Peace (6 page)

But instead of taking his not-so-subtle hint, Mose looked pained. “Son, I've known you a long time.” He rested his hands on the other side of the counter. “Maybe we should sit down and chat for a bit. We could talk about how you are doing.”

“I'm fine.”

“Married life agreeing with you?”

“Of course. Deborah is great.”

“That she is. And how is your
mamm
?”

“I haven't seen her in a few weeks,” he replied, keeping his face carefully blank. “She's staying for a time with my aunt in Berlin.”

“Ah. Yes, I remember hearing about that now. Berlin is far away.”

“It is.”

“Is she coming back for Christmas?”

“
Nee
. She's going to come back after the New Year. But on the way back, I'm sure she'll stay in a motel near the prison and visit my father for a few days. She's done that before.” He bit his lip. Would it ever get easier to admit that his father was in prison?

Would it ever get easier to admit that now he and his mother didn't have much of a relationship? She couldn't quit being her husband's greatest advocate.

And he? Well, he couldn't stop blaming his father for everything.

Mose's eyes narrowed as he nodded slowly. “Sorry, I know it's a sore subject. Have you, by any chance, gone to visit your father yet?”

“I have not.”

“You might think on it. I'd even be happy to drive you out there, if you'd like. Dreams arise and problems occur, but family is always family.”

But that was what he was struggling with. He didn't want to think about his father in prison, and it hurt to think about how close they used to be.

But how did a son admit that? So instead of confiding his troubles to the sheriff, he lashed out instead. “Sheriff, I don't owe you any more explanations, do I? I thought I was done being questioned.”

Mose stilled, then carefully cleared his expression of all traces of hurt. “Of course you don't owe me a thing. But I'm more than just the sheriff, Jacob. I'm a friend—at least I thought I was.”

Jacob felt terrible. This wasn't how he wanted to be. A sense of foreboding filled him as he realized he was slowly losing the slight, tenuous hold he had on himself.

One step at a time,
a small but sure voice inside him whispered.

“I'm sorry, Mose. I don't seem to be myself lately.”

Mose's gaze softened. He looked like he had a lot to say, but instead he merely put the two dollars that had been lying on the counter back in his wallet.

Just as Mose was reaching for his canvas tote, his cell phone rang. After looking at the screen, he took the call, his expression concerned.

Jacob watched Mose's face as he spoke to whoever was on the line in a series of short, one-word answers. He looked worried when he clicked off and stuffed the phone back in his jacket.

“Everything okay, Mose?”

“You know, I'm not sure. That was a buddy of mine from Paducah. He heard word that our town might have an unexpected visitor here.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing good, I reckon.”

Unexpected? Again? Foreboding filled Jacob as he thought about once again living in uncertainty. “Is it someone dangerous?”

Most stilled. “I don't think so. But to be honest, I'm going to have to stew on this one for a bit.” He paused. “Sorry, don't know why I even said a word about that call. But, Jacob, if you do hear of something unusual going on . . . or if you see someone in the store who seems like he shouldn't be here . . . let me know, wouldja?”

“Sure. I'll for sure let you know if I see something.”

After picking up the sheriff's bags, Jacob walked around to the front of the counter. “Here you go, Mose. And, thanks for asking about my family. It means a lot to me, and I know both of my parents will be glad you were thinking of them.”

“I care about you, Jacob. And believe it or not, I still care about Aaron. Your
daed
was my friend for many years.”

“I still can't believe he caused so much pain. I would have never guessed it.”

“I'm not defending him, but I should warn ya that I've talked to many people who broke the law. It ain't always a person's intention to do something illegal. Sometimes people do things without thinking about the consequences.”

Lowering his voice, he added, “I've seen the nicest men and women do some terrible things for the best reasons. You just never know what you are capable of until push comes to shove.”

Jacob swallowed as his mouth turned dry. Before he learned to keep his temper under control, he'd said things he wished he could take back. But that was different from what his father had done.

He needed to continue to remind himself of that.

The sheriff's expression turned sympathetic. “Chin up now, Jacob. You have a new marriage to celebrate, and your first Christmas together, to boot. That's something not to take for granted.”

“I don't. Deborah means to the world to me.”

Mose rapped his knuckles on the counter. “That's good to hear. Well, in case we don't see each other, Merry Christmas!”

“And Merry Christmas to you,” Jacob murmured as the man left and the store fell empty again.

As he gazed at the neat shelves, the clean counters, and the carefully swept floors, Jacob suddenly realized that it did feel different from the way it had when his father was there.

He'd assumed the quiet was from the lack of customers. But maybe Mose had a point. Maybe the store was missing a bit of chaos that only a container of animals could bring.

As he imagined the mess and the noise and the pandemonium even a hamster could bring to the store, he winced.

He'd suddenly realized that the animals had been nothing compared to his father's presence in both the store and his life.

His father had been both a source of amusement and support. Folks in the area genuinely liked him, and his laughter could fill the emptiest room with happiness.

Yes, the store did seem quieter without those animals.

But it seemed completely empty without his father.

And, to some extent, so did his life.

Chapter 6

Turkey, ham, Christmas trees, Bing Crosby, too many presents. That's what Christmas used to mean to me.

C
HRISTOPHER
H
ART

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.