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“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 That lone lamp spilled jaundiced light across outdated, faded furnishings.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.”