“I don’t, for a second, see you as a believer in fate.”

“Really?” Roth answered.

His eyes were riveting. Hannah couldn’t think or move. A strange combination of fear and anticipation began to sizzle along her nerves.

“Assumptions, Miss Hudson, can be dangerous,” he murmured. “You hardly know me.”

His hand suddenly cupped the back of her head, drawing her face to his. Hungry, searching lips covered hers. The boldness of his act sung through her veins, his kiss more potent and delicious than she dared admit. Her arms snaking around his shoulders, she leaned in, breast to chest, her body’s response an explicit “yes.”

As surprisingly as it began, his kiss ended. Roth’s fingers trailed slowly, deliberately downward, pausing at her nape. “You’re right about one thing,” he whispered. “I don’t believe in fate.” Cunning fingers drifted languidly on, southward along her spine, until his hand came to rest provocatively, just below the small of her back. “But, I love a challenge.”

Praise for Renee Roszel

A Bride for the Holidays

“…an endearing romance. The charming way these two characters find their happily-ever-after will leave a smile on your face.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Bridegroom on Her Doorstep

“Renee Roszel at her best with characters and dialogue that are real and entertaining…”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Her Hired Husband

“Renee Roszel…charms readers with two lovable characters, humorous scenes and a cozy love story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Blue Moon Bride
Renee Roszel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Renee Roszel has been writing romances for over two decades and finds it hard to believe she’s had such a dream career for so long. Over the years she’s traveled to far-flung, exotic places such as the USSR (before the breakup) and to Germany’s East Berlin (before the wall tumbled). She has toured her native America, too, scuba diving in Hawaii, the Cayman Islands and Florida Keys. Her grown sons live in Illinois and Florida, making for farther fun vacation visits. At present, she and her husband have just finished building their own home on Grand Lake in northeastern Oklahoma, where Renee looks forward to continuing her writing, inspired by the tranquility and native beauty of one of Oklahoma’s most celebrated waterways.

Renee loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.ReneeRoszel.com

Books by Renee Roszel

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3752—SURRENDER TO A PLAYBOY

3778—A BRIDE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

3865—JUST FRIENDS TO…JUST MARRIED

To Linda Fildew

My Editor, My Friend

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

HANNAH found herself smiling for the first time in weeks. She gazed up at the moon. It hung in the night sky, centered in an arched window of the last standing wall amid the ruins of an old stone church. From her perch on a granite garden bench, Hannah stared, transfixed, at the glowing orb so improbably framed in the vaulted opening that once housed stained glass.

The spectacle was even more unique because it was the second full moon this month. “A blue moon,” she whispered, wondering how many others had witnessed the awe-inspiring sight from this enchanting perspective. Her tentative smile lingered. She was glad that the proprietress of the inn suggested she come out here. The wildflower garden emanated quiet and peace, the perfectly framed moon adding a touch of magic. For the moment her troubles receded enough to allow her to feel briefly uplifted. Or at least not completely demoralized, as she had since quitting her job a month ago.

She sighed, unsettled by the profound gloom she heard in her tone. But how else should she feel after discovering she was a water cooler joke?

How could she have let Milo Brisco turn her into his puppet? Caught up in her mindless infatuation for the smooth-talking lawyer, she had let him convince her to bleach her perfectly respectable dark blond hair to “Marilyn Monroe platinum,” and change the natural, curly way she wore it into a sleek, extreme style that took an hour to achieve every morning. Not to mention how he had persuaded her to forgo her moderate office attire and allow him to choose trendy, hip, patently sexy, clothes.

She experienced a surge of self-condemnation. How could she have been so blinded by her weakness for the man to allow him to manipulate her? She thought she had more backbone than that. Obviously she was wrong.

Two years ago, after her parents’ divorce, she committed herself to being an independent woman, hanging on to no man for survival or fulfillment. Her parents’ ugly split taught her that much: no man’s midlife crisis and panting search for a trophy wife would devastate her as it had her mother. Dorothy Hudson was left alone, depressed, reduced to eking out a living as a burger joint cook.

On the other side of that coin, neither did she intend to become a clingy, passive nincompoop like Cindy, her philandering father’s latest trophy gal-pal, barely twenty. The empty-headed twit was six years younger than Hannah.

Determined never to become a “Dorothy” or a “Cindy” she had redoubled her efforts at building a solid career. Then, four months ago, she fell hard for Milo Brisco. “The egomaniac jerk,” she mumbled.

The first blow came suddenly and rudely when she overheard him bragging around the office about his “ingenious” transformation of her. She covered her ears wishing she could erase the sound of his voice, but knowing she would never drown out the memory of his crowing, or the sneer in his tone when he boasted, “Roth and I had a good laugh about how I turned a mediocre middle manager into serious arm candy!”

Arm candy! She cringed. Were two more brutally sexist words ever uttered by a man?

That was bad enough, but the second, and much worse blow, had been the one, foul word, mediocre. That mean-spirited description broke her heart every time she thought about it. Hannah had worked hard at her job. She thought she more than earned her salary. Managing the finance department wasn’t flashy or earth shaking, but even with the day-to-day tussles she had with her subordinates, dealing with their personality quirks, screwups and petty jealousies, she ran a pretty smooth department. At least she’d thought so.

Then to hear herself belittled by a man who supposedly cared for her? She felt shamed and betrayed. She knew she could have lived down an office affair and the “arm candy” swipe, but mediocre? For nearly five years she’d done the best job she knew how for Jerric Oil, so clearly hard work and doing her best weren’t enough.

“And Roth laughed!” she muttered. Roth Jerric laughed. She’d found the charismatic company president and founder attractive, and had a great deal of respect for him. Misplaced, as it turned out. He thought of her as mediocre!

Enduring a grisly sleepless night after being humiliated and insulted, she realized trying to prove herself “not mediocre” would be a fool’s errand. After all, she’d done her best. Evidently her best had been laughable to the company president. Consequently, disillusioned, her self-confidence wrecked, the next morning she resigned.

So now, with her savings dwindling, she needed a job. But more than that she needed to prove to herself that she was not mediocre. How did a person do that? What if she really was mediocre and never would be better than “average”?

No! she told herself. Hannah Hudson you are not mediocre. Sure, she’d made a fool of herself over Milo. That mistake was easy enough to fix with dark blond hair dye and a donation of flashy clothes to charity. But the mediocre label dogged her, hurt her. How did she disprove that? She wasn’t sure, but she planned to do it or die trying.

“I’ll show you, Milo,” she muttered. “You, too, Roth Jerric!”

“Excuse me?”

The male voice intruding on Hannah’s reverie brought her head up with a jerk. A moment of disorientation scattered her wits before she realized the voice had come from behind her, the general vicinity of the garden’s stone path. With self-protective dispatch, she scooted around to face whoever had spoken. Her brain was on the verge of issuing the “stand up” command when a man came into focus, brightly illuminated in the moonlight. Witnessing his starkly lit features short-circuited the command to stand, and she froze where she sat.

Not him!

She recognized the sharp angles of his face. Those strong, rough-cut features had always held a masculine, sensual attraction for her, but in such naked illumination the effect of light and shadow transformed mere handsome into a stunning picture of symmetry and strength. Her breath caught painfully.

She knew those eyes, too. They appeared dark and bottomless in the false light, but she knew them to be sky-blue and compelling. She also recognized the assertive set of his shoulders and the way his raven-black hair tapered concisely to his collar. What she didn’t know was why fate decided to play this cruel trick on her.

Why was Roth Jerric, of all people, eavesdropping on her most private thoughts—just when she’d spoken his name, now repugnant to her? It took a few seconds to find her voice. When she did, she blurted, “What are you doing here?”

He appeared surprised by the edge in her question. Apparently he was unaccustomed to being persona non grata. “Walking,” he said, his brow crinkling in a slight frown.

His looming presence, aglow with reflected moonlight, gave him a godlike aura. Maybe it was because he was so tall, or because he wore a white dress shirt and light trousers, but the effect was disquieting. She could feel her pulse rate jump. That annoyed her. Why must her body react so strongly to a man who dismissed her with a laugh. Emotionally unraveled, her confidence damaged, she didn’t need this—this ultrasuccessful, ultradominant—SOB around.

Her stress and frustration mutated into anger. “I came out here to be alone. To think.” That wasn’t totally true. She came out here to be alone, true. But she didn’t want to think. She wanted to blank out completely. Just breathe deeply and try to find a little calm.

“So did I,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”

“Strange. I’m lit up like a firecracker.”

His brow crinkled further. “If I bruised your ego for not noticing you, miss, I apologize. I was lost in thought.”

“My ego isn’t the point.” He’d called her “miss.” Why? He knew her well enough to laugh at her! Provoked, she pushed up to stand. “Pretending you don’t know me is insulting.”

He appeared troubled. She couldn’t decide if the expression was residue from whatever he’d been thinking about, or if he was having trouble maintaining the fiction that he didn’t know precisely who she was. “Have we met before?” She watched him as he scanned her face. “You do look familiar.”

She crossed her arms. “I should. I worked for you for nearly five years, the last six months as your finance manager.” According to you, your mediocre finance manager, she added mentally, swallowing hard. She wished she could throw his insult back at him, but she couldn’t bring herself to, couldn’t bear to hear it out loud again. Close to tears, she fought to keep her lips from trembling.

His eyebrows dipped in apparent concentration.

She wasn’t sure if she was more disconcerted that he didn’t appear to remember her than if he’d slapped his thigh, chortling, “Oh, right, right, right—you’re the mediocre manager and Milo’s arm candy!”

“I’m the arm candy.” She flinched. How could she have said that out loud? She’d meant to say her name.

His reaction, at first, was no reaction at all. After a second when he blinked and squinted at her, she knew he knew. “The arm…?” He paused for a heartbeat, then added, “Oh.”

That quietly spoken “oh” had the impact of a ton of bricks falling on her. She felt sick, especially now that she sensed he hadn’t recognized her. She didn’t look much like she had the last time he saw her. Her severe platinum hairstyle was gone, transformed to its original dark blond, curly, shoulder-length style. Plus she wore jeans and an oversize T-shirt rather than the body-hugging, sexy-sophisticated attire of Milo’s choosing.

Darn her impulsive nature. She could have made it through this detestable encounter without him recalling her, if she’d only engaged her brain before her mouth.

Sadly the damage was done, so she might as well salvage what she could of her pride. Straightening her shoulders, she clasped her hands before her, working to appear strong and as little like arm candy as possible. “My name is Hannah Hudson, until recently your finance department manager. I resigned at the end of May.”

He inclined his head slightly, appearing to absorb that as he scanned her face again. “Of course. Miss Hudson.” He said her name without a hint of a snicker or sneer. “I remember you now. Since your promotion we’ve been in several meetings together.”

“Once or twice,” she corrected. “Usually your VP of finance presided.”

“You look different,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I’ve joined the ACA.” His puzzled expression didn’t surprise her.

“The what?” he asked.

“It’s ‘Arm Candy Anonymous.’”

He smiled as though finding her sarcasm clever, “Forgive me for not recognizing you.” He held out a hand, long-fingered and steady. She experienced a tremor of hesitation. Did he expect her to take it? Besides having a reputation for enjoying plenty of arm candy himself, and for being married to his work, he was known for his diplomacy. “To be fair, I was at a disadvantage. Your face is in shadow.”

He had a point—about her face being in shadow—but she ignored it, just as she ignored his outstretched hand. “You’re not staying here, are you?” She prayed for his response to be no. When she won her free two-week stay at the quaint inn on Grand Lake in Northeastern Oklahoma, she’d been euphoric. She needed distance from Jerric Oil and Oklahoma City, not to mention precious time to heal, to recover her self-confidence. She planned to use this trip to reevaluate where she was going and what she wanted to do with her future. Having anybody at the inn aware of her poisoned reputation at Jerric Oil would put a huge damper on her recovery—most particularly if that somebody’s name was Jerric.

“I’m a guest here.” His grin grew crooked and wry. “You know, Miss Hudson,” he went on, “questions like that can be hard on a man’s ego.”

“For how long?”

“How long will my ego suffer?”

Was he trying to make her crazy? “No! What is it with you and egos?” She licked her lips, nervous. “I’m asking how long you’ll be here?”

“A couple of weeks.”

Horrible news. The worst possible news. Not that she was hard on his ego. It could use some filing down. The horrible news was that he would be a guest at the inn as long as she. “Oh, no. That’s how long I’ll be here.”

“Ouch,” he said with a exaggerated cringe.

“Sucks, doesn’t it,” she grumbled, “discovering somebody doesn’t find you all that terrific.” She experienced a rush of vindication. “Try seeing it from my perspective,” she said. “I’m sure you can understand why I might be upset that you’re here.”

“Not really.” His response held a note of impatience, as though her continued digs were taking a toll on his ability to remain diplomatic.

That was too bad. “I’m here to get away from—from everything that reminds me of—of…” She shrugged, arms outstretched. “You know.”

“Not really,” he repeated.

“Oh, please.” She spun away. “You know why I had to leave Jerric Oil.”

“I assume you got a better offer.”

“That’s what you assume?” she asked, sarcasm edging her tone. “Well, you assume wrong.”

He said nothing for a moment. The warm, June breeze ruffled the flowers. They rustled in the darkness, seeming to gossip in whispers. “Then why—”

“Don’t you dare ask me why I left!” she cut in. Talk about nerve! She plunked down on the stone bench, grimacing at the pain in her backside.

“But you seem upset, and I—”

“You think?” she demanded. “If you don’t mind, I’m not in the mood to chat.”

The night breeze rustled the flowers again. They bobbed and nodded, giving rise to more stage whispers. After a stressful few seconds, Roth Jerric cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me then?”

She clamped her fingers over the edge of the bench and stared straight ahead, looking at nothing. If she didn’t respond, he’d get the idea, even if he was as dense as the granite she sat on.

“It was fascinating visiting with you, Miss Hudson,” he said, his remark clearly cynical. She wanted to smart-off but managed to keep her mouth shut. It didn’t give her any satisfaction, but she wanted him to leave, and that wouldn’t happen if she kept their exchange going.

She began a calming count to ten. One…two…three…“Okay!” She spun around. “Just so you get it, I am no man’s arm candy, and hearing Milo smirking around the office, objectifying me that way, and knowing—others— agreed…” She wanted to say, You for instance. So unstrung with doubt about her ability, she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the rest. She went on with what she could admit. “Naturally I couldn’t stay at Jerric Oil after that.” Too late, she wished she hadn’t revealed that much. She bit her tongue for its betrayal.

Roth had begun to move toward the inn, but stopped with her outburst. For an instant he appeared startled, then he chuckled deep in his throat.

Laughing?

At her!

Again!

Okay, if he wanted war, he could have war. “You have a warped sense of humor, Mr. Jerric!”

He shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Had she heard him right? “Kidding?”

“Yes, kidding.” He looked dubious, and vaguely amused.

Amused! She burned with resentment. “Not at all!” She knew her cheeks blazed bright red and was grateful for the darkness. Feeling feisty, she shot to her feet. “Obviously you find my humiliation a total hoot.”

He started to speak, but she threw up a halting hand. “Don’t. Your judgments don’t interest me. Just go.”

She could tell by the play of shadow and light across his jaw he clenched his teeth. After a drawn-out silence, he nodded curtly, broke eye contact and strode off along the stone path.

She watched his exodus until she realized what she was doing, then she turned away. After a few minutes, she managed to calm down. She lifted her gaze toward the vaulted window in the old, stone wall. The moon no longer hung dead center in the space, but was set off-kilter in a corner. She felt as askew as it looked.

Unbidden, her attention slid back to the inn. In the distance she could see the ghostly image of Roth Jerric disappearing around the corner toward the front porch. She closed her eyes. Struggling to compose herself she sucked in a breath of fresh, night air.

“Okay, Hannah,” she whispered. “For the sake of your healing, keep your distance from…” She faltered on the words, so she went on silently…from that smug, disturbing SOB, Roth Jerric.

Roth walked away from Hannah feeling like crap. Of course, he already felt that way when he began his walk, but his brief encounter with the woman on the bench left him not only annoyed but confused. He didn’t need a fortune teller to see that she hated him, but he couldn’t imagine why. He’d spoken to her at meetings on occasion, or nodded a casual hello in the elevator from time to time. But he’d never said anything to upset her, let alone cause her to resign.

And he certainly hadn’t been laughing at her out there. He’d simply been incredulous that she would quit her job over anything Milo had said. The man was a competent lawyer, but on a personal level Roth found him to be a blowhard and a braggart. Had Miss Hudson given him half a chance he would have said so. Clearly his opinion was as unwelcome as his presence.

“Let it go, Jerric,” he muttered. “You have problems of your own.” He bounded up the steps to the inn’s expansive front porch and walked across the wooden planking toward the screen door. It was a different screen door from the one he remembered from his youth, when this house had been his family home. But it had the same rusty screech when pulled open.

The scarred oak door was the same one from all those years ago. He recognized it, even painted white instead of the bright green he remembered. He paused, his hand on the brass doorknob, its oval shape familiar in his grasp. It seemed smaller than it had when he lived there. He supposed it should, since he was ten when his family moved from this house, originally the parsonage for the old church which had burned down in 1919.

The house was a century old, but well-built. It had gone through many incarnations since the demise of the countryside church. When Roth lived there the property was their chicken farm. After his father died, his mother moved him and his older sister, Grace, to Oklahoma’s state capital, where she worked as a secretary. He’d never returned to his childhood home until today, when he made the sudden decision to get away from the rat race, seek out his roots. He could no longer avoid dealing with an inner struggle growing inside him, gnawing, eating away at his soul.

He was disillusioned with the conflict between his aspirations and the reality of his life. However successful he appeared on the surface, he was not a happy man. The disillusionment began with his disappointing marriage and the death of his month-old son, Colin. Not long after the infant’s death, his teetering marriage collapsed. That was six years ago. Since then, he had closed off emotionally, throwing himself into work.

He supposed, to his colleagues, he seemed like a golden boy, enviable for his wealth and swank bachelor lifestyle. But in truth, he was in crisis. So, in a moment of nostalgic weakness, he’d sought out his family home, now the Blue Moon Inn. He hoped to recapture a time he remembered fondly, before life became a succession of tough negotiations, 24/7 business stress, bitter disillusionment and gut-wrenching loss.

He leaned against the door, tired all the way to his bones. As far back as he could remember, he got everything he went after. Yet whether his fault or not, he had lost what had been most dear to him—his wife and son. Everything else he had, money, power and success, seemed pale and flat by comparison.

He’d come to the Blue Moon Inn to get back his boyhood exuberance, and that’s what he planned to do. He straightened and sucked in a deep breath. Enough of this maudlin self-pity. He twisted the knob and strode inside.

The inn’s brightly lit foyer brought into sharp focus the worn wood floors and moldings, faded oriental rugs and dark oil paintings in need of cleaning. There were other art pieces tacked to walls. Newer works. Some exhibited talent. Others, in his opinion, ran more to smeared and spattered monstrosities.

The Blue Moon Inn wasn’t the sort of deluxe retreat he was accustomed to, but he hadn’t come for a luxurious vacation or a romantic getaway with a finicky girlfriend. This was the home of his heart, before it had been broken, then put to sleep as a safeguard against pain. He didn’t know if what he hoped for was possible, but he planned to spend these two weeks finding a way to repair his crumbling joie de vivre.

“Why, hello there, Mr., uh,” came a warbly female voice he recognized as that of his hostess.

He turned toward the sound of her shuffling approach. “Jerric,” he helped. “Roth Jerric.”

The pear-shaped, elderly woman crossed the parlor in his direction. Close behind her trailed a wire-haired, gray mongrel the size of a large cat. “Of course,” she said. “I thought you’d gone to bed.” The parlor from which his hostess exited was lit by one lamp, its shade yellowed with age. That lone lamp spilled jaundiced light across outdated, faded furnishings. Plainly the Blue Moon Inn had seen better days.

Out of years of habit, Roth pasted on a casual grin. “Hello, Mrs. Peterson.” He glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly midnight. “You’re up late.”

“Oh, there’s much to be done, Mr. Johnson.”

“Jerric,” he corrected.

“Yes, yes, certainly,” she said, sounding a bit preoccupied. Barely five feet tall, she wore a green shirtdress and crisp, white apron. She wasn’t smiling. “You were outside?”

He nodded. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Did you happen to see a woman out there? In the garden in the church ruins, perhaps?”

“Yes. Were you looking for her?” He felt something brush his leg and looked down to see the mutt, sniffing him. He shifted away. The dog seemed to get the hint, or lost interest, because it returned to stand beside the woman, its feet making light tapping sounds on the scarred oak.

“I sent her out there. I mean…” Mrs. Peterson’s worry-creased expression didn’t ease. “You didn’t go near her, did you?”

What an odd query. “Actually, yes. We spoke for a moment.”

“Oh, gracious!” The woman clasped both hands to her breast. “Are you saying you stood by that bench in the—the moonlight? With her?”

He nodded, bewildered by the alarm in the woman’s question.

“Oh, no!” she cried, startling the dog. It barked, the sound high-pitched and curiously reminiscent of its elderly owner. “Hush, Miss Mischief,” she admonished, not looking at the animal. She ran both hands through short-cropped, iron-colored hair. “All my work, my planning, ruined.”

He clenched his teeth. What in Hades was going on? He’d been at the inn for less than two hours, done nothing but unpack and take a blasted walk, and already two women were upset with him. “Your friend in the garden wasn’t thrilled about my being there, either,” he said. “Would you mind explaining what was so wrong with my speaking to her?”

“Wrong?” the woman echoed, her tone forlorn. “Everything!” Her plump cheeks pinkened with indignation. “Now you…” She glanced in the direction of the garden. “And she…oh, it’s all gone so badly.” She pulled a rumpled handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it to her lips.

“What’s gone badly?” he asked.

She swiped at her nose then pushed the kerchief back into her apron pocket. As she lifted her gaze to meet his, she looked as though she was trying to recapture her poise. “I’m sorry for my behavior, Mr. Johnson.”

“It’s Jerric,” he said, beginning to wonder if the woman would ever get his name right. “Roth Jerric.”

“Yes, yes.” She nodded. Looking distracted, she patted her hair, still not quite reclaiming her “hostess” aplomb. “Forgive me. I’m an old lady who had a lovely flight of fancy—a hope you might say—to enhance two deserving young people’s lives. And—well—because of you, all my effort has been smashed on the rocks of mischance.” She attempted a smile. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” he asked. Good Lord, he’d somehow smashed this woman’s hopes for something important enough to drive her to the brink of tears. How was that possible simply by speaking with Hannah Hudson? The experience hadn’t been any great thrill for him, that was certain.

“You didn’t know—about the blue moon, and about…” She shook her head. Her eyes, a faded dust-brown behind wire-rimmed spectacles, expressed a mournfulness she couldn’t mask with apologetic murmurings. “I trust you found her delightful,” she said.

That remark surprised him. He thought about saying, though he found her attractive, her disposition left a great deal to be desired. Instead he asked, “Why?”

“Because you must,” she said sadly. “Fate has spoken, dear boy.”

He had no idea what she meant and started to ask, but she wasn’t through speaking.

“When the sheriff comes, would you mind telling him he’s too late?”

“Sheriff?” He felt like he’d stepped into the twilight zone. Fate? Sheriff? “Too late for what?”

“For them.” She made a weak effort at a pleasant expression. “He should have been here an hour ago. When he comes, ask him why he was late. Deacon Vance is his name. A darling man. Widower, you know, and only thirty-five.” She turned away, heaving a ragged sigh. “So sad. But who am I to question Madam Fate?” Her back to Roth, she shuffled off down a dimly lit hallway toward the back of the house. “Come along, Missy Mis,” she said unnecessarily, since the dog trailed close behind her. “Good night, Mr. Johnson.”

He started to correct her mistake but decided it didn’t matter. Other problems loomed larger. Had he heard her right? She’d spoken more to herself than to him. What had she said about questioning Madam Fate? And the sheriff was too late? For what? And what had he ruined by simply speaking to the stormy Miss Hudson?

“What in Hades just happened here?” he muttered.

After a moment a distant door slammed. Apparently his hostess was now ensconced in her quarters.

A bell pealed nearby, jarring him. He shook his head at himself. It was only a damn phone. Clearly his nerves were shot, and so far his stay at the inn hadn’t helped his mental state. Facing the fact that he’d been put in charge, he walked to the reservation desk, outfitted in what was once a hallway closet. He grabbed the receiver. “Jerric here.”

“What?” the male voice on the other end of the line asked.

Roth felt like an idiot. “I mean, Blue Moon Inn.”

“Who is this?”

Roth didn’t enjoy this kind of phone call. “Who is this?” he asked.

“This is Sheriff Deacon Vance. I ask again, who is this?”

“Oh, Sheriff. This is Roth Jerric, a guest at the inn. Mrs. Peterson went to bed. She asked me to tell you you’re too late. I’m guessing you don’t need to come out.”

“Too late?”

Roth was relieved to hear the sheriff’s confusion. “That’s what she said, along with other things—something about Madam Fate and hopes crashing on rocks. To tell the truth…” He had a thought that seemed worth exploring. “Does the woman have a drinking problem?”

Hearty laughter exploded on the other end of the line. “What she has is a meddling problem. Tell me, Jerric, is a young, attractive female staying at the inn?”

He thought about Hannah Hudson, her lithe, slender frame and free-falling blond hair. He recalled stunning, gray-green eyes and remembered the first time he noticed them. He and Hannah happened to be on the same elevator when their glances chanced to meet. He was so struck by the rare beauty of those eyes he’d lost his train of thought. That never happened to him, so the moment stuck in his mind. And her smile. He recalled that, too—singularly sweet. Every time he saw it he had the feeling it reached clear to her soul.

Tonight she hadn’t smiled. Quite the contrary. But to answer the sheriff’s question, she was damn attractive, even with the attitude. “Yes, there’s an attractive woman staying here.”

“Ah-ha.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Joan Peterson is up to her matchmaking tricks,” he said. “She called me insisting a prowler was roaming the grounds. Wanted me there pronto. On the way I got sidetracked rescuing a teenage couple from their overturned pickup. When will young lovers learn that French kissing while traveling sixty miles an hour on a country road isn’t very bright? They were lucky they wore their seat belts and the streambed they ended up in wasn’t deep.” There was silence on the line for a few seconds. “Look, apologize to her for me,” he said. “Tell her duty called and I’m sorry about the blue moon.”

“Right.” Roth didn’t quite catch the last thing Deacon said. “What about a blue—”

Too late. The sheriff had hung up. What did he mean he was sorry about the blue moon? “Is everybody crazy around here?” he asked the empty lobby.

Turning away from the registration desk, he stared down the hallway where he had last seen Joan Peterson. At a loss, he began to get angry. He’d come to the blasted inn hoping to conjure up a new burst of optimism and clarity. So far all he’d managed to conjure up was a bucket load of female outrage.

CHAPTER TWO

HANNAH’S vow to keep her distance from the annoying Roth Jerric wasn’t as easy to keep as she hoped, considering they shared a bathroom. That afternoon when she arrived, the idea of sharing it with strangers hadn’t seemed alarming. She’d pictured some sweet elderly couple that would retire early, or newlyweds oblivious to anyone but each other, or some health nut who would hike or canoe all day.

In her worst nightmare she never imagined her bath-mate would be her belittling ex-boss, or so—well, so conspicuously male. Her problems began when she returned from her midnight sojourn in the garden, worn-out and ready for a long soak in the tub. When she started to open the door, she heard the shower running. Darn the man. Why couldn’t he have showered in the hour he had once he left her alone?

Though she preferred to think she and Roth had nothing in common, by the next morning things were shaping up to appear that they shared an identical sleeping, waking and hygiene schedule.

She had just gone into the bathroom when she heard a knock. Being close to the booming sound, she jumped and gasped. Never in her life had the simple act of taking a bath caused her so much anxiety. She stood there naked, her nerves raw, one step away from climbing into the ancient clawfoot tub. “What?” she asked, stress ripe in her tone.

“Are you about done?”

“No,” she said minimally, preferring not to give him a mental picture of her nudity. “It’ll be at least fifteen minutes.”

A pause, then, “Would you mind if I came in and got my electric shaver?”

“I would mind very much. I’m not—decent.”

A moment passed before he responded, then, “Could you get decent? It’ll just take a second.”

Her impatience rose. “We’re going to have to work out a schedule so this doesn’t keep happening,” she shouted.

“Good idea,” he said. “So, is that a yes or a no?”

“A yes or a no about what?”

“About coming in?”

This guy’s pushiness was enough to give any sane person the screaming meemies. She wanted to tell him exactly where he could go, with her blessing, but decided not to fight it. He’d only keep knocking and harping on about his dratted shaving kit until he got his way. Heaving a groan, she called, “Just a second.” She unlocked the door that led to his bedroom, then stepped into the tub and drew the plastic curtain around her. “Okay, come in and get it over!”

“Thanks.” His door opened. “I appreciate it.”

“Whatever! Just hurry.” As she wrapped herself more securely in her green, plastic cocoon, she looked at him and her eyes went wide. “You’re not decent!”

He was about to retrieve his shaving gear from a drawer under the sink when she spoke. He stilled and glanced in her direction. “The hell I’m not.” He straightened and spread his arms, displaying his bare upper torso, which, she was sorry to notice, showed off fantastic pectorals and a shamelessly trim and sexy stomach. His hip area was covered, barely, by a towel that started too far below his navel and ended provocatively high on the thighs. Roth Jerric had a decidedly cruel streak.

“Okay, you’re minutely decent,” she said grimly.

His forehead crinkled as though he’d been slapped. “For the record, Miss Hudson, men have a particular aversion to being alluded to as minute.”

“Your glaring male insecurities are not my problem, Mr. Jerric.” She freed an arm to indicate his “minute” attire. “What is that thing, a hankie?”

“Funny.” He gave the shower curtain she’d wrapped herself up in a slow perusal. “Now I have a question for you.” When he returned his attention to her face he watched her with eyes that missed nothing and revealed less. “You’re wrapped in plastic.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Okay. Let’s try this.” He indicated her with flick of his hand. “That’s your idea of getting decent?”

“At least I’m covered.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “You are.” He crossed his arms with languid, muscled grace she wished she could dismiss without a foolish increase in her heart rate. “There’s one flaw in your fashion statement, however.”

“Really?” She clutched the curtain more tightly around her, hating being put on the defensive, especially by a man who thought of her as inferior. “What might that be?”

“I can see through the blasted thing,” he said. “Am I making myself as clear as you are?”

Her poor overstimulated brain took an extra tick to grasp the truth. He could see through the plastic? “Oh—my—Lord!” She staggered away from the curtain, spun around and hugged the cold wall tile. “Get out!”

“One second.” She heard a drawer open and close. “Give me a knock when you’re through.”

“Get out!” she shrieked. She would never be able to look the man in the face again. Though it had to have been only a couple of seconds, it seemed like forever before his door closed with a solid thud. Quivery and shamed, she sank down and huddled in the depths of the cold iron tub. Drawing up her knees, she hugged them. How could she have been such a dimwit, wrapping herself in plastic like a piece of beef? Didn’t she know better?

Or was there something cunningly sinister about Roth Jerric that caused female brains to short out when he came into a room? Whichever it was, it didn’t alter the fact that she was embarrassed to the marrow of her bones. This fiasco was almost on a par with being labeled mediocre. After a moment’s reflection she shook her head. “No, this is worse, Hannah,” she muttered. “Now he thinks you’re an idiot.”

Hannah’s vow of avoiding Roth at all costs was struck another blow at breakfast, when she discovered she would be sitting elbow to elbow with the man. At least she wouldn’t have to look at him. She could eat, keep her mouth shut and let Joan Peterson, Roth and the inn’s one other guest keep the conversation flowing. Her plan was to remain mute, eat as quickly as possible and promptly escape.

She took her assigned seat and focused across the table at the dour-faced, female artist-type. She nodded a hello. The middle-aged woman eyed her without responding. Not a good sign. Please let this stranger be a babbler, she prayed, staring hopefully at the woman with long salt-and-pepper hair, pulled away from her thin face by a tie-dyed scarf. Or was it a paint rag? She wore a paint-spattered T-shirt and no bra. Though Hannah couldn’t see her lower half, she guessed she had on jeans decorated with the same random splatters of paint. What did she do, throw her oils at canvases?

Hannah had a bad feeling that the artist wasn’t much of a talker. On the upside, she knew Joan to be an avid conversationalist. They’d met online in a chat room. It had been a time when Hannah had felt terribly vulnerable, right after her resignation. She’d needed to pour out her heart, and an anonymous online chat room seemed like as good a place as any.

Their fortuitous meeting and acquaintanceship had blossomed into an online friendship, resulting in Hannah winning this free stay. In all honesty, she had doubts that this trip was an actual “win” in any real contest. She sensed it was more like a good deed. She’d gotten to know Joan well enough to know she was extremely kindhearted and caring.

Whatever the catalyst, the “prize” came in the mail in the form of a coupon to be redeemed “in person” at the Blue Moon Inn. At the time Hannah had been so unhappy, how could she refuse a free, two-week stay on Oklahoma’s most beautiful lake? It was a dream come true.

She sighed wistfully. If only Roth Jerric had gone anyplace else in the world for his vacation, it would have been perfect. He could afford anyplace in the world, she grumbled mentally. She reached for the coffee carafe at the same instant Roth did. Their hands touched. She felt a shock and an odd disorientation. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, withdrawing her hand.

“No problem.” He lifted the coffee and poured her a cup. “Cream?” he asked, as he gave himself a cup and passed the carafe to Mrs. Peterson, who had just seated herself.

Hannah shook her head but couldn’t seem to respond. He smelled good, like sandalwood and leather.

“Cream?” he asked again, his hand hovering over the small ironstone pitcher. Apparently he didn’t notice her head shake. “No,” she said, more forcefully than necessary.

Both the artist and Joan glanced her way, appearing concerned. She cleared her throat and smiled lamely. At least she could talk again. “No, thank you,” she repeated levelly, without looking at Roth.

“I’ll have some,” Joan said. “I love lots of good, honest, real cream in my coffee. None of those nondairy, nonfat, non-taste counterfeits for me or my guests.” After pouring herself a healthy shot, she placed the container between her plate and the artist’s, then she broke off a piece of ham and leaned down, looking below the table. “Here, Missy Mis, now be a good girl and don’t beg.”

“I don’t eat fat,” the artist said, her voice low and husky as a man’s.

Joan glanced toward the thin, austere woman. “Mona, dear, I’m aware of that. But you’re a fine artist, so I forgive you that shortcoming.” She patted Mona’s knobby hand. “Have we all met each other?” She glanced at Hannah and Roth.

“Hannah and I have met,” Roth said.

Joan’s expression closed for the briefest second. “Yes, I recall.” Her smile returned, though not as jolly. “This is Mona Natterly, a frequent visitor.” She patted Mona’s hand again. “Every year she abides with me for the entire summer, then an occasional stopover during the rest of the year.” Joan indicated the couple across from the artist. “Mona, this is Hannah Hudson, my dear Internet friend and this…” She hesitated, giving Roth a peculiarly disapproving look. Or did she? It was so brief Hannah couldn’t be sure. “This is Ross—Johnson.”

“Roth Jerric,” he amended, smiling in Mona’s direction. “Happy to meet you.”

Just how do you know he’s smiling, Hannah? She berated herself. You promised yourself not to look at the man, and here you are staring at his profile. She shifted her attention away.

“By the way, Ross,” Joan went on, undeterred, “did you give my message to the sheriff?”

“He called.”

The older woman looked perturbed. “He called? He didn’t come out?”

“He had to respond to a wreck.”

Joan sniffed. “Well, it’s his loss.”

“He said something odd on the phone—apologizing about the blue moon?”

Joan’s attention had shifted to her coffee mug, but at the mention of the blue moon, she refocused on him. “As I said, it’s his loss.”

“What did he mean?” Roth prodded.

Hannah glanced his way, curious about the turn of the conversation. She scanned the side of his face, his sharp cheekbones, slightly arched nose and handsomely sculpted chin. Her gaze caught and held on the slashing dimple in his cheek, sinisterly charming.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it now,” Joan said, stiffly. “Perhaps in a few days, when I’m less crestfallen.”

The remark surprised Hannah. She glanced at Joan. The elderly woman met her gaze then shifted her attention to Roth. “Fate has spoken.” She sighed loudly. “I’ll buck up.” She patted Roth’s hand. “I’m sure you’re a nice man, Mr. Johnson.”

“It’s Jerric, but thanks,” Roth said.

Hannah couldn’t tell from his dry tone if Joan’s eccentricity of continually botching his name annoyed him or if he was merely unsatisfied with her response. Nevertheless, she refused to check his expression. She’d stared at him more than enough for one morning. Disturbed that she’d noticed him at all, she forced herself to concentrate on her hostess. “Why are you crestfallen, Joan?”

The woman’s smile grew melancholy. “Sweet girl, one of these days we’ll sit down and have a good talk about—everything. But right now, forgive me. It’s too close to my heart at the moment.” She peered at Roth, then resumed eye contact with Hannah. “I just hope Madam Fate knows what she’s doing,” she said, regaining her pleasant expression. “Now, enjoy your breakfast. A sour disposition brings on a sour stomach, and I certainly don’t want any sour stomachs at my inn.”

“But—”

“Eat, dear,” Joan cut in, then shifted her attention to the artist. “Mona, how is your oatmeal?”

“Fine.”

Hannah lost hope that Mona would hold up her end of any conversation. She scanned the aging hippie’s face, unable to decide how old she was. Her skin was leathery, as though she’d spent years outdoors. She might be thirty-five or fifty-five. “Do you paint landscapes?” she asked, assuming anybody as sun-dried as Mona must specialize in nature scenes.

Mona shifted her eyes from her oatmeal to Hannah. “I paint thoughts, musings, inklings,” she said in that gravelly basso voice. She closed her eyes, as though listening to a lovely strain of music. “On those providential days when my muse is in ascension, I paint raw, unadulterated adoration.”

“Yes,” Joan said. “Yes, she does. Most exquisitely.”

That was as clear as mud. “Oh…” Hannah wanted to ask more, like what in the world an “inkling” looked like, or what it took to get a muse into ascension, but she recalled her vow to be mute. So far, she hadn’t done very well. She took up her fork. Apparently Mona got a special nonfat breakfast, since the rest of their plates were heaped with pancakes drenched in butter and syrup, a slab of ham on the side. Oh, well. She could diet when she got home. It wouldn’t be hard, considering she was nearly broke. “Breakfast looks good,” she said, then remembered her vow of muteness. Don’t be so hard on yourself, she told herself inwardly. A compliment to the cook is no great crime.

“Why, thank you, dear.”

Hannah took a bite, deciding if she had food in her mouth she would be less likely to babble. Why did Roth Jerric have to smell so nice? And why did his elbow have to brush her arm? Every time it did, she experienced a troubling flutter in her chest.

“I serve pancakes a lot. They’re a special favorite of most guests. As are my egg dishes. Especially my spicy Eggs à la Peterson, sunny-side up.” When she said “up” she threw her hands over her head for emphasis. The move startled Hannah, already so nervous she jumped. Why did it have to be just as she lifted her coffee mug? The resulting lurch sloshed coffee on Roth’s pancakes.

“Oh…shoot!” That’s all she needed, to have to face the guy and apologize for ruining his breakfast. She did it as quickly and with as little eye contact as possible. “Sorry.” She plunked her mug down and hefted her plate toward him. “Have mine. I’m not hungry.”

“No need,” he said.

“I insist.” She scooted her chair back so abruptly it nearly overturned. Roth caught it just in time. She could feel his gaze, but she kept her focus on Joan. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Goodness.” Joan pushed awkwardly up to stand. “You’re sick?”

“No.” Hannah circled to the back of her chair. “Just—just…” She held up a halting hand. “Sit down, Joan. I—it’s a headache. I’ll take an aspirin and lie down for a bit. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” The proprietress looked worried. “I hope I didn’t bring it on with all my complaining.”

Joan reminded Hannah of her favorite grandmother, so willing to sacrifice for others. She managed a smile of encouragement. “You’re not responsible at all. Besides, I can’t recall you doing any complaining. Please, eat your breakfast.”

“Well…” Joan lowered herself to her chair, clearly reluctant.

Hannah belatedly noticed Roth had stood up. What was he doing? She glanced at him, at his face, his eyes, breaking her vow to smithereens. He not only smelled intoxicating but he looked it, in that torso-hugging, sky-blue knit shirt and those formfitting jeans. She’d never seen him in jeans before, not even on casual Fridays. He looked scrumptious—and very serious. She wondered what went on behind that frown. Did he doubt her headache story? “Sit down,” she said, upset with herself for her smashed vow, and worse, thinking of him as scrumptious. “Eat my pancakes.”

He said nothing, merely watched her. She was positive he felt her alleged headache was open to question. So what if he was right? It was none of his business if she wanted to lie about having a headache. It’s a free country, Mr. Jerric, she threw out silently. Believe me or don’t believe me. I couldn’t care less. “Excuse me, everybody.” She dashed out of the dining room, into the foyer and up the stairs.

An hour later, Hannah considered leaving her room. Maybe it was safe. Surely by now breakfast was over and Roth was busy doing whatever he came to the inn to do—fishing, boating, making other people feel inferior. She pushed off the bed and walked to her balcony door, overlooking a quiet cove some one hundred feet down a gentle, tree-lined slope. She couldn’t hear the lapping of the water from this distance, but somewhere out on the lake she heard the drone of an approaching motorboat.

Through branches she thought she could see a sailboat. Yes, there it was, its white sail billowing in the wind. She opened the multipaned door, feeling a little better, and took a deep breath of fresh air. The day would be warm. June had been un-seasonably cool, but July in Oklahoma could see temperatures soaring to three digits. Soon the weather would be too hot for open windows and enjoying fresh breezes off the lake.

A knock at her door exploded her positive mood. She recognized the force of that knock. It had to be Roth Jerric. Closing her eyes, she took in another breath of fresh, country air. “What now?”

“How are you feeling?”

She wanted to tell him the truth, that she felt depressed, and a great deal of her depression had to do with him. “If you mean the headache, I’m fine.”

“Can I come in?”

She didn’t want a one-on-one with him, especially not in her bedroom, so she decided to lie. “I’m not decent.” She winced, the off-the-cuff statement echoing the bathroom disaster. Couldn’t she come up with something else? Like the truth, I’ve been crying, a direct result of how insecure your low opinion of me has made me.

She’d had great respect and admiration for Roth when she worked at Jerric Oil. Knowing he, in particular, thought her mediocre had become a huge roadblock to her self-confidence. Running head-on into the man at the Blue Moon Inn had been far from therapeutic.

“Could we possibly do this on the same side of the door?” he shouted.

“What do you want?”

“To speak to you.”

“Must you?”

A full half minute of silence ticked by, then, “I’ll only take a second. Please, open the door.”

She felt foolish and a little childish. Did strong, independent women cower behind locked doors? Not on your life! She straightened her shoulders. She was no coward. It was one thing to be upset, but quite another to wallow in self-pity. “Oh—just a second.”

She hurried to the old oak dresser, grabbed a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Stuffing the tissue in her jeans pocket, she pulled her face powder from the top drawer and patted the puff across her nose and cheeks. “I’m slipping something on.” She closed the drawer and gave herself a once-over in the mirror. Her red nose camouflaged by face powder, she looked composed. She ran her fingers through her curls, fluffing them. Roth was only an ex-boss, just a man. Why get all caught up in his opinion? “Coming.”

She opened the door, determined to remain formal and solemn. Neither he nor his estimation of her were important. Unfortunately, seeing him sent a rush of ambivalence through her. He was quite a sight standing there all tall, intensely serious and excruciatingly handsome. His features carried a startling lack of information. A slight sideways movement of his jaw indicated impatience, perhaps. Or possibly some internal burden he carried that had nothing to do with her. Cheek muscles stood out, telegraphing the fact that he clenched his jaw. “Thanks,” he said, at last.

She shored up her indignation with the lift of her chin. “What is it?”

“Joan has your breakfast warming in the oven.”

“I told you to eat my breakfast since I ruined yours.”

“I ate my own. The coffee didn’t hurt it.”

She refused to feel guilty. He was a big boy. He made his own decisions. “Whatever.” She turned away and walked to her open balcony door. Up close he smelled too good. She needed the fortification of neutral country air. “Thanks for the bulletin,” she said lightly. “My curiosity was killing me.”

For a moment he didn’t say anything. She hoped he was gone, but had a nagging suspicion he wasn’t. “I thought we might work on that schedule,” he said.

She clenched her teeth on a curse. Schedule? What was he…suddenly it came back to her. Not only must she face him again, but they had to discuss the bathroom schedule, which would be a terrific way to relive the plastic fiasco. For her own sanity, she continued to stare at the placid lake. “Let’s say—” she thought fast “—from the top of the hour to the half hour the bathroom is yours. From the half hour to the top of the next hour, it’s mine. I stay out the first half of every hour and you stay out the second half. That way, any time of the day or night, we know when the bathroom is ours and we can avoid each other at our leisure. How’s that?” She had to admit, it wasn’t a bad suggestion, considering it was off the top of her head. She clamped her hands together, waiting.

“Sounds good,” he said.

She swallowed, more relieved than she wanted to admit. A surge of satisfaction dashed through her at the small but satisfying success. “Fine. Now, go away.”

After a beat, he said, “Look, Miss Hudson, I don’t know what problem you have with me, but if you don’t mind a little frankness, I’m no more interested in being around you than you are in being around me.”

He grew quiet, and she wondered if that was her cue to speak. She stared at nothing, all her senses focused on the man standing behind her on her threshold. “Great,” she said. “I’m thrilled neither of us wants anything to do with the other.”

“Now that that’s out in the open,” he said, “have a nice stay.”

“Have a nice life,” she shot back, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Arrogant ass.”

Roth turned away from Hannah’s door, muttering, “Prickly witch.”

He went down the stairs into the front lobby. At a loose end, he didn’t know what to do. Restless, he strode into the dining room and grabbed a mug off the sideboard where a coffee urn sat. He filled his cup with the strong, steaming brew and stood there thinking. How did he go about doing what he’d come here to do?

As a youth, he’d wanted to be a builder, a creator. His oil company came about as a fluke, his natural abilities setting him on a course so successful he lost sight of earlier, creative aspirations. His inner struggle ate at him, his disillusion with the conflict between his youthful dreams and what became the reality of his life.

Last night’s meeting in the garden with Hannah only made matters worse, with her reference to arm candy. Roth knew full well what arm candy was. Even closed down emotionally, in his bloodless way, since his divorce he’d enjoyed plenty of it. And before that, his wife, Janice, had been a striking woman, but never, ever in his mind “arm candy.”

He’d been the envy of any man who saw her on his arm, and he’d felt like the luckiest guy in the world. He’d loved her absolutely, blindly, as it turned out. After the tragedy of their infant son’s crib death, Roth suggested they try again for another child, but Janice refused. Roth could still feel the blow of her rejection, even all these years later.

The birth of their child, Colin, made her realize she didn’t like being pregnant, didn’t want her body “distorted” again. The worst shock of all was when she said the death of their baby was a blessing in disguise.

A blessing in disguise?

Every time he thought about her twisted intellectualizing that any child’s death could be a blessing, he felt sick. Suddenly unsteady, he grasped the sideboard for support. Janice was so nonchalant, so cold and analytical, while he grieved intensely. Her decision left him feeling not only grief of loss, but betrayed.

That was when he finally saw her for what she was, all appearance and no substance. At that moment he knew their marriage was over. He was the only one mourning, the only one who wanted a traditional home, with children. Disillusioned and embittered by Janice’s rejection and the fallibility of his own insights where personal relationships were concerned, he shut himself down, became obsessed with work, determined to feel nothing. Women to him became diversions, nothing more.

He heard sounds, rousing him from his morbid mental detour. He lifted his head, alert. What was that?

“Mona, don’t fret,” a voice said. “I won’t start requiring you to pay for your stays. Don’t be absurd.”

That was obviously Joan’s voice, growing nearer.

“But this letter,” Mona said.

“Oh, dear, where did you get that?”

“I needed a scrap to make a list of paints I want to order, and I found it in the trash.”

“That’s where it belongs.”

“But, it says you’re broke and you could lose the inn.” Mona sounded worried.

“My banker is an old worrywart.” Joan paused. “Besides, Mr. Johnson is a paying guest.”

Roth lifted his mug in a mock salute. “It’s Jerric, Roth Jerric,” he wisecracked, under his breath. “But feel free to call me Ross.”

“What about the other one? The girl?”

“Hannah? Oh, I sent her one of my coupons for a free, two-week stay.” After a second, she added bleakly, “I had such plans for her. She’s a lovely women and she has no job. I certainly wouldn’t ask her to pay. Just as I would never ask you.”

“But if the bank takes your inn—”

“Pish tosh! Think no more about it.”

He heard a dog yap.

“Hush, Missy Mis. Now, see what you made me do? Missy Mis hates it when I raise my voice. Let’s speak of more pleasant things.”

“Changing the subject won’t erase the problem, Joan.”

“It’s not a problem, Mona, merely a banker’s preoccupation with minutia.”

“This letter is not minutia. It’s serious. Perhaps you could sell some of the paintings I’ve given you over the years.”

“Mona, I love your work. They’re marvelous. Genius. But sadly, guests and locals fail to understand your gift as I do. Now don’t get moody. You know your muse can’t ascend when you’re moody.” Her sigh was audible. They were right around the corner. Roth didn’t want to embarrass his hostess by having her discover he had overheard about her financial trouble.

Quietly he carried his mug through the lobby into the parlor. His footfalls were muted by the Oriental rug as he crossed the room to take a seat on a fusty, rose-colored sofa. He focused on the placid lake outside the picture window, aware when the women came into the foyer. Without noticing him, they continued their hushed conversation down the center hallway toward the rear of the house.

He sat back, contemplating Joan’s money troubles. He felt a pang of sympathy for her. It must be terrible to be elderly and financially insecure. He’d seen and heard enough to know that Joan was a kindhearted philanthropist, but without the financial wherewithal to be so openhanded.

If her income rested solely on the meager amount she asked of her guests, she was no businesswoman. The place was far from palatial, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d quoted him double what she did, even for such drab accommodations. The lake access and view, alone, were worth twice what she charged.

He thought about this morning and his brush with Hannah Hudson’s nudity and found himself almost smiling. Bad boy, he told himself. You must not enjoy that memory—it was a terrible moment for her. Yet, it certainly made the accommodations—sharing a bathroom—far less aggravating. If he were to be totally honest, it made sharing her bathroom worth every half hour he would be barred from its entry.

He experienced an uncomfortable upsurge of lust and shifted in his seat. How had his thoughts skipped so radically from impoverished Joan Peterson to lovely, if explosive, Hannah Hudson? Enough of that. Besides, he had not come here for the sport of conquest, which was moot anyway, since Miss Hudson exhibited as much delight in discovering he was there as she might show a poisonous snake found coiled in her bed.

He forced his mind to the less inflammatory subject—Joan Peterson’s money troubles. He supposed it was none of his business, but the conversation between the two women nagged.

He thought of Joan as a nice, if eccentric woman, and though he tried to numb his emotions, especially soft ones like pity, empathy or love, he felt sorry for her. He even experienced an urge to help. He sensed she would be too proud to accept charity. She couldn’t even accept that she had financial trouble. So, how might he be of assistance?

He stood, lifted his mug from the doilied end table, ambled aimlessly into the lobby and out the front door onto the wide porch. After a few minutes, he found himself on the lakeside of the inn, strolling along a gravel path through towering walnut, oak and pecan trees on his way toward the shoreline. He recalled so well, as a child, times he had dashed, barefoot, to the water’s edge. On the run, he’d thrown himself into a racing dive, skimming the shallows to gain deeper water beyond the cove. Today Grand Lake teamed with speedboats, large and small, plus sailboats and little wave-runners, buzzing all over the lake like water-bound motorcycles. The cove wasn’t buoyed to warn boaters away. Swimmers venturing too far out onto the lake these days would be foolhardy.

Yet, with the buffering cove, a sense of privacy and sanctuary endured, just as it had in his boyhood. Around the bend, Roth knew where the water deepened enough for docks. His family never owned a motorboat, just a rowboat. So they had no use for a fancy dock. Wondering if anyone had put in a dock, he veered off the lawn into the woods, deciding to see for himself. He had a feeling no one had, or there would be a clearing through the heavy underbrush.

When he reached the spot and came out of the trees, he picked his way down a rocky slope toward the lake. The sunshine felt good; the air smelled fresh with the cool breeze coming off the water. He experienced a spark of exhilaration, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What if…” He reached a rocky ledge and leaned against a huge old oak. He remembered this tree, and this ledge. As a youth he had dived into the deep water a thousand times from this very spot. He smiled at the recollection. After a time of quiet contemplation, his mind began to teem with hints, sketches of the potential for what might be a promising adventure. An adventure that would not only benefit him, but would put Joan Peterson’s financial troubles to rest for good and all.

His enthusiasm grew as his vision became more and more solid in his mind. This was exactly what he needed, the creative redemption of his soul. The very reason he came back to his childhood home.

He caught sight of a crane, its snowy wings spread wide as it circled above the calm, blue water. With a laugh, he shouted out, “Who says you can’t go home again?”

CHAPTER THREE

ROTH returned to the inn well into his mental blueprints. He knew this idea was right for him, because of the way it fell so readily into place. He would buy the inn and develop the lake property into a resort with a marina, dock rentals and a gated, lakeside community that included a high-rise condo. The lower floors with less grand views would provide midrange housing for families unable to afford the offered lakeshore lots. Upper floor plans would provide high-dollar dwellings for affluent couples not wanting the hassle of a yard, opting to pay a premium for lofty lake vistas.

Joan Peterson would never again have to worry about money. Though her home would have to be razed, he would provide her with a sleek, new condominium as part of the deal.

He found his hostess in the kitchen, tying on an apron, about to begin the preparations for their midday meal. He checked his watch. Only ten o’clock and already she had to begin the drudgery of meal preparation. Poor woman. How fortunate for her that his plan would put an end to the ceaseless grind of running the aging inn. She was getting too old to maintain the sort of pace it took to keep the place clean and put food on the table. He felt extremely benevolent about his plan. He hadn’t felt so at one with the universe in years. Joan Peterson had a wonderful surprise coming.

Thirty minutes later, Roth’s harmonious mood had darkened considerably.

“No, no, no, no!” Joan cried, though Roth had just explained, for the third time, how much his plans for her property benefited her. Miss Mischief, curled on an oval rag-rug in a corner, sat up and began to yap. Joan made a quelling motion toward the mutt, and it magically ceased its racket. “I will never sell my inn,” she said less piercingly, more to keep her dog quiet than a decline in her agitation. “It’s my home. How many times must I tell you, Mr. Johnson, I would never feel comfortable living in some highfalutin condominium.” She turned away and began to chop an onion, her gnarled hands amazingly adroit as she severed it on a wooden board so worn by years its center was a rough-hewn valley.

Roth was accustomed to Joan referring to him as Ross Johnson, and let it go. The important thing was to make her face facts. “Don’t you understand? If you lose the inn to the bank, it will go on the market. I could buy it then, at a bargain price. Why shouldn’t you benefit—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Her knife whacked the onion to bits. “The bank isn’t going to take my inn. Where did you get such an idea?”

He hadn’t eavesdropped on purpose, but he felt guilty anyway. He shook it off. “I overhead your conversation with Mona.”

Joan continued to chop the onion for another few seconds without comment. Finally she lay the knife aside and peered at him, her eyes magnified behind her spectacles. He saw pain glittering there. “I’m ashamed of you.”

He felt like he was being reprimanded by his own grandmother, long dead, but a kinder person he’d never known. He experienced another stab of guilt at his misconduct. “I apologize, but if you look at it another way, the incident was providential. Don’t you understand? I can help. By purchasing your property, I can take away your financial troubles forever.”

She blinked then shook her head. He watched moisture gather in her eyes and he feared she was near tears. “What you want to do is take away my home.”

“Only this old house. You’ll have a home. A wonderful, modern home without peeling paint and rusty pipes.”

She sniffed. Her lips lifted at the corners, the expression pitying. “This is my home, and it will be until I die. I’m sorry you find it so—so unpalatable.”

“That’s not what I meant to imply—”

She held up a halting hand. “No, hear me out,” she cut in. “I want you to understand.”

He didn’t like the turn of this conversation, but he nodded, knowing he had no choice. The best arguments could only be made when you knew the opposition inside out. “All right,” he said, but silently added, It doesn’t matter how poignant your life story is, the facts remain the same. Your inn is about to be taken away from you, no matter what you want or how many tears you shed.

“You see, I met my husband here.” She indicated the direction of the church ruins. “In that garden. I was twenty-one and quite the independent lass.” Her expression softened as she recalled the story. “I had been hiking and got so caught up in the beauty of the countryside, I got lost. It was long after dark by then, but a lovely, warm June night. Fifty years ago, northeastern Oklahoma wasn’t nearly as built-up as it is now. The Grand River dam was so new, I could have wandered for days without finding a human being.”

A faraway look came into her eyes; a genuine smile curved her lips as she relived a happier time. “Around midnight, I chanced on this private home where we now stand. Being very late, I didn’t want to disturb the family, so I rested on a stone bench among the church ruins. When I looked up to scan the heavens, to my amazement a full moon sat squarely in the center of an arched opening in the church wall. I was so transfixed, I didn’t hear a man approach. When he stood directly behind me, he spoke. I shall never forget what he said.

“‘That happens once in a blue moon,’ he said. His voice was soft and low, almost like an angel’s, if an angel spoke as a human man. I was startled but strangely unfearful. I turned toward him. There and then, I saw the face of my soul mate, Durham Peterson.” She grew still, swallowed several times, as though the memory stirred deep, poignant emotions.

“We were married within weeks,” she went on. “Soon afterward, Dur confessed a desire to travel the world. An adventurer myself, I gladly agreed. Dur had a comfortable inheritance, so for the next forty years we lived a charmed life. Then nine years ago, after Dur was taken from me in a tragic fall while we were mountain climbing in Nepal, I found my way back to the stone bench in that same garden. Being there comforted me. The property had changed hands a number of times in all those years and was abandoned, boarded up. With what remained of our money, I bought it.

“Repairing the house took more capital than I counted on, so in order to make ends meet, I decided to take in boarders, because…” She hesitated and looked away. After a moment, she once again trained her attention on him, her expression determined. “…because, Mr. Johnson, I knew I had come home for good. And since I met my beloved Durham on that magical night of a blue moon, I named my home the Blue Moon Inn.” She scanned her kitchen and ran a loving hand over the scratched, green-tiled countertop. “I would rather die than sell.” She shook her head, adamant. “I won’t allow those magical ruins to be torn down. Not ever.”

“Magical ruins,” he muttered.

“Yes, magical,” she repeated, steel behind her words. “I believe the enchantment of the full moon was the sire of my bliss with Durham, and I feel sure any couple caught in the light of that miraculous phenomenon will be likewise blessed.”

He frowned, the blue moon riddle falling together. Apparently the romantically kooky Mrs. Peterson had intended that the sheriff and Hannah Hudson be caught in the blue moon’s light, and because of some lunar power she conjured in her head, they would poof become a loving couple. Evidently, in her mind, when the sheriff was detained, the blue moon moved out of its witchy window of opportunity. That had to be the reason for her crestfallen remark at breakfast.

He’d never heard such romantic drivel in his life. Obviously the woman lived in her own wacky dream world, where neither the consequences of missing mortgage payments nor basic common sense dared to tread.

“Tearing down my home and those hallowed ruins would be sacrilege, Mr. Johnson. Pure sacrilege.” She scooped up the chopped onion and sidled to the nearby stove where oil sizzled in a pot. She dumped in the onions and the sizzling intensified. Steam poured from the pot. “Please excuse me, but I’m enormously busy. You wouldn’t want dinner to be late. I serve it precisely at noon.” She gave him a pleasant smile that didn’t pretend to reach her eyes, then motioned him off with a shooing gesture. “Go. Enjoy the day,” she said, once again presenting her cheery hostess manners. To her, the subject of the sale of her inn was closed.

“Smile, dear boy.” She patted his jaw; the strong scent of raw onions assailed his nostrils. “I never allow guests at my inn to get dyspepsia from stress or worry. Go, relax. There’s a lovely porch swing out front. Or as you’re a young, strong buck, perhaps you’d rather take a brisk swim. Work off some of that excess energy. There’s plenty of time before dinner.”

He stared at her, nonplussed that anybody could be so blind to such an obvious godsend as his offer. Anyone with a molecule of sense would grab his deal, sob for joy and most likely kiss his shoes while doing it. But this woman acted as though he were trying to buy her firstborn child. Idiotic!

Joan shuffled away from him disappearing into the kitchen pantry. She began to hum, as though her money problems could be dispensed with as adroitly as she carved up that onion. Shaking his head, he walked out of the kitchen. If Joan Peterson thought the discussion was over, she was daffier than he gave her credit for.

Dinner and supper were difficult for Hannah, being near Roth. Though she kept her attention diverted from his face, she could feel the tension crackling between them. As a matter of fact, she felt so much tension it seemed to extend beyond the two of them. But that was crazy. She had no bone to pick with either Joan or Mona. And she had the distinct impression that the two women were longtime friends. The idea that animosity smoldered between them seemed remote. At both meals the two talked enough to prove their affinity was real.

As for tension between Roth and either of the women, well, it seemed implausible. Mona spent much of her time out behind the remaining church wall, flinging paint at artist canvases. That afternoon Hannah found out the hard way when she recklessly rounded the old stone wall without checking for airborne oils, and got slimed with vermilion.

The experience had been no great tragedy. After the initial shock, she managed to laugh, amazing, considering her circumstances. The shorts and tank top she wore were so faded and tired she decided a flourish of crimson gave them the perfect touch of character.

Her hair was a different story. Luckily the bathroom schedule she and Roth had worked out favored her at that moment. After Mona doused her head and exposed skin with linseed oil, she still held legitimate bathroom rights for twenty minutes. Plenty of time to soak in the tub and rid herself of flammable linseed fumes.

Besides dinner and supper, Hannah had managed to avoid Roth. Even so, she couldn’t sleep. Simply knowing he was a room away gave her insomnia. After tossing and turning until midnight, she gave up trying to sleep and decided to raid the refrigerator. Sitting beside the man at the dining table had cut into her appetite. She had barely picked at her food. Slipping into terry scuffs and throwing on her knee-length cotton robe, she tiptoed toward the staircase.

Halfway down the steps she heard a female voice coming from the parlor and recognized it as Joan Peterson. But to whom was she speaking? Hannah couldn’t make out what she said, since she spoke in low murmurings. She eased on down the stairs, her curiosity aroused. When she reached the foyer, she crept to the parlor door, experiencing a surge of guilt. She wasn’t ordinarily a nosy person, but she sensed someone was upset and felt she would be remiss if she could help and didn’t. At the door she was surprised to see Joan sitting alone on the sofa. She’d been speaking, but to whom? Her dog lay curled beside her, its scruffy head in her lap. Apparently she was talking to the animal.

“Such a bothersome man.” She stroked Miss Mischief’s back. “How dare he threaten to steal my home out from under me!”

“Who’s threatening to steal your home?” The question burst out of Hannah before she could stop it.

Joan jerked around. Miss Mischief’s head popped up and she yapped. The older woman’s hands flew to her breast. “Gracious,” she cried. “You frightened the life out of me.”

Hannah felt awful and rushed into the parlor. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Peterson.” She rounded the sofa to perch beside the dog. Leaning across the aging pet, she touched Joan’s knee fondly. “I heard a voice and out of curiosity I checked it out. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. Then, just as I got within earshot, you spoke of somebody threatening you. I reacted—hastily, I’m afraid.” She experienced a burning flush in her cheeks. “It’s a character flaw—reacting on reflex.”

How many times had she wished she could keep a cooler head? Sadly, after so many years of flinging herself onto live emotional grenades—for what, at that instant, seemed right and necessary—she held out little hope of repairing that particular flaw. She released Joan’s knee and clenched her hands in her lap. “Forgive my meddling, but I truly would like to help, if I can.”

Recovering from her shock, Joan smiled and placed her work-roughened hand over Hannah’s fingers. “I have a flaw, too. Talking to myself—or little Missy Mis, here.” She hesitated, then glanced away. “Or to Dur, my beloved. He was so sensible. He could see things clearly. Without him, I—I sometimes feel very lost…” Her words trailed away.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.