Grace made a sound like air going out of a buggy tire, shook her head, and finally said, “I’d best be getting home. This has worn me out, that’s what it’s done.”
She stood, snatched up her purse, and plodded away from them toward her buggy.
“Don’t let it bother you, Susan.” Mary Yoder was sitting next to her mother-in-law, who nodded in agreement.
“Grace has always been an emotional sort,” Rebecca said. “Give her time, and she’ll calm down.”
“I hope so.”
“Why don’t you all say it? James was speaking of Alvin. Did you hear him?” Franey stood, her hands fisted at her sides. “He said Alvin could be responsible for the fires.”
“Now isn’t the time to speak of private family matters,” Susan cautioned.
“I will not hear his name thrown around in connection with this! I will defend him, on this, I will, whether it’s Sunday or any other day of the week. Is the grace we offer one another not to extend to him? Has he stepped so far away that he is out of the reach of Gotte?”
Tears were tracking down her face now, and Emma felt an acute pain for the woman. How hard her life must be, and it was plain that she still cared for Alvin.
Pulling in a shaky breath, Franey straightened her back and clutched her purse to her side. “He might have abandoned me. He might have left our faith. But he would never hurt anyone. He… he never would.”
And then she, too, fled toward the buggies.
Thirty-One
Emma’s migraine must have begun when Franey stormed away from the group of women. Or maybe it was earlier, when the boys had first begun to fight. She couldn’t put her finger on the exact moment, but she suddenly realized that the right side of her head had been throbbing painfully for some time.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asked.
“I think so.”
“You’re—” Rachel mimicked rubbing the right side of her head. “Is there anything I can do? Is it a bad one? Would you like to go home?”
Emma tried to smile through the pain. “You’re a gut doschder,” she murmured, closing her eyes and leaning against the trunk of the cottonwood tree. She’d sought the shade and a cool breeze, hoping it would help. But it wasn’t going to ease the throbbing in her head. Having had migraines since she was a young girl of ten, she understood when a bad one was pressing down on her.
“A migraine?” She jerked her head up at the sound of Henry’s voice.
“Yeah, but she won’t let me take her home.”
“I’m right here.”
“She says she doesn’t want to interrupt the children’s game.”
“I’ll take her home.”
Both Emma and Rachel turned to look at him in surprise.
“What? I need to check on my pup.”
“I never thought you would dote on an animal so, Henry.” Emma tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace so she gave up and squeezed her eyes shut.
“I wouldn’t call it doting.” He took her arm gently, waited a moment while Rachel located her purse, and maneuvered her toward his buggy.
“You and Clyde stay as long as you’d like,” he called back to Rachel.
Emma dreaded moving. Walking was a trial, and just the thought of riding in a bumpy buggy was enough to make her nauseated.
But Henry settled his mare into an easy trot, and the darkness of the buggy was refreshing.
“Perhaps you had too much sun.”
“Maybe so.”
“Terrible thing to have on Mother’s Day.”
She waved away his concern.
They didn’t speak again until they’d pulled up in front of her house.
“Let me help you inside.”
“Maybe we could sit on the porch.”
“Are you sure you’re up to that?”
“I think so, and the breeze is pleasant.”
Henry nodded once, helped her to a rocker on the front porch, and then went inside to fetch cold drinks. He stuck his head back outside. “There’s milk, water, or lemonade.”
“Lemonade, please.”
He returned with two glasses. Though there was no ice, the lemonade had been in the refrigerator, and the glass was cool to her touch. She rested it against her right eye.
“I hate to see you suffering.”
“It’s a small thing.”
“Doesn’t seem like a small thing when you’re having a migraine.”
She attempted a smile and took a sip of the lemonade. The cold, sweet, tangy drink soothed her throat. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. She drank nearly half the glass and then set it on the table between them. Henry was rocking in his chair, watching her carefully.
“I’m fine, Henry. There’s no need to worry so.”
“I suppose I’ll have to believe you.”
“You should. I’d never lie to my bishop.”
“I’ve been your friend longer than I’ve been your bishop.”
Emma nodded. It was true that they’d known each other many years. She’d attended his wedding to Claire, as well as her funeral, both of which had been in the spring while the crops sprouted and the flowers bloomed.
Henry had been there when she’d married George at the innocent age of eighteen. The four of them had been friends until Claire’s death twenty years ago. Then the three of them, with Henry declaring he was an awkward third wheel. But he’d never been that. He’d been a part of their family, an integral part of their lives. And he’d arrived within the hour of hearing that she’d found her husband clutching his chest and unable to breathe. He had sat by her in the hospital, helped her through the desolate days after his death.
Theirs was a friendship that had grown stronger with each change—the birth of children, the initial move to Colorado, deaths and marriages and more births and celebrations and tragedies.
“Danki.”
“For bringing you home?” He waved away her gratitude. “It was no problem.”
“Not for that, or not just for that. For being in my life as long as I can remember. That’s a real blessing, Henry. A friendship that has endured as long as ours has.”
His eyes met hers, and she felt her pulse jump—not from the migraine but from the depth of emotion in his eyes.
A hummingbird darted toward a feeder, zoomed away, and quickly returned to drink of the nectar.
“I hope you’re not worried about the boys,” she said.
“Curtis misses his onkel and feels protective toward him. That’s only natural.”
“What would possess James to say such a thing?”
“If I had to guess, trouble at home spiked his anger. Elmer and Grace are a fine family, but they seem to be taking the fires more personally than most. She stopped me before leaving, asked what we were doing to help the Englischers catch the arsonist.”
“She’s always been a worrier.”
“Their oldest, Albert, could do that to a person. He’s a gut lad, but always testing the boundaries of the Ordnung.”
“Isn’t he twenty?”
“And yet still finding his way as many of us were at that age.”
They sat in silence, the years and memories washing over them. Her head still hurt, but the cool air and the shade from the porch helped. She never understood what caused the migraines, though she’d read the pamphlet her doctor had given her. Barometric pressure, hormonal changes, even what type of cheese she’d eaten could cause them. Today perhaps it had been the tension of the situation after the boys’ scuffle. Or it could be that somewhere within her heart she, too, was worried about the arsonist.
“Did anyone speak to you about Meg Allen’s flyers?”
“Nein. I’m not surprised. It wasn’t a very gut picture.”
“It was something, though. We know it was a man or older teen—”
“Meg already knew that.”
“He’s fairly thin and tallish.”
“And seemed to be young.”
Emma sighed. “That could describe a doz
en Englisch men.”
“Or Amish.”
“You don’t think—”
“I don’t, but we can’t ignore the possibility. We’re human, Emma. Being Plain doesn’t protect us from the same emotions that cause other people to struggle and sin and fall.”
“I can’t even imagine what would cause a person to react so. To cause him to seek to hurt another person.”
“Greed, bitterness, resentment, jealousy, a personal vendetta…”
“Hard to envision anyone in our congregation feeling those things.”
Henry watched her patiently, waiting, apparently not wanting to plant any names in her mind. He didn’t have to. Her imagination was vivid enough.
“We will pray it’s not one of our own,” she said.
“And that whoever this person is, he has accomplished what he set out to do. The next best thing to finding the person—and I believe Meg will eventually do that—would be for him to stop and slip back into his normal life.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“Neither am I, but for now we can hope and pray and believe that Gotte’s hand will stretch over our congregation and protect each person.”
Thirty-Two
He waited across the street, ducked down in the brush.
From where he sat, he could barely make out the main house. Fortunately, he’d brought along a pair of binoculars he’d purchased from the pawn shop. They brought the household and its occupant into a clear, sharp focus.
His backpack lay beside him, along with the gas can.
He’d spent many nights refining his target list. He wasn’t crazy. He didn’t want to set blazes randomly across the area. That would be dangerous and inefficient. He felt good about tonight’s plan. There would be enough combustible material to feed the fire a good long time.
The light shining from the front window finally winked out.
He glanced at his phone, tapped the screen to set the timer for two hours, and sat back to wait.
The bishop had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. In addition, the man seemed rather arrogant to him. How could one person claim to know what everyone else should and shouldn’t do? Besides, if he’d done his job of leading his flock—the first time he’d heard that phrase he’d nearly doubled over laughing—Vernon Frey would have been a better person.
He sat in the darkness, counting his grievances against these people. Two other targets were on his list. He’d chosen carefully. If he’d included everyone who had treated him unfairly, the list would be long and the entire San Luis Valley would burn.
The mayor had encouraged these people to settle here.
The fire chief and sheriff had turned the case over to an outsider.
His fifth grade teacher had once called him stupid and chided him for being different.
Even the librarian looked at him as if he didn’t belong in her building.
Yes, he had a long list of grievances, and he didn’t need to write down the names. They were emblazoned in his head, tattooed across his heart.
But those targets in town would be harder to hit now that his picture had been circulated.
No, he would wait to even the score with those folks.
For now he would stick to the list of five and set his sights once again on a Plain household. So what if someone was hurt. It wouldn’t be his fault. He had warned them with Vernon’s fire and backed that up with the destruction of the construction site. They should have taken a hint.
If they were smart, they would have left the area weeks ago. They weren’t wanted here, didn’t belong here, and shouldn’t be buying up all the good farmland.
His memory slipped back to when he was a boy, walking through the fields with his dad. He’d been bored by the concept of raising crops even then. But he could tell it was a dream of his father’s. Dreams were weaknesses. That’s what his life had taught him.
So he’d been careful to never have any.
But this urge to be the one choosing, to ignite a flame that would send people scrambling, to read the write-ups and conjectures and warnings… all of it acted as a soothing balm on his heart. It helped him to swallow the bitter disappointment his life had become.
And it was tricky too. Any normal Joe, any of those idiots he’d gone to school with, would have been caught already.
He was smarter than they were. He had a plan, and he fully intended to carry it out.
When his phone beeped, he quickly silenced it, shouldered his backpack, and picked up the gas can. Then he hopped on his bike and began to pedal across the road.
Thirty-Three
Henry woke to the sound of Lexi barking madly. He’d taken to allowing the dog to sleep in the mudroom. She was still quite a small pup, after all. He didn’t want a coyote attacking her on one of the porches or near the barn.
She normally slept quietly all night long, whining only when he turned on the battery-operated lantern on rising.
Henry rubbed at his eyes, sat up, and studied the clock next to his bed. Eleven forty. He’d been asleep nearly two hours.
Lexi’s bark had become quite frantic, so Henry put on his slippers, grabbed the robe he’d laid across the end of the bed, and shuffled to the mudroom. He arrived to find the little beagle throwing herself against the back door.
He picked up a flashlight from a shelf, intending to shine it outside to find what had startled the dog so. He had no intention of opening the door. But as he switched the light on, he smelled smoke. He threw the door open, and Lexi darted out between his legs toward his workshop. Bright red flames shot up to the roof, and the entire structure groaned.
Lumber. His workshop was built of wood and contained a good supply of lumber. It was the perfect arsonist’s target. He knew instantly that the shop was a complete loss. Fortunately, it sat alone across the parking area from his house. The fire wouldn’t spread.
“Lexi! Here, girl.”
Why would a dog run toward a fire?
He panned the beam of his flashlight across the yard, the burning structure, and toward the street. Nothing. He’d been focused on the roar of the flames, the slight wind, even the whoosh of his workshop disintegrating, but suddenly he was aware of Lexi’s ferocious bark. He aimed the beam of the flashlight to the left and saw his recently planted vegetable garden, but nothing else.
Lexi’s barking suddenly stopped.
His hand shook a little and the beam jerked to the right, passing over the burning workshop and a grove of trees in the distance.
Then the ray of light revealed dust, the back wheel of a bicycle, a man pedaling wildly, and Lexi, hanging on to his right pants leg with all of her might.
Henry shouted out, “You! Stop!” It sounded ridiculous even to him.
The biker kept pedaling, the dog held on, and then the sound of sirens came from down the road. As a last resort, the man pulled back his leg and kicked the little dog, who flew off into the darkness, landing with a yelp and a soft thud.
Henry ran across the yard. He stumbled, dropped the flashlight, righted himself, and looked around him in the darkness. As the fire truck pulled into his lane, the light swept across the yard, revealing the dog only a few feet from him. He ran to her, knelt down, and put a hand on her side. She was breathing heavily, but breathing.
Whoever their arsonist was, he hadn’t killed her.
“Gut dog, Lexi. You’re going to be all right.” Even as the words slipped out of his mouth, he wondered if it was true. She was such a little dog to have been so brutally assaulted. Henry sat down in the dirt, and she rose, whimpered softly, and dropped something into his lap. He could see, by the strobe of the fire truck’s light, that it was a small piece of fabric.
Satisfied that she’d done her best, Lexi sank into his lap and began to lick the back of his hand.
Henry struggled to his feet, clutching the piece of fabric with his left hand and cradling the dog in the crook of his right arm. He hurried toward the fire truck, where they were already s
praying water on the charred remains of his workshop.
Captain Johnson was shouting orders to his men when Henry walked up.
“Complete loss, Henry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s only wood and projects. Nothing that can’t be replaced.”
“Are you okay?” Johnson studied him closely. “Say, you weren’t out here when it happened, were you?”
“No. I wasn’t.” He explained about Lexi and described the moments leading up to the fire truck’s arrival.
“Hold on. You saw him?”
“Not clearly.” Henry stared down at the scrap of cloth he was holding.
“But you did see him, and that piece of fabric is from his pants.”
“Lexi tore it off. I hope… hope she’s okay. She risked her life tonight, defending me.”
Johnson patted him clumsily on the shoulder. “I’m calling Meg Allen and a vet.”
“At this hour?”
“Meg will want to be here, and I know Dr. Berry pretty well. She probably isn’t even asleep yet.”
An hour later the fire crew had left, Meg was working with a crime scene technician in his lane, and Dr. Georgia Berry was examining his dog.
“Can’t tell without X-rays, but I think what you have here are some bruised ribs.” She gently ran her fingers along the dog’s chest. “Nothing appears to be broken.”
Georgia looked too young to be a veterinarian, in Henry’s opinion. She had long red hair, pulled back through a baseball cap, freckles across her nose, and a kind smile. Henry liked her immediately.
“I’ve only had her a week. Got her so I’d hear people coming down the lane. I was hoping she would grow into the role. I never thought she’d try to catch culprits.”
“Lexi is a smart girl.” Georgia scratched the dog behind the ears, and then she pulled a small biscuit from the pocket of her jacket. The dog was instantly smitten with her. “Beagles are never happier than when they’re following a scent. They’re smart too. I think you’ll be glad you have her.”
“I already am.”
There was a tap on his back door, and then Meg walked inside. “Do you have a minute, Bishop?”
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