By Reservation Only Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  By Reservation Only

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Praise for Barbara Edwards

  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 Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Venison Stew

  Maple Scones

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  Since the inn was quiet, she pulled on a long T-shirt and opened the door. Her heart fluttered. She was disappointed Nate wasn’t waiting for her in the dark passage. She blew out a frustrated breath and opened one of the bedroom windows to let the fresh breeze blow in. A whip-poor-will called from the hill.

  The comfortable bed beckoned her. Flowery potpourri scented the bedroom air. She lay on top of the handmade quilt and stared at the ceiling. Sleep eluded her. She lost count of the times she turned over, punched the pillow, yawned.

  An owl hooted from the nearby woods. The call of the whip-poor-will sounded closer. The curtain flapped and the scent of smoke tainted the air. Her watch claimed it was only twelve thirty, not nearing dawn. She swore and rolled over again.

  Someone knocked on Nate’s door and called his name. Emily pulled on her pants and sneakers before she opened her door.

  “What’s happening?” Her pulse raced. Smoke, she smelled smoke.

  By Reservation Only

  by

  Barbara Edwards

  Deerbourne Inn, Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  By Reservation Only

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Helene Radjeski-Edwards

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by RJ Morris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream General Rose Edition, 2018

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2400-5

  Deerbourne Inn, Book One

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Bill, my husband and travel companion

  Praise for Barbara Edwards

  “I enjoyed this thriller. There's a lot to like about Melanie and Steve whose secret affects their relationship. The ancient persona is equally interesting and truly add to the story. ANCIENT AWAKENINGS is worth picking up.”

  ~ Romance Junkies Review

  “I’d recommend Dixie’s Gift to anyone who is in the mood for a heartwarming read.”

  ~ Long and Short Reviews

  “I love Christmas stories that have a cute twist and keep the reader engaged until the end. Barbara Edwards does this with "Late for the Wedding.”

  ~ J. A. Davis

  Chapter One

  Award-winning Chef Nathan Harte wiped the new granite kitchen counter before pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee. Dawn cast a soft glow over the Vermont hills bracketing the town of Willow Springs.

  A mixture of cinnamon, apple, and nutmeg scented the kitchen. He checked everything was cleaned and put away. Was it really done? After all this time? Satisfaction and pride welled in his chest. Being compulsively neat could be considered a burden, but he regarded it as a basic necessity. He eyed the antique cake-stands of muffins, apple turnovers, and coffee cake he’d baked since three a.m.

  Although many had advised him to keep the kitchen to the period of the inn, as a professional chef, he couldn’t do it. He had to have top of the line. The best. If he was to create memorable meals, he had to have the right tools. He listened to his cousin Liz and her internet searches on historical accuracy for every other room at the inn. Just not in here. This was his. All his.

  The antique clock in the front foyer chimed six times. Perfect. He’d started at three this morning and everything was done. Getting his morning routine down to just the right time was necessary for when his guests were here.

  The handymen coming in to finish a number of details would appreciate the snacks. Planning how long it took to provide the day’s breakfast had been easy after fifteen years cooking everything from omelets to Eggs Benedict.

  A ballad from the sixties played on the one local radio station. Not really his favorites, the selection of music from the fifties and sixties held nostalgia for the locals. A smile curved his mouth.

  His six foot three inches made it easy to reach the top shelves in the new cabinets. With his rangy build accustomed to the last months working outdoors as well as inside, he felt fantastic.

  Satisfied the new granite counters and warm cherry cabinets gleamed, he ran a hand along the back of the banquette. The green cushions added a homey touch. Eating breakfast here provided a wonderful view through the wide expanse of glass. Herbs thrived in green and yellow pots along the windowsills. He snipped a basil leaf and sniffed the fresh scent.

  Copper pots shone from a large pot hanger over the counter. Two sub-zero refrigerators hugged the outer wall and a commercial stove dominated the other counter along with double ovens. The dumbwaiter and servant stairwell occupied the corner.

  Small details made the space personal. Across the inside wall, his framed awards mingled with the artwork Liz had hung. The attic had been a treasure trove of items that his cousin had brought down and incorporated to make the contemporary kitchen cozier. Glass-fronted cabinets displayed depression-era glassware and fine porcelain teacups.

  When he pinched another leaf, the scent of mint drifted on the air.

  The Deerbourne Inn was his space. Not being under the gun all day from a difficult boss felt great. He’d regained the ten pounds he’d lost and enjoyed all the physical labor the place demanded.

  Without Bertha Deerbourne’s gift of the property, he’d still be in New York. He’d saved enough money to remodel the inn, but buying it had been beyond his reach. Despite dreaming of breaking free, he never expected Bertha’s generosity. He lifted the cup in a salute to her memory.

  He left New York because he’d felt he had no choice. He’d been edging close to a total burn-out. How had Bertha recognized his need?

  His gaze caught on the framed portrait on the wall. Sadness washed over him as he stared at the picture of Bertha Deerbourne. His old friend. Without her gift of the inn and its property, he’d still be busting his butt in the restaurant in New York City. Instead, he was the only non-Deerbourne to own the historic property since it was built before the American Revolution. As crazy it sounded when he’d first found out what she’d done, it felt right.

  He’d turn Deerbourne Inn back into the place to stay in New England. It would be the go-to restaurant for locals, and people would flock from acros
s the country to stay and take in all that this area of Vermont had to offer.

  Everything at the inn was proceeding as planned. The renovations to the rooms were complete except for a few minor details, the exterior painted, the dining room ready, and his upgraded kitchen a gem. He’d stopped looking back. Or so he told himself.

  He stared outside. The freshly mowed lawn was immaculate, green grass fluttered in the breeze. Hills rose in gentle waves to the Green Mountains. Gold and orange leaves speckled the trees. Red bee balm swayed in the breeze. The feathery petals attracted hundreds of bees. A grin lifted his mouth. Guests asking about the fall colors were in for a pleasant surprise.

  The addition of the solarium to use as a dining room had been his idea. The glass walls revealed a stunning view in every season. It had the perfect location for serving off the kitchen prep area and access to the interior rooms. Although he’d already opened the dining room on a trial basis for townsfolk, the official date coincided with the long Labor Day weekend.

  Willow Springs might be small but it was one hundred percent New England. A town green bookended with white Congregational Church and Catholic Church spires lifting to the blue sky. The Farmer’s Market opened on the town green every Thursday.

  He squinted at the large yard. This morning a web of clothesline stretched from the corner across to the new gazebo. It looked like his cousin Liz had decided she needed to get the bedrooms ready, although opening day was a week away. Sheets were already blowing in the light breeze and his mouth quirked in amusement as he saw Liz clip white pillowcases next to them.

  Recently widowed with two young children, his cousin had been grateful when he’d asked if she’d like to help him with the inn, but he was the one who was fortunate. She’d handled so many details—things he’d never thought of and some that were so overwhelming he had no idea where to start. Looking back, he had no idea how he would have done all this without her.

  He slid open the solarium’s nearest glass door and stepped out on the wide deck. Newly varnished floor planks gleamed. “I still don’t understand why you don’t use the brand-new commercial dryer I bought for this.”

  She put her small hands on her hips and tipped her head to look back at him. “When they figure out how to bottle the true smell of sheets hung out in the sunshine, I’ll use the dryer.” She pinned the last side of the pillowcase and walked toward him.

  He handed her the cup of coffee he’d brought out.

  “Thanks.” She took a sip. “Umm, nice. It’s going to rain later so I wanted to get these out early. Plus, the kids are still sleeping so it was a good chance to get it done.”

  In companionable silence they leaned on the deck rail together, drinking their coffee and looking out over the yard. The acreage needed work. Although he’d added an herb garden close to the house, it was mostly raw dirt. He wanted to enjoy these moments. In the city there had never been time.

  Sensing her stare, he turned with a puzzled frown. “What?”

  “You need a haircut before the big opening. Shaggy is not in anymore.” Liz made a clipping motion with her fingers.

  He ran his hand through his thick hair, noticing she was right. His chestnut-colored hair reached his collar and broke into waves. Those wild curls had resulted in his clipping it short for most of his cooking career. “Maybe I’ll let it grow long like yours instead.” He tugged on her long, blonde ponytail.

  She swatted at him. “Are you going to the farm market?”

  “Yep.” He set his coffee cup on the deck rail. “Need anything?”

  “Maybe, if they have any berries. It seems the one snack I can put out for Sarah and John that they will actually eat like candy. Now shoo and let me get my work done.”

  “You got it.” Laughing, Nate shooed. Liz always made him smile, had since they were children. He grabbed his bike and walked around to the front.

  The breeze lifted his green T-shirt. Knowing he’d be heading out, he’d worn clean khaki shorts and sneakers.

  The ride to the farm market took him along the main road and to the green. He waved at Reverend Jeffrey Ingalls from the Congregational Church.

  Pedaling along the sidewalk, he stopped in front of the newspaper office. The weekly Willow Springs Gazette was fresh off the presses and he paid for one from the machine. After quickly glancing at the headlines, he turned to the last page. He’d placed an ad announcing the first day of The Red Clover Café, which would open right before the inn did. After reading the printed paragraph, he tucked the paper into his basket.

  The local farm market had been set up since early morning. He walked his bicycle the short distance. The exercise reminded him why he’d left the city with its choking car exhaust. He loved being able to bike most places. He could in the city, too, but you took your life in your hands. Out here the traffic was far less chaotic.

  The Douglas Farm canvas shelter shaded today’s offerings. Nate already had an account buying their heirloom vegetables directly for café dinners when they opened. He nodded to the helper and picked over the heirloom tomatoes for today’s meal. His spirits lifted along with the breeze.

  “Hi,” he called to the owner of Trinkets & Souvenirs, a shop across the street.

  He set the bicycle at the end of the row of displays and bought coffee and a fresh donut from the owner of the Springs Café. She’d placed several small tables in the shade and he settled into a chair.

  “So how’s my new competitor?” she joked after she joined him with a bright smile. Her dark hair and skin gleamed in the morning light.

  “I don’t think the Sunny Springs Café is in any danger from Red Clover Café. After all, you’re open for breakfast and lunch.”

  “Everyone is talking about the inn. We can’t wait to see it.”

  “Stop by anytime. I’ll buy give you a coffee and you can share your lemon muffin recipe.” He grinned, knowing she’d never give it up.

  “Ha. Not happening, Chef. But I will drink your coffee.” She smiled and moved on to the customers walking up.

  He finished his break. Picking over the offerings and shopping took another hour before he headed back.

  His calf muscles burned as he pedaled. Vermont wasn’t a cyclist’s dream with its steep hills, but it did provide fresh air and sunshine. He’d put the heirloom tomatoes, yellow beets, berries, and fresh spinach in a basket attached over his rear wheel. It added some weight but not enough to slow him.

  A laugh burst forth when he pedaled into the curve approaching his inn. Not his home, not yet, but he’d been too busy to settle in or make friends.

  The inn loomed over the hilltop. With a satisfied grunt, he dismounted. This was the best part of the ride. The humidity had risen along with the bright sun. He paused to catch his breath. Sweat dampened his T-shirt.

  He hitched the bike closer to the granite curb and studied the newly hung sign.

  The four by four plank swung gently in the light breeze. The original Deerbourne Inn sign was too far gone to save. Instead he used it as a starting point, asking a local artist to help him create a new design that incorporated the old one.

  He stepped back to study the logo. The artist had added a bed of red clover swarming with bumble bees that looked fantastic. That gesture had determined “Red Clover Café” as the name for his restaurant.

  The sign was perfect.

  After leaning against the signpost to study his new home, a weird flutter he barely recognized as satisfaction filled his chest. The three-story, Federal-style house gleamed with new paint. He’d chosen mint green for the exterior walls and forest green for the shutters and trim. He’d had the painters do the bannisters, gingerbread, and rails in white.

  At one time the third floor had been for family only. In the last century big families had been the norm. The cabin built by the original settlers had been two rooms, and an entrepreneurial Deerbourne had decided an Inn would be more profitable than the family farm. He’d built the inn with that original home as the rear corner.
br />   From the front, the original portion of the house wasn’t visible. Surprisingly the wood hadn’t needed rebuilding. The settler had used chestnut and oak that had lasted two hundred years. Per his sister Victoria’s wishes and Bertha’s request, he converted two of the servant cottages into handicapped-accessible rooms for the wounded warrior patients she counseled.

  He rubbed a hand over his chin. The rough growth reminded him to shave. Pushing the bike, he headed for the new walkway. They’d used old brick to make a herringbone pattern path leading to the front steps. The driveway curved in a half circle that widened at a portcullis built to shelter visitors from bad weather. It had been used by carriages in the distant past and presently cars.

  The ear-splintering squeal of tires jerked him from his musings. A blue pick-up spurted gravel from under the back tires when the vehicle overcorrected on the curve. His heart leaped. Learned response to danger had him scrambling up the grassy verge.

  He lost his footing on the mowed grass.

  The truck hit his bike first and then the impact lifted him off his feet. He heard a bone break like a pretzel stick snapping. Pain stabbed sharper than his favorite carving knife. The stony ground rose to meet him and everything went black.

  ****

  Pressure on his chest kept him in place as Nate struggled to open his eyes. “What the hell?” he moaned. Pain filled every part of his body, but he supposed that was good. He was alive. Funny how he’d done a tour of duty in the Middle East without being wounded, only to get hurt at his front step.

  “Mr. Harte? Mr. Harte? My first aid class instructor says don’t let you move. I used your cell phone to call for help. Please stay still,” a youthful voice pleaded with him.

  Considering the way his body felt, he had no intention of moving. He forced his gaze to focus on the slim girl leaning over him. Her brown hair floated in a tangled snarl.

  “Jenny?” He managed a whisper. Relief flushed color back into her white cheeks and the tears left her brown eyes. She wore a tank top and the knees of her jeans were torn.

  “Yes. Jenny. Jenny Douglas. My dad Jack’s one of the carpenters repairing your old house.” Her hand waving in the air made him dizzy.