Prologue
There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.
—George Sand
February 14, 1896
IT WAS dark outside, and cold. The wind moaned around the walls as though begging to be allowed inside and tiny pellets of ice tapped incessantly against the heavily curtained windows. In contrast, the bedroom was stiflingly warm, with an enormous fire roaring in the hearth and lamps burning brightly on the papered walls.
The woman in the bed lay limply against the pillows, cradling a sleeping baby in each arm. Her eyes wet with tears, she looked from one tiny, innocent face to the other. This was the first time since their birth several hours earlier that she’d been alone with them, and she’d had to almost beg to be granted this brief respite from all the well-intentioned assistance.
“Ian,” she whispered, kissing the downy soft forehead of her firstborn, who lay nestled in her left arm.
She turned her head to the right and placed another loving kiss against the second tiny forehead. “Mary Anna,” she murmured. “My angels. How I love you both. If only your dear father—”
She choked on her words, and the tears overflowed, cascading down her pale cheeks. She was twenty-three years old, widowed three months and left with a bustling inn to run and two tiny babies to raise. She did not know how she would manage, but somehow she knew she would.
She must.
She lifted her teary gaze to the portrait that hung on the wall opposite the bed, the first thing she saw each morning, the last she looked at every night before she slept. “I’ll take care of them, James,” she promised her beloved late husband. “I will raise them to be strong and honorable, just as you would have wanted them raised.”
She looked down at her babies once more. “I have no magical powers, my darlings,” she murmured to them. “But if I did, I would say an incantation for you now. My gift to you would be that of true love—the pure and lasting love I found so briefly with your father. I would cast a spell that would guarantee you would not leave this earth until you each found someone who would love you the way James loved me—and whom you could love that deeply in return.”
Again, her gaze rose to the portrait. “Help me, James,” she whispered. “Help me give them that gift, above all others.”
The words were a prayer.
In the fireplace, the flames suddenly intensified—fanned, perhaps, by a stray breeze. Whatever the cause, the resulting light glowed bright and hot on the portrait, making the painted man’s dark eyes gleam as they had in life, with intelligence, humor and a deep, abiding love.
His wife let out a faint, longing sob. And then the flames subsided, the portrait dimmed and little Ian stirred, whimpering softly. His mother turned her attention to her son, but she would never forget that brief, magical moment when her wish seemed to have been heard and acknowledged.
February 14, 1921
IT WAS COLD in the garden, and dark. No moonlight or starlight was visible through the gray clouds overhead. The only illumination came through the windows of the inn. Inside, a party raged. Faint strains of music and laughter filtered through the glass, underscoring the contrast between the gaiety inside and the peacefulness of the garden.
Mary Anna Cameron shivered as she stepped outside. She hadn’t had a chance to get her coat, but had slipped away from the party at the first opportunity, afraid that someone would detain her. Jeffrey, her fiancé, would soon notice her absence, and would come looking for her. She hoped to have a chance to talk to her brother in private before they were interrupted.
She found her twin furiously pacing the brick path, his lethally graceful movements held under such tight control, she knew his temper must be close to explosion point. She’d expected to find him here. Ian always came to the gardens when his vexation got the best of him. Anna was probably the only person who wasn’t afraid of his notorious temper.
“Ian?” she said softly.
He turned to face her. Like the heavy clouds above them, the frown that creased his dark face threatened a potential storm. “Go back inside, Anna. Find your devoted fiancé. Enjoy your party.”
“It’s our party, Ian. Yours and mine. Please don’t spoil it.”
He exhaled impatiently. “I’m in no mood for a birthday party.”
“Ian, please. The rumors don’t matter.”
“How can you say that? Haven’t you seen the way people have been looking at me this evening? Whispering behind my back? Don’t you know what they’re saying? It doesn’t bother you that I’m being accused of bootlegging? That I’m being labeled a murderer?”
“Of course it bothers me,” she said sharply. “I hate it that anyone could think so low of you. But I keep reminding myself that no one who really knows you could believe such drivel.”
“I’ve seen the way people have been watching me the past two weeks. There are quite a few of them who do believe the drivel.”
“They’re wrong.” Her chin lifted with loyal obstinance. “Sheriff Fielding will find out who killed that revenue offic
er. Your name will be cleared, and everyone who ever suspected you will be forced to apologize.”
He shook his head. “Sheriff Fielding would just as soon lock me up as not. As for the others—most of them would rather choke than apologize to me for anything. You seem to forget that I’m not the most popular guy around these parts.”
“If only you’d give them a chance to know you,” she said wistfully.
“They know me, Anna. They just don’t like me.”
She sighed, unable to argue with him. Her brother’s prickly temper had gained him too few friends and all too many adversaries. It bothered her that Ian always seemed so alone, that she was the only one who truly understood him. And, though he would never admit it, she suspected that it sometimes bothered him, too.
She moved to Ian’s side and slid her hand through the crook of his arm, keeping her voice soft, gentling. Calming him as only she could. “Forget about the gossip mongers. They don’t matter. Today is our twenty-fifth birthday and the inn is now ours to manage as we choose. You no longer have to sit back and watch Gay-Ion make decisions that you don’t like. You can make those changes you’ve been dying to make for the past five years, and there’s nothing our stepfather—or anyone else—can do to stop you. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
He slowed his steps, matching them to hers as they wandered down the path, unhindered by the lack of light. They’d been born in the back bedroom of this inn, had lived every day of their lives here. Both of them loved the place with an intensity that few others had ever understood. They could have made their way blindfolded.
Anna could feel some of the tension leave Ian’s arm as her words sank in.
“Yes,” he admitted. “You know how I’ve looked forward to this day.”
“How we’ve both looked forward to it,” she corrected him. “Mother thought she was making the best decision for everyone to name Gaylon the executor of her will until we turned twenty-five, but it has been difficult watching the mistakes he’s made running the inn. I’m sure he’s tried his best, but—”
“But he’s a fool.”
She sighed at her brother’s curt interruption. “He’s simply not particularly skilled at management,” she said. “At least, not in the way you and I would choose to run our inn.”
“At a profit, you mean?”
“You can make the inn profitable again once you’re in charge. Providing, of course,” she added with an indulgent smile, “you don’t turn away all the guests with your tantrums.”