Unexpected Love at Silver Ridge: A Sweet Small Town Romance

Book 1: Silver Ridge Resort Series

by Claire Cain

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Small-town Romance; friends to lovers; sweet romance; mountain romance; healing after trauma; golden boy

Synopsis

Silverton's golden boy Liam Morrison has lived his life doing right by the town, his family, and the family business—too bad he's failing miserably. As the local ski resort's manager, he's been struggling to keep the business strong... and it's not working.

With her past in the rearview, Wells Bryant restarts her life in the small town as the newest owner of the town's inn. The last thing on her mind is falling for a handsome mountain man. Although he hits all the right notes of sweet and trustworthy, her hard-won independence forces her to resist anything but friendship.

Through Liam's scramble to save his family's legacy, and despite the armor around Wells' heart, the pair form an unexpected bond. But when Liam makes a crucial mistake putting him and Wells at odds, will Silverton, the resort, and their bond survive?

Release date: February 4, 2020

Print pages: 316

Sample

Chapter 1

Wells

 

The mountain air felt crisper, fresher up here than it had been in Aspen, somehow.

Not that I should have been surprised by that—this air was something precious. It filled my lungs completely, my chest rising and falling in great gusts, just to be obnoxious. In some ways, these felt like the first cognizant breaths I’d taken in months. Maybe years.

Preston had been irritated if I sighed too loudly—sighed too loudly.

Tears pricked my eyes, making me squint into the blue-bird sky. Not a cloud in sight on this gorgeous late-August morning. Since Utah had so far proven to be so much like Colorado in terms of seasons, the chill of fall would be here in a matter of weeks, especially this high up in the secluded little hamlet of Silverton.

Hamlet. Wasn’t that a word people only used in British historical romance novels? It applied well enough here, though. Silverton was a small town, population eighteen hundred in the incorporated part of the city, with another thousand or so out in the wilds of the unincorporated land of the county.

To get here from the Salt Lake City airport, drive North. Take the Weber Canyon in South Ogden and drive and drive and drive until you feel like you should be in another state. Then, skirt the reservoir built to help control the spring run-off of the Spruce River, which winds its way through the valley that leads to the arching peaks of the Silver Ridge mountains, tucked deep within the Wasatch mountain range.

The thing about Silverton is, it takes nearly three hours to get here from the airport. No wonder the townspeople are struggling, though somehow, my great-aunt had made the Silver Ridge Inn a success, even in off-seasons.

Once here, I researched the area and discovered a faster way—across the dam that formed the reservoir, but the state had closed that road to civilian access for some unknown reason until 2012. They had finally opened that passage, and it cut a solid hour and twenty minutes off the drive. I’d missed that as an option when driving in, so the scenic route had kept me company.

And scenic, it was. I loved the quaking aspens of Colorado, but this land looked incredible. There remained something wild and untouched in the craggy cliffs of Silver Ridge, which overlooked the valley floor and the reservoir like an Alpine overlord. It was intimidating, awe-inspiring, and home to some of the best skiing in the West—or so said the Silver Ridge Lodge and Ski Area’s brochure. I’d sifted through every piece of marketing swag Aunt Tilda kept in her Reception area, and along with the handful of menus for local fare and business cards, had found brochures for the lodge.

Another breath gave me space in my lungs, in my mind. With this quiet bliss permeating my system—maybe for the first time ever—I closed my eyes and sipped coffee in a green-glazed pottery mug from the collection of stoneware Tilda had used for her coffee and tea service in the mornings. Like so many things here, it had been made by a local artisan.

A pang of regret hit then, like it had over and over again in the last few months—one of few emotions I’d felt fully, letting the surprising loss carve its way inside and then drag back up, a quiet burn like ashes in its wake. Why hadn’t I bothered to come visit? Why hadn’t I come and seen what she’d been doing here, how she’d made it a success?

The inn had been all but closed these last few months. Tilda had died in late March. Someone had sent notification that she’d listed me as the beneficiary of the inn and a small sum of money in early April.

At first, it had felt like a nuisance once past the initial surprise. Still sleep-walking through life, I thought I’d sell it off, or see if my cousins wanted it.

But then, Preston told me he’d lost all my money.

Then I found out he’d cheated.

Then I woke the hell up after a nearly two-year-long sleep and got out of there before we tied the knot and I shackled myself into a life of keeping my hair long and never in a pony tail, of being fit but not too fit so that my breasts got small, of being manicured and unemployed just to suit a man I did not, in the end, know at all, and his diabolical mother, who might have been even more controlling than her son.

So. About that…

Preston Umbridge plucked me from my paid internship at a fancy Aspen resort and made me his pet project—I hadn’t realized it at the time, of course. I’d only seen him as an attractive, wealthy man interested in little old me, and sadly enough, my parents had done everything to encourage that mindset.

In fact, when my mother found out he’d taken me out, which she’d heard long before I ever told her because the gossip channels in the echelons of wealth my parents and Preston’s family ran in were small, she told me to do whatever I must to marry him because I had no hope of doing better.

I’d thought it an unusually kind complement to Preston, and not a put-down of me. Since then, I’d often wondered if she knew exactly who and what Preston was and had made that statement precisely because she’d meant to be hurtful.

Preston and I were supposed to marry over a spring weekend mid-April, about two years after our first “chance” encounter. By then, I was long gone. The lawyer I’d hired with the inheritance Tilda had left me notified Preston that he’d been removed from all of my accounts and any signing authority, my will had been changed, and he could go jump off a cliff.

Okay, maybe not that last part. But frankly, I smiled when I thought that, every single time—what a huge improvement on the utter despair and self-loathing I’d been sorting through the last few months. I’d gone from sleep-walking to awake, but the reentry into real life had been brutal. Something about the chilly mornings of the last few days had vaulted me soundly from wallowing and depressed into angry as Medusa, and honestly? It felt fantastic.

I felt more like myself every day. Not that my usual self was angry, because at this point, I could admit that I didn’t know myself anymore. I had to rebuild and rediscover, and that was one part of what I was doing up here, tucked away in this piddly, adorable, maddening town.

My coffee had cooled down unacceptably, so I went inside, letting the white bordered screen door slam with a clack behind me. We had no occupants booked until this weekend, so I could be as obnoxious as I wanted. We’d only had a small handful of guests over the summer, which I’d been told wasn’t a huge surprise with Tilda’s passing and the handover—the usual visitors in summer likely giving me time to get things going.

Time I absolutely needed, to be honest.

My coffee now refilled and warm, I stalked back to the porch where I’d review the accounts and the schedule and wrack my brain for how to get people through the doors in September and October before the snow came and the mountain opened for skiing. The shoulder seasons here were fall and spring, and even though they were utterly gorgeous, people were far less likely to travel up this way for anything other than the snow. Even then, I’d gathered that the town needed a resurgence in a bad way.

“Pardon me.”

The sound of the deep voice made me jump back, sloshing hot coffee on my wrist and feeling it slop onto the toe of my boot.

“Oh, hi.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just coming to the door—”

“No, please don’t apologize. I was in my own head. Let me just set this down,” I said, leaning to deposit my dripping mug on the painted white wood table to my left.

I righted myself and looked up just as the man offered his hand.

“Liam Morrison.”

His smiling mouth and eyes looked more than a little charming, I had to admit.

Charming. Ha. Not quite that simple.

This guy… wow. Wow. They grow ’em well here in Silverton.

I scrubbed my palms on my jean shorts, wishing there was a little more to them now that I had a guest, and extended a hand to meet his—even as the fact that I hadn’t voluntarily touched another person in months flashed through my mind.

“Wells Bryant. Nice to meet you.”

Annoyingly, I detected a bit of breathlessness. Had to be from surprise, the coffee spill, and the short shorts seeming even shorter, and not from meeting Silverton’s golden boy in the flesh at seven in the morning.

“I’ve been meaning to get over here and welcome you. I’m sorry for your loss—Ms. Tilda was a pillar of the community.”

He let his hand drop from mine, and I glanced down to see a six-pack of bottles in his hand.

“Thank you. Unfortunately, we weren’t close, but I wish we had been.” I cocked my head to one side. “How can I help you, Mr. Morrison?”

“Liam, please.”

“Okay, Liam. How can I help?”

“Well, Ms. Bryant, I’m here to welcome you, formally. I know it’s months overdue, and for that, I sincerely apologize. Do you drink beer?” he asked, like welcoming me and my beer drinking were at all related.

“Uh, yes, on occasion, I enjoy a good beer.”

His eyes were startlingly bright blue, especially set against his dark brown hair.

I hadn’t noticed things like that—eye color, hair—in months. Maybe since I’d first met Preston, who’d made it clear even recognizing there were other men in the room would result in his brooding displeasure.

“Good. That’s good. I’ve brought you a sampler pack of beer as a small token of welcome. It’s, uh, it’s from my brewery. And I’d like to offer to show you around town, at some point, when you have time, if you want.”

To my surprise, little streaks of red rose above the line of the beard on his cheeks.

“Thanks for the beer.” I smiled and… waited.

Then it occurred to me maybe he wanted a response to the invitation.

“And… sure, that’s… nice. Even though I’ve been here a few months, I haven’t gotten away from the inn much at all, and I’m sure you’d be able to help me get the lay of the land.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The town consisted of no more than a main street and a few small side streets. I’d walked its entirety hundreds of times by now. Why was I pretending I needed his help to acclimate to a place I’d lived in for a quarter of the year already?

“I’d be glad to.”

A bright smile appeared.

“I can’t today, though. I’m meeting with my cook, and I hate to reschedule. She’s about to take some time off, and I don’t want to make her delay.”

And maybe, if we put it off, I could avoid this. How could I so easily slip back into the accommodating version of myself?

“I understand. Here’s my card. Just call… or text, or… you know, whatever works best for you. We’ll do it soon.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Relief whooshed in at the sight of him backing down the porch steps.

“Have a good day, Ms. Bryant.” The half-smile on his face looked somehow triumphant even as he backed away from me.

“Just Wells—just call me Wells.”

“Ok. See you again soon, Wells.”

Wells. Hearing my name—my chosen name—from that man’s lips reminded me I could breathe. I’d broken with the old life, and the choice to reclaim my name and abandon the one my parents had given me—Serene Wellington Bryant—was a moment-by-moment reminder.

I’d always thought of myself as Wells, ever since my cousins, Great-Aunt Tilda’s grandkids, had adopted it on the only visit I remember making as a child. But my parents had insisted on Serene. It would be a lovely name for someone, but the Serene I knew was passive, placating, and ultimately deeply wounded. She’d been coerced and controlled for too long—by her parents, and then after just a brief spat of freedom thanks to college and the ensuing independence, she’d let herself be tied right back to someone who wanted to make all the decisions about everything in her life.

But not anymore. Here, Wells existed, and she would thrive.

I watched Liam walk down the winding stone path to the sidewalk. He turned right, evidently heading back to the lodge where he likely lived since it was the only thing in that direction. It took ten minutes to walk to the lodge’s first parking lot, but in the winter, I’d been told, guests at the inn could easily ski over there and buy tickets at the ski-up window, then load the gondola and be at the top of the mountain in a matter of twenty minutes.

As Liam Morrison disappeared out of sight, I sat down and swirled my cold coffee. I never would have guessed he’d be so… like this. He belonged to the town’s beloved family, essentially royalty around here, both because they owned the biggest business and the biggest draw to the town, and because they were reportedly excellent people.

I’d pictured him being pushy, or maybe even just more gregarious—man about town and ready to charm. Maybe I’d gotten too used to Preston’s passive-aggressive pushiness, the ever-present demand to do as he asked or suggested without ever really saying so. Rationally, I knew not everyone would be like that, but it’d been too long since I’d even spoken to a man near my age.

Liam had seemed shy, a little embarrassed, and polite. That paired with his mountain man look—broad shoulders, towering height, dark, short beard, and hair long overdue for a cut… he surprised me.

* * *

I met with the cook, Marcella, who’d held down the fort along with the skeleton crew of staff over the summer, but then we’d closed for August, both because we had no bookings, and because it’d always been tradition for Tilda. Marcella was taking maternity leave and planned to come back in November when the mountain opened, so I’d be truly on my own aside from the maid and Reception staff for a while. They were great, but it didn’t stop me feeling even more nerves.

At one time, Tilda had planned to open a restaurant and feature full-service lunch and dinner along with the breakfast she provided. But the growth the town had projected after the dam road opened never came, much to the dismay of everyone.

Fortunately for me, I only had to deal with breakfast. Marcella said I could easily set up a standing order for a few items at Rise and Shine, the local bakery and coffee shop, and they’d deliver them so we didn’t have to hire temporary kitchen help. That suited me, so I went to meet with the manager and set up a system for ordering.

I tucked flyaways behind my ears, pulled my long blond ponytail tighter, and settled my hat closer down on my eyes. I surveyed my outfit—olive green tank top, jeans shorts (I’d changed out of the short version for my meeting with Marcella), bunchy socks, and hiking boots. I grinned in pleasure at the knowledge that in this little mountain town, I was entirely appropriately dressed for a meeting with a fellow small business owner.

The fact that this was the polar opposite of my experience the last few years wasn’t lost on me—it was the source of half the pleasure. I didn’t even really like hiking boots, but Preston had said they made my feet look too big, so I hadn’t worn them in years. He’d hated my hair in ponytails, so it had always been down, usually with perfectly crafted waves and glossy finishing spray added. Certainly, I hadn’t worn a hat in more than two years either.

Miraculously, and as a show of the modicum of progress I’d made thanks to time and my therapist, I didn’t cringe at the thought of even those small things I’d given up.

So no wonder then that I’d adopted this uniform of ponytail, sometimes with a hat, sometimes without, and casual clothes and boots.

The walk into town took only about three minutes from the front porch of the inn. I wandered along a beaten path until the sidewalk started and took in the quiet street.

Silverton was nothing short of quaintly picturesque. Thanks to the stillness that set in during the afternoons, you might think this place a movie set. But mornings and evenings were busy while at midday, at least during summer when hottest, people kept to themselves. Add to that the low tourism numbers for the year—not surprising that a low hum of nervous energy filled the gaps of the day.

I pushed open the door to the Rise and Shine and took in the adorable inside. If the inn didn’t keep me so busy, I would have come here every day. The walls and window trim were all painted sunshine yellow, with big display windows in the front so passers-by could see how busy the place was. The tables and chairs were white, all of their dishes robin’s egg blue.

They had only six tables, two pulled together and occupied by the afternoon crew—a group of older men who congregated daily, or close, because they were almost always there when I came in the afternoon. Whenever I happened across them in here, they seemed like they were having the time of their lives.

I stepped to the counter, which hit about at my ribcage. The surface held big display cases on either side of the digital register, a small jar that had a hand-drawn elk with a speech bubble that said jerks don’t tip, and a bell. I hesitated, peering back into the kitchen as much as I could, which wasn’t much, and then tapped the bell lightly.

From behind me wafted the sounds of the group talking.

“So I said, ‘listen, L-T. If we’re getting out of here, we’re doing it now.’ And do you know what he said to me?”

The man speaking had a Vietnam Vets hat on, riddled with patches and pins. He swung his head from side to side, surveying the other four faces, each with his own hat and insignia, one hand gripping his pretty blue coffee mug. All the men smiled as he continued.

“He says, ‘well, I suppose I didn’t want to live forever anyway.’”

The speaker slapped the table, and the men laughed heartily for a moment before another story began.

“Miss?” A small voice came from behind the counter.

I swung around and smiled at her. “Hi. I’m here to meet with the manager.”

“Oh, hi. That’s me,” the woman said, raising a delicate hand in a disarming wave. “Give me just a sec to refill these guys and we’ll meet at the table in front, if that’s okay? Can I get you anything?”

She turned to grab a carafe of coffee from a drip machine behind her and moved to the swinging doors at the far left of the counter.

“I’d take some coffee too, if that’s all right.”

She nodded as she approached the men who greeted her with boisterous welcome.

“There she is, the prettiest girl in all the land,” one said.

“You boys need anything else? I’ve got a meeting here with Ms. Bryant.”

The men all turned to me where I’d just taken a seat in a sunny spot at the front table.

“Bryant, is it?” one man, who looked to be the oldest of the crew, asked.

I stood and walked to them, though they sat only about ten feet from me as things stood. “Yes sir, Wells Bryant. I’ve just arrived in town after my aunt Tilda’s passing.”

A flurry of sympathies passed around simultaneously, then died down.

“She was a lovely woman, a real asset to the community. She’ll be missed,” the man said. He stood, more agile than I might have expected, particularly since his hat featured a WW2 patch. “William Morrison. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Bryant.”

He held out a gnarled hand, and I took it.

“The pleasure’s mine, sir. I’m glad to meet you.”

“So you’re taking the inn, then? It sat empty a while, seemed like,” Mr. Morrison said.

“Yes sir. My aunt left it to me, and it came at a perfect time. I have a lot to learn, I know, but—”

“You’ll do fine. I can tell it about you. My da used to say you could tell about a person by their eyes, and I can tell with you. You’ll do fine,” he said, a light lilt entering his voice as he spoke.

I smiled, charmed. “Thank you. I hope you’re right.”

“Morrison men are always right,” he responded as a bell jingled behind us.

“Morrison men may always be right, but that’s because the women told them what to say and do,” someone said.

I angled myself to see the door and noticed a strikingly pretty woman walking in front of none other than Liam Morrison. I hadn’t heard he was married, but it only made sense he was.

“Ah, granddaughter. Of course you’re right,” Mr. Morrison said and welcomed a hug from the woman, who then leveled me with an expectant look.

“Finally. I’ve been wanting to meet you. I’m Leo Morrison,” she said, thrusting a hand out to me, which I took without a second thought.

I knew her by reputation, now that I realized who she was—not Liam’s wife, but his sister. She looked young—younger than me, I’d guess, though not by much. She had long blond hair, and those bright blue eyes that I could now see were a family trait based on Mr. Morrison, Leo, and Liam, and fair, lightly freckled skin.

“Wells Bryant.”

“Nice to see you again, Wells,” Liam said as he stepped closer.

Leo shot him a look of surprise. “You two already met?”

“Just this morning,” he explained.

“Well, there you have it. You’ve met nearly a third of the family just today. All we need is Dan, that vagrant Jamie, and my son and daughter-in-law, and you’ll have met the whole crew,” Mr. Morrison said. He looked at Liam and Leo affectionately.

The store manager piped in. “Can I get you two anything? Ms. Bryant and I have a meeting, but I’ll be off in about an hour.”

Leo raised her eyebrows. “You have a meeting with her and you didn’t tell me?”

The manager rolled her eyes.

“I don’t report to you. Plus I would have told you after. Now go settle down and listen to these wise men tell their stories while I have my meeting,” she said, a sweet smile on her face.

“Yes, dear,” Leo said, a wry smile on her face. “But you,” she said to me as she pulled out a chair next to her grandfather. “I want to talk to you soon.”

I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder and see if she was talking to someone else. I knew no one stood behind me. She was talking to me, and I had no idea why. But she was direct, and I liked that, and so far, the Morrison family had been genuine and charming, so I nodded. “Okay. Noted.”

Half an hour later, I’d worked out an ordering system with the bakery’s manager, Bel, and had discovered that she, too, was extremely likeable. Before I left the shop, Bel and Leo demanded I meet them for dinner the next night, and only because I’d left behind despair and stopped being a recluse, I said yes.

I waved goodbye to the group of veterans still sipping coffee and chatting, then Bel and Leo, and made my way to the street where the sun still burned bright and warm, though this half had fallen into shadow.

“Hey, Wells!” came a shout behind me, and before I could turn all the way, Liam Morrison jogged to me. “Sorry to shout. I wanted to see if you might want to take that tour tomorrow?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, not sure what to say. I’d made the mistake of saying I was free all day tomorrow earlier, at which point Bel and Leo had waylaid me for dinner. If he’d overheard me from his seat at the vets’ table, only a few feet away from the one I shared with the girls, then the chances were good he’d know if I made an excuse.

I scuffed my boots across some fallen bright red geranium petals that must have fluttered from the hanging pots out front of Odds, the shop neighboring Rise and Shine on this side. It was full of odds and ends, thus perfectly named.

“Uh, sure. I think I’m free,” I said, squinting at him through the shade under my hat.

I could feel myself resisting looking directly at him—he was just too appealing. Some primal part of me seemed to know I shouldn’t give him my full attention or I’d be doomed, and I didn’t have time for that nonsense.

One side of his mouth quirked up, and I dipped my head, eyes back on those tiny petals.

“All right. Meet you out front of the inn?” he asked.

I nodded. “What time?”

“How about eight? We can grab coffee from Bel and then wander around with it.”

“See you then,” I said, and nearly ran away.

Surely, it must seem odd to him, but the exchange had left my throat tight and my breath short. I wasn’t ready to interact with someone like this—not anyone, and especially not someone like him. I’d never seen Preston coming—never could have imagined where we’d end up, but I could see Liam Morrison and the caution sign above his head flashing red at me.

I was just waking up—hovering just below the surface of feeling fully conscious and being able to function without the numb sensation that clung so close, nagging me. I couldn’t risk anything that would push me back into that space. Limiting exposure to risks like Liam would be essential to finishing the climb out of that pit.

All I wanted was to hear the clack of the inn’s screen door behind me.