Married To The Mob. Ginny Aiken
though, wore an unusual gray dress with sleeves that poufed a little on the shoulders then snugged down to just above the elbows. The dress made Carlie think of something one might have seen decades ago, if not way more than that. The plain top had a flat-over thingy that ended at the waistline. A skirt generous enough for the woman to do just about any kind of farm chore came down to the shin, where legs covered with dark cotton stockings led to old-fashioned black lace-up shoes.
Mrs. Miller shook her head when Dan told her a gas problem had left Carlie temporarily homeless. “So sorry to hear,” she said, her voice spiced with a slight accent. “But please, make yourself welcome.”
Carlie was charmed, but she felt like an impostor, lower than a slug. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Miller. I do appreciate your hospitality.”
Their hostess smiled and gestured for them to follow her. “Come, come. Supper is served.”
“Pay attention,” Dan whispered close to her ear.
On their way to the kitchen, Carlie asked Mrs. Miller about the farm. She learned all kinds of details the woman gladly shared. And when they entered the enormous kitchen, Carlie understood what Dan had meant. A huge oak table filled the center of the room. Spread out over its surface was a feast, a banquet, a smorgasbord of sights and smells. Carlie’s stomach growled.
Dan chuckled. “Told you.”
“No, Mr. Close-mouthed Secret Agent, you did not. All you said was another of your enigmatic ‘trust mes.’ That didn’t even give me a hint.”
“You can’t fault a guy for wanting to surprise a girl.”
“You surprised me, all right.”
“This is Richard.” Mrs. Miller indicated the oldest boy. “Beside him is Jonas, then Ruth. On the other side, Rachel and Stephen…”
In minutes, Carlie asked and learned the children’s ages, where they went to school and their usual chores around the farm.
Finally, they joined the Millers, all seven of them, for the meal. Mr. Miller said grace in what sounded kind of like German, and after resounding amens, everyone dug in.
Evidently, Mrs. Maddox had let her friend know she’d soon have guests, and Mrs. Miller had put on what she called “a little more” into the pots and pans. To Carlie, it looked like she’d gone a whole lot further than that. A gentle prod with her fork broke the pot roast into tender morsels. Parsley and butter coated the potatoes, a colorful variety of homegrown veggies filled another third of her gargantuan plate, home-baked bread melted in her mouth, and cinnamon-dusted applesauce tasted more refreshing than Carlie remembered from her childhood.
“What do you think?” Dan asked.
“Wow! Nothing but wow.”
Just when Carlie was sure she couldn’t possibly swallow another mouthful, Mrs. Miller brought out two different pies. One was apple, and the other the well-known Pennsylvania Dutch shoofly pie.
“Which one?” their hostess asked.
“Oh, I’m going to try the shoofly,” Carlie answered. “I’ve always wondered what it was like.”
With her first bite, she fell in love, as she told her hostess, and thanked the kind woman for the best meal she’d eaten in years. Afterward, she insisted on helping Mrs. Miller and the girls in the kitchen, and when the last plate was put away, Carlie found herself more tired than she’d ever thought she could be. She yawned, and Dan caught her.
“Time to hit the hay,” he said with a wink and a grin. “Say good night to our hosts, Carlie.”
“Good night,” she said like a dutiful child. But instead of heading upstairs, where she figured the bedrooms would be, Dan led her to the back door. “Where are we going?”
“I told you. You’re going to hit the hay.”
The glee in his face told Carlie more than she wanted to know. “You mean that literally, don’t you?”
“Yup.”
“How can you do that to me? I’ve been shot at, bombed—more than once, I might add—burned out of my apartment, and now you want me to sleep with the cows? You never told me about the perks of this deal, Danny Boy.”
“Give me a chance to explain. Mrs. Miller didn’t understand why I wanted you in one of the older outbuildings either. But think about it. If your family’s pals follow us out here, and I’m not saying they will, but you never know, do you want to put the Millers at risk?”
“I never thought of that, and I should have.” She sent a silent prayer heavenward. “Thanks, Dan. I’m so glad you did think it through.”
Unless she was much mistaken, a hint of a blush warmed up the tan over his chiseled cheekbones. To her amazement, he looked embarrassed. By a simple thank-you. Go figure.
To defuse the awkward moment, she said, “Lead on, fearless leader. Where do you want me? Roosting with the chickens?”
He pointed toward the left field. “There.”
Oh, yeah. It was the one she’d feared he would choose. “Tell me why you decided we needed to occupy the frumpiest, dumpiest, most dilapidated pile of boards here?”
“Because the Millers are about to tear it down plus a couple of the other outbuildings, now that they put up the big red barn. If something happens while we’re here, I don’t want them to suffer any major loss.”
Again his thoughtfulness surprised her—for the Millers, that is. “Let’s go, then.” She began to sing “Away in a Manger.”
“You are just too much.”
She snickered. “Too much what? Too much trouble? Too much fun? Too much of a good thing? Or maybe too much effort?”
“No way. That’s the problem with you women. You lay traps for us guys to trip into. I’m not touching that one even if I’m drowning and it’s the only thing that floats.”
In a good mood, they reached the old structure. Dan held the wide, warped door open for Carlie. “Rich, the Millers’ oldest son, brought out some pillows and bedding,” he said. “You should be pretty comfortable.”
She frowned. “What about you?”
“I’m keeping an eye out for trouble. Naps in the car aren’t so bad.”
“Great. Another guilt trip. I’m kinda tired of all the extra travel you’re taking me on.”
“Forget it. It’s my job. I’m used to stakeouts.”
She tilted her head and gave him a long look. “One of these days you’re going to have to tell me all about being an FBI guy. It’s not your everyday kind of job.”
“Neither is being married to the mob. So once you tell me, I’ll tell you.”
Carlie held out her hand. “You got yourself a deal, Mr. Secret Agent Man.”
He gave it a brief shake then let go as if burned. “Well. Ah…good night, Carlie.”
“You, too.”
She went inside, and on a pile of fresh-smelling hay against the rear wall Rich Miller had spread out the bedding. At one end, a pair of fluffy pillows were piled one on top of the other. All of a sudden, the strain of the recent upheavals overcame her.
Exhaustion claimed Carlie. She plopped down onto her makeshift bed, pulled the lightweight quilt over her shoulders, and dropped off faster than she thought possible.
A while later, she woke up. She had no idea what roused her, but she opened her eyes, her heart beating a frantic, furious pulse. Instead of her cozy quarters, she found herself in Dante’s vision of Hades.
Tongues of flames licked toward the roof, the walls, her nest of hay. Smoke made it hard to see—worse, to breathe. The billows