Unlike people who lived near a railroad track and got so used to the clatter of the trains that they didn’t even notice when they went by, the sound of rockets or gunfire never lost its ability to thrust Grace into immediate action. Even when she was so exhausted from a mission that her sleep resembled a coma, the shout of “Incoming!” could propel her out of bed with her legs already moving at full speed. Her training and experience had made her hypervigilant, and she didn’t know how to find the necessary switch to flip that hypervigilance off. She got back up, peeked in on her grandmother, and checked all the locks again.
She had just gotten settled back beneath the afghan when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Every muscle in her body tensed, ready for fight or flight.
“Sis?” Becky called softly.
She relaxed. “Over here, Becky. What’s wrong?”
“It’s creepy being upstairs all by myself.”
“You can sleep down here on the other couch if you want to keep me company.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Even though Becky was seventeen, she was carrying her blanket and her favorite pillow along with her—just as when she was small and had crept into Grace’s bed when she was afraid.
Becky made herself a nest on the other couch. In spite of the adjustments she was having to make, Grace was filled with gratitude that she had been able to come home. There was a killer on the loose and she was grateful that she was here to watch over the two people she cared for most in the world.
“I’m glad you could come home.” Becky fluffed her pillow and doubled it beneath her head.
“I’m glad, too. Good night, Becky.”
Instead of the roar of fighter jets overhead and the rattling gunfire of distant fighting that had permeated her sleep for so long, Grace heard the sound of her grandmother having a quiet conversation with God. Elizabeth had done that for as long as Grace could remember.
It gave her a feeling of peace even now, just as it had when she was little. The comfort of her grandmother’s prayers helped her to temporarily switch off the feeling of unease with which she lived. She allowed herself to nod off as she listened to her grandmother standing sentry for their family, asking the God she had served for over six decades to surround their family with the strength of His mighty angels.
chapter FOUR
Grace tossed her keys into the large wooden bowl that sat in the middle of her grandmother’s kitchen table. She remembered Claire expressing admiration for the well-crafted article the first day she had met her. Claire had shyly informed her, during her one short visit, that the bowl was designed for kneading bread. It was obvious she was dismayed to see such a fine culinary tool being used as a mere receptacle for car keys.
Grace had chosen not to spoil the visit by telling Claire that she had no earthly idea how to make bread, nor did she have any particular desire to do so. The thought of herself elbow-deep in bread dough almost made her smile.
Almost. Because even though she and Claire were worlds apart in many ways, she felt a connection developing between them that day. Claire had been fascinated by the fact that she was a nurse—and had asked many questions. She, in turn, had discovered that Claire had a great deal of knowledge about healing plants. Grace had been too long in a primitive country with poor medical resources not to respect those who tried to relieve what pain and sickness they could with whatever tools they had.
In her hand was a box of handmade candy she had purchased at Coblentz’s chocolate factory over in Walnut Creek. Mother’s Day was coming soon and she had picked up an assortment of her grandmother’s favorites.
She was trying to figure out a safe place to hide the box when she heard Elizabeth exclaiming, “You brought chocolates!”
Grace turned around and saw that her grandmother had taken it upon herself to advance from a walker to a cane this morning.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Grandma?”
“Chocolate is almost always a good idea.”
“No, I mean the cane. Shouldn’t you be using your walker?”
“Not when a cane works just as well. I’m feeling much stronger. Now—about those chocolates you are hiding behind your back.”
“They are supposed to be for Mother’s Day.”
“Lovely.” Elizabeth reached out her hand. “I’m declaring an early Mother’s Day.”
“I’m not sure you’re allowed to do that, Grandma.”
“I’m seventy-eight years old. I have just survived triple bypass surgery. In my opinion, I have earned the right to do pretty much anything I want—within reason. And in my opinion, eating a little chocolate is definitely within reason.”
Grace reluctantly sat the box of chocolates on the kitchen table.
Elizabeth leaned her cane against the chair and eased herself down. “Did you get any of their Swiss-style truffles?”
“Of course.”
“Caramels?”
“Would it be a box of Coblentz’s without caramels?”
“Not in my opinion.” Elizabeth lifted the lid. “Oh, you got pecan clusters, too.”
“And buckeyes.”
“And buckeyes! Be still my beating heart.”
“It won’t be beating long if you eat all this candy,” Grace warned.
“Then am I to assume,” Elizabeth said, “that you brought all this lovely chocolate home merely to hasten my demise? Have you been coveting my collection of butter dishes again?”
“Your collection of butter dishes?” Grace scoffed. “I would pay to have someone come in and carry most of this stuff out of here.”
Elizabeth pretended offense. “Just because you lived in a tent with nothing but a duffel bag doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have our comforts.”
“It wasn’t a tent, it was a B-hut. They’re built out of plywood.”
“Ah—so you lived in a box. Big difference.” Elizabeth daintily selected a truffle and sank her teeth into it. Her eyes rolled back in ecstasy.
Grace watched with amusement. It was nice to see her grandmother enjoying herself again. Grandma had always been fun, but illness had taken much of the starch out of her these past weeks. The fact that she could exchange banter again was a good sign that her body was getting stronger.
“Hey, sis!” Becky came in, flopped down beside her grandmother, and eyed the candy box. “Ooh. You’ve been to Coblentz’s!”
The older Becky got, the more she reminded Grace of their mother—a beautiful brunette with smoky blue eyes.
“I was trying to hide her Mother’s Day gift, but she already caught me.”
Becky lifted the box lid. “Can I have a buckeye?”
“One.” Elizabeth held up a finger.
“What have you been up to this afternoon?” Grace asked. “Homework?”
“Uh-huh.” Becky popped a chocolate in her mouth and spoke around it. “I have a report due.”
“Chocolate should be savored,” her grandmother admonished. “Don’t cheapen the experience by talking with your mouth full.”
“I’m going to start supper before you two stuff yourselves with candy,” Grace said. “Spaghetti sound good?”
Just then, a knock on the door brought all three of them to a full alert.
“Were we expecting anyone?” Grace asked.
Elizabeth and Becky shook their heads.
Ever since the murder, they had been keeping the doors locked all the time, and Grace deeply resented the fact that they felt the need.
She peered out the window nearest the door. It felt odd to be so careful in broad daylight, but the Shetler murder had taken place in the middle of a gorgeous spring morning.
She relaxed when she saw that it was Levi and unlocked the door. He stood on the porch, his feet planted far apart, with what appeared to be a new broad-brimmed straw hat on his head. His expression was so serious, it worried her.
“Is your mother okay, Levi?”
“She will be home soon.”
“How is Da
niel?”
“He is doing well. Rose is with him now.”
“Wonderful. Have the police discovered who the shooter was yet?”
He frowned. “If so, they have not told me.”
She realized that she was keeping him standing on the porch.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked. “I was just starting dinner. It won’t take long. You’re more than welcome to stay and eat with us.”
“Thank you. No.” He glanced over his shoulder at the road, as though worried someone might pass by and see him standing there.
She was glad that she was wearing baggy jeans and a loose button-down shirt today. No one in his right mind could consider her outfit revealing.
“I have brought you a gift.”
“Really?” This was unexpected. “You don’t have to give me anything.”
Again those dark hazel eyes studied her, as though trying to figure her out.
There was a leather strap slung across his chest. He pulled it up over his head, and she realized that it was attached to a basket he carried behind his back—the most cunningly made basket that she had ever seen. She didn’t know a lot about basket-weaving, but it was easy to see that Levi was a master.
It was slightly larger than the black leather bag in which she kept her emergency medical supplies but much lighter. The leather strap, which had been a little tight across his chest, was the perfect length for her.
“This will hold your things more securely.” Levi opened the curved woven lid and held it open so that she could see inside. “There are some compartments within.”
She was amazed. Everything she carried in her medical bag would nest in that basket perfectly. Had she ever seen one like it, she would have bought it immediately, regardless of the price.
“When did you have time to do this, Levi?” she asked. “This must have taken days.”
“Not days. Two evenings.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I thought it might be useful.” He seemed uncomfortable with her praise. “It should be lighter than that big black bag you carry.”
“It is light.” She hefted the basket in her hand. “I can’t imagine it withstanding all the abuse I give that bag.”
“It is made with small strips from a black ash tree from our land. It will last many years.”
She thought she heard just a hint of pride as he said that.
The basket was so unusual, so obviously crafted specifically for her, that she wondered if she had somehow—despite her Englischness—made a friend out of this solemn Amish man.
“Thank you so much, Levi, I—”
He interrupted her by turning on his heel and calling back over his shoulder as he strode toward his horse. “You would not allow me to pay you for the miles, so now we are even.”
He didn’t turn around or so much as wave as she stood at the door with his exquisite gift in her hand. He mounted his beautiful black horse and rode away without once looking back.
She had met a lot of men in her life, but this young Amish man—with his calloused hands and a concern for his family so intense he had hovered over his baby brother for hours—was not like anyone she had ever known.
chapter FIVE
Levi carried a sturdy side table, one he had just finished making, in from the workshop to place beside the heavy oak bed that his friend and cousin Timothy had helped him carry downstairs from his mother’s room yesterday morning. They had placed the bed in a corner of the front room for his mother. She would be coming home soon—she and the babe—praise God!
Just in time for the funeral.
The doctor said she should not climb stairs for several more days, so Levi was making a place for her on the first floor. It would be good to have his family home again.
The house was too quiet. He did not like it. A home should be filled with children and conversation.
And it was clean. Uncomfortably clean. So clean that he was almost afraid to sit down. The women from his church had taken over, washing each room from top to bottom just as Maam always did in the weeks leading up to their turn at hosting church in their home.
It had felt strange coming home from the hospital and finding women working inside and out, including finishing the laundry his mother had begun. Several men from church were feeding the livestock and tending to the other numerous chores around the farm. It appeared that the only chore left for him to do before the funeral, besides carry down his mother’s bed, was to gather the eggs and brave the bad-tempered rooster who was all ruffled up and annoyed over the comings and goings of so many people.
On his way to the house, he stopped. A handful of hermit thrushes were thoroughly enjoying the warm weather, fluttering and twittering among the branches of a young apple tree. It was nice to see that the little things had survived the winter. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of the snowy white apple blossoms and tried to calm his mind.
Whenever his heart was heavy, he had found that it helped to focus on natural things. Things that he had grown up with. Natural gifts from the hand of God. Things that reminded him that there truly was a God.
He missed his mother, his sister, his little brothers, and his stepfather. Abraham had come into his life when he was only ten years old. His widowed mother’s new husband was a fair man who had taken his role as a father seriously and had taught Levi much about the practical aspects of making a living.
Basket-weaving was one of the things Abraham had taught him, patiently and in great detail. It was an occupation plied by many Swartzentruber families. The tourists each summer would buy almost any amount they could make over the winter, but Abraham was especially skilled.
As was Levi—thanks to his stepfather.
He wondered if it had been a sin to create such an intricately woven basket for Grace. As he pondered it, he decided that it was a prideful thing he had done. He had sketched it out on paper first, taking great pleasure in losing himself in creating a design that he had never made before. It had taken all of his skill in design and execution, but the look of amazement in her eyes when she had seen it had been worth every second.
As had the look of respect.
It was hard—this thing of being Swartzentruber. But it was all he knew how to be. Every relative he had was Swartzentruber except Rose, who had made the decision to cross over into Old Order Amish. It had been a terrible thing at the time. It was still a terrible thing, in his opinion. Because of the ban, Rose and her family had not been welcome at his mother’s table for a little over ten years.
He still marveled that Rose was the person his mother had wanted to care for the children. She had told him later that it was because she knew that in Rose’s household the children would be loved, and they would need all the love they could get after what they had been through. She had been afraid, she said, that they would simply be tossed in with the other children in any of the other Swartzentruber homes—some of which had as many as seventeen children in them.
Being a member of his church was decidedly not easy, but the preachers said that the road to heaven was narrow and the hardships his people chose to endure would someday be worth it. What bothered him most was not the extra work, or the restrictions on how much he could charge for his work, or even the lack of conveniences that other Amish got to enjoy. The thing that rankled him the most was the contempt in which his people were sometimes held by some in the less conservative Amish sects.
In some ways, he understood. His aunt and uncle’s Old Order farm fairly sparkled with new paint and a well-kept lawn and gardens. In the summer he was certain it would be bursting with flowers. Their driveway had been well covered with a thick layer of gravel.
The Shetler farm looked shabby by comparison. The house was in need of a coat of paint. The driveway was only packed dirt that turned into mud each time it rained. The yard was small and unkempt.
His church believed that it was wrong to take pride in the appearance of their farms and homes. It was one more way they cho
se to keep themselves apart from the world.
But in Elizabeth’s granddaughter’s voice, there had not been even a hint of contempt for him or his people. Grace was the kind of person he wished he could know better, but he was a baptized believer and should not allow himself to even think about someone like Grace Connor.
Still, the look of admiration he had seen in her eyes because of the special basket he had woven had felt sweet indeed.
“But I don’t want to take a nap.” Elizabeth sat on the side of her bed.
Grace set out a glass of water and two pills. “Grandma, you need your rest.”
“I feel fine.”
“You won’t feel fine if you don’t rest.”
“I didn’t make you take naps!”
Grace considered. That was true. It had been one of the many perks of her too-brief visits here as a child. No naps. Lots of stories. Picnics on the back porch. Visits to the chocolate and cheese factories.
“I’ll read,” Elizabeth wheedled. “And I’ll stay in bed while I read. Would that make you happy?”
“Having you get well is what will make me happy.”
“I think I’ve done pretty well—all things considered.”
“I think you’ve done wonderfully,” Grace said. “Is there a specific book you want?”
“Yes. It’s in the top drawer of my dresser.”
“This?” Grace pulled out a paperback. “Love’s Savage Heart? Are you sure?”
It had a lurid cover, with a man so well muscled that she could not imagine him doing anything except working out twenty-four hours a day. The woman was apparently having a button crisis, from the looks of her blouse.
“You don’t read these kinds of books.” She glanced at her grandmother. “Do you?”
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