A Christmas to Die For

Marta Perry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This story is dedicated to my supportive

and patient husband, Brian, with much love.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

Copyright

ONE

Rachel Hampton stood on the dark country road where, seven months ago, she’d nearly died. The dog pressed against her leg, shivering a little, either from the cold of the December evening or because he sensed her fear.

No, not fear. That would be ridiculous. It had been an accident, at least partially her fault for jogging along remote Crossings Road in the dark. She’d thought herself safe enough on the berm of the little-used gravel road, wearing a pale jacket with reflective stripes that should have been apparent to any driver.

Obviously it hadn’t been. He’d come around the bend too fast, his lights blinding her when she’d glanced over her shoulder. But now she was over it, she—

Her heart pumped into overdrive. The roar of a motor, lights reflected from the trees. A car was coming. He wouldn’t see her. She’d be hit again, thrown into the air, helpless—

She grabbed Barney’s collar and stumbled back into the pines, pulse pounding, a sob catching in her throat as she fought to control the panic.

But the car was slowing, stopping. The driver’s-side window slid smoothly down.

“Excuse me.” A male voice, deep and assured. “Can you tell me how to get to Three Sisters Inn?”

How nice of him to ignore the fact that she’d leaped into the bushes when she heard him coming. She disentangled her hair from the long needles of a white pine and moved toward him.

“You’ve missed the driveway,” she said. “This is a back road that just leads to a few isolated farms.” She approached the car with Barney, Grams’s sheltie, close by her side. “If you back up a bit, you can turn into a farm lane that will take you to the inn parking lot.”

He switched on the dome light, probably to reassure her. Black hair and frowning brows over eyes that were a deep, deep blue, a pale-gray sweater over a dress shirt and dark tie, a glint of gold from the watch on his wrist, just visible where his hand rested on the steering wheel. He didn’t look like a tourist, come to gawk at the Amish farmers or buy a handmade quilt. The briefcase and laptop that rested on the passenger seat indicated that.

“You’re sure the proprietor won’t mind my coming in that way?”

She smiled. “The proprietor would be me, and I don’t mind at all. I’m Rachel Hampton. You must be Mr. Dunn.” Since she and Grams expected only one visitor, that wasn’t hard to figure out.

“Tyler Dunn. Do you want a lift?”

“Thanks, but it’s not far. Besides, I have the dog.” And I don’t get into a car with a stranger, even if he does have a reservation at the inn.

Maybe it was her having come so close to death that had blunted her carefree ways. Either that or the responsibility of starting the bed-and-breakfast on a shoestring had forced her to grow up. No more drifting from job to job, taking on a new restaurant each time she became bored. She was settled now, and it was up to her to make a success of this.

She stepped back, still holding Barney’s collar despite his wiggling, and waited until the car pulled into the lane before following it to the shortcut. She’d walked down the main road, the way the car had come, but this was faster. She gestured Dunn to a parking space in the gravel pull-off near the side door to the inn.

He stepped out, shrugging into a leather jacket, and stood looking up at the inn. It was well worth looking at, even on a cold December night. Yellow light gleamed from the candles they’d placed in every one of the many nine-paned windows. Security lights posted on the outbuildings cast a pale-golden glow over the historic Federal-style sandstone mansion. It had been home to generations of the Unger family before necessity had turned it into the Three Sisters Inn.

Rachel glanced at the man, expecting him to say something. Guests usually sounded awed or at least admiring, at first sight. Dunn just turned to haul his briefcase and computer from the front seat.

Definitely not the typical tourist. What had brought him to the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country at this time of year? Visiting businessmen, especially those who traveled alone, were more likely to seek out a hotel with wireless connection and fax machines rather than a bed-and-breakfast, no matter how charming.

“May I carry something for you?”

He handed her the computer case. “If you’ll take this, I can manage the rest.”

The case was heavier than she’d expected, and she straightened, determined not to give in to the limp that sometimes plagued her when she was tired—the only remaining souvenir of the accident.

Or at least she’d thought that was the only aftereffect, until she’d felt that surge of terror when she’d seen the car. She’d have to work on that.

“This way. We’ll go in the side door instead of around to the front, if you don’t mind.”

“Fine.”

A man of few words, apparently. Dog at her heels, she headed for the door, hearing his footsteps behind her. She glanced back. He was taller than she’d realized when he sat in the car—he probably had a good foot on her measly five two, and he moved with a long stride that had him practically on her heels.

She went into the hallway, welcoming the flow of warm air, and on into the library. She didn’t usually bring guests in through the family quarters, but it seemed silly to walk around the building just to give him the effect of the imposing front entrance into the high-ceiled center hall. The usual visitor ohhed and ahhed over that. She had a feeling Tyler Dunn wouldn’t.

“My grandmother has already gone up to bed.” She led the way to the desk. “You’ll meet her in the morning at breakfast. We serve from seven-thirty to nine-thirty, but you can make arrangements to have it earlier, if you wish.”

He shook his head, glancing toward the glowing embers of the fire she’d started earlier. Grams’s favorite chair was drawn up next to the fireplace, and her knitting lay on its arm.

“That’s fine. If I can just get signed in now and see my room—”

“Of course.” Smile, she reminded herself. The customer is always right. She handed him a registration card and a pen, stepping back so that he had room to fill it out.

He bent over, printing the information in quick, black strokes, frowning a little. He looked tired and drawn, she realized, her quick sympathy stirring.

“That’s great, thanks.” She imprinted the credit card and handed it back to him. “You indicated in your reservation that you weren’t sure how long you’d want the room?”

She made it a question, hoping for something a little more definite. With all the work she’d been doing to lure guests for the holiday season, the inn still wasn’t booked fully. January and February were bound to be quiet. In order to come out ahead financially, they needed a good holiday season. Her money worries seemed to pop up automatically several times a day.

“I don’t know.” He almost snapped the words. She must have shown a reaction, because almost immediately he gave her a slightly rueful smile. “Sorry. I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you, but I have business in the area, and I don’t know how long it will take.”

“Not at all.” The longer she could rent him the room, the better. “Perhaps while you’re here, you’ll have time to enjoy some of the Christmas festivities. The village is planning a number of events, and of course we’re not far from Bethlehem—”

“I’m not here for sightseeing.” His gaze was on the dying fire, not her, but she seemed to sense him weighing a decision to say more. “That business I spoke of—there’s no reason you’d recognize my name, but I own the property that adjoins yours on one side. The old Hostetler farm.”

She blinked. “I didn’t realize—” She stopped, not sure how to phrase the question. “I thought the property belonged to John Hostetler’s daughter.”

Who had annoyed the neighbors by refusing to sell the property and neglecting to take proper care of it. The farmhouse and barn had been invaded by vandals more than once, and the thrifty Amish farmers who owned the adjoining land been offended at the sight of a good farm going to ruin.

“My mother,” he said shortly. His face drew a bit tighter. “She died recently.”

That went a long way toward explaining the tension she felt from him. It didn’t excuse his curtness, but made it more understandable. He was still grieving his mother’s death and was now forced to deal with the unfinished business she’d left behind.

“I’m so sorry.” She reached out impulsively to touch his arm. “You have my sympathy.”

He jerked a nod. “I’m here to do something about my grandfather’s property. My mother let that slide for too long.”

It would be impolite to agree. “I’m sure the neighbors will be glad to help in any way they can. Are you planning to stay?”

“Live there, you mean?” His eyes narrowed. “Certainly not. I expect to sell as soon as possible.”

Something new to worry about, as if she didn’t have enough already. The best offer for the Hostetler farm might easily come from someone who wanted to put up some obnoxious faux Amish atrocity within sight of the inn.

“That’s too bad. It would have been nice to hear that family would be living there again.”

She’d made the comment almost at random, but Tyler Dunn’s expression suggested that she’d lost her mind.

“I don’t know why you’d think that.” He bit off the words. “I’m hardly likely to want to live in the house where my grandfather was murdered.”

Tyler closed his laptop and glanced at his watch. A little after eight—time for breakfast and another encounter with the Unger family.

He stood, pushing the ladder-back chair away from the small table, which was the only spot in the bedroom where one could possibly use a computer. He must be the first person who’d checked into the Three Sisters Inn for business purposes. Most of the guests would be here to enjoy staying in the elegant mansion, maybe pretending they were living a century ago.

The place looked as if it belonged in a magazine devoted to historic homes. The bedroom, with its canopy bed covered by what was probably an Amish quilt, its antique furniture and deep casement windows, would look right on the cover.

From the window in his room, he had a good view of Churchville’s Main Street, which was actually a country route along which the village had been built. The inn anchored the eastern edge of the community, along with the stone church which stood enclosed in its walled churchyard across the street. Beyond, there was nothing but hedgerows and the patchwork pattern of plowed fields and pasture, with barns and silos in the distance.

Looking to the left, he could see the shops and restaurants along Main Street, more than he’d expect given the few blocks of residential properties, but probably the flood of tourism going through town accounted for that. The inn had a desirable position, almost in the country but within easy walking distance of Main Street attractions. It was surprising they weren’t busier.

He opened the door. The upstairs landing was quiet, the doors to the other rooms standing open. Obviously, he was the only guest at the moment. Maybe that would make things easier.

Had it been a mistake to come out so bluntly with the fact of his grandfather’s murder last night? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t like not being sure. He was used to dealing with facts, figures, formulas—not something as amorphous as this.

At least he’d had an opportunity to see Rachel Hampton’s reaction. He frowned. Her name might be Hampton, but she was one of the Unger family.

If his mother had been right—but he couldn’t count on that. In any event, he’d understood what she’d wanted of him. The impossible.

He started down the staircase, running his hand along the delicately carved railing. The downstairs hall stretched from front to back of the house. To his right, the door into the library where he’d registered last night was now closed. On his left, a handsome front parlor opened into another parlor, slightly smaller, behind it, both decorated with period furniture.

He headed toward the rear of the building, where Rachel had indicated he’d find the breakfast room. He’d cleared his calendar until the first of the year. If he couldn’t accomplish what he planned by then, he’d put his grandfather’s farm on the market, go back to his own life and try to forget.

The hallway opened out into a large, rectangular sunroom, obviously an addition to the original house. A wall of windows looked onto a patio and garden, bare of flowers now, but still worth looking at in the shapes of the trees and the bright berries of the shrubs. The long table was set for one.

Voices came from the doorway to the left, obviously the kitchen. He moved quietly toward them.

“…if I’d known, maybe I wouldn’t have opened my mouth and put my foot in it.” Rachel, obviously talking to someone about his arrival.

“There was no reason for you to know. You were just a child.” An older voice, cultured, restrained. If this woman was hiding something, he couldn’t tell.

A pan clattered. “You’d best see if he’s coming down, before these sticky buns are cold.”

That was his cue, obviously. He moved to the doorway before someone could come out and find him. “I’m here. I wouldn’t want to cause a crisis in the kitchen.”

“Good morning.” The woman who rose from the kitchen table, extending her hand to him, must be Rachel’s grandmother. Every bit the grande dame, she didn’t look in the least bothered by what he might or might not have overheard. “Welcome to the inn, Mr. Dunn. I’m Katherine Unger.”

“Thank you.” He shook her hand gently, aware of bones as fine as delicate crystal. The high cheekbones, brilliant blue eyes, and assured carriage might have belonged to a duchess.

Rachel, holding a casserole dish between two oversize oven mitts, had more color in her cheeks than he’d seen the night before, but maybe that was from the heat of the stove.

The third person in the kitchen wore the full-skirted dark dress and apron and white cap of the Amish. She turned away, evading his gaze, perhaps shy of a stranger.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Unger. I suppose your granddaughter told you who I am.”

“Yes. I was very sorry to hear of your mother’s death. I knew her when she was a girl, although I don’t suppose she remembered me. I don’t remember seeing her again after she graduated from high school.”

“Actually, she spoke of you when she talked about her childhood.” Which hadn’t been often, for the most part, until her final days. He’d always thought she’d been eager to forget.

“I’m sure you’d like to have your breakfast. Rachel has fixed her wild-mushroom and sausage quiche for you.”

“You can have something else, if you prefer,” Rachel said quickly. “I didn’t have a chance to ask—”

“It sounds great,” he said. “And I’m looking forward to the sticky buns, too.” He smiled in the direction of the Amish woman, but she stared down at the stovetop as if it might speak to her.

Rachel, carrying the steaming casserole dish, led the way to the table in the breakfast room. He sat down, but before he had a chance to say anything, she’d whisked off to the kitchen, to reappear in a moment with a basket of rolls.

He helped himself to a fresh fruit cup and smiled at her as she poured coffee. “Any chance you’d pour a cup and join me? It’s a little strange sitting here by myself.”

This time there was no mistaking the flush that colored her cheeks. That fair skin must make it hard to camouflage her feelings. “I’m sorry there aren’t any other guests at the moment, but—”

“Please. I need to apologize, and it would be easier over coffee.”

She gave him a startled look, then turned without a word and took a mug from a mammoth china cupboard that bore faded stenciling—apples, tulips, stars. It stood against the stone wall that must once have been the exterior of the house.

Her mug filled, she sat down opposite him. “There’s really no reason for you to apologize to me.”

Green eyes serious in a heart-shaped face, brown hair curling to the shoulders of the white shirt she wore with jeans, her hands clasped around the mug—she looked about sixteen instead of the twenty-nine he knew her to be. He’d done his homework on the residents of Three Sisters Inn before he’d come.

“I think I do. You were being friendly, and I shouldn’t have thrown the fact of my grandfather’s death at you.”

“I didn’t know.” Her eyes were troubled, he’d guess because she was someone who hated hurting another’s feelings. “We left here when I was about eight, and I didn’t come back until less than a year ago, so I’m not up on local history.”

“I guess that’s what it seems like.” He tried to pull up his own images of his grandfather, but it was too long ago. “Ancient history. I remember coming for the funeral and having the odd sense that conversations broke off when I came in the room. It must have been years before I knew my grandfather had been killed in the course of a robbery.”

She leaned toward him, sympathy in every line of her body. “I’m sure it’s hard to deal with things so soon after your mother’s death. Is there any other family to help you?”

“I’m afraid not.” He found himself responding to her warmth even while the analytical part of his mind registered that the way to gain her cooperation was to need her help. “I hate the thought of seeing the farm again after all this time. It’s down that road I was on last night, isn’t it?”

He paused, waiting for the offer he was sure she’d feel compelled to make.

Rachel’s fingers clenched around the mug, and he could sense the reluctance in her. And see her overcome it.

“Would you like me to go over there with you?”

“You’d do that?”

She smiled, seeming to overcome whatever reservation she had. “Of course. We’re neighbors, after all.”

It took a second to adjust to the warmth of that smile. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

Careful. He took a mental step back. Rachel Hampton was a very attractive woman, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted from the task that had brought him here. And if she knew, there might very well be no more offers of help.

The dog danced at Rachel’s heels as she walked down Crossings Road beside Tyler that afternoon. At least Barney was excited about this outing. She was beginning to regret that impulsive offer to accompany Tyler. And as for him—well, he looked as if every step brought him closer to something he didn’t want to face.

Fanciful, she scolded herself, shoving her hands into the pockets of her corduroy jacket. The sun was bright enough to make her wish she’d brought sunglasses, but the air was crisp and cold.

“There’s the lane to the farmhouse.” She pointed ahead to the wooden gate that sagged between two posts. If there’d ever been a fence along the neglected pasture, it was long gone. “Is it coming back to you at all?”

Tyler shook his head. “I only visited my grandfather once before the time I came for the funeral. Apparently, he and my mother didn’t get along well.”

From what Grams had told her this morning, John Hostetler hadn’t been on friendly terms with anybody, but it would hardly be polite to tell Tyler that. “That’s a shame. This was a great place to be a kid.”

Her gesture took in the gently rolling farmland that stretched in every direction, marked into neat fields, some sere and brown after the harvest, others showing the green haze of winter wheat.

He followed her movement, narrowing his eyes against the sun. “Are those farms Amish?”

“All the ones you see from here are. The Zook farm is the closest—we share a boundary with them, and you must, as well.” She pointed. “Over there are the Stolz-fuses, then the Bredbenners, and that farthest one belongs to Jacob Stoker. Amish farms may be different in other places, but around here you’ll usually see a white bank barn and two silos. You won’t see electric lines.”

He gave her an amused look. “You sound like the local tour guide.”

“Sorry. I guess it comes with running a B&B.”

He looked down the lane at the farmhouse, just coming into view. “There it is. I can’t say it brings any nostalgic feeling. My grandfather didn’t seem welcoming when we came here. If my mother ever wanted to change things with him—well, I guess she left it too late.”

Was he thinking again about his grandfather’s funeral? Or maybe regretting the relationship they’d never had? She knew a bit about that feeling. Her father had never spent enough time in her life to do anything but leave a hole.

“You said something this morning about conversations breaking off when you came in the room—people wanting to protect you, I suppose, from knowing how your grandfather died.”

He nodded, a question in his eyes.

“I know how that feels. When my father walked out, no one would tell us anything.” She shook her head, almost wishing she hadn’t spoken. After all these years, she still didn’t like thinking about it. But that was what made her understand how Tyler felt. “Maybe they figured because he’d never been around much anyway, we wouldn’t realize that this time was for good, but the truth would have been better than what we imagined.”

His deep-blue eyes were so intent on her face that it was almost as if he touched her. “That must have been rough on you and your sisters.”

She registered his words with a faint sense of unease. “I don’t believe I mentioned my sisters to you.”

“Didn’t you?” He smiled, but there was something guarded in the look. “I suppose I was making an assumption, because of the inn’s name.”

That was logical, although it didn’t entirely take away her startled sense that he knew more about them than she’d expect from a casual visitor.

“The name may be wishful thinking on my part, but yes, I have two sisters. Andrea is the oldest. She was married at Thanksgiving, and she and her husband are still on a honeymoon trip. And Caroline, the youngest, is an artist, living out in Santa Fe.” She touched the turquoise and silver pin on her shirt collar. “She made this.”

Tyler stopped, bending to look at the delicate hummingbird. He was so close his fingers almost touched her neck as he straightened the collar, and she was suddenly warm in spite of the chill breeze.

He drew back, and the momentary awareness was gone. “It’s lovely. Your sister is talented.”

“Yes.” The worry over Caro that lurked at the back of her mind surfaced. Something had been wrong when Caro came home for the wedding, hidden behind her too-brittle laugh and almost frantic energy. But Caroline didn’t seem to need her sisters any longer.

“The place looks even worse than I expected.” Tyler’s words brought her back to the present. The farmhouse, a simple frame building with a stone chimney at either end, seemed to sag as if tired of trying to stand upright. The porch that extended across the front sported broken railings and crumbling steps, and several windows had been boarded up.

“Grams told me the house had been broken into several times. Some of the neighbors came and boarded up the windows after the last incident. The barn looks in fairly good shape, though.”

That was a small consolation to hold out to him if he really hadn’t known that his mother let the place fall to bits. Still, a good solid Pennsylvania Dutch bank barn could withstand almost anything except fire.

“If those hex signs were meant to protect the place, they’re not doing a very good job.” He was looking up at the peak of the roof, where a round hex sign with the familiar star pattern hung.

“I don’t think you’d find anyone to admit they believe that. Most people just say they’re a tradition. There are as many theories as there are scholars who study them.”

Tyler went cautiously up the porch steps and then turned toward her. “You’ll have to climb over the broken tread.”

She grasped the hand he held out, and he almost lifted her to the porch. She whistled to the dog, nosing around the base of the porch. “Come, Barney. The last thing we need is for you to unearth a hibernating skunk.”

“That would be messy.” Tyler turned a key in the lock, and the door creaked open. He hesitated for an instant and then stepped inside. She followed, switching on the flashlight that Grams had reminded her to bring.

“Dusty.” A little light filtered through the boards on the windows, and the beam of her flashlight danced around the room, showing a few remaining pieces of furniture, a massive stone fireplace on the end wall, and a thick layer of dust on everything.

Tyler stood in the middle of the room, very still. His face seemed stiff, almost frozen.

“I’m sorry if it’s a disappointment. It was a good, sturdy farmhouse once, and it could be again, with some money and effort.”

“I doubt I’d find anyone interested in doing that.” He walked through the dining room toward the kitchen, and she followed him, trying to think of something encouraging to say. This had to be a sad homecoming for him.

“There’s an old stone sink. You don’t often see those in their original state anymore.”

He sent her the ghost of a smile. “You want to try out the pump?”

“No, thanks. That looks beyond repair. But I can imagine some antique dealer drooling over the stone sink. Those are quite popular now.”

“I suppose I should get a dealer out to see if there’s anything worth selling. I remember the house as being crowded with furniture, but there’s not too much left now.”

“My grandmother could steer you to some reputable dealers. Didn’t your mother take anything back with her after your grandfather died?”

She couldn’t help being curious. Anyone would be. Why had the woman let the place fall apart after her father died? Grief, maybe, but it still seemed odd. Surely she knew how valuable a good farm was in Lancaster County.

“Not that I remember.” He turned from a contemplation of the cobwebby ice box to focus on her. “You spoke of break-ins. Was anything stolen?”

“I don’t know. My grandmother might remember. Or Emma Zook, since they’re such close neighbors. She’s our housekeeper.”

“The Amish woman who was in the kitchen this morning? According to the lawyer who handled my grandfather’s will, the Zooks leased some of the farmland from his estate. I need to get that straightened out before I put the place on the market. I should talk to them. And to your grandmother.”

Something about his intent look made her uneasy. “I doubt that she knows anything about their leases.”

“According to my mother, Fredrick Unger offered to buy the property. That would make me think your family had an interest.”

There was something—an edgy, almost antagonistic tone to his voice, that set her back up instantly. What was he driving at?

“I’m sure my grandfather’s only interest would have been to keep a valuable farm from falling to pieces. Since he died nearly five years ago, I don’t imagine you’ll ever know.”

“Your grandmother—”

“My grandmother was never involved in his business interests.” And she wasn’t going to allow him to badger her with questions. “I can’t see that it matters, since your mother obviously didn’t want to sell. Maybe what you need to do is talk to the attorney.”

Her own tone was as sharp as his had been. She wasn’t sure where the sudden tension had come from, but it was there between them. She could feel it, fierce and insistent.

Tyler’s frown darkened, but before he could speak, there was a noisy creak from the living room.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

“Be right there,” she called. She’d never been quite so pleased to hear Phillip Longstreet’s voice. She didn’t know where Tyler had been going with his questions and his attitude, and she didn’t think she wanted to.

TWO

Tyler didn’t miss the relief on Rachel’s face at the interruption. The speed with which she went into the living room was another giveaway. She might not know what drove him, but she’d picked up on something.

Or else he’d been careless, pushing too hard in his drive to get this situation resolved.

He followed her and found her greeting the newcomer with some surprise. “Phillip. What are you doing here?”

The man raised his eyebrows as she evaded his attempt to hug her. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He held out his hand to Tyler. “Phillip Longstreet. You may have noticed Longstreet Antiques on Main Street in the village.”

He was in his late forties or early fifties at a guess, but he wore his age well—fit-looking, with fair hair that showed signs of gray at the temples and shrewd hazel eyes behind the latest style in glasses.

“This is Tyler Dunn.” She glanced at him, and he thought he read a warning in her eyes.

“Nice to meet you. Were you looking for Ms. Hampton?”

“It’s always pleasant to see Rachel, but no, I wanted to meet the new owner.” Longstreet shrugged, smiling. “I like to get in before the other dealers when I can.”

“How did you know?” Rachel sounded exasperated. “If we had a party line, Phillip, I’d suspect you of eavesdropping.”

“I have to be far more creative than that to stay ahead of the competition. If you want to keep secrets, don’t come to a village. Emma’s son, Levi, delivered the news along with my eggs this morning.”

It was an insight into how this place worked. “Are you interested in the contents of the house, Mr. Longstreet?”

A local dealer might be the best choice before putting the house on the market, but Longstreet was obviously trolling for antiques, probably hoping to get an offer in on anything of value before his competition did. Or possibly before Tyler realized what he had.

“Phil, please. I’d like to look around.” Longstreet’s gaze was already scoping out the few pieces left in the living room. “Sometimes there are attractive pieces in these old farmhouses, although more often it’s a waste of time.”

“I’m afraid your time was definitely wasted this afternoon.” He gestured toward the door. “I’m not ready to make a decision about selling anything yet.”

“If I could just take a look around, I might be able to give you an idea of values.” Longstreet craned his neck toward the dining room.

Tyler swung the door open and stepped out onto the porch, so that the man had no choice but to follow. “I’ll be in touch when I’m ready to make a decision. Thank you for stopping by.”

“Yes, well, thanks for your time.” Longstreet stepped gingerly over the broken step. “Rachel, I’ll see you at the meeting tonight.”

Rachel, coming out behind him, bent to snap a leash onto the dog’s collar. “Fine.”

Tyler waited until Longstreet had backed out of the driveway to turn to her. “Is that one of the reputable dealers your grandmother might recommend?”

“Grams probably would suggest him. His uncle was an old crony of my grandfather.”

“But…?”

Her nose crinkled. “Phil’s nice enough, in his way. It’s just that every time he comes to the inn, I get the feeling he’s putting a price on the furniture.”

“I’m not bad at showing people the door, if you’d like some help.”

“I run an inn, remember?” She smiled, her earlier antagonism apparently gone. “The idea is to get people in, not send them away. Are you a bouncer in your real life?”

“Architect. Showing people the way out is just a sideline.”

She looked interested. “Do you work on your own?”

He shook his head. “I’m with a partner in Baltimore, primarily designing churches and public buildings. Luckily I’m between projects right now, so I can take some time off to deal with this.” Which brought him back to the problem at hand. “Well, if your grandmother recommends Longstreet, I’ll still be sure to get offers from more than one dealer.”

“That should keep him in line. He’s probably easier to cope with when he wants to buy something from you. I’m on the Christmas in Churchville committee with him, and he can be a real pain there.”

He pulled the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

“Are you sure you’re finished? You didn’t look around upstairs.”

“I’ve had enough for the moment.” He tried to dismiss the negative feelings that had come with seeing the place again. This was a fool’s errand. There was no truth left to find here—just a moldering ruin that had never, as far as he could tell, been a happy home.

The dog leaped down from the porch, nearly pulling Rachel off balance, and he caught her arm to steady her.

“Easy. Does he really need to be on the leash?”

“I wanted to discourage any more digging around the porch. I’m afraid you may have something holed up in there for the winter.”

“Whatever it is, let it stay.” He took the leash from her hand and helped her over the broken step to the ground. “I won’t bother it.”

She glanced at him as they walked away. “You must be saddened to see the place in such a state.”

He shrugged. “I only saw it twice that I recall. It would have been worse for my mother than for me. She grew up here.”

“Do you think—” She stopped, as if censoring what she’d been about to say.

“That’s why she let it fall to pieces?” He finished the thought for her. “I have no idea. I’d have expected my dad to intercede, but—” he shrugged “—I didn’t know she still owned the place until a few weeks ago, and by then she was in no shape to explain much. Maybe she just wanted to forget, after the way her father died.”

Rachel scuffed through frost-tipped dead leaves that the wind had scattered over the road. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard how it happened.”

“From what my mother told me, he apparently confronted someone breaking into the house. There was a struggle, and he had a heart attack. He wasn’t found until the next day.”

She shivered, shoving her hands into her pockets. “It’s hard to think about something like that happening here when I was a child. It always seemed such an idyllic place.”

They walked for a few moments in silence, their footsteps muted on the macadam road. He glanced at her, confirming what he heard. “You’re limping. Did you twist your ankle getting off that porch?”

“It wasn’t that.” She nodded toward the bend in the road ahead of them, the wind ruffling her hair across her face so that she pushed it back with an impatient movement. “I had an accident just up the road back in the spring.”

He frowned down at her. “It must have been a bad one. Did you hit a tree?”

She shook her head. “I was jogging, too late in the evening, I guess. A car came around the bend—” She stopped, probably reliving it too acutely.

That explained why she’d stepped back into the trees when he’d come down the lane last night. “How badly were you hurt?”

“Two broken legs.” She shrugged. “Could have been worse, I guess. It only bothers me when I’m on my feet too long.”

“I hope the driver ended up in jail.”

“Hit and run,” she said briefly.

Obviously she didn’t want to talk about it any further. He couldn’t blame her. She didn’t want to remember, any more than he wanted to think about the way his grandfather died, or the burden his mother had laid on him to find out why.

“I guess this place isn’t so idyllic after all.”

“Bad things happen anywhere, people being people.”

“Yes, I guess they do.” Of course she was right about that. It was only the beauty that surrounded them that made violence seem so out of place here.

Rachel was thankful when the business part of the “Christmas in Churchville” meeting was over. The strain of mediating all those clashing egos had begun to tell on her after the first hour.

Now the battling committee members wandered around the public rooms of the inn, helping themselves to punch and the variety of goodies placed on tables in both the back parlor and the breakfast room. She’d figured out a long time ago that if you wanted to keep people circulating, you should space out the food and drink.

She and Grams had put cranberry punch on the round table next to the fireplace in the back parlor, accompanied by an assortment of cheeses, grapes and crackers. The breakfast room had coffee, tea and hot chocolate on the sideboard, along with mini éclairs and pfeffernüsse, the tiny clove and cardamom delicacies that were her grandmother’s special holiday recipe.

Would Tyler come down? Thinking of him alone in his room, she’d suggested he join them for refreshments. He’d know when the business meeting was over, she’d told him, when the shouting stopped.

Her committee members weren’t quite that bad, but they did have strong opinions on what would draw the holiday tourists to spend their money in Churchville.

She checked on the service in the parlor and walked back toward the breakfast room. Tyler was in an odd position here—part of the community by heritage and yet a stranger. He probably wouldn’t be around long enough to change that. He’d sell the property and go back to his life in Baltimore.

Hopefully he wouldn’t leave problems behind in the form of whoever bought his grandfather’s farm. The neighbors disliked seeing it derelict, but there were certainly things they’d hate even more.

“Rachel, there you are.” Phillip intercepted her in the doorway, punch cup in hand. Fortunately the cup made it easier to escape the arm he tried to put around her. “I wanted to speak with you about the Hostetler place.”

“So does everyone else, but I don’t know anything. Tyler hasn’t told me what his plans are for the property.”

“You know I’m all about the furniture, my dear. I remember a dough box that my uncle tried to buy once from old Hostetler. If there’s anything like that left—”

“You saw the living room. Most of the furniture is already gone.”

“I didn’t see the rest of the house.” His voice turned wheedling. “Come on, Rachel, at least give me a hint what’s there.”

“Sorry, I didn’t see anything else.” She slipped past him. “Excuse me, but I have to refill the coffeepot.”

Phillip was nothing if not persistent. That probably explained how he managed to make such a success of the shop. His uncle had been a sweet old man, but he’d never had much of a head for business, from what Grams said.

She snagged a mug of hot chocolate and a pfeffernüsse for herself, turning from the table to find Sandra Whitmoyer bearing down on her. As wife of Churchville’s most dedicated, as well as only, physician, Sandra seemed to feel the chairmanship of the decorating subcommittee was hers by right. Luckily no one else had put up a fight for it.

“Rachel, we really must keep our eyes on the rest of the shop owners along Main Street. It would be fatal to allow anyone to put up a garish display.”

“I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job of that, Sandra.” She had no desire to turn herself into the decorating police. “I have my hands full already, preparing the inn and organizing the open house tour.” Maybe a little flattery was in order. “You have such wonderful taste. I know everyone will be seeking your advice. And they’ve all agreed to go along with the committee’s decisions.”

“Well, I suppose.” Sandra ran a manicured hand over sleek waves of blond hair. She was dressed to perfection tonight as always, this time in a pair of gray wool slacks that made her legs look a mile long, paired with a silk shirt that had probably cost the earth.

Glancing past Sandra, she spotted Tyler standing in the doorway. So he had come down. He looked perfectly composed in the crowd of strangers—self-possessed, as if he carried his confidence with him no matter where he was.

She’d seen him ruffled at moments that afternoon, though, and she’d guess he didn’t often show that side to people. The derelict house had affected him more than she’d expected.

And there had been an undercurrent when he talked about his mother, something more than grief, she thought.

Sandra had moved to the window, peering out at the patio and garden. “I suppose you’ll be decorating the garden for the open house.”

“White lights on the trees, and possibly colored ones on the big spruce.”

“It would be more effective without the security lights,” Sandra said. “You could turn them off during the house tour hours. And maybe put a spotlight on the gazebo.”

“I don’t want to draw attention to the gazebo. I’d be happy to demolish it completely.”

“You wouldn’t have to do something that drastic.”

She turned at the sound of Tyler’s voice, smiling her welcome. “What would you suggest, other than a stick of dynamite? Sandra Whitmoyer, I’d like to introduce Tyler Dunn. He owns the Hostetler place, down the road from us.”

Sandra extended her hand. “Welcome to Churchville. Everyone is curious about what you intend for the property. Well, not my husband, of course. As a busy physician, he doesn’t have time for many outside interests.”

Bradley Whitmoyer was as self-effacing a man as she’d ever met, but his wife had appointed herself his one-woman press agency.

Tyler responded, politely noncommittal, and turned back to Rachel. “I wouldn’t recommend high explosives for the gazebo. You wouldn’t like the results.”

“I don’t like it the way it is.”

He smiled down at her. “That’s because it’s in the wrong place. If you moved it to the other side of the pond, it would be far enough away to create a view.”

“Well, I still think you should decorate it for the house tour.” Sandra put down her cup. “I have to go. There’s Jeff looking for me. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Dunn.” She nodded to Rachel and crossed the room toward the hallway.

“Is that her husband, the physician?” Tyler’s tone was faintly mocking.

“No, his brother. Jeff Whitmoyer. He has a small construction company. It looks as if he didn’t find it necessary to change before coming by for Sandra.”

Jeff’s blue jeans, flannel shirt and work boots were a sharp contrast to Sandra’s elegance. There was a quick exchange between them before Sandra swept out the hallway.

Rachel dismissed them from her mind and turned back to Tyler. “About the gazebo—”

“Single-minded, aren’t you?” His smile took any edge off the comment. “It might be possible to move it, rather than destroy it. If you like, I’ll take a look while I’m here.”

“I’d love to find a solution that makes everyone happy. Grams never liked the gazebo at all—she feels it doesn’t go with the style of the house. But Andrea thinks it should stay because Grandfather had it put up as a surprise for Grams.”

“And it’s your job to keep everyone happy?” The corners of his mouth quirked.

“Not my job, exactly.” Every family had a peacemaker, didn’t they? She was the middle one, so it fell to her. “My sister says I let my nurturing instincts run amok, always trying to help people whether they want it or not.”

“It’s a nice quality.” Those deep-blue eyes seemed to warm when they rested on her. “I wouldn’t change if I were you.”

“Thank you.” Ridiculous, to be suddenly breathless because a man was looking at her with approval. “And thank you for the offer.”

He shrugged. “It’s nothing. We’re neighbors, remember?”

It was what she’d said to him, but he seemed to invest the words with a warmth that startled her.

Careful, she warned herself. It wouldn’t be a good idea to start getting too interested in a man who’d disappear as soon as his business here was wound up.

Rachel did not like climbing ladders. Any ladder, let alone this mammoth thing that allowed her to reach the top of the house. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be another way of putting up the outside lights anytime soon.

Grams had suggested hiring someone to do the decorating, but Grams didn’t have a grasp on how tight money was right now. Rachel could ask a neighbor for help, of course, but this was a business. It didn’t seem right if she couldn’t pay.

But she really didn’t like being up on a ladder.

She leaned out, bracing herself with one hand on the shutter, and slipped the strand of lights over the final hook. Breathing a sigh of relief, she went down the ladder. In comparison to that, doing the windows should be a breeze.

Reaching the ground, she took a step back, reminding herself of just how many windows there were. Well, maybe not a breeze, but she could do it.

And what difference would it make, the voice of doubt asked. You have one whole guest at the moment.

Tyler had gone off to Lancaster this morning to see the attorney who’d handled his grandfather’s estate. He’d seemed eager to resolve the situation with the farm. Well, why not? He probably had plans for Christmas in Baltimore.

Once he left, she’d have zero guests. There were a few people scheduled for the coming weekends, but not nearly enough. They’d hoped for a good holiday season to get them through the rest of the winter, but that wasn’t happening.

If she could get some holiday publicity up on the inn’s Web site, it might make all the difference. Andrea had intended to do that, but the rush to get ready for the wedding had swamped those plans. And she could hardly call her big sister on her honeymoon to ask for help. They had already invested all they could afford in print ads in the tourist guides, and the Web site was the only option left.

She fastened a spray of pine in place, taking satisfaction in the way the dark green contrasted with the pale stone walls. This she could do. Decorate, cook gourmet breakfasts, work twenty-four/seven when it was necessary—those were her gifts.

Her gaze rested absently on the church across the street, its stone walls as gold as the inn. Someone had put evergreen wreaths on the double doors, and the church glowed with welcome. That was what she’d sensed when she’d come back to Churchville. Welcome. Home. Family. Community. She’d lost that when Daddy left and their mother had taken them away from here.

She paused with her hand on the burgundy ribbon she was tying. Lord, this venture can’t be wrong, can it? It seems right. Surely You wouldn’t let me have a need so strong if it weren’t meant to be satisfied.

“Rachel, you look as if you’ve turned to stone up there. Are you all right?”

She glanced down from the window to see Bradley Whitmoyer standing on the walk, eyeing her quizzically. She scrambled down from the stepladder.

“I guess that’s what they mean by being lost in thought, Dr. Whitmoyer. What can I do for you?”

She saw him occasionally, of course, when she took Grams for a check-up, at church, at a social event, but he’d never come to the inn.

“Bradley,” he corrected. “I’m on an errand.” He gave her his gentle smile, pulling an envelope from the pocket of his overcoat. “My wife asked me to drop this off on my way to the office. Something to do with this Christmas celebration you’re working on, I think.”

She took the envelope. “You shouldn’t have gone out of your way. I could have picked it up.” She knew how busy he was. Everyone in the township knew that.

“No problem.” He drew his coat a little more tightly around him, as if feeling the cold. “I’ve been meaning to see how you’re getting along. This is an ambitious project you and your grandmother have launched.”

“Yes, it is.” He didn’t know how ambitious. “But Grams is enjoying it.”

“That’s good.” His eyes seemed distracted behind the wire-rimmed glasses he wore, his face lined and tired.

He wore himself out for everyone else. People said he’d turned down prestigious offers to come back to Churchville and become a family doctor, because the village and the surrounding area needed him.

“I understand you have old Mr. Hostetler’s grandson staying here.” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “I suppose he’s come to put the farm on the market.”

“I don’t know what his plans are. Probably he’ll sell the land. The house is in such bad shape, I’m not sure anyone would want it.”

“He should just tear it down. Every old house isn’t worth saving, like this one. You’re doing a fine job with it.”

“Thank you.” She resisted the urge to confide how uncertain she was about her course. She wasn’t his patient, and her problems weren’t medical. She waved the envelope—no doubt Sandra’s notes on the town brochure. “Please tell your wife I’ll get right on this.”

“I’ll do that.” He turned, heading for his car quickly, as if eager to turn on the heater.

Even as he got into his sedan, she saw Tyler’s car pulling into the driveway. If he’d arrived a few minutes earlier, she could have introduced them.

“Was that a new guest?” Tyler came toward her across the crisp grass.

“Unfortunately not. That was Dr. Whitmoyer. You met his wife last night.”

“So that’s the good doctor.”

“He really is. Good, I mean. He’s the only doctor in the village, and in addition to carrying a huge patient load, he’s doing valuable research on genetic diseases among the Amish.”

“I’ll agree that he’s a paragon if you’ll come inside for a few minutes.” He was frowning. “I need to talk to you.”

Now that she focused on him, she could sense his tension. Something was wrong.

She put down the ribbon she’d been holding. “Of course.”

The warm air that greeted her when she walked inside made her fingers tingle. She led the way to the library, shrugging out of her jacket, and turned to face him. “What is it? Can I help you with something?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, frowning, and ignored the invitation to sit. “I saw the attorney who’s been handling things since my grandfather died. According to him, your grandfather tried to buy the farm at least six times since then.”

She didn’t understand the tone of accusation in his voice. “I suppose that’s true. The neighbors weren’t happy to see the place falling to pieces. It would be natural for my grandfather to make an offer for it.”

“It sounds to me as if he was eager to snap up the property once my grandfather was out of the way. According to my mother, he and my grandfather had been feuding for years.”

She planted her hands on her hips. There weren’t many things that made her fighting mad, but innuendos about her family certainly did. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at, Tyler. I don’t know anything about any feud, but if it did exist, it’s been over for twenty years or so. What does that matter now?”

His eyes seemed to darken. “It mattered to my mother. She talked to me about it before she died. She said her father told her someone was trying to cheat him out of what was his. That she didn’t believe his death was as a result of a simple robbery. And that she believed the Unger family was involved.”

THREE

Rachel’s reaction to his statement was obvious. Shock battled anger for control.

That was what he’d felt, too, since the attorney told him about old Mr. Unger’s attempt to buy the place. He’d hoped the lawyer would say his mother had been imagining things. Instead, his words seemed to confirm her suspicions.

Rachel took a breath, obviously trying to control her anger. She held both hands out, palms pushing away, her expression that of one who tries to calm a maniac. “I think you should leave now.”

“And give you time to come up with a reasonable explanation? I’d rather have the truth.”

Her green eyes sparked fire. “I don’t need to come up with anything. You’re the one making ridiculous accusations.”

“Is it ridiculous? My grandfather claimed someone was trying to cheat him. Your grandfather tried repeatedly to buy his property. How else do you add those things up?”

“Not the way you do, obviously. There’s a difference between buying and cheating someone. If your grandfather thought the offer low, he didn’t have to sell.” She flung out a hand toward the portrait that hung over the fireplace mantel. “Look at my grandfather. Does he look like someone who’d try to cheat a neighbor?”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” Still, he had to admit that the face staring out from the frame had a quality of judicious fairness that made the idea seem remote.

She gave a quick shake of her head, as if giving up on him. “This is getting us nowhere. I’m sorry for your problems, but I can’t help you. I’ll be glad to refund your money if you want to check out.” She stood very stiffly, her face pale and set.

He’d blown it. He’d acted on impulse, blurting out his suspicions, and now he wouldn’t get a thing from her. Time to regroup.

“Look, I’m sorry for coming out with it that way. Can we sit down and talk this over rationally?”

Anger flashed in those green eyes. “Now you want to be rational? You’re the one who started this with your ridiculous accusations.”

He took a breath. He needed cooperation from Rachel if he were going to get anywhere. “Believe it or not, I felt as if I’d been hit by a two-by-four when I heard what Grassley, the attorney, had to say. Just hear me out. Then I’ll leave if you want.”

Rachel looked as if she were counting to ten. Finally she nodded. She waved him to the sofa and pulled the desk chair over for herself. She sat, planting her hands on its arms and looking ready to launch herself out of the chair at the slightest wrong word.

He sat on the edge of the sofa, trying to pull his thoughts into some sort of order. He was a logical person, so why couldn’t he approach this situation logically?

Maybe he knew the answer to that one. Grief and guilt could be a powerful combination. He’d never realized how strong until the past few weeks.

“You have to understand—I had no idea all this was festering in my mother’s mind. She didn’t talk about her childhood, and I barely knew her father. I’d been here once, before I came for my grandfather’s funeral.”

She nodded. “You told me that. I thought then that there must have been some breach between your mother and your grandfather.”

So she’d seen immediately what he’d have recognized if he weren’t so used to the situation. “I never knew anything about it. My father may have known, but he died when I was in high school.”

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes darkened with sympathy, in spite of the fact that she must still be angry with him.

“My mother had always been—” He struggled to find the right word. “Secretive, I guess you’d say. After my father died, she started turning to me more. Change the lightbulbs, have the car serviced, talk to the neighbors about their barking dog. But she never shared anything about her finances or business matters. I knew my father had left her well off, so I didn’t pry. That’s why I didn’t have any idea she still owned the property here.”

“I suppose she let the attorney take care of anything that had to be done. I’m surprised he didn’t urge her to sell—to my grandfather or anyone else.” Her voice was tart.

“He did, apparently, but he said she’d never even discuss it. She didn’t with me until her illness.” It had been hard to see her go downhill so quickly, hard to believe that none of the treatments were doing any good.

“What was it?”

“Cancer. When she realized she wasn’t recovering, that’s when she started to talk.” He paused. “She’d left it late. She was on pain medication, not making much sense. But she said what I told you—that her father had insisted he was being cheated, that everyone was out to take advantage of him.”

“That sounds as if he felt—well, that he thought he was being persecuted. How can you know that any of what he told her was true?”

“I can’t. But she thought there were things about his death that had never been explained. She regretted that she’d never attempted to find out. She demanded my promise that I’d try to learn the truth.”

His hands clenched. He’d told Rachel more than he’d intended. If she knew about what had happened then—but that was ridiculous. She’d been a child twenty-two years ago. At most, she’d oppose him now out of a need to protect her grandfather’s reputation.

“I can understand why you feel you have to honor her wishes,” she said, looking as if she chose her words carefully. “But after all this time, how can you possibly hope to learn anything?”

“I thought I might talk to your grandmother—”

“No!” She flared up instantly at that. “I won’t have my grandmother upset by this.”

A step sounded from the hallway, and they both turned. “That is not your decision to make, Rachel.” Rachel’s grandmother stood in the doorway, her bearing regal, her face set and stern.

Rachel’s throat tightened. Grams, standing there, hearing the suspicions Tyler was voicing. She’d like to throw something at him for causing all this trouble, but that wouldn’t help.

“Now, Grams…” She had to think of something that would repair this situation. Protecting Grams was her responsibility.

She stood and went to her, the desk chair rolling backward from the pressure of her hands. She put her arm around her grandmother’s waist.

Grams didn’t seem to need her support. She had pride and dignity to keep her upright.

“Don’t ‘now, Grams,’ me, Rachel Elizabeth. I know what I heard, and I don’t require any soothing platitudes.”

Rachel shot a fulminating glance at Tyler. At least he had the grace to look unhappy at this turn of events. He’d look worse when she finished telling him what she thought.

“Grams, I’m sure you misunderstood.” She tried for a light tone. “You always told us that eavesdroppers never hear anything good, remember?”

Grams ignored her, staring steadily at Tyler. “I must apologize. I’m not in the habit of listening in on other people’s conversations, but you were both too busy arguing to realize I was there.”

“I just want to protect you—” Rachel began.

Her grandmother cut her short with a look. “I don’t require protection. I knew my husband well enough to be quite confident that he’d never have been involved in anything underhanded. I have nothing to fear from Mr. Dunn’s inquiry.”

“Of course not, but it’s still upsetting. Please, Grams, let me handle this.”

Her only response was to move to her armchair and be seated, folding her hands in her lap. “I’ll answer any question you wish to ask.” She glanced up at the portrait. “The truth can’t harm my husband.”

Grams might want to believe that, but Rachel wasn’t so sure. Of course she knew Grandfather had been perfectly honest, but rumors, once started, could be difficult to stop.

She glanced at Tyler. He looked as if getting what he wanted had taken him by surprise.

“It’s very good of you to agree to talk with me about this.” He’d apparently decided on a formal approach. Good. If she caught the slightest whiff of disrespect, he’d be out of here before he knew what hit him.

Grams inclined her head graciously. “I don’t know that I have much to offer. My husband only discussed business with me in very general terms.”

Tyler’s mouth tightened fractionally. “Start by telling me what you remember about John Hostetler. You must have known him, since you were such close neighbors.”

“I knew him. Knew of him, certainly. He was a rather difficult person, from everything I recall. After his wife died, he became bitter, cutting himself off from the community.”

“Do you know if your husband had any business dealings with him? Did he talk to you about wanting to buy the place?”

She frowned. “I don’t remember, but if he did, it would be in his ledgers. Rachel will make them available to you.”

She swallowed the protest that sprang to her lips. Tyler could strain his eyes looking through decades of her grandfather’s fine black script, and he wouldn’t find anything wrong.

“That’s kind of you.” Tyler seemed taken aback by that kindness, but that was her grandmother. “Do you know of anyone he was on bad terms with?”

A faint smile rippled on Grams’s expression. “It might be easier to ask with whom he didn’t quarrel. I don’t mean to speak ill of him, but it’s fairly well known that he argued with just about everyone.”

“I remember a visit we made when I was about six. Certainly he and my mother seemed to battle most of the time.”

“I’m afraid that was his nature.” Grams spread her hands. “I don’t know what else I can say. After his death, the neighbors were concerned about the condition of the farm. Several of them came to Fredrick about it, I remember that.” She glanced up at the portrait again. “If he did try to buy it, I’m sure that’s why.”

He nodded, not offering any comment. It was what Rachel had told him, too, but she didn’t think he was convinced. He wouldn’t understand her grandfather’s almost-feudal-lord position in the community. Everyone, Amish and English alike, had come to him with their concerns.

“Do you remember anything about the robbery and his death?”

Grams moved slightly, and Rachel was instantly on the alert. This questioning bothered her grandmother more than she’d want to admit.

“I know we were shocked. Everyone was.”

She put her arm around her grandmother. “Of course they were.” She darted him a look. “I think my grandmother has told you everything she can.”

Grams gave Tyler a level look. “I have, but if there’s anything else…”

“Not right now.” Tyler seemed to know he’d pushed enough.

Grams rose. “We’ll cooperate in any way we can. It’s what my husband would wish.” She turned toward the kitchen and walked away steadily.

Rachel hesitated. She wanted his promise that this wasn’t going to be all over the township by sunset, but she didn’t want to say that where Grams could hear. She’d better make sure Grams was safely in the kitchen with Emma.

“Would you mind sticking around for a minute or two while I speak to Emma? I could use some help moving that ladder.”

He nodded, his expression telling her he understood what she wasn’t saying. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

By the time she went out the front door a few minutes later, Rachel knew exactly how she should behave. She’d talk with Tyler very calmly, explaining the harm that could be done to her grandmother by careless talk. She’d make it clear that they’d already done everything he’d asked of them and that there really was nothing else they could contribute.

She would not express the anger she felt. She’d extended friendship to the man, and all the time he’d been using her to pry into her family.

He waited by the ladder she’d left propped against the house, his leather jacket hanging open in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine. He straightened when he saw her. “Is your grandmother all right?”

“She didn’t like being cross-examined,” she said sharply, and then snapped her mouth shut on the words. If she wanted discretion from Tyler, she’d better try a little tact of her own. “She was telling you the truth.” Katherine Unger was not someone who’d lie to cover up her own or anyone else’s misdeeds.

He gave her a slight smile. “I know. Do you think I don’t recognize integrity when I see it?”

“I was afraid your judgment might be skewed by your need to find out about your grandfather.”

“Look, I said I was sorry for jumping on you with it. I want to be fair about it.”

Did he mean that? She hoped so. “There’s one thing you said to me that you didn’t mention to my grandmother.”

He frowned. “What’s that?”

He knew. He had to. “You said your mother didn’t think her father’s death had been adequately explained. You called it murder.”

The word seemed to stand there between them, stark and ugly.

He was silent for a long moment, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know, Rachel. That’s the truth. I can tell you what my mother said. What she seemed to believe. As to whether it had any basis in fact—” he shrugged “—I guess that’s what I have to find out.”

“I hope—” She stopped. Would he think she was trying to control his actions? Well, in a way, she was.

“What do you hope?” He focused on her, eyes intent.

“I hope you’ll be discreet with the questions you ask people around here, especially anything to do with my grandparents. It doesn’t take much to set rumors flying in a small community like this.”

“Your grandmother didn’t seem to be worried about that.”

No, she wouldn’t worry about people talking when she felt she was doing what was right.

“Grams can be naive about some things. If the rumor mill starts churning, the situation will be difficult for her. So be tactful, will you please?”

“I’ll try.” He took a step back from the wooden stepladder as she approached it. “I’m not here to stir up trouble for innocent people.”

“Sometimes innocent people get hurt by the backlash.” She bent to plug the end of the string of lights into the outlet.

“I can’t let that stop me from looking for the truth.” His jaw set like a stone.

“And I won’t let anything stop me from protecting my family,” she said. “Just so we’re clear.”

“We’re clear. Does that mean you want me to move out?”

It was tempting to say yes, but it was safer to have Tyler where she could keep track of him. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” She started up the ladder, the loop of lights in her hand.

“Thank you. And since I’m staying, I’d be glad to climb up and do that for you. I wouldn’t have to stretch as far.”

“I can reach.” If she stood on the top step on her tiptoes, she could.

She looped the string of lights over the small metal hook that was left in the window frame from year to year. Pulling the string taut, she grasped it and leaned toward the other side.

She stretched, aware of him watching her, and pushed the wire toward the hook—

“Wait!” Tyler barked.

The wire touched the hook—a sharp snap, a scent of burning, a jolt that knocked her backward off the ladder and sent her flying toward the ground, stunned.

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