“I’ve always been pretty sure Uncle Leo made up the story to entertain us as children,” she said quickly, looking surprisingly unenchanted by the tale. “Bonnie, especially, loved to hear him tell it and asked him to do so every time we saw him. He embellished the story a little more every time he told it. If he did see something that night, it was probably just a trick of the mist, misinterpreted by a blissful young couple who’d grown up hearing about the bride and had just gotten engaged.”
He stopped walking to face her more fully, cocking his head to closely study her face. “Why does it bother you so much to talk about this? I could tell you didn’t like Mary mentioning the ghost and you’re doing everything you can to discourage my interest in the subject.”
She reached up to her breeze-tossed hair, trying to smooth it into her usual sleek, asymmetrical bob. “The main reason, of course, is that I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“What about fairy tales?”
“I’m not a big fan of those, either,” she admitted.
Interesting. Was her disillusionment a result of the former “Mr. Kinley” she’d alluded to? Had some jerk broken spunky Kinley Carmichael’s heart? The possibility made him unexpectedly, disproportionately angry. Just what was going on here, anyway? He reminded himself that he barely knew the woman, though his enthrallment with her had been instant and powerful, for some reason. Had he been the fanciful type, he might have wondered if there was some sort of romantic charm attached to Bride Mountain Inn.
Trying to keep his attention on the topic at hand, he said, “Still, maybe a mention of the ghost bride would be a boost to your business. A pretty wedding venue with a romantic legend attached? Sounds like quite a draw.”
She shook her head firmly. “Back in the early 1960s, a woman who claimed to be a psychic visited the inn and said she had seen and talked with the ghost. She put out a cockamamy story about a woman who died the night before her wedding to her one true love. Now, supposedly, the bride appears to bless those couples she deems are meant to be together as she and her love couldn’t be on this earthly plane. The story appeared in an obscure magazine and wasn’t widely publicized, but even that amount of attention caused problems for the inn.”
“How so?”
She shrugged. “It was the sixties. Uncle Leo said a bunch of ‘hippie new agers’ camped out on the grounds, hoping to see the ghost and generally causing trouble. Once he took care of that problem, they had the occasional attention-seeking couple who either insisted they’d seen the bride and wanted publicity about it, or brides who became very upset because they didn’t see her and decided that was a bad omen for their weddings. That’s why I try to downplay the legend whenever anyone asks me about it. I can’t stop you from mentioning it in your article, of course, but I wish you wouldn’t make it the main theme of your story.”
He didn’t appreciate being told how to do his job, any more than Kinley would like it if he did the same to her. He admired her dedication to her work, but there was such a thing as carrying business too far—a concept his workaholic parents had never quite understood.
“I have done a series on supposedly haunted places in the South, and I’ll probably do other articles in that vein,” he answered evenly, his tone a bit clipped. “This isn’t that kind of assignment. The series that will include your inn is focused on nice places to hold weddings. We’ve already vetted the settings, so the reviews will all be positive, which is the tone my editor wants to set. If a mention of the old legend, even a tongue-in-cheek reference, makes my article more interesting, I’ll use it, but it will not detract from the tangible, factual reasons future brides should choose your inn as a setting for their weddings.”
He could tell she wasn’t entirely satisfied, but she kept her tone determinedly cordial. “I’d much rather the inn be known for the excellent amenities we work so hard to provide than for some creepy old ghost story.”
He shook his head, pushing aside the irritation and offering a wry smile. “Has anyone ever accused you of having a few control issues?”
She looked taken aback for a moment, then gave him an answering smile that was decidedly rueful. “Occasionally. I prefer to think of it as knowing exactly what I want and making sure I get it.”
On an impulse, he reached out to catch a strand of hair that was blowing around her face and tuck it tidily behind her left ear. “I guess I can understand that. I go after what I want, too.”
She studied his face, obviously trying to decide exactly how to respond. He found it encouraging that she didn’t immediately step away from him. Not for the first time, he sensed that his attraction was reciprocated, at least to an extent—even if perhaps hesitantly on Kinley’s part.
With some regret, he watched her settle her expression into her usual friendly mask, carefully hiding any thoughts that had nothing to do with business. “We should get back to the inn. I have a few more things to do this afternoon.”
He nodded and turned to face uphill again. He froze before taking a step, his gaze locked on the unsettling image ahead. It wasn’t a ghost he saw facing them on the side of the road. This creature, he thought with a swallow, looked more like a hound from hell. And it was moving toward them with narrowed eyes and a low, raspy sound emerging from its massive throat.
Every nerve ending on alert, he moved to position himself between the animal and Kinley. Not that he had the first clue what he would do if it attacked.
* * *
Swallowing a groan, Kinley reached out to nudge Dan gently from in front of her. She felt the rigidity of his muscles beneath his turned-up shirtsleeve and knew he was braced to protect her. As much as she prided herself on her competence and independence, she still felt a tiny thrill of feminine pleasure in response to his gallantry, though it was entirely unnecessary this time.
“It’s okay, Dan,” she said. “Unfortunately, I know this ugly mutt.”
Making the rumbly growly sound that was his weird way of greeting people he knew, the black-and-brown dog paused in front of her and dropped something at her feet. She sighed heavily when she saw that it was one of her sister’s nicest gardening gloves. “Bonnie is not going to be happy to have your slobber all over her glove,” she muttered, bending to gingerly retrieve the soggy mitt.
“This is your dog?” Dan sounded a little sheepish about his reaction to his first sight of the shaggy animal.
She straightened, then shook her head in exasperation when the dog leaned his solid body companionably against her thigh, making her stumble a bit to keep her balance. “Logan calls him Ninja, because of his mostly black color and the marking that looks like a mask across his eyes. And also because it’s almost impossible to keep him restrained.”
“So he’s your brother’s dog.”
“He showed up at the inn during the winter, cold and hungry and obviously a stray. Logan fed him a few times and he stayed. There’s a chain link fence around the backyard of the caretaker’s cottage, mostly to keep out wild animals from the woods, and Logan put a nice doghouse back there for Ninja. But he should have named him Houdini, because the dumb dog keeps getting out and causing problems at the inn—stealing stuff like this glove, picking flowers, playing in the fountain and intimidating guests who catch a glimpse of his ugly mug, even though we’ve never seen him show any signs of aggression.”
“Guess he’s not so dumb, after all.” Visibly relaxed now, Dan extended a friendly hand to the dog, who sniffed it, licked it, then butted his broad head against it in a blatant hint for an ear rub. “Um, why is he growling at me?”
Kinley laughed wryly. “He never barks, but he makes that rumbly sound when he’s happy. Bonnie says he’s purring, like a cat. Crazy mutt.”