Mountain Hostage

by Hope White

  But nothing was going the way she had planned tonight, for the upstairs bedroom in the far right corner lit up as a lantern’s flame burned bright.

  The gunshots had awoken her father.

  More shots rang out behind her, and Grace began to run even before she stood up completely. She had to get to him before these men did. Nothing could stop her, not even the blasts behind her.

  With her head bent low, she scrunched up her long dress and apron in her hands and ran all the way to the porch stairs. Tiny rocks flew up with each step and hit the backs of her calves. The hard wooden boards of the stairs scraped her bare feet when she reached them and took them two at a time. The door beckoned; she was almost there. But just as she reached the door, it swung wide and Benjamin Miller blocked her way.

  Grace barreled into her father’s chest with a loud oof. “Daed! Get down!” she gasped. She tried to push him back.

  “Intruder!” her father hollered. Anger filled his face as he stared at her.

  Tears of fear filled Grace’s eyes. “Please, Daed. Get back inside.” She pushed on his chest with all her might, but even in his weakened condition she couldn’t budge him.

  He leaned close and yelled in her face, “Intruder! Get off my land!”

  Grace wanted to cry at his lapse of memory of her, but then another gunshot went off behind her. Desperate, she grabbed her daed’s bearded face and forced him to look into her eyes. “Daedi, it’s me, ya? It’s your Grace. Your daughter.” She willed him to see her, rising up on her tiptoes to get closer.

  “Was ist letz?” Benjamin Miller squinted at her in a fogged state. “Grace?”

  “Ya, it’s Grace. Komm. We have to get inside.” She pushed him again, and this time he allowed her to steer him backward into the safety of their home. Grace slammed the door behind them just as another shot rang out in what had become a nightmare of a night.

  But this wasn’t a dream Grace could wake up from. Just like her father’s illness, it was a trial she would have to face head-on—and alone.

  * * *

  Jack Kaufman held his gun close and ready to fire again. A simple arrest for a horse theft had turned dangerous. As an FBI special agent, he was put on this case when an anonymous caller from the local racetrack reported a stolen horse. A little digging and Jack found the missing thoroughbred at an overseas illegal betting operation. The transporting of the animal across borders brought the theft into his jurisdiction, so here he was in a sleepy little Kentucky town planning to close this case tonight. He had hoped to make his arrest and get back to fighting some tougher crimes.

  Boy, did I misjudge that.

  Never had he thought he would walk straight into a shootout on an Amish farm. He also never thought a pretty Amish woman would be involved. Any Amish, for that matter.

  “Never a dull moment on this job,” he mumbled, and scanned the tree line for the gunman who had nearly taken him out, back in the barn. He grimaced at how close he had come to lights out. A glance in the direction of the farmhouse had Jack wondering if the woman had fared as well. He shouldn’t care, since it was her partner who could have killed him. Whether she was hurt or not, he would deal with her after he apprehended the shooter.

  He shifted position to behind the outhouse, closer to the forest. No shot went off, and he wondered if the guy was long gone. Jack silently scoffed at the idea of the woman teaming up with this bad guy with a gun. No Amish person he’d ever known dealt with guns. He hoped he lived to find out her reason, and it better be good.

  For now, he had to figure out if the shooter was still out there gunning for him.

  Jack crouched low and patted the ground with his free hand, still holding his gun at the ready. His fingers brushed against hard dirt. He stretched farther until he felt a rock. Throwing it might expose his body to the shooter more than he wanted, but it would be worth the risk if an ensuing gunshot determined the guy’s position.

  He located two good-sized stones, and after tucking one in his jeans pocket, he searched for a safe place to throw the other, one where a bullet wouldn’t hit anyone. A shadowed clearing near more trees and the towering cliff seemed to be the best.

  In as silent a motion as he could manage, Jack hurled the rock toward the clearing and quickly stepped back into the protection of the small structure. He listened for the smack and roll of the rock against the hard earth. Then he braced for the reaction.

  Nothing.

  Seconds ticked into minutes before he tried again, with the second stone.

  When only the silence of the night followed, he figured his shooter had hightailed it out of here.

  For now.

  The man would be back for the horse that the woman had stolen for him that day at the racetrack. Earlier, at the Autumn Woods Ranch and Racetrack, Jack had watched her tie the horse to her buggy and drive away without anyone realizing she had just stolen a thoroughbred right out from under their noses.

  No one suspected the thief to be a pretty, demure Amish woman. But her little conniving and criminal operation would end tonight—before someone did get killed.

  This woman had no idea who she was in cahoots with. They would surely kill her when they had no more use for her. She had to be ferhoodled if she thought otherwise.

  Jack snickered at his use of a word he hadn’t uttered for nearly eight years. Not since his Amish days before—

  He pushed the thought away and made his way back to the barn. His path was now clear to get the horse he was here to collect.

  Right inside the door, he located a lantern, and soon had it lit and burning. Some things were like riding a bicycle, even the bicycles he hadn’t been allowed to ride back where he had lived. Most Amish communities felt the commercially produced bicycles were too worldly and too fast, and opted instead for simple, two-wheeled scooters they could stand on.

  Either way, those days were long gone and would never return, if he had something to say about it.

  Jack held the lantern high to peruse the individual stalls. He counted three horses. One had to be the horse the woman had stolen earlier from the track. Were the others also stolen thoroughbreds? Just how deep was she into this heist? How many more had she taken and sold before someone realized?

  The dim light showed each animal was a beautiful creature. The trader knew how to pick a good horse.

  Or steal one.

  “Hey there,” Jack said in a soothing tone, so as not to spook the creature he approached first. He lifted his free hand to caress the side of the horse’s head and was greeted with a soft snicker. “That’s it. Just let me see your lip.”

  Jack lifted the equine’s upper lip to reveal the permanent identification number tattooed above the row of teeth.

  Not one of the numbers he was looking for. Not even the right kind of horse.

  This was a standardbred, not one of the stolen thoroughbreds.

  Jack took his lantern to the next stall and repeated the routine. This horse also allowed him access without a snub.

  And proved to not be the stolen property.

  A niggling doubt crept into his mind. Had he been wrong about the woman? Maybe he had missed the real thief because she had caught his eye for some reason.

  Jack chided himself for thinking such a thing. An Amish woman was not for him. No woman was while he was on the case.

  But he had to admit to himself that Grace Miller was a beautiful woman. Her hair matched the stunning chestnut color of the horse before him, but it was her wide blue eyes that drew attention to her pretty face. Why she wasn’t already married was beyond him. Most Amish couples settled down at a young age. She had to be nearing twenty-five. So what happened?

  “None of my concern,” he muttered, answering his own wandering thoughts. He focused on the task at hand. Finding the thief.

  Jack moved to the last horse in the barn and stopped short.
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br />   “I think we have a winner,” he whispered, and paused to observe the stoic horseflesh before him. Even before Jack held out a hand to touch the smooth, sleek neck of the animal, he knew he was looking at a thoroughbred. This one demanded respect just with the tilt of his head. His coat rippled with tension. “I know it was loud in here tonight,” Jack said, speaking with reverence. “But you’ll be home in your own stall soon. I promise.”

  Jack eased his hand slowly toward the muzzle and was glad when the horse deemed him worthy to touch him further. A quick lift of the lip revealed the correct numbers and letter configuration he’d been looking for.

  Jack let the horse go and stepped back. A growing disappointment percolated through him. A glance in the direction of the house was followed by a frown. “And someone else will be getting a stall tonight. But hers will be at the county’s holding cell.”

  Jack put the lantern up on the ledge of the stall and grabbed some tack. He opened the door and slowly approached the equine with palms up. The horse stepped back, but only once. Jack secured the lead quickly and had him out of the stall and the barn within moments.

  Jack’s waiting truck and trailer were hidden at the end of the drive, as he hadn’t wanted to reveal his presence until he knew if the stolen horse was really here. He needed to call his supervisor and relay the events, but until any other missing horses were found, Jack wanted to wait. His best course of action would be to bring the woman in and get her to talk about their whereabouts.

  Jack brought the horse to the trailer and loaded him up. He moved his truck to the house and prepared to make his arrest. Sitting behind the wheel here in the farmyard reminded him how different his current life was from his past.

  But once he entered the farmhouse, how much of his past would come back? He wanted none of it.

  After locking the truck up, he made his way up the steps and knocked hard on the door. “Open up! FBI! I have a warrant for your arrest. Don’t make me come in there.” Please, don’t make me come in there.

  Copyright © 2020 by Katherine Lee

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  ISBN: 9781488060915

  Mountain Hostage

  Copyright © 2020 by Pat White

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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