Turkey, ham, Christmas trees, Bing Crosby, too many presents. That’s what Christmas used to mean to me.
CHRISTOPHER HART
As she gazed at her guest, Beth fought to keep her expression calm.
He was glaring at her. Looking fierce and lethal. Scary.
And afraid.
“Chris, it’s still early. What are you doing out of bed?” Beth asked, inwardly wincing as she heard her voice. It sounded shrill and sharp.
Chris didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to stand on the landing of the stairwell, the black gun still held firmly in his hand. His blue eyes were pale and cold. He looked like he was going into battle.
How could she calm him down? Remind him that he wasn’t anywhere near danger? He was at the Yellow Bird Inn in the heart of Amish country.
She climbed the steps slowly, each one making her feel as if she were edging closer to danger. “Chris, did ya hear me?” she asked in a conversational way. Just as if they were about to have a cup of tea. “You’re sick, you know. You should go back to sleep.”
He didn’t move.
As she got closer, she noticed that his skin was flushed, his eyes glassy. Sweat beaded his brow. It was obvious that he was burning up with fever.
And still that gun hovered in his hand.
As she stared at the gun, old doubts began to fester. Why hadn’t she ignored his wishes and called for an ambulance when he’d first arrived?
She was a capable woman. She knew better than to leave so much up to chance.
She cleared her throat and attempted to sound like one very put-upon babysitter. “Christopher Randall Hart, you need to stop pointing that gun at me. Someone could get hurt.”
He blinked in surprise. Immediately, his hand lowered. Once the pistol was no longer staring at her she breathed a hearty sigh of relief.
“That is much better,” she said briskly as she took another step closer to him. “Now it is time to get you back into bed.”
“Not yet. I want to know who was here.” His voice was hoarse and scratchy sounding. Rough.
“It was Lydia Plank. She’s just a friend. Do you remember me speaking of her?” Because he looked so on edge, she added, “Or, perhaps you heard her name from Frannie? We have been friends for a long time, you see.”
He shook his head.
She stepped closer, praying for him to keep that terrible-looking weapon pointed toward the floor. “There’s a story about Lydia, you know. See, she’s Amish but she fell in love with Walker Anderson, who is English. We were all friends growing up, but it wasn’t until Perry’s murder investigation that they fell in love,” she said easily.
Pure confusion entered his eyes. “She came over to see you.”
“Jah. She brought me muffins. It’s like I told ya, Chris. She is no one for you to worry about. And she’s gone now, so it’s just us. So, perhaps you wouldn’t mind putting that gun away?”
Finally, he seemed to break out of his trance. Looking shamefaced, he fussed with his gun, then spoke. “Beth, I’m sorry. I’m on edge. And I’m so, so afraid that I’ve brought you trouble. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
She walked to his side but hesitated before touching him. She told herself it was because she was worried about his gun, not about the fact that he was standing right in front of her, without a shirt on. “Is your gun safe now?”
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 hear 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.