by Marta Perry
Idiot. Rachel could breathe again. Speeding drivers were a constant threat to Amish buggies, and most sensible people would drive more carefully in this area after dark. That hadn’t been a sensible driver.
Withdrawing her feet from the drainage ditch, she shook them ruefully. Better wet feet than bodily injury from a careless driver, especially when she was this close to safety.
And she was close. Only one more farm to pass, and then she saw the white post that held the mailbox at the end of the lane. Esch, it read, but people from around here undoubtedly still called it the Byler place, referring to her grandfather, Bishop Josiah Byler. Timothy Esch was Cousin Sadie’s husband, and Sadie and Timothy had taken over running the farm when Grossmammi and Grossdaadi were ready to retire to the grossdaadi haus.
Not, she supposed, that her grandfather didn’t still participate in the decisions as well as the work of the farm. Timothy and Sadie would expect that, and they’d been happy to have a thriving dairy farm to step into when the time came.
Rachel smiled, thinking of Sadie. She and Sadie were exactly the same age, and they’d been like sisters when they were young, despite the fact that Rachel had been there only in the summer. How they’d cried every year when the time came for her to go back to her mother—Rachel could still remember the sense of desolation she’d felt at leaving.
When she’d gone off with her mother, the unpredictability set in again. Never knowing when Mom might take it into her head to move on, change jobs, change men...
She’d always had a sense of living in two different, contradictory worlds. Learning to adjust had been hard, and it had never grown easier.
Even now, she felt the familiar eagerness to slip back into the even tenor of Amish life, shedding the fears and worries that haunted her. But now she was an adult, and she knew it couldn’t be done.
No one could go back, not entirely, to something already lived. She’d be impatient now, living without cell phones and electricity and the internet. But maybe she could have a resting place, at least.
Steps lightening, she hurried along the gravel lane to the farmhouse. She could make out the gaslights showing through the living room windows now, and surely that was Sadie, sitting in a rocking chair, probably with a stack of mending in her lap.
Rachel went automatically toward the back door that led into the kitchen. In the country, family and friends always went to the back. It was only strangers who knocked at the front.
The dogs began barking their alert as she neared. She stopped at the sight of a moving lantern, approaching from the direction of the barn. She couldn’t quite make out the dark figure behind it, but she knew it all the same. It was her grandfather, making his last check of the animals, just as he always did.
She took another step, the gravel rattling under her feet, and the lantern lifted. “Who is there?” Her grandfather’s voice was as strong as ever.
Rachel dropped her bag, tears stinging her eyes. “It’s me, Grossdaadi. Rachel.”
“Rachel?” The light swung out toward her, and now she could see the surprised joy in her grandfather’s face. “My dear child, komm.” He held out his arms.
Rachel crossed the space between them in a stumbling run and threw her arms around him, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt and the still-wiry strength of him despite his age. His arms closed around her, and his soft beard tickled her cheek.
“My dear child,” he murmured.
She should explain, say something sensible, but her throat seemed to be blocked, and words were impossible. Instead, she burst into tears.
CHAPTER FIVE
IN RETROSPECT, BREAKING down was probably the best thing she could have done. Nobody asked for explanations because they were so busy comforting her and assuring her that she was home and everything would be all right.
Maybe that was all she’d really needed—to feel someone’s arms around her and hear a loving voice tell her everything would be all right. It was exactly how she’d respond to one of her kindergartners who was hurting, and she didn’t have any false pride about accepting it.
A half hour later Rachel sat at the kitchen table, a hand-stitched quilt around her shoulders, a mug of hot tea with honey in her hands. She hadn’t really been that cold, but sheer relief at being there had left her feeling a bit shaky.
Grossmammi sat next to her, her rosy cheeks crisscrossed with fine wrinkles and her faded blue eyes worried. She patted Rachel’s arm, her touch gentle. “No matter what happened, you are here now.” She spoke in the soft accents of Pennsylvania Dutch, and Rachel found her mind automatically adjusting to the sounds of her childhood summers. “Is it...him? Paul?”
Grossmammi wouldn’t bring herself to call him Rachel’s ex-husband, because to her, divorce didn’t exist. Rachel had spared her the knowledge of Paul’s gambling. The only consolation Grossmammi could find in her granddaughter’s situation was that it had been Paul who’d wanted his freedom, Paul who’d left. Whatever happened, Rachel had always felt her love and support.
“In a way.”
Rachel took a deep breath. She’d considered how and what she’d tell them, but now, looking at them, she couldn’t find the words. Grossmammi, so worried and loving. Grossdaadi, his worry not quite so obvious, his face stoic and ready for anything. Sadie... Sadie, always as close as a sister to her, wasn’t looking at her. Her husband, Timothy, looked perplexed. He leaned toward Sadie, as if to emphasize that he was with her.
Her only choice was to tell them everything, no matter how hard it was, and trust that their love would stretch to cover the situation she’d brought to them.
The words came slowly at first, but as she talked, she began to find she sorted the events and moved through them, not leaving anything out. It seemed to clear her our mind, making it easier to look at what had happened to her in a logical way.
When she got to the attack on her, Grossmammi let out a little gasp, and her fingers clutched Rachel’s hand.
“So the only thing I could think of was to come here,” she said. “I thought, if only he had a little time, Paul would do the honest thing and that would clear me. If not...” Her voice shook a little. “If not, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
There. It was all said. The decision was up to them now. If they didn’t want her to stay, if it was asking too much to involve them, then she would leave.
Her grandfather cleared his throat, looking his most solemn. As bishop, he’d faced many difficult decisions, but probably never one quite like this, and in his own family.
“Do you think your... Do you think Paul will do as he should?”
With her grandfather’s keen eyes on her, Rachel couldn’t be less than honest. “I don’t know. He has lied to me in the past, often. But he asked me to give him time to straighten it out, and I thought I should.”
He nodded, as if he wouldn’t expect anything else.
“And this man, Clint Mordan, do you think he’s the one who attacked you?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t. His job is to find the stolen file. He may not believe that I don’t know where Paul is, but my sense is that he wouldn’t do something like that to find out.”
Grossdaadi sat, considering, for a long moment. No one else moved or spoke. Whatever he decided, the others would go along with, not only because he was the head of the house or because he was the bishop, but because they respected his wisdom, just as she did.
That was something Paul had never understood. He hadn’t been able to look beyond the old-fashioned clothing and unusual traditions to see the very real people they were. And that, she realized, was why she’d never brought him back after that initial visit. He’d actually been ashamed that his prospective wife should have such an odd background. He’d wanted her to be a typical, educated, upper middle-class woman like the other women he knew.
Finally Grossdaadi gave the short nod that
meant he had come to a decision. “Rachel is one of our own. We’ll do everything we can to help her. But we cannot lie or break the law.”
“I would never ask that,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.
“Gut.” His gaze swept the others. “Sadie, you can help Rachel with her dress and hair. When anyone asks, we will say only that Cousin Rachel is here for a visit. None of the community will question it, even if it wonders them.”
Sadie glanced up at that, almost as if she’d object, but then she nodded. A chill touched the nape of Rachel’s neck. Did Sadie, of all people, have doubts about her? The very thought seemed to cut the ground from under her.
But in a moment Sadie had come around the table and touched her lightly on the shoulder.
“You’re tired. Komm. I’ll see that you are settled for the night.”
Rachel nodded. Tired was putting it mildly. She wanted to say something, to tell them what it meant to be here, but it was an effort just to get to her feet. She bent to embrace her grandmother, then her grandfather.
“Denke,” she whispered softly, her voice choking. “Thank you.”
He patted her. “Sleep well. Things will look better in the morning.”
She managed a smile, hoping he was right. But somehow she didn’t think anything would have changed.
* * *
“AT LEAST WE know Rachel Hartline didn’t take a plane, wherever she’s going.” Logan, leaning back from the computer screen he’d been studying, attempted to find a bright spot in the situation.
Clint grunted. It had been a long day, with too few results to suit him, especially when he was driven by the notion that if he’d tried a little harder to get Rachel to confide in him, he might have headed off this ill-timed flight. And if he’d been there when she was attacked... His hands tightened into fists at that. He should have prevented it.
“You’d think, if she and her ex had cashed in on Attwood’s brilliant idea, they’d be eager to get out of the country as quickly as possible,” Logan added.
“That’s assuming they’re together.” Clint was no longer so convinced of that himself.
His partner eyed him. “You’re banking a lot on that supposed attack on the woman, aren’t you?”
“If you’d talked to the neighbors, you’d be convinced there was nothing supposed about it.” Clint sounded irritable, and he knew it. “There’s no doubt in my mind that someone went after her, but who? And why? There are too many questions in this mess and not enough answers.”
“We’re the ones who are supposed to be finding the answers,” Logan reminded him. “Still, I wouldn’t want to bet that Attwood has told us everything he knows. But when are clients completely honest? Everyone has something they’d rather not talk about. And they come to us with their troubles because they don’t want to talk to the police. We agree to respect their confidentiality.”
“Not if they’re breaking the law,” he said quickly. That was where he drew the line. “And what about that story Rachel told me, about how the four of them were actually partners in the firm?” He hadn’t had time to look into that, but he knew Logan would have.
“That is interesting, if it’s so.” Logan flipped through a couple of computer screens. “The company is registered in James Attwood’s name, and from what I’ve been able to find out, all four of them are currently drawing a salary, including Attwood. If there is an agreement, it must be a fairly informal one.”
“Legally binding?” Clinte asked. That was Logan’s division, not his.
“That depends on how and whether it’s in writing. It could bear some more research, although there may not be any way of finding out unless one of them tells us. It wouldn’t have to be registered or recorded in any way.”
“Say it’s an informal agreement, signed by the four of them and tucked away someplace. In that case, would it be legal?”
“Probably. But how it might affect Hartline’s theft, I’m not sure. Still, I’ll look into it.” His attention to the screen sharpened, and his face grew taut with attention. “Here’s something interesting. It looks as if Paul Hartline withdrew funds from an ATM in South Philly this morning.”
“When?” Clint was on his feet, leaning over the desk.
“Not until about ten,” Logan said slowly. “And at that time...”
“At that time, Rachel had already left her car in the long-term lot and vanished.” He frowned. “I’m not sure what that means, if anything.”
“She still might have been meeting him someplace,” Logan said. “Or, as you seem to think, she may be on the road by herself.” He leaned back again to study Clint’s expression. “If she is alone, that still doesn’t mean she’s innocent. In fact, it looks the reverse.”
“Yeah.” He remained leaning on the desk. “So what do we have on any of the others? Anything more?”
“Bits and pieces.” Logan didn’t need to refer to his notes now. “Apparently Ian was quite a guy for the ladies up until a few years ago. Trotting out one expensive lovely after another. Since he married and had a kid, it looks like he’s turned over a new leaf.”
Clint fit that into something else about the man. “Didn’t you say that he seems to be living pretty sparsely, given his income?”
“Maybe he’s just frugal now that he has a family. Or maybe his wife is. But still, I’d expect someone with his tastes and income to be living in one of the more upscale gated communities rather than a small house in an ordinary suburb.”
“No idea what or who he’s spending the rest on?”
“No, but I’ll get someone looking into it.” Logan made a note. “The Gibson woman is something of an enigma. Nice loft apartment downtown, expensive clothes, but not much social life—just a casual date now and then.” He shrugged. “I think I told you that much, and I haven’t found anything more.”
“She may live for her job,” Clint suggested.
“True, but the two things don’t fit together very well. From the way you described how Attwood Industrial works, she doesn’t need designer labels there. But I can’t claim to understand women and clothes. Yeah, I know.” He answered Clint’s unspoken request. “I’ll keep digging.”
“And what about Attwood?”
Logan shrugged. “On the face of it, he’s the one with the most to lose from Hartline’s actions. Still, it won’t do to accept anything on trust, even if he is our client.”
“I’ve about reached the point of not believing anybody. If we can’t find Hartline, and we can’t trace Rachel...”
“Hold on a minute.” Logan turned back to the screen. “I put someone on to checking cash passengers on public transportation out of Philly. Let’s see what this is.” He paused a moment and then looked up, smiling. “Okay, I thought that might pay off. A woman answering Rachel Hartline’s description took the morning train to Harrisburg.”
“Harrisburg.” Clint frowned. “I’d have expected New York or Baltimore, if she’s trying to hide. Why Harrisburg?” He glanced up to find his partner giving him a quizzical look.
“I don’t know. But I expect you’ll be trying to find out,” Logan said.
“You think this is a wild-goose chase?”
Logan hesitated and then shook his head. “Not if that’s your gut instinct. I trust you. Go on after Ms. Hartline, and I’ll keep the inquiries running here in the meantime. Attwood finally gave me a list of possible buyers for his project, so I’ll start working on them.”
“Yeah.” Clint ran his hand through his hair, trying to focus. “I’ll head for Harrisburg.”
“In the morning. Get some sleep first,” Logan said as Clint headed for the door. “You look like you need it.”
Clint gave a noncommittal shrug. He was tired, but his mind kept dashing off after Rachel.
Still, he’d do it, because it was the sensible thing and would increase the odds that he’
d be sharp enough to find her. But it would be hard to rest, not knowing whether Rachel was somewhere safe tonight. Not when he felt this heavy burden of responsibility for her.
* * *
“OUCH.” RACHEL JUMPED when the point of the straight pin pricked her the next morning. “Let me guess, it’s easier to do it on yourself than on someone else.” She smiled at Sadie, who responded with a reluctant grin.
Why reluctant? If Sadie was unsure of the wisdom of having Rachel here, she’d be unlikely to admit it, but her expressions gave her away to someone who knew her as well as Rachel did.
They were in the room that had been Rachel’s, and during the summer Sadie had shared it with her more often than not. They’d snuggled under Grossmammi’s nine-patch quilt, giggling and talking when they were supposed to be asleep, sharing secrets. She’d never had a friend as close as Sadie, and now that friendship seemed to be gone.
Her fault, she thought. Even if Paul wouldn’t come, she should have visited more often during those years they were married. But somehow it had been easier not to bring it up, not to start a fight. And after Paul left—well, then she’d been ashamed of her failed marriage, so she’d stayed away.
Sadie pulled out the offending pin and started again. “You’ll find it simple when you get the hang of it, yah? Mammi stuck me the first few times she tried to show me how to fasten a grown-up woman’s dress.”
The straight pins that closed the dress were traditional, if unhandy, like much of Amish life. “I’m willing, but I seem to be all thumbs.” Rachel took the next pin and tried to emulate Sadie’s movements. “Where are your mamm and daad? I’d love to see them.” Her aunt and uncle, always so laughing and loving, were an important part of her childhood.
“Ach, it’s a shame, it is, that they aren’t here now. They went out to Ohio to stay with Ruthie while her first boppli is born.” She smiled. “Though Daad kept saying he didn’t know what use he was going to be.”
“He can keep Ruthie’s husband out of the way,” Rachel suggested. “I can’t believe little Ruthie is old enough to be starting a family.”
