Secrets of the Riverview Inn Read online

  Also by Molly O'Keefe

  Into The Wild

  Redeemed

  Tempted

  Seduced

  The Riverview Inn

  Wedding At The Riverview Inn

  Secrets of The Riverview Inn

  Home To The Riverview Inn

  Standalone

  Christmas Eve: A Love Story

  And Then There Was You

  The Story of Us

  A Day In The Death of Walter Zawislak: A Love Story

  Secrets of The Riverview Inn

  Molly O’Keefe

  Copyright © 2019 by Molly O’Keefe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  “I’m sorry.”

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Introduction

  Hey! Thank you so much for picking up The Secrets of Riverview Inn! I hope you enjoy it. This is the second book in The Riverview Inn series - I suggest picking up The Wedding At Riverview Inn first.

  * * *

  The conclusion of the series is Home To Riverview Inn.

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  “I’m sorry.”

  Delia’s voice was scratchy and soft. The sound of it ran over Max’s sensitized skin like a caress.

  “It’s hardly your fault.” He couldn’t look at her just now, the words he’d never said still echoing in his head like gunfire. He continued to put away his tools, wishing she’d leave. That she’d never come here.

  “Max.” He ignored her. Needed to. Should have all along.

  But then she touched him. He whirled around and did what he’d longed to do. He slid his hand into the silk of her hair, brushed his thumb against her lips and felt the heat of her startled breath.

  She didn’t pull away.

  “Go,” he told her, his fingers tangled in the strands of her fiery hair. “Leave.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not scared of you. I know bad men, and you’re not a bad man.”

  He pulled her closer, pressed his lips to her neck and whispered, “You don’t know me at all.”

  Secrets At The Riverview Inn

  Molly O’Keefe

  To the person at Webster University who assigned Jennifer Kavanaugh to the dorm room across from mine. Whoever you are, you changed my life. Thanks.

  You’re not too shabby either, JK.

  Prologue

  Was that…a frog?

  Max Mitchell tried to clear his vision, but the pain and blood made it impossible. But the frog—if that’s what the green blur on the ceiling was—seemed to sway and scream in time with his charging heartbeat.

  He was dying, his blood pumping out of his body beneath a flying, screaming frog.

  Is this shock?

  His brain sent the message to his nerves to lift his hand so he could wipe the blood from his face.

  Come on, hand, lift. Here we go.

  But it didn’t work. The nerves didn’t respond.

  He spit out the blood that pooled, coppery and hot in his mouth, and groaned from the effort.

  The screaming, he realized when his ears suddenly popped, wasn’t from the frog. It was from the baby in the crib under the frog. The frog mobile, blood spattered and cockeyed.

  Nell picked up the baby and the screaming stopped.

  Relief rattled through his body, slowing his heart rate. Or it could be loss of blood. Either way Nell had lived and he was so tired.

  “Mitchell!”

  Someone called his name and he made the effort to turn his head, but agony screamed through his neck and the black edges of the world closed in.

  “Mitchell, can you hear me?”

  The frog was replaced by the bearded face of his partner.

  Good—Nell, the baby and Anders are still alive.

  “You’ve got a bullet in the groin and it looks like another one creased your neck and cheek.” Anders was putting a good face on it, trying to smile, but Max could feel his partner using both hands and all his weight to stanch the blood pouring out of Max’s body.

  “Hurts.”

  Anders laughed. “I should think.”

  “Groin?”

  “It’s bad, lots of blood. But you’ll live to love another day.”

  “Where—” The blood made it difficult to talk, but he spit out more and tried again. “Where’s Tom?”

  “Tom?”

  “The dad. Adult male.”

  Anders glanced briefly behind him, where blue shapes and the screaming and the frog all lingered just out of Max’s focus.

  “The wife is hurt, but not bad. The infant is fine, but we were too late for the dad. The first bullet was right through the chest. He died instantly.”

  Justice, Max thought, is too damn complicated.

  Medics approached, pushing Anders out of the way. But Anders wasn’t a man easily pushed and he hovered over a medic’s shoulder.

  Max was glad. He didn’t want to die alone.

  “The teenager?” Max asked as the medics lifted him onto the stretcher. Hot shards of pain, like glass, like blow-torches and firebombs, blazed up his body from his leg. He screamed, warm blood spilling into his mouth and he choked.

  “Jesus, guys. Careful,” Anders barked, and the medics ran to get Max out of the nursery room that had turned into a bloodbath.

  “The teenager?” he cried, pushing against the black edges that lingered and taunted him with sweet relief.

  “You got him,” Anders said, pride and regret in his voice. “He’s dead.”

  Max had done his job. He let go and the world went dark.

  1

  Two years later

  Max Mitchell slid the two-by-four over the sawhorses and brushed the snow off his hand tools, but more fat flakes fell to replace what he’d moved.

  It was only nine in the morning, and the forecast had called for squalls all day.

  Winter. Nothing good about it.

  Of course, spending every minute of the season outside was a surefire way to cultivate his dislike of the cold. But lately, walls no matter how far away—and ceilings—no matter how high—felt too close. Like coffins.

  The thick brown gloves didn’t keep out the chill so he clapped his hands together, scaring blackbirds from the tree line a few feet behind him.

  Even the skeleton structure he’d spent the past few months constructing seemed to shiver and quake in the cold December morning.

  He eyed his building and for about the hundredth time he wondered what it was going to be.

  It wasn’t one of the cottages that he’d spent last spring and summer building for his brother’s Riverview Inn.

  Too small for that. Too plain for his brother, Gabe, the owner of the luxury lodge in the wilderness of the Catskills.

  Ma
x told everyone it was going to be an equipment shed, because they needed one. But it was so far away from the buildings that needed maintaining and the lawns that needed mowing, he knew it would be a pain in the butt hauling equipment back and forth.

  Still, he called it a shed because he didn’t know what else to call it.

  Besides, the construction kept his hands busy, his head empty. And busy hands and an empty head stymied the worst of the memories.

  The skin on the back of his neck grew knees and crawled for his hairline and he whirled, one hand at his hip as if his gun would be where it had been for ten years. But of course his hip was empty and, behind him, watching him silently beneath a snow-covered Douglas fir, was a little girl.

  “Hi,” he said.

  She waved.

  “You by yourself?” He scanned the treeline for a parent.

  She nodded.

  Talkative little thing.

  “Where’d you come from?” Max asked.

  The girl jerked her thumb toward the inn that was back down the trail about thirty feet through the forest.

  “Are you a guest?” he asked, although it was Monday and most guests checked in on Sunday. “At the inn?”

  She shrugged.

  “You…ah…lost?” Max asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Can you talk?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you gonna?”

  She shook her head and smiled.

  His heart, despite the hours in the cold, warmed his chest.

  “Do you think maybe someone is worried about you?”

  At that the girl stopped smiling and glanced behind her at the buildings barely visible through the pines.

  “Should we head back?” he asked, stepping away from his project in forgetting. At his movement she darted left, away from the trail, under the heavy branches of trees and he stopped.

  She was a deer ready to run. And since beyond him there was a whole lot of nothing, he figured he’d best keep her here until someone came looking for her.

  “All right,” he said. “We don’t have to go anywhere.”

  Amongst the trees, her pink coat partially hidden in shadows, he saw her pink-gloved finger point at the building behind him.

  “It’s a house,” he said.

  She laughed, the bright tinkle filling his silent clearing.

  “You think it’s too small?” he asked, and her head nodded vigorously.

  “Well, it’s for a very small family—” he eased slightly closer to her where she hid “—of racoons.”

  Something crunched under his foot and she zipped deeper into the shadows and now he couldn’t see her face. He stopped.

  Two years off the force and he’d lost his touch.

  “Want to play a game?” he asked, and when she didn’t answer and didn’t run he took it for a yes. “I’m going to guess how old you are and if I guess right, we go inside, because it’s too cold.” He shivered dramatically.

  Again, no sound, no movement.

  “All right.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “It’s coming to me. I can see a number and you are…forty-two.”

  She laughed. But when he took a step, the laughter stopped, as if it had been cut off by a knife. He stilled. “What am I—too low? Are you older?”

  Her gloved hand reached out between tree limbs and her thumb pointed down. “You’re younger?” He pretended to be amazed. “Okay, let me try…eight?”

  No laughter and no hand.

  For one delightful summer of his misspent youth, Max had been an age and weight guesser on Coney Island. He had a ridiculous intuition for such things and that summer it had gotten him laid more times than he could count.

  Ah. Misspent youth.

  “Am I right?” he asked.

  She stepped out from underneath the tree, her face still, her eyes wary.

  “Are you scared? Of going back?”

  She shook her head and looked at the end of her bright orange and pink scarf, playing with the tassels.

  “You just don’t want to?” he asked.

  The little girl’s eyes lifted to his and he saw a misery there that he totally understood. She didn’t like what was back there.

  “Tough one,” he muttered.

  “Josie!” The cry split through the quiet forest. “Josie! Where are you?” It was a woman’s voice and she was panicked. Scared.

  “You Josie?” he asked the little girl, and her guilty expression was enough.

  “She’s here!” he yelled. “Stay on the trail and—”

  A woman, petite and fair, erupted from the trees and nearly tripped into the clearing. Her wild eyes searched the area until they landed on Josie, small and pink and looking like she wished she could vanish.

  “Oh my God!” the woman cried, hurtling herself through snow to practically slide on her knees in front of Josie. “Oh, Josie. I was so worried.” She checked the little girl, cupped her cheeks in her own bare hands. The woman didn’t even have a coat on.

  “What did I say about wandering off?” the woman asked, snow gathering in her red hair. “What did I say? You can’t do that, Josie. You can’t scare me that way.” Finally the woman hauled Josie into her arms but stayed on her knees, her blue jeans no doubt getting soaked through.

  No coat. No gloves and now she was going to be wet.

  He cleared his throat. “She’s been with—”

  Before he could even finish, the woman was on her feet, Josie sequestered behind her. The woman was braced for battle, a bear protecting her cub and Max had serious respect for that particular facet of motherhood and had no desire to screw with it.

  He took a careful step away from the two females and lifted his eyes to look into the woman’s in an effort to calm her down. He opened his mouth to tell her that he meant no harm, but the words died a quiet death in his throat.

  There was a buzz in the air and under his jacket all the hair on his arms stood up.

  I know you, he thought, looking into her radiant blue eyes. I know all about you. Her stiff shoulders and trembling lips told the tale more vividly than anything she might say. This woman was terrified of more than just losing her daughter momentarily. This was a woman—a beautiful woman—grappling with big fears.

  And the big fears seemed to be winning.

  Her eyes narrowed and he looked away, suddenly worried that she might see him as clearly as he saw her. Though he didn’t know what she would detect in him—cobwebs and dark corners, probably.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Max Mitchell,” he answered calmly, despite the fact that his heart was pumping a mile a minute.

  He needed this woman to get out of here. Take her silent daughter and leave.

  “Your brother is Gabe? The owner?” He nodded and she relaxed, barely. “He said you were in charge of operations.”

  “I mow the lawn.” He shrugged. “Shovel snow.” Not quite the truth, but the fact that just about everything would grind to a halt these days if he wasn’t here didn’t seem like the kind of thing to discuss at this moment.

  “You better head back. You—” He pointed at the wet patches on her jeans and the snow scattered across her bright blue sweater. Her tight, bright blue sweater. A mama bear in provocative clothes, Lord save him. “You are gonna get cold.”

  And my clearing is getting crowded.

  The woman and girl were a pretty picture, surrounded by white snow and green trees. They were bright spots, almost electric seeming. He found it difficult to look away.

  “I’m Delia,” she said, her accent flavored by the south. Texas, maybe.

  A redhead from Texas. Trouble if ever there was. And a woman from Texas without a winter coat or gloves, in a Catskill winter, had to be a guest.

  The girl tugged on her mother’s hand and Delia wrapped an arm around her.

  “And this is my daughter, Josie.”

  Josie waved a finger at Max and he smiled.

  “We’re acquainted.” />
  Delia didn’t like that. Not one bit. Her lips went tight, and her pale skin, no doubt cold, went red. “We’ll head on back. Don’t bother yourself showing us the way.”

  He nodded, knowing when he’d been told to stay put.

  They turned toward the trail and Max forced himself not to watch them as they walked away.

  “What did I say about talking to strangers?” Delia asked.

  “I didn’t say a word, Mama,” Josie said, her voice a quiet peep with enough sass to indicate she knew what she was doing.

  Max couldn’t help it, laughter gushed out of his throat, unstoppable.

  Trouble, the two of them.

  Delia Dupuis’s mother was French, her father an oil rigger from the dry flatlands of West Texas. Depending on the situation, Delia could channel either of them. And right now, her daughter, her eight-year-old girl who was way too big for her britches, needed a little sample of Daddy’s School of Tough Love.

  “This isn’t funny, Josie,” she said. “I don’t know that man and he could have been dangerous.”

  “He was nice,” Josie protested.

  Her instincts echoed Josie’s statement. But Delia was not on speaking terms with her instincts these days. She’d seen such sadness in his eyes, manageable but there, like a wound that wasn’t healing. That sadness and the way he held his head and how he talked to Josie, the way he didn’t crowd Delia, the way he had shown her more respect in those five seconds than she’d received in the last year of her marriage, had her whole body screaming that he was one of the good guys.

  Which, of course, was ridiculous. She couldn’t tell that from a five-second conversation, from a quick glance into a pair of black eyes. And the fact that her instincts told her the compelling, handsome and mysterious man was a good guy was a pretty good indication that he wasn’t.