by Gina Wilkins
She thought wrong.
He was a patient man. He would choose his time carefully.
But he would have his revenge.
And there was nothing she—or any living person— could do to stop him.
3
March 10, 1899
Mary Anna almost burned down the inn today.
Poor dear, she didn’t mean to cause such trouble. She was playing with a stick she’d poked into the fire while Emma was occupied with Ian. Before anyone knew it, the draperies in the sitting room were in flames. It is terrifying to think of the tragedy that could have resulted had not Emma acted so promptly and so efficiently. As it is, the damage will be expensive to repair.
With each day, it becomes more difficult for me to manage all the details of the inn as well as take care of the children. They are well-behaved, for the most part, but typically curious three-year-olds. They run us all ragged just keeping up with them.
My friends at church are still trying to convince me that I should give more consideration to marrying. They name several gentlemen who would be interested, though they must be aware that the inn is what really draws those men. I suppose it is clear to them that the inn is all that I truly have to offer; my love died with James. I cannot pretend otherwise.
Am I wrong to try to go on alone? Am I being selfish, insensitive to my children’s needs? The thought of being another man’s wife still distresses me, but I am considering the option. It is possible that it would be best for everyone.
Everyone, perhaps, but me.
IT WAS LATE, but Bailey couldn’t sleep, even after an active day of shopping and sightseeing with Cara. Dressed for bed in a baggy pink T-shirt and matching knit shorts, she sat with her bare feet crossed beneath her on the bed in the little cottage, her chin propped in her hands as she replayed the day.
She liked Cara, though the other woman had been frustratingly reticent about herself. Bailey had come away with the impression that Cara was kindhearted, inclined to be a bit serious, somewhat shy and utterly devoted to her child.
Cara claimed to be widowed; her husband had died in a job-related accident when Casey was only a toddler. She’d said she had never been close to her husband’s family, and that she had none of her own except a few distant cousins she’d never known well. She’d shared those tidbits only when Bailey had persistently asked questions under the guise of making conversation, but she hadn’t elaborated, and had quickly changed the subject each time to something less personal.
The only thing Bailey had learned for certain was that Cara lived in fear, though she had no idea what frightened the other woman so. But something did. Cara was running—and had been for some time. Though she’d found a measure of security at the inn, and had obviously grown close to the friends she’d made here, it was obvious she was keeping a slight emotional distance from all of them.
Bailey would have bet that Cara was fully prepared to leave again at a moment’s notice, and didn’t want to form any ties that would bind her here.
Bailey found it extremely frustrating that she didn’t know what Cara was so afraid of, and as a result had no idea how to help her. She might as well face it, she thought glumly. She was an incurable meddler.
Ms. Lonely Hearts was on the prowl again, ready to solve everyone’s problems but her own. Maybe she was destined to spend the rest of her life this way, she thought with a dispirited sigh—taking care of everyone but herself.
And she was getting maudlin again, damn it.
Tossing her head back in defiance of her own depressing thoughts, she suddenly stood and crossed the sparsely furnished bedroom. Since the cottage had been completed only a few days before Bailey moved in, there had been little time for decorating. Dean had scrounged up a bed, a nightstand and chest for this room, as well as a love seat and two armchairs for the sitting room. The tiny kitchenette was still unfurnished. Bailey hadn’t planned on doing any cooking while she was here, anyway.
A large cardboard box sat in one corner of the bedroom, the musty smell emanating from it competing with the lingering scent of fresh paint and newly finished woodwork. Aunt Mae had found the box of old books in the attic of the inn, and had asked Bailey to use her experience with antiques to determine if there was anything of value among the contents.
Though Bailey was certainly no expert on old books, she’d told her aunt that she didn’t mind glancing through them. Maybe she’d find something worth having appraised, at least. And it would give her something meaningful to do, if only for a short time.
The first selections she glanced at were not particularly interesting. They were in poor shape, and wouldn’t have been valuable had they been like new. She set them aside.
A little brown-covered book caught her attention. She lifted it out of the box, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell. It was a collection of bedtime stories, she noted, published just after the turn of the century.
The words were barely legible, and the once-colorful illustrations had faded, but something about the volume made Bailey smile. It looked as though it had been well-used, read and reread, treasured, perhaps, as a nighttime ritual between mother and child.
Whimsically, she pictured a slender woman in a Gibson-girl hairstyle and a long dress nestled on a bed beside her curly-haired child, reading by the soft light of an oil lamp. Her heart ached at the image. Bailey would love to have a child of her own to read to at night. Would she, like her fortunate sister-in-law, ever have that precious experience ahead of her?
Slowly, carefully, she leafed through the yellowed, badly foxed pages, stopping to read a line or two when she could make it out, wondering who might have bought the volume. According to the history her brother had researched so carefully, the inn would have still belonged to the original owners at the turn of the century. It had been built by a British immigrant named James Cameron, who’d died in an accident a few months before his young bride gave birth to tragedy-fated twins.
Her fingers stilled on the book’s ragged cloth cover. Was it possible that this book had belonged to the legendary Cameron twins? she wondered, holding her breath as she considered the possibility. She added another tot to the mental image of mother and child.
She’d been enthralled by the history of the twins ever since she’d first heard about them, shortly after Dean had bought the inn. Some of the locals had claimed that their spirits haunted the old place. Dean had been interested in the legend, too, though he claimed that he’d looked into it only to debunk the ghost stories that had the potential to adversely affect his business.
He and Mark Winter had researched the muchembellished story, and had unwittingly uncovered a mystery that had gone unsolved for three-quarters of a century. Almost by accident, they had publicly unmasked a murderer long after the fact, to the avid fascination of the locals and the intense embarrassment of the murderer’s prestigious descendants.
Ian and Mary Anna Cameron had been shot in cold blood by their stepbrother, Charles Peavy. Peavy and Stanley Tagert, a crooked police officer in league with him, had spread the story that the twins had been involved in a profitable bootlegging operation. The twins were also blamed for the murder of a Prohibition officer. Peavy and Tagert had reported that the twins died in a shoot-out with Tagert when he’d tried to arrest them for their crimes.
Few had questioned the official story. None of the townspeople had ever realized that it was Charles who had headed the bootlegging ring; Charles who’d killed the Prohibition officer. Charles murdered the twins when they stumbled onto the truth about him. Using them as his cover, he had retired from his criminal activities after that point, going on to become a successful and respected businessman.
For seventy-five years, local history had recorded that Ian Cameron had died a criminal, and that his sister had either been his accomplice or had unfortunately died in the crossfire during the arrest attempt. Some people said that their ghosts haunted the old inn, a story that grew increasingly popular as the place suffered bankrupt
cy and decay during a long spell of mismanagement and neglect.
Dean and Mark had learned the truth when they’d located a witness to the murders, a dying man who’d been a frightened ten-year-old boy when Ian and Mary Anna were gunned down in front of him. Only a few weeks before his own death, the old man had told the whole story to Dean and Mark, and had provided proof of his claims. Mark had printed the sordid tale in his newspaper.
Bailey had suspected that there were specifics to the investigation that her brother hadn’t shared with anyone, but no matter how many questions she’d asked, he hadn’t given her any more details than Mark had published. Even now, Dean didn’t like talking about the murders, or the ghost stories that had circulated around Valentine’s Day each year—the date of the twins’ birth and their death. Dean had never had much interest in the supernatural, and had little patience with what he’d called “crystal-carrying ghost groupies.”
Bailey, on the other hand, loved a good legend— probably because of her fascination with the past.
She knew that some of the townspeople believed the spirits of the murdered twins had been freed when their murders had been solved and their names cleared. Others had seen no reason to embarrass a long-prominent family by publicizing something that had happened seventy-five years ago. Still others had savored the gossip and belated scandal.
It might have been her fanciful thoughts of ghosts and murders that made Bailey shiver. For the first time in over a week, she was aware of being alone in the little cottage.
It was silly, of course. The cottage was securely locked, well-lit on the outside and only a few yards from the inn. Telephones had been installed in the sitting room and bedroom, connecting directly to the front desk.
There was no reason at all for Bailey to be suddenly nervous.
She moistened her dry lips and told herself to stop being such a wimp. She’d been living alone for several years in Chicago and she didn’t usually indulge in fearful imaginings.
She set the little brown book back on her nightstand and headed for the doorway. The dusty books had made her thirsty. She could use a glass of cold water.
She opened the bedroom door, stepped through it, then stopped with a muffled shriek when a tall, dark figure suddenly loomed in front of her. She was just about to make a screaming dash for safety when she recognized the intruder.
“Bran?” she asked hoarsely. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
He blinked, looking almost as startled by her entry as she had been at finding him there. He recovered immediately, his dark face taking on that carefully reserved expression she remembered so well, despite the very brief time she’d spent with him. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
“You scared the hell out of me,” she replied bluntly. “You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops.”
“You probably should have,” he commented. “You’re lucky I’m not the dangerous type.”
She eyed him uncertainly, thinking of the open bedroom door behind her and wondering how long it would take her. to make it to the lock on the other side. “How do I know that you aren’t dangerous?” she asked.
“I suppose you can’t know for certain,” he conceded. “You have only my word that I have no intention of harming you.”
She felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, that makes me feel so much better. I suppose a true criminal would tell me right away that he had nefarious purposes.”
“An honest one would,” Bran agreed solemnly.
She laughed. And then abruptly sobered when she realized that he still hadn’t answered her questions. “What are you doing here?” she asked again.
“I, er, wanted to talk to you. About Anna,” he added.
If he’d hoped to distract her from her doubts about his reasons for being in her cottage, he succeeded.
“Anna?” she asked, staring at him in surprise. “My sister-in-law?”
He nodded. “She and I grew up together. I understand she’s away on vacation, but I was hoping you could tell me if she’s well. And happy.”
Bailey suddenly realized exactly what it was about Bran that had seemed so familiar to her when she’d first met him. He looked like Anna. So much so that he could easily be…
“You’re her brother, aren’t you?” she blurted out, covering her cheeks with her hands. “I should have realized it before. The resemblance between you and Anna is uncanny.”
“You think so?” he murmured.
“Anna mentioned she had a brother,” Bailey commented, seeing no need to add that she’d been eavesdropping at the time. “I got the impression that the two of you are estranged, and that she’s very unhappy about it. She was hoping you would try to contact her soon. You are her brother, aren’t you?”
He ran his thumb along the line of his jaw. She wondered why he always seemed to weigh his words so carefully, even in response to the simplest question.
Finally, he nodded. “I’m her brother.”
Bailey immediately got defensive, remembering the rest of the overheard conversation between Anna and Dean. “What have you got against my brother? Dean is a wonderful, loving, kindhearted man. Your sister is lucky to be married to him!”
“I’m sure she is.”
Bailey frowned. “You mean, you didn’t oppose their marriage?”
“On the contrary. I urged my sister to do whatever would make her happy.”
“Then why did Dean say that Anna was forced to choose between him and you?”
“Perhaps he simply meant that her loyalties naturally shifted to her husband when she married.”
Bailey eyed him skeptically. “I don’t think so.”
“Then I really don’t know.”
“Maybe I’ll ask him when he calls to check in. I’m sure Anna will be delighted when I tell her you’re here.”
He frowned. “I’d rather you didn’t mention seeing me. Not just yet.”
“Why not?”
“It would be better if you didn’t. I don’t want to spoil her vacation.”
“But—oh. You want to surprise her when she returns?”
He inclined his head, not exactly an answer. “I would appreciate it if you don’t mention me to anyone. I can’t explain now, but I assure you, my reasons are valid,”
Bailey wondered in exasperation why the man was so evasive. “Anna and Dean won’t be back for another two and a half weeks—which you would have known if you’d bothered to call.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
She studied him curiously. “You have that much time to blow?”
“Blow?” he repeated, looking puzzled.
“Waste.”
“I won’t be spending the entire time here, twiddling my thumbs,” he answered wryly. “But, as it happens, I have more than enough time to, er, blow.”
“What do you do? For a living, I mean”
He lifted one shoulder. “I’m very versatile.”
His shrug drew her attention to his clothing. He wore a black woven shirt, buttoned to the throat, and a loosely constructed suit of a dark charcoal fabric that might have been wool or flannel. The cut was odd, rather retrospective. But it looked great on him. Anything would.
He’d worn dark colors the last time she’d seen him, she remembered. Maybe even this same suit. She wondered where he was staying, and how long he intended to stay. Before she could ask, he changed the subject.
“Anna mentioned that your brother was married before. That his first marriage ended in divorce.”
Taking the comment as criticism, Bailey scowled, immediately going to her brother’s defense again and forgetting the questions she’d intended to ask Bran. Which might well have been his intention, she thought, even as she burst into speech.
“Dean’s first wife was a selfish witch. Gloria thinks the whole world revolves around her and her needs. When she and Dean were dating, she put on a front of being interested in his life, but after they were married, she dropped any pretense of caring abou
t anything but herself. Nothing he could do was good enough for her, and God knows he tried to make her happy. When he realized that he was wasting his time, he stopped trying. That’s when she dumped him… though, if you ask me, it’s the best thing that could have happened to him.”
“Did he move here to get away from her?”
“No. He moved here because he saw the inn advertised in a real-estate magazine and he liked the sound of it. He was bored and restless in the monotonous work routine he’d established in Chicago, and he’d always liked the idea of owning an inn. Our grandfather, Aunt Mae’s father, was a hotelier. Did Anna tell you that?”
“No. She didn’t.”
“He had a little chain of hotels based in Atlanta. He sold them when Dean and I were young, but Dean was always interested in the business. When he saw the ad for this inn, he decided to give it a try. It wasn’t quite as impulsive as it sounds, but he took a lot of people by surprise. Still, I don’t think hell ever regret his decision. This is a wonderful place.”
“Yes,” Bran agreed, and Bailey wondered if she imagined the wistfulness that seemed to briefly cross his face. He was expressionless again when he said, “Your former sister-in-law sounds like a difficult woman. I hope your brother is aware of how fortunate he is to have found Anna.”
“He is. And Anna knows how lucky she is to have found Dean.”
Bran chuckled, and Bailey was struck by how different his face looked when he smiled. Younger. Warmer. A little softer.
Devastating.
“You are very loyal to your brother, aren’t you?” he asked, sounding amused by her defensiveness.
“I love him,” Bailey answered simply. “Our parents died when I was six and he was fourteen. He and Aunt Mae were all the family I had after that. The three of us have been very close ever since. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for either of them—or they for me.”
“Then you are all very fortunate,” Bran murmured, and this time Bailey knew she wasn’t imagining the hint of longing in his voice. He suddenly looked very much alone, his eyes shuttered, his longish hair tumbling onto his forehead, his hands buried in the pockets of his dark slacks.