Mountain Country Courtship. Glynna Kaye

where she’d been sitting and cautiously moved to the railing, a brown envelope clutched to her chest. Slanting rays of a late August sun illuminated a blond-haired, freckle-faced girl not much older than seven or eight. She wore jeans and a turquoise knit top, and her solemn eyes reflected a wariness that belied the courage it must have taken for her to speak to a stranger.

      He offered the girl a reassuring smile. “Sure, I’ll buy one.”

      Her eyes widened. “You will?”

      He must be her first customer. “How much?”

      “Twenty dollars.”

      Giving a low whistle, he pulled out his wallet, remembering the five dollars his dad had grudgingly forked over for a similar event the first—and only—time a then-twelve-year-old Denny had come for a visit. Inflation had hit even here in the backwoods, but no doubt it was for a worthy cause—and there was no obligation to attend. He’d be long gone by the weekend.

      “Here you go.” He held out the requested amount as the girl joined him on the sidewalk.

      Brows lowered in sober concentration, the youngster tucked the bill into the envelope, then carefully extracted a printed ticket and handed it to him. “See that number? You can win a prize.”

      “Can’t beat a deal like that, can I?”

      “Nope.”

      “What else do you say, Taylor?” a pleasant female voice called from behind them.

      He and the miniature charmer looked to where a woman in her late twenties approached, dark waves of collar-length hair glinting in the sunlight and her high-heeled pumps tapping rhythmically on the sidewalk. Her black pencil skirt that hit just above the knees, pink top and gray blazer seemed out of place for a Monday afternoon in this laid-back little town. Nevertheless, she was an eye-catcher.

      The girl she’d called Taylor obediently looked up at him. “Thank you, mister.”

      Still no smile.

      “You’re welcome. I’m sure a pretty girl like you will sell a lot of tickets.” The disbelieving look she returned nearly made him pull out his wallet a second time and buy ten more.

      The woman—Taylor’s mother?—gazed affectionately at the youngster, then dipped her head to study him over the top of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, revealing the most beautiful hazel eyes he’d ever seen.

      “Are you here to see about a room?” Those amazing eyes brightened expectantly. “We do have a vacancy.”

      She worked at the inn?

      “Actually, I’m here to see the inn’s manager, Miss Everett.” Formerly the community library manager, the older woman had befriended his mother decades ago, when as a newlywed his parent struggled with the isolation of the town and a marriage that was far from what she’d dreamed of.

      The brunette tilted her head. “Viola Everett is my great-aunt. I’m Lillian Keene. And you are...?”

      “Charlotte Gyles’s son.” Her eyes widened slightly, confirming she recognized his mother’s name. Was this the niece his mother said had cared for Miss Everett when she’d broken a hip last winter? “I’m Hayden Hunter.”

      Inwardly he winced, recalling the wedding-day text message he’d received while standing at the front of a church sanctuary, all eyes on him. You are a hard man to love, Hayden Harrison Hunter. “But I prefer Denny. Or Den.”

      He shook her offered hand, not caring for the unwelcome spark of awareness that shot through him at her touch. If there was one thing he didn’t need right now, it was being attracted to a woman who might all too soon wish she’d never laid eyes on him.

      Her smooth forehead creased. “One of the Hunter’s Hideaway Hunters.”

      “More or less.” But unlike most of his half siblings and cousins on his dad’s side, his parents’ divorce and his early exit from Hunter Ridge ensured he hadn’t played a part in the family legacy in this region. Hunter’s Hideaway was one of the holdings of the family-run Hunter Enterprises, a business catering to hunters, hikers, horsemen and other outdoor enthusiasts. “I grew up in San Francisco. Live there now.”

      Her smile widened, catching him off guard. “In that case, I especially thank you for coming all this way. It’s greatly appreciated.”

      Appreciated? Surely his mother hadn’t given her the impression she was having him drop in for a cup of coffee and a friendly chat. Shifting uncomfortably, he smiled down at the little girl who gazed at him with open interest, then winked at her—and for the first time glimpsed a shy smile.

      “Your daughter is quite the salesperson. I came close to buying her entire stock of tickets.”

      “I’m not her daughter.” The child shot him an insulted glare.

      “Taylor’s my niece.” Lillian reached out to draw the girl to her side, but, as if sensing her intention, Taylor abruptly knelt to inspect a fist-size pinecone on the sidewalk. What he interpreted as hurt momentarily clouded the woman’s lovely eyes. “She’s staying with me for a while.”

      Apparently having had enough of adult company, Taylor handed her aunt the envelope, then hopped up on the porch and disappeared inside the building.

      But even without the child’s listening ears, he didn’t intend to conduct business where passersby might be privy to his mother’s and the inn manager’s affairs. One young couple had already paused to give his silver Porsche an admiring once-over. He should have driven something less conspicuous, but too late now.

      He motioned to the inn. “Perhaps we should step inside?”

      “Yes, please come in.” Delivering another smile that ramped his heart rate up a notch, she turned to the inn and tilted her head in invitation for him to follow. “My aunt will want to meet you, and I know you’re tired from the drive and could use some refreshment. I’m grateful Mrs. Gyles sent someone in response to our inquiries.”

      Interesting way of putting it. Constant complaints was more like it. Demands for plumbing fixes, gutter and downspout repairs, appliance and flooring replacements. Window treatments, furnishings and other upgrades. His mother, dealing with grueling postaccident physical-therapy challenges, had persuaded him to personally address the situation. No doubt she thought a son who’d spent the last decade directing renovation and management of properties for his stepfather’s boutique hotel enterprise, GylesStyle Inns, could best evaluate the complaints.

      She wanted him to determine the level of attention the inn realistically required—superficial only, a moderate renovation or an investment in “the works.” Or, considering the possibility of Miss Everett’s deteriorating health—which he was also asked to report back on—was it best to shut down the inn and be done with it?

      Denny was all for the latter.

      But as he stepped onto the porch where Lillian Keene awaited him, he couldn’t help but notice that the paint on the white railing and wooden door was chipped and the porch’s floorboards were in need of resealing. Maybe those complaints were legitimate?

      He frowned. “Ms. Keene, what—?”

      “Lillian, please.” She opened the door and entered the shadowy interior. He followed, noting the welcoming creak of a hardwood floor and the faint scent of furniture oil.

      “I’m especially grateful,” she continued, “that Mrs. Gyles is willing to see to the repairs before my aunt’s contract renews. We’ve been concerned as to the inn’s long-term sustainability in its current condition. Thanks in part to your mother’s efforts to draw an artisan dynamic to the town, guest expectations are rising. No criticism intended—tastes do change over time—but who knows when the most recent interior-design decisions were made? Obviously sometime after the structure was built by my great-great-grandfather in 1927, so it’s long overdue for a freshening up in multiple respects. And do you think there’s something your mother can do about