LITMIR.BIZ

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Grace into the world three years ago. And there was nothing he could do now.

      His instincts were to go himself, to search for his impulsive little sister, but he was wise enough to know he would be useless out there, in that vast expanse that was the world of the outsiders, the English. It was full of technology and other things he knew existed but knew little about. He knew nothing of their huge cities or how to deal with the wickedness that flourished there.

      He knew nothing of the kind of person who would do such a thing, take a young, innocent girl off the street for purposes so nefarious Caleb couldn’t bear thinking about them. How any man, even an English, could do such things was beyond him.

      “Father, please?”

      Shaking off the thoughts that had occupied his mind every waking hour since Hannah had been taken, he turned around to face his oldest daughter. As usual, her sweet face both soothed and unsettled him. It was a little easier than it used to be, looking at this beloved child who was such a painful reminder. With her dark hair and blue eyes, she was the living, breathing image of the woman who had been the center of his life since they had been children. The girl he had known he would marry since they had been eleven, the age Katie was now.

      Annie had known it, too. When she’d approached him and said “You’re the one,” he’d known exactly what she’d meant. That someday when they were old enough, they would be together.

      “What is it, Katie?” he asked, trying to mask the sudden tightness in his throat. And again impatience rose in him. He should be worried about his missing little sister, Hannah, not mooning over a woman who’d died three years ago.

      “Someone’s here.”

      His mouth quirked at her expression; his already shy daughter looked beyond uneasy. And again his mind shot back to her mother. Annie, too, had been quiet, shy, and only later did he realize what a tremendous certainty she must have had to have approached him that day.

      “Deacon Stoltzfus here to chastise me about my beard again?”

      The church elder had made it his mission in life to remind Caleb he was going against a basic tenet of Amish life for adult males. As if he didn’t know.

      He’d grown his beard, as custom dictated, when he’d married Annie. And when she’d died, in a fit of rage and grief, he’d shaved it off, nearly slitting his own throat in the process. His wife had died because of him, trying to deliver his child. And he hadn’t been able to save her. He didn’t qualify on either front to wear the badge of adult maleness.

      So every day he shaved his jaw, those minutes his silent, aching tribute to the woman he missed so much. Without her, he was not a man, and thus he would be without a beard, to the dismay of the entire community.

      He waited for Katie to express her usual concern, suggesting he just grow the beard and make the elders happy. Katie was all about making everyone happy, as her mother had been.

      “No,” the girl said, her voice oddly strained. “It’s an English.”

      Caleb frowned. “Here?”

      “A woman.” Katie frowned in turn. “She says she’s from the … the … some initials.”

      Initials. That usually meant government. The English had such a need for long, fancy names for their agencies that interfered in the lives of their people.

      And then it struck him. Was this about Hannah? Was it some woman from the police? Did she have news? Why else would she come looking for him, specifically, as Katie had said?

      He walked quickly toward the doorway of the shop. He laid a hand gently on Katie’s shoulder as he went past her.

      “Stay here,” he commanded and stepped outside into the slanting November sun. Whatever the woman might say, he doubted he wanted Katie to hear it. He believed in honesty in what he said to his children, but that didn’t mean they needed to hear every detail. Selective omission, Annie had called it, and he’d known there had been a touch of disapproval in the words. Annie had been completely, albeit compassionately, honest. In her way, she had been tougher than he. She had always found a gentle way to say no or deliver bad news, whereas he would cringe inwardly from the task of being harsh with their girls.

      And now it all fell to him.

      The sight of the woman waiting outside shook him out of his pained memories, thankfully rattled him out of his self-pity.

      She stood in a shaft of sunlight. And the first thing that struck him was the way that golden light struck her hair, firing it to a luscious blend of colors that matched the fiery fall turning of the leaves. Those leaves were gone now, this first week of November, but her hair brought him the same feeling of wonder at nature’s rightness. And the thick richness of it nearly took his breath away. He stopped dead in his tracks.

      This was peculiar. Why would her hair affect him like this? It was so unlike Annie’s. Her hair had gleamed like a raven’s feathers. Of course, he never saw it out in the sunlight like this. She had, as a proper Amish woman, always worn her covering in public. A woman’s uncovered hair was for her husband’s eyes only, behind closed doors, where such lust-invoking sights belonged.

      But for an instant, as he stared at the red, gold and russet, he wanted to touch it, run his fingers through it, see if it felt as warm as it looked.

      He yanked his gaze away, angry at himself yet again.

      This is why the covering is a good thing, he lectured himself. And slapped his own hat belatedly on his head.

      He realized it was the worry about Hannah that had him off balance. Normally such improper thoughts would have never entered his mind. It had to be that subconsciously he was thinking of his sister’s pure red hair, comparing it to this mixture of brown and red and gold that seemed somehow warmer to him. More earthy, as if she were connected to the land, unlike Hannah, whose temperament had always made him fear they would lose her to the outside world.

      And now, they had. But not by her choice. The grim reality bit deeply, and he forced himself to focus.

      He must have been acting very strangely, for the woman was staring at him. His stomach flipped oddly at the thought that she might have realized his thoughts at the sight of her hair in the sun were not those of a properly raised and trained Amish man. And he could not blame her, not really. For an Englishwoman she was actually very conservatively dressed. Even that hair was, if not under a prayer covering, at least pulled back into a severe style that was less blatant than most. Not that it seemed to lessen the effect, since his second thought after the striking color had been what it would look like down around her shoulders.

      But he noticed also that she wore no jewelry, no necklace, no earrings, no rings. He wondered suddenly if she had dressed so, fixed herself so, out of some idea of respecting their traditions or if she was always this unadorned.

      And if the absence of a wedding ring, in the English manner, meant she was unattached. Not that it was any of his business. Telling himself firmly the manners and dress of an outsider mattered less than nothing, he walked toward the woman.

      “Mr. Troyer?”

      Her voice was low, almost husky, and for a moment that quashed reaction threatened anew. For she was closer now, and her eyes were a vivid meadow-green unlike any eyes he’d seen before. That green, plus the reds, golds and browns of her hair … She seemed like some woodland creature, a creature of the earth, the land, who—

      He jammed his left hand into his pocket, curling his fingers into a fist, letting his fingernails dig into his flesh. He welcomed the pain; he was obviously out of control with worry, and he needed to focus.

      “I am Caleb Troyer,” he said formally.

      “I’m Emma Colton, with the FBI.”

      Her voice was brisk as she held up a leather folder with identification. From what he could see from the photograph, she dressed like this regularly. Her hair was even more severely styled, pulled into a knot on her head, tidy except for a few rebellious

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