Plain Refuge. Janice Kay Johnson
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at least two kinds of cookies and fudge besides. Matthew’s eyes grew wide, while Rebecca knew this was a modest meal by her aunt’s standards. There would be a much greater variety at dinner.
Matthew was initially suspicious, but he tried the strange peanut butter and grinned his approval, exposing the gaps where he’d lost baby teeth. Before she knew it, lunch was over and they were upstairs, ushered into a typically bare room with two twin beds. Sarah helped Rebecca out of her clothes, drew the curtains and left them to lay their aching bodies down to rest.
Safe, Rebecca thought, and then sleep claimed her.
* * *
DANIEL THOUGHT OF the strange woman on Sunday, and even drove by Reuben Gingerich’s house where church was being held. The every-other-Sunday Amish services were held in homes or barns, the privilege of hosting it rotating among the families in each church district. A dozen or more buggies lined the fence at the top of the lane. The horses stood hipshot and lazy in the shade from a grove of old black walnut trees that Daniel suspected were quite profitable for Reuben.
Daniel usually attended a service at the Congregational Church in Hadburg, which he had joined on his return to Henness County. The occasional Sundays he missed were understood as part of his job. Sometimes that was even true. Sometimes, he parked out of sight and walked across a field to where he could hear the Amish singing hymns, so much a part of his childhood. He never went near enough to a barn or house to chance being seen or to hear the sermons, but the singing quieted something in him even as it reawakened his sense of loss.
It was very different from hymns sung in the Congregational and Baptist churches in town. All Amish hymns came from the Ausbund, a thick book passed down through many generations. It contained only the words, no musical scores. The singing was slow, often mournful, the voices blending together into one. An Amish would say, “One with God.”
The familiar hymns sharpened Daniel’s emotions. Sorrow seemed strongest—or perhaps regret was a better word to describe the jagged feeling in his chest. And yet...he wouldn’t go back if he could. He still believed he had made the right decision. He was where he belonged, protecting his people but separate from them. Daniel only wished his choice hadn’t left him alone, however many friends he made, belonging neither here nor there.
Annoyed with his self-pity, he shook his head and turned his back on the large red barn, where the multitude of voices had fallen silent. He walked back to his squad car and drove away. He always tried to be present when the fellowship meal broke up. Most locals were good about keeping watch for the slow buggies and Amish on foot, but despite all warnings tourists still drove too fast. They didn’t understand how quickly a car could close in on a buggy pulled by a trotting horse. Car-and-buggy accidents were too often tragic. He and his deputies dreaded being called to the site of one.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t be everywhere. Three separate church districts fell completely within this county, which meant services being held at three separate homes on any given Sunday. He had assigned two deputies to patrol today while he did the same, the best he could manage given limited resources. With fewer than ten thousand people in the county, Daniel’s entire department consisted of himself, a sergeant and five deputies, as well as two administrative assistants who were also dispatchers.
The two largest cities in Henness County, including Byrum, the county seat, had their own police departments.
Amish businesses might be in town, but the people rarely lived within city limits, so they were, with few exceptions, in his care. A wry smile accompanied the thought. They believed they were in God’s care, not his. He was careful not to mention his alternate opinion on the matter in the hearing of anyone Amish.
The cars he saw as he patrolled were likely driven by tourists. Amish businesses and roadside stands were closed on Sundays, but the idea was incomprehensible to the typical American who came to sightsee.
Daniel found himself thinking about the Grabers’ guests, as he had more often than he should in the three days since their arrival. They would have been in the barn, the boy still young enough to sit beside his mother on a bench on the women’s side. He wondered if Rebecca had been able to surrender herself wholeheartedly to God today, or whether she held some anger or fear in reserve. However good their intentions, Amish struggled with negative emotions like everyone else. Nonetheless, her feelings toward whoever had hurt her would be far more charitable than his, he could pretty well guarantee.
Tomorrow, he decided, wasn’t too soon to stop by the Graber farm and ask after their visiting family.
He refused to question why he was so eager to do so.
“THEY’RE AWFULLY BIG,” Matthew said, standing behind the board fence and well back from the row of Percheron horses.
Rebecca stroked the cheek of the nearest gelding, which whuffled a response that startled a giggle out of her, one that made her wince as her swollen cheek protested. “They’re friendly,” she said. “From birth, Onkel Samuel and cousin Mose groom them and feed them and pick up their feet, so they like being around people. Didn’t you see these four pulling a plow yesterday? That was part of their training, to work as a team. I think they will be ready for a new home soon.” The horse she was petting nudged her for more attention, and she added, “They can smell better than we can, so they know we have carrots.”
“They really like carrots?” her son said dubiously. He didn’t mind carrot sticks, but detested cooked carrots. His pickiness where food was concerned had already brought surprise from her family here, where children weren’t indulged in the same way they were in the outside world.
“A carrot is like a cookie to a horse,” Rebecca said firmly. “Watch.”
She broke off a chunk and held it on the palm of her hand. The horse she’d been petting promptly lipped it up and crunched with such enthusiasm that saliva and flecks of carrot flew.
Matthew laughed.
She had just persuaded him to feed a piece of carrot to another of the horses when she heard a car engine followed by the sound of tires crunching on gravel. There were innocent reasons for a car to be driving down this quiet road, even if the homes on it were all Amish owned, but she couldn’t control her spike of anxiety. She turned and saw the green-and-white SUV with a rack of lights on the roof slow and turn into the lane leading to her aunt and uncle’s home. It would pass right by her and Matthew. Rebecca had no doubt who the driver was.
Turning her back on the police car, she cupped Matthew’s hand and helped him hold it out. He squeaked in alarm when lips brushed his palm, then laughed in delight when the carrot vanished.
“It tickled!”
The police vehicle rolled to a stop right behind them. A door slammed, and she and Matthew both turned to face Daniel Byler, who strolled around the front bumper and joined them.
“These are beauties,” he said in a voice that was just a little gravelly. “Your uncle raises the handsomest draft horses I’ve ever seen.”
She smiled despite her tension. “Say that to him, and he would then tell you about three other Amish men he knows who raise horses just as fine. And he would also admonish you for admiring them for their looks, when it is strength and willingness and heart that truly matter.”
His chuckle was a little rough, too. “You’re right, he would. Although I have no doubt he is willing to discuss desirable conformation with buyers.”
“An entirely different thing from calling them beautiful,” she said, trying to repress another smile.
“Why shouldn’t they be beautiful?” Matt burst out. “Aren’t horses s’posed to be—”
“Sheriff Byler is teasing,” she said hastily, seeing his raised eyebrow. “And you know Onkel Samuel is right. These will be working horses. A horse pulling a plow could be mud brown and have a bump in the middle of his forehead and mismatched eyes, one