Page 9 of Flippin' Cowboy
What would Snowberry Springs be without its charming town square surrounded by historic brick buildings, and its train station, built in 1902 as part of the Livingston-to-Yellowstone rail line?
“They called it ‘urban renewal’ back then, and a lot of towns lost their historical heritage. We were determined to save what we could.” Grandma’s expression softened. “And I think we did a pretty good job. In the end, we only lost a couple of buildings, and those were likely too far gone to save. The structural engineer our historical preservation society hired told us they probably would’ve collapsed in another few years—foundation issues.”
“Well, I’m afraid that this place has everythingbutfoundation issues.” Winnie raised her gloved hands and ticked off the biggest issues she’d discovered during their walkthrough. “First of all, it needs a new roof. I’m going to guess originally there were either wooden shakes or slate tiles, and that the Bonhams added layers of asphalt shingles over that. But I won’t know for sure until I can climb up there.”
“And how much will a new roof cost?” Grandma halted on the steps. Her gaze turned upwards to the maze of tiny, derelict rooms on the second floor. “This is quite a large place.”
“It’s not going to be cheap,” Winnie warned. “I won’t know for sure until I get some estimates, but I’m guessing a minimum of eight or nine grand if we use the cheapest roofing materials. But if you want something fireproof that matches the look of this house’s original roof, then I’d recommend either concrete tiles that look like wooden shingles or stone-coated steel shingles. Either of those will cost a lot more than asphalt shingles, but they’ll also last three times longer.”
“I did notice a lot of water damage in the upstairs rooms,” Grandma Abigail said, cautiously resuming her descent.
She halted as she stepped from the bottom tread onto the hideous orange-and-brown tiles covering the floor of the wide entrance hall. She gazed at Winnie, her bright blue eyes filled with concern.
Winnie nodded. “Yeah, fixing that damage is going to be another big-ticket item in this renovation. Those walls are lath and plaster—you saw all of those thin boards where chunks of the upstairs bedrooms’ walls and ceilings fell away?”
“I did. Can they be repaired?”
Winnie shook her head. “It looks like they’re too badly damaged. What we saw upstairs isn’t just damage from one storm, it’s from years of water getting in thanks to roof damage. Plus, I saw signs of black mold.”
Grandma shuddered. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah,” agreed Winnie. “And there may be more mold growing inside the walls. I think we’re going to have to take the second floor down to the studs, reframe everything, and put up new walls. Which brings me to items three, four, and five.” Winnie touched her middle, ring, and pinkie fingers in turn. “Demolition, mold remediation, and…” She tapped the newel post, its delicate carved pattern of vines and birds blurred by layers of white paint chipping away to reveal layers of mint-green and dark red beneath. “Lead remediation, too. I’ll have to get someone out here to take paint chip samples from all the layers on the trim and moldings, but based on the age of this house, and that its last renovation happened during the 1960s, there’s a 95 percent chance they used lead paint.”
Grandma Abigail’s shoulders sagged. “I knew restoring this building would take a lot of time and money, but I didn’t think it wasquitethis bad,” she murmured. She looked around the downstairs rooms. “What else?”
“The electrical wiring looks like the original knob-and-tube,” Winnie reported. She had spotted the wiring in places where the wall plaster had crumbled away. “Bringing it up to code could run us anywhere from four to ten grand, plus we’ll want to add extra outlets everywhere. Then there’s the cast-iron plumbing both inside this house and in the hot spring spa pavilion in the back. Those pipes are well beyond their intended lifespans and probably corroded as hell. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if some of the water damage down here—” she indicated the large downstairs rooms with a sweep of her parka-clad arm, “—isn’t due to plumbing leaks rather than the roof.” She shook her head. “Grandma, truth is, we’re going to spend most of your renovation budget before we even get to the stage where we can restore this house’s historic details.”
There was no doubt about it. The Snowberry Springs Inn & Resort was a sad wreck of a building. It broke Winnie’s heart to see how the beautiful old mansion-turned-hotel had fallen into ruin.
And then there was the crime of the mid-century renovation, when all the building’s charm had been stripped and replaced with the cheapest, tackiest materials available.
With a heavy heart, she delivered the bad news. “Are yousureyou want to restore this place? I mean, it used to be beautiful, and I get wanting to save it because of our family connection, but I have to be honest. Based on the budget you’ve given me, I can’t do this project justice. If you can’t double the amount, it mightbe more cost-effective to demolish this building and sell the land than it will be to fix all the problems and restore everything.”
The front door crashed open. A blast of icy air roared into the dank entrance hall. Startled, Winnie spun to see what was happening.
A tall figure loomed in the doorway.
“Demolishit? Over my dead body!” an angry male voice boomed. “Mrs. Snowberry, when I invested in your mansion, youpromisedme we’d save it and restore it to its former glory!”
Winnie stared in dismay as the newcomer strode in.
Thanks to the Internet, she immediately recognized the strong jaw covered with perfectly tended stubble, the steely gray eyes fringed by sinfully long dark lashes, and the sculpted features of a movie star or a Greek god.
Nick Evans. Rich as sin. Devastatingly sexy in person. And clearly in a bad mood.
As his gaze skewered her, Winnie caught a faint, intriguingly spicy whiff of his cologne.
Her knees went weak. And it wasn’t because he intimidated her.
She raised her chin defiantly and scanned him from head to toe. He was one of the tallest men she’d ever met, clad in expensive outdoor wear from his designer knitted alpaca wool beanie hat to his North Face insulated coat, and down to his top-of-the-line hiking boots.
“Oh, there you are!” Grandma Abigail exclaimed, apparently unbothered by his dramatic entrance. “I was hoping you’d be able to join us in time for the initial walkthrough.”
Evan’s perfectly tanned face darkened. “Sorry I’m late,” he growled. “But you can’tseriouslybe considering a complete demolition of this historic house!”
“My general contractor and I were simply discussing all of our options, now that she’s had an opportunity to tour the property. We haven’t decided on anything yet,” Grandma said smoothly. Then the corners of her cornflower blue eyes crinkled as her lips curved in a mischievous smile. “Nick, have you met my GC? Winter, this is Nick Evans, my partner investor in the Snowberry Springs Inn, and a passionate historical preservationist.”
Evan’s eyes widened. Hadn’t he recognized her without her stage makeup and trademark pink hard hat?
