Her Amish Protectors. Janice Johnson Kay
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told anyone yet?”
She shuddered. “No.”
He decided to ease into the personal stuff. “Will you tell me why you moved here, Ms. Markovic?”
That had her staring. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Was she really that obtuse? He studied her face and couldn’t decide.
“I’m wondering whether you left behind somebody who dislikes you enough to want to do you a bad turn, and profit from it, too.”
“Oh. You mean an ex-husband or something?”
“A stalker, anyone who feels wronged by you.”
She started to shake her head again.
“Have you ever taken out a restraining order?”
“No. Never.”
“Were you married?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been in a relationship that ended badly?”
“No. Really.”
He rolled his shoulders. “That takes us back to my original question. Why did you move and why here? And where did you come from?”
“Colorado Springs. I grew up in Colorado, even stayed there for college.”
Big change, Ben mused, to leave a town of half a million residents at the foot of the Rockies for Byrum, with its flat terrain and 3,809 residents. He’d guess Colorado Springs to be politically liberal, too, while this part of Missouri was anything but. Of course, he was one to talk, coming from the urban jungle of Camden, New Jersey.
Nadia drew a deep breath. “I wanted—I needed—” The words seemed to be hitting a blockade.
Once again, he reached across the table and took her hand, which felt damn cold in his, considering the air temperature.
“I was running away,” she whispered.
* * *
SHE COULDN’T HAVE just said, I needed a change? But, no, the down-deep truth had slipped out. Nadia wanted to bury her face in her hands. Except one of hers was engulfed in his big, warm, comforting hand.
“From my family,” she added hastily. Like that helped. There was no getting out of this now, even if her past couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the money being stolen.
“I...had something traumatic happen. I couldn’t get past it. I thought making a change would help.”
The intensity in his dark eyes made it hard to look away. “You wanted a peaceful small town.”
“Yes.”
“Surely there are nice small towns in Colorado.”
His speculative tone unnerved her. Evading the question wouldn’t be smart. “I wanted to get farther away from home. Everyone I knew either babied me, or they kept thinking of fun things we could do. And I know they were trying to cheer me up, but...”
“If I do some research, would I find out what happened?”
Had he even noticed his thumb was circling in her palm, which was way more sensitive than she’d ever realized?
“Probably,” Nadia said. “But it really didn’t have anything to do with this. I mean, the money.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched her. Why had she opened her big mouth?
She bent her head and looked at the tabletop. “It was a domestic violence thing I got caught up in by chance.”
“Not your family.”
“No. And...I have to tell you, I really hate to talk about it.” Even trying to get out of talking about it caused the memories to rush over her, still shockingly vivid, colored in blood.
He saw more than he should, because his hand tightened. Or maybe it was because in his job he saw the horrifying aftermath of similar scenes. On a swelling of remembered bitterness, she wondered whether he would have made the same decisions those cops had.
“Will you give me the bare bones anyway?”
“You don’t need to hear this,” she said stubbornly.
He waited, his eyes never leaving her face.
“I stopped by a friend’s house.” Oh, heavens—she was going to do this. “I’d obviously arrived at a tense moment. My friend—Paige—tried to hustle me out, but too late. Her husband had gone to get his gun. He shot all three kids, me and Paige. I...pretended to be dead. It was, um...”
Ben Slater made a low, guttural sound. The next thing she knew, he’d circled the table and crouched beside her chair. So close. He laid a hand on her back. Nadia was shocked by how much she wanted his arms around her, to bury her face against his neck, but she made herself stay where she was, focused on the grain of the oak table.
“Did anyone but you survive?”
“Their daughter. She was six. She’s seven now.” The little girl’s recovery was the only spark of hope emerging from the horror. “Otherwise...even he killed himself at the end.”
Ben breathed a profanity. “How badly were you injured?”
“I was lucky.” She touched the spot where she knew the scar was on her abdomen. “The bullet came at an angle and missed everything important. I bled enough that I guess my acting was believable.” She even managed a sort of smile.
“How long ago was this?”
“A year and a half. It left me really jumpy, and I had bad dreams. And, like I said, my friends and family were driving me nuts. Plus, I’d been teaching quilting classes and selling my own quilts, but also working for the assessor’s office. My dream was to have my own store. Property values and rents are lower here, so I could swing it with what I’d saved. And interest in quilts is high anywhere the Amish live.” She might very well lose her store now. The reminder was chilling. If people didn’t think she’d stolen the money herself, they’d see her as careless.
Not just people. Chief Slater. Of course he had to suspect her! Nadia couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized that sooner. He didn’t think someone from her past had pursued her here to Byrum; he needed to investigate her, and she’d just given him a jump start.
So much for wanting to sink into the safety of his embrace.
Her spine stiffened and she felt his hand drop from her back. “As I said, what happened is irrelevant.”
A flicker in his eyes told her he’d noted her withdrawal. He rose and looked down at her. “To the heist? Probably. But in other ways? Of course it isn’t.”
Pulled by the power of that velvety voice, roughened now, she couldn’t help but look at him. His eyes were nearly black, the bones in his face prominent, his mouth tight.
She swallowed a lump in her throat, and waited.
“Aren’t there a couple of other apartments on this block?”
He was thinking someone might have been awake to see an intruder. She wished that was possible.
“The one next door is empty right now. The florist went out of business.”
He frowned. “Right.”
“I heard a group of Amish furniture makers may have taken the lease. I hope so.”
“It would work well with your business,” he agreed. “And we don’t want vacancies downtown.”
“No. The next closest apartment is above the barber shop.”
Slater grimaced. “Lester Orton.”
Mr. Orton had to be eighty years old. He seemed to cut hair fine, and must handle the stairs to his apartment,