by Unknown
Tyler climbed over the remnants of the low wrought-iron fence and stood, waiting for her. Barney reached him first, and Tyler welcomed him, running his hand along the dog's back and sending Barney into excited whines.
"Hi." He surveyed her, as if measuring the amount of strain on her face. "How are you doing? I wondered when I didn't see you at breakfast."
"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just fine. Grams thought I could use a sleep-in day before the weekend guests get here, that's all."
He nodded, as if accepting that implication that she didn't want to discuss the previous night.
"How did you make out with the furniture?" she asked quickly. "Grams said you were trying to get through the list today."
"I managed to do that, but I'm not sure how far ahead it gets me. There are certainly plenty of things missing, and I can make up a list to give the chief. But there's no way of knowing when anything disappeared. My grandfather could have sold some of it himself, for all I know."
She could understand his frustration. He was finding dead ends everywhere he turned.
"So you're investigating the family cemetery, instead."
"Not so much family, as far as I can tell. Most of the people buried here seem to be Chadwicks, dating back to the 1700s."
"The land probably originally belonged to a family called Chadwick. Once it came into Amish hands, they'd have been buried in the Amish cemetery over toward Burkville."
He knelt, straightening a small stone that had been tipped over. "Miranda Chadwick. Looks as if she was only three when she died."
She squatted next to him, heart clenching, and shoved a clump of soil against the marker to hold it upright. "So many children didn't survive the first few years then. It's hardly surprising that people had big families." She touched the rough-cut cross on the marker, unaccountably hurt by the centuries-old loss. "They grieved for her."
He nodded, his face solemn, and then rose, holding out his hand to help her to her feet.
She stood, disentangling her hand quickly, afraid of what she might give away if she held on to him any longer.
He cleared his throat. "So you said the Amish are buried elsewhere?"
"The Amish have a church-district cemetery—at least, that's how it's done here. Just simple stones, most of them alike, I guess showing that even in death, everyone is equal."
"But my grandfather had left the church by the time he died." Something sharp and alert focused Tyler's gray eyes. "So where would he be buried?"
"I don't know. Maybe my grandmother—"
But Tyler was already moving purposely through the small graveyard, bending to pull the weeds away from each stone. Feeling helpless, she followed him.
Chadwicks and more Chadwicks. Surely he wasn't—
But Tyler had stopped before one stone, carefully clearing the debris from it, and she realized the marker looked newer than the others.
Why this sudden feeling of dismay? She struggled with her own emotions. It didn't really make a difference, did it, where Tyler's grandfather was buried?
She came to a stop next to him, looking at Tyler rather than the stone. His face had tightened, becoming all sharp planes and angles.
"Here it is. John Hostetler. Just his name and the dates. I guess my mother held to Amish tradition in that, at least."
She couldn't tell what he was feeling. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. Tension, that was all she could be sure of. She focused on the marker.
John Hostetler. As Tyler said, just date of birth. Date of death.
Date of death. For an instant her vision seemed to blur. She shook her head, forcing her gaze to the carved date. It was like being struck in the stomach. She actually stumbled back a step, gasping.
Tyler was on it in an instant, of course. He shot to his feet, grasping her hands in both of his. "What is it?"
She shook her head, trying to come up with something, anything other than the truth.
Tyler's grip tightened painfully. He couldn't have known how hard he was holding her. "What, Rachel? What do you see when you look at the tombstone?"
She couldn't lie. Couldn't evade. Couldn't even understand it herself.
"The date. The date your grandfather died." She stopped, feeling as if the words choked her. "My father deserted us at just about the same time."
NINE
Tyler could only stare at Rachel for a moment, questions battering at his mind. He reached out, wanting to hold her so that she couldn't escape until he had all the answers. How could she land a blow like that and then stand looking at him as if it didn't matter?
Then he realized that it wasn't lack of caring that froze her face and darkened her eyes. Shock. Rachel was shocked by this, just as he was.
A cold breeze hit them, rustling the bare branches of the oak tree that sheltered the few tilted gravestones. Rachel shivered, her whole body seeming to tremble for a moment.
He grasped her arm. "Come on. Let's get back to the car and warm up."
She walked with him down the hill, stumbling a little once or twice as if not watching where she was going. Barney, darting around them in circles in the frostbitten field, seemed to sense that something was wrong. He rushed up to Rachel with small, reassuring yips.
They reached the car. He tucked her into the passenger seat and started the ignition, turning the heater on. Barney whined until he opened the back door so the dog could jump in.
Tyler slid into the driver's seat, holding out his hand to the vent, grateful for the power of the car's heater. Already warmth was coming out, and he turned the blower to full blast. He couldn't possibly get any answers until Rachel lost that frozen look.
For several minutes she didn't move. He should take her back to the inn, but he'd never have a better time than this to find answers.
She stretched her hands out toward the heater vent, rubbing them together, and the movement encouraged him. She seemed to have lost a little of that frozen look.
"Feeling better now?" He kept his voice low.
She nodded, darting a cautious, sideways glance at him. To his relief the color had returned to her cheeks.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me."
"Shock," he suggested.
"I don't—" She stopped, shook her head, made an effort to start again. "I'm being stupid, letting the coincidence upset me so much."
He discovered his hand was gripping the steering wheel so hard the knuckles were white, and he forced his fingers to loosen.
"Do you really think it's a coincidence that your father deserted you about the time of my grandfather's death?"
"What else could it be?" Defiance colored the words.
Plenty of things, most notably a guilty conscience.
But he suspected she would come to that conclusion on her own if he didn't push too hard.
She moved, as if the silence disturbed her. "I was only eight. I might be remembering incorrectly." Her voice was so defensive that he knew there was more to it than that.
"You must know around when it was. Didn't you tell me that your mother took you and your sisters away shortly after that?"
Her mouth was set, but she gave a short nod.
"Kids usually have their own ways of remembering when things happened. Connecting the experiences to being off school or holidays or—"
He stopped, because a tremor had shot through her, so fierce he could feel it. He reached out, capturing her cold hand in his. "What is it, Rachel? You may as well tell me, because you know I'm not going to give up."
She stared through the windshield at the bleak landscape. Barney whined from the backseat, seeming to sense her distress.
"My birthday would have been a week after your grandfather's death." The words came out slow. Reluctant. "I was excited because Daddy had promised to stay for my birthday and give me a gold cross necklace, like the one Andrea had." She seemed to be looking back over a dark, painful chasm. "But he was gone before then."
"Promised to stay? You
mean he wasn't usually there?"
"Our parents were separated so much it's hard to keep track. Daddy would be gone for months at a time, and then show up. He and Mom might get along for a few weeks, then something would blow up between them and he'd leave." She threaded her fingers through her hair. "Not the most stable of parents. I sometimes wonder why they had us."
He willed himself to go slow, to think this through. Hampton had deserted his family at about the time of his grandfather's death; that was clear. But connecting the two incidents with any sureness was iffy, given what Rachel said about her father's absences.
"Had your dad been around much that summer?"
She frowned, shaking her head. "I'm not sure. It seems to me that he had, but—" She shrugged. "He could be so charming, although I don't think my grandparents saw it. Life seemed exciting when he was here."
She'd wanted to be loved, of course. Any child knows instinctively that a parent's love is crucial.
"Do you remember anything about when your dad left?" He tried to keep his voice gentle.
She stared down at her hands. He sensed that she was pulling her defenses up, figuring out how to cope with this situation.
"I don't know much." Her voice was calmer now, as if she were able to detach her grown-up self from the little girl who'd been looking forward to her birthday. "I'm sure the adults were all trying to protect us, but of course Andrea and I speculated. We crept out on the stairs at night. I remember sitting there, holding her hand, listening to my mother shouting at my grandparents, as if it was their fault he'd gone."
Her fingers twisted a little in remembered pain, and he smoothed them gently, hurting for her.
"Your mother must have explained things to you in some way."
A wry smile tugged at her lips. "You didn't know our mother if you think that. She just announced that Daddy was gone and that we were going away, too. She hauled us out of the house with half our belongings. For a while Drea and I thought we were going to join our father, but that didn't happen. Every time we asked, she'd tell us to be quiet." She shrugged. "So finally we stopped asking."
He struggled to piece it together. It sounded as if her family had been far more messed up than his. "So your parents never got back together?"
She shook her head. "Being taken away from our grandparents hurt the worst. Daddy had been in and out of our lives so much, always trying some great new job that was going to make all the difference. It never did."
"So your grandparents were the stable influence." And probably only her grandmother, or possibly Emma, could tell him the story from an adult perspective.
"They were. If Mom had let us see them more often—but she nursed her own grudge against them. It really wasn't until we were in college that we had much contact with them. Still, we always knew they were there." She brushed back a strand of silky hair, managing to give him something approaching a normal smile. "When I came back a year ago, just for a visit, I realized this place was what I'd been longing for all along. It's home, even though I left it when I was eight."
He nodded, understanding. Wanting to make it better for her, even at the same time that he knew he'd have to find out more about her father.
He touched the strand of hair she fiddled with, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, setting up a wave of longing that he had to fight.
"I'd have to say you turned out pretty well, in spite of your parents. What happened to them? Are you still in contact?"
She shook her head. "Mom died in a car accident three years ago in Nevada."
"I'm sorry." Although it didn't sound as if she'd been much of a loss as a mother. "What about your dad?" Casual. Keep it casual.
She blinked. "I thought you realized. We haven't heard a word from him from that day to this."
* * *
Maybe the worst thing about running an inn was the fact that no matter what was going on in her personal life, Rachel had to be smiling and welcoming for the guests. She could only be thankful that at the moment, Grams had their weekend guests corralled in the front parlor, serving them eggnog and cookies and regaling them with Pennsylvania Dutch Christmas legends, while Rachel had the back parlor to herself, getting the nativity scene ready to go beneath the Christmas tree.
If only she'd had a little more self-control, Tyler would never have known about the coincidence in dates between her father's leaving and his grandfather's death. That was all it had been. A coincidence. She'd never believe that her feckless, generous father could have been involved in that. Never.
She frowned at the low wooden platform that was meant to hold the putz. That end didn't seem to be sitting properly.
Keeping her hands busy unfortunately allowed her mind to wander too much.
I guess I couldn't have kept it from Tyler, could I? She had a wistful longing that God would come down on her side in this, but in her heart she knew it wouldn't happen. "Be ye wise as serpents and innocent as doves." Hiding the truth from Tyler was hardly an act of innocence.
Still, the fear existed. What would he do with the information he now had? She already knew part of that answer, didn't she? He'd want to talk to Grams. She hadn't remembered much about that time, but Grams would.
All her protective family instincts went into high gear at the thought, but there was nothing she could do. Tyler wouldn't be deflected, and Grams would do what was right.
Having arranged the molds to hold the hills and valleys on the wooden platform, she spread out the length of green cloth that was meant to cover them. The fabric fell in graceful folds, looking for all the world like real hills and valleys.
And then the end of the platform collapsed, sending her neat little world atilt. For a moment she felt like bursting into tears. Her world really was falling around her, and there seemed to be nothing she could do to stop it.
"Looks as if you need a carpenter."
Her heart jolted at the sound of Tyler's voice. She didn't look up. "My brother-in-law is a carpenter, but he moved his shop to the property he and Andrea bought in New Holland. And he's off on his honeymoon, anyway."
Tyler knelt beside her, his arm brushing hers as he righted the platform. She caught the tang of his aftershave and resisted the instinct to lean a little closer to him.
"I think I can manage to fix this. Will you hand me that hammer?"
She passed it over to him. With a few quick blows he firmed up the nails that had begun to work themselves loose.
She caught his sideways, questioning glance, as if he wanted to ask how she was but was afraid to start something.
"This is the foundation for the nativity scene, I take it."
"We call it the putz." She spread the cloth out again, aware of his hands helping her. "If you want to hear about it, you should go to the front parlor. Grams is giving the details to the other guests."
Was that ungracious? Grams would certainly think so.
"I'd rather hear it from you." Tyler's voice was low, pitched under the chatter from the other room.
"That's not what you want, and you know it." She couldn't seem to help the tartness in her tone.
Tyler nodded, blue eyes serious as he studied her face. "All right. That's true. You realize I have to talk to your grandmother, don't you?"
She paused in the act of removing one of the clay nativity figures from its nest of tissue paper. Even without seeing it, she could identify the shape of a camel through the paper.
She'd been anticipating this moment—getting out the familiar old figures, setting up the scene until it was just perfect. Irrational or not, she couldn't help but resent the fact that Tyler was spoiling it for her.
"I know you need to hear the story from Grams." Her words felt as fragile as the crystal ornaments on the tree. "I'd appreciate it if you'd wait until we've gotten through this evening."
"I'll wait, but later we have to talk." The implacability in his tone chilled her. He wouldn't be turned back, no matter what.
Even if what he
was trying to do implicated her father.
"And now we're ready to set up the putz, or nativity scene." Grams came through the archway, shepherding the four new couples firmly. "We hope you'll enjoy doing this traditional Pennsylvania German tradition with us."
Both mother-daughter pairs looked enthusiastic. The other two couples were from Connecticut. The women seemed pleased, the men bored. How long before they made some excuse to get out of this? They looked slightly heartened at the sight of Tyler—another male to support them, she supposed.
But Tyler would want to get this over as quickly as possible, so he would corner Grams.
"You've already met my granddaughter Rachel when you checked in." Grams performed introductions. "And this is our friend, Tyler Dunn."
How did Tyler feel about being promoted from guest to friend? It wouldn't stop him from finding out all he could about her father.
While Grams explained the tradition of the putz, the elaborate Nativity scene that went under the tree, Rachel unwrapped the six-inch clay figures, setting them out on the folding table she'd brought in for the purpose.
"…not just a manger scene," Grams explained. "We start at the left and create little vignettes of the events leading up to the birth of Jesus—Joseph in his carpentry shop, Mary with the angel, the trip to Bethlehem. The stable scene goes front and center, of course, and then the shepherds with their flocks, the wise men following the star, even the flight to Egypt."
"These are beautiful figures." One of the women grabbed an angel, holding it up in one hand.
Rachel had to force herself not to take it back. That was the angel with the broken wing tip. She'd knocked it over the year she was six and been inconsolable until Daddy, there for once, had touched it up with gilt paint, assuring her that no one would ever notice.
"Antique," Tyler said smoothly, "and very fragile. Difficult to replace."
The woman seemed to take the hint, holding the angel carefully in both hands. "We actually get to help set this up? Well, if that isn't the sweetest thing."
She knelt by the platform. The others, seeming infected by her enthusiasm, gathered around to take the delicate figures or the stones and moss Rachel had brought in to add realism to the scene. In a few moments everyone was happily involved. Tyler even enlisted the two men to create a miniature mountain, and she thought she caught a serious discussion about how one might add a running stream.