The Kissing Tree

by Karen Witemeyer

  Did she secretly crave a loving husband and babies of her own? She’d be lying if she said she didn’t. But she wouldn’t waste her days pining for what she could not have. She refused to become one of those dried-­up spinsters who sucked the joy out of every room they entered. No, she would fuel her happiness by investing in the romance and love of others, encouraging their dreams and fostering their devotion to one another.

  That was why her inn was so important. It was her way to make a difference in the real world, not just inside the framework of her own imagination. Her inn would be a tangible place to celebrate the rare and precious gift of emotional connection. A place that reminded couples of their love for each other, that reinvigorated older relationships and created memories for new relationships to build upon.

  “You really should reconsider the pie social, Phoebe,” Mrs. Fisher said as she rose and meandered toward the door. “It’s a great way to meet people. Male people, to be specific.”

  As if the twinkle in her friend’s eye hadn’t made that point rather obvious. Phoebe joined her friend and made an effort to look as if she were considering her advice instead of mentally tossing it in the wastebasket.

  Bella Fisher shook her head as if she saw right through the pretense. “It doesn’t hurt to try, Phoebe.”

  Well, sometimes it did. Like the time Elliott Rayburn dropped a watermelon on her toe three years ago while trying to show off for one of the younger girls by carrying two melons at one time. Her foot had ached for a week.

  “Eligible men aren’t just going to line up at your front door, you know,” Mrs. Fisher continued.

  Oh, she knew.

  Phoebe pulled open the door in question, but the good-­bye perched on the edge of her tongue immediately glued itself to the back of her teeth. Barnabas Ackerly, in his perfectly pressed suit, stiff white collar, and black fedora, stood on her front stoop with his arm raised to knock. His blue eyes widened at her unexpected appearance, but his clean-­shaven jaw never so much as twitched as he lowered his arm back to his side.

  “Then again,” Mrs. Fisher said softly out of the corner of her mouth, “I could be wrong.”

  two

  Barnabas quickly pulled his hat from his head, pivoted sideways to clear an exit route, then offered a bow to the older woman. “Pardon me, ma’am.”

  The lady’s eyes met his, a puzzling sparkle dancing about her irises. Even more baffling was the smirk she tossed over her shoulder at Miss Woodward as she swept past. Phoebe Woodward had never struck him as the smirk-­collecting type—­the brand of female who whispered and giggled with her cronies until a man came within earshot, then traded gossip for telling glances and exaggerated expressions. She’d seemed a female of the more intellectual variety. Sensible. Quiet.

  Then again, she’d proposed the Idiotic Inn of Tree Kissing that threatened his livelihood, so what did he know?

  “Mr. Ackerly. I, uh . . .” Miss Woodward’s glance darted from her retreating friend’s back to his face to the ground. After an awkward pause, she straightened her shoulders and forced her chin up, connecting her gaze with his. “What brings you to Oak Springs? Surely you’re aware that my father is scheduled to be in Huntsville several more weeks.”

  “I am.” Far too aware. Barnabas had just over a month before Hollis Woodward arrived to inspect his progress. Mere weeks to transform a disaster of an idea into a marketable commodity. It didn’t help matters that his employer had apparently not informed his daughter of his intent to supply company assistance for her project. “Your father sent me, as a matter of fact. I’m to be your man.”

  Her brown doe eyes widened until they nearly matched the width of her spectacle lenses. “You’re to be my what?” She braced her arm against the door as if doubting her ability to remain upright without it.

  “Your man,” he repeated, slowing down his speech and shortening his sentences to reduce the risk of misunderstanding. “Of business. To help with your inn.”

  She blinked once, very slowly.

  Barnabas swallowed a sigh. “I’m here to ensure that the investment put forth by the Woodward Land Development Company on your behalf returns a profit.”

  Please, God. Even a small one.

  Her gaze narrowed, the initial shock that seemed to have beset her at the outset giving way to something sharper. More focused. She pushed away from the door and straightened her posture. “I’m not in need of a man, Mr. Ackerly, of business or otherwise.”

  Only then did he realize how his initial pronouncement had been interpreted. Heat spread across his nape. He was a businessman, for heaven’s sake, not some husband for hire. “I . . .” I . . . don’t have a clue what to say.

  It wasn’t as if Phoebe Woodward didn’t possess qualities a man less focused on building his career might appreciate. She had a fine figure, after all. Glossy hair the color of dark walnut wood. Fair complexion. Her nose might be a tad too large for her face, her neck a bit too long, and some fellows might be put off by the spectacles, but in his estimation, the imperfections made her more approachable.

  Barnabas gave himself a mental shake. Good grief. He should not be cataloging her physical attributes. Especially when the lips he’d just fixated upon were pulling tight in displeasure.

  “The Kissing Tree Inn is my project,” she pronounced, “and I will proceed with it as I see fit. The building is already complete, and the decorating is under way. I plan to take out an ad in Lippincott’s Magazine that will run beside my quarterly column once the inn is complete. So, as you can see, everything is under control. I’ll let my father know that your services, while appreciated, will not be required.”

  Judging by her tone, his services were not at all appreciated, but he could let that pass. No one enjoyed having another person encroach on their territory. Besides, he was still reeling from the information she’d so nonchalantly dropped like an anvil on his toe about being a columnist for Lippincott’s.

  She wrote for a literary magazine? Hadn’t Arthur Conan Doyle published his second Sherlock Holmes story in Lippincott’s last year? Barnabas probably had a copy of that issue somewhere in the trunk that served as his periodical library. Yes, he was certain it had been Lippincott’s. There’d been a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne as well. If he dug out the magazine, would he find a piece by P. B. Woodward?

  “Good day, Mr. Ackerly.”

  Her dismissal slapped him across the face and cleared his mind of all but the most urgent matter: preserving his livelihood.

  He grabbed the door’s edge, preventing her from closing it in his face. “Have you solved the transportation dilemma, then?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What transportation dilemma?”

  “How your guests will get from the depot in Huntsville to your lovely establishment here in Oak Springs.”

  She had no ready answer, so Barnabas capitalized on her hesitation by thrusting and parrying with every idea he could summon. He usually preferred a more strategic attack, but when one was backed into a corner, the most effective strategy often entailed swinging like a madman and praying at least one slash drew enough blood to drive his opponent backward.

  “You have several options.” And he’d weighed them all over the last few days. “One, you can simply leave that problem up to the clients to solve on their own. Of course, in my experience, wealthier clientele tend to prefer being catered to. Having to hire their own conveyance might leave them out of sorts. Especially if all they can rent from the local livery is a rustic open wagon that won’t protect them from whatever unpredictable weather Texas decides to throw at them on the day they arrive.

  “Option two consists of arranging transportation for them. We could contract with one of the liveries in Huntsville to be your regular supplier. You would pay his fees and roll the cost into the overall price charged to the client. I took the liberty of speaking to two different owners before I left town. Neither expected to make enough profit from the venture to promise that their best covered buggies would
always be available for the inn’s use. Therefore, if we choose to go that route, we will probably need to pay them in advance, which will mean a loss of income should the clients back out at the last minute.

  “The final option—­and the best, in my opinion—­is for the inn to purchase its own carriage. A landau perhaps, since the hood can be raised in poor weather and lowered in pleasant conditions. It would provide ample passenger space, as well, in case more than one couple arrived on the same day. You would need to hire a driver, of course. Someone local would suffice. It is the most costly option, but it would allow you to control the client’s experience, and that, my dear Miss Woodward, makes all the difference. You might have the most romantic retreat in the West, but all it takes is one grouchy liveryman to spoil the experience. Then, instead of raving about your inn to their friends, your clients will grumble about their inelegant ride to the train station.”

  Miss Woodward had returned to staring and blinking, the fire in her eyes currently banked. He’d had three days to work through these issues; she’d only had three minutes.

  And he wasn’t done yet. By the time he was finished flooding her with details, she would be begging him to stay.

  Why wouldn’t he just leave?

  Phoebe’s head throbbed. Carriages. Buggies. Wagons. Expenses passed on to clients. Clients who might not be as wealthy as Mr. Barnabas Ackerly and all his logistics seemed to have accounted for.

  “My inn is to be accessible to couples from all economic walks of life,” she insisted the moment he paused for breath. “I will not foist fees upon them for unnecessary extravagances.” Though he had made a good point about the upper tier expecting a higher level of service. Until this moment, she hadn’t considered the possible need to serve them before their arrival.

  “Then perhaps we can offer varying price levels,” he suggested without even having the decency to struggle over the problem for more than a heartbeat.

  And he kept using the word we. It was her inn, not his. Definitely not theirs.

  “Those who wish to purchase the most luxurious experience will pay a higher premium and will receive the benefits of inn-­hosted transportation, maybe even a picnic lunch to tide them over during the journey. If the weather is fair, they could stop at some picturesque location along the way. I’m sure you could recommend a suitably idyllic spot, with all your travels between Oak Springs and Huntsville with your father.”

  He looked disgustingly smug at that bit of pandering, as if expecting her romantic heart to melt into a puddle at his feet over a tepid compliment and the recommendation of a picnic. Just because the idea had merit didn’t mean she’d be liquefying any time soon. She might go soft for a good love story, but she possessed backbone too. She wouldn’t let some fast-­talking salesman worm his way into taking control of her dream.

  Phoebe opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, but he didn’t give her the chance. As if her intent had been etched into the glass of her spectacles for him to read, he jumped into one discourse after another. Did the menu she planned to serve consist of fine dining items with decadent sauces and rich desserts? Or did she wish to capitalize on the novelty of the small-­town lifestyle and serve more simple local fare? Would there be a schedule of events for guests to participate in, or would they be on their own for entertainment? If multiple guests booked the inn, would each couple be assigned a time to visit the Kissing Tree in private, or would the couples come and go as they pleased?

  The barrage refused to relent. One question after another lifted from the ground to swirl around her head like fall leaves caught in a whirlwind. They blinded her. Dizzied her. Left her unsteady and not a bit charmed. Leaves were supposed to dance on the wind in magical fairy patterns, inspiring wonder and delight. But these closed in on her like a swarm of locusts, ready to devour her sanity.

  All she wanted to do was provide a retreat for people so that they might write a special page in their own personal love stories. There was no need to make everything so complicated. Was there?

  Phoebe staggered over to the porch railing. She turned, determined to keep the overwhelming Mr. Ackerly in sight as she leaned against the blessedly solid wooden support and clasped an arm around the pillar at her side. She didn’t care if such a stance made her look weak. Having her knees give out would be a great deal worse, and she feared that was precisely what would happen if she released her grip on the column.

  She would not fall at Barnabas Ackerly’s feet. Not today. Or any day hereafter.

  Thankfully, Mr. Ackerly proved himself a gentleman and ceased his interrogation. He stepped forward, tossing his fedora onto the seat of one of the nearby wicker chairs before standing directly before her.

  “Forgive me for bombarding you in such relentless fashion,” he said, his blue-­gray eyes genuinely apologetic, “but I feared you would send me away before I could explain my value.”

  “If peppering women with verbal buckshot is a skill to value, sir, then you’ve indeed proven yourself a diamond of the first water.”

  He received her jab with a self-­deprecating chuckle that took all the stodginess out of him. His smile reminded her why she’d always liked him best of her father’s employees. Not the type to engage in insincere flattery or flagrant braggadocio, he’d always interacted with her in a straightforward manner free of both pretense and politics. And he knew how to let a person enjoy a book without filling a room with unwanted conversation—a diamond-­worthy quality if ever there was one.

  And his hair was never out of place. How did he do that? The wind was already tugging her tresses from the pins at her nape, yet his perfectly combed blond swoosh sat obediently atop his forehead without so much as a wiggle. Her father called him a magician for his skill in transforming properties, but she’d always thought the title better applied to the engineering of his hair.

  “Look,” he said, his voice growing softly serious after the breeze carried the last of his chuckle away, “for any new project to succeed, there must be both a vision and a plan. You, my dear Miss Woodward, have the vision. Let me help you devise a plan that will turn it into reality.”

  three

  Barnabas held his breath, willing Miss Woodward to choose sensibility over stubbornness.

  Slowly, she unhooked her arm from around the porch column and straightened away from the railing. Lifting a hand to her glasses, she pushed them higher on the bridge of her nose, then met his gaze.

  “Since my father sent you, he must believe you have something to offer.” Though her expression made it clear her verdict was still out. “And since my father is the one financing this endeavor, I suppose I should abide by his wishes. To an extent.” She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, the high neck of her lacy white blouse only accentuating the length of her throat as she jutted her chin upward. “It is still my inn, and I will have final say on every decision made. You will not order my workmen about, nor will you usurp my authority in any other matter. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.” Barnabas nodded, rigidly regulating his features into an expression of professional aplomb, despite the fact that his lips begged to grin. Apparently the reserved Miss Woodward had a suffragette’s backbone beneath her bookish facade. “I am here in a consulting capacity only. All I ask is that you give my recommendations fair consideration.”

  He glanced down at his feet for a moment before raising his head to meet her gaze. “I hope you don’t think me a braggart to say so, but I’m good at what I do, Miss Woodward. I understand the retail property market and have years of experience getting customers to open their pocketbooks and buy what I’m selling.” He pushed his coat behind his hip and slid his hand into his trouser pocket. “I want your inn to succeed.” No. He needed her inn to succeed. “And I promise you here and now that any suggestions I make will be solely motivated by the desire to achieve that end.

  “I have nothing but respect for a woman striving to make a mark on the world. My mother did just that, all while rear
ing me on her own from the time I was four years of age. I admire her determination, fortitude, and creativity more than that of any other person I know. Including your father.”

  Everything he’d learned about survival and making oneself indispensable to one’s employer came from his mother. Never once had they gone hungry. Never once had he gone without shoes. She stood tall beneath the shame others tried to heap on her after his perfidious father left them for a wealthy adventuress who enjoyed making lovers of other women’s husbands. His mother made Barnabas feel safe and loved even as she taught him the value of hard work. He was the man he was today because of her.

  And if his mother were here, faced with the daunting task of making the Kissing Tree Inn a successful romantic retreat, she’d be rolling up her sleeves and getting to work.

  “So,” Barnabas said, drawing his hand from his pocket and reaching for the hat he’d tossed aside earlier, “why don’t you show me your inn?”

  It took her a moment to answer. Those dark eyes peered at him, weighing his words, his demeanor. His worth. Something he’d always measured by his achievements. Yet as much as he wanted to get busy achieving and proving his value, he forced himself to stand still beneath her perusal. She held the reins. Straining against the bit now would only sabotage his efforts.