Dedication
For Lesley
Epigraph
Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him with his hand.
Psalms 37:24 (King James Version)
The best time to do something worthwhile is between yesterday and tomorrow.
Amish Proverb
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
PS Section
About the author
About the book
Read on
Also by Shelley Shepard Gray
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
The thing one needs to know about Crittenden County is that it ain’t near as sheltered as one might think.
MOSE KRAMER
Crittenden County, Kentucky
Blood was dripping onto the pristine doormat under his feet. As he watched one drop, then another, and another fall to the ground, then glow eerily in the reflection of the thousand white lights adorning the rooflines of the Yellow Bird Inn, Chris Ellis felt his resolve slip.
He should never have come back, and certainly not in the condition he was in. But here he was.
He peeked into the tall rectangular window that framed the front door, his fist hovering like a nervous hummingbird over the wood. Over and over again he would almost knock, but then a bizarre pang of conscience would surface and he’d stand motionless a little bit longer. Trying to persuade himself to do what was right.
Turn around. Walk away. Never return.
But at the moment, he wasn’t sure he could take even one more step forward, never mind make a complete U-turn. He was dizzy, weak, sweaty, and hot—even though it was barely thirty degrees out. Chances were slim to none that he’d even be able to remain in an upright position for much longer.
Besides, where would he go? Back to his beat-up SUV to spend the night in a vacant parking lot like he did last night? Somehow drive back to St. Louis? Lexington?
Not that he’d get very far in either of those cities. He was a target right now, given that the leader of the drug ring he’d been befriending had learned of all the questions he was asking Billy. All that mattered now was that he kept his cover until Taylor, his partner, could figure out what to do next.
So, where did a man who was beaten and bleeding go when he’d been working deep undercover for so long that even his family thought he was a person to avoid?
The only place that had come to mind was Frannie Eicher’s Yellow Bird Inn. Frannie had a brisk, efficient way about her that he appreciated. She was the type of proprietor who would treat him with kindness . . . but give him his distance, too.
And he was desperate for a little bit of kindness.
But of course, even the nicest people weren’t always understanding when it came to near strangers bleeding on their front porch three days before Christmas.
Before he could talk himself out of it again, he knocked. Well, he let his hand slip and fall against the smooth planes of the door. Just once. If no one answered, he’d go back to where he’d hidden his truck and drive away.
Almost immediately, the front porch lights turned on. Then a face peered through the window just to the right of the door.
But it wasn’t Frannie. It was the one person he’d hoped never to see again.
He was still standing there, stunned, when he heard a dead bolt click, followed by a high-pitched squeak as the door opened.
And there was Beth Byler. His mouth went dry as his gaze ached to take in every single inch of her.
It didn’t help that she was looking as perfect and beautiful as she’d been when he’d last seen her. Looking just the way she did when she appeared in his dreams. Petite and fine-boned. Smooth brown hair and bright blue eyes. Wholesome. Amish.
Chris fought to keep his expression neutral. Which was crazy of course. Like she’d care about his look of shock when he was bleeding all over the front porch.
Sure that she was about to slam the door in his face, he anxiously continued to look his fill. A man needed as many sweet pictures to store for times when nothing he was seeing was good.
Dim candlelight cast a mellow glow behind her. The scents of pine and cinnamon and everything clean and pure wafted toward him, teasing his senses. He reached out, gripped the door frame in order to keep from falling.
Blue eyes scanned his form. Paused at the cuts on his hands. At the new scar near his lip. At the way his right eye was practically swollen shut.
He waited for the look of revulsion that was sure to come. What kind of man let himself get so beaten and bruised?
“Chris?” she whispered.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
He needed someplace quiet to stay until after Christmas Day. He needed an out-of-the-way place to hide out, to recover. To heal his body and his soul. To try to remember who he was.
He was attempting to say that, to come up with a way to convince her to let him in without making a big fool of himself or scaring her, when he looked down at his boots.
Noticed the blood again ruining the doormat.
“I’m bleeding on your front porch,” he muttered.
“Bleeding?” Her gaze darted away from his swollen face. Traipsed down his body. Down his jeans to his thick brown Timberlands. Then her eyes widened as she, too, noticed the blood dripping steadily on her doormat.
“You must come inside!” And then she snaked an arm out, tugged at the hand against the doorframe. The one that had been holding him upright and had stopped him from doing something foolish, like sway toward her.
She pulled him in.
Her slight form wasn’t strong enough to keep him on his feet. Those three little steps took the rest of his strength, while the relief he felt at finding comfort sapped the rest of his energy.
“Beth, I’m sorry,” he muttered, as the pain and his clumsy apology got the best of him. He collapsed at her feet, no doubt staining her freshly scrubbed floor in the process.
Illustrating yet again that he wasn’t the man he should have been.
“Chris!” Beth cried as he slipped through her hands and fell to the floor. “Chris?”
Heart beating so hard she felt like she’d run a mile, she knelt at his side. Looked at his swollen cheek, the cut near his lip. The blood on his shirt. “Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness! Chris? Chris, what happened to you?”
Of course he didn’t answer. But when the cold wind blew against her cheek and threatened to douse the flame in the kerosene lantern behind her, she focused on the present. Quickly, she slammed the door shut, then carefully bolted the deadlock. Just in case someone was after him.
Like the last time he’d been there.
Now, satisfied that he was safe from the cold and wind, at the very least, she knelt back down by his side. His eyes were closed now, making his whole appearance shift. Until that very moment, she’d never realized just how much his piercing gaze affected her. With his eyes closed, he seemed almost approachable, which was laughable, considering how damaged his body was.
“Oh, Chris. What in the worl
d has happened to you? What have you been doing since we last met?” she murmured as she reached out and gently smoothed back a chunk of wayward honey-brown hair from his forehead.
She’d last seen him almost ten months ago. She’d offered to help watch the inn after Frannie had had a kitchen accident and had to be hospitalized. During that time, everyone in the area had been under a lot of stress, what with a body being found on the Millers’ farm. At first, she’d been afraid of Chris. She’d been half afraid he was one of Perry Borntrager’s drug-dealing friends.
Then she’d learned that Ellis wasn’t even his real last name. And that he had no intention of telling her what his real name was. Her suspicion of him had grown and warred with her attraction to him.
Only later did she discover that Chris was a good man after all. He’d only looked dangerous because he’d been working undercover for some kind of alphabet agency. What was it again? Not the FBI . . . the DEA! That’s right.
But to her shame, even before she’d known he could be trusted, there had been something about him that appealed to her. She’d been drawn to him like a fly to butter or a moth to a light or a bee to honey.
And that, of course, had been a bad thing. She was Amish; he was not. She lived a quiet existence, spending most of her days either caring for her mother or babysitting other people’s children.
His life was surely the opposite of that.
And he’d been stronger than her, too. With little more than the slightest hint of regret, he’d informed her that she should forget about him. That no good would ever come from a relationship between the two of them.
But yet, he’d come back.
Now he looked to be in terrible shape. Taking inventory again, she noticed that not only was his cheek swollen, but there were also cuts and scratches along his fingers and knuckles of his hands.
And that there was even more blood staining his clothes.
After getting the lamp, she knelt and examined him more closely, pushing herself to ignore everything she’d ever found attractive about him and focus solely on his injuries.
Remembering the pool of blood under his feet, she hastily untied his boots and yanked them off. He groaned as she gently pushed up his dark jeans, one leg at a time.
When she shoved the fabric up his left calf, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, just a man’s finely muscled leg.
But the right brought a cry from him . . . when she uncovered a bleeding hole in his leg.
He’d been cut badly. But was that his only injury?
Leaning close, she pulled his arms from the sleeves of his jacket and tossed it on the floor.
Then saw the other wound—a deep gash at the top of his chest. So deep, the area around the cut was saturated, and little drops of excess blood pooled, then dripped to freedom.
Fear knotted her stomach as she tried to keep her cool. “You take care of babies, Beth,” she told herself sternly. “You’ve nursed children through all sorts of illnesses. Even helped a boy recover from an emergency tonsillectomy when his father was out of town.”
Surely, she could help one man seek medical help?
Unable to stop herself, she lightly touched his shoulder before getting to her feet. She needed to go find the phone Luke insisted Frannie keep at hand for emergencies.
She’d just picked up the cell phone when Chris called out her name.
“Don’t, Beth. Don’t call.”
“I must. You’re injured. And . . . and you’re bleeding, Chris. Something awful.” When he merely raised a brow, she said, “Chris, this . . . this is mighty bad.”
“No, Beth. You can’t contact the police.”
“I was going to call for an ambulance.”
“Nope. Not them, either. Put that phone down, Beth. Making that call could put both of our lives at stake.”
Surely he was exaggerating things? “You need help, Chris. You need stitches.”
“Then you’re going to have to stitch me up. You know how to sew, right?”
“Jah . . . but—”
“But nothing.”
But everything! She couldn’t sew him. Realizing that he was truly worried about their safety, she softened her tone. “Chris, listen—”
Looking weary, he propped himself on his elbows. Stared at her again with those unusual pale eyes. “Beth, no one can know I’m here.”
The agitation that had been teasing her conscience switched to fear in the span of a heartbeat. “Why, exactly are you here? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m in trouble, but I don’t know why I came here. I was driving and so tired. And then I saw the signs for Marion and I remembered the inn. I couldn’t go home. I . . . I had thought Frannie could help me.” As if his short speech had sapped all his energy, he lay back down on the ground.
“You wanted Frannie’s help?” Oh, she hoped he wouldn’t hear the pain in her voice.
“Yeah. Where is she?”
“She went to Cincinnati with her husband. With Luke. For Christmas,” she added somewhat lamely.
“So they did get married.” His voice turned soft.
She cleared her throat in order to hide her nervousness. In order to hide the hurt feelings she was trying to conceal. She shouldn’t be disappointed that he’d come back looking for someone else besides her. She really shouldn’t.
“I need to hide, Beth . . . until December twenty-sixth.”
“That’s days from now!” What was she going to do with him for days on end?
“I don’t have to stay that long if you don’t want. All I really need is to lay low for a day or two. Just until I’m healed enough to get away. Neither my boss nor Taylor can meet up with me until the day after Christmas. Can I stay, even if it’s just for a little while?”
To her embarrassment, she realized she knew exactly who Taylor was. His brave and resourceful female partner. The mention reminded her of just how different that woman must be from her. How Taylor would probably know exactly what to do.
And yet, Chris came to the Yellow Bird Inn for help. “I . . . I just don’t know.”
He met her gaze again. Seemed to come to terms with whatever he saw in her expression. Then came to a decision.
With a grimace, he raised himself back up on his elbows. “You know what? It’s okay. I’ll go. I shouldn’t have come here. I knew better.” He shifted again, now sitting upright. “Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll get out of your way.”
The right thing to do would be to stand firm. To agree with that plan of action. She was only living at the Yellow Bird Inn part-time, as a way to keep an eye on things for Frannie. Never had Frannie imagined that there would be a visitor. In fact, she’d told Beth that she’d lied to two couples that she was full over the holidays so that Beth wouldn’t be tasked with cooking and cleaning, two things she wasn’t so skilled at.
So, yes, it would be best for Chris Ellis and his blood and injuries and mysterious life to leave. Beth had no authority to accept any guests. And it surely wouldn’t be right to accept a guest without checking in with Frannie first.
And yet . . .
“Chris, are you sure you don’t have somewhere else to go for Christmas?”
The look he sent her spoke volumes. “Not everyone remembers it’s almost Christmas, Beth.” His voice was gentle, almost as if he hated to be the one to tell her that for some people Christmas was only another day to get through. “And not everyone wants to see their family on that day.”
It broke her heart. “No?”
“No.” The skin was white around his mouth as he struggled to his feet, obviously favoring his right leg. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
He wasn’t going to run to his partner; he wasn’t going to turn to his family. He was going to be alone. She knew it as surely as she knew that even after all this time, she still dreamed about him.
Still thought about him. Thought about what would never be. Before she could change her mind, she spoke. “Stay.”
He sti
lled. “You sure?”
Her gaze met his. And in that instant, she knew he saw the tears in her eyes. Saw how vulnerable she was . . . at least when it came to him.
“I’m sure. Stay here until your boss or partner can come get you. I’ll help you get better. I’ll sew up your wound.”
“Don’t forget—no one can know I’m here, Beth.”
“Then I won’t tell anyone you are.” There. The decision had been made.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “Now, if you could, tell me where to go. I’ve only got about another two minutes in me before I pass out again.”
Taking a deep breath, she wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him to the stairs. Though it was tempting to put him in the one guest bedroom downstairs, she felt it would be safer if he stayed in a more secluded spot.
Without a word of explanation, she guided him up the stairs, leading him one step at a time. Their progress was halting and painful. When they were only halfway, he was leaning so heavily on her, she wasn’t sure that she could continue without a rest.
But finally they made it to his room. It was at the end of the hall, next to the bathroom. The room was smaller than most, and rather sparsely furnished, too. But it was warmer than some of the others and also held an oversized easy chair, which was perfect for a man of his size.
When she helped him lie down on top of a thick quilt patched in a crazy quilt design, he gripped her arm. “Beth?”
“Jah?”
“Don’t forget about the blood.”
“Blood? I don’t understand.”
His face paled as he struggled to speak. “I . . . I parked in the back, near the woods. But you’ve got to check to make sure I didn’t bleed on the ground. Do you understand?”
Then he closed his eyes and fulfilled his earlier promise.
He’d passed out.
And left her with a terrible load of problems as well as a miserable trail of blood to remove. Why did the worst things always happen when Frannie was out of town?
Chapter 2
Some folks wonder why I watch both English and Amish kinner. But to my way of thinking, all God’s children are basically the same. Especially at Christmastime. Ain’t so?
Peace Page 1