Her Amish Protectors

Just then, Rachel Schwartz appeared, hurrying from the direction of the bathrooms. She was another Amish woman Nadia counted as a friend. When she saw Nadia, she headed toward her instead of the ballroom door. Tonight she wore a calf-length lilac dress and apron of a slightly darker shade as well as the gauzy white kapp that distinguished Amish women.

“Have they gotten to Ruth’s quilt yet?”

“They’re bidding on it right now,” Nadia said.

A swell of applause coming from the ballroom made her realize she’d missed hearing a total for Ruth’s quilt. But the cashier beside her leaned closer. “Thirty-five hundred dollars! Boy, I wish I had that kind of money to throw around.”

Nadia laughed. “I’m with you, but what a blessing so many people who do showed up tonight.”

Rachel beamed. “Ja! Didn’t we tell you? Trust in God, you should.”

Her Amish volunteers had all insisted that any endeavor was in God’s hands. They hadn’t insisted the night would therefore be a success, which was quite different. They’d all worked hard on making tonight happen, but they were unwilling to worry about the outcome. If a thunderstorm struck so that the auctiongoers stayed home, that would be God’s will. A person couldn’t be expected to understand His purpose, only to accept that He had a purpose.

No thunderstorm, thank goodness.

But Nadia only smiled. “You did tell me.”

Rachel rushed toward the ballroom, brushing against a man who happened to be strolling out at just that minute.

He drew Nadia’s immediate attention, in part because of his elegant dark suit, a contrast to what everyone else was wearing tonight. The Amish, of course, wore their usual garb. Otherwise, most of the people who’d come to bid or volunteer were dressed casually, some in khakis, some even in jeans.

Along with being beautifully dressed—although he’d skipped the tie, leaving his crisp white shirt open at the neck—this guy personified tall, dark and handsome. His every move suggested leashed power. From a distance, his eyes appeared black, but as he approached she saw that they were a deep, espresso brown. And those eyes missed nothing. Nadia had caught occasional glimpses of him all evening, strolling or holding up a wall with one of those broad shoulders. His gaze swept the crowd ceaselessly.

She had yet to meet him, but another volunteer had identified him when she asked. Byrum police chief Ben Slater was a Northerner, Jennifer Bronske had murmured, as if the fact was scandalous. From New Jersey. No one knew why he’d sought the job here or accepted it when it was offered.

Apparently, Chief Slater felt an event of this size and importance demanded his watchful presence. Or else he was suspicious of all the outsiders. Who knew? She hadn’t had so much as a shoplifter in her store, but he might have been conditioned to expect the worst.

His dark eyes met hers for the first time. It felt like an electrical shock, raising the tiny hairs on her arms. Nadia couldn’t imagine why she’d responded that way. His expression was so guarded, she didn’t have the slightest idea what he was thinking as he walked toward her.

She was peripherally aware she wasn’t the only one transfixed by his approach. The other two cashiers were staring, too, although she couldn’t tear her own gaze from him long enough to tell if they were admiring a gorgeous male specimen, or frozen the way a small mammal is when a predator locks onto it. Nadia wasn’t even sure which she felt.

He stopped on the other side of the table from her, his lips curved but his eyes remaining watchful. And he held out a hand. “Ms. Markovic, we haven’t met. I’m Ben Slater, chief of the Byrum police department.”

She focused on that hand, long-fingered and powerful enough to crush a man’s throat—and she knew what her reaction meant. That was a spike of fear she’d felt. When she made herself accept his handshake and looked into his eyes again, she saw a flicker that told her he hadn’t liked whatever he’d seen on her face.

“Chief Slater. Several people have pointed you out,” she said pleasantly, suppressing her completely irrational response. The antipathy she felt toward law enforcement officers was one thing, this something else altogether. Although she had to wonder if he wore a holster beneath that perfectly fitted jacket. The sight of a handgun could send a shudder of remembered pain and terror through her. “Thank you for coming tonight. I don’t suppose you’re planning to bid on one of those quilts, are you?”

She was pretty sure he was amused now. “As beautiful as they are,” he said, in a velvet deep voice, “I’m afraid I can’t bring myself to spend thousands of dollars on a bed covering.”

“They’re more than that,” she protested. “They’re works of art.”

“I won’t argue.” His smile was devastating in a lean, beautiful face. “Unfortunately, I don’t spend thousands of dollars for wall art, either.”

“A Philistine,” she teased, even as she marveled at her daring.

He laughed. “I’d call myself a man who lives on a modest paycheck.”

She heaved a sigh. “Oh, well. I guess you’re excused, then.”

“What about you? I didn’t see you bidding, either.”

This time, she made a face. “I can’t afford what the quilts are going for, either. I do own several beautiful ones already, though.” She hesitated. “Actually, I’m a quilter. I donated one of the lap-size quilts that already sold. That was all I had time to do, what with getting a business up and running.”

“The fabric store.”

“That’s right.”

“Not someplace I’m likely to shop.”

She chuckled. No, he would be wildly out of place amidst the riot of color and femininity in her store.

But then she had an odd thought. The previous owner of her building had died in a fall. She’d heard a rumor that the police suspected the elderly woman had been pushed down the stairs, but rumors had a way of sprouting from the smallest of seeds. Still, even when an accident resulted in a death, the police responded, didn’t they?

“You must have been in my building before.”

His gaze became opaque. “I have.”

“Did you...know Mrs. Jefferson?”

“No. I was new on the job when she died.” One side of his mouth tipped up. “And, you know, she did run a fabric store. As we’ve established, not my kind of place.”

Nadia smiled again, but it took a bit of an effort. When she heard the rumor, she’d seriously considered backing out of the sale. She’d have been within her rights, if there was any real reason to believe Mrs. Jefferson had been murdered. That was the kind of information the Realtor should have disclosed immediately. But then she’d told herself not to be an idiot. The location was perfect for her business, and she loved the idea of being able to live upstairs from it. What, did she think no one had ever died in the town of Byrum?

But she heard herself say, “I came here thinking this was a peaceful community. Learning about Mrs. Jefferson’s death really disturbed me.”

More thunderous applause from the ballroom had the police chief glancing over his shoulder, but his dark gaze returned to her. “No place is completely peaceful, Ms. Markovic. Humanity being what it is.”

“I know that.” Wait. Was he confirming that awful rumor?

No, he was speaking in generalities, of course. And, no, she absolutely would not ask him what he thought about the elderly woman’s death. Since she went up and down those stairs several times a day, the last thing she needed was to obsess about the older woman who had plummeted to her death on them.

Or to think about how intimately she had seen death.

Nadia was rescued from trying to think of something pleasant to say by renewed excitement from the ballroom. Even the police chief looked around. Nadia noticed the third cashier hovering, the one whose seat she was occupying. A stream of people started out of the ballroom, so she stood and said, “Looks like it’s time to go to work.”

Chief Slater had stepped back, but was waiting when Nadia came around the table. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

She forced a smile and lied. “Likewise. Except I hope I never need to call you.”

“There are other reasons for two people to talk,” he murmured, nodded—and walked away.

* * *

INTRIGUING WOMAN, BEN REFLECTED, as he stood at the back of the ballroom and watched the last few quilts be auctioned for staggering prices.

Sexy woman, too. Hair as dark as his, white, white skin that would give her trouble in the hot Missouri sun and haunting eyes he’d label as hazel, inadequate as the word was to describe the seemingly shifting colors: green, gold, whiskey brown. And lush curves. The woman was built. Breasts that would more than fill his large hands, tiny waist, womanly hips and long legs that weren’t sticks. Scrawny women had never done it for him.

For just a second, he’d thought she returned his interest. But something else had darkened her eyes. Wariness? Okay, he was a cop. Some people reacted that way to him, although usually they had a guilty conscience. She didn’t look like the type.