Emalee
It was still dark when I made the short but brisk walk through the breezeway connecting my quarters to the main structure. The inn had originally been a grand house at the end of what became Main Street. It had been built well over a century ago by one of my many-times great grandfathers, who was one of the original founders of Sterling Mill.
When my great, great grandmother was widowed in World War I, she rented the spare bedrooms for income. It stayed in the family, and over the years, it became known as The Dogtrot Inn—named for the mountain-style architecture that had been the original house before it transitioned into the grand one people saw today. My grandmother turned it into a true bed-and-breakfast during her days.
After my own mother was no longer able to run it after her injuries, I’d taken over managing it for her and was adding my own spin, mainly bringing it into modern times with a website and refreshing it to look more like what people expected from an elegant bed-and-breakfast, a hidden gem in the mountains.
Part of my duties included preparing a breakfast that was to be served by seven-thirty every morning. I put on the apron boasting the inn’s logo and began pulling the ingredients I needed to make fresh muffins and Belgian waffles. I’d chosen a simple breakfast in which I could fix everything almost blind because, after a sleepless night, I strained to keep my eyes open and my mind on task.
Cooking had always been a refuge of sorts for me. I wasn’t especially good at school, but mixing ingredients into something tasty seemed to come naturally to me, maybe because I’d been at my grandma’s and mama’s side next to the big worktable and oven ever since I could remember.
It was my favorite room in the house, not only filled with good smells but also wonderful memories. In the kitchen, I could be creative and escape into the flavors and aromas that were enticing, yet familiar and comforting, the way I thought food should be. And I needed the luxury of my routine this morning more than ever.
Seeing Zach had been a shock. After weeks of trying to track him down and tell him about my pregnancy with no luck, it was hard to believe he just happened to show up in my town, at my little bed-and-breakfast, years later.
Reflecting back on last night, Zach seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He was even better looking than my memories afforded him. There were plenty of good-looking men in my town. They were just of the more rugged variety—scruffy chins or a full beard and jeans and flannel shirts. Most were strong and lean; living in an outdoorsy environment tended to build muscles without the need for a gym.
But the man who’d checked in last night had been a completely different kind of handsome. He carried a kind of confidence that was at once sexy and intimidating. It wasn’t built from arrogance but from the confidence that he always rose to the top like the cream collected from the milk bucket, no matter what he tackled.
He’d always liked to run, and his trim waistline suggested he still did, but he looked like he’d added some bench pressing into his workout. His cable-knit sweater highlighted broader shoulders and bulkier arms than I remembered. His strong jawline was still clean shaven, although it had already been darkened by a five o’clock shadow when he’d arrived
From head to tailored pants and designer shoe clad toes, Zach looked every inch a man used to being a figure of authority, and I suspected he’d gone on to fulfill his father’s dream of becoming a highly successful lawyer.
But it was his eyes that had changed the most. Seeing those once warm green flecks stare at me with such anger before turning emotionless had been heartbreaking. But whatever had made him mad before was nothing compared to what he would inevitably find out.
How did I tell him he was a daddy? Should it be like ripping off a Band-Aid? Did I lead up to it in some way? Could I get away without telling him at all?
As tempting as it was to keep things status quo, I could never do that to him. I’d never meant to deceive Zach in the first place. But circumstances had been beyond my control, and by the time I tried to find him to let him know we’d created a baby, he’d disappeared. God only knew what story his father spun to him, and it had been a daily prayer that I never heard from Emmerson Abbott again.
The one thing I was certain about was I wouldn’t introduce Zach to Iain before we had time to talk. I had no idea what Zach’s reaction would be, but I didn’t want Iain to be a witness to anything ugly. My son grew attached easily, and if he figured out Zach was his daddy, he’d make the great leap to thinking there would be an instant bond. I couldn’t imagine Zach would turn his back on his own son, but I hadn’t thought he’d betray me, either.
Round and round, my wooden spoon kept the same pace as the thoughts that whirled through my head. I paused to divide the batter in half and set some aside for blueberries while I added cranberries and orange rind to the rest and went back to stirring.
Zach never explained why he was here. Since he seemed as surprised to see me as I was him, I guessed it didn’t have anything to do with me. Unless he knew I lived in town but not at The Dogtrot? Maybe he already knew about Iain. No, he would have mentioned it, right?
Plop.I practically flung the batter into the muffin pan.
But what would his reaction be when he found out? Would he understand what happened hadn’t been my fault? Would he try to sue for custody? Surely, no judge would allow Iain to be taken from me. But what about visitations? Where did Zach live? Iain had never been away from me except for a couple of nights at Chase’s farm. And—oh, god—what about Zach’s family? I didn’t want my child anywhere around them.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Slam.The oven door rattled a few of my dishes as I shut it harder than necessary.
I had to be smart about this; I couldn’t risk Iain being taken from me. I just needed a few days to figure out how to tell Zach. Then maybe we could work things out peaceably.
Faint footsteps overhead alerted me my guests were beginning to stir. Knowing I couldn’t greet them with the scowl I’d built up, I helped myself to more of the coffee I’d set up to auto-start the night before. As the warm perk spread through me, I felt my earlier annoyance begin to ease. Zachary Abbot had taken enough of my tears and frustration; I wasn’t going to let him ruin my morning. Instead, I focused on the breakfast that usually earned excellent reviews.
An hour later, a door slammed, and Iain burst into the dining room where I was setting up the chaffing dishes to keep the food warm so guests could help themselves. Small arms wrapped around my legs.
“Mama! Look at all the snow!”
It didn’t matter that this was about our fourth snowstorm of the season. My boy loved the snow. I kneeled and hugged him back. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”
“Maybe we can go sleddin’ later.” His eyes were bright with hope.
“Maybe, but first breakfast, then school, all right, buddy?”
He rolled his eyes. “Just once, I wish we’d get out of school for snow.”
It was a frequent wish that only came true once in a while. Hans hadn’t been wrong; it was a much bigger storm than originally predicted. But being in the Tennessee mountains, Sterling Mill was used to keeping things plowed and moving. Only a few roads in the upper regions were closed until the trucks could reach them.
