Grasping the post on the elaborate Victorian headboard, she stood. Her legs felt a bit unsteady, but strong enough to support a trip to the door. Moving with caution, she worked her way across the ornate room, which looked as if it had been transported intact from the 1880s. She’d driven by the pale pink, gingerbread-bedecked B and B a few times since moving to Oak Hill from Nebraska, but she’d never been inside until now.
When she pulled open the door, Marge Sullivan, the owner of the inn, was standing on the other side. The woman’s attire of orange capri pants and a fluorescent yellow-and-pink tunic top edged with beads tipped Christine off to the source of her borrowed nightclothes. Considering they’d met only once, when Marge had stopped by the farm with a welcome gift of the B and B’s signature homemade cinnamon rolls, the older woman’s kindness was heartwarming. Even if her taste was a bit on the flamboyant side.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Marge asked.
“Improving, thanks.”
“Your color is better. That’s a good sign.” Marge gave her a swift perusal, her head cocked to one side, and nodded in approval before turning apologetic. “I’m sorry to wake you, but Dale stopped by to drive you to your truck. I told him you were still sleeping, so he said he’d come back in an hour. That was thirty minutes ago.”
With a frown, Christine checked her watch. Nine-fifteen. She’d slept for almost twelve hours!
“I had no idea it was this late. I’ll get dressed and be down in a few minutes.”
“I have some breakfast waiting for you.”
Food was the last thing Christine wanted. The pounding in her head had subsided to a dull throb since she’d stopped moving, but her appetite was nonexistent. Nevertheless, she managed a weak smile. “Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, after dressing and running a comb through her hair, Christine started down the grand staircase that led to the foyer of the inn, gripping the rail as she took the steps one at a time. She was halfway down when the doorbell rang, and Marge bustled out from the rear of the house to answer it.
Seeing Christine on the steps, the innkeeper called up to her as she passed, “Be careful, dear. Like everything else in this monstrosity of a house, those stairs are overdone. Extra wide. I’ve almost taken a tumble myself a time or two.”
As Marge pulled open the front door, Christine resumed her descent, now more careful and focused than ever. She paid no attention to the rumble of voices until she heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to find the sheriff taking them two at a time.
On instinct, she tried to back up. But her heel connected with the step behind her and she lost her balance. The sheriff skipped the final two steps and lunged for her as she wavered, his grip firm on her upper arms until she got her footing.
Even then, he didn’t release her at once. His steel-blue eyes probed hers, and a muscle twitched in his jaw as he inspected the discolored lump protruding from her temple. In daylight, and at this close range, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and a few sprinkles of silver glinted in his dark hair. There was strength in his face, and character, she reflected. The kind that you expected to find in an officer of the law. But she’d been fooled before. And she wasn’t about to repeat that mistake.
When she attempted to pull out of his grip, he shifted his attention away from the knot on her forehead, his gaze locking on hers.
“I doubt either of us wants to visit Dr. Martin again.” His voice was calm and quiet, but there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there last night. “I’m not sure what it is about me you don’t like, but I suggest you take my arm going down the steps so we can avoid any more accidents. Considering the size of that lump, I suspect your head is throbbing, and you’re probably not as steady as you’d like to be.”
For a second, Christine thought about contradicting him. But why argue with the truth? She would feel more secure with a solid body beside her—even if it belonged to a cop.
In silence, she slipped her arm in his, aware of the muscles bunching beneath her fingers and of the discrepancy in their heights. She figured he had a good seven or eight inches on her five-foot-five-inch frame. An intimidating size advantage. After reaching level ground, she broke contact at once and edged away.
“You’re early, Dale,” Marge pointed out. “Christine hasn’t had breakfast yet.”
“That’s okay. I’m not that hungry,” Christine assured her.
“Nonsense. You have to eat something. Dale, how about a cup of coffee and one of my famous cinnamon rolls?”
A grin tugged at his mouth, softening the tension that had hardened his jaw when he’d spoken to her, Christine noted. “I could be tempted.”
“That’s what I figured.” Marge tilted her head, her spiky white hair reflecting the rainbow of color streaming through the art glass on the stairwell. “Cara’s in the back, but she’s getting ready to leave.”
Without waiting for a reply, she led the way down a hall and into a kitchen that was as sleek and modern as the rest of the house was classic Victorian. Stainless steel appliances and work surfaces dotted the large room, and a red-haired woman looked up with a smile as they entered.
“Cara, this is Christine Turner. Christine, Cara Martin, chef extraordinaire. She serves gourmet dinners at the inn three nights a week. You met her husband last night, Sam Martin.”
The woman moved forward and extended her hand. “Hello, Christine. Welcome to Oak Hill. I’m sorry about your accident.”
“Thanks. It could have been worse.” Christine returned her handshake and smile.
“Marge has been telling me about your farm. I’d like to talk with you about supplying some ingredients for the restaurant,” Cara continued. “We try to feature fresh local products and I’d love to patronize an Oak Hill business.”
“I’ve only been at it two months, so I’m just starting to reap results. But I’ve got a good supply of herbs and flowers, and I’ve put in blackberries, raspberries and strawberries. They aren’t producing much this year, but I expect by next year I’ll have a good crop.”
“Where are you selling?”
“The farmers’ markets in Rolla and St. James.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you,” Cara observed. “I do some of my shopping there.”
“Enough business for today,” Marge interrupted. “Christine needs to eat.”
“And I bet Dale is going to mooch a cinnamon roll or two.” Cara sent him a teasing look.
“I’m not mooching,” he protested. “Marge offered.”
“Only because you showed up early,” the B and B owner retorted. Softening her remark with a smile, she tucked her arm in his and led him to one side of the kitchen, where a small walk-out bay window had been transformed into a cozy dining nook complete with an oak table and chairs. “Have a seat. You, too, Christine.”
Dale remained standing as Christine approached, taking his seat only after she chose the one on the opposite side of the table.
“Nice to meet you, Christine. I’ll be in touch.” Cara slung her purse over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers at Dale as she headed for the back door. “See you around, Sheriff.”
The plate that Marge set in front of Christine a few moments later was enough food to feed a sumo wrestler. A hungry sumo wrestler, Christine decided, as she inspected the intimidating breakfast. The huge omelet, bursting with cheese, mushrooms and ham, was accompanied by a generous serving of pan-fried potatoes laced with onions, plus a fresh fruit garnish. On her best days, Christine didn’t eat much more than an English muffin or a single scrambled egg. And today was definitely not one of her best days.
She looked up to find the sheriff