She cleared her throat, debating if she should ask him to leave. “Thank you for the ride home. I’m really tired. I need—”
“Turn on a few lights. Change into dry clothes. We need to talk.”
* * *
Conner made sure the windows and doors were secure on the first floor of the bed & breakfast. After he checked the last window, he turned around, surprised to find Grace watching him from the bottom stair with a determined look on her face. “I’ll be fine. My sister has an alarm system.”
It made sense. Heather Miller, Grace’s sister, had been the target of a vicious stalker almost two years ago. Her ex-husband had escaped prison and found his way to Quail Hollow, where his former wife had hoped to start a new life. Thankfully, U.S. Marshal Zachary Walker had protected her, and duty had turned to love. Now the two of them were on their honeymoon. He wished them all the best. They seemed like a nice couple. He only hoped the challenges of a career in law enforcement didn’t wreak havoc on their marriage like it had on his parents’.
He cleared his throat. “Can’t hurt to check to make sure everything is locked up.”
“Was it, Captain?” He detected a hint of sarcasm in her tone.
He lifted an eyebrow and couldn’t hide his smile. Her cheeks were rosy from the weather. She stared back at him blankly. He could tell she was humoring him.
“Yes, everything was secure. Yet I don’t like the idea of you out here all alone.”
Grace’s lips parted. “You’re kidding me, right? Would you say that to a guy?” She glared at him, skepticism shining in her eyes. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need some big, strong law enforcement officer to protect me,” she said in a singsong voice.
Conner had to consciously will the smile from his face, not wanting to stoke the flames of her anger. “I didn’t mean to offend you. My job is to keep the residents of Quail Hollow safe. All of its residents, regardless of gender.”
Grace dipped her head and ran a hand across her neck. She had twisted her long brown hair into a messy bun at the back of her head. She had also changed into gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt with the name of a university emblazoned across the front. He remembered the story his father had told him about how Grace’s father had taken his three young daughters away from Quail Hollow after their mother was murdered. How different their lives had turned out. Grace would have never gone to college if she had been baptized into the Amish community. She’d probably be married with a few kids by now.
He shook his head, dismissing the image. “Are you warming up?”
“Yeah, let me throw another log into the woodstove. You said we needed to talk.”
“Yeah.” She opened the door and tossed in another log. The orange embers scattered and a new flame sparked to life. He feared if he offered to help her, she might bite his head off. She seemed the independent sort.
“How old were you when you moved away from Quail Hollow?”
She grabbed a second log and tossed it in. “Three,” she said, without questioning how he knew her background. That seemed par for the course in Quail Hollow, especially since he knew her sister. Grace straightened with her back to him.
“My dad was the sheriff when your mother...” He scrubbed a hand across his face. As hardened as he had become over the years, this felt too personal to casually toss out the word murdered.
Grace slowly turned around. “I didn’t know that. I haven’t done much research on my mom’s death.” She frowned. “I only have vague recollections of her. My memories are a blend of my own and stories told by my oldest sister, Heather. She was six when my mom died.” Then she seemed to mentally shake herself and held out her hand to one of the wooden rocking chairs in front of the wood-burning stove. “Have a seat. What did you want to talk about?”
“What is the focus of the story you’re working on? Why were you meeting someone at the gas station?”
She slowly sat in the rocker next to his and unwound and rewound the fastener in her hair, as if stalling. The skeptic in him wondered if she’d tell him the truth.
She stopped fidgeting with her hair, placed her hands in her lap and angled her body toward him. “My editor asked me to cover the underage party and the fatal accident. The image of buggies lined up and police arresting the underage Amish drinkers has been splashed all over the news. My editor thought it made a fantastic visual. Like two eras intersecting.” She held up her fingers in a square, framing the perfect shot. “Since I was already here recuperating from my surgery—” she shrugged “—it made sense for me to do a more in-depth story.”
“Your surgery?” Then he remembered their conversation at the gas station. “Your appendectomy.”
“Yes.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “I’m fine. I’m still hanging around as a favor to my sister, keeping an eye on the bed & breakfast.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the rocking chair, deciding how to phrase his next question. “Did you ever think you’d have a much bigger story if you covered your mother’s murder?”
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back on the chair. “I don’t want to dig into that case. I like to keep my personal and professional lives separate.” She opened her eyes and leaned forward. “Besides, that’s old news.” The haunted look in her eyes suggested otherwise.
Conner tapped his fist lightly on the arm of the rocker. The heat from the stove warmed his skin. “The case still haunts my dad.”
Grace let out an awkward laugh, as if to say, “Yeah, it haunts me, too.”
“I could set up an interview with him if you’d like. It doesn’t mean you have to do the story. Maybe it’d provide some answers.” He wrapped one hand around the other fisted hand and squeezed. “Truth be told, it might do my father some good to see that you turned out all right.” His father often talked about the tormented look in the eyes of the three young Amish girls.
“Has your father ever talked to Heather?”
Conner shook his head. “From what I gather, she’s forgiven the person who murdered your mom and has moved on. I’m guessing that’s not the case with you.” He wanted to ask about the youngest sister, but couldn’t recall her name.
She shook her head quickly, but he wasn’t sure what question she was answering. “My assignment is to write a story on the youth of Quail Hollow. The Amish. The drinking. The accident. Not something that happened almost thirty years ago.” There was a tightness to her voice. “I hope you can understand, Captain Gates.”
“Please, call me Conner. Otherwise I feel like we’re in an interrogation room.” He leaned forward and added, “I don’t mean to add to your pain.”
Grace smiled tightly. “No, not at all. That was a lifetime ago.” She was obviously downplaying her emotions, and he regretted bringing up her mother’s murder. No one ever got over losing their mother at such a young age. He still struggled with losing his mom, and she was still alive. After his parents got divorced, she married someone else and seemed perfectly content with her replacement family, never bothering to return to Quail Hollow.
He felt a quiet connection to this woman. Perhaps it was from remembering the impact her mother’s murder had had on the entire community. Perhaps from the pain radiating from her eyes. He understood pain.
“I’m going to lay it on the line. I don’t want you covering the story because Jason Klein, the young man killed in the accident, is—was—my cousin’s son.”
She sat back and squared her shoulders. “Oh... I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“My cousin and I were like brothers. When Ben, Jason’s father, was deployed with the army last year, he asked me to keep