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  Louisa wasn’t sure she wanted to hear about Michael.

  Dressed now in her own clothing, Courtney led her to two waiting chairs in the common area and sat down. She patted the other for Louisa, who sat, too, her defenses rising again.

  Courtney leaned close, pinning her with an intense gaze. ‘‘What if I told you Michael has decided not to partner at your father’s law firm?’’

  Louisa swallowed. ‘‘He what?’’

  ‘‘He must love you a lot to give all that up. Don’t you think?’’

  ‘‘No way he’s walking from the firm.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be so sure. I think he wants to prove something to you in a big way.’’

  ‘‘Then why didn’t he want you to tell me?’’

  Courtney shook her head. ‘‘Maybe he wanted to say it himself. Remember, he wanted to fly out here? But you shut him down?’’

  ‘‘Courtney . . .’’ Louisa frowned. ‘‘Michael and I closed the door on our relationship . . . months ago.’’

  Courtney stared at her. ‘‘He’s a great guy, and putting it bluntly, you’re nuts to ignore him.’’

  ‘‘Sounds like you’ve gotten to know him pretty well since I’ve been here.’’

  ‘‘All I’m saying is count your lucky stars that Michael’s willing to give the whole thing another chance . . . after you left him, basically, standing at the altar.’’

  ‘‘Hey, you know that’s not true.’’

  ‘‘I don’t see you throwing away that kind of love, Louisa.’’

  ‘‘Honestly, I doubt Michael and I ever really had the devoted kind of love two people should marry for. The ‘in sickness, in health’ kind,’’ Louisa said. The image of Sam’s gentle eyes crossed her mind before she could blink it away.

  ‘‘This is the real world, not some fairy-tale romance. No love is perfect, right? But Michael loves you and you love him. Or at least you used to.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I used to do a lot of things, Court.’’

  Now it was Courtney’s turn to sigh loudly.

  ‘‘Listen, I don’t want you to leave like this.’’ Louisa reached over and squeezed Courtney’s arm. ‘‘You have one day left here. Let’s make the most of it—do something fun together, just the two of us. I’ll take you to this art gallery I know, then out for lunch at a Dutch smorgasbord. Okay with you?’’

  Courtney’s eyes were sad, even defeated, but she smiled gamely. ‘‘Sounds good, Ms. Stratford . . . but you’re buying.’’

  Chapter 10

  Ben drove back to the harness shop where he found Irvin and another man negotiating a price on a new harness. Resuming his work, Ben checked the measurements for a custom miniature horse harness before cutting the leather.

  He had never been awestruck by a girl before, and a Plain one at that. But Annie’s personality was unlike any young woman he had dated. She was a peculiar yet appealing mix of beauty, naivete , and spunk. She knew her mind and was rarely hesitant about speaking it, but only if she felt she was in a comfortable environment. Ben smiled to himself. She’s definitely become more at ease with me.

  Thinking ahead to the best choice of a restaurant for their first real date, he wondered how it would go . . . the two of them out together, and Annie vulnerable to the public eye. Inwardly he cringed at putting her at risk in any way and was contemplating rethinking where he might take her for supper when in walked Zeke Hochstetler.

  ‘‘Ben, hullo again!’’

  Ben motioned him over to the large table where he worked. ‘‘What can I do for you?’’

  ‘‘Well, I came to ask Irvin if he could spare an hour or so,’’ Zeke said, glancing over at Irvin and the farmer still haggling over cost. ‘‘Need some help mendin’ a fence, and I mean that literally.’’

  Ben smiled at his quip, though he found it curious that Zeke should drop by twice in one day. ‘‘I’d be happy to help with your fence,’’ Ben volunteered. They both looked Irvin’s way. ‘‘Looks like he might be tied up for a while, but I could get away once I’m done with this piece.’’ Ben patted the dark leather.

  ‘‘All right, then, I’ll wait and take you over . . . then bring ya back.’’

  Ben nodded in agreement.

  Meanwhile, Zeke looked over at the wooden horses’ heads of all different sizes along the shelf near the wall. He began to pace.

  ‘‘Make yourself at home,’’ said Ben.

  ‘‘Don’t mind if I do.’’ Zeke wandered over to a chair and sat down. He pulled out a folded paper from inside his black work coat and began to read.

  Nearly a half hour later, when Ben had completed his work, he went to speak to Zeke, who was dozing. Ben felt uncomfortable observing the man’s chin and bushy beard leaning heavily on his chest. The tired-out farmer probably needed his forty winks more than Ben needed to wake him.

  He thought of kind Esther . . . and how her husband was fending for himself these days, and he felt genuinely sorry for Zeke.

  Ben and Zeke worked together to right the broken fence. The air was nippier than it had been earlier, even though the sun tried to peek through snow-laden clouds. Still, the exertion of sawing, toting lumber, and hammering kept Ben plenty warm.

  When the job was complete and the fence was up and sturdy again, Zeke took him inside for some hot coffee. Dirty dishes were stacked in the kitchen sink, and Zeke apologized for the mess, saying he didn’t know of any husband who kept a clean kitchen when the missus was away.

  They sat and drank coffee, Zeke at the head of his table and Ben perched on the wooden bench. Zeke offered some sticky buns he’d gotten that morning from a ‘‘kindly neighbor,’’ and Ben accepted, all the while thinking how terribly vacant this big old farmhouse seemed.

  Later, on the way back to the harness shop, sitting under heavy lap robes, they rode near a cemetery, or as Zeke called it, ‘‘the People’s burial ground.’’ Ben was more interested in the interior of the fragile-looking coach, the Plexiglas windshield and the ultra-plain dashboard, than in an Amish graveyard.

  Zeke held the reins as if it were second nature. He was clearly skilled in anticipating the signals, the slight nudges from man to beast and horse to driver that were their essential tool of connection. ‘‘Say now, what would ya think if we stopped off here for a minute?’’ Zeke asked, staring up at the fenced-in cemetery, set high on the hill.

  ‘‘What’s here?’’

  ‘‘I’d rather not be alone in doin’ what I must.’’ His voice had become a whisper, and the pink in his cheeks from the cold seemed to vanish.

  Ben assented, though cemeteries made him feel on edge—always had.

  Zeke turned toward him, the light slowly coming back into his brown eyes. ‘‘Been puttin’ this off for too long, I daresay.’’

  The horse slowed and the carriage came to a stop along the roadside. ‘‘I’m hardheaded, Ben, among other things,’’ Zeke said. ‘‘I berated the brethren for the longest time . . . demanded to see where they buried my poor brother.’’

  Ben wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. ‘‘Your brother died recently?’’

  ‘‘No . . . no. He was just a boy . . . his bones are buried back behind this here graveyard somewhere. Preacher Jesse and the bishop didn’t even bother to give him a tombstone . . . nothin’.’’

  Ben found this startling. ‘‘How did he die?’’

  ‘‘Not for certain on that.’’

  ‘‘Wait now, you’ve lost me,’’ Ben blurted. ‘‘Why are you only now going to see his grave?’’

  ‘‘You don’t know the half . . . and it’s too long a story, I fear.’’ Zeke paused and said nothing for the longest time as they sat in the carriage. ‘‘I should never have uttered a word, and if you think twice ’bout telling anyone, well, I’ll have your hide.’’

  Ben bristled. ‘‘Who would I tell? And do you mean to say his death is a secret?’’

  ‘‘Jah, no one knows his remains were ever found. No one but two of the ministers, that is. And they
intend to keep a lock on that.’’ Zeke sighed loudly. ‘‘Up until last fall, I assumed he had been kidnapped. Then my memory of that night began to fade and nightmares began filling my sleep. I dreamed he fell into the hole I’d dug for his dead puppy dog . . . fell and hit his head. At least I think it was a dream. Then, lo and behold, if his bones weren’t found buried in a farmer’s field last year, not far from my own house.’’

  Ben was speechless.

  ‘‘None of this was ever reported . . . the kidnapping nor the death.’’

  ‘‘Are you serious?’’

  ‘‘It’s our way—das Alt Gebrauch—the old way. Jesse Zook wants nothing to do with the outside world. Wants to follow the bishop’s orders on that . . . ev’ry jot and tittle.’’ Zeke gave a nervous chuckle, then composed himself. ‘‘Only the Good Lord knows why I’m tellin’ you.’’

  Quickly, Ben asked, ‘‘How long ago was this?’’

  ‘‘My brother was only four, and I had just turned eight.’’ Zeke’s hand shook briefly. ‘‘Sixteen endless years . . .’’

  ‘‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’’

  ‘‘No . . . no. Don’t apologize.’’ Zeke was seemingly composed and was pointing out the narrow road that led to the hillside cemetery. ‘‘It’s quite an elevated area, this here graveyard, so I’d suggest ya hold on but good.’’ Zeke reined the horse to the right and onto the path hardly distinguishable due to drifted snow. ‘‘We’ve had some buggies actually tip over on this stretch.’’

  Ben grabbed hold of the seat and held on.

  Ben and Zeke stood at the back of the cemetery near the fence, looking down at the snowfields below—the vast white valley dappled with farmhouses, barns, and silos.

  Like a picture on a calendar, Ben thought, although the sky was a gray-and-white mixture, the sun deeply cloaked.

  ‘‘I’ve come here for many a burial,’’ Zeke was saying.

  ‘‘But my brother never got a proper one.’’ He stared at the rows of small grave markers. ‘‘ ’Twas Preacher Zook himself who unearthed the bones he and the bishop buried round here somewhere.’’

  ‘‘I don’t get it. Why weren’t you and your family notified immediately?’’ Ben felt this was incomprehensible.

  ‘‘I was told privately . . . then warned to keep mum. See, it’s like this: Most of the People thought my brother had been abducted. No one wanted to think he was dead. But I thought it. Something in my gut knew it.’’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paisley kerchief and wiped his face. ‘‘I want the killer found . . . punished. Whoever it is.’’

  ‘‘What’s the hold-up?’’

  Zeke looked around. ‘‘I need to find the grave first, but with all this snow . . .’’ He began muttering nearly incoherently now, and Ben felt sorry for him. ‘‘What was it again?’’ Zeke whispered to himself, shaking his head. ‘‘Eight long steps and . . .’’

  Ben didn’t know what to think. The guy had a weird streak Ben hadn’t noticed before.

  Zeke trudged past a gravestone and headed toward the opening in the cemetery fence. Ben followed him up the slope and into the wooded area. And if he wasn’t mistaken, Zeke was counting to himself as he walked.

  Soon Zeke called to him from the thicket of trees. ‘‘I should’ve known the snow would be too deep.’’

  Ben appraised the area. ‘‘Your brother’s buried up here?’’ He glanced back at the actual cemetery.

  Zeke nodded and struggled to speak. ‘‘S’pose it seemed fitting . . . since he disappeared . . . or died . . . in a grove much like this.’’ His chin trembled. ‘‘I threatened Preacher Jesse with goin’ to the police months ago. . . .’’

  Neither spoke for a moment; then Zeke brightened and turned to place a hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘‘But you could do it.’’

  Ben frowned. ‘‘Do what?’’

  ‘‘Report his death.’’ Zeke’s eyes glistened. ‘‘I won’t rest till I get to the bottom of this. But I’m forbidden, so I’m askin’ you to do it for me.’’

  Ben became instantly uneasy. ‘‘I agree, the police should be notified, but why would they believe an outsider? They’d want to know where I heard this, and then wouldn’t the ministers trace it back to you?’’

  Zeke shook his head. ‘‘Maybe, but it wouldn’t matter. The bishop can’t control what outsiders do.’’ He clenched his fists and turned his face to the bleak sky. His words were spoken just above a whisper, in a strange and chanting tone. ‘‘As the Lord God is my witness, I will see this through.’’

  Ben experienced a strange stirring in his chest, as if Zeke were making a covenant with God himself. Then silently they headed out of the woods to the waiting horse and buggy.

  On the ride back, as Ben continued to hedge about getting involved, Zeke’s mood turned fiercely dark—alarmingly so. He slapped the reins down on the horse’s back sharply and began muttering and cursing under his breath.

  Ben could hardly wait for the buggy ride to end.

  When they reached the thin road leading to the tack shop, Zeke turned to Ben again. ‘‘Is that your answer, then? Or will you reconsider?’’

  Ben swallowed. ‘‘I need time to think.’’

  Zeke nodded, averting his dark and brooding eyes. ‘‘Fair enough.’’

  Annie found her father in the barn checking on the livestock, preparing to bed them down for the cold night ahead.

  ‘‘Daed?’’ She walked toward him. ‘‘I best be gettin’ something straight.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘It’s Yonie.’’

  ‘‘Ah . . .’’ Daed frowned and straightened right quick. ‘‘You’re upset ’bout his bobbed hair, I presume?’’

  ‘‘Well, aren’t you?’’

  ‘‘Oh, he’ll come around in time.’’

  His response aggravated her.

  ‘‘So, then, what’s not at all good for the goose is just fine for the gander?’’

  ‘‘Aw, Annie . . . Annie.’’

  ‘‘No, I’m serious, Daed. This is obvious favoritism, seems to me.’’

  He leaned on his hay fork. ‘‘No one’s favoring anyone. If ya think your sneaking round doing artwork is even close to what Yonie’s done with his haircut, well, you’re wrong on that. And I’ll be the first one to say it!’’

  She wouldn’t let him wound her. Not the way he’d done in the past with issues of the Ordnung. She could see the bias too clearly. Why couldn’t he?

  ‘‘Listen, Annie. Truth be told, Yonie’s bob has nothing to do with our agreement, yours and mine.’’

  She thought of Ben Martin suddenly. His inviting her to dinner, her accepting. It wouldn’t matter one bit now if she kept her word on the art and failed in the unspoken rule about courtship with an outsider. She was in no man’s land, she knew.

  She spoke again, willing away the tightness in her throat. ‘‘It doesn’t seem fair what you’re lettin’ Yonie get by with. You even know ’bout his car.’’ She wouldn’t break her vow to her brother and tell what she knew of his romantic attachment to worldly Dory, also an Englischer.

  ‘‘You’ve said enough, daughter. You best be goin’ inside now. Awful cold out.’’

  Cold or not, she refused to return to the house. ‘‘I’m headin’ for a walk,’’ she declared.

  ‘‘Oh, Annie. Go inside and warm yourself.’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘If Yonie can do whatever he wants, then why can’t I go for a walk in the snow and not be reprimanded?’’

  ‘‘Listen here! Yonie’s a man . . . that’s different.’’

  Annie was aghast and too stunned to talk. But only for a time. The pressure inside her was building and she managed to control her voice. ‘‘I’m a woman, ya say? Jah, Daed. Seems there is a mighty big difference between what’s allowed for any man and what’s permitted me.’’

  The thin veil between her and the reality of the world she lived in had been torn, and there was no mistaking what flamed in her father’s eye
s.

  Annie made slow progress over the hardened snow and ice on her treacherous walk. She was on her own, and it felt good, especially while struggling with her father’s words, which still darted through her mind like so many hornets on a springtime morning.

  ‘‘Daed’s partial to Yonie . . . to men in general,’’ she spoke into the frigid air. ‘‘All the People are.’’ She felt her face tighten with the clenching of her jaw. It was too cold to be out here walking, just as Daed had warned.

  I don’t care . . . I need to vent my resentment so I don’t burst out with something horrid! Except she’d already talked disrespectfully to Daed, so it was too late to spare herself from that embarrassment. Now she ought to go and ask forgiveness for questioning the man of God.

  Yet how do I repent of something I’m not sorry for?

  She kept on, careful where she stepped. The snow had melted down to fox-deep in some places where the sun had shone two days ago. Now the cloud-blanketed sun receded quickly, making dusk even grayer than the dreary day had been. Working up a bit of a sweat, she stopped to catch her breath. Not wanting to get overheated and then catch her death of a cold, she pulled her wool work coat tight against herself, looking out over the expanse of farmland across the road. She watched as a cluster of brown mules romped together—trying to keep warm, just as I am, she thought.

  Their winter coats were as dark as the moles that burrowed in the meadow.

  She began to walk again, toward the house this time. Thinking of the playful mules, she recalled the night their own mules had broken through a gate and taken off running down the road for a good long ways, gotten sidetracked from their flight, and disappeared into the woodlands high on the slope behind the People’s cemetery. She, Yonie, Omar, and Luke had helped Daed by searching till the wee hours, taking two carriages and a pony cart and driving up and down the back roads, calling, looking . . . something akin to the night Isaac had gone missing, at least from what Mamm had told her. In the end, it was Yonie who had discovered the fresh mule dung near the turnoff to the cemetery road. She recalled the animals behaving as if untamed until rebridled, when they miraculously became Daed’s own once again.