Three miles. That was the rumor. The new fire was only three miles.
Annie looked again at the speed with which Leah moved and thought about the miles she knew the girl had been crisscrossing in the last two weeks. When Annie ran track in high school and was constantly training, three miles was nothing.
Would Leah set fire to another building because she had been forced out of this one? Surely not.
Rufus’s words from just after the first fire rankled. “You talked to her over a crowded, lengthy meal. Can you be certain she was there during the service?”
Annie was just going to have to find Leah again. To be sure.
Twenty-One
June 1892
We’re shutting down for the day.” The Dentons’ foreman wiped a handkerchief across his perspiring brow.
Joseph and Zeke gripped the ends of a felled tree sheared of its branches, sharing its weight with Dayton Brown and Oscar Board.
“What he means,” Dayton said, “is that he’s too old and tired and can’t stand the heat another minute.”
Oscar snorted.
“We’re all hot.” Joseph glanced at Zeke. “I’m sure he has in mind the best interest of the entire crew.”
“No doubt.” Zeke’s agreement came quickly.
“You Amish seem nice enough,” Dayton said, “but even you can’t think a half day off has anything to do with us. It’s not even lunchtime. They won’t pay us for the afternoon, you know.”
“I do know,” Joseph said.
They lugged the tree away from the edge of the bluff. Joseph had no idea what the Denton brothers planned to do with the heaps of logs cleared from their land and accumulating farther and farther from the shore. He could now stand well back from their ferry dock and see the curve of the White River. The Dentons would be able to sit on their front porches and see a horseman coming. The work would not last much longer, but Joseph and Zeke had been frugal with their pay. Whatever their journeys did not consume, they would take home to their families.
Joseph put his thumbs through his suspender straps. There was the matter of Hannah waiting for him. Perhaps in his absence someone else had sparked her interest.
She was not the flighty type.
He felt the poke in the middle of his back, Zeke’s test of his nerves, and refused to flinch.
“Let’s ride the crew’s wagon into town,” Zeke said. “We can ask at the post office for a letter.”
“You go ahead.” Joseph still surveyed the river. “I would like to walk and think.”
“In the heat?”
“It is not so hot as the English believe.”
“Surely there will be a letter,” Zeke said. “We posed a simple question about the bishop’s wishes. I am beginning to fear something has gone wrong at home that would delay his response.”
“What does it matter?” Joseph murmured.
Hands on his hips, Zeke moved to stand between Joseph and the view of the river. “My friend, we can continue our scouting mission or we can go home to Tennessee. When the letter comes, we will do one or the other, but we will not linger in Gassville.”
“I did not suggest we should.” Joseph raised both hands to straighten his hat. When his hands came down away from his face, he imagined flinging his black felt Amish hat into the White River’s current. He shook the devilish image out of his mind. “I’ll see you back at the livery.”
Joseph did not hurry. Eventually he would end up in town, behind the livery. He would go inside to help with the few simple chores they exchanged for the privilege of spreading their bedrolls under the night sky. But for now, he walked without specific destination. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.
At the crack of a pistol, Joseph dropped to the ground. Laughter followed the shot. Joseph did not find it amusing to be the target of an English gun. Another shot blasted a tin can. Joseph knew that sound. Even Amish boys learning to hunt for food had to practice on something. He crawled toward the shots. Making himself seen was his best hope for avoiding a stray bullet.
“Hello!” he called.
Boots shuffled against the ground.
“I’d just like to get through,” Joseph shouted. He looked past the underbrush toward rows of toes reorienting toward him. Black English boots. “Is it safe?”
“Who’s there?” a voice demanded.
Joseph stood and kept a tree between himself and the clearing ahead. “Joseph Beiler.”
“Oh, the Amish man.”
That was Walter’s voice, Joseph was sure. What was he doing out pistol shooting?
A moment later, Walter tugged on Joseph’s sleeve. “You can come out.”
Joseph stepped from behind the tree in Walter’s protection. Several young men stood with pistols in their hands, the tallest of them Jesse Roper. Joseph had followed Sheriff Byler into the town hall the night of the dance in time to see what Roper was capable of.
“It’s just a friendly shooting match.” Roper grinned. “Do you shoot?”
After John Twigg’s death, Joseph had heard enough English talk to know that a shooting match in the woods was against the law in Baxter County.
“Well, do you shoot?” Roper asked again.
Joseph shook his head. “Only rifles, and only for food.”
“So you’ve never fired a pistol?”
Again Joseph shook his head.
“You can use mine.” Roper offered the heel of his weapon with a faint smirk.
“No thank you.” Joseph scanned the group of shooters. Roper clearly was the oldest and Walter the youngest, with three in between. Joseph did not see a pistol in Walter’s hand, a fact that brought some relief.
Jesse Roper fired another shot at another can. “One bullet left. It’s yours if you want it.”
“Try it,” Walter urged. “Maybe you have a knack.”
“I don’t believe I will.” Joseph touched his hat. As good as Roper was, Joseph was certain he was a better shot. He needed no target practice and would not fire for sport. But watching would cause no harm as long as he was behind the shooting line.
“I’ll try,” Walter said.
Roper laughed. “Some say I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”
“I’m a good shot,” Walter insisted.
“Well, we’re not going to find out today.” Roper nodded toward one of the other men. “Your turn.”
The shooter missed, which Roper found riotously amusing. In the middle of his laugher, he raised his own gun, aimed, and fired a bullet against the innocent can.
“That’s it, boys. I’m hungry. Somebody owes me lunch.” Roper pointed at Digger Dawson. “I believe it was you who wagered your mama’s cooking.”
Digger kicked up a flurry of dirt. “Yes, sir, I reckon I did.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“Oh good,” Walter said. “I’m hungry, too.”
Jesse Roper shook his head. “Not you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t aim to get between a boy and his daddy. You skedaddle on home. And not a word about this, you hear?”
Walter started to protest further, but Joseph caught his eye and gave the look he generally aimed at Little Jake when his brother seemed inclined to foolishness on the family farm. The boy picked up a rock and heaved it into the woods, but he left.
Jesse Roper laughed, and Joseph could not help liking the sound. Jesse seemed to do just what he wanted at any moment. The voice of Joseph’s father jumped the miles and the years to speak to Joseph words of caution, words of warning, words of the scripture about what happened to fools. Joseph had no doubt that all of the Amish and many of the English would cast Roper in that category. Still, watching the carelessness of Jesse’s face, Joseph wondered what such abandon would feel like. Obviously Jesse could saunter into a strange town and attract a following. What did these young men see in him? A daring spirit? Fearlessness they did not dare explore themselves?
Joseph reached up and tugged his hat.
“Y
ou do that a lot, you know.” Roper pointed a finger at Joseph then reached for his own hat, high and broad and black with a deep crease in the crown.
Joseph ran his hands down the front of his trousers. “I don’t notice when I do it.”
“It’ll ruin your hat.”
“It is not much of a hat to begin with.” Nothing like Roper’s.
Jesse threw his head back and laughed again. “You got that right. You comin’ to lunch with us?”
Joseph shook his head immediately. “Thank you, but my friend will be expecting me soon.”
“By all means, we don’t want to make your friend jealous that you had a warm, home-cooked meal and he did not.”
Joseph swallowed. He had the good sense to decline the lunch invitation because he suspected the rumor that Roper was related to the Twiggs was true.
Roper leaned over and tucked his pistol into the wide cuff of his trouser leg and fastened it in with a snap. “Put your guns away, boys. And get those cans. Your daddies won’t be happy if they think I led you to the den of wickedness.”
If someone in Joseph’s family spoke of a den of wickedness, it would be with all seriousness. Roper found amusement in his defiance. Despite the grand jury clearing the Denton brothers, after John Twigg died, Sheriff Byler made it clear that further illegal pistol shooting would not be tolerated. Even if Jesse Roper’s recent arrival meant he did not know this, the others certainly did.
Joseph watched Roper carefully pick up the jacket that matched his trousers from the bush where he had laid it. As reckless as he was toward authority, Roper was a stickler for his clothes and appearance. The young men collected pieces of the cans they had blasted and tossed them in a burlap sack, which one of them slung over his shoulder as the group ambled toward the path that would take them out of the woods and toward the ranch where Roper presumed lunch would be waiting.
None of them looked back to see that Joseph had not moved.
Joseph gave them a head start, while he briefly considered his options, and then followed. His father had taught him well to track prey through thick woods without giving himself away, and Joseph had no trouble following without causing any of the foursome to suspect their surroundings. Curiosity compelled his soundless steps. He and Zeke worked long hours on the Denton cattle ranch, but other than one dinner with Maura Woodley and her father, he had scant experience with English households.
It was surprisingly easy to climb a maple tree and lean comfortably into the cradle of its thick branches. From above the sight line of the home’s inhabitants, Joseph had a clear view of the front porch, into the front parlor, and through to the dining room. Digger Dawson’s mother scowled, but she served lunch. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, beets, chocolate cake. The table was laid with a light blue tablecloth and adorned with a vase of daisies. The curtains were yellow with white eyelet trim and hung against pale green painted walls. Knickknack shelves and formal photographs reminded Joseph he was looking into a world not his own.
Even with the windows open to catch the breeze, Joseph heard little of the conversation, but periodically Jesse Roper erupted in laughter and the others followed in nervous imitation. Joseph was glad he had not gone in with them.
A horse trotted toward the house pulling a wagon driven by a man Joseph did not recognize. At the porch, the man climbed down and rapped on the front door.
“I’ve come about the pistol shooting,” Joseph heard the man say when a weary-looking Mrs. Dawson opened the door.
She turned and glared toward the dining room. “It’s Deputy Combs for y’all.”
A moment later, Jesse Roper filled the open door frame.
“You’re under arrest,” Deputy Combs said, “for shooting pistols. We’ve had a report from an eyewitness.”
Joseph’s heart sank. Surely not Walter.
“All of you,” Deputy Combs demanded, “come with me.”
Roper spread his feet and crossed his arms. Behind him, the other shooters assembled.
Deputy Combs pointed at each one in turn. “I brought the wagon. You get on out there and let me take you into town and do this properly.”
One young man came forward. “I only shot once.”
“Once is against the law,” Combs said. “In the wagon. If you resist, you’ll only make more trouble for yourself.”
One by one, Digger and his two friends slipped past Roper and straggled toward the wagon.
From his branch, Joseph watched English justice in process—and was once again glad he did not take hold of the pistol Roper offered.
“I do believe I will finish my lunch,” Roper said.
“You’re resisting arrest,” Combs said. “You must come with me.”
Roper whipped out his pistol and laughed. “You don’t say!” He aimed the pistol, his thumb ready to cock it.
Combs turned on his heel and ran to the wagon.
Roper roared in laughter.
Twenty-Two
On Thursday, Annie and Ruth both had afternoon shifts, a coincidence that allowed them a leisurely late breakfast together. Annie laid out bacon strips on a tray to put in the oven while Ruth pulled eggs and cheddar cheese from the refrigerator and whole-wheat bread from the bread box Rufus had made for Annie.
“I’m so relieved no one was hurt in the fires yesterday.” With thumb and forefinger, Annie nudged a slice of bacon to the edge of the pan to make room for one more.
“Bryan says there’s definitely an arsonist.” Ruth positioned two eggs between the fingers of one hand and cracked them simultaneously on the edge of a mixing bowl before reaching for two more.
“I have to learn how to do that,” Annie said.
“I’ll teach you sometime.”
“When did you see Bryan again?”
Ruth cracked two more eggs and picked up a whisk. “Last night. He came by.”
Annie pinched her eyebrows together. “How did he know where to find you?”
“I told him I was staying with you.”
“He does have a habit of just showing up, doesn’t he? Where was I?”
“Upstairs reading in bed already.”
“That late?”
Ruth rolled her head toward Annie. “Annalise, it was eight thirty.”
Annie slid the tray of bacon into the warm oven. She had to admit it was not unusual for her to be upstairs with a book by that hour. Lately it was the volume on Arkansas history. She was surprised to discover a Sheriff Abraham Byler of Baxter County, who seemed a gentle, well-loved soul.
“So what did Bryan say about the fires?” Annie asked.
“There was nothing in that shed on county land that could have sparked a fire. And it was locked. They found the padlock, and it had not been opened.”
“So it caught fire from the outside.”
“Except nothing around it burned.” Ruth lit the burner under a frying pan. “Somebody started that fire at the back of the shed.”
Annie leaned against a counter. “Is Bryan compromising the investigation by telling you this stuff?”
Ruth paled. “It’s just his theory. It’s nothing formal. It’s not like he’s the official investigator or anything.”
While Ruth shredded cheese, Annie poured orange juice.
“What did you and Elijah find to talk about?” Ruth asked. “Did he mention why he was even there?”
Annie kept her back turned as she returned the orange juice pitcher to the refrigerator. “It turns out he is interested in fires. I suppose he’s curious, like a lot of people. He and Bryan might actually have something in common.”
“Oh.” Ruth shredded with more vigor.
Annie carried the juice glasses to the table in the dining room, where she had laid out two place mats a few minutes earlier. Ruth had given her a perfect opening to say that Elijah had moved off his parents’ farm and into town. In fact, the room he rented was not more than half a mile from Annie’s home. She wanted Ruth to know. It might change things between Ruth and Elijah before things wen
t further with Bryan. But shouldn’t Elijah be the one to tell Ruth? Annie returned to the kitchen and took two plates from the cabinet.
“So do you really think you are going to get Leah to come and stay here?” Ruth dumped the eggs into the sizzling pan.
“I’m going to try. I hope you don’t mind that I cut the living room in half to make space for her.”
“Would you rather I stay somewhere else while she’s here?”
“No! Of course not.”
“If I weren’t here, you’d have room for her.”
“I do have room for her.” Annie put a hand on her friend’s shoulder while Ruth gently stirred the eggs. “And I hope that she’ll soon be ready to go home.”
Ruth pointed at the oven. “Don’t burn my bacon.”
When Annie walked through Mrs. Weichert’s shop door a few hours later, the older woman was putting the telephone in its cradle. Annie smiled at the gesture. That phone had to be thirty years old, but Mrs. Weichert had no interest in updating. It was an antiques shop, after all.
“You just missed him,” Mrs. Weichert said.
“Who?”
“Rufus.”
Annie’s stomach sank. He was not likely to call again. “What did he say?”
“He’ll see you on Sunday. He’ll be home all day.”
Annie suppressed a grin and walked around the counter to stow her purse on the shelf underneath. A moment later, Mrs. Weichert gave her a short list of tasks for the afternoon and Annie settled into routine.
But the fire still blazed in her mind, and over and over she saw the flash of Amish blue escaping her sight. As she wiped a dust rag over the porcelain pieces and straightened up the Amish jam jars, Annie prayed for peace to come to Leah Deitwaller’s heart. And she wondered if it did any good in God’s eyes to pray after the fact that Leah please not be the one who was starting fires.
On Sunday afternoon Rufus put his thumbs through his suspenders and leaned a shoulder against the partial wall that divided the dining room from the living room. From this perspective, he had a clear view of Annalise, but she was not likely to see him from her seat on the sofa. For this moment—and he knew it would not last long in the busy Beiler household—she was alone. Her quilt nearly swallowed her up as she bent over her stitches. He had seen her in this pose often enough in the last few months to know that her tongue peeked out of the left corner of her lips when she was concentrating. His mother had been the one to offer to teach Annalise to quilt. A few weeks ago, typical of Annalise’s independent streak, she had declared that she would finish on her own. Now she was working on the binding of a traditional Amish nine-patch quilt made from solid-colored fabrics that had once belonged to her mother. She found sentimental pleasure in bringing memories of her English childhood into her new life in the Amish church.
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