His lips curved slightly as he stared at her. “It’s safe enough. I’ll put it in a drawer when I get back to the room.”
“I suppose there’s no way you’d consider locking it away in your truck?” she asked as they slowly walked back toward his room.
He stopped abruptly. “Not on your life. I would die if something happened to you.”
Her breath hitched as his words hit her like a gale-force wind. Of course he didn’t mean anything by that.
But never in her life had she heard talk like this before. The only way she could categorize it was passionate. The whole situation they were in felt larger than life, and she didn’t know if it frightened her or made her feel like she was finally living for the first time in her life.
Awkwardly, she stood at the door while he opened the top drawer of the bedside table and set the gun in it, then firmly pushed the drawer closed.
But that seemed to take up the majority of his energy. He sank to the bed then, the skin around his lips pinched. Without thinking about the consequences, she rushed to his side. Unable to help herself, she wrapped her hands around his shoulders and back and tried to help him get steady.
His skin was hot beneath her touch. She felt him flinch from the contact with her cool hands. “Chris, you’re feverish. I fear you’re becoming sick.”
“Not sick. Injured.”
Trying to support him better—which was a difficult process since he had to weigh at least seventy pounds more than she did—she climbed up next to him on the bed.
Those light blue eyes that had crept into her dreams stared into hers. “Beth, you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped. “Not with me like this.”
No, she definitely should not. She should not be in bed with him—not even if she was fully clothed and he was half dressed. Not even if he was injured and feverish and she was trying to heal his hurts.
Fact was, she knew she should not be harboring a man in Frannie’s bed-and-breakfast. She shouldn’t be trying to nurse him at all. She should have called for help, contacted a real doctor.
But most of all, she shouldn’t be thinking about him the way she was. No matter how much she tried to think of him differently, Chris kept creeping in her head. And heart.
And those feelings were as dangerous to her as any gun or knife. Being around him made her think of things she’d never considered before she met him. He made her think of a world outside Marion. A world where her heart beat a little faster and her pulse raced.
Chris made her question her life and the choices she’d made.
Worse, when he wasn’t around, she felt empty.
But he was forbidden to her, and that was how it should be.
She needed him to be nothing more than a temporary guest in an otherwise outlandish situation. A mere glitch in her rather quiet existence. Anything else would only bring her pain.
“Beth?” he said again. “I can tell you’re worried. I know you’re afraid. Tell me, what can I do to make this better?”
Quickly, she scooted off the mattress, just as if he’d reached out to touch her.
But of course he hadn’t.
She backed up and cautioned herself to remember that they were nothing to each other. Nothing more than practical strangers. Two folks who could never act on what was between them, and more important, never should.
At the moment, she was the strong one, and because of that, she needed to stay strong.
Looking him directly in the eyes, she said, “You are sick and I am helping you. That is all.” She cleared her throat. “Now, see if you can help me make you more comfortable. We need to get you covered up so you can rest.”
He complied with her attempts to rearrange him, slowly slipping under the cotton sheet as obediently as if he were a young boy instead of a mature man.
But when she attempted to slip a quilt over him, he pushed it away. “I’m too hot for that, Beth.”
“It’s your fever that’s talking.”
“So? I’m still hot.”
“The house is chilly. You need to stay covered. Listen to me, I know best.”
Almost belligerently, he shoved the blankets off his body, forcing her to stare at his bare torso, with those strange tattoos on his chest and arms. At the way he was dressed only in faded jeans.
Her face began to heat because she couldn’t seem to look anywhere else. “Chris—”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re acting childish. I’m trying to help you.”
“Is that right?” He scooted up against the headboard, twisted his hips so he was facing her. “Then pull up your chair and sit with me. Don’t make me lie here alone.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. Unless you’re too afraid,” he added, his voice sounding almost like a challenge. “If you’re afraid of me, then you should leave.” With that, he shifted again, so he was lying flat on his back. A second later, he closed his eyes.
He almost looked as if he’d forgotten all about her, but she knew better, of course.
Lord? she prayed silently. What do I do? What should I do?
As the clock ticked on his bedside table, she felt her heartbeat slow, and with it, a new sense of calm eased into her.
Reminding her that with God, all things were possible.
That was enough for her.
So, even though everything that was right and true warned her against getting too close, she pushed the chair close enough to reach out and clasp his hand in hers. As she’d imagined, his palm was callused and his fingertips rough.
But still, it felt good to hold on to a small part of him.
He opened his eyes halfway and gazed at her. “Why are you holding my hand?”
“Everyone needs some hand-holding every once in a while, Chris.”
“Even guys like me?” His voice was acerbic, almost teasing. But she knew better now.
She couldn’t help herself, she squeezed his hand slightly. “Especially men like you.”
He closed his eyes then, and she exhaled a sigh of relief. Before she knew it, he would be asleep again, then she could sneak back out and leave him in peace.
And attempt to figure out how she was going to tell her mother that she wouldn’t be stopping by that day.
“Beth?”
“Hmm?”
“Talk to me, would you?”
“About what?”
“You. I want to know all about you.”
“I’m not terribly interesting. What you see is what I am.”
“What’s that like, Beth?” he rasped. “What’s it like to be the same person on the inside that the rest of the world sees? What’s it like to be so perfect?”
He was wrong, of course. Most of the world saw her as a confident woman who was happy to take care of other people’s children. Who never minded that her mother had been stricken with a terrible disease far too early in life.
The truth was she was a woman who was rapidly becoming an old maid but didn’t have any earthly idea how to change that.
But she could never admit that. Not to herself and certainly not to him.
“You know everything you need to know about me, Chris. I’m a simple Amish woman.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, Beth. You’re the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.”
“I doubt that.”
“You shouldn’t. It’s true. So, come on. Talk to me. Don’t make me guess and wonder what you’re really like.”
It was as if he already knew. “Chris—”
“Please, honey?”
“Honey?” she echoed, certain she hadn’t heard him right.
He turned his head toward the wall. “Sorry. I’ve been calling you that in my head. It just slipped out. Do you mind it?”
To be honest, she didn’t really know. It sounded both alluring and unfamiliar at the same time. She didn’t think she was supposed to like an endearment like that.
She didn’t want to.
But already, she ached to he
ar him whisper it again.
Her heart felt like it was skipping a beat as she weighed the consequences.
Scratch that. As she pretended to make a decision. Really, from the moment she’d let him inside . . . she knew she had made her choice.
“I don’t mind it,” she whispered. “I don’t mind you calling me a sweet name right now.”
Actually, she wished he’d call her all sorts of things. The tender words made her heart patter faster and her insides turn soft. They made her feel like she wasn’t an old maid—forgotten and overlooked.
Actually, she wished she was brave enough to whisper something sweet and soft right back.
Chapter 7
It’s as hard to forget good times as much as bad. I know, because I’ve really tried.
CHRISTOPHER HART
As Chris gazed at Beth through half-closed lids, he knew only one thing could be happening: He had to be in the middle of some fever-induced, hazy dream.
He knew the dream well. He’d experienced different variations of it at least a hundred times.
In it, he would feel at peace. He’d feel strangely comforted and hopeful, because he was safe and comfortable.
And in each dream, there was always a beautiful, angelic woman by his side. The air surrounding her would smell vaguely of cotton and lemons, mixed with the faint scent of lavender.
It was every good smell in the world combined with a huge slice of comfort. To him, it never failed to be completely addictive.
At least it felt that way in his dreams.
In his mind, the woman was slim. Her brown hair leaned toward golden and her blue eyes were so dark they could be mistaken for brown. But she would have a graceful way about her that he’d never felt anywhere else in his life.
Her touch was gentle, her voice softly lilting. She’d give him the briefest sliver of happiness, simply because she cared about him.
And then he’d wake up and discover that his reality was the exact opposite of his dreams.
Not this time, though. Now, unbelievably, the woman of his dreams had become his reality. She was sitting next to him and even though he should have every nerve on alert, he kept finding himself dozing off, eased by the comfort of her presence.
It seemed God had a greater sense of humor than he’d even imagined.
“I’m not used to talking about myself. I don’t know where to start,” she said hesitantly.
“Then don’t start. Just talk to me about something easy.” Vaguely, he remembered her mentioning it was almost Christmas. “Talk to me about your Christmas.”
“This year?” she squeaked.
“Any year. What do you usually do?” Through the fog in his brain, he tried to recall what men gave to their girlfriends for Christmas gifts. A pain shot through his heart as he recalled the gifts his older brothers had given their girlfriends and wives. He’d never had the chance to get close enough to someone to bring them something special during the most magical time of year.
“Do you have a boyfriend who brings you roses and candy?”
“Nee!”
She sounded so shocked, he found himself chuckling. “Is that not what Amish boys bring to girls they fancy?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Finally, you filled me in on your status. I was beginning to wonder if you ever would.”
“Chris, you shouldn’t tease.”
“I’m not teasing,” he murmured, making sure he didn’t add a single trace of humor in his voice. And it was true—he was completely serious when it came to Beth. “You’re so pretty, I can’t imagine you not having a man at your heels, waiting for a smile.”
“Well, I do not. But if I did, he wouldn’t be bringing me roses in the winter. No one gets those!”
She sounded positively scandalized. He loved it. Privately, he thought if he were her man he’d find a way to bring her red roses every chance he got—even if he had to pay a small fortune for them at the florist. Only red roses would complement the way her cheeks burned when she was flustered.
“So . . . what would a proper Amish man bring you, Bethy? If you had one of those in your life.”
“It’s Beth,” she corrected primly. “And, um, it’s the Amish way to give each other gifts that would be far more useful.”
“Such as?”
“Such as . . . fabric. Or a sweater or coat.”
He couldn’t resist egging her on. “I’m no woman in love, but I’d rather receive chocolate and red roses than a bolt of fabric.”
“I would, too,” she whispered, before wincing. “I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly.
He let that pass because they both knew differently. “So . . .”
She shifted primly in her chair. “So . . . this is all beside the point. Because it doesn’t look as if either of us is going to be getting roses and chocolate on Christmas Day. No man is at my heels, and no woman besides me knows you’re here.”
Still anxious to learn more about her life, he asked, “What have you done in the past on Christmas Day?”
“Once, when I was younger, we went hiking in the woods while the turkey was cooking. It was great fun. Both my parents went. My mamm was healthy then,” she explained, her tone wistful. “Another time, I visited all my friends. A few of us went ice skating. Sometimes now we all get together at each other’s houses and have a Christmas potluck.”
“Hmm.”
“What about you, Chris? What did you used to do on Christmas Day. Before . . .”
“Before I couldn’t go home? Well, most Christmases my brothers and I received too much and played too hard. We used to love to get Hot Wheels—those are little metal cars. We’d race them around the house.”
“And who would win?”
“My oldest brother, of course. That’s how it goes with brothers, Beth. The oldest always wins.”
Because she was there, he gave himself permission to think about things that he usually made himself forget. “My mom makes a beef tenderloin for Christmas dinner. And some kind of potato casserole that probably has about a thousand calories in it, which is so good. And green beans. And squash.”
She chuckled. “You wrinkled your nose at the squash.”
“I don’t care for it. At least I didn’t use to.” Now, though, he imagined that he’d probably lick his plate clean, he’d be so grateful for the comfort of a familiar meal. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a meal like that. A homemade Christmas meal served on china.
“What else?”
Since Beth seemed so interested, Chris continued, his voice warming at the fond memories in spite of his best intentions to forget his past. “My mother gets out her fancy wedding china and we eat at the dining room table, trying not to break anything or spill gravy on the white linen tablecloth. But of course, we always do.” He chuckled. “My father’s the worst. He can’t keep a tablecloth clean to save his soul. He always apologizes and my mother always looks irritated but pretends it doesn’t matter. We all try to use the manners she taught us, but it all goes out the window about five minutes after we say the blessing. Next thing you know, we’re arguing and giving each other grief.”
“Your Christmas dinner sounds wonderful-gut,” she whispered.
“It is. I mean, it was. I haven’t been there for dinner in a long time. I wish . . .” Hating to sound so weak, he let his voice drift off.
But of course Beth prodded. “What do you wish?”
“I wish I could see it all again one day.” But more than that, he wished he could take her to his parents’ home for Christmas dinner.
He’d be so proud, bringing her in through the front door. Instinctively, he knew she’d love the tree in their living room and the bands of garland wrapped around the banister with wide silver ribbon. She’d love the big marble fireplace decorated with stockings, lights, and yet more garland and ribbons. She’d enjoy his mother’s pecan pie and almond tarts and would no doubt love Beasley, his parents’ old Engli
sh sheepdog. Beasley was too big and too furry and, worse, he loved to sit on the couch and cuddle and get dog fur and dog slobber all over everyone’s clothes.
He was a wonderful dog.
Just as important, he knew that his parents would love her. After all, who wouldn’t love Beth? And his brothers? Well, they’d probably curb their cussing and become almost gentlemanly. And when she wasn’t in the room, they’d most likely jab him in the ribs and ask how a beautiful woman like her would ever look twice at a guy like him.
Yes, if he brought someone like her home for Christmas? He would feel like he had finally done something right. Getting a woman like her to love him would mean as much as bringing down a whole gang of criminals.
She leaned forward. “You should call your parents, Chris.”
Just like that, his daydream bubble burst. “Beth, I can’t—”
“All you have to do is call and let them know that you’re okay. You don’t have to tell them where you are.”
Her naïveté about how modern technology worked made him wish that things really were so simple. “It’s not that easy.”
“I know! You could call them on your cell phone.”
“Cell phones can be easily tracked. Besides, I don’t have one. I dumped mine hours before I got here.” He didn’t want to scare her, but he was pretty sure that his parents’ phone lines were being tapped. “I promise, what we’re doing right now? It’s enough. Even talking about my family is more than I’ve let myself do in years.”
“But I’m sure they’re worried about you. I’m sure your mamm would want to know if you were sick and in bed. Covered with bruises and fighting off a fever. At Christmas, no less!”
“I doubt they even think about me much anymore.” He didn’t want to sound so maudlin, but the simple truth was that she probably had no concept of what it was like to be so alone. Tempering his voice, he said, “Beth, at the moment, I’m tucked away in a lovely inn, sitting next to a beautiful woman.” After debating for a bit, he tried to smile. “If this is the best thing that happens this Christmas I’ll count myself lucky.”
He was just about to say something else. About to say too much, about to tell her something she wouldn’t be able to handle—like that he loved her—when a sharp rap at the front door startled them both.
Peace Page 5