“Oh, no,” Liam Gilmore said, shaking his head for emphasis when he saw his sister Katelyn walk through the front doors of the inn with her briefcase in one hand and a rectangular object that he knew to be her daughter’s portable playpen in the other. The baby was strapped against Katelyn’s body and an overstuffed diaper bag was draped over one of her shoulders. Loaded down with the kid’s stuff, she looked like a Sherpa ready to embark on a mountain trek.
“I’ve got an emergency hearing at the courthouse in half an hour,” she explained, as she dropped the diaper bag next to his makeshift desk and set her briefcase beside it.
“And I’ve got interviews scheduled for this afternoon,” he told her.
“You’ve got a manager, a weekend housekeeper and a breakfast chef—what more does a boutique hotel need?” she asked, as she unzipped the carrying case of the playpen.
Because he couldn’t sit there and watch his sister struggle, he took the portable enclosure from her and opened it up, then clicked to lock each of the sides, pushed down the center support and slid the mattress pad into place. “Andrew decided to take a job in Los Angeles, so I no longer have a manager,” Liam admitted.
“I’m sorry,” Kate said sincerely, as she unbuckled the baby carrier and carefully extracted the sleeping baby.
He shrugged. “Not your problem,” he said. “Just as your requirement for a last-minute babysitter—again—isn’t my problem.”
“And yet I’m willing to help you out, because that’s what siblings do,” she told him.
“Tell me how you’re going to help me,” he suggested.
She pressed her lips to Tessa’s forehead, then carefully laid the sleeping baby down in the playpen.
And maybe his heart did soften a bit as he watched his sister with her little girl, and maybe that same heart had been known to turn to mush when his adorable niece smiled at him, but he had no intention of admitting any of that to Kate, who already took advantage of him at every opportunity.
“By giving you the name of your new manager,” she said.
“Please do. Then I can cancel the interviews I’ve scheduled.”
“Your sarcasm is unnecessary and unappreciated, and if I didn’t have to be in court in—” Kate glanced at the slim silver bangle on her wrist “—sixteen minutes, I’d make you not just apologize but grovel. Since I do have to be in court, I’ll just say Macy Clayton.”
Liam recognized the name. In fact, Macy was scheduled for an interview at two thirty, but he didn’t share that information with his sister, either. “And why should I hire her?” he prompted.
“Because she’s perfect for the job,” Kate said. “She’s been working in the hotel industry in Las Vegas for the past eight years, including several as a desk clerk and concierge before she was promoted to assistant to the manager at the Courtland Hotel & Casino.”
“If she had such a great career in Las Vegas, what is she doing in Haven?” he wondered aloud.
“That’s something you’ll have to ask her,” she told him.
* * *
He hated when his sister was right.
And as he looked through the applications on his desk after Kate had gone, Liam couldn’t deny that she was right about the woman she’d recommended for the managerial position.
Macy Clayton was, at least on paper, perfect for the job. Then again, he’d thought Andrew would be perfect, too—and so had the Beverly Hills Vista. Not surprisingly, Andrew had chosen the possibility of celebrity sighting on the West Coast over the probability of boredom in northern Nevada.
Most of the locals had expressed skepticism about his plan; opening a boutique hotel in a sleepy town off the beaten path was a risky venture. David Gilmore had been less kind in his assessment, referring to his oldest son as both a disappointment and a fool.
“Gilmores are ranchers” had been his refrain every time Liam tried to talk to him about the inn. And while it was true that the family had been raising cattle on the Circle G for more than a hundred and fifty years, Liam had been chafing to get away from the ranch for more than fifteen years.
Not that he’d had any specific plans. Not until he’d seen JJ Green affixing a New Price sticker to the faded For Sale sign stuck in the untended front yard of the Stagecoach Inn.
The old, abandoned hotel had been falling apart when Hershel Livingston bought it for a song nearly a decade earlier. The Nevada native had made his fortune in casinos and brothels, but he’d planned to make his home in Haven, one of only a few places in the state where those vices were illegal.
Hershel had spent millions of dollars
