Blue Moon Bride. Renee Roszel

state capital, where she worked as a secretary. He’d never returned to his childhood home until today, when he made the sudden decision to get away from the rat race, seek out his roots. He could no longer avoid dealing with an inner struggle growing inside him, gnawing, eating away at his soul.

      He was disillusioned with the conflict between his aspirations and the reality of his life. However successful he appeared on the surface, he was not a happy man. The disillusionment began with his disappointing marriage and the death of his month-old son, Colin. Not long after the infant’s death, his teetering marriage collapsed. That was six years ago. Since then, he had closed off emotionally, throwing himself into work.

      He supposed, to his colleagues, he seemed like a golden boy, enviable for his wealth and swank bachelor lifestyle. But in truth, he was in crisis. So, in a moment of nostalgic weakness, he’d sought out his family home, now the Blue Moon Inn. He hoped to recapture a time he remembered fondly, before life became a succession of tough negotiations, 24/7 business stress, bitter disillusionment and gut-wrenching loss.

      He leaned against the door, tired all the way to his bones. As far back as he could remember, he got everything he went after. Yet whether his fault or not, he had lost what had been most dear to him—his wife and son. Everything else he had, money, power and success, seemed pale and flat by comparison.

      He’d come to the Blue Moon Inn to get back his boyhood exuberance, and that’s what he planned to do. He straightened and sucked in a deep breath. Enough of this maudlin self-pity. He twisted the knob and strode inside.

      The inn’s brightly lit foyer brought into sharp focus the worn wood floors and moldings, faded oriental rugs and dark oil paintings in need of cleaning. There were other art pieces tacked to walls. Newer works. Some exhibited talent. Others, in his opinion, ran more to smeared and spattered monstrosities.

      The Blue Moon Inn wasn’t the sort of deluxe retreat he was accustomed to, but he hadn’t come for a luxurious vacation or a romantic getaway with a finicky girlfriend. This was the home of his heart, before it had been broken, then put to sleep as a safeguard against pain. He didn’t know if what he hoped for was possible, but he planned to spend these two weeks finding a way to repair his crumbling joie de vivre.

      “Why, hello there, Mr., uh,” came a warbly female voice he recognized as that of his hostess.

      He turned toward the sound of her shuffling approach. “Jerric,” he helped. “Roth Jerric.”

      The pear-shaped, elderly woman crossed the parlor in his direction. Close behind her trailed a wire-haired, gray mongrel the size of a large cat. “Of course,” she said. “I thought you’d gone to bed.” The parlor from which his hostess exited was lit by one lamp, its shade yellowed with age. That lone lamp spilled jaundiced light across outdated, faded furnishings. Plainly the Blue Moon Inn had seen better days.

      Out of years of habit, Roth pasted on a casual grin. “Hello, Mrs. Peterson.” He glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly midnight. “You’re up late.”

      “Oh, there’s much to be done, Mr. Johnson.”

      “Jerric,” he corrected.

      “Yes, yes, certainly,” she said, sounding a bit preoccupied. Barely five feet tall, she wore a green shirtdress and crisp, white apron. She wasn’t smiling. “You were outside?”

      He nodded. “Is something wrong?”

      “I don’t know. Did you happen to see a woman out there? In the garden in the church ruins, perhaps?”

      “Yes. Were you looking for her?” He felt something brush his leg and looked down to see the mutt, sniffing him. He shifted away. The dog seemed to get the hint, or lost interest, because it returned to stand beside the woman, its feet making light tapping sounds on the scarred oak.

      “I sent her out there. I mean…” Mrs. Peterson’s worry-creased expression didn’t ease. “You didn’t go near her, did you?”

      What an odd query. “Actually, yes. We spoke for a moment.”

      “Oh, gracious!” The woman clasped both hands to her breast. “Are you saying you stood by that bench in the—the moonlight? With her?”

      He nodded, bewildered by the alarm in the woman’s question.

      “Oh, no!” she cried, startling the dog. It barked, the sound high-pitched and curiously reminiscent of its elderly owner. “Hush, Miss Mischief,” she admonished, not looking at the animal. She ran both hands through short-cropped, iron-colored hair. “All my work, my planning, ruined.”

      He clenched his teeth. What in Hades was going on? He’d been at the inn for less than two hours, done nothing but unpack and take a blasted walk, and already two women were upset with him. “Your friend in the garden wasn’t thrilled about my being there, either,” he said. “Would you mind explaining what was so wrong with my speaking to her?”

      “Wrong?” the woman echoed, her tone forlorn. “Everything!” Her plump cheeks pinkened with indignation. “Now you…” She glanced in the direction of the garden. “And she…oh, it’s all gone so badly.” She pulled a rumpled handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it to her lips.

      “What’s gone badly?” he asked.

      She swiped at her nose then pushed the kerchief back into her apron pocket. As she lifted her gaze to meet his, she looked as though she was trying to recapture her poise. “I’m sorry for my behavior, Mr. Johnson.”

      “It’s Jerric,” he said, beginning to wonder if the woman would ever get his name right. “Roth Jerric.”

      “Yes, yes.” She nodded. Looking distracted, she patted her hair, still not quite reclaiming her “hostess” aplomb. “Forgive me. I’m an old lady who had a lovely flight of fancy—a hope you might say—to enhance two deserving young people’s lives. And—well—because of you, all my effort has been smashed on the rocks of mischance.” She attempted a smile. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

      “Didn’t know what?” he asked. Good Lord, he’d somehow smashed this woman’s hopes for something important enough to drive her to the brink of tears. How was that possible simply by speaking with Hannah Hudson? The experience hadn’t been any great thrill for him, that was certain.

      “You didn’t know—about the blue moon, and about…” She shook her head. Her eyes, a faded dust-brown behind wire-rimmed spectacles, expressed a mournfulness she couldn’t mask with apologetic murmurings. “I trust you found her delightful,” she said.

      That remark surprised him. He thought about saying, though he found her attractive, her disposition left a great deal to be desired. Instead he asked, “Why?”

      “Because you must,” she said sadly. “Fate has spoken, dear boy.”

      He had no idea what she meant and started to ask, but she wasn’t through speaking.

      “When the sheriff comes, would you mind telling him he’s too late?”

      “Sheriff?” He felt like he’d stepped into the twilight zone. Fate? Sheriff? “Too late for what?”

      “For them.” She made a weak effort at a pleasant expression. “He should have been here an hour ago. When he comes, ask him why he was late. Deacon Vance is his name. A darling man. Widower, you know, and only thirty-five.” She turned away, heaving a ragged sigh. “So sad. But who am I to question Madam Fate?” Her back to Roth, she shuffled off down a dimly lit hallway toward the back of the house. “Come along, Missy Mis,” she said unnecessarily, since the dog trailed close behind her. “Good night, Mr. Johnson.”

      He started to correct her mistake but decided it didn’t matter. Other problems loomed larger. Had he heard her right? She’d spoken more to herself than to him. What had she said about questioning Madam Fate? And the sheriff was too late? For what? And what had he ruined by simply speaking to the stormy Miss Hudson?

      “What in Hades