BETH BYLER
Thinking he was alone in the store, Jacob Schrock crumbled his father’s latest letter from prison and tossed it at the trash can. The wad of paper sailed through the air, skimmed the rim of the metal can, then promptly floated to the floor.
It seemed he couldn’t even get his father’s letters out of his life easily.
He was about to stride over and pick up the offending piece of paper when his wife, Deborah, bent down and snatched it up.
She glanced at the crumpled slip of notebook paper in her hand, then slowly raised her gaze to his. “What is this, Jacob?”
“You know exactly what it is—it’s another letter from my daed.”
“Did you read this one? Or were you too busy again?” Her tone held a healthy amount of sarcasm in it.
Jacob didn’t blame his wife for being so sarcastic. Throwing out his father’s carefully penned letters was a rather harsh thing to do. But he was justified, he was certain of that. He’d promised himself not to dwell on the past, and to him that meant moving forward after his father’s imprisonment, not looking backward.
And even though they were married, this was his father they were talking about, not hers. After all, some things simply couldn’t be shared. This was one of those things. “I did read the letter.” This time, he had.
She raised an eyebrow. “Every word?”
“Almost.” He’d read until his father started asking him for forgiveness. But instead of admitting that, he turned away and pretended to be very interested in cleaning out the immaculate shelves underneath the front counter of the Schrock Variety Store. Which, of course, was his family’s namesake. Now, though, he was the one running it.
Still holding the crumpled paper, Deborah softened her voice as she walked to his side. “Jacob, maybe we should talk about this.”
“Talking won’t help. Besides, there ain’t anything to talk about.”
“Your mother says that every time she visits your father in prison he always looks a little worse.”
“Prison is a harsh place. I can’t imagine that he’s having an easy time of it.”
“I don’t think it’s only the prison that is hard for him to bear. I think he’s having a hard time dealing with your anger.” When he flinched, she softened her tone. “Jacob, I think you need to think about your feelings. Pray on it. You need to find a way to forgive him. . . .”
Anger flashed through him like an old, violent friend. “Deborah, he was going to let me take the blame for Perry’s death. He hired a lawyer. And most importantly, he knew the guilt and pain I felt about the fight I had with Perry was eating me up . . . and he let me suffer. If I hadn’t pushed him, if my mother hadn’t pushed him to admit everything . . . if Detective Reynolds and Sheriff Kramer hadn’t questioned him so much, pressing him to finally admit the truth, I could be the one sitting in prison.” He still felt dizzy when he remembered sitting with his father at their kitchen table, and discovering that his daed had been willing to do whatever it took to protect himself—and keep his own actions a secret.
His wife sighed, and the look on her face told him that he was trying her patience something awful.
So he held his tongue. Barely.
“What Aaron did was wrong, and I know he’s sorry for it, too,” she finally said. “But he’s paying the price now.”
“So am I,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“Jacob, don’t forget that it was my brother who was murdered.”
“I never—”
She held up a hand. “What I’m tryin’ to say is . . . if I can find it in my heart to forgive your father, I would think you could, too. It’s our way, you know.”
She was referring to one of the hallmarks for the Amish faith. To turn the other cheek. To seek to forgive. To rely on God for retribution, not to take matters into one’s own hands.
But while it was a commendable belief, it wasn’t so easy to put that philosophy into action. At the moment, he wasn’t ready to forgive, and there was no way he could convince Deborah to understand.
He didn’t know how to make her understand things from his point of view. He’d already tried, but she had obstinately stood firm.
“Deborah, I know you don’t approve, but you’ve got to at least try to see things my way. I can’t change how I feel.”
Setting the letter on the counter, she looked at him sadly. “Please pray about this. I know if you let the Lord guide you, your burden will feel lighter,” she murmured, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Especially now, at Christmas.”
“Christmas is just another day, Deb.” To his shame, instead of accepting her gesture of comfort, he shrugged off her hand.
Visibly stung, she stared at him for a long moment, then walked out of the store.
Leaving him alone with his hurt and his pain . . . and now his guilt. The day he’d married Deborah had been one of the happiest of his life. He’d felt so hopeful that all the pain of the past year and the long murder investigation were behind him.
Now, six months later, he was even starting to feel like people in Crittenden County were accepting him again. They were beginning to frequent the store more, and no longer avoiding him at church.
But now this friction caused by his father’s need for absolution was creating a fissure in his fragile new bond with Deborah. If they couldn’t see eye to eye, he knew things were going to turn dark again.
And though it was almost Christmas, he couldn’t see any way around that.
She’d done it. She’d gone outside with a damp washcloth and a bottle of cleaning solution and had wiped up Chris’s blood from the sidewalk.
After that, Beth had taken the broom and carefully swept off his footprints from the driveway.
With the snow that was expected soon, the last traces of his walk to the inn would be gone.
Now it was time to tend to him.
She’d been pacing outside Chris’s room for a good three minutes. It didn’t feel like that, though. It felt like an eternity. The worst things in life really did seem to take the longest.
Every time she passed in front of the door, a little voice inside her head encouraged her to go inside.
And she certainly did need to.
In one of her hands was a sewing kit. In the other was a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a clean washcloth, and a couple of bandages. It was a pitiful attempt to provide adequate medical care.
However, she’d promised him that she’d do her best to tend to his needs. If she could gather her courage.
She was pacing outside the door again when she heard Chris moan. She needed no further encouragement to at last turn the door’s handle and walk in.
He raised his head when the door opened, and his eyes were bleary as he watched her walk toward him. “Beth?”
“Jah, it is me. I’m here to try to help you.” Yes, try was the operative word here. Crossing the room, she closed the open blind, taking a peek out the window as she did. Snow lay on the ground and more snow was expected by nightfall. Next, she turned on the kerosene light by his bed and studied him again.
Truthfully, he looked no different, except his feet were now bare.
That set her to action. She walked to the bathroom next to his room, poured water into the bowl she’d brought upstairs, then added a liberal amount of alcohol to the water. Then she soaked the washcloth before finally returning to his side with the bowl in her hands.
After getting settled, she carefully placed her palm on his forehead. He seemed feverish so she pushed aside the quilt that had covered him, trying to give him some fresh air.
He winced. “I think I might have ruined the quilt.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Frannie might think so.”
“I’ll worry about Fannie,” she said crisply.
Examining his bloodstained arm and the shirt that seemed determined to adhere to his skin like glue, she felt a fresh wave of pity toward him. He really was in poor sha
pe.
But even under the revulsion she felt toward the cuts and blood and dirt that covered his body, he was still attractive to her.
Which, unfortunately, had been the case from the moment they met. There had been something almost tangible between the two of them that she’d never felt with anyone else.
And though he’d never said anything, she was sure Chris had felt that same way. Before, he’d been the strong one. He’d told her no good could come of a relationship between them.
Perhaps he’d been right. Now she needed to be the strong one. She needed to help him recover, offer him shelter, then send him on his way.
As if doing that would be easy for her.
What she needed to do was imagine him as one of the children she watched over. Yes, that was it! She could try to think of him not as Chris Ellis, but as four-year-old Robbie Yoder.
The washcloth was cooling, which made her stop her musings and get to work. That was what needed to be done.
Glancing at Chris’s face, she saw his eyes close again and she spoke. “I’m going to undress you now.”
Eyelids popped open. “What did you say?”
She was sure her face was now beet red. “I mean, your shirt. I need to take off your shirt. To help doctor you.”
With a wince and a stifled groan, he sat up, then began releasing the buttons himself.
Feeling more helpless than ever, she watched him struggle. Little by little, one button was freed. Then two.
Her hands itched to take control. Yet again she wished that he was far younger, more like the children she babysat. She wished he had baby-soft skin instead of hard muscles. Wished he looked at her with wide-eyed innocence instead of with a barely hidden heat that she didn’t quite understand.
Then she could be in control.
But things were far different with a man like him. He was used to being the strong one. Used to being the protector. She could only imagine how he was handling being so helpless.
At last, his shirt lay open. Exhausted, his hands went limp by his sides.
She took charge and began carefully pulling the blood-soaked cotton away from his shoulders. “I’m afraid this shirt is ruined, Chris.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll make you a new one,” she murmured, mentally checking her storage closet at home, with the bolts of fabric neatly stacked on shelves.
He said nothing to that as she finished removing his shirt, then began carefully dabbing at his cuts with the warm cloth. Her hand shook a bit as she noticed the three tattoos gracing his chest. They were some kind of signs, and their black ink forms made his pallor more pronounced.
When she dabbed at his shoulder, he flinched and the wound there started bleeding in earnest again. Feeling a little sick, she gulped.
Chris glanced down at the cut, then met her eyes. “Did you bring your sewing kit in here?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then you need to sew me up, Beth.”
She didn’t know if she could. “I know what I promised, but I simply don’t know if I can give you stitches.”
“There’s no one else.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t. You’ll be healing me, Beth.” Somehow he was able to summon a rakish smile. “Plus, I’m already hurt. I promise, nothing you could do would hurt me worse.”
That didn’t make her feel any better. “But—”
Looking aggrieved, he stared at her until she met his gaze. “Call it a gift, then, Beth. Call stitching me up your Christmas gift.”
“I couldn’t.”
With a wince, he moved his arm, bringing forth a new rush of blood. As they both watched it run down one of his tattoos, he whispered, “It has to be done.”
She wanted to turn away, but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to argue, but he was too weak. She wanted to refuse, but he had no one else.
With clumsy fingers, she opened her sewing kit and pulled out a spool of thread and a brand-new needle. “This is the worst sort of gift, Chris Ellis.”
Something flickered in his eyes before he somehow found the strength to smile. “Not to me.”
Chapter 3
I’ve learned the hard way that you’ve got to be careful about knife wounds and bullet holes. If they’re not carefully tended, they can leave some pretty bad scars.
CHRIS ELLIS
It wasn’t hard for Chris to remain motionless under Beth’s shaking hands. All he had to do was imagine what would happen if he was found at the hospital . . . and what could happen to Beth if the wrong person discovered she’d taken him there.
He was hoping that the two men who’d beaten him hadn’t punished Billy as well. The poor kid was just hungry for attention and when Chris befriended him, he’d opened up. But knowing the crew Billy worked with, he was probably in worse shape than Chris.
He couldn’t imagine bringing that kind of trouble to Marion, but he needed a place to hide and this was the most out-of-the-way place he knew.
If his appearance at the Yellow Bird Inn brought even a bruise to Beth’s flawless skin, Chris knew he’d always regret his decision to come back to Crittenden County.
As the minutes passed and her needle continued to stitch, Beth’s hands shook harder. Little by little, his effort to seem aloof began to war with his sympathy for her.
As she tugged a bit too hard, he lost the battle and he winced. “Sorry!” she gasped.
“My fault, not yours.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “I hate this.”
“I know you do.” So far, she’d placed six neat stitches through his skin, but each one had cost her. She looked to be on the verge of a breakdown.
Silently, she made another knot. Lifted the needle again, then paused.
She remained frozen, staring at her work with something that looked a lot like anguish, so he attempted to encourage her. “I bet you’re almost done.”
“Almost.” Perspiration dotted her upper lip now. When she met his gaze, hers was apologetic. “I think you still need one more stitch. I’m sorry, Chris.”
There was nothing for her to be sorry for. Actually, he was the one who owed her an apology. He ached to tell her that, but the time wasn’t right. At the moment, she needed him to be quiet and still. Stoic.
Keeping his voice cool and detached, he murmured, “No more apologies. Let’s get on with it.”
She raised a brow. “Let’s? As in you and me?”
He barely resisted grinning. He loved how she still had a bit of a temper. Loved how she was so sweet but far from being a pushover. “That’s just an expression,” he said dryly. “Believe me, I know you are doing all the hard work.”
As he’d expected, she shook off his words, staring at his shoulder again. Her hands hovered over him. Hesitating.
“Beth, you can’t hurt me. Just do it and then you’ll be done.” He closed his eyes to make it easier on her.
Quietly, she leaned forward and pierced his skin again. He did his best to concentrate on the way the thread felt against his wound. Better to think about that than the way she smelled, all flowery and sweet. Or the way her skin was as pretty and translucent as he remembered.
At long last, he heard a snip, then she leaned back with a sigh.
He opened his eyes and was sorry to see tears illuminating hers. “Done?”
“Jah.” After another shaky exhale, she stood up and moved a safe distance from him. “What about your hurt calf? Do you think it needs stitching, too?”
“I don’t think so, but you’d better check.”
She sat down again near his feet, glaring at his bloody right leg like it was a poisonous viper. Finally, she pulled up the fabric, dipped the cloth in the warm water again, and gently washed his calf.
“I think a bandage will suffice for this.” She gazed at him. “Do you want to inspect it?”
He had no desire to contort himself to look down at his leg. “No. Just bandage it, will you?”
&n
bsp; She did just that, then took her little bowl of water out of the room. When she returned, he watched as she carefully put her sewing things into her basket, looking like she was taking special care to wrap the spool of thread neatly. Her dark gray dress and black apron looked rumpled. Belatedly, he noticed that it seemed to be cinched in a bit at the waist, as if it was too big.
Pushing aside his aches and pains, he frowned at her. “Beth, have you lost weight since I saw you?”
She pulled at her dress’s fabric. “I don’t know.”
“Your dress looks big. Too big.”
“It might be.”
“Have you been sick?” He felt like a fool, talking about her clothes, about her weight. As if his concern mattered to her. As if he could have done something about it.
But he still did care. Even if they never saw each other again, he knew—just as he’d known when they’d said their good-byes months ago—that she would always be special to him.
Even though there was nothing he could do to help her, even though he didn’t want to matter to her, he wanted to believe she was fine.
The idea that they were both just fine in each other’s absence was all they really had, anyway.
“I haven’t been sick,” she finally answered. “I just haven’t been too hungry.” Turning, Beth smoothed her hands over her waist and along her hips. On another woman, the action might have been faintly suggestive. But he knew she was nervous and unsure—of both being around him, and of how he was regarding her.
Of his criticism.
Which just went to show him yet again what a jerk he was. Here she was giving him shelter and healing his wounds . . . and he was analyzing her figure and making her feel bad about herself.
Oh, but his momma would have given him what-for if she’d heard him. She’d raised a gentleman, and those manners she’d taught him were inside him somewhere—still with him, even though he’d done his best to pretend that they’d never been learned.
But here they were, and his sense of chivalry appeared to be alive and well . . . even though he was beaten and injured. And imposing on the very woman he should be staying away from.
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