A Christmas to Die For. Marta Perry

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.