Forbidden (24 page)

Rachel sat at Sally and Jonas Fisher's kitchen table, keeping her gaze on her plate. The strain of silence stretched between them all as they passed around beef noodles, corn on the cob, green beans, creamed peas, bread, butter, and honey. Jonas had not said anything when he came in the door with his youngest son, Samuel. He'd simply shoved his straw hat onto the peg beside the door and sat down at the head of the table.

The boy, Samuel, was no longer really a boy but a man full grown. He reminded Rachel of Levi—tall, broad shouldered, with blond hair and startling blue eyes. His square, firm jaw had the slant of stubbornness. He ate like any other eighteen-year-old, piling the food on his plate and eating as if he didn't need to breathe between bites. Before the rest of the family, at their more leisurely pace, had finished, Samuel wiped his mouth on his sleeve and scooted back from the table.

“Whoa there, Samuel.” His father slanted his gaze in his son's direction. “Are you in a hurry this evening?”

Without stopping, Samuel removed his plate from the table and set it on the counter. “I promised Rafe Peterson I'd help him out.”

“With what?”

But Samuel only said, “He's waiting on me, Pop.”

“Will you be late coming home?” Sally asked, her tone softer, less confrontational than her husband's.

Samuel plunked his straw hat on his head. “Don't wait up, Mamm.”

As the young man whisked out the door, his father frowned and turned his attention back to buttering his corn. Nothing else was said, but Rachel understood the disquiet in the Fisher family. Many Amish families experienced the same when a child was in his running-around years. And as her own parents had experienced, some children caused more worry than others.

Jacob had definitely given his parents long, sleepless nights. Was Samuel as worrisome? Or was it because of their experience with Jacob and his sad end that they worried even more over their youngest?

After dinner, Rachel helped Sally with the dishes while Roc circled the premises. Before he came back inside, Rachel bid Sally and Jonas good night and headed to bed.

The upstairs bedroom was small and clean, efficient in its offerings: a double bed, dresser, and bedside table. The bathroom was only a few steps down the hall. Rachel went to the window to lower the shade but looked down on the quiet road, the blacktop glistening in the waning glow of the warm red sunlight.

From around the corner of the house came Roc, and she watched him walk beneath the shade of the soaring oaks. He moved slowly, steadily, cradling his wounded arm against his middle. She'd seen him wince several times throughout the day, but he'd never complained, never asked for help or sympathy, never offered excuses, not even when Jonas had told him he could muck the stalls tomorrow morning. Roc was a strong man, a proud one, and he made her feel safe, safer than she'd felt in months…maybe even years.

The sun had not yet set, and the red-and-orange rays doused the land with a friendly hospitality. She pulled the shade down over the window and changed into a white cotton nightgown. The material was soft on her skin, and she touched her belly. The baby shifted and moved beneath her hand.

She was just setting her prayer
kapp
on the bedside table and unfastening her hair when there was a light knock on the door. Her hands stilled, and she stared at the door.
Was
it
Sally? Or worse, Jonas?
Finally, she offered a tentative, “Yes?”

“Can I come in?” Roc's low and gravelly voice was anything but comforting.

Her stomach tipped sideways. “Of course.”

The door opened, and Roc stepped inside, his work boots scuffing the hardwood flooring. He'd removed his hat downstairs. During dinner, he'd held himself in check, guarding his expression, but now she could see the exhaustion etched on his face. With his chin tucked down toward his chest, his dark gaze remained steadfast on her.

A cool shiver shimmied through her. “Is everything all right?”

“All locked up tight.” The door latch clicked closed behind him.

She nodded and felt the weight of her hair cascading down one shoulder, as well as the headiness of their being alone together. Roc stood by the door, not moving farther into the plain bedroom, his gaze shifting sideways toward her dress, which hung on a peg in the wall. Soon his clothes would hang next to hers in the intimate way of husband and wife, side by side, and longing twisted deep inside her.

He cleared his throat. “Look, Rachel, I know this is awkward, but it's the best way for—”

“It's all right, Roc. Come in. You look so tired, as if you could topple right over.”

The lines at the corners of his eyes pinched, but still he didn't move forward.

She felt the heat of her rounded belly against the top of her thighs. “I'm big and fat and pregnant, Roc, and I doubt you're panting with eagerness to get into bed with me. Am I right?”

He rubbed a hand over his wounded shoulder. “You have nothing to fear from me. I'll not disturb you.”

Regret pinched her. She was no longer young and slim. Even though she was just over twenty years old, she felt a hundred years. It was a discomforting thought that she suddenly wanted Roc to look at her with desire, and she prayed for forgiveness.

Would
she
ever
feel
the
soft, loving gaze of a man again?
Maybe she shouldn't want that, but she did. She remembered Josef's look when he met her gaze across the kitchen table after he'd eaten the supper she'd fixed.
Would
she
ever
feel
a
man's hunger and need? His weight atop her? The yearning, unfolding ache inside?
Heat surged up her neckline, and she straightened the material over her belly.

Roc moved across the room. He tugged off his boots and set his gun on the bed, which Rachel stared at, unsure if she should be appalled or grateful for its presence. Next to the gun went the heavy wooden stake, the tip stained dark, reminding her why Roc was here and what his weapons would do if given a chance. Even though the stake had been washed with water, nothing could remove the blood, just as nothing seemed to be able to remove her own sins.

She could hear the house settling, the creak of the stairs, Jonas Fisher's deep voice from down the hall, a toilet flushing. She tried to avoid looking at Roc, but there wasn't much else to grab her attention. “I should look at your shoulder. The bandage needs replacing.”

Padding barefoot across the room to the dresser, she retrieved the tape and bandages they'd bought at the pharmacy earlier. When she turned, Roc was standing beside the bed in only his pants, his torso bare. A white bandage covered part of his shoulder, and she focused on that patch to keep from staring at him, at his flat abdomen, the ripple of his muscles beneath taut skin, the shadow of dark hair trailing down below the waistband of his pants.

“Where do you want me?” he asked.

She blinked. Nerves jumbled together in her stomach like a tangled mess of yarn. “What?”

“Where do you want me to stand or…”

She gestured toward the bed. “You can sit.”

He obeyed, and she took hesitant steps toward him. It was one thing to touch him when he was feverish and ill and even unconscious, but now…alone with him as he watched her, his breath brushing her forearm, he was so vital, so alive, so—

“Something wrong?” He twisted his head as if to peer at his own shoulder.

“No, it's…” She picked at the edge of the bandage and pulled part of it loose.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“I'm sorry.” Her fingers curled into her palm. She didn't want to hurt him.

“It's okay. Do it fast.”

“Fast?”

“Just rip it.”

“I don't know, Roc—”

“Just—”

She jerked the bandage off in one swift flick of the wrist. His eyes widened. His lips flattened against his teeth. But he said nothing.

He nodded his approval of her quick movement, but it was her turn to suck in a breath. Angry red-mottled skin surrounded the wound. An infection was taking hold. She went back to the dresser and retrieved the chickweed salve she'd borrowed from Sally earlier. She dabbed the wound with a coated finger and tried to ignore the way Roc's features tightened with discomfort. She worked as quickly as she could and then opened a new bandage and placed it over the wound.

Roc held his breath, trying to focus on the throbbing in his shoulder rather than the way Rachel smelled, her gentle touch, her nearness. It was insane. She was pregnant with another man's baby. She wore clothes that discouraged a man's thoughts going down the wrong trail. Her nightgown was buttoned up to her neck and brushed the tops of her toes, and covered everything in between. Still, his gaze shifted toward the material, which flowed over her breasts and molded to her legs as she walked. And he held himself in check, his body taut.

“Okay,” she said, “all done.”

He jumped off the bed, moving away from her as quickly as possible. As penance for his wayward thoughts and to get his mind back to fighting vampires, he slapped a hand against the bandage, and a stab of pain rocketed through him.

“Be careful, Roc.”

“I'm good. Thanks.”

She walked back to the other side of the bed and climbed in, tucking her feet beneath the sheet. The quilt made of dark blue, woodland green, and deep purple in a bold pattern had been worn thin by years of use.

Sweat prickled his forehead. “Is it hot in here?”

“Warm, I reckon.”

He stared up at the ceiling: no vents, no fan, no air conditioning. “I'll open the window.”

Taking his time, he lifted the shade, opening the window, and drew in huge gulps of warm night air. A moth flew into the room and circled the lantern on the bedside table. She turned the lever on the side of the lantern, and the light vanished. But moonlight filtered into the room, and he could make out her shadow, the stark white nightgown, and her pale features.

Moving toward the other side of the bed, he began to rethink this idea. Lying inches from an attractive woman, pregnant or not, was not going to help him sleep. But the barn or woodshop was too far away to protect her. Still, he knew his limitations.

He hesitated before sitting on the bed. “I'll make a place on the floor.”

“Why?” Her voice came out of the darkness.

“Because…” He gestured with his hand toward the bed but couldn't seem to formulate the words he wanted to say. “You'll be more comfortable.”

“Roc,” she said calmly, “it's all right. If I trust you with my life and the life of my baby, then I can trust you with my tattered virtue.”

Tattered? What did she mean by that? Still, the whole trust issue put a new spin on things, making guilt poke at him for even thinking indecent thoughts about her. “No need for you to be uncomfortable with me here. I can just sleep on the floor there and—”

“It would make me feel safer.” Her voice quavered.

“Safer for me on the floor or…?”

“Here.” She laid a hand on the quilt, her fingers curling to pluck at a thread.

He stuffed his baser needs. She was frightened, and why wouldn't she be? She'd been dragged halfway across the country, first by a maniac vampire, and then by Roc. He remembered the fear in her eyes when he'd killed Brody. All the blood. And what if Akiva had been on the other side of the door, waiting for them? She and her baby could easily have been killed. The only thing standing between her and death, then and now, was Roc.

“All right then,” he said.

He stripped out of his pants, leaving on his BVDs, and flung back the sheet. Carefully, he lay beside her.

For a moment, it was only Rachel and Roc in the universe, their breath the only sound. He wondered if her heart hammered the way his did.

He slept like the dead. But not at first.

When he crawled into bed, he was aware only of Rachel, her breathing, every slight movement. Then the sounds from outside crept into his awareness. In some nearby field, a cow bawled. Crickets chirped a persnickety response. Then bullfrogs complained. Some clicking sound went on and on as Roc tossed and turned and stared at the unending darkness. He'd assumed the country air would be quiet and peaceful, but it was louder than Bourbon Street on Saturday night.

Then, just as he grew deaf to all the insects and animals and his eyelids weighted downward and sleep was finally within grasp, a crowing made him jolt upright. He grabbed his Glock and blinked at the blackness encompassing him.

“Roc?” Rachel asked.

“What the hell was that?”

She shifted beneath the covers. “What—?”

The hoarse sound trumpeted again.

“That.”

She laughed. “It's a rooster.”

He groaned. “It's morning already?” Then he snatched his cell phone off the bedside table. “It's only two.”

“Plenty of time for more sleep,” Rachel murmured sleepily, rolling onto her side and growing still.

He lay back and stared at the ceiling, flinching each time the rooster sounded his alarm. By three, he considered shooting the rooster. But by four, sleep washed over him and pulled him downward into a dark hole.

Until something…a sound, a feeling, the touch of cold sheets woke him. He sat upright, blinking at the light seeping around the window shades. Beside him, the bed was empty. Panic sliced through him.
Where
was
Rachel?

He'd worried that he would embarrass himself in some way last night, but reality interfered and saved him—he was exhausted, too tired to do anything about his attraction to her. Not that he would, anyway. But then again, some reactions could not be controlled or ignored.

Sleep had finally crept up on him and knocked him out all night like a strong right hook, but now it was well into the morning. And he had to find her. It was his job to protect her. Sleeping so hard was not his way or in his job description.

He tripped getting out of bed; his foot tangled in the sheets. Stumbling, he bumped into the bedside table, wrenched his arm, and cursed. He froze and listened for some repercussion of his indecent language, like the roof caving in, a bolt of lightning out of the blue, or Jonas Fisher clearing his throat disapprovingly. But nothing happened. The house sounded empty and still. Too still.

Trying to hurry, he hobbled around as he pulled on his black pants, then his white shirt, his fingers fumbling as he buttoned and rebuttoned it. He was heading down the stairs, tucking his shirt in as he went, when he realized he'd forgotten his coat. And his Glock.

He returned to the bedroom, shoved the handgun in the back of his pants, the way he might jeans, and the weapon slid through the opening and down one leg. Gingerly, he pulled it free, thankful the safety was in place.

As he barreled down the stairs and into the kitchen, a soft-spoken voice startled him. He wasn't sure what Sally had said but assumed it was “good morning” or the Pennsylvania Dutch equivalent. He gave a courteous nod. “Morning. Have you seen—?”

“Did you sleep well?” She stood at the table, kneading a floury mound of dough.

Although in a hurry to find Rachel, he drew a gulp full of air and forcefully slowed his pace toward the back door. “Yes. I did.”

“We thought you might need extra sleep with your shoulder injury. It's better,
ja
?”

He rubbed his shoulder and felt no pain the way he had last night. Maybe the chickweed salve had helped. “Yeah. It is. Thank you.
Danke.
Have you—?”

“Your breakfast is there beside the stove.”

He saw a plate covered with tin foil. “And Rachel?”

“She's outside, hanging laundry on the line.”

“I'll be back in a minute. Want to say good morning first.”

Sally smiled in a shy way, as if she enjoyed the young husband's attentiveness toward his wife. If she only knew.

***

When she heard the back door open, Rachel snapped the sheet and clipped one wet end to the laundry wire. By the time she'd stretched out the sheet and was reaching to clip the other end, an arm bumped hers. She turned to look into Roc's gray eyes.

He was standing very close to her. “You shouldn't be doing heavy lifting.”

“It's not so heavy.” Her hands fumbled, and she dropped the sheet, but Roc caught it before it fell into the dirt. “And I'm not so weak.”

When she moved to pick up the laundry basket, he scooped it up and tucked it under his arm. A warm breeze ruffled the sheet, and the cold, wet material rippled between them, giving her a reprieve from his serious gaze.

“I'm learning,” he said, his voice like raw wool, “you're a lot tougher than I ever would have imagined.”

Unsure what he meant, she watched him cautiously until a fly buzzed her ear, and she eased away from him.

He waved his hand, shooing the pesky fly, and followed her back along the laundry line. “That's a compliment.”

Her heart hiccupped, and she tucked her chin downward as her cheeks warmed beneath his steady gaze. Shifting the subject, she asked, “How are you feeling today?”

“Good. Better.”

She eyed his shoulder, which he seemed to be using more easily. “You shouldn't be lifting heavy things, either.”

“I'm tougher than I look.”

“I know that firsthand.”

It was his turn to frown. “I'm not Superman or anything, Rachel. You know that, right?”

“Super man?” She shook her head as she clipped socks to the line. “I do not think this. I—”

“I can't make any promises, you know, about protecting you…your baby from Akiva.”

“I am not asking for promises, Roc. My trust is in the Lord. He will take care of us. Or—” She stopped herself from saying “or not.” Maybe the good Lord would see fit to punish her for her past deeds. Or maybe He would forgive. She would accept her fate whatever it might be. She simply prayed for the protection of her innocent, unborn baby. “But you are doing the Lord's work.”

“That's one thing I've never been accused of.”

“Accused?” She tilted her head to the side, confused by his words, which sometimes didn't make sense to her. “No, it is simply the truth.”