Her Rancher Bodyguard (16 page)

Chapter Sixteen

S
he'd held her breath when he first walked through the door of Duke's. And then she'd held it a little longer while he'd sat at the table with her brother. She'd wanted him to say something. He hadn't. So she'd laughed and talked with her family and pretended it didn't hurt.

It had been an eye-opening experience, though. In the five minutes he'd stayed in the diner she'd realized the truth. She'd been a client to him. Nothing more.

“Ten, nine, eight...” Next to her Brody was counting down.

“What are you doing?” she whispered. Jake was saying something about Sam and Remington and their lives together.

He grinned. “You'll see. Two. One.”

Boone pushed open the front door and stepped back inside.

Brody chuckled. “Known him all my life. He can't stand to be called a coward. And he doesn't back down.”

Kayla really disliked family at that moment.

“My guess, sis, is you're about to tell us all goodbye.”

“I doubt that. I ordered one of Duke's black and bleu steaks, and I plan on eating it.”

Boone crossed the diner, and when he reached their table, he looked like a thunderstorm about to break.

“I need for you to come with me,” he said to her in a low voice. Everyone was watching, though. Not one person in the suddenly quiet diner had missed the order.

“I'm having dinner with my family.” She managed to sound in control. At least she thought so. “And I don't like to be ordered around, Boone.”

He briefly closed his eyes. “Can I please have a moment of your time?”

“Now, wasn't that sweet?” Brody said. “I think you should go with him before he tosses you over his shoulder and goes all caveman on us.”

Both she and Boone gave Brody a look he didn't need interpreted for him. Kayla pushed back from the table.

“Five minutes, Boone.”

“Ten,” he said. He took her hand and led her from the restaurant.

They walked in silence to the park, Boone practically dragging her along with him. Christmas lights twinkled on the trees. A speaker played Christmas music. In the distance she heard a train. Boone still held her hand but his touch had gentled.

“Boone?”

Before she could ask what he wanted he pulled her into his arms.

“Don't talk.” His mouth lowered to capture hers in a desperate kiss.

His lips moved over hers and his hands splayed across her back. She didn't feel trapped. She felt complete. For the first time in weeks she didn't wonder. She only wanted. His love. Him.

His lips stilled but his mouth hovered against hers. She felt his smile.

“I missed you.” Finally the words she'd longed to hear. “I couldn't drive away from Duke's without holding you, without kissing you. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry.” She leaned into his shoulder and brushed her lips against his shirt. He smelled so good. Like the mountains and autumn. “I missed you, too.”

“How long are you here for?”

“Forever,” she answered, her face still buried in the crook of his neck.

“Forever isn't long enough,” he told her. “I need more time with you.”

“I'm not going anywhere. But what if—”

“No,” he said with a voice that shook. “Don't say anything. What I feel has nothing to do with being your bodyguard. It has everything to do with love. I love you, Kayla. And I want more than a few weeks in your life.”

She trembled in his arms, thinking about his words. Thinking about forever.

* * *

He hadn't planned to put it all out there. He'd gone back into Duke's determined but not knowing where that determination would lead him. He'd only known that he needed to hold her. He had needed to kiss her until the emptiness he'd felt since she'd left went away.

He hadn't expected that one kiss would make him want more. He hadn't planned on any of this, not really.

But she was in his arms, her eyes shining with emotion that he had to guess meant she felt pretty strongly about him.

And he wanted to marry her. He guessed it was way too early for proposals.

“Say something,” he whispered against her hair. “Don't leave me hanging, Stanford.”

“Kayla Wilder. I like the way that sounds.”

He picked her up and twirled her around him. It wasn't a proposal, but he knew when it was meant to be. He put her back on her own two feet and kissed her again. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, as if he was her lifeline.

“I love you, Wilder.” She whispered the words a few minutes later. “I'm so glad you're in my life.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Stanford. Because I plan on being in your life for a long, long time.”

He led her back into Duke's, back to her family. But this time he stayed. He let the Martin brothers tease him. He endured the looks from the women.

Kayla sitting next to him was all that mattered.

Epilogue

K
ayla walked out of the school on a sunny day at the end of May. She'd been a substitute teacher since December. Last week the school had offered her a permanent position as a second-grade teacher.

She had found herself in Martin's Crossing. She had a career she loved. She had a home, the cottage Samantha had vacated. Duke had given her a pretty bay gelding.

She had a man who cherished her. And she loved him right back. He had texted her an hour earlier asking her to meet him after school. He wanted to take her on a date.

He was waiting in the parking lot. Gorgeous. He was absolutely gorgeous. Even from a distance she knew she could drown in his espresso eyes. He had a dimple in his right cheek that she enjoyed kissing.

He smelled like mountains and autumn air. And in jeans low on his hips and a T-shirt that hugged his shoulders, no one was more gorgeous.

“You coming with me, Stanford?” he called out from the tractor he'd driven to town to pick her up in.

“I'm coming, Wilder.” She crossed the parking lot as he got down from the tractor to open the door for her. “My chariot awaits. This is going to be some date.”

“Honey, we do things right here in the country.” He winked as he said it and he climbed up in the seat with her. “Do not touch anything.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” So she scooted to the far side of the tractor.

Then he kissed her. “I've been waiting two days for that. You aren't going to deny me.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

They drove out to the Wilder ranch, cars passing them one at a time. He pulled onto the drive and through a gate. She remembered this field. They'd been here before. Last fall when he hadn't cut down the wildflowers.

“I brought a picnic from Duke's.” He pointed to the bag of carryout food on the floor.

“Sounds perfect.”

The tractor chugged along over rolling hills. When it got to that same back pasture, he stopped. Bluebonnets spread out before them, making a carpet of wildflowers.

“Isn't this something?” he asked. “They've been blooming for a while. I should have brought you sooner.”

“No, this is perfect.”

They climbed down from the tractor and he led her through the field of flowers and down to the creek.

“There's nowhere else like it.”

“No, there isn't.” She turned to look at the field behind them, captured in late-afternoon sunlight. The bluebonnets stretched to the base of the distant hill.

“I'd like to build our house here,” he said. The words hung in the air, like the sweet scent of wildflowers.

“
Our
house?” She looked up at him, sensing the moment, her heart skipping along in agreement.

“Yes,
our
house.” He spoke as if he was talking about the weather. She wanted to hit him.

“When would we build this house?” She tried to match his tone of indifference.

“We could start in a month or so and have it finished and ready to move into this fall.”

“This fall? But aren't you forgetting something?” she asked, as serious as she could be when she saw the teasing glint in his eyes.

“Have I forgotten something?”

She nodded, her breath catching as he reached for her.

His hand brushed down her arm and he took her hand in his. And then he went down on one knee and smiled up at her, that mischievous light in his dark eyes turning to something warmer and undoing her composure.

“Kayla Stanford, will you marry me? And live here in this field of bluebonnets? We could build a big house and fill it with pretty little girls and ornery boys. If you'll just say yes.”

He pulled a ring from his pocket and held it up, waiting.

“Yes. Oh, Boone, yes.” She pulled him to his feet and he slid the ring on her finger. “I want to marry you. I want to have a farmhouse and babies. With you.”

He kissed her then, and she sank into his embrace. She was home. And she couldn't imagine being anywhere but in his arms.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
THE AMISH MIDWIFE'S COURTSHIP
by Cheryl Williford.

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Dear Reader,

It is so hard to believe we've been in Martin's Crossing for over a year! Kayla Stanford, heroine in
Her Rancher Bodyguard
, is a half sibling to the Martins. She's a little lost but a whole lot determined. Her journey to Martin's Crossing and into the life of Boone Wilder and his family will help her discover her softer side. She'll find that there are people she can trust, with her life and her heart.

I hope you enjoy this addition to the Martin's Crossing series!

Brenda

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The Amish Midwife's Courtship

by Cheryl Williford

Chapter One

Pinecraft,
Florida
November

M
olly Ziegler gave the dust mop one last shove under the bed and hit a mahogany leg. Unexpected movement under the bed's mound of sheets and wedding-ring quilt caught her unaware.

She froze.

Something swung toward her head. Instinctively she launched the mop high into the air, warding off the coming blow.

The mop's handle connected with something solid.

A satisfying
clunk
rang out in her
mamm
's
tiny rental room. Her heart thumped in her chest as she stepped back from the bed, lost her balance and hit the floor. Her feet tangled in the folds of her skirt as she pushed away.

His dark brown hair wild from sleep, a gaunt-faced, broad-shouldered man gazed down at her, his dark green eyes wide with surprise. He dropped the wooden crutch he'd been holding. “Who are you?” His hand gingerly touched the bump on his forehead. His eyes narrowed in a wince.

The bump on his forehead grew and began to ooze blood.

He wasn't supposed to be in the bedroom at this time of the day. The door hadn't been locked.

In a stupor of surprise, she blinked. She had no brothers, and with the exception of her father who had passed away in his sleep five years earlier, she'd never seen a man in his nightclothes. There were dark shadows under his eyes. Thick stubble on his chin and upper lip told her she was dealing with an unmarried man.

Annoyed by his words, she scowled. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Cover yourself. There's a woman in your midst. You might be visiting Pinecraft, where rules are often bent and broken, but my
mamm
's
dress code is very strict and must be followed by all renters.”

“It wonders me why you're showing off those lovely stockings to a man if your
mamm
's
dress code is so strict.”

Molly's face burned as she swiftly straightened her skirt. She clambered to her feet, an already sour mood making her wish she stood taller than five foot nothing in her stocking feet.

She controlled the urge to stomp as she stepped away from the bed with all the dignity she could muster. Her hands brushed down the skirt of her plain Amish dress and cleaning apron. With eyes narrowed, she sliced the man with an icy glare. “My
mamm
and I run a decent boarding
haus
. Our ways are Plain, but we keep high standards.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you're a bit grumpy in the morning?”

Molly tried to ignore the man's uncalled-for comment and smirk, even though she knew he was right. She had woken up grumpy, her sleep cut short by Frieda Lapp's early-morning call and delivery of a beautiful baby girl, who they planned to call Rachel after John's recently departed mother.

She inched toward the closed bedroom door. Her
mamm
's
rule was firm and told to every renter who stayed in their boardinghouse. “This room was to be vacated by noon. It's now past one. Didn't you see the sign when you paid your deposit?”

“I saw the sign, but I made other arrangements with Mrs. Ziegler late last night. I'll be staying for several days, perhaps a month until I can find a permanent place, now that I've bought the bike shop. Didn't she tell you?”

A thick line of blood trickled down the man's forehead, threatening to drip on the bed linens.

He must be Isaac Graber, the stay-over Mamm mentioned this morning, and now I've struck him.

She turned on her heel and shoved back the plain white curtains blowing at the window. A crutch lay by her foot. She found an identical crutch leaning against the bedpost.

Molly dug into her apron pocket and pulled out a clean tissue and thrust it into his hand. “Here. You need this.
Mamm
won't want blood on the sheets.”

He pressed the tissue against the bump, then gazed down at the blot of scarlet blood. “You cut my head!” His coloring turned from primrose to a sickly mossy green.

“I wouldn't have hit you if you hadn't taken that swing at me with the crutch.” She leaned in to hand him a wastebasket and then stepped back fast, inching her way toward the closed bedroom door. The man behaved like a brute, but she had to admit he was an attractive one. She'd never seen eyes so green and sparkling.

And such thick, glossy nut-brown hair. Dark strands jutted at every angle in the most unusual way.

Molly realized he was talking, and she tried to drag her attention away from his face and back to his words.

“I was asleep and you startled me awake. You could have been a thief, for all I knew.”

“A thief!” She sucked in her breath and then chuckled. “That's rich. I was doing my job and
you
attacked me.”

He kept talking as if she hadn't spoken. “I grabbed the closest thing I had to defend myself.” He looked at the plastic trash can she'd placed on the edge of the mattress and gazed at her, befuddled, his forehead creasing. “What's this for?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“In case you vomit. Some people do when they see blood and turn that particular shade of green.”

“Green? I'm not green. It's more likely I'm red from all the blood.” He offered her the can, leaving his bloody fingerprints on the rim. “Take this thing away. I don't need it.”

If
Mamm
hears about all this, she'll rant for hours.
Her eyes glanced at the small alarm clock on the bedside table and was shocked to see that time had gotten away from her. It was almost two.
I'll be late for singing rehearsal if I don't hurry.

She snatched the can, her gaze on the impressive bump growing on the man's forehead. The cut was at least a half-inch long, blue as the sky and still dripping blood. “Does it hurt?” Her anger cooled and she began to feel contrite. “Maybe you could use some ice...a cloth?” She spoke softer “Maybe a doctor?”

He looked heavenward, rolling his eyes like a petulant teenager. “Oh,
now
the woman shows concern, and here I am thinking her a heartless thief.” He pulled the sheet up and covered his thin sleeping shirt in mock alarm.

“Think what you will. Men usually do. Now, do you want a damp cloth or not, because I'm busy and don't have time for this foolishness.”

“A cloth would be good if you're not too busy.”

His sarcasm didn't go unnoticed. Her bad mood darkened. She grumbled to herself as she went into the old-fashioned, minuscule bathroom just off the bedroom. She didn't resent being told to clean the sparsely furnished back bedrooms when their last two renters left, but she'd already had her day planned.

She was used to hard work during their peak winter season, but holding down a job at the local café as a waitress and birthing babies as the local midwife kept her busy. Sometimes too busy. She liked the whirl of her demanding life, but she did resent her
mamm
's
attitude. Just because she was still single didn't mean she didn't have anything better to do on her day off than mop floors and strip down beds. She'd miss singing practice again this afternoon thanks to her
mamm
's
unreasonable demands on her time.

Her lip curled in an angry snarl as she pushed back a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, then ran a clean washcloth under cold running water.

Lifting her head, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and scowled. Dishwater blonde hair that had been neatly pulled back in a tight bun now ran riot around her head. Remembering the renter's good looks, her cheeks flushed pink. What must he think of her appearance?

Her brown eyes flashing with frustration, she looked away, reprimanding herself for behaving like the frustrated twenty-year-old spinster she was.

With a jerk, she tugged her prayer
kapp
back into place and then squeezed the water out of the cloth. She was in enough trouble for hitting the man. Now wasn't the time to start ogling the guests and worrying about how she looked. The sin of vanity brought only strife into the life of a Plain person. She had to pull herself together.

The worn but well-polished hardwood floor squeaked as she hurried back to the bedroom and handed the cloth to the man. Their hands touched and she pulled away, not about to admit she felt anything.

But she had.

He ran his fingers through the dark spikes on his head and brought a semblance of order to his wild hair before wiping at the cut above his eyebrow.

“Here, let me do that. All you're doing is making it bleed again.” Forgetting her own stringent proprieties, Molly moved to the bed, pulled her full skirt under her and sat as far away from him as she could and still touch him. She jerked the cloth from his fingers before he could object and dabbed lightly around the seeping wound.

“A butterfly bandage should take care of any further bleeding and keep the wound from scarring,” she said. “The bandages and antibiotic cream are in the kitchen. I'll be right back.”

She ran for the door, then skidded to a halt. “While I'm gone, please get out of bed and put on proper clothing.” She bounded away, her skirt swirling around her legs as she hopped over the trash can and slipped out, letting the bedroom door bang behind her.

* * *

Isaac Graber's head hurt. He wiped the sticky blood off his fingers with the damp cloth the petite blonde-haired housekeeper had left behind and found himself smiling, something he hadn't done since the accident and his painful recovery.

The tiny woman had put him through sheer misery trying to keep up with her rapid-fire conversation. She taxed his patience and his temper, but he couldn't wait for her to come back into the room.

With a tug, he threw back the tangled covers and slid out of bed. The same white-hot agony that kept him up most nights stabbed down his leg. Angry red lines of surgical stitching laced up the puckered skin near his left knee and calf, his leg pale where the cast had covered it for several months.

He struggled to get into a pair of clean but well-worn trousers and a wrinkled long-sleeved cotton shirt he'd pulled from his suitcase, and then put on a fresh pair of socks and his scuffed boots, as he tried to forget the fresh ache in his head.

He'd taken his last pain medicine in Missouri, weeks before, and now had nothing to dull the ache in his leg or his heart. Not that he deserved the mind-numbing pills that helped him forget what he'd done and the tragedy he had rained down on his best friend's family.

Isaac dropped his chin to his chest and forced himself to breath slowly. He shouldn't have been driving that day, especially since the country road was slick after a sudden hard rain. He had no license. No insurance. Someone else could have taken Thomas home from the multi-church frolic when he'd wrenched his ankle. Why had he offered to drive? It wasn't like him to break Amish
laws, even if Thomas's ankle was swollen after the rough game of volleyball.

With his eyes squeezed shut, his mind went back to the horrific day. The memory of Thomas lying on the ground next to him was seared in his mind.

The first police officer at the scene had assumed Thomas, who was Mennonite, had been driving. In shock and bleeding profusely, Isaac had been too confused to speak. He'd been rushed to the hospital and then into surgery.

But days later, when his thoughts had cleared, he'd heard the police were blaming the dead-drunk man in the other vehicle for the accident. Isaac knew they were wrong. Surely he was the one at fault and needed to make it right.

In the hospital, Isaac had confessed everything that day to his
daed
, but his father
had railed at him, “We are Amish and will manage our own problems. You are to ask
Gott
for forgiveness and then be silent. I will not have the truth known to this community just to make you feel less guilty. Nothing can be gained by your confession. It was
Gott
's
will that Thomas die. You are to keep all this to yourself, do you hear, Isaac? You must tell no one. The shame you carry is yours, and yours alone. It is
Gott
's
punishment. You must learn to live with it. Your
mamm
and I will not be held up to ridicule because of your foolish choices. This kind of shame could kill your
mamm
. You know her heart is weak.”

And like the coward he was, he'd run to Pinecraft, desperate to get away from his
daed
's
angry words, his mother's looks of shame. Isaac would spend the rest of his life dealing with things he could not change.

His hands braced against his legs, he looked down at his scuffed brown boots, at the crutch at his feet. He deserved to be crippled. If the police in Pinecraft ever found out the truth, he knew he'd be arrested, thrown into an
Englischer
jail for the rest of his life.

He rubbed the taunt muscle cramping in his leg.
Gott
was right to punish him for his foolish choices.

He smoothed down his trouser leg, covering the scar. Fatigue overwhelmed him. His guilt robbed him of sleep. He and Thomas had both died that day, but he knew he had to go on living.

A ridge of stitched skin under the trouser leg sent pain burning into his calf. No more
Englischer
doctors for him. All they wanted was to make him whole again. He didn't deserve to be free of pain. The doctors in Missouri should have let him die.

He'd have to find a way to deal with the ache in his heart, his guilt and the odd way he was forced to walk. Let people stare. He didn't care anymore. Nothing mattered. Thomas was dead.

The housemaid came swinging back into the room with a tray of bandages, a bottle of aspirin and bowl of water. A steaming mug of black coffee sat in the middle of her clutter
.