by Unknown
Rachel opened her mouth to protest and closed it again. Emma was bracketing her with Tyler, apparently assuming that she was helping him in his search. But Emma didn't know everything. Rachel carefully avoided glancing at the desk. She'd think that through later. In the meantime—
"Look, I'll understand if you don't want to go with me," Tyler began.
"No. That's fine. I'll be happy to go."
Well, maybe "happy" was a slight exaggeration. But like it or not, she seemed to be running out of choices. The circle was closing tighter and tighter around her family.
Staying close to Tyler was dangerous, but not knowing what he was doing, what he was finding out—that could be more dangerous still.
* * *
Rachel tried to focus on Pastor Greg's sermon, not on the fact that Tyler Dunn was sitting next to her in the small sanctuary. She'd resigned herself to the necessity of working with Tyler. She just hadn't expected that cooperation to extend to worshipping next to him.
Sunday morning with guests in the house was always a difficult time. She'd served breakfast, hoping she wasn't rushing anyone, and then scrambled into her clothes.
When she'd rushed out to meet Grams in the center hallway, Tyler had been there, wearing a gray suit tailored to perfection across his broad shoulders, obviously bound for church as well. They could hardly avoid inviting him to accompany them.
She took a deep breath, trying to focus her mind and heart. Unfortunately the heady scent of pine boughs sent her mind surging back to the night she'd faced fear in this place.
And Tyler had been there to help her. She stole a glance at him. His strong-boned face was grave and attentive. He didn't seem to be experiencing any of the distraction she felt.
Maybe he had better forces of concentration than she did. That was probably important to an architect. She wasn't doing as well. Because of the trouble he'd brought into their lives, still unresolved? Or whether because of the man himself?
She folded her hands, fingers squeezing tight, and emulated Grams, serenely focused on the pastor's sermon.
Grams would show that same attention and respect no matter who was in the pulpit. She hoped she would, as well, but Pastor Greg always gave her some sturdy spiritual food to chew on.
Today the topic was angels—not fluffy, sentimental Victorian Christmas card angels, but the angels of the Bible. Grave messengers from God, exultant rejoicers at Jesus's birth. Her wayward imagination caught, she listened intently, rose to sing the closing hymn and floated out of the sanctuary at last on a thunderous organ blast of "Angels We Have Heard on High."
The spiritual lift lasted until she reached the churchyard, where Sandra Whitmoyer grabbed her arm. "Rachel, I must speak with you about the open house tour."
Of course she had to. Rachel stepped out of the flow of exiting parishioners, buttoning her coat against the December chill.
"I thought we were all set. You received the brochures, didn't you?" Phillip had finally responded to her prodding and produced a beautiful brochure, which she'd dutifully delivered to the printer.
"Yes, yes, the brochures are fine." Sandra tucked a creamy fold of cashmere scarf inside the lapel of her leather coat. "But Margaret Allen wants to serve chocolates along with her other refreshments at The Willows. Now, you know we can't risk having people put sticky, chocolaty hands on antique furniture when they go on to the next house."
"It will be all adults on the tour," she pointed out. "I'm sure they'll be responsible about touching things."
Besides, she had no desire to take on the owner of a competing bed-and-breakfast. They'd had their runins with Margaret in the past, and she didn't want to reopen hostilities.
"You don't know that," Sandra said darkly. "Some people will do anything. I won't have people touching the Italian tapestry on my sitting room love seat with sticky fingers."
Sandra was caught between a rock and a hard place, Rachel realized. She'd been the first to offer her lovely old Victorian home for the tour, but she'd been worrying ever since that some harm would come to her delicate furnishings.
"If I might make a suggestion—" Tyler's voice was diffident. She might have forgotten that he was standing next to her, he'd been so quiet, but she hadn't.
Sandra gave him a swift smile instead of the argumentative frown she'd been bestowing on Rachel. "Of course. Any and all suggestions are welcome."
Especially when they came from an attractive male. Rachel chastised herself for her catty thoughts. And practically on the doorstep of the church, no less.
"You might have each stop on the tour offer a container of hand wipes at the entrance. It's only sensible during cold and flu season, in any event."
"Brilliant." Sandra's smile blazed. "I don't know why I didn't think of that myself. Or why my husband didn't suggest it—"
"Didn't suggest what?" Bradley Whitmoyer slipped his arm into the crook of his wife's arm.
While Sandra was explaining, Rachel took another quick glance at Tyler's face. Could he possibly be interested in all this? His gaze crossed hers, and her heart jolted.
He looked so serious. Worry gnawed at her. If he'd found out about the desk—
But that was ridiculous. How could he? He'd hardly go around asking Grams or Emma about the provenance of a piece of furniture.
She'd asked both of them herself, cautiously, if they knew where the piece had come from. Emma had shaken her head; Grams had said vaguely that perhaps Grandfather had bought it at an auction.
Impossible to tell. The outbuildings were stuffed with furniture. Andrea had been after her to have a proper inventory made, but who had time for that?
Maybe she should be up-front with Tyler about the desk. After all, even if it had come from his grandfather's farm, that meant nothing. He could have sold it—
She was rationalizing, and she knew it. She didn't want to tell him because it was one more thing to make him suspect her father. First her grandfather, now her father. Where was it going to end?
She forced her attention back to the conversation in time to find that Tyler's suggestion had been adopted and that Sandra, thank goodness, would take care of it herself.
"I think we've kept these people standing in the cold long enough." Bradley nudged his wife toward the churchyard gate.
He was the one who looked cold. Maybe it went along with being overworked, which he probably was now that flu season had started.
Rachel turned away, feeling Tyler move beside her. She probably should have suggested that he go on back to the inn—after all, none of this would matter to him. But before they'd gone more than a couple of yards, Jeff Whitmoyer stepped into their path, his face ruddy from the nip in the air.
"Hey, glad I ran into you, Dunn." He thrust his hand toward Tyler. "You have a chance to give any thought to my offer? I'd like to get my plans made, be able to break ground as soon as the ground thaws in the spring."
"I don't recall your saying what you planned for the property, if you should buy it." Tyler sounded polite but noncommittal.
Jeff glanced from one side to the other, as if checking for anyone listening in. "Let's say I have an idea for an Amish tourist attraction and leave it at that. When can we sit down and talk it over?"
"Not today," Tyler said. "I don't do business on Sunday."
Before Jeff could suggest another day, Rachel broke in. "Speaking of work to be done in the spring, Jeff, I'd like to get on your work schedule to get that gazebo in the garden moved."
"Moved?" Jeff looked startled. "Who told you that thing could be moved?"
"I did," Tyler said smoothly.
"Tyler is an architect," Rachel added. "He suggested moving the gazebo to the far side of the pond, and I'd like to do that. If you can handle it."
"Of course I can handle it," Jeff said, affronted. "I just don't see why you'd want to move it. I thought you told me last spring you wanted it torn down. Still, if that's what you and your grandmother want, I'll get it on my schedule. I'll stop by and t
ake a look at it this week—maybe talk to you at the same time, Dunn."
Tyler gave a quick nod and took her arm. "We'd better get your grandmother back to the house." He steered her toward Grams, who broke off a conversation with one of the neighbors when she saw them.
Well, she'd gotten Tyler away from Jeff Whitmoyer for the moment, but she didn't know what good that had done. Sooner or later Tyler would settle for whatever truth he found about his grandfather. He'd sell the property and go back to his own life. He probably wouldn't care what use was made of the property after that.
They'd reached the curb when one more interruption intercepted them, in the shape of the police cruiser, pulling to the curb next to them. Chief Burkhalter lowered the window and leaned out.
"Some information for you, Dunn." He shook a keen, assessing glance toward her and Grams. "That lockbox we were talking about—it's turned up. You can stop by my office tomorrow, if you want, and pick it up."
"Thanks. I'll do that."
She caught the suppressed excitement in Tyler's voice, and tension tightened inside her. Box? What box? He hadn't mentioned this to her. She wasn't the only person keeping secrets, it seemed.
* * *
"I hope you don't mind driving over to the Zook farm." Rachel glanced at him as he held the door of his car for her, her soft brown curls tumbling from under the knitted cap she wore. "It's an easy walk from the path beyond the barn, but not in the dark. I'd hate to have you arrive with burrs on your pant legs."
"That wouldn't look too good, would it? Am I appropriately dressed?" He hadn't known what the Amish would consider decent attire for an outsider supper guest, so he'd settled on gray flannels and a sweater over a dress shirt.
"You're fine." She pulled her seat belt across. "One thing about the Amish—they don't judge outsiders by what they wear."
How did they judge, then? He closed Rachel's door, walked around the car and slid in. He wasn't nervous—the fact that his grandfather, even his mother, apparently, had been Amish was curious, that was all.
Rachel glanced at him as he started the car. "Relax. They'll be welcoming, I promise."
He turned out onto Main Street. "It's odd, that's all. If not for my grandfather's break with the church, my life might have turned out differently."
He stopped. Impossible to think of himself being Amish. Tonight's visit was going to be meaningless, but he'd hardly been able to refuse Emma's invitation.
Rachel seemed content with the silence between them as he drove past the decorated houses and shops. Or was content the right word? He'd sensed some reservation in her in the past day, and he wasn't sure what that meant.
"Looks as if your Christmas in Churchville committee is doing a good job. The only thing missing to turn the village into a Christmas card scene is a couple of inches of snow."
"It does look lovely, doesn't it?" The eagerness in her voice dissipated whatever reserve he'd been imagining. "This is exactly how I've pictured it. Like coming home for Christmas. Don't you think?"
It wasn't the home he'd known, but he understood. "That's it. You'll send visitors away feeling they have to come back every year for their Christmas to be complete."
He understood more than that. That her pleasure and satisfaction was more than just the sense of a job well done. It was personal, not professional. Rachel had found her place in the world when she'd come back here.
It wasn't his place, he reminded himself. His partner was already getting antsy, e-mailing him to ask how soon he'd be coming back.
He deserved the time off, he'd pointed out to Gil. And it certainly wasn't a question of Gil needing him in the office. They had a good partnership, with Gil Anders being the outgoing people-person while he preferred to work alone with his computer and his blueprints.
Baltimore is not that far away, a small voice pointed out in the back of his mind. It would be possible to come back. To see Rachel again.
Always assuming Rachel wanted to see him once this whole affair had ended.
Rachel leaned forward, pointing. "There's the lane to the Zook farm."
He turned. "The Christmas lights seem to stop here."
"No electricity." He sensed Rachel's smile, even in the dark. "The Amish don't go in for big displays, in any event. Christmas is a religious celebration. The day after, the twenty-sixth, they call 'second Christmas.' That's the day for visiting and celebrating."
He nodded, concentrating on the narrow farm lane in the headlight beams. "You certainly have a lot of different Christmas traditions going in this small area. I like your grandmother's Moravian customs."
"You'd see even more of that if you went to Lititz or Bethlehem. That reminds me, I want to run over to Bethlehem sometime this week to take more photos and pick up a stack of brochures before the next weekend guests come in."
The farmhouse appeared as they passed a windbreak of evergreens, lights glowing yellow from the windows.
"Just pull up by the porch," Rachel instructed. "The children are already peeking out the windows, watching for us."
While he parked and rounded the car to join Rachel, he went over in his mind what she'd told him about the family. Emma and Eli, her husband, now lived in a kind of grandparent cottage, attached to the main house, while their son Samuel and his wife, Nancy, ran the farm with their children. There was another son, Levi, who was mentally handicapped. Nobody seemed to be considered too young, too old or too disabled to contribute to the family, as far as he could tell from what Rachel had said.
The front door was thrown open as they mounted the porch, and they were greeted by five children—blond stair steps with round blue eyes and huge smiles. The smallest one, a girl, flung herself at Rachel for a hug.
"You're here at last! We've been waiting and waiting. Maam says that you might hear me do my piece for the Christmas program. Will you, Rachel?"
Rachel tugged on a blond braid gently. "I would love to hear you, Elizabeth. Now just let us greet everyone."
The adults were already coming into the room. In rapid succession he was introduced to Eli, their son Samuel, and his wife, Nancy, a brisk, cheerful woman who seemed to run her household with firm command. If he'd imagined that Amish women were meek and subservient, she dispelled that idea.
"This is my mother, Liva Zook." Eli held the arm of an elderly woman, her hair glistening white, her eyes still intensely blue behind her wire-rimmed glasses. "She will be glad to talk with you about your grandfather."
He extended his hand and then hesitated, not sure if that was proper. But she shook hands, hers dry and firm in his.
"You sit here and talk." Nancy ushered him and Eli's mother to a pair of wooden rockers.
He nodded, waiting for the elderly woman to sit down first and then taking his place next to her. The room initially seemed bare to his eyes, but the chair was surprisingly comfortable, the back of it curved to fit his body and the arms worn smooth to the hand.
Eli pulled up a straight chair and sat down next to his mother. "Maam sometimes does not do well in English, so I'll help." He reached out to pat his mother's hand, and Tyler could see the bond between them. Eli's ruddy face above the white beard had the same bone structure, the same round blue eyes.
He'd begun to get used to the Amish custom of beards without mustaches, and the bare faces with the fringe of beard no longer looked odd to him.
"Thanks." Now that he had the opportunity, he wasn't sure how to begin. "If you could just tell me what you remember about my grandfather—"
For a moment he was afraid she didn't understand, but then she nodded. "I remember John. We were children together, ja." She nodded again in what seemed a characteristic gesture.
"What was he like?" Was he ever different from the angry, bitter man who had turned everyone away from him?
She studied his face. "Looked something like you, when he was young. Strong, like you. He knew his mind, did what he wanted."
He glanced from her to Eli. "The Amish church doesn't like tha
t, does it?"
"He was young." Her lips creased in an indulgent smile. "The young, they have to see the other side of the fence sometimes."
"Rumspringa," Eli said. "Our youth have time to see the world before they decide to join the church. So they know what they are doing." His eyes twinkled. "Some have a wilder rumspringa than others."
Sensible, he thought. It surprised him, in a way, that the Amish would allow that. They must have a lot of confidence that their kids wouldn't be lured away by the world.
"Ja, that was John Hostetler. Always questioning. Always wanting to know things not taught in our school. Folk worried about him." She frowned slightly, folding her hands together on the dark apron she wore. "But then he began courting Anna Schmidt. They had eyes for no one else, those two."
It was odd, he supposed, that he hadn't even thought about his grandmother. "I never knew her."
"She died when her daughter was only twelve." Her eyes clouded with sympathy. "Your maam, that was."
"What was she like? My grandmother?"
Pert and lively like young Elizabeth, who was bouncing up and down as she recited something for Rachel on the other side of the room? Nurturing, like Emma, or brisk and take-charge, like Nancy?
"Sweet-natured. Kind." The old woman smiled, reminiscing. "She was very loving, was Anna. Seemed as if that rubbed off on John when they married. But when she died—" She shook her head. "He turned against everyone. Even God."
Something in him rebelled at that. "Maybe if people had tried to help him, it would have been different."
"We tried." Tears filled her eyes. "For Anna, for himself, for the community. Nothing did any good. He would not listen. He turned against everything Anna was." She shook her head. "She would have been so sad. You understand. She was one who couldn't stop loving and caring."
He nodded, touched by the image of the grandmother who'd barely entered his mind before this. Someone sweet. Loving. Dedicated to family.
He glanced across the room at Rachel, her face lit with laughter as she hugged the little girl.
Like Rachel. Loving. Nurturing. Dedicated to family. Emotion flooded him. He had feelings for her. What was he going to do about that?