A Christmas to Die For Read Free

wore with jeans, her hands clasped around the mug—she looked about sixteen instead of the twenty-nine he knew her to be. He'd done his homework on the residents of Three Sisters Inn before he'd come.
    "I think I do. You were being friendly, and I shouldn't have thrown the fact of my grandfather's death at you."
    "I didn't know." Her eyes were troubled, he'd guess because she was someone who hated hurting another's feelings. "We left here when I was about eight, and I didn't come back until less than a year ago, so I'm not up on local history."
    "I guess that's what it seems like." He tried to pull up his own images of his grandfather, but it was too long ago. "Ancient history. I remember coming for the funeral and having the odd sense that conversations broke off when I came in the room. It must have been years before I knew my grandfather had been killed in the course of a robbery."
    She leaned toward him, sympathy in every line of her body. "I'm sure it's hard to deal with things so soon after your mother's death. Is there any other family to help you?"
    "I'm afraid not." He found himself responding to her warmth even while the analytical part of his mind registered that the way to gain her cooperation was to need her help. "I hate the thought of seeing the farm again after all this time. It's down that road I was on last night, isn't it?"
    He paused, waiting for the offer he was sure she'd feel compelled to make.
    Rachel's fingers clenched around the mug, and he could sense the reluctance in her. And see her overcome it.
    "Would you like me to go over there with you?"
    "You'd do that?"
    She smiled, seeming to overcome whatever reservation she had. "Of course. We're neighbors, after all."
    It took a second to adjust to the warmth of that smile. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it."
    Careful. He took a mental step back. Rachel Hampton was a very attractive woman, but he couldn't afford to be distracted from the task that had brought him here. And if she knew, there might very well be no more offers of help.

    * * *
    The dog danced at Rachel's heels as she walked down Crossings Road beside Tyler that afternoon. At least Barney was excited about this outing. She was beginning to regret that impulsive offer to accompany Tyler. And as for him—well, he looked as if every step brought him closer to something he didn't want to face.
    Fanciful, she scolded herself, shoving her hands into the pockets of her corduroy jacket. The sun was bright enough to make her wish she'd brought sunglasses, but the air was crisp and cold.
    "There's the lane to the farmhouse." She pointed ahead to the wooden gate that sagged between two posts. If there'd ever been a fence along the neglected pasture, it was long gone. "Is it coming back to you at all?"
    Tyler shook his head. "I only visited my grandfather once before the time I came for the funeral. Apparently, he and my mother didn't get along well."
    From what Grams had told her this morning, John Hostetler hadn't been on friendly terms with anybody, but it would hardly be polite to tell Tyler that. "That's a shame. This was a great place to be a kid."
    Her gesture took in the gently rolling farmland that stretched in every direction, marked into neat fields, some sere and brown after the harvest, others showing the green haze of winter wheat.
    He followed her movement, narrowing his eyes against the sun. "Are those farms Amish?"
    "All the ones you see from here are. The Zook farm is the closest—we share a boundary with them, and you must, as well." She pointed. "Over there are the Stolz-fuses, then the Bredbenners, and that farthest one belongs to Jacob Stoker. Amish farms may be different in other places, but around here you'll usually see a white bank barn and two silos. You won't see electric lines."
    He gave her an amused look. "You sound like the local tour guide."
    "Sorry. I guess it comes with running a B&B."
    He looked down the lane at the farmhouse, just coming into view. "There it is. I