Chapter One
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
September 1887
Alexander Copeland’s one goal in life was to be left alone. Not an easy task for a café owner, but he’d managed just fine until Ellie Jameson entered his life uninvited. He hadn’t hired the new cook. She had been hired for him without his permission. And because of her skills in the kitchen, he wasn’t prepared to fire her. Yet.
If only the woman would accept that he didn’t wish to be involved in the daily operations. He didn’t care whether she was serving roast duck or chicken livers, boiled potatoes or sautéed squash, apple pie or pumpkin fritters. Nor did it matter if she embellished the menu board with dainty little chalk flower drawings and arranged late-summer bouquets in Mason jars to use as centerpieces. Nothing mattered save passing the hours until he could retire upstairs and shut out the world.
At 10:15 a.m., her succinct rap sounded on his office door. He could say this about her—she was punctual and persistent. Snapping the ledger closed, he sank against the leather chair and considered ignoring her.
“Mr. Copeland?” She knocked again, and the burning in his gut spread to his entire abdomen.
Stalking to the door, Alexander wrenched it open and leveled her with a formidable glare. “Must we do this again today, Mrs. Jameson?”
“I’m afraid we must.” The young widow—she couldn’t be more than twenty—smiled in the face of his annoyance. Not a tremulous, placating smile, but a sunny one that brightened her gamine features and made her coffee-brown eyes shine. “As the proprietor of the Plum Café, you should be informed as to what I’m serving your customers.”
“My other cook didn’t share your opinion. He did his job and left me out of it.”
“Perhaps that’s why this place earned the nickname the Rotten Plum,” she countered.
“Excuse me?”
Twin brows raised a notch. “You didn’t know?”
He winced. How could he? He made a point not to interact with the locals, and his employees were hardly going to tell him that to his face.
“No.”
Mrs. Jameson’s gaze lowered to where he cradled his midsection. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” She held a glass of frothy milk out to him. “Here you are.”
“I’ve already had my breakfast, Mrs. Jameson.” A bland one of lukewarm oatmeal, toast and weak tea, just as the doctor had prescribed.
“Please, call me Ellie,” she said, not for the first time. “Trust me, this will help soothe the fire in your belly.”
Pressing the cold glass into his hand, she slipped past him and, after crossing to the windows, proceeded to tie back the thick brocade draperies. Bright light filtered through the windowpane, dispelling the ever-present gloom and revealing multiple layers of dust coating the bookshelves along the right wall and the carved wood furniture crowding the room. The once-vibrant Oriental rug covering the plank floorboards had faded to dull reds and browns, and multiple threads had snapped and frayed.
“Might I remind you this is my office? If I’d wanted the draperies open, I would’ve opened them myself.”
She sneezed. “If you choose to ruin your eyesight, that’s your business. But I need light to see my list.” Pulling out a slim pad and pencil from her apron pocket, she perched on one of the chairs facing his desk, her posture straight and proper, and began to read through the menu items for today’s noon and supper meals.
Alexander remained in the doorway. Instead of attending her words, his mind wrestled with the puzzle before him. Few people in this quaint mountain town dared approach him. Since the day of his arrival, he’d discouraged interaction. He wasn’t interested in making friends. Most folks respected his wishes. Why couldn’t Ellie Jameson?
He contemplated the glass in his hand. This wasn’t the first time she’d tried to soothe his ailing stomach. It was as if she studied him for signs of discomfort. Was it some nurturing instinct that spurred her to ignore his unspoken but very clear desire to be left alone? He thought it very likely considering the circumstances of her employment. Several weeks ago, the same day his former cook quit, Alexander had suffered one of his worst episodes since developing an ulcer and had become an unwilling patient of Dr. Owens. Deputy Ben MacGregor and several others had taken it upon themselves to hold cooking auditions without his knowledge. They’d pinned the blue ribbon on Ellie Jameson.
He didn’t recall seeing her before she came to work here—not that he took the time to acquaint himself with his patrons. He’d overheard her tell his waitress, Sally, that she’d moved to Tennessee in May, only four months ago. Beyond that, he knew she was an excellent cook, a dependable and conscientious employee, and far too cheerful for his tastes.
While she continued her recitation, he took the time to study her.
Her hair, worn in a high, girlish ponytail, spilled over her shoulder in nondescript brown waves. Of medium height, she possessed an average, almost boyish build draped in unbecoming gray. Her dove-colored blouse was ill fitting and nearly worn through at the shoulders and elbows. Her skirt was of a darker, charcoal gray and several inches too long, so that the hem skimmed the toes of her old black boots. Her only piece of jewelry was a slim gold wedding band.
Alexander thought of his own ring, hidden in his dresser drawer upstairs. Wearing it would invite questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. He didn’t need to see it every day to be reminded of what he’d lost. Not lost, he thought bitterly. No, it had been ripped away from him.
She finished speaking, and her expectant gaze met his. “Does that sound agreeable?”
“Uh, sure. Yes, very agreeable.” He rubbed the stubble along his jaw. “Now,