Taken for English (15 page)

“You will
not
shoot into an innocent crowd,” Maura shouted. “If Sheriff Byler catches you, he’ll have reason to shoot you in the back.”

Billy Twigg sauntered toward his horse and pulled his own rifle down from the mount. “He’s not a shootin’ sheriff, and you know it.”

R
uth squinted at the tiny print on the form. She supposed no one actually read the stack of forms patients routinely signed when they received care in the clinic, but she was curious how the government’s health care regulations over privacy and insurance translated into plain English. Even after nearly three years away from the Amish community, she was still getting used to the prevalence—even the necessity—for insurance in order to receive care. Was it not enough to be sick? It seemed to her that the
English
system left out a lot of people. She had begun to think of someday practicing her nursing skills in a setting that served people who worked hard yet still feared what it would cost to see a health care professional.

With a gasp she looked up to see the face of Bryan Nichols only inches from hers. With his arms anchored on the counter, he leaned heavily forward.

“Hello, Ruth Beiler.”

Ruth pushed her rolling chair back a few inches. “Hello. Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I’d like to make one.” He grinned.

Ruth hit the space bar to wake up her computer monitor and opened the scheduling program. “We don’t have any openings today, but a doctor could see you on Thursday.”

“But I don’t want to see a doctor. I want to see you.”

She blinked twice and met his eyes. “I’m a nursing student doing an internship. I can’t see patients.”

Now he laughed. “I’m not a patient. I’m just a man who would like to get to know you better. Would you have breakfast with me tomorrow?”

Ruth’s belly warmed. At the university in Colorado Springs, she fell indisputably in the category of nerd—a serious student who made a solid contribution to a study group before an exam but otherwise did not socialize with many people. And certainly not men.

“Tomorrow’s a church Sunday,” Ruth said. “I like to go to church with my family when I’m home.”

“Lunch, then.”

“I’m afraid…well, it’s the Sabbath. A family day.” She was dodging him. The real question was not when she would go out with him, but whether.

“Well, you didn’t seem so hot on the idea of my dropping by the house the first time I tried it, so I suppose I won’t do that again.” He winked. “Not yet anyway.”

She blushed. Ruth could feel it. And she could not will it away. For his own good, Ruth had repeatedly told Elijah Capp that he had to let her go, but she had never done so because she imagined herself with anyone else.

“Let me cut to the chase,” Bryan said. “Just tell me that you will go out with me, and then we can work on figuring out when.”

Ruth shuffled some papers and glanced at the monitor, which had reverted to its screen saver of nature scenes.

Bryan caught her eye in an expectant invitation.

Ruth clicked the point of her ballpoint pen out and then in. “I’m not all that interesting.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Okay?”

Ruth reached for her coffee mug, which was empty. She stared into it. “Okay.”

Annie’s steps slowed as she walked past the newspaper box on Main Street. It was one of those old locked boxes that took quarters and released custody of the day’s news. In this case it was the week’s news at stake. The Westcliffe paper, read by residents all over Custer County, only came out once a week.

Rufus did not read
English
newspapers. None of the Beilers did. As far as Annie knew, none of the Amish in Custer County or anywhere in southwestern Colorado did. They regarded the contents as
English
business that had nothing to do with them.

But that headline. How could she walk past it and not be curious?

A
RSONIST
P
ROFILED
.

She was sorely tempted, and she was pretty sure she had a quarter. But when she looked down at the small bag hanging from her shoulder, she saw her green Amish dress. If someone—even an
English—saw
her dropping a coin in the slot and extracting a paper, word was certain to get back to the bishop.

Annie rolled her eyes at her own weakness and picked up speed again. It should not matter whether anyone saw her buy a paper. It did not even matter what she thought of the Amish practice of reading only their own newspapers. She had vowed to obey the leaders of the church. Her baptism was not yet two weeks old and she was already straining against its restrictions.

She reached Mrs. Weichert’s shop and put the key in the lock, deciding at the same time that it was time to change the window display. Mrs. Weichert wouldn’t mind. Generally the store owner gladly left that task to Annie anyway.

Annie was about to step inside when a touch on her elbow made her turn to see Trey, the newspaper editor.

“I’ve got some flyers here that the town council wants distributed.” Trey gripped a stack of papers in one hand. “I put them in with all the newspapers, but they’d like them in shop windows, too.”

Annie held the door open. “I guess that would be all right.” Mrs. Weichert could always take it down if she objected.

“Good. If you’d like, I’ll put it up for you.”

Annie gestured toward the front window. “What’s it about?”

“The fire department is doing a controlled training burn.” Trey produced a small roll of tape from a pocket. “After what happened a couple of weeks ago, they want to be sure everyone knows not to freak out when they see smoke this time.”

“That sounds wise. Where will they be burning?”

“There’s an old house that is a hundred years old if it’s a day. You can see straight through the slats. I’m surprised a good wind didn’t take it down years ago.”

“Where is that?”

“At the edge of the ranch land Karl Kramer owns.”

“Is he still out of town?”

“Believe so. I hear his foreman is on the phone with him practically all day every day, but Karl seems in no hurry to come back. But don’t worry. They have his permission. He’s been wanting to take it down anyway.”

“Then I guess it’s just as well.” Annie tried to picture the failing structure. Gradually an image came into her mind.

“It’s amazing what they can tell from investigating the scene of a fire. We’ve had a lot of interest in our profile of an arsonist.”

Annie perked up. “I’m afraid I haven’t read the article. Do they really know who did it?”

Trey pulled of a piece of tape and stuck it to the end of one finger before reaching across the display shelf to place the poster in the window.

“ ’Fraid not. The article is more general.”

Annie wondered if it would be against
Ordnung
to encourage him to keep talking.

“They start with establishing a motive even before they have a suspect,” Trey said. “Half the time it’s revenge. I never knew that.”

“Me neither.”

“Then of course there’s simple vandalism or monetary gain. And some people do it just for the excitement.”

“But how do they know the motive before they have a suspect?” Annie couldn’t help asking.

“Certain patterns. A revenge burning rarely uses an ignitable liquid, for instance, because it’s not well mapped out. Usually that’s a firebomb.”

“And the others?” Annie was simply gathering information. What could be wrong with that?

“Vandalism will often have graffiti accompanying it. If the motive is monetary gain, valuables will be missing from the scene. Fires set by someone seeking excitement will eventually develop a pattern. Someone wants attention.”

“But that means there would have to be several. I hate to think of that happening around here.”

“I don’t suppose anyone wants to see that except the person setting the fires.”

Annie shuddered at the thought. “So they don’t have any theories about the fire?”

Trey pressed on one last piece of tape. “I imagine they do. Once they sort out the kind of fire it was, that will narrow down the list of suspects. But they wouldn’t be saying yet, now would they?”

“I suppose not.”

The door opened and Mrs. Weichert came in. “What have we got here?”

Trey set a couple of extra flyers on the counter. “It’s all here. I’d better move on.”

Annie watched him leave and turned to her employer. “I didn’t know you would be back. How is your mother?”

“She had a heart attack, but given what it could have been, it’s not too bad. They released her last night. Julene offered to stay a few more days to make sure her feisty grandmother behaves herself and to arrange some help to come in.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t worse.”

“Thanks. Now you skedaddle. You’ve held down the fort long enough.”

Annie did not argue. It was barely ten thirty. She could spend the whole day looking for Leah if she had to. Annie picked up an extra flyer and left before Mrs. Weichert could change her mind.

Oblivious to further distraction, she dashed home, put on her most comfortable sneakers, and filled the thrift store backpack. In the days since she had first thought to take sandwiches to Leah, Annie had set aside a box of crackers, a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of wheat bread, and juice boxes she kept in the house for a treat when Jacob Beiler visited. If she could not persuade Leah to go home, she could at least take her some nourishment. At the last minute, she pulled a quart-size canning jar from the cupboard and filled it with milk.

With the backpack strapped to her shoulders, Annie set out. While her previous attempts to find Leah had been random guesses about which direction to head, this time Annie had a destination in mind. The old house Trey had described on the edge of Karl Kramer’s ranch sounded just like the sort of place a lonely girl could take refuge. For years it had been abandoned and off anyone’s radar.

Now it was on the radar, though. Surely firefighters would double-check to be sure no one was in the building before beginning the training burn, but Annie did not want to take any chances. Fresh adrenaline at the thought of finding Leah speeded the revolution of her pedals, even with the extra weight on her back. Still, it took her most of an hour to reach the ranch, and she was relieved to finally put one foot on the ground to steady her balance.

From the outside, Annie saw no sign the building was occupied. It looked downright unsafe to her—which was probably why it was targeted for destruction.

“Leah?” she called out. But no answer came. Annie got off the bike and laid it on the ground. The weight of the backpack had shifted, and she readjusted it as she walked closer to the old house. There was no door, only a gaping opening where one had once hung. Window frames had long ago lost their glass. Gray, brittle, weather-worn planks held a precarious balance that a large cardboard box could have rivaled.

“Leah!”

Silence.

Under any other circumstance, Annie would not have entered the house, but she had come too far not to determine whether there might be any possibility Leah was squatting here.

The room at what must have been the front of the house at one time was empty. Far from fearless for her own safety, Annie proceeded deeper into the house. At the end of a narrow hall, she found two small rooms. The one on the right was empty.

When she stepped inside the room on the left, Annie tripped on something—and immediately recognized the cat dish. Her pulse pounded as she inspected the rest of the room. A sleeping bag. A lantern. Empty mason jars. A sweater. Four apple cores.

Annie held herself still, breathless, listening for any sound of movement in the house.

Nothing.

She inventoried her options. One: go find Leah’s parents and insist they come with her to this desolate, dangerous place their child had chosen. Two: report evidence of trespassing and try to force the authorities to get involved. Three: wait for Leah and insist she go home with Annie. Four: leave the backpack and go home.

Why would the Deitwallers be more likely to track their daughter just because Annie had found her? They wouldn’t. Why would the authorities be interested in someone trespassing in a building scheduled for destruction in a few days and whose owner had made no complaint? They wouldn’t. And why would Leah be any more likely to accept Annie’s offer to help than she had been on previous attempts? She wouldn’t.