ONE

      “Hello?”

      Becky Taylor tapped on the door of the trailer, then glanced at the Montcliff Studio van parked nearby and raised her voice to be heard over the cold wind that whistled through the tall pines.

      “Is anyone there?”

      Disheartened to have her knock go unanswered, she pulled her black cape tight around her shoulders and adjusted the starched white kapp that covered her knot of unruly hair.

      An Amish woman should be able to twist her mane into a smooth and compliant bun, her grandmother’s voice from the past challenged. Instead, Becky battled the wayward wisps that danced in the swirling wind. Raking the chestnut strands away from her face, she glanced up at the dark clouds crowding the sky and the descending twilight that brought with it the smell of November rain and musky, red Georgia clay.

      Concerned about the encroaching storm, she knocked again, then shrugged and dropped her hand to the knob that turned too easily. Needing to escape the fat drops of rain that, at that moment, started to fall, she stepped into the small entry space, fully intending to make her presence known. The sound of raised voices from a back room made her