A Wish For Love (Gates-Cameron 2)

“Sure. That’ll give us plenty of time. Meet you in the lobby, okay?”

Cara smiled. “Okay.”

Bailey was quite proud of herself. She’d decided that Cara McAlister needed to loosen up and enjoy herself more. That she needed a friend to encourage her to do so.

Bailey intended to become that friend.

She looked forward to getting away from the inn for a few hours. As much as she’d needed the break, she was becoming just a bit restless with nothing to occupy her time, especially when she was so accustomed to frantic activity and a never-ending list of demands on her time. And, to be frank, Cara wasn’t the only one in need of a friend. Bailey could use one, herself.

She’d spent most of the night alternating between her regrets about her past, her worry about her future and her intense curiosity about the mysterious Bran, whom she hadn’t seen since that odd int

erlude in the gazebo three days ago. She didn’t want to spend all day watching for him, wondering if he would show up again. Foolishly hoping that he would. She needed to get out. And so did Cara, she reminded herself firmly.

Dean had often accused her of trying to solve everyone’s problems except her own. She was too softhearted, he’d said. And much too confident in her own abilities. She thought there was nothing she couldn’t fix, given time and patience. She even had an irksome habit of dating men with emotional baggage, men who needed her.

Dean had warned her that someday she was going to find that she’d taken care of everyone’s needs except her own. She was going to feel used and unfulfilled, he’d predicted ominously.

Darned if he hadn’t been right. She’d felt used and unfulfilled, all right. Thank God she’d taken to her heels before Larry had gotten a chance to hurt more than her pride and ego.

And yet here she was, making plans to stick her nose into poor Cara’s life. She should know better, but—

Dean and Mae had known Cara had problems for almost a year now, and neither of them seemed to have made any attempt to try to help. Oh, sure, they’d probably say it was none of their business, but someone should make an effort, right? And if it wasn’t going to be them, she supposed the responsibility had fallen to her.

She only hoped to heaven that this little project wouldn’t turn out as badly as her last effort.

FROM THE SHADOWS of an oak tree at the edge of the inn’s grounds, a man sipped coffee from an insulated container and grimaced at the bitter, lukewarm taste.

He’d been watching the place since dawn. He’d seen the kitchen staff arrive, and a small stream of locals pull in for breakfast in the public dining room. He’d watched the kid get on the school bus, and now his attention focused on the two women talking on the veranda. One of them, in particular.

His large fist tightened on the thin plastic cup. The sight of her smile made his eyes narrow in rage. She thought she was so clever. Thought she’d gotten away from him. Thought she was safe.

She thought wrong.

He was a patient man. He would choose his time carefully.

But he would have his revenge.

And there was nothing she—or any living person— could do to stop him.

3

March 10, 1899

Mary Anna almost burned down the inn today.

Poor dear, she didn’t mean to cause such trouble. She was playing with a stick she’d poked into the fire while Emma was occupied with Ian. Before anyone knew it, the draperies in the sitting room were in flames. It is terrifying to think of the tragedy that could have resulted had not Emma acted so promptly and so efficiently. As it is, the damage will be expensive to repair.

With each day, it becomes more difficult for me to manage all the details of the inn as well as take care of the children. They are well-behaved, for the most part, but typically curious three-year-olds. They run us all ragged just keeping up with them.

My friends at church are still trying to convince me that I should give more consideration to marrying. They name several gentlemen who would be interested, though they must be aware that the inn is what really draws those men. I suppose it is clear to them that the inn is all that I truly have to offer; my love died with James. I cannot pretend otherwise.

Am I wrong to try to go on alone? Am I being selfish, insensitive to my children’s needs? The thought of being another man’s wife still distresses me, but I am considering the option. It is possible that it would be best for everyone.

Everyone, perhaps, but me.

IT WAS LATE, but Bailey couldn’t sleep, even after an active day of shopping and sightseeing with Cara. Dressed for bed in a baggy pink T-shirt and matching knit shorts, she sat with her bare feet crossed beneath her on the bed in the little cottage, her chin propped in her hands as she replayed the day.

She liked Cara, though the other woman had been frustratingly reticent about herself. Bailey had come away with the impression that Cara was kindhearted, inclined to be a bit serious, somewhat shy and utterly devoted to her child.