you use the goop and the strips?”
He shook his head. “Just the goop.”
Sarah rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I told you to use the strips, too. That’s how James fixed it the last time.”
Sam glanced over at his sister. “Maybe you could call James and invite him over to dinner? Take him to a movie and then just casually mention our leaky pipes?”
“Do you really want my entire dating life taken up by romancing the various craftsmen around town?” Sarah asked, grabbing an apple from the wood bowl on the counter. “I’ve dated electricians, roofers, carpenters, masons... I draw the line at plumbers.”
“James seems like a nice guy,” Sam commented. “And it would be very helpful if you married someone handy. That would solve all our problems.”
“I’m not going to date James.” Sarah pushed away from the counter. “Besides, you and I both know exactly what would solve our problems. And since you refuse to find a ridiculously wealthy wife, it’s going to be at least another twenty-five years of this.”
A wife with deep pockets would certainly help, Sam mused. But why would a woman with money saddle herself with an old inn and a husband who was tied to it like a ship to an anchor? This was his burden. Why would he wish it on any woman, especially a woman he loved?
“You don’t have to stick around,” Sam said. “The inn isn’t your problem.”
She shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere better to be right now. And if I leave, who is going to cook the meals for our demanding guests?” Sarah started out of the kitchen, then stopped. “Oh, I thought you should know. I saw moving vans parked in front of Abigail Farnsworth’s house. It looks like they’re finally clearing her stuff out. You might want to go get the George Washington bed before they cart it away.”
“Jerry Harrington told me they’d call me when I could pick it up,” Sam said.
“I’m not sure I’d trust him with something so important.”
“He’s our cousin.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Sarah said. “Half the people in this town are related to us in some distant way. Abby Farnsworth is our third cousin twice removed.”
“Fourth,” he corrected. Sam grabbed his keys out of his pocket and hurried to the door. “Stick the bucket back under the sink to catch that leak. I’ll get on it later.” He sighed as he remembered all the other repairs the old building needed urgently.
The Blackstone Inn was the third oldest inn in the state of New York and the only one of the three in continuous operation since the time of the Revolutionary War. It sat on a beautiful bluff above the Hudson River on the outskirts of the town of Millhaven.
It had been built by Sam’s seventh great-grandfather, added to by his sixth and fifth great-grandfathers, and been passed down for nine generations to the eldest son of the eldest son in the family.
During the Revolutionary War, the inn was an important military landmark on the road between New York City and Albany, and north to Quebec City. After the war, it was a waypoint for settlers moving into the northern reaches of the state. And then, in 1797, when Albany was named the capital of the state, it became a favorite spot for traveling politicians and businessmen.
Sam steered the truck into the quaint environs of the town. He had grown up in Millhaven and from a young age he’d known that his future was predetermined. He was the eldest son of an eldest son and, as such, the Blackstone Inn was his birthright.
There were moments when he felt the burden of his family’s history, much like a royal might chafe against a life of duty. For a long time he’d tried to find a way out, but his father and grandfather had both put in their years at the helm. It was his turn now. And there was no out.
If Sam walked away, his father, Joseph, would be forced out of retirement to run the inn, and when he died, a family committee would choose an heir—most likely Sarah. His sister had so much talent, Sam didn’t want her to be tied to an old inn in a small town. So Sam accepted his legacy with gritted teeth and a tight smile. He’d do his duty for as long as he could.
When he pulled the pickup to a stop in front of Abigail’s house, he paused before getting out. The George Washington bed had become a symbol of the ups and downs of the Blackstone Inn. Over the years it had been sold and reacquired three times, often to relatives. Sam’s grandfather had been the last to sell it. Faced with a financial crisis, he’d finally accepted Abigail Farnsworth’s offer, but only because Abigail had promised to return the bed completely free of charge once she’d gotten her money’s worth out of it. Which was now, Sam hoped.
He hopped out of the truck and wove his way through the crowd of onlookers bundled against the February chill. As the tangle of moving men removed each beautiful antique, the crowd had a chance to see the life’s work of one the state’s most respected collectors. After a recent hip injury, Abigail Farnsworth had decided to join her sister, Emily, and retire to the warmer climate of Phoenix, Arizona. And today many of her precious antiques were headed for the auction block.
Sam spotted one of the workmen with the headboard from his bed and he hurried over, only to be brushed aside by a woman dressed entirely in black.
“You can put that in the back of the trailer,” she said. “Make sure to wrap it with the moving quilts. Do you have the side rails?”
“Hey!” Sam shouted. “Hold up there.” The workman looked up at him as Sam approached. “Where are you going with that bed?”
The guy shrugged. “I’m just following orders,” he said.
“That’s my bed,” Sam said.
The woman turned to face him and the moment their eyes met Sam felt his breath slowly leave his body. She was one of those women you wanted to meet only on your best day, when you’d bothered to shave that morning and put on something other than faded jeans and a T-shirt. And when you had something terribly interesting to say if the conversation lagged—as it just had.
She shifted her sunglasses down on the bridge of her nose and studied him with eyes the color of expensive cognac. Everything about her seemed to ooze elegance, from her dark hair pulled into a loose knot at her nape to her perfect profile, clear testament to generations of careful breeding. A shiver coursed through his body and Sam shifted uneasily.
She’s way out of your league, buddy.
“There must be some mistake,” she murmured, her eyebrow arched.
Sam reached up and ran his fingers through his tousled hair, then forced a smile. “That’s my bed,” he repeated.
“This bed?” she asked. “No, no. This is my bed.”
Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter that Abigail had written, gifting him what they’d affectionately called “The GW.”
“I have a letter here from the current owner, Abigail Farnsworth.”
She frowned, then pulled out a paper of her own. “I also have a letter from Miss Farnsworth. But mine states that she wishes the bed to go to the Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts in Boston. I’m here to collect it and take
