A Willful Marriage. Peggy Moreland

after his death when he’d refused to acknowledge her while he was alive?

      No. 1 Oak Knoll. The address listed as his residence sounded snobbish. Probably was. The one thing his mother had told him about Ned Parker was how proud he was of that property.

      And now Brett owned it and everything else the old man had left behind.

      As he stared at the paper, seeing nothing but the headaches associated with the unwanted inheritance, the solution to all his problems slowly came to him. Wouldn’t it be the perfect irony if he gave it all away to some charity? The property that the man had valued more than his daughter’s love? That would surely make the old man turn over in his grave! The thought brought the first smile that had creased his face since receiving the news of his grandfather’s death.

      His dinner arrived and along with it, his appetite. He mentally laid out a plan of action while he ate. He would go to the attorney’s office first thing the next morning and get all the legal technicalities taken care of. He would simply give it all to—

      He dropped his fork to his plate in disgust, as the need to make yet another decision arose. Which charity should he leave it to? he wondered in growing consternation. There were plenty out there to choose from. He glanced at the newspaper beside his plate and noticed that the city council was meeting that night.

      The city, he thought with a satisfied smile. He would give it all to the city. They would probably turn it into a day-care center or a parking lot or maybe even tear it down. That would really get the old man’s goat. The house and whatever property the old man had left meant nothing to Brett. He just wanted to be done with this unwanted responsibility and head back home.

      He left the restaurant satisfied with his plan and sure that once he checked into a motel, he would sleep like a babysomething he hadn’t been able to do since he’d received the. news of his grandfather’s death.

      He was driving down Main Street looking for a place to spend the night, when he saw the street sign indicating Oak Knoll. Curious, he made the turn.

      He assumed the street had received its name from the oaks that lined it. They arched across the wide avenue to form a natural canopy overhead. The houses sat way back on lots of an acre or more, and through the bare tree branches he could see that lights shone from a few of the residences. He glanced at the clock on the dash and was surprised to see that it was almost six o’clock. He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. He would see the house, he told himself, then he was going to find a place to spend the night.

      He followed the street to where it ended in a wide cul-desac. At the curb a stone pillar held a mailbox and below it swung a sign. No. 1 Oak Knoll, Parker House Bed-and-Breakfast.

      He puckered his forehead in confusion. A bed-and-breakfast? Surely, he’d made a mistake. The newspaper lay on the seat beside him and he flipped it open to verify the address mentioned in the obituary.

      A bed-and-breakfast? He couldn’t believe the old man would share his house with strangers when he wasn’t even willing to share it with his daughter.

      He didn’t think twice about turning into the drive. It was a business, after all, so who could complain? Floodlights situated around the perimeter of the house made seeing the two-story native stone structure easy through the light fog and drizzling rain.

      All of the mental pictures that he’d had of his mother’s former home slowly went up in smoke. He’d expected something dark and menacing, straight out of a gothic novel—nothing at all like this. Even through the rain and gloom that hung over it, the house still managed to look homey, even cheerful.

      Wicker furniture was scattered about the wide front porch and the balcony above it. Dark green shutters flanked the windows that stretched from the floor of the porch to its ceiling. Through them, he could just make out the glow of a light coming from the rear of the house.

      He’d meant to drive up to the house, take a quick look, then head out. If asked later, he couldn’t have said what made him climb out of his truck and approach the house. He rang the doorbell and waited, hunching his shoulders against the cold, wondering if anyone would respond to the bell and what he would say if they did.

      Light from fixtures on either side of the door popped on and the door swung open. A woman stepped into the wedge of light. Although her face was washed free of makeup and her hair pulled up in a disheveled knot, he immediately recognized her as the young woman he’d seen at the cemetery.

      The sight of her drew the same knee-jerk response he’d experienced earlier when he’d seen her at the funeral. Rather than the all-black garb she’d worn then, she now wore a shapeless denim dress that hung nearly to her ankles. The toes of her bare feet curled against the cold.

      “May I help you?” she asked politely.

      “Yes,” he replied. “I’d like a room for the night.”

      She seemed startled by the request, then gestured to a white bow adorning the door. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t open for business,” she said in apology. “Mr. Parker passed away and was buried just this afternoon.”

      Brett tried his darnedest to look remorseful. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. And I was looking forward to staying here.” He hunched his shoulders closer to his ears as a gust of wind swept across the wide porch. “I don’t know my way around town, so if you would be kind enough to direct me to a hotel or motel where I might get a room for the night, I’d be obliged.”

      She hesitated only slightly, then opened the door wider, inviting him in. “It’s a nasty night to be out,” she said and closed the door behind him.

      “Yes, ma’am, it is,” he agreed as he took this unexpected opportunity to look around. The entry was wide and welcoming, with a long upholstered bench along one side and a library table on the other. In front of him a staircase stretched upward into the darkness. He looked for some sign that his mother had once lived there—a photograph, anything—but saw nothing.

      “We keep a phone here for the convenience of our guests,” she told him as she crossed to a table and pulled open a drawer. She took out a thick directory, flipped to the Yellow Pages, then gestured for him to join her. “Other than Parker House, Braesburg only has a motel, and unfortunately, it’s closed for repair. The closest place will be in Austin and that’s a good hour’s drive.” She frowned and tapped the page of the Austin directory. “But you might have a difficult time driving there tonight. I heard on the news a few minutes ago that they’re predicting an ice storm. Unusual for this part of Texas, but coming our way nonetheless.”

      He tried to appear properly crestfallen. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

      “Not really,” she said, worrying her lower lip as she stole a glance his way. She must have noticed the weariness of his stance or the dark circles under his eyes, for she closed the book with a decided snap. “I can’t very well send you out on a night like this. You can stay here.”

      “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

      “Your staying here wouldn’t be an imposition.” She pushed back a wisp of hair that had escaped her bun, exposing a wan smile shaped by full, moist lips. “In fact, I’d welcome the company.”

      “You’re sure?” he asked hesitantly.

      “Positive.” With the decision made, she replaced the directory and shut the drawer. She angled the guest book his way. “If you’ll sign in here, Mr.—” She looked up at him inquiringly.

      “Sinclair,” he said without thinking. “Brett Sinclair,” he finished more slowly. He extended his hand, watching her face for some sign of recognition.

      But her facial expression never changed. She simply accepted his hand, smiled softly and replied, “Gayla Matthews. It’s nice to meet you.”

      After he’d entered his name, she closed the register. “If you’d like, you can park under the portico in the back and get your things while I prepare a room for you.”

      “No