by Judith Yates
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
Books By Judith Yates
About the Author
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
Epilogue
Copyright
“This is not a smart thing to do,”
Amy gasped, tearing herself away from Paul.
“Smart?” He glared at her, bewildered, his breathing as ragged as hers.
“Getting carried away like this-with the night, the gazebo,” she sputtered, backing away from him. “Discussing a personal experience or two doesn’t mean we have to—to—”
“Hold each other? Kiss? Make love?” he said dryly, not sure if he was extremely annoyed, strangely amused or very, very angry.
“I meant we shouldn’t take on more than we can handle,” she insisted. “You don’t really know me. And I don’t know you.”
“Wasn’t that what we were doing—getting to know each other better?”
Dismay flashed in her eyes. “Not that way, Paul. You understand, don’t you?”
Paul told himself to cool down. Disappointment shouldn’t overshadow whatever was left of his common sense. “I understand,” he said finally.
But he didn’t like it.
Dear Reader,
Spring is just beginning in the month of April for Special Edition!
Award-winning author Laurie Paige presents our THAT’S MY BABY! title for the month“ Molly Darling. Take one ranching single dad, a proper schoolteacher and an irresistible baby girl, and romance is sure to follow. Don’t miss this wonderful story that is sure to melt your heart!
Passions are running high when New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts pits a charming ladies’ man against his match—this MacKade brother just doesn’t know what hit him in The Fall of Shane MacKade, the fourth book in Nora’s series, THE MACKADE BROTHERS. Trisha Alexander’s new series of weddings and babies, THREE BRIDES AND A BABY, begins this month with A Bride for Luke. And Joan Elliott Pickart’s THE BABY BET series continues in April with The Father of Her Child. Rounding out the month is Jennifer Mikels with the tender Expecting: Baby, and Judith Yates’s warm family tiae, A Will and a Wedding.
A whole season of love and romance has just begun from Special Edition! I hope you enjoy each and every story to come!
Sincerely,
Tara Gavin
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
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A Will And A Wedding
Judith Yates
For Stephanie and Willy Yoder,
You make each day come alive, reminding me why love is the most important thing in life.
Books by Judith Yates
Silhouette Special Edition
Family Connections #912
A Will and a Wedding #1026
JUDITH YATES
grew up in a tiny New England town where she secretly wrote novels after school. After such an early start, she finds it ironic that she didn’t get around to “following her bliss” of writing professionally until after working for years in Boston and Washington, D.C., marrying and starting a family.
When she’s not busy writing and taking care of her two small children, Judith volunteers at local schools and enjoys speaking to young people about writing— especially those who are secretly working on novels after school.
Chapter One
Amy Riordan’s heart was at odds with her better judgment. The choice between facing the past and leaving well enough alone was tough. Very tough.
Explaining her final decision to her mother was no day at the beach, either.
“Mother, I have to go out there to take care of this. They’ve backed me into a corner.”
Amy gazed across the polished mahogany table at her mother as the maid cleared the remains of another oh-soelegant yet dull Windom Thanksgiving dinner.
“Oh, honestly. You don’t have to deal with anyone you don’t want to,” Joan Holt Riordan Windom insisted, her manicured hand rapping the table in emphasis. “Certainly not that woman and her daughters.”
Joan’s objections came as no surprise. Still, Amy was relieved her mother had managed to hold her tongue until after the others had tottered off to the living room for dessert and coffee. Hearing the unsolicited opinions of her aging stepfamily was the last thing she needed.
“According to the lawyers, that woman and her daughters were like family to my father.” More family to him than she’d ever been.
“Then Gregory should’ve left that entire godforsaken inn to them in his will, instead of tangling you up in this ridiculous legal snare. Why would you want part ownership?” Joan said, her voice edgy with indignation. “Even without your business, you’d have no financial worries—and Greg knew that!”
Why, indeed? It was the question Amy had been asking herself often in the months since she’d been notified of her father’s death and the terms of his will. Why had he left her a half interest in the renovated old inn nestled deep in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia?
She hadn’t seen Gregory Riordan since her mother had divorced him when Amy was six years old. For a while, she’d heard from him twice a year—with a card and a ten-dollar bill on her birthday and at Christmas. But never a phone call or a visit. In time, her memory of her father had grown so vague she could recall only a gruffsounding laugh gentled by sparkly blue eyes, and long, strong arms that would lift her onto the backyard tree swing. Then he had pushed her to exhilarating heights and they had played Touch the Blue Sky, a singsong game he’d made up especially for her.
“Someday you’ll touch the blue sky, Amy sprite,” he would call over her delighted giggles. “The elves will shower you with luck when you touch the blue sky.”
By the time she was twelve, however, the cards had stopped coming. Save for that one enchanting memory, her father, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared from her life.
Her mother had had little to say about it except that she wasn’t surprised. Her stepfather, Thomas Windom, had tried to explain—in his well-intentioned way—about men who drifted through life, incapable of family responsibilities. “Men like Greg Riordan can’t be counted on,” Thomas had cautioned. “You may never hear from him again.”
Yet Amy did hear from Greg—years later, after she’d emerged from a stormy adolescence and was living away from home for the first time. She’d been in the throes of an important college romance when Greg had sent a letter, via Joan, announcing he’d just achieved a lifelong dream. He’d purchased an old fifteen-room inn in Tremont, Virginia, less than two hours from the Windom home in Washington. He had big plans for renovating it, and he had invited Amy to come see the inn—and him— whenever she wanted.
Whenever she wanted?
Her father hadn’t been around all those years when she’d really needed him. And then he’d chosen to reappear when life was exciting and bursting with new possibilities. Was she supposed to be thrilled? Amy had waffled for weeks over how�
�or if—to respond. But when her mother had revealed that Greg had settled down at the inn with a woman who had two teenage daughters of her own, Amy’s resentment intensified into anger and hurt. Clearly Greg Riordan didn’t need her in his life, and with all the callow presumptuousness of a nineteen-yearold, she had concluded she didn’t need him. Not ever.
These days, at age thirty-one, sadder but wiser after a frustrating string of relationships, Amy realized Greg could have been reaching out to her with that letter, trying to reconnect. Maybe he hadn’t been looking for a handout, as her mother had suspected. But then, why had he tried only once? Why hadn’t he tried harder? For now all she had left of him was the special memory of their private game, Touch the Blue Sky. And, of course, the inn
“Can’t your attorneys work out a deal with this Ryan woman?” Joan said, pouring herself more coffee from an exquisite china pot. “It would seem to me she’d either want to buy out your share or sell hers.”
Amy shook her head. “She refuses to sell, and I don’t think she has the means to buy me out. Apparently the inn’s been teetering on a financial tightrope for the past three years.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised. Your father was horrible with money. I’m amazed he managed to hold on to that inn as long as he did.”
“Well, he did hold on to it, and Bernadette Ryan is not about to let it go. She refuses to take any action until I go down there in person. She’s adamant about that.”
“Greg Riordan’s mistress has no right to make demands on you,” Joan declared. “It’s probably some ploy to get money out of you. Greg must have told her we’re wealthy.”
The same thought had occurred to Amy, if only because Bernadette Ryan’s refusal to negotiate with Amy’s attorneys seemed so unreasonable. Because of her stepfather’s wealth and social position, some people sought her out for whatever advantages they hoped her connections might bestow. Except for one recent, glaring exception, she had become quite good at keeping such users at arm’s length.
But in this situation, as Mrs. Ryan’s insistence had held firm over the past few months, Amy’s resistance had grown weak from curiosity and confusion. She’d begun to suspect something other than money was behind Bernadette’s demand.
“Mother, the lawyers advised me to meet with her and stay at the inn as she’s asked,” Amy explained. “They believe it’s the quickest way to resolve the matter.”
Her mother sighed. “Are you sure that tawdry business with Jeffrey Martin isn’t influencing you in all this? Because reaching out to those people is no way to compensate for—”
“Mother, this has nothing to do with what happened with Jeff.”
“Well, either way, I think your plan is utterly misguided.” Joan tossed down a white linen napkin and got to her feet. “J certainly wouldn’t give in to that woman.”
True enough. Her mother rarely gave in to anyone.
Yet Amy wasn’t fazed by Joan’s indirect criticism of her decision. She had realized long ago that her mother’s approval would always be hard to win. Besides, Joan would never understand that Amy wasn’t going to Tremont because of her lawyers’ advice, Mrs. Ryan’s conditions or even her father’s bequest. No, her decision was clinched by the painful sense of regret she couldn’t rationalize away and an innocuous bit of information that, strangely enough, she’d only recently learned.
How could Amy tell her mother, the ultimate realist, that she’d agreed to go to Tremont only after she’d forced herself, finally, to read Greg’s entire will and discovered he’d long ago changed the inn’s name? Her mother wouldn’t, couldn’t, understand how her heart had spun fast and her curiosity had run wild when she’d learned Greg Riordan had called his lifelong dream Touch the Blue Sky.
Amy sped along Interstate 66, anxious to beat the dark. She was concerned about navigating the unfamiliar, winding roads at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, which loomed ahead of her in the distance. Passing the first sign announcing her exit, she gripped the steering wheel tighter as her pulse quickened. Soon she’d be seeing her father’s beloved inn for the first time. Soon she’d be meeting Bernadette Ryan and her two daughters.
She knew it was silly to be so nervous. As a businesswoman, she’d learned to handle herself in sticky situations. Running a child’s casting and modeling agency required capabilities that went beyond overseeing a profit-and-loss bottom line. She had the patience to be pleasant yet firm with pushy “stage” mothers, the ability to be cordial but persuasive when marketing to picky prospective client companies and her instinct was that of a mother hawk when it came to protecting the interests and safety of her kids—the children represented by her agency.
Yet, despite these strengths, Amy felt on shaky ground as she drew closer to the village of Tremont.
This journey of hers was about the past, and she had never liked dwelling on that. Memories tended to be bittersweet at best, and there certainly was no changing what had already happened. But the Ryans… the inn… her father… were like one emotional package shoved at her feet, one she couldn’t skip over or kick out of the way. She had to confront it, deal with it and then move on quickly—just as she had with every other unsettling experience in her life.
A half hour after exiting the highway, she spotted a road sign directing her toward Tremont. Only five miles to go, she noised with relief. Dusk was fast deepening into nightfall, the state road was narrow and curving and a red pickup truck seemed to be tailing her car awfully close. But she was driving at the speed limit—which was as fast as she dared on this rolling, unfamiliar terrain. And as annoying as the trailing pickup was, at least the other driver wasn’t flashing his headlights or honking at her to speed up.
Turning the corner onto a long, straight stretch of road, Amy spied a big, old gas guzzler of a car pulled over to the side several yards ahead. Its taillights were blinking. Drawing nearer, she could see an elderly couple standing by their disabled vehicle. The woman, her coat pulled tightly around her, appeared to be shivering, and the man seemed bewildered. Although she was in a hurry and alone, one look at their fretful condition made it impossible for her to drive past without stopping.
She pulled over in front of their car, which looked frightfully rickety next to her shiny, almost new Lexus. “Can I help you?” Amy called to the couple as she climbed out. “I can make a call on my car phone.”
Walking toward them, she saw that the tailgating red pickup had pulled in behind their car. From its cab emerged a tall, lean man, wearing a rust brown leather jacket and blue jeans. “What’s the trouble, Jake?” the man asked in a voice that was as rich and deep as his stride was long.
They reached the couple simultaneously, with the woman smiling sweetly at Amy and the man, Jake, shaking his head at the pickup driver.
“Got a flat, Hanley.” He pointed to the rear of the car. “Goddang tire is practically new. Ain’t got more than a hundred miles on it. Can ya believe it?”
“But this nice young lady kindly offered to call for help, Jacob,” the old woman piped in. “Maybe we could call Harry’s station.”
“It’s the day after Thanksgiving, Janie Lee,” Jake grumbled. “Harry always closes up shop early around the holidays.”
Although a flat wasn’t that big a deal, Jake looked too old and too fragile to be changing a tire on this tank of a car. And Amy knew she wouldn’t be much help. As far as she was concerned, changing flat tires was what automobile clubs were for. “I can call some other service station for you,” she volunteered, “or maybe give you a lift somewhere.”
“Excuse me, miss.” The tone of the younger man’s voice was less than polite.
“Yes?” She turned to find him eyeing her from head to toe, and she couldn’t help but do the same to him. He was blue eyed, with sandy blond hair that was just long enough to graze his jacket collar; his body looked hard and angular. His face was tanned with a trace of windburn, and his features were both sturdy and refined—a combination that made the man outright handsom
e.
Within seconds, however, Amy realized he was not regarding her with a similar appreciation. Actually, she detected a wry glint in his eyes, as if he were amused by her. Feeling defensive, she stiffened, but covered herself by peering straight into his deep baby blues. “Well, what is it?”
“I thought I’d point out that by the time you reach an open gas station on that car phone of yours and get someone to come out here, I’ll have put the spare on and Jake will be back on the road.” He glanced over at the elderly man. “You have a spare in the trunk, right, Jake?”
“Of course I do, Hanley. I’m not dotty, just old.”
“See? We’re all set,” Hanley said, turning to her. “It was kind of you to stop, but now you can run right along.”
Run right along? Amy glared at him. What was this guy’s problem? She wasn’t expecting laurels for attempting a good deed, but she didn’t expect to be scoffed at, either.
Ignoring him, she moved to Janie Lee’s side. “Ma’am, you’re shivering. Would you like to sit in my car while they’re changing the tire? I’ll turn on the heater.”
“Oh, I couldn’t hold you back, honey. But you’re sweet to offer.” The old woman patted Amy’s arm. “Maybe I can wait in Mr. Hanley’s truck.”
Hanley nodded. “I have a heater, too.”
The half-teasing smugness of his comment went right over Janie Lee’s head, but not Amy’s. Still, she wasn’t about to let his orneriness intimidate her. “I’m on my way to Tremont, but I wouldn’t mind giving you a ride home while the men are fixing the car.”
