In the darkness, I bumped into a chair. Its legs scraped against the floor.
“Who’s there?” I said, trying to sound courageous.
The room lay silent.
I inched forward, turned on my flashlight, and pointed the beam over the counter. An Englischer—an older man—crouched in front of the refrigerator. He clutched a sandwich—sliced roast beef mashed between two pieces of bread.
“What are you doing in here?” I put heft into my voice, although he was maybe fifty and large enough to knock me over.
“Answer me,” I said, and I stamped my foot for effect.
When he stood, he was indeed taller than I was by six inches. His shadowed face showed fear, the whites of his eyes glowing. “Please…please don’t call the police,” he said with a whimper. He reeked of hard liquor, like Reuben had once after partying with his friends when in rumspringa, sampling the evils of the Englisch world. Thankfully, meeting Marta had brought a halt to his tomfooleries.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
“When they were building this place, someone left a key in the door one night. I took it and made a copy the next day and then returned the original.”
“But why?”
“I was hungry. I needed a place to sleep.”
My eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. He was skinny. His cheeks were hollow and his thinning hair disheveled.
“Where do you live?”
“Nowhere in particular. Just down the road in a relative’s basement or a barn if his wife gets mad at me. Please don’t tell anyone. They’ll toss me in the slammer.”
“Don’t you have other family?”
“No. I used to…”
Was he feeding me a bunch of malarkey? I didn’t trust drunk strangers. No, I wouldn’t be gullible no matter what he said. I mentally tallied my options, including calling the police. Or Stephen.
Keeping my distance, I put out my hand, palm up. “Give me the key.” I figured Stephen could get the locks swapped out in the morning anyway.
The man dug through his wrinkled trousers pocket. “I must have dropped it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He fished in his jacket pockets. “Oh, here it is.” He tossed the key on a table.
Sandwich in hand, he moved to the back door.
“Stop. What’s your name?”
“Ralph. But please don’t report me to the police. I can’t stand being locked up.”
No booze in jail, I figured. And he’d probably given me a phony name. “One more thing, Ralph. Have you seen a large brown Labrador retriever?”
“Uh—I don’t think so.”
TWENTY-ONE
Today was the day I would venture to Jake’s parents’ farm in Glenn’s buggy to see Amos Miller. So I could arrive before Beatrice, I rushed through my shower and put on my teal-blue dress. With no time to obsess about my hair, I parted and covered my tresses with my kapp and used hairpins to anchor the white head covering. I thought of the verse from First Corinthians directing women to cover their heads when they pray. No doubt, I’d be praying on the way over. Ach, I should have prayed for the Lord’s guidance before getting out of bed.
Through the cabin’s window, I scanned the parking lot and was glad Stephen hadn’t arrived yet to pick up Beatrice—if he were indeed coming.
Outside in the cool morning air, I found the buggy already rolled out of the barn and Autumn in the barn polishing off her breakfast. One of the men working here must tend to her food and water in the owners’ absence. But who had brought out the buggy? Much as I appreciated the effort, I felt as though someone were orchestrating my day. I was under the impression only Stephen knew I was going home by way of this buggy and horse. Maybe he’d asked one of his crew to help me. Or maybe he’d stopped by himself before picking up Beatrice. Perhaps they were ahead of me. I felt my determination to see Amos wavering.
“Hey, Autumn.” I knew better than to approach a horse from the rear without warning. She turned toward me, pricked her ears, and swiveled them my way. “Ready to go on an adventure, girl?”
Speaking to her in soothing tones, I led her outside and harnessed her to the buggy.
I climbed into the driver’s seat and took up the reins. Autumn seemed relaxed. Ach, such a long trip in a buggy using the back roads instead of the highway. The poor mare would be exhausted at the end of the day. Yet Stephen said she needed exercise.
I would pass close by Jake’s parents’ farm on the way to see Mamm and Dat. I figured I should visit my parents’ first, but I opted to visit them after. Dat had always said to tackle the hardest job first. Who was I kidding? I hoped to speak to Jake alone and find out what his plans were.
On a Sunday morning, with fewer cars and even buggies on the road, the trip passed more quickly than I’d imagined. I drove for several minutes behind an SUV, its occupants clicking photos of me until I took a sudden right to dodge them.
Finally, after zigging and zagging, I recognized the Millers’ tall oak tree as I came upon their lane. I wondered how I’d be welcomed by Jake’s mamm. Would Ruth lecture me or turn me away?
Entering their barnyard, I was surprised to see their barn and storage buildings freshly painted white, no doubt by neighbors when they’d heard Amos was in the hospital. The cornfield had been fertilized—I could smell the earthy aroma—and the coffee-colored soil newly turned.
“Whoa, girl.” I pulled on the reins, and Jake stepped out of the barn and took hold of Autumn’s bridle.
“I’ll take care of your horse.” He averted his eyes from mine. Not even a smile after all he’d said the other night.
“Mamm’s in the house.” Jake angled his head toward the back stoop. If this was a prelude to my upcoming
