She chuckled. “Yes. Well, I’ll pray for you on that one. He’s quite good at scaring off potential suitors.”
“Not this one. You’re worth the fright.”
Her pleased sigh carried a dreamy quality. “That was the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard said.”
“Don’t get used to it. I more often get it wrong than right.” The sigh he released wasn’t so pleased. “Speaking of getting things wrong … for now, we must stick to simply being friends. No flirting, no touching, and especially no kissing.”
“I don’t like it when you’re right.” She stepped away. “It’s probably best that you’re going home. I’m afraid I’ve lost my senses and need some time to regather them.”
“Be safe tonight, Lydia. It doesn’t sit well with me that you’re unprotected.”
The confident grin he was slowly growing to anticipate appeared. “Just because I don’t have a gun doesn’t mean I’m unprotected. Theresa and I have long had a plan for deterring and protecting against intruders. If Billy Poe tries to enter our room tonight, he’ll be unconscious before he can get three steps inside.”
“All the same, I’ll be praying for your safety.”
“And I, yours. You’re in as much danger as I. Especially if Billy Poe saw any of the last few minutes.”
She wasn’t wrong, and he dreaded that almost as much as leaving her.
CHAPTER28
SHARING A ROOM WITHTHERESAon the same night Theresa had witnessed Abraham and Lydia together served as a warning for Lydia to do better at hiding her budding romance. Theresa’s endless teasing and incessant desire to know every detail made it difficult to focus on listening for Billy Poe. The guest room shared a wall with them, meaning Billy could sneak into Theresa’s room by mistake. Not that he could get in unscathed with the ceramic pitcher strung up and ready to swing into his head if he opened the door. Confident in their trap, Theresa slept soundly—after she’d finally tired of making predictions about Lydia and Abraham’s future together. Lydia, however, spent the night wide awake, vacillating between euphoria and questioning her sanity.
How on earth had she gone from insisting she wouldn’t risk her friendship with Abraham to agreeing to a courtship with the man in less than an hour? Oh, she knew why—Abraham was the hero she’d never dared to write—but real life rarely lived up to fiction. And now she couldn’t decide if she was glad for taking the risk or if she regretted it.
If it worked out and they did develop that steadfast love her parents possessed, she’d be richly blessed indeed.
Already she and Theresa had chosen the perfect house for her and Abraham to live in. It belonged to their former tutor and had a room on the main floor that could host a ball, an office for Abraham to conduct his work, and plenty of space for them to raise their half dozen children. It was even the perfect distance between her parents’ and Theresa’s homes. They’d spent an hour imagining the quiet evenings she and Abraham would spend together curled up before the fire. She and Abraham would talk, kiss, read together, kiss some more, then enjoy a round of checkers before finishing off with more kissing. The kissing had been Theresa’s idea, but Lydia didn’t mind dreaming about it—even if she’d yet to experience the knock-her-off-her-feet variety that Abraham insisted existed. Yes, if this sudden jump into a courtship worked out, she’d have a life better than any romance novel.
But if it didn’t work, Lydia’s loss would be significant.
In all her years of measuring every potential suitor against her high standard of what made a hero, none had come close. Not until Abraham. She didn’t want what society defined as a perfect hero. Bulging muscles, fashionable facial hair, and classic Renaissance features—they disgusted her. Who wanted to cuddle a rock, get hair in her mouth, or marry a painting? No, Abraham was perfect. Not just in his looks, but more importantly, his character was everything she admired in a man. Confident but not arrogant. Kind even to criminals with welts on their faces. He cared enough to confront a friend when he saw them straying, but was humble enough to admit when he’d made a mistake.
Admittedly no one was perfect. She suspected a few of his flaws already. After all, he was very decided in his opinions and believed her romance novels twaddle. But courting and marrying her own Detective Darcy was a dream worth chasing, not just because he was Detective Darcy but because Abraham Hall was a man of flesh and bone who loved Christ, loved his family, and hopefully one day would love her too.
When Lydia finally did drift off to sleep, swoonworthy dreams of kissing Abraham and nail-biting nightmares of Billy Poe alternated, then swirled together. One moment she was anticipating a kiss as Abraham’s face neared. The next, a deranged combination of Marcus’s and Mr. Clemens’s faces laughed maniacally as the men wrapped her in arms that turned into rope. She struggled against the rope’s hold, kicking and screaming until finally her foot connected with something hard.
Pain in her toes jolted her awake. She yelped before curling on her side to hold the ailing little piggies. Apparently, she’d kicked the bed frame.
Something shattered behind her, and someone grunted.
Lydia shot up in bed and twisted toward the door.
Early morning light filled the room, illuminating the open door and a dazed Mrs. Hawking sprawled on the floor amid shards of ceramic.
Lydia scrambled from the bed. “Mrs. Hawking!”
Theresa followed, and they carefully avoided the ceramic field to reach the poor woman’s side. Blood trickled from a cut on her temple. With her eyelids closed, it was impossible to tell if her eyes had turned glassy or not. Was she even breathing?
“Papa! We need a doctor!”
Lydia knelt and pressed her ear to Mrs. Hawking’s chest.
Mrs. Hawking gasped.
“Praise God!” Theresa dropped to the floor, heedless of the danger. “I thought we’d killed you.”
“You’ll wish you had.” Mrs. Hawking pressed a hand to her head and groaned.
