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 across 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.

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.

The loud wail of a siren shot pain through his head. He closed his eyes again as the world spun. Nausea rolled in his belly and he swallowed bile.

“Mr. Harte. I’m Sheriff Karen Burke.”

Nate opened his eyes slowly once more and cinnamon brown eyes stared back at him.

“Look, if we wait for an ambulance you could be here for hours. I’m going to get you into the squad car and take you to the clinic. Doctor White can determine if you need to go to the hospital after that.”

He nodded and then wished he hadn’t. He closed his eyes, wanting to sleep.

“You can’t go to sleep, Mr. Harte. You probably have a concussion. I’m going to move the cruiser as close to you as I can, and then we have to get you into the backseat.”

He swallowed down the sick dread of the pain that was to come. “Let’s do it.”

He must have blacked out again during the ride because before he knew it the car stopped. Four people placed him on a gurney. He sighed with relief when it stopped moving. The chief and Jenny were gone but several people surrounded him. An older male with a crown of thick white hair and a stethoscope took his pulse.

“I’m Aaron White, doctor in this fine town. Looks like you were the loser in this fight. Can you tell me what happened?” His deep voice held confidence and he continued his initial exam. “I was hoping to meet you at your new café, but I guess you were in a hurry to meet me.” He lifted Nate’s eyelids and shone a light in each one. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Not really sure. I heard tires squeal and then bam! I hit the side of the road. Shit.” He struggled to sit up. “My bike and groceries are on the pavement.”

Doctor White pressed him flat with one competent hand. “Chief Burke will take care of all that. She’s returning to the scene. Sounds like a hit-and-run. Lucky for you we can do x-rays here. Your upper left arm is broken. Looks like you’ve got a minor concussion, too.”

Nate bit back a groan when scissors snipped away his favorite shirt. Not a manly sound, but also not voluntary. He hurt. The strong odor of antiseptic stung his nose and his stomach rolled.

“I don’t have time for this,” he protested. Worry about the inn guests flooded his thoughts. “We’re opening in a week. I’ve got to call Liz and let her know what happened. She’ll be worried.”

“Jenny already called her.” The doctor looked him in the eye. “This is going to hurt when I move it, and you’ll most likely need this.” He handed him a small basin. “I’ll get you something for the pain as soon as we get these x-rays done.”

Sure enough, when the doctor probed his upper arm, the nausea in his stomach refused to stay down. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he heaved.

Several long, painful minutes passed but finally the x-rays were up on the computer monitor. The doctor clicked several keys before spinning around on his stool. “Broken humerus. I suspected that. It’s a clean break though, won’t take too long to heal if you follow orders.”

Nate closed his eyes again. What was he going to do? How was he going to manage with a cast? The doctor returned and gave him a shot for pain.

Nate groaned but the pain receded. His brain felt like a melted marshmallow when he tried to clear his thoughts. Eight people had dinner reservations tonight. He had to call and cancel. Or someone should.

Doctor White smiled reassuringly at Nate and patted his other shoulder. The gray fog was fading and he blinked. Doc White helped him to sit up and he found his arm was bound tightly to his side in a white cast. His T-shirt was in the trash, so the clinic loaned him a patient robe. He took two pills the doctor explained were for his headache.

“You’ll need to keep the arm immobilized. You move it, and the bone will dislocate. Then you’ll be heading into surgery. Don’t worry about anything. Someone needs to be with you at all times for the next twenty-four hours due to that concussion. I heard you weren’t married, but is there someone who can stay with you?”

Nate’s muddled thoughts immediately went to Liz, but he wouldn’t ask her. She had enough on her hands with the kids. The last thing she needed was to stay up all night with him.

“I’ll be fine.” He damned sure wasn’t going to be admitted to the hospital just because they wanted to be careful. “I’ll go right to bed and not get up until tomorrow.”

The doctor ignored him and spoke to the nurse. “Call the visiting nurse service, see if anyone can meet him out at the inn in an hour or so for an overnight.”

Nate could tell the doctor was serious, and there was no way he was staying here. He nodded. “Fine. Call me a cab.”

“No need. Sheriff Burke said if she wasn’t on a call she’d run you back to the inn.”

Nate didn’t remember much about the sheriff picking him up or how he even got in the squad car. The pain killers were taking effect and it seemed like only seconds before he heard Liz’s voice, laced with concern.

“Are you awake? Can you hear me? Nate?”

He struggled to open his eyes. “I’m fine. Tired.”

Sheriff Burke appeared next to his cousin. “Swing your legs around and grab onto the side of the door with your right hand. Liz and I will help you up the portcullis steps.”

It was an awkward, slow move, but soon he was inside the inn and sitting in the parlor. His arm didn’t hurt but he was dizzy. He leaned back against the chair.

“Sit there for a minute. We’ll help you to bed.”

He heard Liz thank the sheriff and then greet another woman who he assumed was the nurse. “Don’t need a nurse,” he grumbled, but no one seemed to listen.

“Mr. Harte? Mr. Harte, I’m Anne Burke and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

He opened his eyes to see an older woman, probably a grandmother, in a crisp white blouse and navy pants. Her ginger hair coiled like a steel wool pad in a tight cap. Her ice-blue eyes were warm with compassion but also told him she would take charge whether he liked it or not.

“Hello,” he muttered, wanting to stay in the chair and sleep.

“You’re to lie down and rest. Doc said to make sure you drink enough water. Anne knows everything to do.”

“Don’t need her,” he mumbled. Mrs. Burke tugged his arm around her shoulders and eased him to his feet.

Liz opened the door to his room and the ladies escorted him to the bed. Nate was too exhausted to feel embarrassed. Liz had been married and his nurse was old enough to be his grandmother. They gave him a sponge bath to remove the grass stains. He didn’t think about anything while they helped him into pajama bottoms and tucked him under the covers. He slid into sleep like a child.

He lost count of the number of times his nurse woke him to check his vitals. Too sleepy to wake, he turned his face to the gentle cool hands that soothed his forehead then held his hand. A soft voice reassured him he’d feel better tomorrow. The faint scent of roses drifted in the bedroom.

****

The next morning Nathan woke with a brass band marching through his head. Bruises painted his chest and arm. As long as he didn’t move he felt like he’d live. But he had no choice. He needed to use the bathroom, brush his teeth, and figure out what to do over the next seven days. The pain in his arm had him clenching his teeth to keep from groaning. The inn’s grand opening had been advertised, the rooms rented, and reservations made for each dinner.

He stumbled into the bathroom and reached for some regular aspirin instead of the prescribed medicine. Looking in the mirror, he winced at the bruises covering his chest and his shoulder. He supposed he was lucky he hadn’t broken more than his arm. Still he didn’t feel very lucky. This was the absolute last thing he needed to happen.

He rubbed his good hand over his hair. He’d forgotten to visit the barber. He hoped Liz didn’t decide to take scissors to it herself. This long, it looked exactly like Vicki’s mahogany tresses.

By the time he’d washed up, his legs were steadier. He pulled on a pair of khaki shorts, but held two T-shirts in his hand while he walked to the kitchen. He needed help getting one on. Voices came from the deck in a low murmur.

When his nurse frowned at him, her thick brows met like a furry caterpillar. “You should have called for me. I could have given you a sponge bath. Then gotten you properly dressed.” She came to her feet and reached for his good hand, feeling for his pulse. “How do you feel?”

He shrugged then winced with the pain. “Like I got hit by a truck.”

“Not funny,” Liz reprimanded and moved to the coffee pot. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah, except for all the times you and that other nurse woke me up.” He scowled at Anne Burke.

Liz giggled, then rolled her eyes.

Anne’s brows snapped together into a straight line. “There wasn’t anyone else, young man. Even Liz went home to sleep,” she protested. She rose from her chair like a force of nature. “I hope you weren’t hallucinating, but I’ll report it to Doctor White. In fact, it’s time for me to leave. I’ll take your vitals one more time. Doctor White will want to do a follow-up. Don’t forget.”

Liz bounced in place. “Your sister is driving up on Saturday. She should be here by noon. I can tell you she was peeved you didn’t call her yourself. She dragged every detail from me.”

Nate leaned his head back as he groaned. “Not if I can help it. Not Vicki. She’ll drive me crazy. Maybe I can put her off for a few days.”

“Don’t be like that.” Liz patted his uninjured arm. “Everyone understood about cancelling the dinner reservations last night. Most of them rebooked for another night.”

The nurse dragged his T-shirt over his head and helped him slide his uninjured arm in the sleeve before he answered. He noticed her thick fingers. Her wide hands definitely weren’t the ones he remembered. And her skin had a clean, citrusy scent.

After he relaxed, he sniffed brown sugar and raisins. “Where did the muffins come from?” he barked. He detested having anyone use his tools.

“I baked them. Used your recipe, too,” Liz bragged while she slid a plate of warm muffins to him. “I might not be a chef, but I can do simple baking.”

“Humph.” Nate pulled a raisin cinnamon muffin apart. He was so tired his fingers felt stiff. Being grateful for her help when she was already working to the max didn’t go down well. “Thanks for taking care of the guests.”