Bookends (21 page)

“In the snow?” He straightened, clearly startled. “No way. This was
after
the accident.”

“Exactly.” She nodded. “Right after you slid down the hill—” “No,
you
slid down the hill.” He rolled his eyes. “Guess you hit your head harder than we thought.”

“No,
you
hit your head.”
Was the man daft?
“After spinning in circles across the ice and snow—”

“You’re right about that part.” He nodded. “Round and round, down the hill, crashing at the bottom—”

“Exactly. No broken bones, thank goodness.”

“Wait.” His eyebrows knotted. “I thought you broke your collarbone.”

She stared at him. “I did, on Friday afternoon. But we’re talking about—”

“What came afterward,” he finished for her. “So then at the hospital—”

“No, it happened before that.” The man clearly had lost all sense of time. Then again, it
was
ten days ago.

“While we were waiting for the doc to come back,” he clarified. “That’s when it happened. Right before the X rays.”

“The
X rays?
” Emilie groaned. “You’ve got me so confused. I’m talking about when, in a delirious state of mind—”

“Right! Without really thinking we—”

“K-kissed.”

“Kissed.” He sat back on his haunches. “Bingo.”

“On Friday.”

“Yes, it was a Friday.”

“On the hill.”

“No, at the hospital. Emilie, are you
sure
you remember this?”

Her headache was back in spades. “I remember everything about the accident—”

“Never mind that. I’m talking about when you asked me to kiss you.”

“What?”
She jumped to her feet, nearly losing her balance. “I did no such thing!”

“You most certainly did.” He was standing now, too, no doubt enjoying the height advantage it gave him. His eyes bore down on her. “
Kiss me.
That’s what you said. I was there.”

“I was there, too, leaning over you when
you
said, Kiss me.”

“
I
didn’t say it,
you
said it.”

“Listen, you … you!” She was fuming now. Emilie never fumed. “I have a dozen witnesses!”

“Emilie, there wasn’t a soul in that hallway.”

Would the man stop harping about that hallway?
“Honestly, where it occurred isn’t the point. The point is, we—”

“Kissed,” he stated emphatically.

“On the mouth,” she agreed.

“On purpose.”

“Just so.”

“So?” His dark eyes took on a subtle gleam as he closed the gap between them again. “If we could manage it once—”

“When one of us was unconscious,” she reminded him, realizing that with the chair directly behind her there was no avenue of escape.

“Well, we’re both quite lucid now.” He slid one finger under her chin and gently but firmly tipped it up. “Say it again, Emilie.”

Her jaw felt immobilized, though his touch was exceedingly light. “But
you
said it in the first place.”

“Whatever makes you happy, woman.” He slowly lowered his head. Then his eyes. Then his voice. “Kiss me.”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer. Or protest. Or think. In the time it took to close her eyes, their lips met.

Now
this
.… this she remembered.

It was nothing like he remembered.

That other Emilie was groggy, barely able to put two intelligent words together.
This
Emilie was warm, vibrant, responsive, and tasted like Moravian sugar cake.

Ooh baby.

She leaned forward, yielding herself to him, resting her left hand lightly on his arm for balance.

Feeling less than stable himself, he slipped an arm around her waist, tugging her gently toward him, grateful when she didn’t resist his embrace.

Too soon—much too soon—it was over. She pulled back, looking more shy than ever. A telling silence hovered around them which her voice barely dinted. “Now what, Jonas?”

He tried not to appear hopeful. “Maybe
you
say it this time?”

Her back-to-berry blush and downcast eyes squelched that idea in a hurry.

“Okay, then … how about lunch?”

“I’ve already eaten.”

“Come to think of it, me too.” He laughed, relieved when she looked up and smiled, evaporating the awkwardness between them. “It’s a soggy mess out there. Construction’s at a standstill at the work site. Anything useful I could do for you, my wheelless wonder?”

“Humph. You
would
remind me.”

“How can I forget?” He gently ran his finger along her sling. “Every time I look at this, I feel responsible all over again.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” She shook her head vehemently and swatted his
hand. Strong-willed Emilie was making a comeback. “We’ve wasted enough time on that subject. With my collarbone out of commission, I can’t drive until March anyway, car or no car. Walking around town will do me good. Besides, think of all the money I’ll save on gas.”

“The ever-practical Dr. Getz.”
And ever feisty.
But then, he liked feisty. “Sure there isn’t somewhere I could drive you this afternoon?” He’d almost said “kiss you this afternoon,” and felt his skin warm at the thought.

Emilie glanced down at her history books, then up at him, a look of expectancy dancing across her features. “Well … if it wouldn’t be
too
much trouble, I’d like a ride down to Elm and East Main.”

“In this weather?” He made a face. “What’s there?”

“Once upon a time, a Gemeinhaus.”

“A
what
house?”

“Common house. The cellar was dug in November 1746, but the building wasn’t ready for occupancy until May 1748.”

“Been there,” he muttered. “Those subcontractors will kill ya, every time.”

“So, Jonas … might you be willing to take me?” She smiled so sweetly he thought for a second she might be flirting.
Not my Emilie, no way.

“Yeah.” He zipped his coat back on. “I’d like to see the old place.” He watched her try to pull on her coat herself, one-handed, before casually offering his assistance. No point making the woman feel less than capable.

“Actually, the log structure is long gone.” Her schoolmarm side appeared—minus the wooden ruler—as she warmed up to her topic. “When enrollment dwindled—in part because of bear sightings in the nearby woods—they dismantled the school in August 1765 and reassembled it across from Church Square.”

He followed her through the small house and out the back door, holding back a chuckle. “You’re like one of those museum displays—push the speaker button and out comes a slew of information.”

She did an about-face, nearly smacking his chin with her forehead. “That’s what I get paid for, Jonas.”

He threw up both hands in surrender. “And you do it well. I’m impressed, okay?”
More than you know, woman. More than you know.
“Lead the way, Doc.
Go-mine-house,
here we come.”

Emilie squinted up at the lofty sign, wishing she’d brought her glasses. “Can you make it out?”

Though drenched with rain and surrounded by barren maple branches, the gray-and-gold historical marker staked its claim on the corner of Elm and Main, proudly proclaiming the exact location of the original Moravian Gemeinhaus.

Or so the history books say.
She knew better, knew this wasn’t the very first spot. That elusive bit of property wasn’t much farther east than this one. Tucked in a dusty drawer somewhere in Lititz was a survey map, diary, or letter with the critical bit of information on it, and she intended to find it.

Jonas shot her a sideways glance, then slipped on his own reading specs for all of five seconds. “ ‘It stood 125 yards to the north on the elevation on this side of Carter’s Run.’ ” The glasses disappeared. “That’s where we got the name for our golf course—Carter’s Run.”

“On some maps it’s called Lititz Run, but yes, that’s the same creek.” She peered out from under her tiny folding umbrella. “You’re the professional at this sort of thing. Walk us north 125 yards.”

As they negotiated the slippery combination of snow, slush, mud, and rain, Emilie took in the surrounding scenery with a sigh of discouragement. The basketball goal on the right, though serviceable, hardly shouted out, Historic Site Ahead. Same with the official auto inspection station on the left, where she might have taken her car twice a year.

If she owned a car. Which she didn’t.

When Jonas halted at the intersection of Elm and North Lane, Emilie discovered to her horror that the much-touted grassy knoll of her resource books—the hallowed ground of the original log common house of 1748—was now a humble rest home for deceased and dying vehicles.

“What are those?” Emilie stared, mouth agape.

“A Camaro Z-28—color, black—and an International Harvester Scout—color, rust—with the remains of a snowblade on the front.” Jonas looked around. “The pine trees are nice, though. So’s the new stone parking lot. And look, a place that sharpens tools. Handy, huh?”

Emilie groaned and her chin sank to her chest. “I’ll be certain to drop off every tool I own.”

He inclined his head. “Not what you expected to find here?”

She shrugged. “One never knows what surprises might turn up.”

Like you, Jonas.

Side by side, they started down a gravel incline, going nowhere in particular, while the rain continued to pound the frozen ground, even as Emilie’s heart pounded with strange and unfamiliar emotions.

Dare she tell him what she was really hoping to find—evidence of the very first Gemeinhaus? Could she trust him? She knew the answer to that. Despite his casual approach to life, his integrity was unmistakable.

Would he share her enthusiasm? To find the actual spot—to prove herself right this time—was her all-consuming passion. Would Jonas salute her efforts or find them foolish?

Telling him was risky.

Not telling him was cowardly.

Her decision made, she took a deep breath. “Jonas, what do you know about archaeology?”

He chuckled, kicking at a loose chunk of sod. “I know it involves playing with dirt. Why? Wanna go digging?”

“I might. Look, I’m not only here to write a book for the church.” She stopped, locking gazes with him, wanting him to see how serious she was. “I’m here to change Moravian history.”

His expression mirrored more than a little curiosity. “This I gotta hear.”

Ambling along, oblivious to the inhospitable weather, she told him everything. About Bethabara, about her meticulous research, about her wild theories and conjectures. He listened—really listened—then nodded in all the right places and asked a few hard-hitting questions.

His final request took her aback: “Do I get to help you with this?”

“I’ll … let you know.” She sighed and offered the most honest answer she could give him. “I’m pleased to know you’re interested.”

“ ’Course I’m interested, Emilie. A single-minded woman like you, you’re bound to track down the thing and make a name for yourself doing it. I wanna be there to cheer you on.”

She stared at the ground, overwhelmed by his support. Even a bit uneasy with it. Had any man—other than her father—ever rooted for her to succeed? As they walked along, she gazed at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to figure out how a man like Jonas Fielding could possibly care about her career.

Let alone care about her happiness.

Without hat or umbrella, he had rain dripping off his stubbly chin. He slicked back his short bangs, revealing a widow’s peak—could a man have such a thing?—and a broad forehead, virtually the only part of his face without a constant five o’clock shadow.

“What is it?” He watched her, watching him, and smiled again. “You hate my short hair, don’t you?”

“Not at all. You must have a constant battle on your hands, though, holding your hairy nature at bay.”

“Yup. One of the hazards of being a Fielding man.” His bushy brows wiggled playfully. “Most women like it.”

“So I’ve heard.” She feigned interest in an overflowing trash can, lest he catch her smiling. “Is your youngest brother—”

“Nathan.”

She looked up in time to watch his animated face grow still. “Yes, Nathan. Is he hirsute as well?”

“Hirsute?” Jonas winked, clearly recovering his form. “Nah, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a suit. Strictly golf shirts.”

“Don’t be clever,” she scolded. “I’m talking about—”

“Nate. Yeah, he’s hairy. A good-looking son of a gun. The real ladies’ man of the four of us.”

“That so?”
As if you’re not, you dark-eyed charmer!
She still couldn’t believe she’d kissed him—intentionally this time—standing there in her rented living room on a rainy Monday afternoon with her arm in a sling
and
without brushing her teeth.
Heavens!

The whole thing left her torn in two—hoping it wouldn’t happen again, wondering how many hours she’d have to endure before it did.

If
it did.

Men!
A conundrum if there ever was one. In the past, she hadn’t found the male of the species particularly … necessary. Not in the emotional sense. Helpful, useful, knowledgeable, even enjoyable in small doses, but
necessary?
Not for her. She had her books, her research, her students, her garden—