Santa Fe.
Caro pulled the quilt from its protective covering and slid her metal chair over next to the screen to climb on.
“Let me give you a hand.” Before she could say no, Zach had rounded her table. He took the end of the quilt, lifting it over the screen as she unfolded it. “Is this how you want it?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Now please go away, and let me get back to concentrating on the craft show. It wasn’t Zach’s fault that he made her tense up, sure that at any moment he’d say something about the prowler. Or the sketch.
He drew the quilt down behind the screen, and she smoothed it out with her hand. It fit perfectly, falling to table height in a cascade of rich, saturated color.
“That’s lovely, too.” Karen took a step back to admire the quilt. “Handmade. Are you selling Amish quilts, as well as your jewelry?”
Caro shook her head. “I just wanted it to give me a colorful background. My sister found a treasure trove of quilts stored in the attic.”
She started to climb down from the chair, and Zach caught her hand, steadying her. Solid, strong, like the man himself. He wouldn’t be a featherweight in a crisis, but she guessed he’d expect a lot from anyone he got close to.
“It’s a lot better than looking at cement-block walls,” Karen said. “Would you mind if I borrowed the idea and did something similar in my booth?”
“Not at all.” She took a step away from Zach’s supporting hand. She didn’t need support. She did quite well on her own.
“As long as you don’t try to borrow the quilt, as well,” Zach said.
His sister shot him a haughty look. “I happen to have quilts of my own. Although I’m not sure I have anything as fine as that one.” She fingered the stitches, so even and neat that it was hard to believe they were done by hand.
Quilts seemed to be a safe topic of conversation. “Do you know anything about restoring antique quilts? I found one that dates back to pre–Civil War, and I’d love to get it into shape to display.”
Karen shook her head. “Not me. The person you should talk to is Agatha Morris. She’s a local historian and something of an authority on old quilts and coverlets.”
“To say nothing of being the mother of Churchville’s mayor, as she’ll be sure to point out to you,” Zach said.
“You just don’t like Keith because he tried to get the county commissioners to cut your budget. And he only did that because you gave him a speeding ticket.”
Zach shot his sister a warning glance. “Don’t go around saying things like that, Karrie.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, in the inevitable manner of little sisters everywhere, and then nodded. “Okay. But how about my coffee? And bring one for Caroline, too. She looks thirsty.”
“You don’t need—” she began, and then lost track of what she was going to say under the impact of Zach’s rare smile.
“Cream? Sugar?” His eyes warmed, almost as if he knew he’d had an effect on her.
“One sugar. No cream.” If he kept looking at her that way, she might have to reassess her opinion of him.
Straight-arrow cop, she reminded herself as he sauntered off toward the food stand. Maybe he was one of the good guys, as her sister said, but that didn’t mean he could ever understand someone like her.
Zach hadn’t intended to spend so much of the day at the craft show. Usually he came by whenever Karrie was exhibiting, just to help her set up or tear down. Somehow today he didn’t feel like heading for home.
Ruthie was here, somewhere, with his mother. Mom had been teaching her how to crochet, and that had sparked her interest in Aunt Karrie and the craft show. Thank goodness his daughter had Mom around to handle the girlie stuff. He could teach her how to catch a fish, but he was pretty clueless in some departments.
He rounded the corner of the row of stalls and spotted his sister, leaning across her table to show something to a customer. Beyond her, he could see
Caro pulled the quilt from its protective covering and slid her metal chair over next to the screen to climb on.
“Let me give you a hand.” Before she could say no, Zach had rounded her table. He took the end of the quilt, lifting it over the screen as she unfolded it. “Is this how you want it?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Now please go away, and let me get back to concentrating on the craft show. It wasn’t Zach’s fault that he made her tense up, sure that at any moment he’d say something about the prowler. Or the sketch.
He drew the quilt down behind the screen, and she smoothed it out with her hand. It fit perfectly, falling to table height in a cascade of rich, saturated color.
“That’s lovely, too.” Karen took a step back to admire the quilt. “Handmade. Are you selling Amish quilts, as well as your jewelry?”
Caro shook her head. “I just wanted it to give me a colorful background. My sister found a treasure trove of quilts stored in the attic.”
She started to climb down from the chair, and Zach caught her hand, steadying her. Solid, strong, like the man himself. He wouldn’t be a featherweight in a crisis, but she guessed he’d expect a lot from anyone he got close to.
“It’s a lot better than looking at cement-block walls,” Karen said. “Would you mind if I borrowed the idea and did something similar in my booth?”
“Not at all.” She took a step away from Zach’s supporting hand. She didn’t need support. She did quite well on her own.
“As long as you don’t try to borrow the quilt, as well,” Zach said.
His sister shot him a haughty look. “I happen to have quilts of my own. Although I’m not sure I have anything as fine as that one.” She fingered the stitches, so even and neat that it was hard to believe they were done by hand.
Quilts seemed to be a safe topic of conversation. “Do you know anything about restoring antique quilts? I found one that dates back to pre–Civil War, and I’d love to get it into shape to display.”
Karen shook her head. “Not me. The person you should talk to is Agatha Morris. She’s a local historian and something of an authority on old quilts and coverlets.”
“To say nothing of being the mother of Churchville’s mayor, as she’ll be sure to point out to you,” Zach said.
“You just don’t like Keith because he tried to get the county commissioners to cut your budget. And he only did that because you gave him a speeding ticket.”
Zach shot his sister a warning glance. “Don’t go around saying things like that, Karrie.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, in the inevitable manner of little sisters everywhere, and then nodded. “Okay. But how about my coffee? And bring one for Caroline, too. She looks thirsty.”
“You don’t need—” she began, and then lost track of what she was going to say under the impact of Zach’s rare smile.
“Cream? Sugar?” His eyes warmed, almost as if he knew he’d had an effect on her.
“One sugar. No cream.” If he kept looking at her that way, she might have to reassess her opinion of him.
Straight-arrow cop, she reminded herself as he sauntered off toward the food stand. Maybe he was one of the good guys, as her sister said, but that didn’t mean he could ever understand someone like her.
Zach hadn’t intended to spend so much of the day at the craft show. Usually he came by whenever Karrie was exhibiting, just to help her set up or tear down. Somehow today he didn’t feel like heading for home.
Ruthie was here, somewhere, with his mother. Mom had been teaching her how to crochet, and that had sparked her interest in Aunt Karrie and the craft show. Thank goodness his daughter had Mom around to handle the girlie stuff. He could teach her how to catch a fish, but he was pretty clueless in some departments.
He rounded the corner of the row of stalls and spotted his sister, leaning across her table to show something to a customer. Beyond her, he could see
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