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  Would Tyler come down? Thinking of him alone in his room, she'd suggested he join them for refreshments. He'd know when the business meeting was over, she'd told him, when the shouting stopped.

  Her committee members weren't quite that bad, but they did have strong opinions on what would draw the holiday tourists to spend their money in Churchville.

  She checked on the service in the parlor and walked back toward the breakfast room. Tyler was in an odd position here—part of the community by heritage and yet a stranger. He probably wouldn't be around long enough to change that. He'd sell the property and go back to his life in Baltimore.

  Hopefully he wouldn't leave problems behind in the form of whoever bought his grandfather's farm. The neighbors disliked seeing it derelict, but there were certainly things they'd hate even more.

  "Rachel, there you are." Phillip intercepted her in the doorway, punch cup in hand. Fortunately the cup made it easier to escape the arm he tried to put around her. "I wanted to speak with you about the Hostetler place."

  "So does everyone else, but I don't know anything. Tyler hasn't told me what his plans are for the property."

  "You know I'm all about the furniture, my dear. I remember a dough box that my uncle tried to buy once from old Hostetler. If there's anything like that left—"

  "You saw the living room. Most of the furniture is already gone."

  "I didn't see the rest of the house." His voice turned wheedling. "Come on, Rachel, at least give me a hint what's there."

  "Sorry, I didn't see anything else." She slipped past him. "Excuse me, but I have to refill the coffeepot."

  Phillip was nothing if not persistent. That probably explained how he managed to make such a success of the shop. His uncle had been a sweet old man, but he'd never had much of a head for business, from what Grams said.

  She snagged a mug of hot chocolate and a pfeffernüsse for herself, turning from the table to find Sandra Whitmoyer bearing down on her. As wife of Churchville's most dedicated, as well as only, physician, Sandra seemed to feel the chairmanship of the decorating subcommittee was hers by right. Luckily no one else had put up a fight for it.

  "Rachel, we really must keep our eyes on the rest of the shop owners along Main Street. It would be fatal to allow anyone to put up a garish display."

  "I'm sure you'll do a wonderful job of that, Sandra." She had no desire to turn herself into the decorating police. "I have my hands full already, preparing the inn and organizing the open house tour." Maybe a little flattery was in order. "You have such wonderful taste. I know everyone will be seeking your advice. And they've all agreed to go along with the committee's decisions."

  "Well, I suppose." Sandra ran a manicured hand over sleek waves of blond hair. She was dressed to perfection tonight as always, this time in a pair of gray wool slacks that made her legs look a mile long, paired with a silk shirt that had probably cost the earth.

  Glancing past Sandra, she spotted Tyler standing in the doorway. So he had come down. He looked perfectly composed in the crowd of strangers—self-possessed, as if he carried his confidence with him no matter where he was.

  She'd seen him ruffled at moments that afternoon, though, and she'd guess he didn't often show that side to people. The derelict house had affected him more than she'd expected.

  And there had been an undercurrent when he talked about his mother, something more than grief, she thought.

  Sandra had moved to the window, peering out at the patio and garden. "I suppose you'll be decorating the garden for the open house."

  "White lights on the trees, and possibly colored ones on the big spruce."

  "It would be more effective without the security lights," Sandra said. "You could turn them off during the house tour hours. And maybe put a spotlight on the gazebo."

  "I don't want to draw attention to the gazebo. I'd be happy to demolish it completely."

  "You wouldn't have to do something that drastic."

  She turned at the sound of Tyler's voice, smiling her welcome. "What would you suggest, other than a stick of dynamite? Sandra Whitmoyer, I'd like to introduce Tyler Dunn. He owns the Hostetler place, down the road from us."

  Sandra extended her hand. "Welcome to Churchville. Everyone is curious about what you intend for the property. Well, not my husband, of course. As a busy physician, he doesn't have time for many outside interests."

  Bradley Whitmoyer was as self-effacing a man as she'd ever met, but his wife had appointed herself his one-woman press agency.

  Tyler responded, politely noncommittal, and turned back to Rachel. "I wouldn't recommend high explosives for the gazebo. You wouldn't like the results."

  "I don't like it the way it is."

  He smiled down at her. "That's because it's in the wrong place. If you moved it to the other side of the pond, it would be far enough away to create a view."

  "Well, I still think you should decorate it for the house tour." Sandra put down her cup. "I have to go. There's Jeff looking for me. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Dunn." She nodded to Rachel and crossed the room toward the hallway.

  "Is that her husband, the physician?" Tyler's tone was faintly mocking.

  "No, his brother. Jeff Whitmoyer. He has a small construction company. It looks as if he didn't find it necessary to change before coming by for Sandra."

  Jeff's blue jeans, flannel shirt and work boots were a sharp contrast to Sandra's elegance. There was a quick exchange between them before Sandra swept out the hallway.

  Rachel dismissed them from her mind and turned back to Tyler. "About the gazebo—"

  "Single-minded, aren't you?" His smile took any edge off the comment. "It might be possible to move it, rather than destroy it. If you like, I'll take a look while I'm here."

  "I'd love to find a solution that makes everyone happy. Grams never liked the gazebo at all—she feels it doesn't go with the style of the house. But Andrea thinks it should stay because Grandfather had it put up as a surprise for Grams."

  "And it's your job to keep everyone happy?" The corners of his mouth quirked.

  "Not my job, exactly." Every family had a peacemaker, didn't they? She was the middle one, so it fell to her. "My sister says I let my nurturing instincts run amok, always trying to help people whether they want it or not."

  "It's a nice quality." Those deep-blue eyes seemed to warm when they rested on her. "I wouldn't change if I were you."

  "Thank you." Ridiculous, to be suddenly breathless because a man was looking at her with approval. "And thank you for the offer."

  He shrugged. "It's nothing. We're neighbors, remember?"

  It was what she'd said to him, but he seemed to invest the words with a warmth that startled her.

  Careful, she warned herself. It wouldn't be a good idea to start getting too interested in a man who'd disappear as soon as his business here was wound up.

  * * *

  Rachel did not like climbing ladders. Any ladder, let alone this mammoth thing that allowed her to reach the top of the house. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be another way of putting up the outside lights anytime soon.

  Grams had suggested hiring someone to do the decorating, but Grams didn't have a grasp on how tight money was right now. Rachel could ask a neighbor for help, of course, but this was a business. It didn't seem right if she couldn't pay.

  But she really didn't like being up on a ladder.

  She leaned out, bracing herself with one hand on the shutter, and slipped the strand of lights over the final hook. Breathing a sigh of relief, she went down the ladder. In comparison to that, doing the windows should be a breeze.

  Reaching the ground, she took a step back, reminding herself of just how many windows there were. Well, maybe not a breeze, but she could do it.

  And what difference would it make, the voice of doubt asked. You have one whole guest at the moment.

  Tyler had gone off to Lancaster this morning to see the attorney who'd handled his grandfather's estate. He'd seemed eager
to resolve the situation with the farm. Well, why not? He probably had plans for Christmas in Baltimore.

  Once he left, she'd have zero guests. There were a few people scheduled for the coming weekends, but not nearly enough. They'd hoped for a good holiday season to get them through the rest of the winter, but that wasn't happening.

  If she could get some holiday publicity up on the inn's Web site, it might make all the difference. Andrea had intended to do that, but the rush to get ready for the wedding had swamped those plans. And she could hardly call her big sister on her honeymoon to ask for help. They had already invested all they could afford in print ads in the tourist guides, and the Web site was the only option left.

  She fastened a spray of pine in place, taking satisfaction in the way the dark green contrasted with the pale stone walls. This she could do. Decorate, cook gourmet breakfasts, work twenty-four/seven when it was necessary—those were her gifts.

  Her gaze rested absently on the church across the street, its stone walls as gold as the inn. Someone had put evergreen wreaths on the double doors, and the church glowed with welcome. That was what she'd sensed when she'd come back to Churchville. Welcome. Home. Family. Community. She'd lost that when Daddy left and their mother had taken them away from here.

  She paused with her hand on the burgundy ribbon she was tying. Lord, this venture can't be wrong, can it? It seems right. Surely You wouldn't let me have a need so strong if it weren't meant to be satisfied.

  "Rachel, you look as if you've turned to stone up there. Are you all right?"

  She glanced down from the window to see Bradley Whitmoyer standing on the walk, eyeing her quizzically. She scrambled down from the stepladder.

  "I guess that's what they mean by being lost in thought, Dr. Whitmoyer. What can I do for you?"

  She saw him occasionally, of course, when she took Grams for a check-up, at church, at a social event, but he'd never come to the inn.

  "Bradley," he corrected. "I'm on an errand." He gave her his gentle smile, pulling an envelope from the pocket of his overcoat. "My wife asked me to drop this off on my way to the office. Something to do with this Christmas celebration you're working on, I think."

  She took the envelope. "You shouldn't have gone out of your way. I could have picked it up." She knew how busy he was. Everyone in the township knew that.

  "No problem." He drew his coat a little more tightly around him, as if feeling the cold. "I've been meaning to see how you're getting along. This is an ambitious project you and your grandmother have launched."

  "Yes, it is." He didn't know how ambitious. "But Grams is enjoying it."

  "That's good." His eyes seemed distracted behind the wire-rimmed glasses he wore, his face lined and tired.

  He wore himself out for everyone else. People said he'd turned down prestigious offers to come back to Churchville and become a family doctor, because the village and the surrounding area needed him.

  "I understand you have old Mr. Hostetler's grandson staying here." He rocked back and forth on his heels. "I suppose he's come to put the farm on the market."

  "I don't know what his plans are. Probably he'll sell the land. The house is in such bad shape, I'm not sure anyone would want it."

  "He should just tear it down. Every old house isn't worth saving, like this one. You're doing a fine job with it."

  "Thank you." She resisted the urge to confide how uncertain she was about her course. She wasn't his patient, and her problems weren't medical. She waved the envelope—no doubt Sandra's notes on the town brochure. "Please tell your wife I'll get right on this."

  "I'll do that." He turned, heading for his car quickly, as if eager to turn on the heater.

  Even as he got into his sedan, she saw Tyler's car pulling into the driveway. If he'd arrived a few minutes earlier, she could have introduced them.

  "Was that a new guest?" Tyler came toward her across the crisp grass.

  "Unfortunately not. That was Dr. Whitmoyer. You met his wife last night."

  "So that's the good doctor."

  "He really is. Good, I mean. He's the only doctor in the village, and in addition to carrying a huge patient load, he's doing valuable research on genetic diseases among the Amish."

  "I'll agree that he's a paragon if you'll come inside for a few minutes." He was frowning. "I need to talk to you."

  Now that she focused on him, she could sense his tension. Something was wrong.

  She put down the ribbon she'd been holding. "Of course."

  The warm air that greeted her when she walked inside made her fingers tingle. She led the way to the library, shrugging out of her jacket, and turned to face him. "What is it? Can I help you with something?"

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, frowning, and ignored the invitation to sit. "I saw the attorney who's been handling things since my grandfather died. According to him, your grandfather tried to buy the farm at least six times since then."

  She didn't understand the tone of accusation in his voice. "I suppose that's true. The neighbors weren't happy to see the place falling to pieces. It would be natural for my grandfather to make an offer for it."

  "It sounds to me as if he was eager to snap up the property once my grandfather was out of the way. According to my mother, he and my grandfather had been feuding for years."

  She planted her hands on her hips. There weren't many things that made her fighting mad, but innuendos about her family certainly did. "I'm not sure what you're driving at, Tyler. I don't know anything about any feud, but if it did exist, it's been over for twenty years or so. What does that matter now?"

  His eyes seemed to darken. "It mattered to my mother. She talked to me about it before she died. She said her father told her someone was trying to cheat him out of what was his. That she didn't believe his death was as a result of a simple robbery. And that she believed the Unger family was involved."

  THREE

  Rachel's reaction to his statement was obvious. Shock battled anger for control.

  That was what he'd felt, too, since the attorney told him about old Mr. Unger's attempt to buy the place. He'd hoped the lawyer would say his mother had been imagining things. Instead, his words seemed to confirm her suspicions.

  Rachel took a breath, obviously trying to control her anger. She held both hands out, palms pushing away, her expression that of one who tries to calm a maniac. "I think you should leave now."

  "And give you time to come up with a reasonable explanation? I'd rather have the truth."

  Her green eyes sparked fire. "I don't need to come up with anything. You're the one making ridiculous accusations."

  "Is it ridiculous? My grandfather claimed someone was trying to cheat him. Your grandfather tried repeatedly to buy his property. How else do you add those things up?"

  "Not the way you do, obviously. There's a difference between buying and cheating someone. If your grandfather thought the offer low, he didn't have to sell." She flung out a hand toward the portrait that hung over the fireplace mantel. "Look at my grandfather. Does he look like someone who'd try to cheat a neighbor?"

  "Appearances can be deceiving." Still, he had to admit that the face staring out from the frame had a quality of judicious fairness that made the idea seem remote.

  She gave a quick shake of her head, as if giving up on him. "This is getting us nowhere. I'm sorry for your problems, but I can't help you. I'll be glad to refund your money if you want to check out." She stood very stiffly, her face pale and set.

  He'd blown it. He'd acted on impulse, blurting out his suspicions, and now he wouldn't get a thing from her. Time to regroup.

  "Look, I'm sorry for coming out with it that way. Can we sit down and talk this over rationally?"

  Anger flashed in those green eyes. "Now you want to be rational? You're the one who started this with your ridiculous accusations."

  He took a breath. He needed cooperation from Rachel if he were going to get anywhere. "Believe it or not, I felt as if I'd been hit by a
two-by-four when I heard what Grassley, the attorney, had to say. Just hear me out. Then I'll leave if you want."

  Rachel looked as if she were counting to ten. Finally she nodded. She waved him to the sofa and pulled the desk chair over for herself. She sat, planting her hands on its arms and looking ready to launch herself out of the chair at the slightest wrong word.

  He sat on the edge of the sofa, trying to pull his thoughts into some sort of order. He was a logical person, so why couldn't he approach this situation logically?

  Maybe he knew the answer to that one. Grief and guilt could be a powerful combination. He'd never realized how strong until the past few weeks.

  "You have to understand—I had no idea all this was festering in my mother's mind. She didn't talk about her childhood, and I barely knew her father. I'd been here once, before I came for my grandfather's funeral."

  She nodded. "You told me that. I thought then that there must have been some breach between your mother and your grandfather."

  So she'd seen immediately what he'd have recognized if he weren't so used to the situation. "I never knew anything about it. My father may have known, but he died when I was in high school."

  "I'm sorry." Her eyes darkened with sympathy, in spite of the fact that she must still be angry with him.

  "My mother had always been—" He struggled to find the right word. "Secretive, I guess you'd say. After my father died, she started turning to me more. Change the lightbulbs, have the car serviced, talk to the neighbors about their barking dog. But she never shared anything about her finances or business matters. I knew my father had left her well off, so I didn't pry. That's why I didn't have any idea she still owned the property here."

  "I suppose she let the attorney take care of anything that had to be done. I'm surprised he didn't urge her to sell—to my grandfather or anyone else." Her voice was tart.

  "He did, apparently, but he said she'd never even discuss it. She didn't with me until her illness." It had been hard to see her go downhill so quickly, hard to believe that none of the treatments were doing any good.

  "What was it?"

  "Cancer. When she realized she wasn't recovering, that's when she started to talk." He paused. "She'd left it late. She was on pain medication, not making much sense. But she said what I told you—that her father had insisted he was being cheated, that everyone was out to take advantage of him."