Blue Moon Bride. Renee Roszel

magical,” she repeated, steel behind her words. “I believe the enchantment of the full moon was the sire of my bliss with Durham, and I feel sure any couple caught in the light of that miraculous phenomenon will be likewise blessed.”

      He frowned, the blue moon riddle falling together. Apparently the romantically kooky Mrs. Peterson had intended that the sheriff and Hannah Hudson be caught in the blue moon’s light, and because of some lunar power she conjured in her head, they would poof become a loving couple. Evidently, in her mind, when the sheriff was detained, the blue moon moved out of its witchy window of opportunity. That had to be the reason for her crestfallen remark at breakfast.

      He’d never heard such romantic drivel in his life. Obviously the woman lived in her own wacky dream world, where neither the consequences of missing mortgage payments nor basic common sense dared to tread.

      “Tearing down my home and those hallowed ruins would be sacrilege, Mr. Johnson. Pure sacrilege.” She scooped up the chopped onion and sidled to the nearby stove where oil sizzled in a pot. She dumped in the onions and the sizzling intensified. Steam poured from the pot. “Please excuse me, but I’m enormously busy. You wouldn’t want dinner to be late. I serve it precisely at noon.” She gave him a pleasant smile that didn’t pretend to reach her eyes, then motioned him off with a shooing gesture. “Go. Enjoy the day,” she said, once again presenting her cheery hostess manners. To her, the subject of the sale of her inn was closed.

      “Smile, dear boy.” She patted his jaw; the strong scent of raw onions assailed his nostrils. “I never allow guests at my inn to get dyspepsia from stress or worry. Go, relax. There’s a lovely porch swing out front. Or as you’re a young, strong buck, perhaps you’d rather take a brisk swim. Work off some of that excess energy. There’s plenty of time before dinner.”

      He stared at her, nonplussed that anybody could be so blind to such an obvious godsend as his offer. Anyone with a molecule of sense would grab his deal, sob for joy and most likely kiss his shoes while doing it. But this woman acted as though he were trying to buy her firstborn child. Idiotic!

      Joan shuffled away from him disappearing into the kitchen pantry. She began to hum, as though her money problems could be dispensed with as adroitly as she carved up that onion. Shaking his head, he walked out of the kitchen. If Joan Peterson thought the discussion was over, she was daffier than he gave her credit for.

      Dinner and supper were difficult for Hannah, being near Roth. Though she kept her attention diverted from his face, she could feel the tension crackling between them. As a matter of fact, she felt so much tension it seemed to extend beyond the two of them. But that was crazy. She had no bone to pick with either Joan or Mona. And she had the distinct impression that the two women were longtime friends. The idea that animosity smoldered between them seemed remote. At both meals the two talked enough to prove their affinity was real.

      As for tension between Roth and either of the women, well, it seemed implausible. Mona spent much of her time out behind the remaining church wall, flinging paint at artist canvases. That afternoon Hannah found out the hard way when she recklessly rounded the old stone wall without checking for airborne oils, and got slimed with vermilion.

      The experience had been no great tragedy. After the initial shock, she managed to laugh, amazing, considering her circumstances. The shorts and tank top she wore were so faded and tired she decided a flourish of crimson gave them the perfect touch of character.

      Her hair was a different story. Luckily the bathroom schedule she and Roth had worked out favored her at that moment. After Mona doused her head and exposed skin with linseed oil, she still held legitimate bathroom rights for twenty minutes. Plenty of time to soak in the tub and rid herself of flammable linseed fumes.

      Besides dinner and supper, Hannah had managed to avoid Roth. Even so, she couldn’t sleep. Simply knowing he was a room away gave her insomnia. After tossing and turning until midnight, she gave up trying to sleep and decided to raid the refrigerator. Sitting beside the man at the dining table had cut into her appetite. She had barely picked at her food. Slipping into terry scuffs and throwing on her knee-length cotton robe, she tiptoed toward the staircase.

      Halfway down the steps she heard a female voice coming from the parlor and recognized it as Joan Peterson. But to whom was she speaking? Hannah couldn’t make out what she said, since she spoke in low murmurings. She eased on down the stairs, her curiosity aroused. When she reached the foyer, she crept to the parlor door, experiencing a surge of guilt. She wasn’t ordinarily a nosy person, but she sensed someone was upset and felt she would be remiss if she could help and didn’t. At the door she was surprised to see Joan sitting alone on the sofa. She’d been speaking, but to whom? Her dog lay curled beside her, its scruffy head in her lap. Apparently she was talking to the animal.

      “Such a bothersome man.” She stroked Miss Mischief’s back. “How dare he threaten to steal my home out from under me!”

      “Who’s threatening to steal your home?” The question burst out of Hannah before she could stop it.

      Joan jerked around. Miss Mischief’s head popped up and she yapped. The older woman’s hands flew to her breast. “Gracious,” she cried. “You frightened the life out of me.”

      Hannah felt awful and rushed into the parlor. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Peterson.” She rounded the sofa to perch beside the dog. Leaning across the aging pet, she touched Joan’s knee fondly. “I heard a voice and out of curiosity I checked it out. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. Then, just as I got within earshot, you spoke of somebody threatening you. I reacted—hastily, I’m afraid.” She experienced a burning flush in her cheeks. “It’s a character flaw—reacting on reflex.”

      How many times had she wished she could keep a cooler head? Sadly, after so many years of flinging herself onto live emotional grenades—for what, at that instant, seemed right and necessary—she held out little hope of repairing that particular flaw. She released Joan’s knee and clenched her hands in her lap. “Forgive my meddling, but I truly would like to help, if I can.”

      Recovering from her shock, Joan smiled and placed her work-roughened hand over Hannah’s fingers. “I have a flaw, too. Talking to myself—or little Missy Mis, here.” She hesitated, then glanced away. “Or to Dur, my beloved. He was so sensible. He could see things clearly. Without him, I—I sometimes feel very lost…” Her words trailed away.