluminum recreational vehicle occupied the parking lot’s RV camping spot, and desperate motorists could always sleep in their cars. Lounge chairs surrounded the pool and the desert gardens, but she had zero barn facilities. “We have a maintenance shed, but I doubt Smoky would fit inside the building and be comfortable.”

“Let’s find an out-of-the-way place to tie up his reins. Somewhere nobody will bother him, and he can keep weight off his leg.” Dane shook the edge of his leather jacket. “You cold?”

She made a half-hearted sound.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“I don’t know what would suit him.” She considered her options. Palm Springs was never part of the Wild West. Indigenous people inhabited the desert before citrus and date farmers arrived and staked claims. Even though Southern Californians loved the desert’s beauty, shot westerns in aged outbuildings, and posed for Christmas cards with towering cacti, working barns never graced the site that would become the Starlight Motel.

She couldn’t imagine what kind of person would play out a West Texas fantasy in Palm Springs but make zero provisions for stock. If the motel resembled a small village, it should have a barn. Any cowboy from the high plains of Wyoming to the Sonoran Desert would look after his or her animals before they looked after themselves. Maybe the rented studio ponies all went back to the stockyard. Dismissing the maintenance shed and the parking lot, she considered each casita and assessed its potential.

None of the occupied casitas would work. The unoccupied buildings left Smoky too much room for mischief. She looked at her tiny abode.

A short fence kept staff and visitors from infringing on the small, private oasis. Set back from the paths, the little house matched its stucco neighbors, but she worked hard to make it her own. Red clay tiles kept back the sun, wooden beams made interesting shadows, and a small porch created shade. Unlike the other buildings, thorny roses growing in planters stood sentry by the front door. “I know the place.” Leading Dane and Smoky toward her home, she opened the gate and spread wide her arms. “ Mi casa es su casa .”

Smoky bit the head off her favorite rose bush.

Cringing, she blinked and hoped Dane missed her response.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “The horse will drop enough waste to ruin your yard. I’ll help you clean up the mess, but you won’t win any landscaping awards.”

“He’ll be comfortable here. I can find him a bucket of water, and nobody will bother him in my space. You can camp out at the cantina and surf the web or monitor the weather. Do whatever farmers do when they have an hour off from work.”

He grunted.

She looked away from the roses. “You do take breaks, don’t you?”

Smoky huffed.

“I do.” Stripping off Smoky’s saddle, bags, and blanket, Dane set the gear by the front door and laid his leather jacket over the pile. After removing the gelding’s bit, he pulled a halter from the saddlebags and applied the nylon gear. Looping the lead rope around a fence rail, he left enough slack to contain Smoky and keep him from vaulting the fence.

She admired his capability. How did a person make such practical skills look so effortless?

Slapping dust from the animal’s flank, he shut the gate, tested the latch, and brushed clean his hands. “Thanks. He’ll be fine, and I’ll be zero trouble. Get back to running your motel, and don’t worry about us. You’ll barely know we’re here.”

I doubt that fact. Clutching the date cake and the dates, she shifted her weight. “Great.”

“Great.” He raised his eyebrows.

Lightning flashed in the distance.

She frowned. “I’d better get these dates to the kitchen. You can hang out by the firepit or join the rest of us in the main building. Night will fall soon, and the temperature will drop.”

“I’m aware. You’re the one who needs a jacket.”

“Right. Of course.” Turning her back on his wry smile, she fled before she said something stupid. She had a million things to do, and reprioritizing her task list to make s’mores with a handsome cowboy shouldn’t be at the top of the list.