Amish Country Amnesia Read online

  His past is a mystery to everyone...

  except for the men trying to kill him

  When a snowmobile accident leaves a man injured and with no memory, Amish widow Sarah Burkholder and her young daughter rescue him. Even as Sarah’s feelings for him grow, they discover unknown assailants are after him—and Sarah and her little girl for helping him. But if he can remember who he is, he might just save all their lives.

  “Look.” Sarah’s whisper was laced with panic. One of the men blocked their exit.

  Sarah dashed down another hallway. John followed close behind as the sound of the men’s shoes clumping on the floor seemed to get closer.

  Around the corner, a door loomed. Sarah grabbed for the handle. “Out?”

  “Yes. Go!”

  Outside, he followed Sarah around the closest corner and to the back of a brick building.

  “There.” He pointed across the lot. “Behind the evergreens.”

  They ducked behind the trees. A small break afforded a protected view of a portion of the parking lot. John leaned forward. Through the needles, he watched a car cruise by. Their pursuers scanned both sides of the parking lot, but as far as John could tell, they didn’t have any idea where he and Sarah had gone.

  Sarah was trembling, and he took her hand to steady her as he motioned for her to get down. But just as he lowered himself to his knees next to her, the vehicle stopped directly in front of their hiding place.

  By sixth grade, Meghan Carver knew she wanted to write. After a degree in English from Millikin University, she detoured to law school, completing a Juris Doctorate from Indiana University. She then worked in immigration law and taught college-level composition. Now she homeschools her six children with her husband. When she isn’t writing, homeschooling or planning another travel adventure, she is active in her church, sews and reads.

  Books by Meghan Carver

  Love Inspired Suspense

  Under Duress

  Deadly Disclosure

  Amish Country Amnesia

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  Amish Country Amnesia

  Meghan Carver

  So teach us to number our days,

  that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

  —Psalms 90:12

  To readers of Amish fiction and stories that explore the miracle of faith, and to readers of suspense and stories that keep you up at night with a chill up your spine. I pray you find this a compelling blend of both.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DEAR READER

  EXCERPT FROM LETHAL LEGACY BY CAROL J. POST

  ONE

  Jedediah Miller jerked to the left on the snowmobile, barely skittering it around a stand of barren trees and praying for a fork in the trail up ahead. His hands slipped inside his gloves, and he hitched up his grip on the handlebars. Those two men were following too closely for safety or common courtesy.

  On the other side of the trees, his two pursuers edged closer. Jed’s heart thumped stronger under his snowmobile suit, and he leaned into the machine, urging it to go faster. A small hill quickly approached, and he flew over it, the skis losing contact with the ground for a moment. As he crashed back down, adrenaline beat through him, his pulse speeding to the thrum of the snowmobile.

  The rev of the snowmobiles behind him pushed him on, to a speed that he was sure was not intended for the trail. A speed he wasn’t sure he could manage much longer. These guys drove like professionals, but he was only a casual snowmobiler, saving it for his time off. Trees zipped past him on both sides, and he would have admired the quiet stillness, the hushed beauty of a winter in northern Indiana, the gentle snow-covered hills and the barren trees reaching for every bit of sunshine possible in the muted sky, if not for the two jackals behind him and their mad race.

  A crack pierced through his concentration, and by instinct, he ducked down on the seat.

  They were shooting at him now.

  Bark flew off a tree as he whizzed past, a few bits bouncing off his windshield. Apparently, these two weren’t good shots, at least when they were going at an outrageous speed on snowmobiles. Judging from the closeness of that tree trunk, though, Jed was sure they could hit their mark when they were at a standstill. Determination to survive drove him on.

  He ventured a quick look behind him. Was it Jimmy the Bruise on one of the snowmobiles? His two pursuers were wearing all the protective gear, including helmets and tinted goggles and snowmobile suits completely zipped up. Not an inch of skin or anything identifying was showing, not even Jimmy’s telltale purple-and-blue birthmark. All of their gear was black, as well, a rather standard color for snowmobilers. That bit of information wouldn’t help at all.

  A shiver ran down his arms at the thought of the man at the head of the counterfeiting ring. A nasty birthmark wound its way around the man’s neck and down his arm. Being on the police force had brought Jed into contact with a lot of different people, but there was no getting used to a guy who looked like that. No matter how long he lived, Jed would never forget the look of that dark splotch that appeared to hold the man’s throat in a vice grip.

  Jed had seen that mark plenty of times in the past twelve months of undercover work that had taken him from Fort Wayne to Indianapolis to Cincinnati and back to Fort Wayne. It had been a harrowing experience that still haunted his dreams, both in the daytime and at night, but it was going to pay off. In just a few weeks, his testimony in court would put the counterfeiters behind bars, at least most of them. Jimmy the Bruise and another had gone missing, escaped from police custody.

  A third shot pinged off the back of his snowmobile. The case would fall apart without Jed’s testimony. If they could kill him, the counterfeiting ring would get off easy and be back in business within months. Only Jed could put them away for good.

  It was time to lose these two yahoos. Without backup available, he couldn’t apprehend them. He wanted to kick himself for forgetting his phone that morning. But at least he could try to save himself and the valuable testimony he possessed. Then he would call for a search of the area. There were only so many places to hide in and around the heavily Amish community of Nappanee, and he couldn’t imagine that any Amish would shelter two people as prone to violence as these were. Jed tossed up a prayer for the safety of any of the peace-loving Amish who might come into contact with these two thugs.

  He inhaled as deeply as he could with the restrictions of his helmet. Fresh oxygen infused him as he leaned his body weight forward on the snowmobile to increase the speed. What was supposed to have been a restful week off in the stillness of northern Indiana had suddenly morphed into a deadly chase. Jed allowed a brief thought of what his life might be like without the danger or violence of being a police officer, but the snowmobile shot up another ridge and brought him back to the present.
/>   A small pocket of evergreens stood ahead, to the side of the trail. At the last moment, just at the edge of the grove, he leaned left and gripped the handlebars, shooting behind the trees and off the trail. The snow wasn’t as packed here, but he increased the throttle, urging the machine to go faster. He wound through the trees, dodging boulders, but the two men continued behind him. At least the shooting had stopped, but that was probably just because they needed both hands on the handlebars to stay in a forward motion.

  He searched his memories of the area frantically. Where could he hide? It had been years since he’d been here. And he was limited in where he could go because of the snowmobile. Plowed roads were definitely not conducive to a vehicle that ran on skis. So, he couldn’t lead them to a sheriff’s office, and he certainly didn’t want to take that violence where there might be people.

  A small stream burbled to his right, large rocks and snow-covered foliage on either side, and he leaned left to steer the snowmobile away from the water. Even though the sound of their engines told him they were fast approaching, he dared another glance back. They were too close. Much too close for safety.

  He faced forward again as the machine arced to the left. A tree rushed up in front of him, and he jerked the snowmobile to the right. But another tree rose up in that direction. He pushed his body to the side to steer the machine away, but it was too late. The fiberglass front of the snowmobile crumpled into the solid trunk of the tree, killing the engine. Jed couldn’t control his body, and like a rag doll, he pitched forward. His helmet hit the windshield, and his head slammed against the inside of the helmet.

  Pain shot through his frontal lobe. Lightning seemed to flash behind his eyes. Lifted from the seat by the impact, he soared forward and to the right. The limbs of the tree and the snow-covered underbrush flew by. He landed in the bushes on his back, snow falling on him and brambles tearing at his nylon suit. Pain coursed through his body as he rolled over just in time to see his snowmobile burst into flames.

  He jerked off his goggles and helmet and gasped for air as the cold bit at his skin. Despite the snow that had fallen on him, he was still exposed in his gray snowmobiling suit. Surreptitiously, moving only his eyes, he looked toward the boulders at the edge of the stream. He would be better camouflaged among those rocks.

  His two pursuers had finally stopped, but just a few yards from his wreck. Jed couldn’t see their eyes through their goggles, but from the tilt of their helmets, he surmised they were watching the fire.

  In an army crawl, lifted up only on his elbows, Jed inched toward the rocks around the stream. Aches ricocheted through every inch of his body. The closest boulder seemed miles away, moving at that speed, but it was his only hope.

  Suddenly, one of the men turned, appearing to survey the area. Jed buried his face in the snow and froze. There was something about a face and, in particular, eyes that always seemed to draw attention, and Jed determined that he would not be found out simply because he couldn’t look away. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, praying for safety and courage and survival, his muscles taut. When nothing happened, he slowly lifted his head, just enough to be able to scan the area.

  The men still sat on their snowmobiles, watching as Jed’s machine burned. If there was anything Jed had learned in twelve months of undercover work, it was patience. He could wait there, lying in the snow, as long as necessary.

  After a few minutes, the men turned around to look behind them. Jed grabbed his opportunity.

  Still lying nearly prostrate, he scuttled toward the rocks and catapulted himself over the closest grouping of boulders. He landed on his back on an unyielding surface, and a sharp rock caught the side of his head on the way down. A fire of pain shot through his skull, and he reached up a hand to touch a warm, sticky spot. The sky swirled and danced unnaturally above him until all went black.

  * * *

  Sarah Burkholder stood at the kitchen sink, her hands immersed in the warm soapy water, and stared out the window at the snow-covered barn. An apple pie rested on the counter, its aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg filling the roomy kitchen. The pie would be a welcome addition to supper.

  The mechanical whine of a snowmobile had not been far off that afternoon, the noise an unwelcome intrusion into her normally peaceful world. Her home was miles from the snowmobile trail through the state park, but it sounded as if a rider had left the beaten path. She would be glad when he stopped his racing and returned to the park.

  An envelope propped on the windowsill drew her attention. Her mother’s careful handwriting scrawled Sarah’s name and address across the front. Sarah had read it so many times that she almost had it memorized. In no uncertain terms, her mother had urged her to return to live with them in Lancaster County. She had written that they could sell at the market together, and Sarah would be supported and encouraged by the love of her family. Her real point in writing, it seemed, was to tell her of one particular widower who had been asking after her.

  Sarah rubbed the back of her hand across her chin. She remembered the man her mother had mentioned in her letter. He was nice-looking enough, and kind. But there never had been a spark between them. Still though, would it be better than being alone? Did Gott only grant one love in a lifetime?

  The fresh dilemma swirled in her mind. Should she continue to teach school in the Indiana Amish community she had grown to love? Or should she return to Lancaster County, to Pennsylvania and the family she had left behind? A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek at the memory of her husband. Life had changed drastically in that one terrible moment, and not for the better.

  Even though she had committed to teaching for the entire school year and did not need to decide for a while, she promised herself she would pray during the winter break and seek the will of Gott for her future.

  She dried her hands on a nearby towel and then dabbed the corner of her apron to her eyes.

  How could it have been Gott’s will that her husband die in that buggy accident? That was best for her? For their daughter, Lyddie?

  Ach. That was not the Amish way, to question the authority of Gott. Another tear overflowed, and she lifted the apron again. Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine, be done. At least she had Lyddie, the joy of her life, although the poor child was growing up without her daed and at only six years old.

  Where was Lyddie anyway? She had been instructed to stay close to the house and barn today.

  Sarah retrieved her heavy winter cape and bonnet from the hook near the door and stepped out onto the back porch. The noise of other snowmobiles was a little louder outside, but then they moved away. She inhaled deeply, the winter air slicing through her lungs, and savored the return of the stillness.

  But she still needed to find Lyddie. With snowmobiles around, the child ought to stay closer to home. Most of their Englisch neighbors were mindful of those in the Amish community, but Lyddie still had chores to complete, as well. The floor needed to be swept and the eggs gathered.

  She walked to the end of the porch, her gaze sweeping from the barn to the tree line. “Lyddie!” But there was no telling if she was in earshot.

  Sarah stepped back inside and changed quickly into her heavy snow boots. She would have to go searching on foot.

  As Sarah pulled the door closed behind her, the child broke from the trees, followed closely by Snowball, their brown-and-white malamute. A look of alarm held fast on her face as she ran as best she could through the snow, a few blond curls that had struggled free from her kapp flying behind her. “Mamm! A man. An Englischer! He is hurt. He has been attacked.” Lyddie gasped for breath as she skidded to a stop in front of her mother. The dog barked as if to urge Sarah to help, then turned and faced back toward the woods.

  Sarah’s hand flew to cover her mouth and then migrated south to cover her heart as if it could still the wild beat at Lyddie’s news.
An attack? She prayed the child was mistaken.

  Lyddie pulled at her mother’s hand. “Mamm. We must help the man.”

  “Jah. We must.” She paused. “In case it is needed, hitch the sled to Snowball.”

  Lyddie ran to the barn to retrieve the sled she had rigged to hitch to the large snow dog. Sarah stepped back inside to grab a quilt, and when she returned to the porch, daughter and dog were ready to go. With no idea what she might find, she at least wanted another way to supply warmth.

  Sarah pulled her cape about her and stepped out to follow her daughter. “Show me where he is.”

  She followed as Lyddie led Snowball and retraced her tracks in the snow, babbling like the brook in springtime about hiding in the trees as the snowmobiles came closer and watching two snowmobiles chase another snowmobile and the man who then did not move. The dog bounded alongside, strangely quiet, as if she knew her barking could draw unwanted attention. After hiking for several minutes, Sarah felt the acrid odor of smoke fill her nostrils.

  She pushed Lyddie faster, clumping behind in her snow boots, as they followed the sight of a thin plume of gray smoke rising from over another hill. Gott, have mercy.

  They crested the hill, and Lyddie led her through some trees and into a tiny clearing next to the creek. Sarah knew it well. Some wild raspberry bushes grew not far away where they would pick berries in the heat come August. But now, everything was covered with the white blanket of winter even as more snow fell.

  At the site, Sarah gasped. How could anyone have survived that? A red-and-black snowmobile had crashed into a tree, and flames rose from its crumpled form. She rushed forward, the heat warming her face. Instinctively, she held out an arm to hold Lyddie back from the fire.

  She turned toward her daughter, not taking her eyes from the wreckage. “Lyddie, where is the Englischer? Show me.”

  The girl moved past Sarah’s arm and skirted around the flames. She held out a hand to Snowball and he sat, then she headed for some boulders at the edge of the creek bed. “Here. He has not moved.”