by Gina Wilkins
“Have we met before?” she asked unexpectedly.
“No. We haven’t met.”
“Oh. My mistake. It’s just that there’s something about you that seems so familiar, and yet—not exactly. Something about your eyes and your… Oh, I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I do that sometimes,” she said a bit ruefully.
He remembered wishing that she would smile at him. She was doing so now, and he was standing there like a tongue-tied idiot.
He didn’t understand why she could suddenly see him when she couldn’t before. Or what he should do or say now that she could.
“Have you checked in yet?” she asked.
“Checked in? Er, no.”
“I know there are rooms available for tonight.” she said, obviously trying to make conversation. “It’s a lovely hotel. My brother is the owner,” she added with a faint touch of pride.
“Is he?” He tried to remember how to make small talk. It had been so damn long since he’d needed to. “It looks very nice. Old.”
“It was built in the mid-1800s. Dean, my brother, recently restored it. He and his wife are away for a short vacation now, but the inn is fully staffed and very efficiently managed.”
His smile deepened. “You make it sound very inviting.”
“Did I sound like an advertisement? Sorry.” An attractive pink hue rose in her cheeks. Then, she said, “Oh, we haven’t even introduced ourselves, have we? I’m Bailey Gates.” She looked at him expectantly.
I’m Ian Cameron, And by the way, I’ve been dead for over seventy-five years.
He couldn’t tell her that, of course. Obviously—and quite surprisingly—she saw nothing about him to make her think he was any different from the men of her time. He found himself unwilling to turn her friendly smile into a look of shock or disbelief. Or worse, fear.
“Call me Bran,” he said.
“Bran?” she repeated as though she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
He nodded. The name had popped into his head out of his distant memories. Now that he thought about it, he recognized the irony of his choice. “Bran. It’s an old Celtic name. My mother liked it.”
His mother had read him the legend of Prince Bran of Ireland countless times during his childhood. The nightly stories had stopped when she’d married his stepfather. Ian could no longer remember whether stopping the pleasurable pastime had been his mother’s choice, or his own.
He grimly suspected that it had been his own sullen rebellion that had put an end to the formerly treasured bedtime ritual.
“And your last name?” Bailey asked.
“Bran will do.”
She frowned. “A mystery man, are you?” she asked, looking disgruntled.
He chuckled. She reminded him just then of her idiosyncratic and plainspoken aunt, whom he’d watched and enjoyed on occasion during the past year.
“A very private man,” he replied, wondering if she would take offense.
If she did, she didn’t allow it to show. “Whatever. If you like, I’ll take you to the front desk so you can check in. The dining room opens for dinner at five, and—”
“Thank you, but I won’t need a room,” Ian cut in. “I have a place. I was just looking around the inn out of curiosity,” he added, sensing the need for some explanation of his presence.
“But—”
He felt the slight tugging sensation that signaled the end of his time here. When he would return—if ever— was up to the whims of whatever force controlled his fate.
He took a step toward the gazebo’s opening. “I must go now.”
“So soon?” She stood, looking oddly disappointed. Or was that only wishful thinking on his part?
“Will you be in the area long?” she asked. “I’d be happy to give you a tour of the inn sometime, if you’re interested in historic buildings. It has quite a colorful past.”
He managed not to wince. “I’m sure it does. I’d, er, like to hear about it, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to return.”
“Oh. Well, it was very nice to meet you, Bran.”
He stepped onto the rock path that wound through the gardens, and then turned, feeling the need to say something more. He’d been given the opportunity to meet her, talk to her, have her smile at him, even if only this once. Even if he could see that her smiles didn’t extend to her lovely eyes.
Something was still hurting her… and worrying her. Something she couldn’t share with the family she obviously cared for very deeply. Maybe there was a reason that she’d seen him, heard him. Maybe he was supposed to help her.
For some reason, he wanted very much to help Bailey Gates, though there was nothing he could do to help himself.
Life was too short, too precious a gift to spend it being unhappy—or angry. He had learned that lesson the hard way. Maybe there was something he could say to make it easier for Bailey to reach that valuable conclusion.
He would like to think he had accomplished something worthwhile—no matter how small—during the alltoo-brief time he’d had with her.
“Bailey?” The feel of her name on his tongue was strangely intriguing.
She looked at him in question. “Yes?”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks. “You have a lovely smile. Don’t forget how to use it.”
He hurried away then, quickly putting bushes and trees between them so that she wouldn’t know exactly where he’d gone. As he felt the grayness overtake him, he grimaced at the inanity of his parting words to her. Unfortunately, he’d never been skilled with flowery, morally uplifting phrases. He’d always left that sort of thing to Anna.
He’d never regretted his lack of talent in that area— until now.
“BAILEY? Are you listening to me?”
Bailey blinked and made herself focus on her aunt, who sat in a nearby chair in the inn’s small, private sitting room. They’d finished dinner a half hour earlier and had retired to the sitting room to visit before Bailey went back to the cottage for the night.
Her needlework in her lap, Mae was watching Bailey with a concerned frown. Bailey hadn’t realized how long she’d been sitting in silence, thinking of the man she’d met that afternoon.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Mae. My attention wandered. I didn’t mean to be rude. What were you saying?”
“I asked if you’ve enjoyed your stay here so far.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Very much. The inn is just beautiful and the meals have been delicious. It’s no wonder the dining room is becoming so popular with the locals.”
“You haven’t gotten out at all since you arrived. Wouldn’t you like to see the area? Do some shopping or sightseeing?”
“I’ve been resting. I needed to be lazy for a few days.”
“You did look exhausted when you arrived. Quentin’s been working you too hard at that shop, hasn’t he?”
Bailey smiled ruefully. “You know Quentin,” she prevaricated.
Mae huffed. “Yes, I know Quentin. He’s a petty, unreasonable, self-absorbed, egotistical, tyrannical—”
Bailey laughed, despite herself. “All right, that’s enough. I know you never liked him. For that matter, everyone knows it. Including Quentin.”
Like her aunt, Bailey had never been one to hide her opinions behind a mask of polite fabrication. It was a trait that had finally gotten her fired, though she hadn’t yet mentioned it to her family.
“I don’t know how on earth you managed to convince him to give you a leave of absence,” Mae went on. “He always acted as though he couldn’t do without you for a weekend, much less for—how many weeks did you say you’re taking off?”
“I haven’t really decided yet,” Bailey hedged. She didn’t want to lie to her aunt, but she wasn’t ready to let everyone know what a mess her life was in right now. It was too humiliating.
Mae peered at her niece through her red-framed glasses, her softly lined face pensive. “Would you like to talk about it, dear? You know I’m always ready to listen when you h
ave a problem. Perhaps it would help to share it.”
Bailey blinked back a quick rush of tears, refusing to give in to them. She hadn’t cried in years; she wouldn’t start now. Not over Quentin. And certainly not over Larry, the man she’d invested so much time and effort into recently, only to find herself fearing for her safety because of him.
She sighed. “Thanks, Aunt Mae, but I’m not ready to talk about it just yet, okay?”
“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
“I know. And it means the world to me.”
She quickly changed the subject. “Mark Winter seems very nice. I enjoyed visiting with him during dinner. I can see why he and Dean have become such good friends.”
Mark was the editor of the local newspaper, the Destiny Daily, and a frequent visitor at the inn. When he’d shown up for dinner at the same time Mae and Bailey were being seated, Mae had invited him to join them, an invitation he’d accepted with obvious pleasure. He seemed fond of Mae, and had treated her with respect, which had inclined Bailey to like him at once.
“Mark is a fine young man,” Mae said with a smile. “We see him often. He says he likes the food we serve much better than his own bachelor fare.”
“I don’t think it’s the food that keeps him coming here.”
Mae sighed softly. “You noticed that, did you?”
“How could I have helped it? Every time Cara entered the room, Mark all but fell into his plate. He’s obviously crazy about her.”
“Yes. I believe he fell in love with her the first time he saw her, only a few days after she came to work for us nine months ago. He’s asked her out at least twice a week since.”
“And how many times has she accepted?”
Mae sighed more deeply. “None.”
“She isn’t interested in him?”
“To be honest, it’s hard to tell. Cara keeps so much to herself. There are times when I’ve seen her looking at him, and I thought… well, anyway, she’s done everything she can to discourage his attentions. But she’s learning, as the rest of us have, that Mark is a persistent man. He’s very polite about it. He asks her nicely if she’d like to go out, she firmly turns him down, and he smiles and says maybe some other time. They’ve played that scene so many times, it’s become almost a habit whenever their paths cross.”
Bailey pictured Mark’s warm and deceptively lazy smile. “I can’t imagine why Cara won’t give him a chance. He seems like such a nice guy,” she commented.
“Dean thinks Cara had a disastrous relationship in her past, possibly an abusive husband. He thinks she’s been burned so badly that she’s afraid to try again.”
Bailey winced. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” Actually, it was all too easy for her to understand, especially after her own latest fiasco. Getting involved with an abusive male tended to wreak havoc with a woman’s self-confidence. And her peace of mind.
“You seemed quite taken with Mark, yourself. Could it be that you’re considering giving Cara some competition?”
Bailey shook her head firmly. “Oh, no. As much as I like him, I’m not interested in chasing a man who is so obviously in love with another woman. Give me credit for more sense than that, Aunt Mae.”
Had she been perfectly honest, she would have added that there had been no real spark of attraction between her and Mark. She hadn’t caught her breath when he’d smiled, or found herself trapped in his gaze, or oddly, disconcertingly drawn to him.
The only man who’d affected her in that manner lately had been a dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger who hadn’t even given her his last name.
For at least the hundredth time that evening, she replayed that strange conversation in the gazebo. She wondered where he had come from, where he’d gone when he left her. Why he’d seemed so reluctant to divulge anything about himself.
For all she knew, he could be a criminal. Or a certified nut case like Larry.
And yet something about him had made her trust him from the first moment she’d seen him standing there. Which only went to show that she hadn’t learned any lasting lessons from Larry, after all, she thought in selfdisgust.
In contrast to Mark Winter’s sandy-haired boy-nextdoor looks and laughing green eyes, the man who’d called, himself Bran had been dark and brooding, his black eyes revealing little emotion. Mark was on the loose-limbed, lanky side; Bran’s slender, lethal gracefulness had made her think of a black jungle cat. A dangerous one.
Lifting her chin in defiance of her own trouble-prone nature, Bailey told herself that the two men had only one thing in common. She had no intention of getting personally involved with either one of them.
HAVING AWAKENED EARLY after a restless night, Bailey happened to be outside on Friday when a bright yellow school bus stopped to pick up Casey for school. She watched as Cara kissed her daughter’s cheek and hugged her tightly for a moment before releasing her.
Cara watched as the bus drove out of sight before she turned back toward the inn. Only then did she see Bailey. “Oh. Good morning.”
Bailey smiled. “It is a beautiful morning, isn’t it? Fall is my favorite time of year.”
It was going to be a glorious day. The air was crisp and fragrant. The huge old trees surrounding the inn had not yet dropped their brightly colored autumn leaves, red and orange and yellow against the backdrop of cloudless blue sky. For the first time in months, Bailey felt relaxed. Almost happy.
“It is a nice day,” Cara agreed, pushing her honeyblond hair away from her fair-skinned oval face. “Do you have plans?”
“Dean left me the keys to his car. I thought I might drive into Hot Springs and do some sightseeing. Maybe check out the bathhouses. Hey, why don’t you come with me?”
Cara’s eyes widened in surprise. “Me? Oh, but I—”
“You can take a few hours off, can’t you? It would be fun. You can show me around.”
“I haven’t spent much time m Hot Springs,” Cara admitted. “I’ve only been there once or twice to take Casey to the dentist.”
“Then we can both play tourist. What do you say?”
Cara twisted her slender hands in front of her. “I really should be here when Casey gets home. She—she worries when I’m not where she expects me to be.”
Bailey wondered about that, but she merely smiled and nodded. “We’ll be home before Casey. It’s only a twenty-minute drive, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Cara admitted slowly.
Bailey thought the other woman looked tempted but nervous. Why? Because she worried about taking a day off work? Or was there some other reason she was so reluctant to leave the safety of the inn?
“Look, I don’t want to be pushy,” Bailey said. “If you’d rather not go, or have things you need to do here, I understand.”
Cara seemed to come to a sudden decision. “Actually, I think I would like to go,” she said with a touch of shyness. “It sounds like fun. I haven’t been out much lately.”
“Great. I’ll go tell Aunt Mae where we’ll be.”
“I have a few things to do very quickly,” Cara said. “Can we leave in half an hour?”
“Sure. That’ll give us plenty of time. Meet you in the lobby, okay?”
Cara smiled. “Okay.”
Bailey was quite proud of herself. She’d decided that Cara McAlister needed to loosen up and enjoy herself more. That she needed a friend to encourage her to do so.
Bailey intended to become that friend.
She looked forward to getting away from the inn for a few hours. As much as she’d needed the break, she was becoming just a bit restless with nothing to occupy her time, especially when she was so accustomed to frantic activity and a never-ending list of demands on her time. And, to be frank, Cara wasn’t the only one in need of a friend. Bailey could use one, herself.
She’d spent most of the night alternating between her regrets about her past, her worry about her future and her intense curiosity about the mysterious Bran, whom she hadn’t seen since that odd int
erlude in the gazebo three days ago. She didn’t want to spend all day watching for him, wondering if he would show up again. Foolishly hoping that he would. She needed to get out. And so did Cara, she reminded herself firmly.
Dean had often accused her of trying to solve everyone’s problems except her own. She was too softhearted, he’d said. And much too confident in her own abilities. She thought there was nothing she couldn’t fix, given time and patience. She even had an irksome habit of dating men with emotional baggage, men who needed her.
Dean had warned her that someday she was going to find that she’d taken care of everyone’s needs except her own. She was going to feel used and unfulfilled, he’d predicted ominously.
Darned if he hadn’t been right. She’d felt used and unfulfilled, all right. Thank God she’d taken to her heels before Larry had gotten a chance to hurt more than her pride and ego.
And yet here she was, making plans to stick her nose into poor Cara’s life. She should know better, but—
Dean and Mae had known Cara had problems for almost a year now, and neither of them seemed to have made any attempt to try to help. Oh, sure, they’d probably say it was none of their business, but someone should make an effort, right? And if it wasn’t going to be them, she supposed the responsibility had fallen to her.
She only hoped to heaven that this little project wouldn’t turn out as badly as her last effort.
FROM THE SHADOWS of an oak tree at the edge of the inn’s grounds, a man sipped coffee from an insulated container and grimaced at the bitter, lukewarm taste.
He’d been watching the place since dawn. He’d seen the kitchen staff arrive, and a small stream of locals pull in for breakfast in the public dining room. He’d watched the kid get on the school bus, and now his attention focused on the two women talking on the veranda. One of them, in particular.
His large fist tightened on the thin plastic cup. The sight of her smile made his eyes narrow in rage. She thought she was so clever. Thought she’d gotten away from him. Thought she was safe.