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Mountain Country Courtship
Glynna Kaye


His Hometown RomanceAfter being jilted at the altar, the last place Denny Hunter wants to be is in his hometown. Yet he’s back in Hunter Ridge renovating a rundown old inn with the lovely Lillian Keene. He doesn't know she's a runaway bride—or that her niece has serious matchmaking plans. But in this Hearts of Hunter Ridge book, Denny and Lillian discover that the most important restoration starts with the heart.







His Hometown Romance

After being jilted at the altar, the last place Denny Hunter wants to be is in his hometown. Yet he’s back in Hunter Ridge renovating a run-down old inn with the lovely Lillian Keene. He doesn’t know she’s a runaway bride—or that her niece has serious matchmaking plans. But in this Hearts of Hunter Ridge book, Denny and Lillian discover that the most important restoration starts with the heart.


GLYNNA KAYE treasures memories of growing up in small Midwestern towns—and vacations spent with the Texan side of the family. She traces her love of storytelling to the times a houseful of great-aunts and great-uncles gathered with her grandma to share candid, heartwarming, poignant and often humorous tales of their youth and young adulthood. Glynna now lives in Arizona, where she enjoys gardening, photography and the great outdoors.


Also By Glynna Kaye (#uc7b05aab-7c20-5c40-a26a-39a595a80f7b)

Hearts of Hunter Ridge

Rekindling the Widower’s Heart

Claiming the Single Mom’s Heart

The Pastor’s Christmas Courtship

The Nanny Bargain

Mountain Country Cowboy

Mountain Country Courtship

Dreaming of Home

Second Chance Courtship

At Home in His Heart

High Country Hearts

A Canyon Springs Courtship

Pine Country Cowboy

High Country Holiday

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Mountain Country Courtship

Glynna Kaye






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08249-5

MOUNTAIN COUNTRY COURTSHIP

© 2018 Glynna Kaye Sirpless

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


It starts with just a little hope...

“It was good seeing you.”

“You, too.”

But when Lillian moved off in the direction of her car, Denny couldn’t help but call after her. “Should we get together tonight?”

She halted and looked in his direction, her eyes widening slightly.

“I mean to narrow down the colors—with your aunt, too, of course.”

“Daylight would be better for that, don’t you think?”

“Noontime tomorrow, then? I can pick up sub sandwiches and we can make it a working lunch out in the garden.”

She hesitated for the briefest moment, then nodded. “Okay, sure. I’ll see you then.”

For whatever reason, Denny whistled a merry tune all the way to his car.

For the first time in recent memory, he was not in that much of a hurry at the moment to get himself out of Hunter Ridge...


Dear Reader (#uc7b05aab-7c20-5c40-a26a-39a595a80f7b),

While Lillian may be the only one of the pair who chose to flee from the altar, both she and Denny clearly have “runaway hearts” needing to be healed. Despite a longing to love and be loved, both hold misconceptions about themselves and others that have built barriers only our loving Heavenly Father can break down. Only He can show them that they must first accept His love in order to unlock the bolted doors to their hearts.

Have you accepted the love God offers to you? He’s there, ready and waiting, with open arms. For “this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.” There is no greater gift that’s ever been given.

I must admit that saying goodbye to a beloved Arizona mountain town in this final book of the Hearts of Hunter Ridge series is bittersweet. It’s been a time of change for the little community, and I’ve enjoyed exploring with you the lives and loves of the men and women who have always called this place home, who once fled its city limits and returned, or who stepped into the little community for the very first time—all with connections, either family or friend, to the Hunters of Hunter Ridge. I hope you’ve enjoyed your visits there, as well!

You can contact me at Love Inspired Books, 195 Broadway, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10007. And please stop by glynnakaye.com (http://www.glynnakaye.com) and Seekerville.blogspot.com (http://Seekerville.blogspot.com), which is designated as one of Writer’s Digest magazine’s 101 Best Websites for Writers. We love readers, too!

Glynna Kaye


Herein is love, not that we loved God,

but that he loved us, and sent his Son

to be the propitiation for our sins.

—1 John 4:10

Therefore if any man be in Christ,

he is a new creature: old things are passed away;

behold, all things are become new.

—2 Corinthians 5:17

And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three;

but the greatest of these is charity.

—1 Corinthians 13:13


To my Heavenly Father, who gifted me with

a love of storytelling and who has walked

alongside me every step of the way. And to my

faithful readers, who make the ups and downs

of writing a book totally worth the journey.


Contents

Cover (#uc46f4010-a637-5bbc-8b76-ed2b3ef4cca3)

Back Cover Text (#u18dde6e3-253c-5e6c-92ff-ca59c30be35e)

About the Author (#u58a7dac8-cea4-5063-88fe-5b391da8b616)

Booklist (#u0574efb2-d08c-5029-a3a5-34883e823382)

Title Page (#u59872326-cdf1-55c8-b879-7fce1a3b9b76)

Copyright (#u724d7134-ad39-5fbe-8a00-422638aa1c10)

Introduction (#u26be08d1-95cc-5937-bdff-d5e5563882f2)

Dear Reader (#u010a33ba-729b-53fe-9bf5-d6d05805ee10)

Bible Verse (#ucee3403b-e640-557b-bf21-2e6699048095)

Dedication (#ub22933b0-d51a-57c5-b154-e611bf6694ac)

Chapter One (#u3aab0df5-da7f-5952-a9f5-6ed3481df062)

Chapter Two (#u1ddf3e98-727e-5f62-a95d-b82193f87ea4)

Chapter Three (#u5b670acb-ad9e-5505-a6c6-6d619108dd32)

Chapter Four (#uac5c639d-4fd3-5dc4-b193-47a5a7e00100)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#uc7b05aab-7c20-5c40-a26a-39a595a80f7b)

The honor of your presence is requested

at the marriage of

Corrine Elizabeth Anton

and

Victor Andersen Gyles

Two o’clock in the afternoon

Saturday, October...

With an exasperated shake of his head, Hayden “Denny” Hunter crammed the summons and RSVP back into the envelope, then tossed it into an open briefcase sitting on the parked Porsche’s leather passenger seat. When packing for an unavoidable business trip to “hometown” Hunter Ridge in mountain country Arizona, he’d come across the invitation he’d ignored a few days earlier. So why had he brought it along with him, let alone opened it once he arrived at his destination?

He’d like to believe he was inadvertently added to the invitation list by someone not comprehending the complexity of the situation—that his older stepbrother’s betrothed had only in June left Denny standing at the altar, and that after a prolonged absence from the family hotel business, that same stepbrother had also swooped in to carry off a promotion Denny had worked long and hard for.

“At least I hope,” he said aloud in the confines of his vehicle, “neither Corrine nor Vic chose to be deliberately insensitive.”

With a low growl, Denny exited the sports car he’d driven from San Francisco and slammed the door more firmly than necessary. It was a crazy long drive. But although the purpose of this trip on behalf of his mother, Charlotte Gyles, was to have a face-to-face meeting with the manager of an inn she owned, it also gave him a chance to blow the cobwebs out of his brain with a road trip. In particular, it provided uninterrupted time to strategize how to get back in the good graces of his stepfather, hotelier Elden Gyles.

He would fulfill his assignment here—how could he refuse, given his mother’s recent car accident?—and tie it to an obligatory visit with his father’s side of the family. But he hoped not to linger long in the town he’d set foot in only once since his mother took off with his two-year-old self at the time of his parents’ divorce thirty years ago.

He gazed resentfully at the two-story natural stone structure, three guest rooms wide, that had brought him back to this tiny town in the middle of nowhere—the Pinewood Inn. Nor could he help noticing the two vacant buildings his mother owned that abutted it on either side, their boarded-up windows appearing as unseeing eyes that faced the winding, ponderosa pine–lined main road through town.

That had creeped him out as a kid two decades ago. Kind of did now, too.

“Hey, Mister.” A soft, childish voice came from the shadowed recesses of the inn’s broad porch. “Do you want to buy a ticket to the Hunter’s Hideaway Labor Day charity barbecue?”

No, he did not. He wanted to take care of business and get himself back home before his stepbrother—five years his senior—commandeered more than what he’d already laid claim to.

The child who’d delivered the sales pitch jumped up from a rocking chair where she’d been sitting and cautiously moved to the railing, a brown envelope clutched to her chest. Slanting rays of a late August sun illuminated a blond-haired, freckle-faced girl not much older than seven or eight. She wore jeans and a turquoise knit top, and her solemn eyes reflected a wariness that belied the courage it must have taken for her to speak to a stranger.

He offered the girl a reassuring smile. “Sure, I’ll buy one.”

Her eyes widened. “You will?”

He must be her first customer. “How much?”

“Twenty dollars.”

Giving a low whistle, he pulled out his wallet, remembering the five dollars his dad had grudgingly forked over for a similar event the first—and only—time a then-twelve-year-old Denny had come for a visit. Inflation had hit even here in the backwoods, but no doubt it was for a worthy cause—and there was no obligation to attend. He’d be long gone by the weekend.

“Here you go.” He held out the requested amount as the girl joined him on the sidewalk.

Brows lowered in sober concentration, the youngster tucked the bill into the envelope, then carefully extracted a printed ticket and handed it to him. “See that number? You can win a prize.”

“Can’t beat a deal like that, can I?”

“Nope.”

“What else do you say, Taylor?” a pleasant female voice called from behind them.

He and the miniature charmer looked to where a woman in her late twenties approached, dark waves of collar-length hair glinting in the sunlight and her high-heeled pumps tapping rhythmically on the sidewalk. Her black pencil skirt that hit just above the knees, pink top and gray blazer seemed out of place for a Monday afternoon in this laid-back little town. Nevertheless, she was an eye-catcher.

The girl she’d called Taylor obediently looked up at him. “Thank you, mister.”

Still no smile.

“You’re welcome. I’m sure a pretty girl like you will sell a lot of tickets.” The disbelieving look she returned nearly made him pull out his wallet a second time and buy ten more.

The woman—Taylor’s mother?—gazed affectionately at the youngster, then dipped her head to study him over the top of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, revealing the most beautiful hazel eyes he’d ever seen.

“Are you here to see about a room?” Those amazing eyes brightened expectantly. “We do have a vacancy.”

She worked at the inn?

“Actually, I’m here to see the inn’s manager, Miss Everett.” Formerly the community library manager, the older woman had befriended his mother decades ago, when as a newlywed his parent struggled with the isolation of the town and a marriage that was far from what she’d dreamed of.

The brunette tilted her head. “Viola Everett is my great-aunt. I’m Lillian Keene. And you are...?”

“Charlotte Gyles’s son.” Her eyes widened slightly, confirming she recognized his mother’s name. Was this the niece his mother said had cared for Miss Everett when she’d broken a hip last winter? “I’m Hayden Hunter.”

Inwardly he winced, recalling the wedding-day text message he’d received while standing at the front of a church sanctuary, all eyes on him. You are a hard man to love, Hayden Harrison Hunter. “But I prefer Denny. Or Den.”

He shook her offered hand, not caring for the unwelcome spark of awareness that shot through him at her touch. If there was one thing he didn’t need right now, it was being attracted to a woman who might all too soon wish she’d never laid eyes on him.

Her smooth forehead creased. “One of the Hunter’s Hideaway Hunters.”

“More or less.” But unlike most of his half siblings and cousins on his dad’s side, his parents’ divorce and his early exit from Hunter Ridge ensured he hadn’t played a part in the family legacy in this region. Hunter’s Hideaway was one of the holdings of the family-run Hunter Enterprises, a business catering to hunters, hikers, horsemen and other outdoor enthusiasts. “I grew up in San Francisco. Live there now.”

Her smile widened, catching him off guard. “In that case, I especially thank you for coming all this way. It’s greatly appreciated.”

Appreciated? Surely his mother hadn’t given her the impression she was having him drop in for a cup of coffee and a friendly chat. Shifting uncomfortably, he smiled down at the little girl who gazed at him with open interest, then winked at her—and for the first time glimpsed a shy smile.

“Your daughter is quite the salesperson. I came close to buying her entire stock of tickets.”

“I’m not her daughter.” The child shot him an insulted glare.

“Taylor’s my niece.” Lillian reached out to draw the girl to her side, but, as if sensing her intention, Taylor abruptly knelt to inspect a fist-size pinecone on the sidewalk. What he interpreted as hurt momentarily clouded the woman’s lovely eyes. “She’s staying with me for a while.”

Apparently having had enough of adult company, Taylor handed her aunt the envelope, then hopped up on the porch and disappeared inside the building.

But even without the child’s listening ears, he didn’t intend to conduct business where passersby might be privy to his mother’s and the inn manager’s affairs. One young couple had already paused to give his silver Porsche an admiring once-over. He should have driven something less conspicuous, but too late now.

He motioned to the inn. “Perhaps we should step inside?”

“Yes, please come in.” Delivering another smile that ramped his heart rate up a notch, she turned to the inn and tilted her head in invitation for him to follow. “My aunt will want to meet you, and I know you’re tired from the drive and could use some refreshment. I’m grateful Mrs. Gyles sent someone in response to our inquiries.”

Interesting way of putting it. Constant complaints was more like it. Demands for plumbing fixes, gutter and downspout repairs, appliance and flooring replacements. Window treatments, furnishings and other upgrades. His mother, dealing with grueling postaccident physical-therapy challenges, had persuaded him to personally address the situation. No doubt she thought a son who’d spent the last decade directing renovation and management of properties for his stepfather’s boutique hotel enterprise, GylesStyle Inns, could best evaluate the complaints.

She wanted him to determine the level of attention the inn realistically required—superficial only, a moderate renovation or an investment in “the works.” Or, considering the possibility of Miss Everett’s deteriorating health—which he was also asked to report back on—was it best to shut down the inn and be done with it?

Denny was all for the latter.

But as he stepped onto the porch where Lillian Keene awaited him, he couldn’t help but notice that the paint on the white railing and wooden door was chipped and the porch’s floorboards were in need of resealing. Maybe those complaints were legitimate?

He frowned. “Ms. Keene, what—?”

“Lillian, please.” She opened the door and entered the shadowy interior. He followed, noting the welcoming creak of a hardwood floor and the faint scent of furniture oil.

“I’m especially grateful,” she continued, “that Mrs. Gyles is willing to see to the repairs before my aunt’s contract renews. We’ve been concerned as to the inn’s long-term sustainability in its current condition. Thanks in part to your mother’s efforts to draw an artisan dynamic to the town, guest expectations are rising. No criticism intended—tastes do change over time—but who knows when the most recent interior-design decisions were made? Obviously sometime after the structure was built by my great-great-grandfather in 1927, so it’s long overdue for a freshening up in multiple respects. And do you think there’s something your mother can do about those boarded-up buildings next door? Such an eyesore.”

Staring at her, Denny felt a muscle in his stomach tighten. Had his mother forgotten to call ahead as she’d promised? She was supposed to pave the way for his visit.

A quick glance around the entryway and into the spacious front parlor confirmed they were alone, but he lowered his voice.

“Actually, Ms. Keene... Lillian...” His mother had been clear about his marching orders. “I was asked to come here for what, depending on my findings, may result in something else altogether.”

“And what would that be?”

He shouldn’t be discussing his mother’s business with anyone other than Viola Everett, but no doubt the condition of the building, her aunt’s health and subsequent ability to perform her job well were fair topics for this niece who was evidently so involved with the inn.

“I’m here to let your aunt know,” he said as gently as he could, “that depending on my evaluation of the property, her managerial contract may not be renewed. The inn may be closed.”

* * *

Please, God, this can’t be happening.

But it was. And it was her fault.

Heart pounding, Lillian took in Hayden Hunter’s somewhat road-weary sea-blue eyes and dark brown, neatly styled hair. He was solidly built—a navy golf shirt emphasized broad shoulders, and charcoal Dockers showed off slim hips. A scar nicked the corner of his mouth, and the firm jaw was in need of a shave this late in the day. But now she couldn’t believe she’d thought him story-worthy handsome when she’d first spied him talking to Taylor.

With an agenda like his, he was no storybook hero.

“Charlotte is considering closing the Pinewood Inn?” Her words came out more sharply than intended. “Why? Because my aunt spoke up for her own best interests and those of your mother? Tried to persuade her that much-needed upgrades to the property are overdue?”

A flicker of surprise, followed by a slight narrowing of his eyes, confirmed Denny had been taken aback by her heated response. And didn’t like it.

“What is your connection to the inn? Other than that it’s managed by Viola Everett, who happens to be your great-aunt. Are you employed here?”

“No, I’m not an employee. I’m...”

What was she? A Phoenix librarian by profession. Then when her single aunt had faced serious medical obstacles in January with a fall that broke a hip, she’d taken a leave of absence to care for her. After a series of personal setbacks of her own, she’d ended up staying on, assuming the day-to-day management of the inn around part-time library clerk employment. A position that, God willing, might soon open up to a full-time one.

Hunter Ridge not only was her aunt’s lifelong home, but was more conducive to meeting the needs of Lillian’s troubled niece—for however long Taylor remained with her this time. Both great-aunt and niece, however, would have to pack up and go with her to Phoenix if she was unable to support them here. Unfortunately, relating those personal details to Denny Hunter wouldn’t prove her validity to speak on her aunt’s behalf that he was seeking.

“I believe, Ms. Keene—” A faint smile touched his lips. No more Lillian. “—that I should speak directly with your aunt regarding business matters going forward.”

“But I’m—” Don’t go there. Don’t further sink your aunt’s ship by implying she’s no longer capable of running the operation on her own. “My aunt would be entirely comfortable with my participation in conversations regarding her role and the future of the inn.”

He shrugged. “If she’s agreeable, I’ll continue this conversation with both of you.”

“Then I’ll let her know you’re here.” Lillian’s smile evaporated as she headed to the rear of the inn.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Knowing what she did from Aunt Viola about Charlotte Gyles and her history of animosity toward Hunter Ridge, why had she encouraged her aunt to email her employer with what might be interpreted as demands? In fact, her aunt had balked at emailing the requests, but Lillian had been persistent, naively placing confidence in the fact that Mrs. Gyles—formerly Mrs. Douglas Hunter of Hunter Ridge—held her aunt in high regard. Hadn’t she, in many respects, indulged Aunt Viola in allowing her to manage the inn when she’d retired from her librarian position?

Lillian hadn’t expected a backlash.

The kitchen and dining room were empty of both aunt and guests, so she let herself into the two-bedroom apartment she and Taylor currently shared with the inn’s manager.

The little girl was sprawled on a floral love seat, her nose buried in a book, and Lillian’s heart contracted at her resemblance to Lillian’s younger sister, Annalise. Slim build. An upturned nose. Long-lashed green eyes that reflected a wary fragileness not often seen in a child her age.

But was that any surprise?

Her mother, red-eyed and sniffling, had dropped her daughter off on the first day of June, whispering that she needed time to breathe. To live life apart from the never-ending responsibility of child-rearing. She had a new man in her life—of course. And right then and there, she handed off Taylor’s overstuffed suitcase, gave her bewildered daughter a hug and drove away.

Again.

The look Taylor gave Lillian as she entered the apartment and placed the ticket envelope on the table was anything but welcoming. That was a familiar pattern that always followed when the child’s mother put in an unexpected appearance. In a few days, however, Taylor would recover from her mom’s visit Saturday, and all would be well again—or fairly well—between aunt and niece.

Drop off. Visit. Reclaim. Drop off. Visit. Reclaim.

How long would it be before Annalise again tired of the latest man in her life and bounded back into Taylor’s, sweeping her from Lillian’s arms and away from a stable home? Annalise wasn’t a bad person, but she was immature and too often thought solely of herself. Was Lillian morally obligated to try to gain legal custody? Or was she fooling herself that if given the opportunity she could eventually break down the walls her niece had built around her heart, which had her pulling away when anyone got too close.

Shortly after Taylor’s arrival, Lillian had guiltily consulted a lawyer. But he’d warned that with her being a single woman, currently working part-time and in temporary housing with an elderly aunt, she didn’t have much to prove that her situation was superior to her sister’s. And now, if the inn closed, they’d lose the roof over their heads until other arrangements could be made. So things would look worse than ever, should she attempt to take legal action now.

“Is Aunt Viola here, Taylor?”

Focused again on the book, she didn’t look up. “Nap.”

That extreme weariness was one of the reasons Lillian continued to stay on with an aunt who’d always welcomed her for visits when as a child and adolescent Lillian needed an anchor in the storm of her parents’ seminomadic lifestyle. An anchor against which Annalise chose to rebel.

As much as Lillian wanted to continue the discussion with Denny, however, she wouldn’t wake her aunt. She’d be groggy. Not at her best. Not how Lillian wanted Charlotte Gyles’s son to see her. With a regretful glance at Taylor, she stepped back into the hallway and pulled the door shut. Then, mustering what she hoped was a convincing smile, she returned to the front of the inn, where she’d left Mr. Hunter.

In her absence, he’d moved from the entryway into the front parlor and was inspecting the fireplace. Had he checked out the crack in the window? The drapery rod pulling loose from the wall and the water stain on the ceiling? What were his qualifications, anyway, to be “evaluating” the inn?

And judging her aunt.

Unfortunately, the latter was what he was undoubtedly here for as much as anything. To report back to his mother that her aging friend was no longer capable of fulfilling her responsibilities. The condition of the property was a secondary issue.

Sensing her presence, the man turned in her direction with an easy smile, his brows lifted in expectation.

“I’m afraid my aunt’s unable to join us at the moment. If you’d care to wait...?” Please, please don’t let him wait, Lord.

“As a matter of fact—” He glanced at his watch. “I’m joining my father shortly and need to check into my cabin at the Hideaway first. I got to town early and thought I’d stop in to introduce myself. I didn’t plan to inspect the property today.”

Did he expect her to thank him for that? Truth of the matter was that he’d hoped to catch them off guard. Wouldn’t he have otherwise called ahead for an appointment?

“You’ll return tomorrow, then? Say ten a.m.?” She wasn’t working at the library Tuesday, and her aunt would be at her best to meet him in the morning, so she may as well call a few shots here. Control what she could.

“Ten it is.”

He thrust out his hand, and she reluctantly shook it, irritated at the way his larger one engulfed hers and sent a betraying tingle racing up her arm. He’s nice enough to look at, but don’t make the same mistake twice.

For a fleeting moment their gazes locked, questioning, as if seeking to draw out the secrets the other harbored. Then he released her hand and headed out the door.

Intending to follow him onto the porch, she abruptly halted at the threshold, loath to step out on the street where teenager Randy Gray was ogling Denny Hunter’s shiny sports car. Her face heated. Not a single time since she’d left Cameron Gray standing at the altar in June had his younger brother failed to greet her with flapping wings and clucking chicken sounds.

She stepped farther back into the shadowed interior. But too late. The blond fourteen-year-old had glimpsed her and, fists curled under his armpits, he strutted slowly around the back of the car, his head bobbing. The toe of his tennis shoe scratched at the blacktop surface. A cluck. A squawk. Then he threw back his head with a yelping laugh and raced off down the street.

A bewildered-looking Denny glanced back at her.

She held up her hands in a beats-me gesture. “What can I say? Small-town eccentricity. Get used to it.”

Eccentric or not, though, she’d stay inside until certain Cameron’s brother wasn’t circling back. She had to prepare her aunt for what might be coming—and to decide what they were going to do about it if worse came to worst.


Chapter Two (#uc7b05aab-7c20-5c40-a26a-39a595a80f7b)

“As much as I don’t look forward to this,” Denny mumbled under his breath when he pulled his car up outside the inn shortly before ten o’clock Tuesday morning, “it can’t be any worse than dinner with Dad last night.”

Like oil and water, he and Doug Hunter had clashed throughout the meal. That wasn’t surprising, considering it was his dad who’d long ago told him he wasn’t an easy kid to love. Maybe he wasn’t, but being respected trumped being loved any day in Denny’s book. And while they’d seen each other intermittently through the years—the last time being when Dad witnessed Denny’s recent wedding fiasco, which, thankfully, wasn’t mentioned during dinner—he didn’t have much hope they’d ever be close.

To Denny’s relief, his grown half siblings and their spouses hadn’t joined them for the meal, and Vickie, his dad’s second wife, excused herself to attend a Bible study group before her husband got revved up to launch in on the sins of Charlotte Gyles. Not surprisingly, what his father related didn’t jibe with the story Denny’s mother told as to what brought about the demise of their relationship—and her acquisition of well over a half dozen of his inherited Hunter Ridge properties in a divorce settlement. Full custody of Denny, too. More than a few other never-before-heard twists were thrown in. And although he did his best to listen to Doug Hunter rant as he made sure his son “got the truth of it,” Denny wasn’t going to get caught in the middle of a domestic brouhaha that nobody had settled after three decades.

Get over it, Dad.

Considering the example his parents set for matrimony, it’s a wonder he’d ever garnered the courage to ask Corrine to marry him. Then again, she had her own baggage to deal with and her own reasons for accepting his proposal.

Her own reasons for publicly dumping him, as well.

But he wasn’t going to think about that now.

He’d just stepped out of the car when his phone vibrated. As he paced the sidewalk in front of the inn, his assistant, Betsy, filled him in on what had transpired at the office since his departure. His stepbrother, Vic—brand-new VP of operations—had stopped by looking for him. He’d loitered awhile in Denny’s office with the door closed, then left.

Not good.

With an uneasy feeling, he wrapped up the call, tucked his phone away and then stepped up on the porch just as the front door opened. There stood a plump, silver-haired older woman dressed in a dark green paisley-print dress. Considering what his mother had shared about Miss Everett’s health issues, he’d expected a more fragile-seeming woman than the one before him.

She smiled. And although they were likely close to five decades apart, he could see a faint family resemblance to Lillian in that smile.

“Miss Everett, I’m Denny Hunter, Charlotte’s son.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she nodded knowingly. “I remember you.”

Remembered him? Perhaps the downturn in health wasn’t solely a physical one?

Lillian appeared behind her aunt, more casually dressed today in a denim skirt and a scoop-neck blue top. She was every bit as pretty as the day before. “Aunt Viola tells me you were in her Toddler Twos class at Sunday school.”

His mother had taken him to church? He had no recollection of that. To his knowledge, he’d only set foot in a church for weddings and funerals.

“My, my, yes,” the older woman continued as she studied him. Was she looking for similarities between him and his mother? His father? “You were a cute little guy. Chubby. All serious. But you loved the puppet stories. Especially David and Goliath.”

He shook his head. “I wish I shared those memories.”

“I’ll see if I can find photos. I always took pictures of my classes.”

“Let’s not leave Denny standing out here on the porch, Aunt Viola.”

Lillian offered him a slightly warmer smile than the one he’d departed with yesterday. It had been obvious she hadn’t taken his visit well, but she seemed to have recovered her poise and had no doubt by now enlightened her aunt as to the purpose of his trip to Hunter Ridge. Hopefully that had given the older woman an opportunity to absorb it. Come to terms with the possibilities.

“Please come in,” Lillian added. “What do you want us to show you first?”

He’d much rather be left to poke around on his own, but this was Viola’s home as well as an inn his mother owned, and he should respect that.

“Lillian tells me,” Viola said, as they moved through the entryway and into the parlor, “that after reviewing our recommendations, Charlotte has concerns about investing in upgrades to the property. That she may choose instead to permanently close the inn.”

“That’s certainly an option on the table, yes.” One that he’d do his best to get his mother to see the wisdom of. He’d perused the accounting ledger of income and expenses before his trip, and the operation here wasn’t much more than a break-even proposition. He was surprised his stepfather hadn’t discouraged her from throwing away more money on it. Then again, Elden Gyles adored Denny’s mother. Doted on her. Indulged her. Which, according to Denny’s father, had played a part in the breakup of his parents’ marriage.

But while he’d come to the conclusion from afar that the inn was a losing proposition, it didn’t seem like it would be easy now to push for a permanent closing in light of meeting Miss Everett face-to-face. The Sunday-school teacher who’d thought him cute would be forced to find a new home and a job elsewhere.

He logged on to his phone and pulled up a list of concerns that he’d gleaned from Viola’s emails to his mother. “For starters, why don’t you direct me to the items you emailed about? I saw the water stain on the ceiling in this room yesterday. Has the source of the leak been addressed?”

“A toilet upstairs overflowed last spring.” Viola shook her head. “We got a plumber in here to fix that, but not before it did damage down here.”

“I noticed the crack in the windowpane, too.”

“That’s a more recent addition.” She rolled her eyes. “Teenagers were throwing a football around in the street during the wee hours of the morning last weekend, and it got away from them.”

Teenagers. Chicken Man?

Lillian moved to the window and pulled back one of the heavy drapes. “Because the house is old, the window frame has become warped. The repairman suggested it be reframed when he replaces the pane, but that’s a greater expense than a single piece of glass, and we’d want the frame to match the other windows, not be a glaring modernism.”

He keyed a few notes into his phone, aware that Lillian was watching him closely. No doubt she saw him as a harbinger of doom, swooping into her aunt’s quiet, secure world. He was known for his good business sense, decisiveness and an unsentimental eagle eye on the bottom line. That was what people—including his stepfather—counted on him for. Respected him for. But for some reason, it bothered him that those highly regarded traits would be less than admirable to Ms. Keene in this current situation.

“Anything else in here?”

Viola looked to Lillian, who nodded for her to continue. “The electrical outlet on that far wall is dead. There’s a buckled floorboard behind the sofa. Wallpaper’s pulling loose in places. I keep gluing it, but it won’t stay down.”

“And the fireplace.” Lillian darted a look at him, as if sensing that evidence for closing the inn was mounting. “The flue is cleaned regularly, but it needs serious work both inside and out for safety’s sake. When we had it inspected, recommendations were made that we need to follow if we intend to use it this coming autumn.”

“Folks do love sitting by a crackling fire on a chilly evening,” Viola added. “It lends a homey touch and an excuse for guests to gather around and get to know each other.”

He knew that to be true. “Do the guest rooms have fireplaces?”

“A few. But they’ve long been sealed up.”

A mixed bag. He continued to take notes as the issues in this room alone rapidly tallied up. It was more of the same as they progressed through the downstairs. A cozy library. Small office. Spacious dining room. Laundry and storage rooms. Assessing a kitchen featuring weary-looking appliances, cracked floor tile and a chipped sink led to an enjoyable chat in the adjoining breakfast nook with an elderly couple who were finishing up a morning break of fresh fruit and pastries. Viola pointed out the entrance to her apartment, but didn’t mention work to be done there or invite him to take a look.

Overall, the house was well cared for. Clean. Neat. But it was aging. Neither the somewhat shabby furnishings, heavy and dark with a south-of-the-border feel, nor flooring and wall and window treatments created an appealing ambience that would lure guests back for a second visit. He hadn’t seen the upstairs rooms yet, but clearly the inn required a lot of work, time and money. Three things he couldn’t in good conscience encourage his mother to invest in—or willingly agree to oversee himself.

A phone in the office rang, and as Viola went to answer it, he noticed her limp, more pronounced than when he’d first arrived. From the hip broken earlier that year, no doubt. Her cheery demeanor had faded as their route progressed through the inn, giving way to evident weariness. But his presence and known purpose undoubtedly contributed to that. How did his mother expect him to gauge the state of her health? He wasn’t a doctor or physical therapist, and he sure couldn’t count on her niece for an unbiased opinion. But he had a hard time picturing Viola with the 24/7 energy level that an inn demanded.

Inwardly he cringed when Lillian, perhaps sensing the direction his mind was going, gave him an uncertain smile. Letting her aunt down wasn’t going to be easy. Where would a seventy-seven-year-old woman find affordable housing and pick up a monthly paycheck around here? But he couldn’t let his mother keep sinking her capital into a money pit like this just to subsidize the lifestyle of someone she’d known while residing here but a few short years. And long ago, at that.

But then Lillian opened the multipaned French doors just off the breakfast room, and they stepped into a walled-in garden.

And everything changed.

* * *

Lillian caught a flash of surprise in Denny’s eyes as he gazed around the sun-dappled, expansive stone-walled garden.

He glanced at her, his eyes questioning. “This is...unexpected.”

“We call it the Secret Garden. We can comfortably seat about thirty-five or forty for a wedding. Fifteen or twenty for a luncheon.”

“Nice.”

And indeed it was. The perimeter of the one-hundred-foot-deep space featured a variety of trees and bushes and was punctuated by a flagstone walkway leading to a spacious patio that faced a gazebo. Native perennials abounded, skillfully woven in to complement colorful annuals and an occasional stone bench.

“My aunt’s green thumb and artistic eye shine the brightest here.” Despite a short growing season at this more-than-mile-high elevation, the walls provided a protected microclimate of sorts where greenery flourished, colors and textures changing as the seasons passed. Even wintertime brought to it a stark, pristine beauty. “This gem keeps the Pinewood Inn in the black. It’s booked from late spring through midfall for small weddings and receptions, private parties, and luncheons.”

“I can see why.”

This, in fact, was where her ex-fiancé’s sister, Barbie, was to be married in October. Thankfully, despite pressure from the girl’s mother, the bride-to-be hadn’t held Lillian’s runaway-bride act against Aunt Viola or canceled her booking after the aborted June wedding. But the notoriously spoiled young lady was proving to be something of a bridezilla in her demands—which had further spurred Lillian to keep at her aunt to approach her employer for upgrades. It was no secret that the inn itself didn’t hold a candle to the romantic draw of the garden. Seldom were guest rooms booked in conjunction with events held there—no bridal-party weekends and certainly no honeymoons or anniversary retreats.

Most repeat guests were those who’d warmed to Aunt Vi’s special brand of hospitality, not who craved the more tangible aspects of the inn itself.

Accompanying Denny as he silently wandered the garden walkways, Lillian watched him from the corner of her eye. Did he see what she saw—that the garden deserved guest accommodations to equal it? Maybe something unapologetically romantic, a style more in keeping with the traditional exterior than the blandness that was there now.

“I remember one year an evening Christmastime wedding was hosted here.” Her heart lightened at the memory, and she hoped it would touch him, too. “The garden was warmed with decorative patio space heaters, and the pines and bare branches of the deciduous trees were strung with twinkling fairy lights.”

She looked to him hopefully. But he was gazing down at his phone and didn’t respond. Lillian’s stomach knotted when he murmured an apology and stepped away for the third time that morning to take a business call. So much like Cameron. He hadn’t been able to stay in the moment longer than it took to blink twice, couldn’t keep his mind from drifting away to seemingly more important matters. Pity the woman who ended up wed to Hayden Hunter.

Yes, despite her feelings of animosity toward him, she’d checked out his ring finger.

Clearly, though, he wasn’t impressed with the Pinewood Inn, and seeing it through his eyes, she couldn’t fault him. It hadn’t gotten into its current condition overnight. When earlier in the spring she’d criticized her aunt’s employer for the neglect, Aunt Viola came to Charlotte’s defense, admitting that it was as much her own fault that things had gotten to this stage. Grateful for the opportunity to have a job she enjoyed and a nice place to live postretirement, she’d done her best not to be an albatross around her patron’s neck.

“Sorry for the interruption.” Denny joined her again, tucking away his phone. “You step out the office door for a few days, and suddenly nobody can live without you.”

As was the case with her former fiancé, undoubtedly that made him feel good about himself. Important. Indispensable.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “the winter wedding was lovely, with snow flurries setting a romantic mood for the exchange of vows.”

Could he picture that? Or was his mind focused on the drawbacks of the inn and alert to the nuances of her aunt’s flagging health? Thankfully, there was no need for a walker or cane this morning. But had he noticed how carefully she turned? How she occasionally gripped the back of a chair or casually leaned against a door frame to steady herself?

Please, Lord, don’t let Denny expect Aunt Vi to accompany him to the second floor. Her aunt hadn’t navigated the stairs since the fall that broke her hip. Realistically, despite her steady progress, she might never again see those upstairs rooms.

“Your aunt maintains this garden by herself? And manages the inn?” A probing, underlying skepticism seemed to edge his words.

“Mostly.” Or at least she had, up until last winter when Lillian had been given a crash course on innkeeping, and later gardening. “Breaking a hip is serious business, and while there are still limitations, she’s making remarkable strides.”

They were indeed blessed, for she’d read that each year 20 or 30 percent of the several hundred thousand who broke a hip died from the complications within a year. The vast majority never fully recovered, which made Lillian doubly grateful for the steady progress they were seeing.

“My mother will be pleased to hear that.”

“She has a housekeeper who comes daily, a woman who does the laundry, and a few others who fill in when she needs to be away for PT or other reasons. I help as I can.” Which ate up all her free time away from the library. “And, of course, she brings in someone to do the heavy work out here. But the garden design is all hers, based on how she recalls her own grandmother kept it. It had deteriorated considerably, of course, by the time Aunt Viola came here. I have before-and-after photos if you’d care to see them.”

“That sounds interesting.”

But it didn’t sound as if it interested him.

He tilted his head. “Taylor’s in school today?”

What did that have to do with anything? “She is.”

“And the two of you live—where?”

That was none of his business. Or would his mother frown on providing free housing to a great-niece and great-great-niece? It had never dawned on her that perhaps their residing here would be unacceptable once her aunt was more mobile. But she still had a long way to go. It was very likely she would never fully recover. “For the time being, we share the apartment with my aunt.”

“Because...?” He was probably fishing for confirmation that her aunt wasn’t fulfilling her duties at the inn.

“Aunt Viola and her sister—my grandmother—were the sole siblings in their family. The inn was sold when Aunt Viola was a young woman, and by the time their parents passed away, my grandma had married and moved elsewhere. Other relatives gradually left town to look for what they thought were better opportunities, as well. That left Aunt Viola on her own. I took a leave of absence after her fall last winter...and stayed on.”

He seemed to give that some thought, but she continued before he could misconstrue the situation. “I’m working as a library clerk part-time right now. The current library manager will be retiring soon, and I’m hopeful that as a degreed, experienced librarian, I’ll qualify for the position.”

However, a few days ago she’d heard rumors that another librarian might be taking early retirement from her job in Denver and would be returning home to Hunter Ridge—to apply for the opening.

“It’s commendable you’re assisting your aunt.” He studied her with evident concern. “But that’s a considerable sacrifice for a young woman with her life still ahead of her. Sequestering yourself in a no-prospects, sleepy town like this. I mean, you can only listen to the crickets chirp for so long, right?”

Irritation flared in Lillian. Having spoken like a true city boy, he smiled, confident of his assessment. Counting to ten, she bent to pluck a blanketflower, then twirled the stem between her fingers as she returned his measuring gaze.

“It’s not like that at all. I love it here. The beauty of the forest. Knowing your neighbors. Being active in a local church. My parents moved around a lot, so I spent quite a few holidays and vacations here while growing up. In fact, I’ve never thought of any other place as home. But prior to this year, I never dreamed I might get to live in Hunter Ridge. I’d like to remain here.”

“Not what I’d care to do, but to each his own.” He offered what could only be taken as a look of commiseration. “I imagine to keep your sanity you make frequent trips to Phoenix? Shopping? Professional sports? Live theater, museums and upscale restaurants? You know, keeping your finger on the pulse of civilization.”

If that was his definition of civilization, she was happy to do without it.

“Actually, I don’t go down there but a few times a year.” He probably thought her a dull-as-dishwater bore for admitting that. An unsophisticated bumpkin. Well, let him think whatever he wanted. It didn’t much matter to her. “I spent the past decade in the Phoenix area’s Valley of the Sun enjoying pleasant winters, palm trees and saguaros, and the extras you mentioned that a metropolis offers. But I endured record-breaking summer heat. Lengthy bumper-to-bumper commutes, scorpions, air-quality alerts and high crime rates. Now I enjoy walking to work, cool summer days and pine-fresh air. I’m looking forward to autumn and hopefully a white Christmas. It seems like a fair trade.”

If only she could remain here.

If only Mrs. Gyles wouldn’t close the inn.

Denny chuckled as she concluded her lengthy sales pitch for mountain country Arizona. “I know my Hunter side of the family has been rooted to this region for over a hundred years. Must be a marker my personal genetic makeup skipped.”

“My family has also been rooted here a long time.”

He raised a brow. “But in your family’s case, everyone except your great-aunt managed to make the great escape.”

Did he think closing the inn would be the perfect opportunity for Aunt Viola to flee, as well? To at long last reach the “civilization” she’d missed out on most of her life?

He had no idea the toll that the possibility of closing the inn was taking on her aunt. If the light coming from under her bedroom door last night was an indication, she’d slept little. Her aunt didn’t own the inn—although that was an idea they’d explored last evening, only to conclude they didn’t have the combined resources required should Denny’s mother be persuaded to part with it.

Selling a property she’d acquired when divorcing Denny’s father, however, was something Charlotte had done but once. As Aunt Viola recalled, the person she’d sold to—an artist she thought she could trust—immediately resold to her ex-husband and put it back into his hands. So going forward, she chose to lease only—or to let buildings stand vacant and boarded up, a much-resented blight on the community.

Unquestionably, the inn wasn’t a big moneymaker, and Mrs. Gyles had every right to close it down when Aunt Viola’s contract was up for renewal. Was there any way they could convince Charlotte’s son that the inn was worth the time and expense involved to make it a viable endeavor?

“Do you think perhaps—?”

But she’d barely started to speak when Denny raised his hand apologetically and stepped away to take another call.

Both disappointed and disgusted, she tossed the flower aside and returned to the inn without giving Hayden Hunter a second glance. She’d just stepped inside and shut the glass-paned doors when she heard someone cry out, followed by what sounded like the crash of breaking dishes.

Her heart in her throat, Lillian rushed to the inn’s kitchen to find her aunt tottering on a low step stool in front of an open upper cabinet and staring down at the shattered china. Instantly steadying her, Lillian helped her down.

“What do you think you’re doing, Aunt Vi? We agreed months ago that I’d empty the dishwasher and put away the things on the high shelves. You could have fallen.”

“Well, I didn’t. But I’m so upset about that platter. It was my mother’s.”

“I loved it, too. But I’m more concerned that could be you down there on the floor if you pull another stunt like that.” Lillian gave her a firm look and lowered her voice. “I’ll clean this up. I think you should go rest.”

“Is he still here?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It’s not looking good. But things will look worse if he sees you not at your best. You’ve made great strides since last winter, and I’ve been assuring him you’re up to speed for renewal of the managerial position. Please don’t make me eat my words.”

“It’s not his decision. It’s Char’s.”

“Well, she sent him, so I assume she trusts his judgment. But in the meantime, please don’t risk doing something that could give him further reason to deliver a negative report.”

Aunt Viola touched her hand wearily to her forehead. “This is my fault. For breaking my hip. For sending those emails that apparently provoked Char.”

“Now stop that. You didn’t fall on purpose. And feel free to blame me for the emails. That was my doing. But Mrs. Gyles needed honest communication on the state of things here. Her lack of interest in the property has had you losing business every single day for who knows how long. She needs to step up and take care of things.”

“But it’s you who has to take care of my business. And take care of me. Taylor, too. That’s not right, you giving up your career and—”

“There’s nowhere on earth I’d rather be than here with you and Taylor.” In fact, in addition to loving the closeness of their crazy mix of a family, she’d discovered a love for innkeeping and gardening that she was just beginning to tap into.

Her aunt’s eyes filled with a sadness that tugged at Lillian’s heart. “What are we going to do, Lil? If the inn is closed, I mean?”

She had no idea. But she didn’t dare let her concerns further upset her aunt. Slipping her arm around her waist, she gave her a squeeze and a rallying smile. “We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. And trust God every step of the way. But while we await the verdict, please don’t do anything to jeopardize what little hope we do have.”

Which didn’t appear to be much.


Chapter Three (#uc7b05aab-7c20-5c40-a26a-39a595a80f7b)

“So how is Viola?” Denny’s mother had inquired when he’d stepped away from Lillian to take the call—his parent having first filled him in on the agonies of her physical therapy at the rehab center. The innkeeper’s niece had gone inside, giving him some privacy.

“She’s holding her own surprisingly well,” he said, keeping his voice low as he gazed around his picturesque surroundings and filled his lungs with the rich blend of earth, pine and flowers. It did seem a shame to pull the plug on an events venue like this one. But it couldn’t be helped. “The niece you’d mentioned earlier—Lillian Keene—is helping out as Miss Everett continues to recover.”

“I didn’t know her niece was still there.”

“Oh, yes. And if I’m not mistaken, she’s the source of the emails you’ve been badgered with.”

“Is there legitimacy to those requests? Viola never said anything about those issues until recently. I was taken off guard.”

“They’re legitimate.” He mentally skimmed through the lengthy list he’d compiled. “But a good venture to keep pouring money into? Doubtful.”

“While the inn’s never been profitable, Elden’s never once objected, since it’s mine from the divorce settlement. He knows Viola was the one person who tried to understand when I was unhappy and confused. Didn’t blame me for everything. She was the sole person in town who took the time to get to know me. Who seemed to care.”

“But you don’t owe her for the rest of her life.”

“No, but I hate to see her lose her home at her age, maybe be forced to leave Hunter Ridge altogether.”

“Some things can’t be helped and, realistically, how many more years do you think she can handle the job?”

“What would it take to fix the place up?”

She hasn’t been listening.

With an inward groan, he paced the garden patio. He didn’t want his mother underwriting what would likely never amount to more than a fancy rest home for her friend. “I can forward the list to you and ballpark what it might cost. But for a more accurate estimate, I’d have to engage a contractor and touch base with suppliers. That could take considerable time.”

Which he did not have to waste.

“Would you do that, Denny?”

Picturing her propped up in her bed at the rehab center, he discerned the wheedling tone she’d used when he was a kid to persuade him to her way of thinking. But he steeled himself.

“Mother, this isn’t a good idea. You need to let it go. If you want, I’ll look around for housing options for your friend while I’m here. Then you can decide if you want to subsidize those costs. It would be considerably less expensive than what upgrading the Pinewood Inn will be. Much less risky, too.”

And take up a lot less of his time, as well.

“But she’s always enjoyed the guests, whipping up goodies for them in the kitchen, working in her garden.”

Denny stepped into the gazebo and turned to gaze out over the walled space. “I admit it’s one amazing garden. But the niece was vague about how much Viola’s done with it since her fall, and how much of it she and others have been doing.”

“This Lillian seems capable. A hard worker, from what her aunt told me. If there’s a chance that with her help Viola could stay there...”

With a sinking feeling, he stared up at the azure sky. It wouldn’t kill him to get estimates. Do online window-shopping for an idea of what it would take to revamp the furnishings. No doubt someone once had a bright idea that with Hunter Ridge located in the Southwest, the carved dark wood and paintings of cactus and sunbaked Mexican streets would be suitable. While that might work in a Tucson adobe-style inn, it wasn’t cabin-country Hunter Ridge by a long shot. If he had his druthers, he’d go for a more contemporary, streamlined look. A contrast to the traditional exterior.

“I can do the research, but there’s no market here for this kind of lodging. People who come up this way stay at outdoorsy places like Hunter’s Hideaway.”

What did the family’s new logo tout? The one he’d seen on their website? Oh, yeah. Where rustic meets relaxing—without apology.

“Please, Denny? This would mean so much to me. I know it’s never going to be more than a break-even proposition, but...” His mother paused, and he could hear a low male voice in the background on her end, although he couldn’t understand the words. “One second. Elden wants to speak to you.”

Denny’s jaw clenched. His stepfather wanted to speak to him now? Where had he been a few weeks ago, before turning the vice-president position over to Vic? Without a word of warning—or of apology afterward.

“Den.” The rumbling voice sounded genial enough—but then, that was standard, even when delivering news of budget cuts and severances of contracts with longtime loyal vendors. Denny could picture the sixtysomething hotelier, his salt-and-pepper hair thick and neatly styled, his deceptively casual manner of dress belying that his attire was purchased from top-notch clothiers.

Denny gripped his phone more tightly. “Yes, sir?”

“I understand Char sent you to Arizona to take care of personal business for her.”

“With the understanding that I’d be gone from work only a few days.” Had his absence not been taken well? “I’m staying on top of business long-distance and will return shortly.”

“I’m not concerned about that. But I am concerned that you agreed to see about upgrading a property Charlotte’s friend manages, and that it sounds as if you’re now unwilling to follow through on that.”

A muscle in Denny’s throat tightened at the misinterpretation, just as a bird in a nearby tree started into an annoyingly repetitious solo. “What my mother originally asked me to do was evaluate the situation and determine if retaining her ailing friend as manager of the Pinewood Inn and investing a great deal of money in upgrades is a worthwhile option. I did as she asked and confirmed it’s a poor investment.”

Would that obnoxious bird never shut up?

“You know I’m crazy about your mother, don’t you?” Elden never made a secret of that and had always treated her like a queen. Pampered her. In fact, Denny’s father blamed his ex’s former boyfriend for making her dissatisfied with Hunter Ridge, motherhood and, in particular, her first husband. “I know you care for her, too, Den. So what do you say the two of us get this inn fixed up the way she’d like it? You know how she dotes on that old gal who befriended her in that backwoods hamlet.”

Denny stepped out of the gazebo, determined to keep his temper in check. “So you want her to spend a mint on a six-guest-room inn located in the middle of nowhere and hand it over to an old woman who is in questionable health but who also has no training and limited experience in the hospitality field? Pardon me for pointing this out, Elden, but that’s not the type of investment you’ve trained me to make.”

“Maybe not, but if you can see to your mother’s business and lie low in Arizona while Victor gets acclimated to his new role...” That’s what this is about? Making life comfy for Vic? “If you can make those things happen, Den, I can make it worth your while.”

Denny had heard his stepbrother was struggling—a leader without followers, because most supported Denny stepping into that VP slot. “I’m being banished? Is that what you’re telling me?”

His stepfather chuckled. “Not banished. Giving your brother a chance to find his footing without people looking to you for the answers.”

“Is that what he’s telling you? That I’m trying to undermine him?”

“Apparently you have a loyal following, and that’s caused unrest.”

“I’m not driving that. It’s business as usual, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not stirring up animosity toward Vic.”

“That’s good to know. But I realize that as long as you’re highly visible and available, there are those who may continue turning to you instead of Victor. There seems to be an undercurrent of, shall we say, resentment on the part of some that he was promoted over you.”

No foolin’. “Is that surprising? Vic walked out on you and the family business almost a decade ago. Then he waltzes back in—and out of the blue steps into a top spot.”

“Although it may seem like it on the surface, it wasn’t out of the blue. I told him at the time we had our falling-out that there would always be a place for him in the business.”

A place he hadn’t earned? A birthright he’d snubbed?

Denny remembered well that blowup between his stepbrother and Elden. It hadn’t been pretty, and clearly Elden had been deeply wounded at a betrayal by the offspring he’d poured so much of himself into. That was when Denny set his heart on filling Vic’s shoes better than Vic could ever fill them. To earn his stepfather’s respect and a leadership role in the family business. He was well on the road to achieving that, until Vic showed up last winter, seemingly humble and contrite...and the tide began to turn.

“From the reaction of others,” Denny said carefully as he watched Lillian step out the back door and into the garden, “I think you’d have to agree that expectation wasn’t well communicated.”

“Come on. He’s my son, Den.” And I’m not. “He’s settling down now and is ready to put his nose to the grindstone. Don’t take it personally. You and everyone else knew from the beginning that he is destined for the top spot when I step down. That’s still a considerable ways off, but if everyone pulls together, helps him get through this time of transition, it will work out in the long run. For everyone. I’m counting on you to make that happen.”

Meaning keep out of the way?

“I have responsibilities, projects that I’m in the middle of, people who are depending on me.”

Seeking relief from the pressure building inside, his gaze tracked Lillian as she gracefully moved to sit on a shaded stone bench. She was a striking-looking young woman with a country-fresh vivacity that had been absent in the sophisticated, born-to-high-society Corrine. The local librarian seemed considerably less capricious than his former fiancée, too. You wouldn’t catch a well-grounded Lillian Keene heading for the hills on her wedding day, leaving some poor sucker in the dust.

But as appealing as that small-town allure might be on the surface, it wasn’t a girl-next-door type that would help him get ahead at GylesStyle Inns. With the departure of Corrine, he was back to square one. Nevertheless, it was a shame that the pretty Lillian planned to follow in her great-aunt’s footsteps and sequester herself in Nowheresville.

“By all means, stay on top of the projects out in the field,” Elden responded, drawing Denny’s attention again. “But in dealing with others at the home base? Steer them back to Victor and let them learn to depend on him. If you’re working on getting this inn fixed up for your mother, that’s a good enough reason for stepping back. No one will question it. You won’t have to offer explanations.”

Was his stepfather truly that naive? Oblivious to the effort Denny had taken to build a network of strong relationships based on mutual respect as he climbed the corporate ladder? Elden thought his arrogant, self-indulgent son could step in and pick up the reins if Denny laid them down?

Across the garden, Lillian looked up and caught him watching her—those beautiful hazel eyes, even at a distance, almost took his breath away. Nevertheless, he managed to refocus on the conversation at hand.

“And when I’ve done my time here?” He couldn’t help throwing in the prison analogy.

“Then we’ll talk. Victor filling that VP opening doesn’t mean there isn’t still a prime spot for you at GylesStyle—especially if you can keep him and your mother happy.”

“And if I can’t?”

Silence hung heavy. Except for that irritating bird.

“Well, Den,” Elden finally drawled, “see that you do.”

* * *

From the far side of the garden, with the sound of a merrily trilling robin singing its heart out, Lillian couldn’t hear what Denny was saying on the phone. Assuming it was the same call he’d taken before she’d gone inside, it was quite lengthy. His voice remained low and indistinguishable, but from his expression, he didn’t like the way things were going.

How often she’d seen that same look of concentration on Cameron Gray’s face when he’d returned home to Hunter Ridge in February. Having been let go from a managerial position in Boston, he nevertheless lived on his phone, constantly schmoozing with contacts despite insisting that anyone who remained tied to corporate America was nothing but a fool.

He was at home in Hunter Ridge to stay, he’d declared. Working with his dad at the hardware store, he assured everyone around him that relationships were what mattered. Family. Church. Old friends. This was where he wanted to settle down and raise a family. With her. Or so he claimed until the day before their wedding, when he got a call from his former employer—and without consulting her leaped at a job offer, generously volunteering to hire a caregiver for her aunt and to place Taylor at an upscale private school.

Was it any wonder she’d cried and prayed most of the night? The next day, as everyone was gathering for the ceremony, she called the officiating pastor—an out-of-town buddy of Cameron’s—to ask him to deliver her no-show news.

Cameron hadn’t spoken to her since then, having immediately packed up and left for Boston. Nor had his mother or grandma, even when Lillian removed her personal belongings from the apartment above his parents’ garage that the newlyweds intended to call home until they found a place to buy. The two women seemed to find plenty of time to talk about her, though, if rumors of their critical remarks regarding her immaturity and heartlessness held any truth. And little brother Randy had made nothing but a nuisance of himself.

At least Cameron’s sister, Barbie, caught up in her own autumn wedding plans, didn’t seem to care one way or another whether her big brother and Lillian were married happily ever after—or not.

Across the garden, Denny pocketed his phone, then turned in her direction. She stood, determined to make another plea on behalf of the inn.

“Sorry for the interruption. Important call.”

“Aren’t they always,” she said drily, wondering how far she’d get in her appeal before he was again whipping out that cell phone.

He motioned irritably to a Navajo willow in the far corner. “What’s with the obnoxious bird, anyway?”

No, that phone call must not have gone well.

She laughed. “Maybe he’s happy?”

Denny snorted, then looked at his watch and nodded to the inn. “I guess I should take a look at the guest rooms upstairs.”

With Aunt Viola sequestered in the apartment, it didn’t take long to go through the second-floor rooms, half of which weren’t booked despite a long Labor Day weekend fast approaching. The occupants of the other three were out for the day. Although Denny added items to his lengthy list, he seemed preoccupied, as though something else weighed on his mind. Most telling was the fact that he didn’t pull out his phone a single time, not even to check caller ID when she heard it vibrate.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned to him. “So what do you think?”

“You mentioned earlier you’re aware that garden events keep the inn in the black. So you must be at least somewhat acquainted with the business side of things here.”

“I kept the books when my aunt was unable to. So, yes, I’m aware that the inn is...holding its own.”

“By the skin of its teeth. The Pinewood Inn, sadly, has never been a profitable investment for my mother.”

“You’re implying that it’s been nothing but a charitable endeavor on behalf of Aunt Viola?” That rankled, as Lillian knew how much of herself Aunt Vi had invested in this place trying to keep it going.

“As you know, my mother was struggling to find her place in the world when your great-aunt befriended her. She offered her encouragement, advice and support when many in town extended little sympathy as her marriage fell apart. My mother was a big-city girl, a fish out of water, and undoubtedly she made plenty of mistakes that didn’t endear her to others.”

“My aunt is a kindhearted woman.”

“She is. And deep down, so is my mother. Which is why when Viola retired and asked if she could take over management of the Pinewood Inn, my mother agreed. She was losing money on it anyway—basically kept it open to irritate my father as much as anything. What would it hurt if her dear friend and mentor gave it a try?”

“Aunt Vi did bring it out of the red.”

“She did. But it’s still not a moneymaker. Never will be.”

“We’re not asking you to strip the place down to the studs and start from scratch. We’re asking that broken things be fixed. Dismal furniture replaced. Peeling wallpaper removed. Bedding and window treatments updated.”

“That involves money, time and hard work.”

“My aunt and I can provide the hard work.” Or at least she could. “I understand your concern surrounding the financial issues. That concerns my aunt, as well. But Hunter Ridge is her home. The inn. Her garden. Her guests. I’ll personally do anything within my power to enable her to live out the rest of her life, however long that may be, as the inn’s manager. For now, this is Taylor’s home, too. If your mother makes the requested much-needed changes to the property, I know my aunt can turn it around.”

He shook his head. “Maybe, if she had a hospitality degree and decades of experience at other reputable properties to bring to the table... I admit I’ve seen highly successful enterprises make it under good management in the most unlikely places. But those were spearheaded by professionals with an innate savvy for the hospitality business.”

“She may not have a degree, but we’ve both read every book on innkeeping we can get our hands on. And growing up, I traveled extensively with my parents and know what they liked and didn’t like about those brief or extended stays. What I liked and didn’t like. Aunt Vi traveled in her younger days, too. I strongly believe that kind of personal experience will transfer well here—if the property itself works for her and not against her, as it’s been doing.”

“I admire her—and your—pluck, but it’s risky. Successful inns are customarily located in areas that have something to draw people there. Location, location, location, as you’ve surely heard before.”

“Hunter Ridge is rousing itself after that economic downturn a decade or so ago. Your mother’s played a role in that—initiating leasing properties to a new artisan dynamic that is taking root and transforming the formerly isolated face of the community. Here at the inn’s garden, we’ve showcased a number of local artists this past summer. It’s a market waiting to be tapped into. And if we don’t do it, someone else will.”

“This garden is a prime selling point. But the inn has only six guest rooms available.” He gave her a regretful look. “I don’t see how that can generate enough return on investment to make it worthwhile.”

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that you’re going to recommend to your mother that she close the inn.”

“What I’m trying to tell you is not to get your hopes up that the inn will ever be much more than it is today—even when we’ve completed the renovations.”

Even when...?

She momentarily closed her eyes, gave a slight shake of her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m confused. You are or you are not going to advise your mother that the inn be closed? That my aunt’s managerial contract should not be renewed?”

* * *

“I’ve expressed to my mother my professional opinion that the doors to the inn should be closed.”

Denny stared into the still-bewildered gaze of the woman standing before him. Saw the hope that had briefly lit her eyes evaporate. She was disappointed in his stance because she truly didn’t understand what it took to run a profitable hospitality establishment.

He hadn’t been toying with her when pointing out the dismal prospects of the inn and the gloomy odds of making a success of it. He’d only wanted her to clearly understand that the endeavor was a waste of money—his mother’s. And a waste of time—his. Who was his stepfather, anyway, to insist on throwing good money after bad, just to make his wife “happy”?

And to keep Denny out of the way to give Vic a boost.

Elden had dangled a vague “make it worth your while” carrot in front of him. Then he topped it off with what sounded like an unspoken threat if Vic didn’t make a go of things in his new position and if that failure, even in part, could be laid at Denny’s doorstep. Like it or not, if he wanted the slimmest chance at a future in a company he’d poured himself into, he’d have to buckle under Elden’s demands.

No matter how much it galled.

No matter how unfair it was.

He’d put too much time into GylesStyle Inns to walk away in a snit. If he could pull this project off...there might yet be a future in the family business.

What did he have to lose?

“I explained to my mother exactly what I’ve explained to you, Lillian. The risk. The unlikelihood of profitability and the preferable route being to shut down the inn.” He cleared his throat and steadily met her gaze. “But, regrettably, she disagrees with me.”

Lillian remained motionless, expressionless except for the growing glow in her lovely eyes.

“You mean—?”

“I mean I’m acquiescing to my mother’s wishes, and despite my personal reservations, the Pinewood Inn will have a second chance.”

A gasp escaped her lips.

“Please recognize,” he continued, “that I’m not reneging on anything I’ve said about the inn. I have misgivings. Extreme ones. Make no mistake—I’m not happy about this. But I love my mother and know she genuinely wants your aunt to continue as manager of the Pinewood Inn as long as her health allows.”

He’d just have preferred not to be blackmailed by his stepfather to give them this chance.


Chapter Four (#uc7b05aab-7c20-5c40-a26a-39a595a80f7b)

“Why don’t you run that by Vic, Craig? That falls under his jurisdiction now.”

Gazing across the raftered dining room of the Inn at Hunter’s Hideaway, where he’d stepped into the lobby away from lunch with Lillian and Viola to take a call, Denny cringed at the profanity-laced grumbling of his colleague and right-hand man.

“I know, I know. But give him a chance. He hasn’t been sitting on his thumbs all the years he’s been away from GylesStyle. He’s stayed active in the hospitality industry, just outside the family fold.”

Or so Vic’s story went.

With a little encouragement, Denny finally got his colleague pointed in the right direction and off the phone without resorting to the lame excuse that he was busy working on a project for his mother. What he’d wanted to do was provide Craig with the precise answer his friend was seeking. Denny knew it. Would Vic?

This was the first of what would probably be many similar conversations with those in the home office with whom Denny had worked closely.

And it was already killing him.

Back at his table, he again seated himself across from Lillian and her aunt, who were finishing their meal. His, no doubt, was cold. “Sorry. Pressing business. Now, as you were saying, Lillian?”

For a moment he didn’t think she intended to respond. That she was irritated at the latest interruption of which she’d borne a similar brunt on several occasions that day. Then to his relief, she glanced at Viola before continuing.

“You’ve mentioned the need to obtain necessary licensing and permits. Drafting plans and getting estimates. Reinsuring an upgraded property. Aunt Vi and I are wondering when you’ll start that. And what the two of us can do to expedite things.”

He’d explained over lunch what his background was at GylesStyle, hoping that would give them confidence that he knew what he was doing. Being the son of Charlotte Gyles was far from the only thing he was known for.

“I’m going to get in touch with a Phoenix contractor who saw to—” He halted as both Lillian and Viola, solemn-faced, shook their heads. “What?”

“You’re going to bring in an outsider?” Viola’s tone was clearly disapproving.

“A whole crew of outsiders, if they’re available.”

A team he’d worked with in the past had multistate licensing and credentials and would be finishing up a remodel on a GylesStyle Inn in Scottsdale shortly. Maybe he could slip a few weeks into their schedule before they started on their next assignment in Santa Fe. Those guys and gals made some of the HGTV celebs look like amateurs. He needed pros who could get in and get the job done on the Pinewood in record time. Then he’d be free to get back to his real world—assuming Vic didn’t sink his ship.

Lillian exchanged a look with her aunt. “You know, Denny, that might not be a good idea.”

“Why’s that?”

“This isn’t a large town,” Viola said carefully, as if speaking to a child. “People will expect us to engage workers locally, or at least from neighboring towns here in the high country.”

“Going elsewhere will cause hard feelings,” Lillian clarified. “That’s something we can’t afford to do. Many of those who for years have engaged the garden for special events are local builders, plumbers, electricians and painters.”

Viola nodded.

“Well, ladies, I understand your concerns. But as nice as it would be to accommodate the locals, we need a cohesive, experienced team that can get in here and take care of business in one fell swoop.”

Both women again exchanged a look, then shook their heads in unison.

He could almost feel his blood pressure rising as they stared him down. He didn’t have the time to vet and individually contract the people needed. It would be like herding cats. And trust a local contractor to do it? No way would he bring in workers from a dinky town for a project like this. “Look, ladies...”

“You may as well shut the place down, then, young man.” Viola pushed her empty plate away. “People here need the work and won’t be forgiving if we move ahead in hopes of feathering our own nest at the expense of theirs.”

“We do have good craftsmen in the region.” Lillian folded her napkin and placed it on the table. “Hunter Ridge. Show Low. Pinetop-Lakeside. Canyon Springs.”

That was well and good, but he had no idea of the speed or caliber of those people’s work or the quality of their suppliers. Or if they’d even be available. Too much was at stake if he neglected his GylesStyle responsibilities for long. He did not intend to get down in the weeds on this project to keep his mother happy.




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