Margot Dalton - The Newcomer

He began to walk again, forgetting all about adjusting his pace to Moira’s. She puffed along at his side, looking up at him anxiously.

“Why is she here, Uncle Doug?”

“We’ll soon know, won’t we, Pumpkin?” Doug mounted the wide brick steps of the hotel and entered the lobby with the little girls, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the lack of sunlight.

Since her arrival the previous spring, Rose had worked along with Doug to redecorate the hotel’s interior. Now the old brasses shone, the woodwork gleamed with a satiny finish and chintz brightened the windows and the lobby furniture. The place had a rustic charm that drew guests from all over the Hill Country and beyond, making the Crystal Creek Hotel one of the few really thriving businesses in town.

On the back of a chintz sofa near the window, a big tabby cat drowsed lazily in the sun. She belonged to Doug and was named Dundee. Though he’d acquired her from June Pollock just a few years earlier, this plump female continued a long line of “Dundees” that stretched all the way back to his boyhood in Scotland.

But nothing in the lobby registered on its owner’s mind at this moment. Doug’s eyes were fixed on the scene at the reception desk, where Rose perched on a high stool behind the polished wooden counter, appearing so worried that Doug felt a stirring of protective concern.

Rose looked exactly like their mother, and a lot like little Moira. His sister was a small, dainty woman with fine blond hair and big blue eyes that often seemed anxious and frightened. She wore a blue sweater over a plaid shirt, and chewed the end of a pencil, gazing in distraught fashion at the hotel register.

Two people stood in front of Rose at the desk, surrounded by a small mountain of expensive-looking luggage. One of them was a handsome young blond man in khakis and a battered leather jacket. The other was Moira’s “magic lady”—the dark-haired driver of the yellow car.

The sight of them was confusing to Doug, rendering him temporarily speechless. Every time he’d seen the mysterious young woman she’d been alone. Somehow he’d never associated her with a man. He felt a sharp pang which he realized was disappointment.

But of course, that was ridiculous…

“They want a two-bedroom suite for an extended period of time.” Rose turned to her brother with obvious relief. “But they need all kinds of telephone outlets, too. I told them we only have the…”

Doug placed Robin carefully on one of the sofas by the old rock fireplace, then turned to face the group at the desk.

“We can give them the gold rooms on the second floor,” he said to Rose.

Rose smiled and handed him a key.

“It’s not exactly a suite,” Doug told the guests, “but the two adjoining bedrooms have doors that lead to a common sitting room.”

“Sounds perfect.” The young man gave Rose an engaging smile. “Don’t worry, ma’am, adjoining rooms will suit us just fine.”

Rose’s shy, delicate face turned an even deeper shade of pink. “This is my brother,” she said, her Scottish burr very pronounced. “He’s Douglas Evans, the proprietor of the hotel. Dougie, this is Margaret and Terence Embree, from Los Angeles.”

“Terry,” the young man said, coming forward to shake Doug’s hand. “Nobody ever calls me Terence.”

Doug pocketed the key and shook the man’s hand, liking the firm grasp, then turned to greet the woman who approached.

In spite of himself, she took his breath away. Up close she seemed even lovelier than all those times he’d seen her behind the wheel of her car.

She was tall and graceful, wearing leather boots and a long woolen skirt and matching jacket in pale taupe. Her face was finely sculpted, with high cheekbones and big dark eyes. A golden drift of freckles across the bridge of her nose added a touch of boyishness, an appealing contrast that seemed to heighten rather than diminish her elegance.

Her hair was long and dark, carelessly swept up and held at the back of her head by a big tortoiseshell clip. Doug studied the clip when she turned to glance at the sleeping child on the couch.

So tempting, he thought. A man would only have to reach out and unfasten that clip, and her hair would tumble down onto her shoulders in a rich, glistening mass…

He drew himself up with a guilty start.

What thoughts to be having about a woman whose husband was standing not ten feet away, he chided himself.

“Mr. Evans,” she said. Her voice was like honey warmed in the sun, sweet and husky. “I’m glad to meet you. Terry and I are planning to stay for quite some time in your hotel. We’ll need to make immediate arrangements to get a computer modem and fax machine installed in our room.”

She extended her hand and Doug took it, his whole body thrilling at the touch.

What was there about a woman that could make her very skin seem electric? Her hand was firm and slender, and he could have held it forever.

“A fax machine?” he repeated, still a little dazed. “Computer modems? That’s going to require some thought, Ms. Embree. Our rooms don’t even have phones.”

Her eyes weren’t as dark as he’d first thought, but heavily shaded by dense eyelashes. Her irises were exactly the color of those sunny backwaters in the Claro River where the water ran brown and cool over mossy stones. They gleamed with intelligence, and Doug could happily have drowned in them.

“Call me Maggie,” she said, then smiled down at Moira who stood watching her with awestruck solemnity.

As he shook Margaret Embree’s hand and gazed into that lovely face, Douglas Evans wondered if maybe the little girls were right after all.

Maybe this woman was magic.

MAGGIE DISENGAGED her hand from the big man’s grasp and stepped back to examine him.

Definitely a fine specimen, she decided. Tall and broad-shouldered, with an appealing rough-hewn look and a dancing light of humor in his green eyes. His hair was very black and crisp, with a lock that fell over one eyebrow in engaging fashion.

And she loved the gentle way he’d placed the sleeping child onto that couch, then covered her so tenderly.

The soft rich brogue of his speech was also attractive, although the incongruity of his accent, here in the heart of Texas, puzzled her a little.

Maggie tried to remember what she’d recorded in her notes about Douglas Evans. To the best of her recollection he was actually the mayor, though that title probably held little significance in a place like Crystal Creek.

And he also…

“Welcome to our town, Maggie Embree,” he said softly, looking into her eyes.

Ridiculous as it was, she felt her knees turning weak. A little thrill shivered all through her body, warm and moist.

The same thing had happened when he’d taken her hand.

Maggie gave him a smile that she hoped was cool and remote, then turned away to pick up a couple of pieces of luggage. Terry shouldered some duffel bags and the tall innkeeper took the rest, except for one he offered to the solemn golden-haired child at his side who seemed anxious to help.

Obviously sensing something going on, the tabby cat leaped down from the back of the couch. She yawned and stretched, rump in the air, forelegs extended, then joined the group.

They trudged up the wide staircase, and followed the big Scotsman and his cat down the hall. “You’re very lucky,” the proprietor said over his shoulder. “We’ve just finished some renovating, and this is our slowest time so you’re the only guests at the moment. You’ll find it very quiet. Although,” he added, “the pub still does a lively business.” He paused by a polished wooden door with a high transom, took out an old-fashioned skeleton key to unlock the door and led them into a charming room furnished with floral couches, matching drapes and a television set concealed in a mahogany armoire.