“Ach, sorry. I’m not used to riding in a pickup. We sure are up high. I’ve never even sat in the front seat of a car. Just in the back of passenger vans.” I craned my head, but I couldn’t locate the seat belt clip.
“Allow me.” Stephen slipped his hand behind my shoulder and found the culprit, and then he tugged the belt across the front of me and attached it with a metallic click. I could imagine Mark standing outside, watching this maneuver, and I felt my face flush. My parents wouldn’t have approved either. But this was not a social outing. And my feet ached.
Glancing over his shoulder, Stephen backed up and then nosed his pickup out of the parking lot onto the road. We passed several buggies, but fortunately I didn’t recognize neighbors or acquaintances—until we came upon a bishop’s buggy with its usual open front. The bishop—a bearded man I didn’t recognize—seemed to be busy speaking to a young woman and didn’t look our way.
I craned my neck in the other direction. “I can’t believe how many new buildings have been built along the highway.”
“Yeah, the whole area is expanding with housing developments, shopping malls, and car lots. I guess they call that progress.”
When he took a right and we entered the mall, I saw a plethora of fancy storefronts. Stephen stopped in front of the Nike outlet.
“Several shoe stores are near here, but this one’s popular.” He set the parking brake. “What did you have in mind again?”
“Something like what Sadie wears. Lace-up and cushioned soles. If you’re sure Glenn won’t mind.”
“Not at all. I might come in and look around for something myself.” He jumped out of the pickup as I unclipped my seat belt. In a moment he’d rounded the vehicle and opened my door, I assumed to get this trip over with so he could dash to the hardware store.
Stephen browsed through the showroom for a few minutes and selected a pair of flip-flops he called sliders. “The price is right,” he said. “Eventually, summer will be here again.”
On the other hand, I tried on several styles of walking or running shoes and became the new owner of my first pair of running shoes that made my feet feel as if they were treading on cushions of air. “You should buy some white socks to go with them,” Stephen told me.
“I’ve never worn white socks in my life. Are you sure?”
Both Stephen and the shoe salesman nodded.
“But if you feel uncomfortable not wearing black socks, I don’t want to be a bad influence,” Stephen said.
I paid for the shoes and two pairs of soft white socks with cash. I could afford the purchase, but I felt a smidgen of guilt for buying such fancy footwear.
Five minutes later, Stephen motored us back onto the road and then swerved off and trotted into a hardware store while I stayed in the pickup. As I sat waiting, I second-guessed my purchases. Several buggies stood at a hitching post. I slumped low in my seat and hoped no one I knew would notice me.
Back behind the steering wheel ten minutes later, Stephen turned on the radio as a newsman was announcing an approaching storm, expected to be worse than the previous night’s. Droplets landed on the windshield.
“Oh, great. I’d better hurry.” He sped back onto the highway just as a buggy was entering. A truck barreling toward us from the other direction honked long and hard. The horse reared and then took off, galloping too close to the side of the road. Its driver was unable to control the animal, and the buggy’s right front wheel slid off the road.
I covered my mouth with my hands as I watched the buggy gain momentum and then bump to the bottom of an embankment, where it tipped on its side.
Stephen slammed on the brakes and veered onto a gravel patch. “Stay here.”
He leaped out and loped down to where the horse was kicking and thrashing to get up. In a flurry, an Amish man and woman climbed out of the buggy. With Stephen’s help, they unhitched the horse, and the animal struggled to its feet.
I couldn’t sit there, watch, and do nothing. As I shouldered open the door and got out, two cars and several buggies pulled to the side of the road, their male drivers scrambling down the hill. Eight men, both Amish and Englisch, stood the buggy upright, but a wheel was broken and the horse limped.
A police car lurched to a stop, and a burly officer who looked to be in his late thirties got out. “What happened, miss?”
I didn’t dare say a word. I had every confidence Stephen would set things right, but I’d been wrongly accused in the past. An aid car’s siren wailed, followed by another squad car, which screeched to a halt on the other side of the road. Two medics trotted over to us.
“Anyone injured, Wayne?” one medic asked.
“Doesn’t look like it,” the officer said. The medics picked their way down the hill and spoke to the Amish couple and Stephen. The Amish driver slapped his straw hat against his thigh and then set it on his head. Her neck bent, his wife stood looking at the horse.
A crowd gathered around me and then another policeman. A light flashed as an Englischer wearing a baseball cap took my picture with the officer.
“This is great,” another Englisch fellow said. “I’m from LNP Always Lancaster, writing an article on buggy and car accidents for the paper.” The reporter and photographer jogged down the hill. I wanted to scramble after them to beg them not to use my picture in the newspaper, but I feared the photographer might take another.
“Miss, were you in the pickup during the accident?” the policeman named Wayne asked.
“Yes, but I wasn’t driving.”
He chortled as he scanned my Amish attire. “I
