The Search The Secrets of Crittenden Cou

Chapter 8




“Perry and I never had much to say to each other. I didn’t care for the way he treated Lydia or Frannie. He didn’t care for my opinion.”

BETH BYLER




The man with the ice blue eyes was back. During the last twenty-four hours, Beth Byler had been too busy with cooking and cleaning, answering the phone, and greeting concerned neighbors to even look up his name.

She should have been too busy to even realize he hadn’t been around. But she’d felt his absence in the back of her mind, part of her continually wondering when he would show up again.

And why he hadn’t returned.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, yourself,” she replied, and made sure that she didn’t spare him more than the briefest of glances as she kneaded bread dough.

But as he leaned against the doorway and slowly looked her over, she could feel his gaze as sharply as if he’d reached out and touched skin.

She really should have been infuriated at this blatant inspection. Instead, she only felt that crisp sense of awareness that had caught her off guard the last time he’d come to the kitchen. She darted another look his way.

He lifted an eyebrow. “So, how are you doing in here? Everything going okay?”

She knew he was teasing. She obviously wasn’t doing very well at all. Bowls and ingredients littered every surface. A dusting of flour coated the floor. Actually, she felt like she was covered with flour from head to toe. Making cinnamon rolls from scratch was not for the fainthearted!

And though Frannie enjoyed baking, it was becoming very apparent to Beth that she did not enjoy it. At all. Not that Mr. Blue Eyes needed to know that. “I am doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“You don’t look fine,” he murmured. “You look like you’re in a competition to see how much flour you can wear.”

“I am in no such thing.”

“I’m just teasing, Beth. You know, if you try to clean your area every so often, the mess is more manageable.”

“Thank you for the tip,” she said sarcastically. She was about to ask him what he needed when, to her surprise, he took his sweatshirt off and tossed it on a nearby chair. Then, just as if he hadn’t taken off part of his clothes in Frannie’s kitchen, he turned to the sink and turned on the faucet.

Now clad in nothing but another light blue T-shirt that made his chest and arms seem even more muscular, he grabbed a plate.

Embarrassed about her staring, and embarrassed about the mess, she snapped at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He paused. “This is called washing dishes. I know you may be unfamiliar with that task, but it involves turning on the water, washing things with soap, rinsing them, drying them with a clean dishtowel”—he stopped, raised an eyebrow—“and then putting them away.” With a wink, he added, “If you are good, I’ll give you some tips.”

So, he could give as good as he got! For some reason, that made her thaw a little bit. “I know how to wash dishes. It may not look like it, but I do. I meant, why are you helping me?”

“Because it looks like you need it. You do, don’t you? Or is someone stopping by to clean everything up?”

There was no one. No way was she going to ask either her mother or her sisters to help her at Frannie’s. Oh, they wouldn’t mind. They’d scurry over in a heartbeat, for sure. But they’d also have a jolly good time teasing her about her messy kitchen and her lack of baking skills.

She’d never live it down.

As she looked at Mr. Blue Eyes, and saw that his willingness to help was genuine, she came to a decision. There was pride, and then there was being smart enough to know when a kitchen had her beat.

And this kitchen had gotten the best of her from the first moment she’d stepped inside it. “I do not have anyone coming to help. And . . . and, I’d be much obliged if you would lend me a hand.”

“Was that so hard?” He turned back on the water and grabbed the bottle of dish soap from under the sink. With a few squirts, the sink began to fill with hot, soapy water.

“Yes.”

He smiled as he swished around the water with one hand, making the suds multiply.

“Oh! Wait a sec, would you . . . ?”

“What is wrong now?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

He turned to her as he turned off the faucet. “And why does that bother you?”

Was he really still not going to tell her his name? With a little vinegar in her voice, she replied, “For your information, I only let people I know on a first-name basis clean up after me.”

Their eyes met. He slowly smiled, turning an already attractive face into something truly handsome. “My name is Chris.”

It suited him. “Chris is a nice name.” Of course, the moment she said the words, she wished she could take them back. Were any names not “nice”?

His smile deepened. “Thanks. I’m kind of partial to it.” Then, like there was no need for further conversation, he turned again and plunged a bowl into the soapy water.

Beth watched him for a moment. Tried to imagine her brothers washing the dishes without a whole lot of prodding, but couldn’t do it. Her brothers never would have done something so thoughtful without a good reason.

As he continued to scrub, she turned her focus back to the task at hand: kneading dough. Moments later, she rolled it out for the cinnamon rolls. When it was the right thickness, she sprinkled the sugar and pecan mixture she’d already made. Next, it was time to carefully roll the dough into a neat cylinder, and finally slice off the end of the log into neat one-inch sections.

After about the third slice, she found a good rhythm. She sliced and placed the circles into the greased pans by her side. It was a gut feeling to finally be doing something right for Frannie.

In no time at all, she was finished—just as Chris was finishing up his third bowl and the last of the thick blue stoneware plates that Frannie was so proud of.

“The cinnamon rolls look good.”

“You know what, I think they might even turn out, when they rise some. I’m not much of a baker.” Feeling her cheeks heat, she said, “Though, of course, I guess you have realized that.”

“I’ve only been teasing you. I didn’t come in here to judge, Beth.”

She nodded, taking his words to heart.

Looking at the pans filled with rising sweet dough inside, he murmured, “So, are you planning to bake any of these today?”

She grinned, because Chris wasn’t even trying to hide his anticipation of a taste testing. “I’ll bake half today, and the rest tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe I’ll stick around, then.”

She didn’t know why that made her so happy all of a sudden.

Looking for something to say, she stammered, “S-s-so, did you come here for a job?”

“I did.”

Stung by his lack of explanation, she faltered, desperate for another avenue of conversation. She knew from babysitting a great many children that most men loved to talk about their work. Trying to be friendly . . . and yes, because she was a little bit nosy, too, she said, “And . . . do you think you’re going to like this job?”

“I hope so.” He eyed her again, looked like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to reveal more of himself or not.

“Is it near the quarry?” she pressed, remembering his early question about the quarry.

“Close enough.”

Oh, brother. She was just about to tell him that he could move on with his non-conversation when he said, “Listen, I know I sound pretty secretive. I don’t mean to be. It’s just that I don’t want to jinx anything.”

“Jinx?”

“I’ve been out of work for a while. So getting hired in Marion was a real relief. For right now, it doesn’t matter if I like my boss or my job. Quite frankly, I’m going to like being employed. Good jobs are hard to come by, you know?”

“Oh, I know that,” she said in a rush, now realizing why he hadn’t been more forthcoming. “My daed was laid off for three months last year. Him being without a job was scary.”

For the first time, his expression softened. “But he found something?”

She nodded. “He got on with one of the greenhouses in the area. Everyone needs help in the spring and summer. It was tough because he got laid off in October. No one wanted to hire anyone new before winter.”

“So he had no job during Christmas?”

“Yep,” Beth said, wondering how this man—this Chris—was managing to control the conversation again. He was telling her no information and she was practically telling him her whole life story! “ Now, about you . . . do you know what you’ll be doing?”

“I do. But it is sure to bore you.”

“I’m sure it will not.” Was he keeping his life a secret on purpose? “I find most things interesting.”

His lips quirked. “Have you heard any news from your friend Frannie?”

“I got a phone call from the sheriff. I guess they’re going to keep Frannie overnight again. But she will recover just fine.”

He looked wary. “Why would the sheriff tell you that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why is the sheriff calling you with updates for the woman’s injury?”

She relaxed. “Oh, you don’t understand how things work in Crittenden County. The sheriff is Mose Kramer. Everyone knows him. He’s more of a gossip than the sewing circle at the library. Plus, he knows it would be difficult for me to visit there. I have no car, of course.”

“Hmm.” Chris didn’t look very impressed, and she supposed he wouldn’t be. Describing Mose was a difficult thing, and she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

“Anyway,” she said, feeling her way around, now that he seemed so discomfited, “Mose said that Frannie’s eye is bandaged, but she should be just fine, and will probably be healed up by tomorrow. She’s only staying another night because the doctor didn’t think she would rest here.”

Chris looked at her with a steady gaze, his lips pursed, the muscle in his cheek tense. “I hope and pray that is what happens, then.”

Hearing the word pray set her at ease. “Are you a praying man, Chris?”

Just like that, his expression shuttered. “I am. At least, I used to be.”

“But not anymore?” She shouldn’t have asked such a thing. It was rude and none of her business.

“No. I’ve learned that prayer doesn’t always help.”

His honesty shook her hard. She, too, used to feel more of a connection with the Lord. But like going for daily walks or eating three servings of vegetables, her good habit had drifted to the side. Now praying to give thanks seemed like a lot of bother, as well as a futile exercise.

And now she seemed to only pray when she wanted something. Or needed something. Or was afraid.

“I notice that you aren’t correcting me.”

“I don’t know you well enough to correct you,” she said primly.

Something shuttered in his eyes and suddenly, he became more distant than ever. “You’re right.” Rapping his knuckles on the wooden counter, he said, “I should probably get going.”

Yes, she supposed he did need to go. To prepare for a job he wouldn’t describe, so he could go to a place he wouldn’t disclose. As he looked ready to run out of the kitchen, she blurted, “I thank you for your help. It was mighty considerate of you to give me your time.”

But all she got was a hand raised. It was a half-wave, a half-goodbye.

She did the same, half teasing him, just to see how he’d react.

But she never found out because he never turned back around.