Amish Country Amnesia Page 5

  “Yes. We need to think about where we might be able to hide, just in case there is danger.” He paused. “I’ve wondered if I should just leave. Perhaps you would be safe again if I was gone. But the problem with that is that he has seen you. He pointed his weapon at you.”

  “But the sheriff, if he finds what caused the smoke, could find the men who chased you. Perhaps we should help him and tell him what happened.”

  He clasped her hands in his. “But you don’t trust the sheriff, and after what I saw and heard just now, I agree with you. That’s not the proper behavior of a law-enforcement officer.”

  “Then perhaps we can contact someone else. I can hitch up the buggy and we can drive to the telephone.” Her hands were warm in his, and she had no desire to leave her home, whether it be to hide or to seek help. She wanted just to stay here, with John holding her hands. How long had it been since a physical touch had communicated such comfort?

  “I’m just not sure who we can trust.” He removed a hand from hers and ran it through his hair. “I’m not sure of anything. And I don’t want to make the situation worse.”

  Sarah glanced around the room and listened to the sounds of her only child playing in the room above her. She had a responsibility to the girl as well as to everything she and her husband had worked for. The sheriff was involved now, but did that make her feel any safer? The only man who had proven that he had a protective nature was the man sitting at her table. But he couldn’t even remember who he was. What if, when he regained his memory, John was one of them?

  FIVE

  John needed two things. He needed a breath of fresh air. And he needed to remember.

  Well, he needed a few other things, as well, like confidence that he had the instincts to protect the woman and her child, an assurance that all would end well and another piece of that amazing apple pie.

  As Sarah had busied herself with baking something—he couldn’t remember now what all she had said she was making, but apparently it was like therapy for her—he had tossed on the coat and, after a look around the yard to make sure there was no trouble, headed to the barn to explore a bit.

  He swung the door open and stepped into the warmth, filling his lungs with the scent of hay. With the door closed behind him, he searched the nooks and crannies of his mind to see if the scent of the barn felt familiar. Was he a farming man? An outdoors enthusiast? An animal lover?

  Nothing came into his mind. It was as blank as a washed blackboard.

  In different circumstances, the loss of his memory could have been an interesting opportunity to remake his life. The disappearance of his memories included not only the good ones but also the bad ones. Was he at odds with someone in his life? With no memory of it, he could approach the relationship with a fresh perspective.

  Under these circumstances, though? In the house was a woman and her daughter who needed his protection from danger he had brought to their doorstep, no matter what he could or could not remember. Three lives depended on him.

  A tabby cat mewed and rubbed against his legs. He bent to scratch it between the ears. Was he a cat person? He had no idea, but this one sure was cute. A mouse skittered along the wall, and the cat crouched down, its fur standing at attention along its back. The cat crept toward the mouse and pounced, catching it under its paw. John watched the cat play with and torment the mouse for a moment. When the cat took the mouse into its mouth and sauntered away, John wandered farther into the barn.

  The sheriff had not been reassuring in the least bit, and that drove John to search for something—anything—helpful. Weapons? Although he wasn’t sure what, or if he would know how to use it if he found anything. Hiding places? But how complex could a barn be? Anyone familiar with living in the country would know where to look. Memories? He grinned to himself at the irony of looking for memories in a new and unfamiliar place.

  Sarah had made it clear that the Amish were a nonviolent people, so he didn’t expect to find any weapons in the barn. It didn’t have to be a gun, though, that could provide some defense. Perhaps a tool would do.

  A door stood to his right. He had to push hard on the latch to get it open, and the hinges squeaked as he pushed. Clearly, it hadn’t been opened in a while.

  Large windows let the afternoon sunshine spill in, dust motes dancing in the still air. A large wooden table filled the middle of the space, and the other walls were filled with shelves of tools and piles of wood. He had found a woodworking shop, and it looked as if nothing had been touched for quite some time.

  He wandered toward a board that lay on the bench and ran his hand over the smooth wood. Someone had taken quite a bit of time to sand it well. A stack of rough-cut lumber sat on a shelf to the side, but he knew better than to run his hand over the wood full of splinters. It looked to be oak, but he had no idea how he knew that.

  A block plane lay on a shelf, and he hefted it in his hand, the smooth and worn handle resting in his palm. It felt right there, but it wouldn’t do much good as a weapon. Did he have a woodworking background? Confusion riddled his brain, yet it mixed with the pleasure of knowing that something felt right to him.

  A child’s step stool rested on the workbench. Stain had darkened it to a rich brown, and a can of polyurethane sat nearby. A brush rested on top of the can. It looked as if that was all that was left to finish the stool.

  He picked up the brush and turned it around in his hand. A sense of satisfaction filled him, a pleasure in craftsmanship.

  He was learning a little bit about himself already, in just these few minutes spent in the barn. Apparently, he liked to work with his hands. Had he learned about woodworking in a high school shop class? From his father? An image flashed through his mind, so strong and so startling that he closed his eyes to block out distraction. It was the vision of hands using a brush on paper. Were those his own hands? Strident voices had filtered in from another room, but what were they discussing so fervently?

  He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands as he held the brush. Were they the same? Who were the people, and what were they arguing over? He closed his eyes again to return to the memory, but it was gone. Only a vague unsettled feeling of wrongdoing lingered.

  His hand closed in a tight grip over the paintbrush. Why couldn’t he remember? Whatever it was, whatever had been right there, even for a split second, seemed crucial. But why? John threw the brush on the table and took a deep breath.

  Anger wouldn’t solve anything.

  “John?” Sarah’s sweet voice filtered through the stillness of sawdust and afternoon sunlight and dancing dust motes.

  “I’m in here.” He quickly straightened the can and the brush. Why did he feel like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar?

  Sarah appeared in the doorway, the light blue of her dress fairly glowing in the sifted sunshine. Upset stretched across her face.

  He stepped to her, his heart beginning a worried thump. “What’s happened? I said you should stay in the house with the doors locked.”

  “All is well inside.” Her gaze swept across the room and came to rest on the little stool. “What are you doing in here? With that?”

  “I...uh...” John glanced back at the stool, which now seemed to incriminate him in some way. When he turned back, Sarah’s eyes puddled with tears. “I was looking around. This looked like it might be the right size for Lyddie.”

  “Jah.” She swiped at her cheek. “It was to be for Lyddie. This was my husband’s workshop. I haven’t been in here since he died.”

  The reality of the situation slammed him, and he gulped in air. Her husband had been a carpenter, and the stool had been his project at the time of his death. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Sarah walked to the workbench and fingered the edge. “My husband made furniture, the Amish furniture that Englischers love so much, for stores in the big cities like Indianapolis,
Chicago, even Cincinnati and Louisville. This was where he worked.”

  He had overstepped his bounds and hurt her. Being in here was difficult enough for her, but to see him with one of her husband’s projects, a project for her daughter? How could he make it up to her? Make it right?

  “I’m sorry.” He would say it a dozen times if that would help. “You’ve done so much for me. I wanted to do something for you.”

  She nodded, then covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook, and John saw a tear escape.

  He longed to close the distance between them and comfort her, but did he dare? How would she receive it? Would it only make the situation worse?

  * * *

  Sarah gave up trying to hide her tears and hugged herself instead, but how much better that comfort would be if it were a strong man’s arms around her. Reassuring. Soothing. Consoling.

  Ach, but Gott had taken away her husband. That had been His will. So be it. But how she suffered since his death! Still, though, had not the bishop just preached about Gott comforting in sorrow? About praising Him through the difficult times? Well, she would obey. A verse sprang to her mind as she rubbed her hands over her arms. Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.

  Jah, blessed be Gott.

  John apologized again, breaking her reverie. The look of misery on his face matched the misery she felt in her heart. He stepped toward her, seemingly unsure of what to do next.

  “It is all right,” she whispered into the space between them.

  Despite the cold outside, it was warm in the barn. John had removed his coat and rolled his sleeves up. He reached out and touched her gently on the forearm, then withdrew his hand as if he felt the same zing on his skin as she felt through her sleeve.

  As Sarah sniffed the last of her tears, she watched John return the tools to their places. The muscles in his forearms rippled as he hefted the large can of polyurethane and placed it on the shelf with some other containers. Of course, she had been treating his wounds and changing the bandage on his arm where he got cut on the rocks. But that was simply medical care of an injured person. Now, to see him standing solid and in good physical condition, he was strong and handsome.

  Guilt stabbed her in the heart. Gott would never want her to be unequally yoked with an Englischer. She had no business looking at him as anything except a fellow human being who needed some help temporarily. Maybe she did need a husband and her daughter needed a father. For sure and for certain, she wanted to be married again and have more bobblin. Many more babies.

  But if that was the will of Gott, He would bring her the right husband in His time.

  John pushed the little step stool to the center of the workbench, then turned to her. “Is that better? I don’t want to be the cause of any further difficulties. I won’t come in here again.”

  Sarah swiped one last rogue tear from her cheek, the twisting of her heart slowing. The scent of wood and sawdust filled the barn, but it seemed also to waft particularly from John. It was the scent of hard work and masculinity.

  It was the scent of misery.

  * * *

  This dance was difficult, and John didn’t know the steps.

  With everything back in its place, Sarah seemed to calm a bit, but John still wondered if he should comfort her further. How would he be received? And what was this attraction he had for this beautiful plain woman?

  He touched her upper arm, gently, questioningly, and she simply smiled. “Danki.”

  She turned and strode into the main part of the barn. John followed and closed the door securely behind him.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  John chuckled. “I’m not sure I know what I’m looking for. Just exploring.”

  “Would you like some coffee? To warm you?”

  One of the horses whinnied, and the cat returned to rub against the hem of Sarah’s long skirt.

  The door burst open, and John bounded in front of Sarah. His pulse throbbed in his arteries at the rush of adrenaline. He had allowed himself to be lulled into a sense of security, in the warmth and comfort of the barn. But he needed to be alert at all times.

  Frigid air slammed into his face. Lyddie stood in the doorway, a caped and bonneted silhouette against the light outside. “Mamm? I came downstairs, and you were not there.”

  Sarah pulled Lyddie into a hug. “I am sorry, little one. I was out here with John.”

  The girl looked up, her round cheeks framed with blond wisps of hair, her kapp like a beacon of innocence over it all. John’s heart twisted within his chest at the sight of mother and daughter. He longed for the love and acceptance of family. Did he have it and just not know it?

  Lyddie stepped away from her mother, an adorable and impish expression gracing her face. “May I have a snack?”

  “We just had lunch. Are you hungry again already?”

  Mother and daughter stepped toward the door, ready to return to the house.

  “Just a minute.” John lunged toward the closest stall and dodged a flick of a horse tail. A pitchfork rested against the wall, waiting for the next time for chores. It would have to do for now, with nothing else available. He hoisted it in his hand, the solid wooden handle fitting snuggly in his palm. “Let me check outside first. Just to be safe.”

  He sidestepped around the pair and pulled his coat on. He surveyed the yard but without stepping completely outside. The winter wind whipped around the side of the house, stirring the snow into a whirlwind that skipped over the frozen ground. Mournful gray clouds now filled the sky. A storm was approaching quickly.

  John led them across the yard and back to the house, the pitchfork pointed forward. He wasn’t sure how he might explain that to the sheriff if he returned, but he would figure something out if necessary. His continual scan of the area didn’t reveal any present threats.

  But that didn’t mean they weren’t there, in the shadows, biding their time, waiting for the opportune moment.

  Inside the house, he locked the door and leaned the pitchfork against the wall.

  At the ready.

  Just in case.

  SIX

  The afternoon had brought only more cloud cover, and sunset had seemed to come early. Flurries of snow had begun as Sarah had returned to the barn to bed down the two horses, Thunder and Lightning, for the night. Now, as Sarah looked out the small barn window, fat, fluffy flakes of snow traipsed down to add a fresh layer. Snowball panted at her side, ready to go wherever she went.

  John stood at the door. He had been waiting patiently, helping as he could, and now was ready to escort her back to the house. With pitchfork in hand, he had prowled the perimeter of her property to make sure all was safe. The farming implement remained at the ready, but with no present threat, he seemed a little more relaxed. “Done?”

  “Jah.” She turned back toward the hayloft. “Lyddie! Time to go back to the house!”

  The six-year-old clambered down the ladder as Snowball left Sarah’s side to prance around at the bottom, her tail conveying her enthusiasm.

  Sarah’s heart beat the staccato rhythm that had become her new normal as John opened the door and surveyed the yard. There was nothing normal about it, though, and she prayed to Gott that this danger would be over soon.

  “Is all well?” She peeked over his shoulder, inhaling the scent of sawdust and wood, but all she could see was the serenity of a snowfall on a winter’s night.

  “Seems so.”

  For now. That’s what he wasn’t saying.

  “I’m trying my best to remember. So that I can get back to my life and get out of your way.” He stepped out into the snow, and Snowball ran in front, her nose turned up to the snowflakes. “I’m sorry for all this.”

  “Jah. It will come in time.”

  �
�If I had any idea of who had attacked us earlier, I might be better able to know how we could defend ourselves. But I don’t know who he is or what he wants.”

  There it was again, the talk about self-defense. Sarah put her hand on his arm. Perhaps the gesture would help calm him. “You know that self-defense is not the Amish way.”

  “I know. I know. I know what you’ve already said. But I’m not Amish, and I’ll defend myself, and you and Lyddie, if necessary.”

  Sarah removed her hand and stuffed it in the pocket of her cape, checking on Lyddie to make sure she was following behind. An ache rose to throb in her chest, but she refused to examine why a wave of loneliness invaded her soul. She was Amish. John was not. She forced her thoughts to stop right there.

  He would do what he needed to do, and she would do what she needed to do. In the end, she would be grateful if her life was spared, and the life of her daughter. But if it was Gott’s will that her time had come, she would do her best to accept it graciously.

  Snow gathered on their shoulders, on John’s hat and Lyddie’s kapp, as Snowball bounded alongside. The animal licked her hand as if trying to reassure her.

  Halfway there, Snowball’s exuberance came to a halt. A branch snapped to their left. The malamute’s ears stood at attention, and then she began a low growl as she eyed the tree line. John swung out his arm to stop them. They stood like statues, listening and squinting into the darkness. The pitchfork pointed toward the sound.

  The ache in Sarah’s chest increased with her heart rate. A thousand different scenarios raced through her mind. Was this what John had been afraid of? Had the man in the snowmobile suit, with the scary bruising and the gun, finally found them? And the worst question of all—how would a pitchfork protect them against a bullet?

  “To the house.” John’s strident whisper broke the silence. “Quickly.”

  Sarah grabbed Lyddie’s hand. Together, they picked up their skirts and galloped toward the back door as quickly as their winter boots would allow. John followed close behind, his hand at the small of Sarah’s back, urging her along.