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“You can't blame yourself for Josef's death.”

“Of course I am to blame. And I had hoped the good Lord would forgive me. But I fear He has more punishment in store. I deserve it. But”—her voice broke—“I'm awful afraid He will allow my baby to die. And I cannot bear it. I cannot—”

He wasn't sure who moved first, whether she leaned toward him or if his arms went automatically around her. But he held her, and she buried her face against his chest.

He sheltered her against his body and whispered fiercely, “I'm not going to let that happen.”

Maybe it pitted him against the Almighty. So be it. Was her God a god of vengeance seeking revenge on an innocent? Roc didn't know the answer, and he didn't much care. But he wanted to remove Rachel's guilt. And he wanted to protect her.

With a current of fear churning in their depths, her blue eyes sought his. “How can you stop it?”

“I will.” He cupped his hands around her face. Her tears dampened his palms, and conviction gripped his soul. “It's not your fault, Rachel. You couldn't have done anything to warrant what happened to your husband.”

“Then why do you blame yourself for your own wife's death?”

Her words scalded him, and he released her. Guilt was why he'd come here. At least originally. But now, his motivations had deepened. “Because I could have done something.”

And he was the only one who could do something to save Rachel. And he would.
He
would.

“How?” she asked, not with a challenging attitude but one of innocence.

“I could have gotten there sooner…I could have—”

“No, Roc.” She touched his face, her palm covering his jaw where he'd let his beard grow. “You couldn't have saved her. You can't be everywhere at all times. It's impossible.”

“So I'm not allowed to blame myself, but you can?”

“Exactly.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “If I hadn't married Josef in my sad effort to make things right, if I hadn't used him in an attempt to”—she shook her head—“then he'd still be alive.”

“Rachel, really, I doubt you did anything that—”

“Oh, Roc…the things I have done…and seen…with Jacob.”

“What did you see?” His instincts went on full alert.
What
had
they
seen? What had they done together? Was there something she knew that might help them now?
He gave her shoulders a slight shake. “Tell me, Rachel. What did you see?”

“He…Jacob was fascinated with New Orleans, the culture, the debauchery. Eventually he took it even further, learning about voodoo and the occult. He said it was just for fun, and maybe it was at first. But it wasn't fun.” Her eyes glazed as if she was seeing the events unfold again. “The things they did. Horrible things. And I was so afraid.”

Her chin jerked upward. “I left him…Jacob, then. I took a bus and went home. I didn't think I'd ever feel clean again.” She chafed at her arms, her eyes filling again. “Why won't you tell me what happened to Josef? How he died?”

“I told you, it won't make any difference—”

“What if someone told you your wife died but not how? How would you feel?”

He churned it over for a few minutes, and finally he said, “A vampire killed him. Drained him of blood. And then I killed her.”

She blinked slowly then nodded. “Thank you.” The words were but a whisper. Her throat worked up and down and her features pinched in her valiant effort to stop the tears. But tears emerged and trailed down her pale cheeks. She looked up at the dark sky and wept. Her shoulders shook with the tremors of her sobs.

He pulled her against him, cradled her against his chest. She clung to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and held onto him as if he could save her. If only that were true.

When she finally looked up at him with those tear-swollen eyes, he didn't think or question; he simply bent his head toward hers and kissed her damp lips. She tasted salty and sweet from the cinnamon-sugared baked apples they'd had at dinner, and he had the strangest feeling she was somehow saving him.

Stunned by the jarring need, he set her away from him. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…I'm no good. Not for you…not—”

She cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing his lips. “I think we're more alike than you want to acknowledge, Roc. I've done things I'm not proud of. Things I'm ashamed of. Things I wish I could erase. But I can't. I tried to forget what I saw in New Orleans, tried to hide within a quiet Amish life with Josef, but I think I was wrong to do so. God had a different plan for me, but I wasn't patient enough to wait. Maybe now he's given me…and you”—she dipped her chin and took a shuddering breath—“a second chance.”

Roc's heart thumped heavily. He doubted God thought about him at all. He remembered going as a boy to a chapel of some kind with his mother. The ornate woodwork, the spires and vastness of the sanctuary, the Latin words spoken by the priest, the formality and tradition all making Roc feel small and insignificant. All these many years later, he still felt small and insignificant in the eyes of God.

He saw things simply too: black and white. Good and evil. He had one job—to protect Rachel and her baby. And he would do it with or without God's help. Even if it killed him. And it just might. But death—floating down the river of souls and getting lost in the depth of eternity—seemed easier than believing he could have saved someone and failed. He couldn't live with that guilt again.

Not because he loved Rachel. No, of course not, and she didn't love him, either. She was scared and clinging to the nearest lifesaver she could latch onto. But he wasn't one to scramble for safety. He preferred being adrift. Because loving someone, needing someone, depending on someone would be the ruin of him. Protecting Rachel now was simply his job.

“Look, Rachel, when this is all over, I'll take you home to Pennsylvania, to your family. Where you belong. But then I have another job. I have to hunt down more like Akiva. And I will. And you'll have a baby to raise. You have a life to live.”

“But, Roc—”

“We're too different, Rachel. You have a faith I can't understand. It's just who you are. How you were raised. My mother said her prayers, clicked her beads, which helped squat. I can't take that leap.”

She reached for him, but he took another step back.

“Let's get back to the house.” His voice sounded gruff. He aimed the flashlight back the way they had come. “Tomorrow, this will end. And you will go home with your baby. Then I will be just a distant memory, like a fading nightmare.”

When they reached the house, Rachel went upstairs to bed, her feet sounding heavier than usual. After watching for the lamplight in their room to flicker on around the edges of the shade, Roc sat on the swing and listened for any unusual sounds. He watched for anything that caught his eye. But mostly, he sat and tried not to think about Rachel.

The crunch of a footstep brought him to his feet, and he reached a hand inside his black coat.

“It's okay, Roc. It's me.” Samuel came into view. He held out a brown bottle. Roc released his Glock and smoothed his hands down his thighs as he settled back into the swing. Then he took the proffered root beer with a nod of thanks. Samuel sat on the upper step, leaning his back against the porch railing.

Roc studied the bottle. “I haven't had root beer since I was a kid.”

“It was that or lemonade.” Samuel tipped his head back and took long swallows.

Roc shifted his gaze from the bottle to the young man, who seemed restless and frustrated like a caged animal. “Everything okay?”

Samuel rolled the bottle between the heels of his hands. His mouth flattened and cheeks dented. “My pop and I don't see things the same way sometimes.”

Roc laughed, startling the young man. “That's probably true of every father and his eighteen-year-old son.”

“You and your dad get along?”

Roc's good humor died. “Not when I was eighteen, and not now.”

“How come?” Samuel asked.

Roc breathed deeply and released it. He questioned himself about what he should tell this young, impressionable teen, but he figured the truth was the best. “It's complicated, but suffice it to say I didn't like how he drank and pushed my momma around. And he didn't like it when I punched him back.”

Samuel's eyes widened. “You—? Whoa.” He dipped his head, his straw hat shielding his face, then he looked back at Roc. “That sucks.”

With an exhausted chuckle, he nodded. “Sure does. Make your problems with your own pop seem not so bad?”

“Ah, you know, it is what it is. I don't know why he keeps insisting I stay home at night. Especially tonight.”

“Something special going on?”

“Andi”—he shifted on the step—“she was expecting me tonight.”

“You could explain to your dad—”

Samuel gave a humorless laugh. “How would I explain Andi to Pop?”

“Gotcha. Won't she forgive you for one night?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I see.”

Samuel gave a heavy sigh. “She could have any guy she wanted.”

“But she wants you, right?”

The younger man shrugged. “For now.”

“Might not be the kind worth keeping then, if you know what I'm saying.” At Samuel's shocked look, Roc recanted. “I'm just saying, but I don't know. I'm not Oprah.”

Samuel raised his eyebrows in question.

Roc let it go. “I don't know Andi. So…you love her, huh?”

“Love?” Samuel tasted the word like it was an unfamiliar piece of fruit, something exotic and strange on the tongue. He stared down at his hands circling the bottle, his thumbs pressing against each other. “Hadn't thought much about it.”

Boys Samuel's age, Roc figured, weren't thinking. They were reacting, responding, igniting. Andi was like a fuse leading to an explosion. Or a drug addiction, and poor Samuel was suffering withdrawal tonight.

Young love didn't always involve the heart, often just other parts of the anatomy. Still, explaining that to an eighteen-year-old wasn't his place and probably wouldn't be well received anyway. So Roc remained silent and waited while Samuel wrestled with his thoughts and emotions.

“Sure, I love her. But it's complicated.”

“Boy, I've heard that before.” Roc leaned back in thought, questioning himself. Did he ache for Rachel only because she was pretty and happened to be sleeping in his bed? Was it just his love-starved anatomy talking? Or was it something deeper, some yearning from the heart?

Roc turned his gaze back to Samuel. “So is it the love-you-forever-let's-get-married kind?”

Samuel's eyes contracted a fraction. “Maybe.”

“And so…you ready to bring her home to meet Mom and Pop?”

Samuel exhaled a harsh breath. “Yeah, right.”

“Ah…that's the complicated part.”

“Well, part of it.” Samuel glanced over one shoulder and then the other and leaned toward Roc. “Also, I'm not sure I'm going to join the church.”

Roc mouthed an “oh.” “Gotcha. Major complication.”

He understood the boy's reluctance. The Amish way of life wasn't easy. In fact, in many ways it seemed they made things more difficult for themselves. And yet, sitting here on the porch in a swing, he could see the allure. It was a slower-paced life, simpler in many ways. Certainly simpler than chasing vampires.

“Would that mean you'd get shunned?”

“Nah. I haven't joined the church yet, so I wouldn't be shunned. But my folks would be disappointed for sure.” Samuel looked down then added hastily, “It's not that I don't believe in God.”

Roc nodded his understanding. “There are many ways to practice that belief.”

His face lit up. “Exactly.”

“So I'm guessing Andi isn't exactly wanting to become Amish.”

“Can you see her in a bonnet?”

“Not really. But then”—he stretched out his arms—“I never thought I'd see myself in this getup, either.”

Samuel laughed with him.

Then something alerted Roc. He cut Samuel off and set the bottle on the wooden plank at his feet.

“What is—?”

“Shh.” Roc eased off the swing, careful not to make a sound. He pulled out his gun, pointing it upward toward the stars until he had something better to aim at. Carefully, he edged across the porch and down the steps, past Samuel. He peered into the darkness to the right and then left. A wavering light still glowed from the workshop. But he heard nothing and saw nothing. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Or maybe he was being watched.

He finally relaxed and shoved his Glock back into its hiding place beneath his coat. He didn't return to the swing but simply sat on the top step beside Samuel.

“So what's the full story, Roc? Some guy is hunting Rachel. Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“Somebody she met in New Orleans?”

Roc stared at Samuel, surprised. “How'd you know that?”

“I don't know much, but I know that's when a lot of our troubles started—when Jacob and Rachel went to New Orleans. And what you were telling me the other night about missing teens, dead folks, and animals? That's what happened to Jacob, isn't it?”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother was killed, wasn't he? I mean, Pop always said it was an accident in the workshop, but I don't think I ever believed that. Something happened, something that tore my family apart. So that's it, right? Jacob was killed by someone he met in New Orleans.”

Roc weighed his options. Jonas Fisher didn't want his youngest son to know the truth. So Roc stuck as close to the truth as he dared. “That's pretty close…at least to what I know.”

Samuel's gaze flickered downward. “I wish Pop had just told us the truth. This not knowing, not understanding, not being able to talk about it…makes it worse.”

Roc nodded. “Tomorrow, I hope it will all end. My friend, Roberto, is coming to help me trap the killer.”

Samuel's gaze met Roc's squarely. “What can I do?”

“First thing in the morning, go with your folks and get out of Dodge. That's what your pop wants. And it's what you should do.”

Samuel's pale brows furrowed into a frown. “Let me help.”

“Your pop would shit a brick.”

“Let him.” Samuel leaned toward Roc, pushed his root beer into Roc's leg. “Let me help. I'm fully capable of making my own decisions.”

Roc gauged the younger man for a minute. The Amish teens he'd met seemed more mature than English kids. Of course, they left school by fourteen and were ready to make lifelong decisions like marriage by the age of eighteen. Samuel might not agree with his father about religion, but he was a man with a mind of his own. If Jonas packed up his family and left, without letting Samuel have a say in his own destiny, he might lose another son. So Roc decided to give a little, if it would help. “All right then. You can pick up Roberto tomorrow morning. He'll be at a bus stop in Kentucky, I'll give you directions. Then bring him back here.”

“Good. I'll do it.”

“Fine.
Gut.
” Roc pronounced the word the Amish way, which garnered a smile from Samuel. “I'm grateful for the help. But after that, I want you off this property while I deal with this problem. Understand?”

Samuel's mouth twisted, but he finally nodded. “Deal.”

They shook hands on it, and Samuel's grip held a firm resolve. Then he clapped Roc on the shoulder. Thankfully, not the injured one, because Samuel had quite a wallop. “So, now, tell me this. You and Rachel—”

“There is no me and Rachel.” Roc gulped down the last of his root beer, wishing it was something stronger.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Samuel. Don't be naïve now.”

“I'm not. I know you two aren't married. But I see how she looks at you…the way you look at her. And if that ain't love—”

“It isn't.”

Samuel nudged Roc's arm with an elbow. “You don't look bad in that getup.” He grinned. “You gonna become Amish for real? I could give you pointers.”

Roc detected a teasing tone in Samuel's question, yet it jarred him anyway. “That's not a possibility.”

“Probably right,” Samuel agreed, his tone turning serious. “You know what would happen if Rachel married you, don't you?”

Roc chugged the rest of his root beer. It didn't matter, because it wasn't happening.

“She's been baptized, so she does have to marry someone Amish. If she married you, she would be shunned.”

Roc leaned back. “Then make that reason nine hundred and fifty-two why we won't be getting married.”