A Marriage for Meghan

by Mary Ellis

  His older son thought for a moment. “I didn’t see any truck at all. They must have parked somewhere else. All I saw in that field were our buggies.” He looked toward his brother, as did the sheriff.

  John blushed under their perusal. “Not me either. I recognized no one and saw no vehicles. But I do know they were about our size, not bigger. We could have taken them,” he paused and looked at his father. “If we had wanted to, which we didn’t,” he added hastily. “They all had on those coats to make them blend into the forest during hunting season and blue jeans. They were pretty much dressed exactly alike, the way they say we Amish do.” He and James exchanged a glance.

  Sheriff Strickland lifted an eyebrow. “Did they make comments about you being Amish?”

  John nodded and repeated the remark about them all looking alike. “And the one guy who kept hitting me in the gut said, ‘You Amish think you’re better than us because you’re holy-holy, but you’re not better. You’re just the same as me—a nobody.’”

  Strickland looked from one young man to the other and wrote something in the spiral notebook he pulled from his breast pocket.

  “Then the guy punched me here.” John gingerly touched the left side of his face. “And asked, ‘What are ya going to do now, turn the other cheek?’”

  “A biblical reference?” the sheriff asked.

  John glanced around at the three men staring at him. “Jah, I suppose so.”

  Strickland turned back to James. “They say anything more to you? Is there anything else you can remember?”

  “Just trash talk about ‘you Amish boys are too chicken to fight back.’” James stared at the wall before continuing. “Oh, I do remember something. They didn’t sound like the Englischers that live around here. They talked different.”

  The sheriff gave an example of an exaggerated Southern accent and asked, “Something like that?”

  “Sort of, I suppose.”

  Strickland closed his notebook and tucked it back into a pocket. “Thanks, boys. That’ll do it.”

  James and John nodded, and then they each grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and headed back outdoors.

  Gideon splayed his fingers across the table. “Sounds as though they’re not from around here. Maybe they are just passing through and we’ll never see the likes of them again.”

  The sheriff rose to his feet and shrugged into his coat. “Maybe, but we take assault very seriously. I’ll do everything I can to bring them to justice.”

  The bishop blanched. “The Lord will see to justice. You know the Amish like to settle things among themselves. We don’t like lodging complaints against other folks with either the law or the court system.”

  “But you didn’t, Bishop. Mr. Santos of the pizza shop signed the formal complaint. He’s not big on his customers getting beaten up by thugs in his parking lot.” He cocked his head to the side.

  Gideon stiffened with the unintended implication. “I’m not big on my sons getting beaten up for no reason, I assure you. But those men are probably long gone now. And life can get back to normal around here.”

  With one hand on the doorknob, Strickland met his eye. “I hope you’re right, Bishop, but it’s my job to investigate and file a report with the Cleveland office.”

  Things seemed to slip further beyond Gideon’s control. “What do you mean?”

  “Sounds to me that your sons and their friends were targeted because they’re Amish. That puts a whole different spin on things. I’m required to notify the FBI.”

  The temperature in the Yost kitchen seemed to drop several degrees despite the blazing wood-burning stove. “You’re calling in folks from the federal government to Shreve, Ohio?”

  “Please don’t work yourself up, Bishop. It will be one agent for a consultation. That’s it. The town won’t be swarming with SWAT teams and helicopters by lunchtime tomorrow.”

  Gideon rubbed his forehead. “What is a ‘swat team’?”

  Strickland reached out and put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Nothing you need to worry about, I assure you. I’ll be in touch within a few days.”

  They shook hands and then the Englischer left, his wheels spinning slushy snow as he turned his car around. But Gideon didn’t feel reassured.

  What have I done? Without consulting my brethren, I’ve brought the world of English law enforcement to our sleepy little town.

  Despite the fact that it wasn’t yet noon, he felt a weary exhaustion that spread all the way down to his toes.

  “Consider this a couple days of R & R in the country.”

  The director’s words still rankled Special Agent Thomas Mast as he drove south on the interstate, leaving the industrial city of Cleveland and the residential sprawl of suburbia behind. At least it wasn’t snowing, and in February that was always a distinct possibility.

  R & R, a real getaway, he could use—maybe a few days of golf in Florida or skiing in upstate New York would be nice. But investigating a religious sect that might be the target of a hate crime? That hardly sounded restful. Some Amish youths got pushed around when they left a pizza parlor and the local sheriff calls the FBI? Not that Thomas liked the idea of people being abused because of their reputation as pacifists, but unfortunately kids could be cruel and thoughtless. Nobody grew up without being the recipient of some kind of derision and name-calling. Too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, or skin not the same color as mine? For some, these were reasons to furl a lip. Mast didn’t like it, but until the shrinks discovered a way to change human nature, people usually reached adulthood with a far thicker skin than the one they were born with.

  “Exit right, five hundred feet. Prepare to turn left.” Thomas switched off the irritating British voice of the car’s GPS. He knew from one glance at a map that Route 83 would take him straight to Wooster without this woman warning him about every curve in the road.

  This might not be a relaxing getaway, but it certainly was a pretty part of the state. Red-tailed hawks soared over rolling white fields, while sunlight reflected off snow-covered fields. He shaded his eyes to focus on a barn with an ancient clay-tile roof standing against a backdrop of frosted pines. Peaceful. That’s what it felt like on the outskirts of town—a safe place to farm or just raise a family away from big city noise and crime.

  Thomas had visited the charming and historic college town of Wooster when he’d played Division III football for Wittenberg University as a defensive back. They had trounced the Wooster College team. But when the bus pulled away from the tree-lined streets with old-fashioned light poles, he’d breathed a sigh of relief. An odd sense of anxiety had followed him around that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He’d learned from his coach that a large Amish population lived in the area, and Thomas had spotted several bonnet-clad women coming from the grocery store, headed to their buggies. Businesses had erected hitching posts with troughs and water spigots in their back lots. Hard to imagine in the twenty-first century. Now, returning as a federal agent three years out of the FBI Academy, it seemed not much had changed.

  The idea that thugs were intruding on the nostalgic, time-stood-still world of the Amish soured his stomach. He planned to catch the bad guys, throw their ignorant butts in jail, and then return to his civilized, urban world. He preferred take-out meals from the corner deli, seeing white-sailed regattas on the lake from his condo, and watching Sunday football at a friend’s house with cold beer and spicy chili. His world—neat, orderly, controlled. He knew he would be a fish out of water in Mayberry, R.F.D. But because he was low man on the bureau totem pole, he had to pay his dues, same as every other greenhorn agent.

  At least the modern Wayne County Justice Center was a pleasant surprise. And Sheriff Bob Strickland was no anachronistic Andy Taylor. Solidly built, soft spoken, and with a gaze that seemed to absorb every detail at once, the man didn’t even sport the quintessential potbelly overhanging his belt.

  “How was the drive down?” asked Strickland once they were seated in his t
idy office.

  “Good. There was almost no traffic. Pretty countryside out here. It sure hasn’t changed much in seven years.”

  “Our Amish citizens would disagree with you. The price of farmland keeps rising, even though the rest of Ohio is in recession with a glut of foreclosures. And we have heavier traffic now that the Amish have become a tourist attraction.”

  Agent Mast met the sheriff’s eye. “How do they feel about that? People driving down to stare at them and spy on how they live their lives? Isn’t the whole point to keep themselves separate from the modern world to preserve their rural culture?”

  Strickland leaned back in his chair. “True, but things are never that simple. They have to generate cash same as everybody else to pay taxes, medical bills, and purchase whatever they can’t grow, raise, or build themselves. And the vacationers who come buy lots of farm produce, quilts, crafts, and furniture. But each year the number of buggy-vehicle accidents increases.”

  Mast frowned, hating the image his mind conjured. “I see some of your highways have been widened with a buggy lane. That’s a great idea.”

  “We try to do what we can to help, as much as the Ohio Department of Transportation will pay for.”

  Thomas glanced at his watch as subtly as possible. “So you think you have someone targeting your Amish community?” He wanted to direct the conversation to the case he’d been called down for.

  “Could be. I want to hear what you think. We’ve had three incidents of malicious mischief and property damage, all done at night. Then two evenings ago, five Amish young men were beaten up pretty badly by creeps with a lot of nasty things to say.” Strickland’s cool blue eyes locked with his. “Pretty mean bunch. I want them caught and thrown into the stockades on the town square.”

  It took Thomas a moment before he caught the joke. “Come on, Sheriff. You know stockades aren’t politically correct. Let’s flog ’em with a cat-o’-nine-tails, run ’em out of town on a rail, and be done with it.”

  The sheriff laughed. “I think we’ll get along just fine. Tell me, Agent Mast, did you draw the short straw at the bureau yesterday?” The lines around his eyes deepened into a web.

  “No, sir.” Thomas smiled graciously. “My boss just thought I needed to round out my background experience. Why don’t you give me particulars in each incident? Then I’ll check into a hotel. I think I saw a Best Western on the corner of Beale Street. Because I plan to nose around at night, I don’t want a two-hour drive home after work.” He pulled out his notebook and pen.

  The sheriff carefully detailed the three crimes and provided names and addresses of victims and witnesses, along with numbers for those owning phones. Then he mentioned the incident at the schoolhouse. “It’s most likely unrelated, but I’ll give you the names of the teachers in case you want to check it out. They live at one of the vandalized farms.”

  Mast took notes and asked appropriate questions, all the while thinking the perps were probably long gone and on to the next place to impact with their charm. Rising to his feet, he extended a hand. “Thanks, Sheriff. I’ll take a look around, ask some questions, and touch base tomorrow or the next day. You have my cell number.”

  Strickland shook hands heartily. “Thanks for coming down, Agent Mast. We welcome help from the big dogs. Just one thing to remember while you’re here—the name of our fair city does not rhyme with ‘rooster.’ Think of the second and third letters as one ‘u.’ And that street you drove in on is pronounced ‘bell,’ like what’s inside a belfry. We can’t have folks laughing behind your back on your first day.”

  “I appreciate that.” Thomas donned his shades as he walked outside into the winter sunshine. Across the street three attractive young women left a restaurant that, according to its name, had once been the town jail. Two out of the three gave him a second glance. He smiled politely, glanced at his watch, and crossed the street to his sedan. If he didn’t dawdle while checking into the hotel, he’d have time to interview the school teachers before they left for the day. He wanted to determine for himself whether the trashing of a school was related or not. And they might feel more comfortable being questioned there rather than surrounded by family later on.

  He knew he’d feel more comfortable. There was something about the Amish that intrigued him yet made him wary at the same time.

  “Catherine?”

  The head teacher heard the voice before the child stuck her head into the schoolroom.

  “Annabeth, I thought you left with the other children.” Catherine turned her attention from her stack of papers to be graded to the girl.

  Annabeth sidled back up the aisle. “I saw Meghan leave right after the bell and thought you might need some help.”

  “Thank you, but I’m fine. Meghan will sweep up in the morning. She went home to help our mamm with dinner while I grade today’s work. Then tomorrow we’ll switch and I’ll leave right at the bell.” She smiled at the girl’s shyness. “Doesn’t your mamm need your help?”

  “No, I have five older sisters who can do chores much better than me.” The dark-eyed girl looked crestfallen as her lower lip quivered.

  Catherine smiled, knowing instinctively the child needed some extra attention. “In that case, jah, we can sure use your help. You’ll find the broom and dustpan in the corner.”

  Annabeth ran to start sweeping as though bestowed with a great honor. But Catherine had barely begun grading the papers when her concentration was again broken.

  “Miss Yost?” A soft, low voice spoke from across the room. “Catherine Yost?”

  With a start she glanced up to see a tall Englischer in the doorway with very dark hair, cut short and combed straight back from his face. “Yes, I’m Catherine Yost.” Bracing her palms on the desk, she rose to her feet.

  “I don’t mean to disturb your work, but I need to ask a few questions about the damage done to the school.” He strode toward her desk, taking in the room, her helpmate, and her with a few pointed glances.

  She hesitated, confused. “Sheriff Strickland has already been here asking questions.”

  When he reached her desk, he removed the shiny sunglasses that obscured his eyes and extended a hand. “How do you do? I’m Special Agent Thomas Mast of the Cleveland office of the FBI. Sheriff Strickland called me down strictly as a consultant on the case.”

  Her eyes bugged out in disbelief as they shook hands. She was familiar enough with the outside world to know the FBI was an important branch of English law enforcement. “You drove down from Cleveland because an Amish boy became angry with his new teachers?”

  He laughed, a warm friendly sound. “There might be a bit more to it than that.” He looked directly at Annabeth Selby, who stood watching like a barn owl from the rafters. “Perhaps tender ears shouldn’t hear our conversation.”

  Catherine shook off her bafflement. “You’re right, Mr. Mast.” She turned to the student and said, “Danki for your help, Annabeth, but why don’t you come early tomorrow to help Meghan clean the classroom?”

  The girl looked from one to the other and blinked. Then she set down the broom and dustpan exactly where she stood and fled. The man seemed to have scared her.

  Agent Mast pulled out a student’s bench and straddled it with his long legs. “I just left the sheriff’s office, Miss Yost, and he filled me in on things happening in your community—farm fields rutted by four-wheel-drive vehicles, fence rails damaged, mailboxes destroyed, and then your classroom turned upside down.”

  “My father said the sheriff planned to stop at the Shockley farm to talk to Owen.”

  The agent shifted on the bench, leaning a bit closer. “Yes, ma’am, and he did so. Owen didn’t like the change of guard to yourself and your sister. Apparently, the previous teacher let him slide in his studies during the final semester because the young man possessed no academic interest whatsoever. He resented your attempt to turn him into a serious scholar.” His blue eyes sparkled as he grinned.

  Catherine saw nothing amusing
. “I don’t mean to sound disrespectful or unappreciative, but the Amish don’t need the FBI intervening with unruly students.” She stiffened her back and stood taller.

  “No offense taken, and I agree with you wholeheartedly.” His words sounded as smooth as warm butter. “The Shockley boy was pretty tight-lipped and admitted no wrongdoing to the sheriff. If Owen was your culprit, the sheriff feels he won’t be repeating his mistake. His parents also seemed determined about that. But the Shockley boy had nothing to do with the other criminal activity here.” He stared boldly at her without the decency to avert his eyes.

  She broke the tense moment by gathering her papers into a tidy stack. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  “I understand the first set of knocked-down fences belonged to your family and that your brothers…” He paused to flip open a spiral notebook. “That James and John were two of the men assaulted in a Shreve parking lot.” His gaze bored through her once more.

  Catherine swallowed hard, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Yes, that is true.” She glanced at the door, longing to be on her way home to a warm kitchen and a hot supper.

  “Has something happened to a member of your family? A run-in that might invite any kind of retaliation? There’s a chance your family might be the target, especially if the Shockley boy wasn’t our vandal.” He stood with the easy grace of those athletically inclined but kept watching her.

  Catherine began to wilt under the lawman’s perusal. Shaking her head, she said, “No, I can’t think of a reason anyone would be mad at us.”

  He carefully buttoned his long wool overcoat. “More often than not, unfortunately, these things turn out to be relationship oriented. Forgive me for prying into your personal business, but have you just broken up with a…boyfriend or a suitor, perhaps?” For the first time, the agent looked embarrassed and uncomfortable.

  Catherine shook her head vehemently. “No, I’m betrothed to a man who goes to school in Kentucky. We shall marry later this year. He’s the only man I’ve ever courted—” She paused abruptly. The recollection of some incident showed plainly on her face.