by Deb Kastner
She and Erik were getting closer, which was something she was infinitely happy about. Yet it also caused her more sorrow than if she’d never met him in the first place.
The closer they became, the more Dixie saw the potential for a romantic relationship between them—and the more worried she became. A serious problem had been haunting her now for weeks.
Erik didn’t know the Lord.
It was a gap that no human could breech. For if he didn’t know her Savior, he could never really know her. Not really.
Not forever.
Chapter Seventeen
A full week later, Dixie still limped on her ankle, though the swelling had gone down considerably. Starting as a glaring purplish-red, it had faded to a dull, dark-lilac color.
Erik had insisted she stay off her feet for the first couple of days, but there was too much left to do before her church friends arrived to keep her down for long.
Less than a week left, and the real test would begin. She didn’t know whether it was a blessing or a curse that the first guests visiting the lodge were people she knew intimately.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she limped to ward the kitchen, wanting to go over the menu with James one last time, just to double-check that they had everything they needed when their guests arrived.
She was more nervous and worried than she cared to admit. What if her church guests were disappointed?
It wasn’t inconceivable that the denomination could pull their support if they received a bad report and had reason to believe the work she’d done thus far wasn’t being carried out to their standards.
But the people from her home church in Denver were her friends, the ones who’d stood behind her when Abel returned to Pakistan, the ones who helped convince the denominational leaders they could trust her to do this job alone.
And she had done it alone.
Well, maybe not alone, she amended mentally. God had sent her Erik, and together they had transformed the ragged land into a peaceful mountain retreat. Surely her guests could grow close to God here, just as she had.
But Erik hadn’t.
Strong, silent Erik, who would no more talk about God than he’d grow antlers and a tail. Erik, the man dearest to her heart of all her staff, the man she’d prayed most earnestly for.
Erik had every reason not to trust God. All the more reason to seek Him.
Yet it hadn’t happened, not so much as a hint that he was more open to a relationship with God. He’d accepted the New Testament she offered with nothing stronger than a noncommittal grunt, which coincided with him slipping it into the breast pocket of his Western shirt and out of sight.
He hadn’t even cracked it open to see the inscription she’d written inside.
Shaking those depressing thoughts away, she entered the dining room, inhaling the sweet aroma of fresh-baked corn bread. Her mouth watered, and she realized once again she hadn’t been eating regular meals.
Dinner wasn’t for an hour yet, and suddenly she was ravenous. She wondered if James would allow her to sample a piece of his prized bread early.
“James?” Her voice echoed through the A-frame dining hall. “That corn bread smells delicious.”
The burly cook blasted backward through the swinging double doors between the dining hall and the kitchen, his arms loaded with dishes. “Give me a minute and I’ll get you some,” he said, his expression tight with concentration as he performed his balancing act.
“I’ll do one better. Let me help,” Dixie offered with a laugh, moving forward to take a stack of freshly washed plates from his arms.
James shifted the remaining plates and bowls as she carefully cradled her own.
“Where do you want them?”
James nodded to the table.
“Fire!”
The male voice came from the back door, followed by a series of frantic thumps that Dixie recognized as pounding fists on wood.
An alarm.
“Fire! The stable is on fire!” the voice screamed again, frantic.
“Erik!” Dixie shrieked as her pile of plates slid from her grasp and went crashing to the floor. “Oh, Lord, help me,” she prayed aloud. “The horses!”
Dixie covered her mouth with her hand, her gaze darting from the door to James, to the pile of now-dirty plastic plates on the floor. She tried to speak, but only gibberish came from her throat.
Her heart pounded frantically in her head as she brought her gaze back up to James, apologizing with a look, and hoping she didn’t look anywhere near as hysterical as she felt.
He gestured with his head, waving her off. “Go see to Erik. And the horses,” he said, as if it were an afterthought. “I’ll clean up here.”
For a moment, she couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Then adrenaline shot through her, thawing her frozen limbs and numb mind, charging her into action.
Erik! The horses!
She limped out the door without looking back. General hysteria reigned in the yard, with various staff members dashing this way and that, running in every direction. Some toted buckets of water, others the handmade quilts from their own beds.
And everyone was yelling.
It was hard to determine what was happening. She couldn’t see Erik anywhere. But he’d be in the stable, with the horses.
Lord, keep him safe.
It looked like smoke was coming from behind the stable, and she couldn’t see any flames from her present position. Nor did she see any horses.
Someone would be rescuing them.
Erik.
Where were the stable hands?
She faltered. Should she go into the stable? Look for the foundation of the fire? Two of James’s kitchen helpers dashed by her and around the backside of the stable, each toting buckets slopping full of water.
Fire.
Her breath coming in shallow gasps, she pinched her fingers over the cramp in her side and followed the kitchen staff with the buckets.
As soon as she rounded the corner, flames filled her view, shooting sky-high, just as smoke filled her nostrils, throat and lungs, making her gag. Her eyes watered until she could barely see.
She blinked once. Twice. And mercifully her gaze found Erik.
Thank You, God.
She stumbled toward him, wondering vaguely why he wasn’t dashing back and forth like everyone else on the planet.
But, of course, Erik wouldn’t panic. That wasn’t his way.
He stood quietly, his booted feet braced, his hands fisted on his hips. An aggressive, angry stance from any distance, though he didn’t move a muscle.
She knew he didn’t see her coming, but she flung her arms around him nonetheless, laying her cheek against the breadth of his back. He was so strong.
Invulnerable, almost. She drew strength from him as a river drew its strength from the ocean.
“The horses?” she croaked through a smoke-dry throat.
Erik turned his gaze to her, his eyes nearly black with rage. He pinched his lips together before answering. “The horses are fine, Dixie.”
“But the fire—”
“Was confined to our summer supply of hay.”
“The stable?” Reassured by Erik’s words, she leaned her palms on her knees, forcing her breath to slow as oxygen stung her lungs every time she inhaled.
“The fire was well planned. There’s no danger to any of the buildings, or to the horses.”
“And no one was injured?”
He shook his head.
“Thank God,” she whispered.
“Thank God?” he echoed, sounding astounded and out-of-his-wits angry. “For what?”
She narrowed her eyes on him.
He clenched his jaw and looked away.
As anger replaced fear, Dixie stomped toward the fire, assessing the damage.
She found it to be just as Erik said. The fire was well controlled. At Erik’s insistence, their hay supply was stacked away from the stable.
If she remembered correctly, she�
�d argued with him over how much more work was involved hauling hay from a distance, but he’d stubbornly insisted. What wouldn’t fit in the extra space inside the stable was stacked on a small hill of dirt and gravel and covered with a tarp.
Now the hay was all gone. But because of Erik’s foresight, no one had been hurt, and the self-contained fire would eventually die out on its own and affect none of the buildings.
Again, she thanked God, knowing His hand was in this, keeping her and all those she was responsible for in safety.
It could have been worse. Much worse.
She felt rather than saw Erik walk up behind her, and tensed as he laid a hand on her shoulder.
“How did it happen?” she asked quietly when he didn’t say a word.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
She whirled on him. “What?”
She didn’t know what she expected—there hadn’t been a thunderstorm for lightning to have struck, nor any children who might be playing with matches.
Teenagers smoking behind the haystack?
Maybe.
She looked up into Erik’s smoldering eyes. Or maybe not.
“This was a warning. Someone set this fire on purpose.”
She shook her head, wanting to deny what her intuition said was true. “How do you know?”
He thumped his stomach with the palm of his hand. “My gut.”
She turned back to the blazing fire and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering against the sudden chill his words brought. Or maybe it was that long drawl she’d learned to trust.
“Look,” he said, pointing to a trench that had been dug around the rim of the haystack.
She frowned, concentrating. Erik hadn’t ordered a trench to be dug around the pile—she would have remembered that. And the dirt looked freshly turned.
Peculiar.
Whoever started the fire had gone to a lot of trouble to leave her with nothing more than an expensive bonfire, not a life-threatening forest fire.
He, or she, was making a statement. So much for the smoking teenager theory.
The bowie knife used to slash her tires flashed into her mind, and she shivered.
No accident.
“Is there any clue who did it?”
Erik grunted and shook his head. “Haven’t had much of a chance to look.”
He began another inspection of the perimeter of the fire, scowling at the ground as he went. Dixie ran a hand through her hair and blew out a breath. Her head ached from smoke and panic.
But she had to think.
If there was a note, as there had been last time, it wouldn’t be in or even near the fire. The nearest building was the stable, so she turned around and started back up the hill the way she’d come, looking for she didn’t know what.
Anything suspicious, she supposed. Some clue as to who might have started the fire.
Whoever slashed her tires wanted her to know how it was done, and why. She suspected this fire was no different.
She gasped as her gaze honed in on the gleam of a bowie knife stuck into a wood post that helped support the farthest corral.
The place Erik taught her to ride Victory. The sight of the knife slashed all her good memories, immediately replacing them with anger and fear.
The knot in her stomach tightened. A single sheet of paper, pinned to the post with the knife, waved in the slight summer breeze.
No accident.
Erik stalked past her and directly to the knife, ripping the paper away from the post. He took one look, muttered something unintelligible under his breath and crumpled the note in his hand. Moments later, he tossed it at his feet.
Dixie scrambled for the paper, but Erik was faster, covering it with the heel of his boot.
“Give it to me,” she demanded, pounding her fists against his booted calf.
He shrugged and held firm.
“Erik.”
His boot moved a fraction of an inch, enough for her to get a good grip on the note, but not enough for her to pull it away without tearing it.
“Erik,” she said again, hating the hint of pleading in her voice.
He stepped back and folded his arms over his chest, looking none too pleased to have complied.
She didn’t care what he thought. She snatched the paper up before he had the opportunity to change his mind, and smoothed the creases out on her knee with her palm.
“Go home. You don’t belong here.”
Her heart tearing in two, she looked up at Erik, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. She swirled on her toes and sat down hard in the dirt. Her head spun with conflicting thoughts. The sharp gravel cut into her thighs, but she welcomed the pain as a means to regain her focus.
Slashed tires were one thing. But a fire?
Someone could have been hurt.
Why was John Needleson singling her out? What purpose could it possibly serve?
Someone could have been injured.
If the fire spread, everyone would have been in serious danger.
Erik. Tally. James. Victory. Not to mention her neighbors, and even the townsfolk of Custer itself.
She was putting them all in danger.
The consequences were clear, even if the truth was yet to be shown.
Erik yanked his hat off and crouched beside her, curling the brim in his hands. “Dixie, I…”
His gaze, loaded with warmth and compassion, locked with hers. He cleared his throat, then reached for her hand.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped, afraid the tears burning in her eyes were going to slip down her face at any moment. Especially if Erik said something kind, and she knew he was going to do that very thing.
She pushed to her knees, then scrambled to her feet and beyond his reach. If there was one thing she couldn’t handle right now, it was compassion.
She’d stomped away about five feet before Erik caught up with her, clamping his hat on his head as he went. “Where are you going?”
She clenched her jaw, refusing to answer as she kept moving.
“Dixie,” he pleaded, trying again.
She yanked on the door to her studio and walked in without a word. She needed to be alone to think.
He was right behind her.
She never expected him to follow her into her own room, but maybe it was just as well. He’d have to learn of her hastily made plans sooner or later.
She reached for her suitcase at the top of her closet and began cramming it full of jeans and sweaters from her dresser.
It was time for this city girl to go back to designer jeans and enamel-based fingernails.
Erik caught her arm and wheeled her about. “What are you doing?” he barked.
“What does it look like?” she spat back, yanking her arm from his grasp. “Doing what you—what everyone—has wanted me to do since the day I got here.”
She pinned him with a glare, anchoring her roiling emotions. A solitary tear escaped down her cheek and she dashed it away.
“I’m leaving.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dixie was serious.
Erik had seen her doubt herself a hundred times, and a hundred times he’d watched her pull herself up by her bootstraps, bolstered by her faith in God.
This time was different. He saw it in her eyes. She was going to leave.
Unless he stopped her.
“It was signed with a Bar N,” he said, his voice low and even as if speaking to a spooked pony.
She swung on him, her aqua blue eyes flashing with hurt and anger. “What?”
“The note was signed,” he repeated patiently.
“Bar N. John Needleson’s brand.”
He narrowed his eyes on her, anticipating her reaction. “Exactly.”
“John Needleson started this fire.” She didn’t sound surprised, only weary and world-worn.
“And slashed your tires.”
She dropped her gaze, then turned slowly back to her suitcase. Her shoulders rose and fell rapidly with her shallo
w breathing. He wanted to reach out to her, comfort her, reassure her.
Instead, he jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. She didn’t want his help.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” she said in a low monotone, her voice hollow.
“It makes every difference,” Erik retorted darkly, glad his hands were in his pockets so he couldn’t slam his fist into a wall in frustration.
“No.”
“I’ll see to Needleson myself,” he vowed. Fury flared, lightning-hot and surging through his chest.
John Needleson put Dixie in danger. John Needleson was running her off her own land.
It wasn’t going to happen.
Dixie stopped her edgy motion of packing and turned on Erik, gently laying her hands on his elbows as she looked up into his face. The scent of peaches emanated from her hair.
It was a dumb thing to notice at a time like this. But he couldn’t help it, with her standing so close to him. What was a man to do?
He took a deep breath, trying to stabilize his suddenly jumpy nerves. He looked down at her tanned, no longer so peaches-and-cream complexion and those big aqua eyes staring back up at him, and knew he couldn’t let her leave.
Dixie slid her hands from his elbows to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles mounting. Anger shot like sparks from his eyes. She was shaking inside from rage, but knew she wouldn’t act on it.
Erik, she wasn’t so sure of.
“Why did He do this to you?” he growled, placing his hands over hers.
“John Needleson?”
“God.”
He moved her arms around his neck and slipped his around her waist, pulling her tight. The smell of soap and leather was a soothing balm to Dixie, who burrowed farther into the softness of his shirt, such a contrast to the rock-hard muscle of the man underneath.
It was soothing, though his words were not. “What have you done to deserve this?”
“God didn’t do this to me.” She laughed shakily. “He’s not some big old guy hanging out in heaven getting His kicks making us tiny little humans squirm.”
He made a sound in his throat that could have been a chuckle. Dixie leaned back to see his face. He looked as broody as ever.