The Days of Redemption
Page 67
“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 swaying toward her.
She pulled him in.
But even she 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. Sorry,” he muttered. Then the pain and his clumsy apology got the best of him. He collapsed at her feet.
No doubt staining her freshly scrubbed floor, too.
“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 on the kerosene lantern behind her, she focused on the present once again. 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 elements 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. Now, 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 brown hair from his forehead.
She’d last seen him nine months ago. She’d offered to help watch the inn when Frannie had a kitchen accident and had to be hospitalized. During that time, the whole area had been under a lot of stress, what with the body of Perry Borntrager being found on the Millers’ farm. At first, she’d feared 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 it 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.
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, spent most of her days either caring for her mother or babysitting other people’s children.
His life was the opposite of that.
And he’d been stronger than her, too. With little more than the slightest hint of regret, he 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 worse shape. Taking inventory again, she noticed how more than just his cheek was swollen, how there were cuts and scabs along his fingers and the 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. Pushed 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 . . . and the uncovering of a bleeding hole in his leg.
He’d been cut badly.
Leaning close, she pulled his arms out from the sleeves of his jacket. Tossed it on the ground.
Then saw the other source of the bleeding. He had a deep gash at the top of his chest. So deep, the area around the cut was saturated with blood, and little drops of the excess pooled, then dripped to freedom.
Desperately she tried to keep her cool. You take care of babies, Beth, she told herself sternly. You’ve nursed children through all sorts of illnesses. Even helped a boy recover from an emergency tonsillectomy when his father had been out of town.
Surely she could help one man seek medical help?
Carefully, she laid his leg back on the ground. Then, getting to her feet once again, she went to find the phone Luke insisted Frannie keep at hand for emergencies.
She’d just picked up the receiver when Chris called out her name.
“Don’t, Beth. Don’t call.” “I must. You’re injured. And . . . and you’re bleeding, Chris. Something awful.” When he merely raised a brow, she said, “Chris, this . . . this is mighty bad.”
“No, Beth. You can’t contact the police. Or an ambulance.”
“But you need help. You need stitches.”
“Then you’re going to have to stitch me up. You know how to sew, right?”
“Jah . . . but—”
“But nothing.”
But everything! She couldn’t sew him. “Chris—”
Looking weary, he propped himself on his elbows. Stared at her again with those unusual pale eyes. “Beth, no one can know I’m here.”
The agitation that had been teasing her conscience switched to fear in the span of a heartbeat. “Why are you here? Are you in trouble?”
“I don’t know why I came. I was driving and so tired. And then I saw the signs for Marion and I remembered the inn. I couldn’t go home. I . . . I had thought Frannie could help me.”
“You wanted Frannie’s help?” Oh, she hoped he wouldn’t hear the pain in her voice.
“Yeah. Where is she?”
“She went to Cincinnati with her husband. With Luke. For Christmas,” she added, somewhat lamely.
“So they did get married.” His voice turned soft.
She cleared her throat. In order to hide her nervousness. In order to hide the hurt feelings she was trying to conceal.
“I need to hide, Beth. Or, at the very least, I need to lay low for a day or two, until I’m healed enough to get away. Can I stay?”
“I . . . I just don’t know.”
He met her gaze again. Seemed to come to terms with whatever he saw in her expression. Then came to a decision.
“All right. I’ll go. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll get out of your way.”
The right thing to do would be to stand firm. To agree with that plan of action. She was only living at the Yellow Bird Inn in the evenings, as a way to keep an eye on things for Frannie. Never had Frannie imagined that there would be a visitor.
So, yes, it would be best for Chris and his blood and injuries and mysterious life to leave.
But yet . . .
“Chris, it’s almost Christmas.”
“I know.”
“Do you have somewhere to go for the holiday? Do you have plans?”
The look he sent her spoke volumes. “Not everyone remembers it’s almost Christmas, Beth.” His voice was gentle, almost as if he’d hated to be the one to tell her that for some people Christmas was only another day to get through.
It broke her heart. “No?”
“No.” The skin was white around his mouth as he struggled to his feet, obviously favoring his right leg. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
He was going to be alone. She knew it as surely as she knew that even after all this time, she still dreamed about him.
Still thought about him. Thought about what would never be. Except for this moment?
Before she could change her mind, she said the word. “Stay.”
He stilled
. “You sure?”
Her gaze met his. And in that instant, she knew he saw the tears in her eyes. Saw how vulnerable she was . . . at least when it came to him.
“I’m sure. Stay here until after Christmas. I’ll help you get better. I’ll sew up your wound.”
“No one can know I’m here, Beth.”
“Then I won’t tell anyone you are.” There. The decision had been made.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “Now, if you could, please tell me where to go. Because I’m afraid I’ve only got about another two minutes in me before I pass out again.”
Taking a deep breath, she wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him to the one bedroom on the first floor. Their progress was halting and painful. But finally they made it.
When she helped him lie down, he looked up at her. “Beth?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget about the blood. I . . . I parked in the back, near the woods. But you’ve got to check for blood. No one can see it. Do you understand?”
Then he closed his eyes and fulfilled his earlier promise.
He’d passed out.
And left her with a terrible load of problems as well a miserable trail of blood to remove. Why did the worst things always happen when Frannie was gone?
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Cover design by Mary McAdam Keane
Cover photographs: (man in buggy) © brt COMM / Alamy; (woman) © Kim Karpeles / Alamy; (landscape) © Konradlew / Getty Images; (flowers) © Mark Yokoyama / Shutterstock
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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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EVENTIDE. Copyright © 2013 by Shelley Shepard Gray. Excerpt from Peace © 2013 by Shelley Shepard Gray. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-220444-8
EPub Edition © September 2013 ISBN 9780062204455
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