A Christmas to Die For (15 page)

She nodded, throat clogging so that she had to clear it. Unshed tears would do that to a person. "Well. I guess I'm not angry enough to slug you after all."

His smile was tentative, as if he were afraid of setting her off again. "I'm sure there are things for which I deserve it, anyway, so feel free."

Her tension drained away at the offer. "Not today. Grams said I should thank you for bringing it out in the open—about my father leaving, I mean. I'm not quite ready to do that."

"Not necessary," he said quickly. "I know things I have no right to about your family. And you about mine. Neither of us can do anything about it."

He was right about that. She didn't have to like it, but she had to accept it. He probably felt the same way.

"I am grateful for your help last night with the guests." She managed a smile that was a bit more genuine. "You really picked up the slack for me."

He shrugged, seeming to relax, as well. "My pleasure. I have to hand it to you and your grandmother. You certainly have a hit on your hands with the Pennsylvania Dutch Christmas traditions. Those people will tell their friends, and before you know it, every room will be full for the holidays."

"I just hope everything will go more easily once we've had a little practice." Realizing how close they were standing, she took a step back, bumping into the slant-top desk that stood between the doors.

"Easy." He reached out to steady her and then seemed to change his mind about touching her again and put his hand on the satiny old wood instead. "Don't want to harm either you or this beautiful thing."

"I'm not sure which is more valuable." She straightened the small vase of bittersweet that stood on the narrow top.

"You are," he said, and then nodded toward the desk. "But that is a nice piece. I remember something like it in my grandfather's house." He frowned, and she thought memory flickered in those deep-blue eyes.

"What is it?"

He shook his head. "Funny. I guess being here has brought back more memories. It's as if a door popped open in my mind. I can actually picture that desk now. It used to stand in the upstairs hall." He shook his head. "I'm sure it wasn't a beautiful heirloom like this one, though."

The air had been sucked out of the hall, and she was choking. She couldn't say anything—she could only force a meaningless smile.

The slant-top desk wasn't the family heirloom he obviously supposed it to be. She'd found the piece stuffed away in one of the sheds and refinished it herself when she was getting the inn ready to open.

Coincidence, she insisted. It had to be. The desk was a common style, and surely plenty of homes in the area had one like it.

"Rachel?" Tyler stared at her, eyes questioning. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all." She had a feeling her attempt at a smile was ghastly. "Nothing—"

She broke off at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Sturdy footsteps that could only belong to Emma.

Emma rounded the turn at the landing, saw them, and came forward steadily. Rachel glanced at Tyler. He might not have noticed it, but Emma had been doing a good job of avoiding speaking with him. Now, it appeared, she was headed straight for him.

Emma came to a halt a few feet from them, her face square and determined, graying hair drawn back under her white kapp.

"I would like to speak with Tyler Dunn,
ja?
" She made it a question.

"Of course." Rachel took a step back. "Do you want to be private?"

"No, no, you stay, Rachel." She looked steadily at Tyler. "Mrs. Unger tells us that you are John Hostetler's grandson. That you might want to know about him. My Eli's mother, she minds him well. You come to supper Monday night, she will be there, tell you about him,
ja?
"

Tyler sent her a quick glance, as if asking for help. She tried not to respond. She'd already let herself get too involved in Tyler's search for answers, and look where it had gotten her. She'd been leading the trail right where she didn't want it—back to her own family.

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Zook." Tyler had apparently decided she wasn't going to jump in. "I appreciate it."

Emma gave a short, characteristic nod. "Is
gut
. Rachel, you will come, too. That will make it more easy."

Not waiting for an answer, Emma turned and started back down the stairs, the long skirt of her dark-green dress swishing.

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 take 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.