Authors: Shelley Shepard Gray
Peace
For Lesley
Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him with his hand.
Psalms 37:24 (King James Version)
The best time to do something worthwhile is between yesterday and tomorrow.
Amish Proverb
Contents
The thing one needs to know about Crittenden County is that it ain't near as sheltered as one might think.
M
OSE
K
RAMER
Crittenden County, Kentucky
Blood was dripping onto the pristine doormat under his feet. As he watched one drop, then another, and another fall to the ground, then glow eerily in the reflection of the thousand white lights adorning the rooflines of the Yellow Bird Inn, Chris Ellis felt his resolve slip.
He should never have come back, and certainly not in the condition he was in. But here he was.
He peeked into the tall rectangular window that framed the front door, his fist hovering like a nervous hummingbird over the wood. Over and over again he would almost knock, but then a bizarre pang of conscience would surface and he'd stand motionless a little bit longer. Trying to persuade himself to do what was right.
Turn around. Walk away. Never return.
But at the moment, he wasn't sure he could take even one more step forward, never mind make a complete U-turn. He was dizzy, weak, sweaty, and hotâeven though it was barely thirty degrees out. Chances were slim to none that he'd even be able to remain in an upright position for much longer.
Besides, where would he go? Back to his beat-up SUV to spend the night in a vacant parking lot like he did last night? Somehow drive back to St. Louis? Lexington?
Not that he'd get very far in either of those cities. He was a target right now, given that the leader of the drug ring he'd been befriending had learned of all the questions he was asking Billy. All that mattered now was that he kept his cover until Taylor, his partner, could figure out what to do next.
So, where did a man who was beaten and bleeding go when he'd been working deep undercover for so long that even his family thought he was a person to avoid?
The only place that had come to mind was Frannie Eicher's Yellow Bird Inn. Frannie had a brisk, efficient way about her that he appreciated. She was the type of proprietor who would treat him with kindness . . . but give him his distance, too.
And he was desperate for a little bit of kindness.
But of course, even the nicest people weren't always understanding when it came to near strangers bleeding on their front porch three days before Christmas.
Before he could talk himself out of it again, he knocked. Well, he let his hand slip and fall against the smooth planes of the door. Just once. If no one answered, he'd go back to where he'd hidden his truck and drive away.
Almost immediately, the front porch lights turned on. Then a face peered through the window just to the right of the door.
But it wasn't Frannie. It was the one person he'd hoped never to see again.
He was still standing there, stunned, when he heard a dead bolt click, followed by a high-pitched squeak as the door opened.
And there was Beth Byler. His mouth went dry as his gaze ached to take in every single inch of her.
It didn't help that she was looking as perfect and beautiful as she'd been when he'd last seen her. Looking just the way she did when she appeared in his dreams. Petite and fine-boned. Smooth brown hair and bright blue eyes. Wholesome. Amish.
Chris fought to keep his expression neutral. Which was crazy of course. Like she'd care about his look of shock when he was bleeding all over the front porch.
Sure that she was about to slam the door in his face, he anxiously continued to look his fill. A man needed as many sweet pictures to store for times when nothing he was seeing was good.
Dim candlelight cast a mellow glow behind her. The scents of pine and cinnamon and everything clean and pure wafted toward him, teasing his senses. He reached out, gripped the door frame in order to keep from falling.
Blue eyes scanned his form. Paused at the cuts on his hands. At the new scar near his lip. At the way his right eye was practically swollen shut.
He waited for the look of revulsion that was sure to come. What kind of man let himself get so beaten and bruised?
“Chris?” she whispered.
“Yeah. It's me.”
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
He needed someplace quiet to stay until after Christmas Day. He needed an out-of-the-way place to hide out, to recover. To heal his body and his soul. To try to remember who he was.
He was attempting to say that, to come up with a way to convince her to let him in without making a big fool of himself or scaring her, when he looked down at his boots.
Noticed the blood again ruining the doormat.
“I'm bleeding on your front porch,” he muttered.
“Bleeding?” Her gaze darted away from his swollen face. Traipsed down his body. Down his jeans to his thick brown Timberlands. Then her eyes widened as she, too, noticed the blood dripping steadily on her doormat.
“You must come inside!” And then she snaked an arm out, tugged at the hand against the doorframe. The one that had been holding him upright and had stopped him from doing something foolish, like sway toward her.
She pulled him in.
Her slight form wasn't strong enough to keep him on his feet. Those three little steps took the rest of his strength, while the relief he felt at finding comfort sapped the rest of his energy.
“Beth, I'm sorry,” he muttered, as the pain and his clumsy apology got the best of him. He collapsed at her feet, no doubt staining her freshly scrubbed floor in the process.
Illustrating yet again that he wasn't the man he should have been.
“Chris!” Beth cried as he slipped through her hands and fell to the floor. “Chris?”
Heart beating so hard she felt like she'd run a mile, she knelt at his side. Looked at his swollen cheek, the cut near his lip. The blood on his shirt. “Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness! Chris? Chris, what happened to you?”
Of course he didn't answer. But when the cold wind blew against her cheek and threatened to douse the flame in the kerosene lantern behind her, she focused on the present. Quickly, she slammed the door shut, then carefully bolted the deadlock. Just in case someone was after him.
Like the last time he'd been there.
Now, satisfied that he was safe from the cold and wind, at the very least, she knelt back down by his side. His eyes were closed now, making his whole appearance shift. Until that very moment, she'd never realized just how much his piercing gaze affected her. With his eyes closed, he seemed almost approachable, which was laughable, considering how damaged his body was.
“Oh, Chris. What in the world has happened to you? What have you been doing since we last met?” she murmured as she reached out and gently smoothed back a chunk of wayward honey-brown hair from his forehead.
She'd last seen him almost ten months ago. She'd offered to help watch the inn after Frannie had had a kitchen accident and had to be hospitalized. During that time, everyone in the area had been under a lot of stress, what with a body being found on the Millers' farm. At first, she'd been afraid of Chris. She'd been half afraid he was one of Perry Borntrager's drug-dealing friends.
Then she'd learned that Ellis wasn't even his real last name. And that he had no intention of telling her what his real name was. Her suspicion of him had grown and warred with her attraction to him.
Only later did she discover that Chris was a good man after all. He'd only looked dangerous because he'd been working undercover for some kind of alphabet agency. What was it again? Not the FBI . . . the DEA! That's right.
But to her shame, even before she'd known he could be trusted, there had been something about him that appealed to her. She'd been drawn to him like a fly to butter or a moth to a light or a bee to honey.
And that, of course, had been a bad thing. She was Amish; he was not. She lived a quiet existence, spending most of her days either caring for her mother or babysitting other people's children.
His life was surely the opposite of that.
And he'd been stronger than her, too. With little more than the slightest hint of regret, he'd informed her that she should forget about him. That no good would ever come from a relationship between the two of them.
But yet, he'd come back.
Now he looked to be in terrible shape. Taking inventory again, she noticed that not only was his cheek swollen, but there were also cuts and scratches along his fingers and knuckles of his hands.
And that there was even more blood staining his clothes.
After getting the lamp, she knelt and examined him more closely, pushing herself to ignore everything she'd ever found attractive about him and focus solely on his injuries.
Remembering the pool of blood under his feet, she hastily untied his boots and yanked them off. He groaned as she gently pushed up his dark jeans, one leg at a time.
When she shoved the fabric up his left calf, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, just a man's finely muscled leg.
But the right brought a cry from him . . . when she uncovered a bleeding hole in his leg.
He'd been cut badly. But was that his only injury?
Leaning close, she pulled his arms from the sleeves of his jacket and tossed it on the floor.
Then saw the other woundâa deep gash at the top of his chest. So deep, the area around the cut was saturated, and little drops of excess blood pooled, then dripped to freedom.