Thank you, Gram, for being there for her.
The love Tillie showed for Gram’s house was unrivaled. Sure, he loved this place, too, but even he wouldn’t have devoted his every waking moment to seeing that it was preserved and maintained for future generations. He could well imagine what a mess the renovations had been to live through, having worked on a few historical preservation projects himself, including his own home.
He waffled between wanting nothing to do with her and needing to get to know her better, but in truth, the two had absolutely nothing in common, except for a love of Gram’s cookies and house. Of course, they lived seven hundred miles apart. When would they see each other after this stay anyway?
“Higher, Daddy!”
Regaining his focus, he complied with his son’s command. Still, he glanced at that damned window a few more times, never seeing Tillie or anyone else but unable to rid himself of the feeling of being watched.
Perhaps the house is watching you. He grinned. All this talk of houses and their personalities—not to mention Tillie’s ghosts now appearing before Derek, coupled with the boy’s zombie obsession—had rattled his head.
Greg had to admit that Tillie rattled him, too. He hadn’t expected to find someone so young—or likeable. He wanted to remain distant with her, but she kept crawling under his armor and charming the hell out of him.
When Derek grew tired of the swing, Greg extricated him, and the boy ran to the slide while Greg took his place and sat. Did Tillie ever come out to enjoy the playground she’d built? Doubtful. When would she fit it into her busy day? She never had the luxury of leaving business behind after a long day of work because it surrounded her.
The solid construction of the set indicated the woman had yet another talent—a Jill of all trades. Cooking, baking, and hospitality might be her mainstays, but she was no slouch when it came to wielding a hammer, screwdriver, or saw, either. She said she’d even managed to recreate the unique pattern of gingerbread in the privy she’d turned into a garden shed—Victorian, but a style he’d not seen before. A white picket fence surrounded her raised herb beds tucked in the area where the L shape of the house came together and within easy reach of the kitchen for her cooking. Beyond the fenced in area, toward the boundary trees in the backyard, was a large tilled area where she must grow all those vegetables she’d put up. Talk about a labor of love.
Greg made a vow not to argue about her stories of hauntings anymore. It was her truth, and if she wanted to believe them, what harm was she doing?
As for the other things bothering him, he hadn’t the first clue what to do about anything. Most especially about one Miss Tillie Hamilton, who had thrown him for a loop.
Chapter Seven
“Daddy, who was that lady rocking in my room last night?”
Greg closed the storybook and rested it on his lap. He’d heard rocking last night, but thought it had come from the other side of the house—Tillie’s room, to be exact.
“Here in your room?”
His son nodded. “She had white hair and a black dress with pink flowers on it.”
Was Tillie playing some kind of game to influence his son with her claims that Gram haunted this house? Be real. He’d seen no evidence that she’d do anything to scare Derek.
Heart thumping, he tried to find a logical explanation for what Derek had seen, but the memory of the way Gram had looked the last time he’d seen her wouldn’t let go of him. Her dress had been black with pink roses.
“Was her hair long or short?”
“Short.”
Greg relaxed. Gram had waist-length hair. He’d often brushed it out at night. Couldn’t be her. Maybe Derek had been dreaming.
“Well, it was bunched up on top of her head, like Tillie’s was today. It’s the same way the lady wears it when she comes to my room at Mommy’s house.”
Greg slowly set the book on the nightstand and moved to sit on the edge of the mattress. “You’re saying you’ve seen her before?”
Derek nodded. “But Mommy said it was just my ’magi…” When he couldn’t find the word, Greg offered the one he thought the boy was seeking.
“Imagination?”
“Yeah!”
“Did she wear glasses?”
Derek nodded.
No way could his five-year-old son have seen the woman who died long before he was born. Greg possessed no photos of her, thanks to his mother, so he’d never shown Derek a picture, either.
This had once been Gram’s sitting room. He’d often found her up here in the summertime, reading or crocheting. She always had a stack of storybooks and a children’s Bible at the ready on the end table to read to him.
Greg glanced toward the spot where her rocking chair had been on the other side of the room. He could see her clear as day.
Gazing down at his son again, he asked, “Did she say anything?”
Derek shook his head. “She smiles at me. She didn’t scare me like zombies do.”
To Greg, ghosts were as preposterous as zombies. There were no such things. But how had the boy seen Gram’s apparition in his St. Paul bedroom? Something didn’t add up. Tillie couldn’t have had anything to do with what Derek saw in St. Paul. He had to believe his son when he told him he’d seen Gram up there. He’d never known the boy to lie.
No, Tillie wasn’t behind this and, apparently, had nothing to hide. He’d seen how pale she’d become when he’d suggested there might have been an intruder in her cellar, and she hadn’t objected to having cameras set up as long as they didn’t intrude on her guests.
When Derek yawned, Greg leaned over and kissed his son on the forehead. He’d sort all of this out later. Right now, however, his son needed to get his sleep.
Greg eased out of the bedroom, not quite closing the door shut behind him. His son liked knowing his dad was close by when he awoke, although once asleep, he rarely roamed around at night, not even to go to the bathroom.
Inside Gram’s former bedroom, he couldn’t shake the feeling his grandmother was with him. Rather than freak him out, he found some odd comfort in imagining her nearby again. This room had been rated by reviewers on her website as being one of the most haunted. Some even stayed here with ghost-hunting equipment to see what they could detect. Had they detected the spirit of Amelia Foster all this time after her death?
The grandfather clock on the stairway outside his room chimed eleven o’clock. He began to undress, but no way would sleep come for him yet. A hot buttered rum ought to take the edge off his nerves. Tillie had probably already retired, but she’d told him to help himself to anything he wanted in the liquor cabinet.
Greg descended the stairs lightly, not wanting to wake either of the other occupants in the house. A squeaky floorboard below the landing made him pause. Then another creaked with his next step. It would be extremely difficult for anyone to sneak around this place at night. He remembered her tale of the heavy footsteps she purported to hear on these stairs.
Using stealth was ridiculous. Why bother? He wasn’t doing anything illegal or out of the ordinary for a guest. No doubt, many of Tillie’s patrons raided the fridge or came downstairs for a drink at some point during their stay.
Thankfully, though, the hallway floorboards weren’t quite as noisy. He walked toward his grandfather’s old office and retrieved the Captain Morgan’s spiced rum.
Carrying the bottle into the kitchen, unexpected movement across the room stopped him in his tracks. At the island, facing away from him, Tillie stood dressed in the sheer flowing nightgown and robe she’d worn the other night, but this time was covered in a cotton apron looped around her neck and tied behind her waist, which accentuated the curve of her hips.
Greg couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
She cracked and added three eggs to the bowl, picked up the handheld mixer, and flipped the switch. The motor whirred to life, stirring up flour and other ingredients into the air from the large bowl.
She hadn’t heard him approach, a
pparently. Why not watch her a while? Had she been unable to sleep, too? More likely, she did midnight baking frequently in order to have breakfast ready on demand for her guests early in the morning.
Tendrils spilled from her now-haphazard topknot, its wisps kissing the back of her neck. What might it be like to place a kiss against her warm skin?
Too intimate a thought to have about this prim and oh-so-proper innkeeper.
Not wanting to scare the hell out of her and before being caught red-handed, he cleared his throat when she silenced the mixer. Unfortunately, she must be wound tighter than he, because she jumped, bringing the beaters out of the bowl as she turned around.
“Oh!” She placed her hand against her breasts. Chest. Keep it PG, Buchanan.
“You sca—surprised me.”
Was she afraid of something—or someone?
“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep and thought I’d seek out the one person who might do the trick.” He raised the Captain in full view. “Care to join me in a hot buttered rum, or should I consider making yours with bourbon?”
“Sounds wonderful—and rum would be perfect. I should be ready to put this orange-cranberry-walnut bread in the oven long before the rum kicks in.”
He walked over and set the bottle on the counter near the stove. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
She grinned. “I don’t require much sleep. Confession time—I usually take a nap on days I’ve burned the candle at both ends.”
“Did you take one today?” The question might be totally inappropriate, but images of her stretched out on the sofa with her hair spilling over the cushion to the floor overruled his brain.
“Hardly,” she said with a laugh. “Too busy, which I suppose contradicts what I said.”
Why did the thought of watching her nap stir up fantasies he ought not be feeling for the charming innkeeper?
You might be divorced, but you aren’t dead.
The sudden desire to loosen her topknot and run his fingers through her hair nearly did him in. Clearly, he needed to start dating again. Minneapolis boasted lots of savvy, experienced women—far removed from this naïve, old-fashioned young lady running her rural Kentucky inn.
Tillie cocked her head when he simply stood there and pointed toward the stove. “The pans are hanging over there.”
He didn’t need a reminder of the obvious, but her prompting jumpstarted his brain. He crossed the room to get busy, even though he was no longer confident in the rum’s abilities to quiet his mind—or body—tonight.
“The spice rack is beside the stove. I think you’ll find everything you need.”
“Your kitchen is much better stocked than mine.” He gathered the cinnamon sticks, whole cloves, and ground nutmeg. She stopped long enough to give him a section of cheesecloth to place them in, as well as some softened butter and dark brown sugar. Apparently, she made hers about the same way he did.
Greg tried not to find too much pleasure in the way she anticipated his needs.
“Would you like some cookies?” she asked. Tillie hadn’t moved from the spot where she now added dried cranberries to the bowl.
“Sounds good. I’ll get them.” He removed two saucers from the cupboard and went to the covered plate on the island to retrieve two cookies for each of them. After setting them on the table in the nook, he returned to the stove to add the spices to the rum simmering in the pot. The two worked side by side in relative silence, except for the occasional mixer.
About the time she placed the loaf pan into the oven, he poured the rum into two mugs emblazoned with poinsettias. The woman did like to start the season early. She removed her apron, and her holiday preparations were the furthest thing from his mind. Catching a glimpse of her silhouette in front of the fireplace—high breasts, flat stomach, and rounded hips—made him long to undo the pearl button holding the collar of her robe together so he could discover what her neck and shoulders would look like in the glow of the fireplace. A strong desire to reveal the valley where her neck and shoulders met overcame him.
Show some restraint, man.
Blissfully unaware of his lecherous musings, she lifted the mug to her face and inhaled. “Mmm. Smells delicious.” She closed her eyes and took a tentative sip, her face melting into a smile. A drop of rum lingered on her lower lip. The urge to kiss it away morphed into a fantasy that would haunt his dreams of deepening the kiss.
Greg blinked, more turned on than he’d been in a long time. “I guess you don’t have anyone serving you often, do you?”
She met his gaze. “No. Normally that’s my preference, but I needed this tonight. Thank you.”
“You’re more concerned about the intruder than you’ve let on.”
Her smile faded, and she nodded. “I am. There’s a feeling of violation knowing someone’s entered your home uninvited.” She took another sip. “Oh, the sheriff’s office came out this morning.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Well, they didn’t find anything to go on. No prints—finger, foot, or otherwise. I’ve been unable to identify a single thing missing, but that shelf didn’t move itself. Given the number of jars on it, I couldn’t make it budge without clearing off at least half of them first. Whoever did it was strong.”
A man most likely. Greg didn’t like the thought of some creep skulking around her house, especially if she was home alone.
“If you had to make an educated guess, what do you think the intruder was searching for?” Could he be after the same thing Greg was—proof of Jesse James’s return here in the ’30s? Who else knew about it?
“Still no clue.” Tillie shrugged. “I’ve heard those tales of Jesse’s treasure my entire life, and on occasion have wondered, what if there is something valuable hidden away down there? But how can there be? I’ve been over every inch of the place, albeit not seeking the elusive stash of gold or whatever it might be. There’s nothing hidden away here.”
He wouldn’t reveal what Gram had written in the journals. Gram hadn’t specified the location as being in the cellar, simply somewhere in the house, and he didn’t want to look as though he’d lost his mind. Hoping to shift her focus away from what evidence Jesse James had or hadn’t left behind, he said, “I would say your labors of love are the greatest treasures down there.”
She smiled, her shoulders relaxing. “You’re too kind. Around here, home-preserved food isn’t quite the rarity it must be in Minneapolis.”
“Where did you learn to can? Seems like a lost art these days.”
“Mrs. Foster taught me. I was nine the first year we put up beans and tomatoes.”
Hearing her speak about her experiences with Gram added to his guilt for not being around, although he wasn’t sure canning with her would have thrilled him all that much. Still, if he had known she lived until he was about twenty-two, he would have come back to see her. Mother had sufficiently quashed any chance of his continuing a relationship with his grandmother. They’d had a falling out when he’d first discovered the truth and now barely remained civil when they saw each other. She’d done the unforgivable.
“It always had to be the hottest days of the summer and fall, when the crops came in,” Tillie shrugged and took a longer sip of her toddy. “When I had the cellar redone, I made sure I could do my canning in the southern room where it’s much more comfortable.”
“Sounds like you enjoyed every minute with her.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I did! I learned so much from her. Every year, we added new things until she was teaching me to can preserves and chutneys.”
Enjoying Tillie’s dishes was much like being a guest at Gram’s table again. Tillie kept so many of those traditions alive. Hell, she even dressed like a throwback to an earlier time. At first, he’d thought she dressed that way as part of the ambiance of the inn, but he was beginning to think it was an integral part of her persona.
“What else did you learn from her?”
“Table settings and etiquette, crocheting, tatting lace, and dec
orating for Christmas.”
“What’s there to learn about decorating a tree?”
She laughed, and her eyes sparkled. “You haven’t seen the extent to which this fine old house is decked out for the holidays.”
He wished he’d be here to see it now.
“Almost every room will have a tree of some kind…”
She shared her plans, but his mind reverted to that last visit again. He wondered if Tillie had also inherited Gram’s ornaments. He’d probably never know. Besides, he couldn’t reveal that he’d been here before. Not yet, although his desire to paint her as some nefarious charlatan no longer held any appeal for him.
“…keep my decorations up until Epiphany in early January. I always hate to take them down and pack everything away until next year. We don’t get a lot of snow that sticks here, so winters can be awfully bleak.”
“One good thing about Minneapolis is that the ground is covered with snow almost all winter. You should come up for a vacation sometime. We’re only thirty minutes away from the Mall of America. There are some other shopping areas, too.”
“I do most of my shopping locally and online. But I’m curious. Is that how Minnesotans survive cabin fever—by going shopping?”
He chuckled. “No. There are enough winter activities that no one has to feel cooped up unless they want to be.”
Tillie took a nibble of her cookie, reminding him he hadn’t touched his own. “I can’t think of a thing the Mall would have that I couldn’t as easily order online.”
“Okay, so shopping isn’t your thing. Come see Minnehaha Falls.”
Her eyes opened wider, and she swallowed. “From The Song of Hiawatha?”
Greg nodded.
“Hiawatha has been one of my favorite poems since fifth grade.”
“It’s a beautiful place. There’s even a statue of Hiawatha and Minnehaha above the falls.”
“Maybe I should venture out in the world a bit before things get hectic again next year.”
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