by Leanna Ellis
Chapter Twelve
It was just another Amish farm. After a while, they all looked the same with white-washed sides and green-shaded windows, like eyelids closed, blocking anyone from getting a glimpse of what was going on inside. The shades on this house, however, were raised and the windows open. Laundry hung on a line, legs and sleeves, socks and sheets, waving a greeting in the late autumn breeze.
Roc let the Mustang idle a few minutes, enjoying the last few seconds of heat before he killed the engine. Might as well get this over with.
Everything seemed in its place—neat, tidy, yet weathered a bit around the edges. What would life be like in such a place as this? Boring, for sure. Not as lively as the house he’d grown up in, where the sun popped the paint right off the wood and mosquitoes grew as big as bats. Nothing about his childhood home had been neat or clean, certainly not orderly or peaceful. His old man had kept clunkers on the driveway along with worn-out batteries, crunched bumpers, and bald tires. His mother had bought statues of saints, her Cajun and Catholic roots running deep, and planted them in the yard as if each one would banish his daddy’s sins. Remembering she’d named Roc after a saint never failed to make him laugh.
A crunch on the gravel alerted him, and Roc spun around, his hand automatically reaching beneath his jacket for his gun. Old habits died hard. Still, Roc left the gun where it was and watched a slim woman walk toward him. Her cheeks and nose were pink in the cold weather, making her blue eyes even bluer. Wide-eyed innocence took on a whole new meaning for him when he looked at her. Like all the other women he’d seen in plain Amish attire, she wore a solid blue dress and white apron with a white bonnet covering her brown hair, which was pulled back in some traditional style he’d seen all over Promise—but it was her eyes that captured his attention.
“Good day to you.” Her voice sounded warm.
Roc stuck out a hand automatically. “Roc Girouard.”
She stared at it then slowly reached forward and clasped his hand. Her grip was strong and sure, her hands reddened from hard work, and her brief touch startled him in its perfunctory frankness. “Rachel Schmidt.”
In spite of the cold, her hand was as warm as toast, the skin soft as butter. Noting her unexpected last name, he released her hand quickly, crossed his arms over his chest, and cocked his head sideways. “This another Schmidt farm? I thought I was just there.” He thumbed over his shoulder eastward. “I met one of your neighbors, maybe a relative of yours then. Daniel…”
A thin veil of pink rose up along her neck and covered her face. “Ja, you’re right. That is the Schmidt place just yonder. I am Rachel Nussbaum. I am not used to my name just yet.”
“You’re newly married then?”
Her cheeks brightened even more. “My husband, Josef…this is his family’s farm. Did my father, Daniel Schmidt, send you here?”
“Not exactly.”
She only blinked, waiting for him to explain. These Amish seemed comfortable with silence and his old trick backfired on him as he shifted in the cold and searched for something to say.
The wind bit at his neck, and he cursed, belatedly chomping down hard on the word. “Sorry.” Her blue eyes frosted around the edges, and he stamped his feet. “Is it always this cold here?”
“You’re not from around here.”
“That’s right.”
The woman sniffed at the air as if dissecting it. “Wait till winter arrives.”
“This isn’t winter?” Roc glanced at the fields that should be blanketed in snow according to his southern thermometer.
“Oh no. ’Tis fall.”
“Great.” His tone held anything but enthusiasm. His gaze scanned the laundry on the line, the barn area, and the silo, which he’d learned held grain and corn for winter. “Nice place you have here, though. Real nice. If it weren’t so…”
“Cold.” Rachel Nussbaum offered a soft, unapologetic smile.
The frigidity of the temperatures was suddenly upped a notch or two. Roc cleared his throat and jammed his hands in his front pockets. “I’ll come right to the point, Mrs. Nussbaum.” He rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Amish?”
“I don’t think so. But I don’t know really.” The woman with the black eyes and Casper the ghost’s disappearing abilities hadn’t been Amish. But the man…well, he wasn’t sure what he was either.
“Then I would not know him. Or was it a woman you are searching for?”
“A man and a woman actually.” He wasn’t handling this well. His rehearsed lines jumbled in his brain, and he tried to block out Rachel Nussbaum’s blue gaze and focus, remembering those dark, black, fathomless eyes and the fear that accompanied them.
“If they aren’t Amish, then I doubt I can be of any help.”
Apparently around here, the distinction between English and Amish, or normal and plain, mattered. “Maybe they used to be. I’m not sure what the connection is. Yet.”
“What is their name?”
“Akiva. That’s the man’s name. But the woman…I don’t know.”
“That does not sound Amish. Is that a common Englisher name?”
“Not so much. Not where I come from anyway.”
“And where is that?”
“Louisiana…New Orleans to be exact.”
Only the slightest change in her features alerted Roc. Her skin turned a shade paler. Her eyes widened. Her mouth tightened.
“Have you been there?”
She blinked several times then wiped her hands on her apron, crossing her arms over her middle. “Wh-what does this Englisher look like?”
Roc’s smile disappeared at her insistence that the one he was hunting wasn’t Amish. “I don’t have a photo. He has dark hair, pale skin, and”—Anthony’s insistence about vampires came back to him and he almost laughed—“dark…very dark eyes.”
Rachel glanced at the ground, rocked back slightly on her heels as if thinking about the description. “How do you know they are in Promise?”
“I saw them yesterday not far from here.”
She tilted her head sideways and one of the long ties of her bonnet lifted in the breeze.
“Look, I know none of this makes any sense, but it is important. If you know anything”—he pulled out a paper from his pocket and scribbled his cell phone number on it with a pen—“don’t hesitate to call me. Okay?”
“We don’t have a telephone.”
“You have access, right?” He’d heard this excuse, but he’d also learned the Amish often had a neighbor or business phone in the barn for emergencies. Or sometimes a teen in the family had a cell phone. “With a neighbor maybe?” When she gave a quick nod, he continued, “If you see a stranger, be wary. You have a nice family, I’m sure. You want to keep them safe. Yes? Ja!” He’d heard that often enough this week that he wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or adopting the Pennsylvania-Dutch dialect. “These folks I’m searching for are dangerous.”
At least until proven otherwise.
“Are you a policeman?”
Was. Past tense. Not anymore. But he couldn’t say that, so he tempered it with, “You might say I’m sorta like a private detective.”
“And this couple has broken the English laws?”
“If they did what I think, then it’s one of God’s laws too. Murder, that is.”
Rachel’s gaze widened and her face paled decidedly this time. Suddenly he had an odd desire to protect this woman. Or maybe he simply wanted to protect her community. The folks he’d met were kind and thoughtful, and although they might be plain in speech and manner, they seemed rich in other ways—ways he’d never imagined possible with their close-knit community and bulging families that actually seemed to like each member. He didn’t want them hurt in anyway. But before he could figure out his thoughts, he watched this small wo
man shift, straighten her spine, and steeliness deepened the blue of her eyes. “We are not afraid of strangers. Or of God’s will here. Em Gott Sei Friede.”
That phrase got around. Each farmer in this district of Promise liked to bandy it about like children playing with a balloon. But this was no harmless toy. Their balloon, the security of their district, could easily be burst. Roc snagged Rachel’s arm. “You’ll need God’s peace for what is coming. Believe you me.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dusk swooped down like a hawk on its prey, and the last blood-red rays soaked into the land. Akiva relaxed in the shadows, but his keen gaze bore into the lit window.
Hannah stirred something on the stove and turned toward her little sister—what was her name? Kim? Kate? Katie? But his gaze latched onto Hannah, tracing her every movement, straining to catch a glimpse of her as she moved about the kitchen, memorizing each hand gesture and smile. A longing welled up in him to feel the warmth of her smile aimed in his direction. It had been too long, and he drank in the sight of her like a man traipsing through the Sahara devours water.
“I see my beauty in you.” He whispered the words of the ancient mystic that welled up inside him like spring water burbling out of the ground, unable to be contained.
She wore a dark purple dress; that color had always been his favorite. Tiny wisps of blond hair escaped the traditional Amish way her hair was twisted and tied up. His chest tightened and his throat convulsed, the longing that had lain dormant for so long awoke within him, stretched, and made every fiber come alive with an inner heat. It spread throughout his body and his skin tingled.
She was poetry in motion, a sonnet begging to be written, and snippets of words and verses from wordsmiths far beyond his skill came to mind.
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair.
Then the green shade slid downward, covering the window, blocking his view, and his longing hardened into a cold knot in his chest. He’d waited so long to be near her, to see her. Would she still smell of flour and sunshine, rain and cedar? Did she taste of strawberries? Would she once again soften in his arms?
But before he could touch or taste her again, how could he approach her?
Would she even recognize him?
Fear him?
Or rush to meet him?
The last stanza of the Wordsworth poem said what he couldn’t manage: “A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; and yet a spirit still, and bright with something of angelic light.”
It was always the same being near Hannah—his tongue tangled, his throat closed, and poetry loosened the words from within him and allowed him to reveal his heart. If there was a beating muscle inside him after all of this time, it was collapsing and folding in on itself, the weight of grief heavy and unrelenting. Love, like a beacon guiding him, had brought him all this way to find her, to be with her once more. And yet now that he was here, doubts and fears poisoned his hope.
The back door of the house opened, and a wedge of lantern light slanted across the porch. Akiva whirled away, bolted over the porch railing, and vanished into the barn. The earthy smells of hay and manure surrounded him, and he paced before the stalls. A horse stamped its foot and whinnied. The animal’s nervous agitation seemed contagious and soon the other animals acted restless and uneasy, shifting and snorting, backing away from the openings as he passed. He moved over to one stall, stared at a gray mare who ducked her head, a muscle along her neck twitching.
Then something lying on the ground caught Akiva’s eye. He turned away from the stall, bent, and retrieved the faceless rag doll. Dressed like an Amish girl, the doll reminded him of one Hannah had carried long ago. He placed it against his chest, the place where his heart could no longer beat without her.
She was the reason he had returned.
She was his only reason for his existence.
And she would be his salvation.
Then it became clear what he must do. He would risk his last hope, all his love, even what life he had left. Everything. His hand tightened on the doll, crushing it with the strength of his determination.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul…
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Chapter Fourteen
Maybe it was simply Hannah’s mood of late, the gloom slithering over her as night approached, like dark fingers snuffing out the lamp of daylight. Time should have made missing Jacob easier, and yet it seemed harder, the sorrow darker.
From the kitchen window, she watched Levi climb into his buggy, readjust his hat, and flick the reins to get his horse moving. Only to herself did she admit she felt a stirring around him, more than a passing interest, and yet her heart seemed shackled to the past and she was unable to step forward. Were the shackles fear? Plain old fear of once more losing her heart? Or was her love for Jacob so strong that it bound her to the past forever? Would she never be free? Free to love someone again…someone like Levi?
“Hannah?” Mamm called.
She released the edge of the green shade, and it flopped back against the window. Then she hurried to take the platter of roasted chicken to the table. Dat sat at one end, Grandpa Ephraim at the other; Katie and Hannah looked at each other across the honeyed bread and buttered potatoes; Mamm perched cattycorner to her girls. The large wooden table seemed almost empty now with Rachel and Grandma Ruth gone. Sadness swelled inside Hannah’s chest as her family nest seemed to be dwindling, which Mamm said was a new season for their lives. She bowed her head and silently thanked the Lord for His bounty and prayed for no more losses.
As soon as Dat cleared his throat, the signal for the food to be passed, Katie looked toward him expectantly. “The English man didn’t want to stay for dinner?”
Mamm paused, holding the bowl of beets. “What English man?”
Dat took the beets then potatoes, scooping hefty helpings onto his plate, and the beet juice bled into the fluffy, white mound. “A stranger stopped earlier while you were at Molly’s. He was not looking for a meal, Katie. He was lost. That is all.”
“Easy to do out here.” Mamm passed the acorn squash, buttered in the center and sprinkled with brown sugar.
With a heavy sigh, Katie rested her cheek against the back of her hand. “I wish he would have stayed.”
“Pass the butter.” Dat broke off one end of the sourdough loaf and mopped up gravy with it.
“Did you see the inside of his car?”
Dat made a disgruntled sound. “Why would I do that?”
“Curiosity is not evil,” Grandpa Ephraim said, “but it is pride that leads to destruction.”
Katie opened her mouth, but Mamm pressed a hand against Katie’s arm to shush her. She glanced from Mamm to Dat and then stuffed her mouth with potatoes.
There was no other news, other than the weather forecast and how Molly Esh was readying her household for Sunday services, nothing of interest to discuss, and so they chewed in silence. Hannah stared at the calendar nailed to the wall, waiting for the meal to end, her thoughts lost in confusion. Her feelings were all jumbled, and she stared at those blank squares until her mind felt equally vacant.
After Dat scraped the last spoonful of potatoes onto his plate, the women waited for him to finish eating. Hannah’s hands remained folded in her lap. Finally, he pushed back from the table, muttered, “Gut,” and stood.
Katie and Hannah cleaned off the table, scraping plates and b
owls and covering the leftover bread.
“Mamm,” Katie said as she took a plate from Hannah and began drying it, “I left my doll in the barn. Can I go and get her?”
“When you finish with your chores.”
Katie nodded and worked hard to finish the dishes, scrubbing and washing the pots and pans and dishes. When Hannah folded the dishtowel at last, she smiled at her little sister, noticing how her summer freckles were starting to fade. “Go on now. I’ll finish up.”
With a big grin, Katie skipped toward the back door.
“Hannah,” Dat called from his chair in the main room as Katie opened the back door, “go with her.”
“But…?” She stopped immediately at the frown slanting Mamm’s eyebrows downward as Mamm took a plate from her. Worry darkened her mother’s eyes and made Hannah’s stomach clench tight. Why would Dat want her to go? Did he want to speak to Mamm privately? Was there something wrong? She ducked her chin and folded the rag.
Mamm took the rag from her too. “Go on. I will wipe the counters.”
As Hannah walked out the door, just before the latch caught, she heard Mamm ask, “Is everything all right, Daniel?”
He grunted. “And why wouldn’t it be?”
But a minute later, he followed Hannah outside and stood on the porch, hands on his waist as he looked beyond the railing. She felt his gaze on her as she caught up with her younger sister and they walked toward the barn together. It was an easy walk, the ground smooth, and only fifty yards. Dat and Levi kept the area neat and cleared, as the milk truck pulled through here each morning to collect the milk and needed enough space to turn around. To one side of the barn was a paddock, and to the left was the spring house, the chicken coop, and the shed where the buggy was stored. On the backside of the barn was the silo, more paddocks, and where feed and hay were stacked. Fields stretched out beyond, which were now put to bed for the winter but in spring would be plowed and planted.
