A Wedding at the Orange Blossom Inn(86)

“I . . . I don’t know which one you want.”

“I bet you do.” His voice turned teasing. Almost as if they were friends again. “Come on, tell me the truth, Darla. Don’t ya try to match the designs to the person buying them? I would.”

He was standing too close. She could smell the soap on his skin, feel the warm knot of interest that always formed in her belly whenever he was near.

She tamped it down and kept her voice polite and crisp.

“They’re simply stamps, Lukas. Just something to put on one’s bills.”

He stood up straight again, giving her space. “I suppose you’re right.” Staring at her intently, he added, “Some things just don’t matter like they used to, do they?”

Nothing did, but she didn’t dare go down that path. Some evenings it took everything she had to simply walk in her front door, bracing herself for Aaron’s anger and her parents’ absence. “That will be nine dollars and eight cents.”

He handed her a bill. “So, which ones did you decide to give me?”

She couldn’t play his game. It was simply too painful. She missed him, missed their friendship. But, try as she might, she couldn’t figure out how to move beyond the hurt. Unable to look at him directly in the eye, she pushed forward the birds. “Enjoy your day.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Darla, what time do you get off today?”

“Four. Why?”

“I’d like to walk you home.”

Spending thirty minutes by his side was a bad idea. “Nee.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “We could talk. Catch up.”

“Lukas, you came in here for stamps. Now you have them.”

“I don’t care about stamps.” He frowned at the sheet before him. “Plus, you know how much I hate birds.”

Against her will, some of the ice around her heart melted. “You are a man of superlatives. You always either love or hate things.”

Looking relieved that she was no longer glaring at him, he said, “If you don’t want me walking you home, how about I stop by tonight?”

Part of her hoped he would come over, but she was sure it would only open up another can of worms. “You canna do that.”

After shooting her a contemplative look, he fussed with the page of stamps resting on the counter. Far more hesitantly, he said, “You know, Darla, I thought it might do us both some good if we spent some time together. You know, like we used to do. It might help our families start to heal, too.”

She thought of her brothers and sisters. Thought of how stunned they would be to see Lukas, and how angry Aaron would be if he imagined Darla was renewing their friendship again.

“I don’t think you coming over is a good idea.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I’ve told you—and everyone else—time and again. Our family doesn’t blame John for the accident.”

She knew that wasn’t exactly true. “Even Levi?” His brother had made no secret of his suspicions.

He brushed the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow away impatiently. “You know his temper. Levi is looking for someone to blame.”

She did know his temper. And though she wasn’t afraid he’d actually hurt her, she was pretty sure his words would be just as painful. “He ain’t looking for someone, Lukas. He’s found one.”

Something flashed in those beguiling silver eyes of his, something that looked suspiciously like a combination of agreement and embarrassment. Neither made her feel any better.

“I’m sure he doesn’t really think your father meant to do anything wrong,” he said at last.

That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Her father had caused the fire. But her family, especially her brother Aaron, wondered if some standard safety practices had been ignored.

Aaron thought that the Kinsingers had been negligent in making sure the warehouse was kept clean and clear of debris. He wondered if, perhaps, they hadn’t been monitoring what was being thrown out into the Dumpsters. He said that the workers hadn’t been thoroughly trained about the dangers of the stain and paint thinner, but Darla thought this was a bit much. Their father had been a careful and hard worker at the mill for decades. Whatever had happened hadn’t been because he’d needed proper training from Lukas Kinsinger.

“I am so glad you, personally, aren’t blaming my father,” she said sarcastically. “Don’t you think we ever wonder how everyone in the mill is so sure that it was my daed who caused the accident?”

He drew back, standing tall and strong, staring down at her from his six-foot height. “What are you saying, Darla? That someone else tossed the rag into the Dumpster?”