A Marriage for Meghan (18 page)

As Catherine finished mopping half the floor, she heard the back door open, along with the distinctive clomp of boots. The stomp even
sounded
muddy. “Stop there, whoever you are! Don’t track up my clean floor with muddy boots,” she ordered, hoping the interloper wasn’t her
daed
.

John stuck in his head. “I shucked them off, Cat. Can I come in now? I want to refill the thermos. We’re chilled to the bone and need a warm-up.”

She smiled at her brother. “Come in, but I’ll have to make a fresh pot. If you like, I’ll bring it outside. Are you and James done with barn chores? Which field will you be in?” She took the coffee canister down from the shelf.

John sauntered in and sat down. Fortunately for him, his gray wool socks were clean. “I’ll wait for it and warm up in here. James has gone next door to use the neighbor’s phone.”

Catherine lit the burner under the coffeepot before turning to look at her younger brother. “Who does James need to call at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning?”

“The sheriff,” he said calmly, stretching out his long legs.

“Why? What’s happened?” Catherine felt her gut tighten with dread.

“Don’t work yourself up, Cat.” He sounded cool and relaxed, definitely not traits he shared with James, Meghan, or herself. “By the time we finished milking, it was full daylight outside. We walked to see how wet the fields looked and that’s when we saw it.”

“Saw
what
, John? Spit it out all ready.”

“Our crop of winter wheat, ruined. It had come up thick and green after the last of the snow melted away. Now it’s gone.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Somebody in one of those trucks with big tires drove through our field last night, churning it into muck. I can’t believe they didn’t get the truck stuck in the mud, considering the thorough job they did.” He gazed at her from under his dark, thick eyelashes. “We need a watchdog to alert us when something’s up. With the windows closed and everyone under heavy quilts, apparently we could sleep through a bomb exploding in the backyard.” He rose to wait by the stove as though his proximity might hurry the coffee along.

“Don’t say things like that,” she chided. “Can the wheat crop be salvaged or will you have to replant?”

“Neither. There were only patchy sections still standing, not enough to let grow until harvesttime. But we don’t have a long enough growing season to plant spring wheat. That’s why we set Turkey Red last fall before the first frost.”

“So
daed
told James to call the sheriff?” she asked, fearing his response.

“
Nein
.
Daed
left at first light on district business. He headed east out of the driveway, so he doesn’t know about the wheat crop yet.”

“Oh, no. He won’t like this one bit. I overheard our parents talking a while back. The other ministers are angry because
daed
involved the English police without consulting them first.”

“I told James to wait, but you know our
bruder.
He was hoppin’ mad. He said that
daed
might not get home till just before dark.”

“We usually live to regret things done in haste and anger.”

John met her eye. “James takes farming seriously, Cat. We have bills to pay from that wheat crop. There will be no profits whatsoever unless he tills the field and plants something else. And whatever he puts in probably won’t bring in as much as that wheat would have.” He filled the thermos the moment the coffee finished brewing.

Meghan entered the room just then, carrying a basket of freshly folded laundry. “It’s lunchtime already? Goodness, John, didn’t you just stuff your face with sausage and eggs?”

He grinned at their youngest sibling. “I can still taste your fine cooking with every burp.” He ambled toward the back hall. “I’ll let Cat fill you in on the news while I take this coffee to the barn. I’ve got stalls to clean.”

Meghan slipped into the vacated kitchen chair. “Tell me what?” Her pretty face was the epitome of youthful innocence.

Catherine repeated the news, trying to calm Meghan’s fears and field questions she had no answers for. Then she finished mopping the floor while Meghan hung the next load of wet clothes. Both women agreed not to tell
mamm
anything until lunch. When the sheriff’s cruiser pulled up the Yost driveway forty minutes later, their mother was still upstairs cleaning. The sisters piled lunch sandwiches on a platter in the center of the table, pulled on tall boots, and then headed outdoors. Neither wished to miss the excitement that once again arrived at their doorstep.

“I see them!” exclaimed Meghan, pointing toward the fence separating pasture from crop fields. “James, John, the sheriff, and some tall guy in a suit. Goodness, that’s a bad wardrobe choice when you’re visiting a farm in early spring.”

“Wardrobe choice?” Catherine asked. “You watched too much TV when you worked at Mrs. Wright’s.” But it wasn’t Meghan’s English expressions that set Catherine’s teeth on edge. “Oh, no,” she said. “That’s the FBI agent who came to school asking questions after you’d left for the day. I was hoping he had gone back to Cleveland.”

“He must be the man who stopped at the Shultz farm to interrogate Jacob,” whispered Meghan, squinting her eyes. “Jacob told Glen, who told James, who told me a few weeks ago.”

“I’m sure he didn’t
interrogate
him.” Catherine’s heart filled with remorse from her personal culpability in implicating Jacob. Tenderhearted Meghan had never questioned who might have directed the agent to the Shultz farm.

When they reached the pasture fence, the four men were talking and pointing, while James gestured wildly with his hands. Because their attention was focused on what had been forty acres of new wheat, they didn’t notice Catherine and Meghan at first. For as far as the eye could see, deep tire tracks crisscrossed the land in a crazy pattern, leaving ruts that had filled with water. With deep furrows slashing through the rows, proper drainage would be impossible.

“They broke through the fence half a mile down the road and didn’t leave until they had ruined the entire crop.” James gestured in the direction of the vandals’ apparent entry and egress.

“You didn’t hear anything last night?” asked the sheriff.

Both brothers shook their heads. “Not this far from the house in winter.” James sounded more dispirited than Catherine could ever remember.

“I still see some wheat plants left on the high ground,” said Meghan. She climbed up on the bottom fence rail and pointed at a lonely patch of green. “Maybe some will still grow.”

Everyone turned to stare at her. “No, Meggie,” said James, putting a steadying hand on her arm. “I’ll have to plow this under. There’s not enough left to work with. Maybe I’ll set soybeans when the field dries out.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Catherine,” greeted the sheriff. He removed his wide-brimmed beige hat. “And here is our new teacher-in-training, Miss Meghan.” He stretched out a hand to the youngest Yost.

Meghan grinned and grasped his hand, using it to jump down from the fence. Even standing on the rail, she wasn’t as tall as the English lawman. “How do you do, Sheriff?”

“I’m fine, miss, but I’ll feel better once we catch whoever’s doing the damage in your community. This is Thomas Mast of the FBI.” He turned to the man in the suit. “Agent Mast, this is Meghan Yost. I believe you’ve already met her sister Catherine.”

“How are you?” asked the FBI man, extending his hand.

Meghan’s outgoing, friendly demeanor vanished when her attention moved from the local English sheriff to the out-of-town newcomer.
This is the man who interrogated Jacob.
She shook his hand with exactly one pump and then pulled her hand back as though scalded by boiling water. “I’m fine, thank you.” She moved to a position behind James’ tall frame, something she hadn’t done in many years.

“I noticed something when I walked the field,” said the sheriff, turning back to James and John. “I believe a different truck was here last night, one with dual back wheels. I can’t say for sure since they both had huge, knobby tires. From what my deputy could tell, the tracks left in the snow behind the pizza shop had a single set of back wheels, probably a Ford F-250 or Chevy Silverado.”

James scratched his jawline. “So you think they’re not the same varmints who jumped us in Shreve?”

“That would be my guess. I’m putting your neighborhood on nightly patrol and assigning a deputy to keep an eye on things in your district, providing we don’t get too many emergency calls. Sooner or later they’ll leave behind more evidence than tire tracks in the mud. I just hope for your sakes it’s sooner.” He gazed over the ravaged field once more before turning around.

As the four men walked toward the two cars parked in the driveway, Catherine looked at her sister. “I suppose you and I should set the table for lunch. We have a long list of chores for the afternoon.”

“Give me just another minute.” Meghan ran after the
Englischers
, apparently losing some of her earlier shyness. “Wait, Sheriff. May I have a word with you? I think I know something that might help.”

Customary among Amish men, her brothers hung back a little because they hadn’t been invited into the conversation. However, the FBI man from Cleveland possessed no such reticence, and he moved to the sheriff’s side.

“What is it, Meghan?” asked Strickland, using his hat to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.

“Mr. Santos told me
Englischers
at the camping park have been saying bad things about Amish people. They’re supposed to be looking for work, but instead they sit around drinking beer…even before noon.” She crossed her arms over her apron.

Catherine, James, John, and the two cops stared at Meghan. Agent Mast stepped forward and lowered his head as though speaking to a small child. “What kind of bad things, Miss Yost?” His voice was soft and nonthreatening.

Meghan glanced up at him, flinching a little from his closeness. “I wasn’t there, was I? But Mr. Santos described it as ‘trash talk.’ One of his regular customers, who lives year-round at the park, said these people came up from the South looking for work.”

“Thank you, miss, you’ve been very helpful.” The agent stepped back and murmured something to the sheriff. He nodded and jotted something down on a tablet. Her brothers followed the two
Englischers
to their cars, peppering them with questions.

Catherine took hold of Meghan’s sleeve and began pulling her toward the house. “Is that what you were doing the night you brought home the pizza? You were questioning Mr. Santos? You shouldn’t interfere in this. Let the police do their job.”

But Meghan didn’t seem to be listening to her admonishment. She continued to stare at the FBI agent’s back until he slid into his shiny sedan and drove away.

Thomas left the Yost farm with his jaw clamped down hard on his back molars. He’d already exhausted every dead-end lead provided by local law enforcement that had resulted in zero arrests and not even a serious suspect. His conclusion? The school trashing had been irate student retaliation, while the rest had been random acts of vandalism, probably by youthful hotheads with too much time on their hands. But not hate crimes, and therefore not matters for the FBI.

With no additional tips, he’d been ordered back to Cleveland and had already checked out of his hotel room on Main Street USA. He would miss the complimentary breakfast buffet, but he would be able to return to Friday night happy hours in the Warehouse District, Saturday afternoon touch football games, and Sundays on his couch, emulating a root vegetable.

Now this—his first real lead since he’d personally questioned the restaurant owner. And whom did the pizza man tell when he’d heard some useful information? He certainly hadn’t called the number on the card Thomas left behind. Or even the local sheriff’s department, who were paid to investigate crimes within the county. Instead, the man had told a young Amish girl who didn’t even have a clue what ‘trash talk’ meant. She probably thought it was a discussion whether to visit the recycling igloos, the town dump, or perhaps fire up the backyard burn barrel.

Thomas grinned as he recalled the sparks in her eyes when he’d stepped too close for comfort. An isolated, insulated Amish girl would have a different perspective of personal space than the sophisticated, assertive English women he knew. His social friends were so aggressive they would squeeze themselves in anywhere if they weren’t getting the desired amount of attention.

Little Meghan Yost, five feet tall, with blond hair that refused to stay inside her bonnet, looked all of fifteen years old. No wonder the eighth grade boys were giving her a hard time. They probably considered themselves her peers, not her charges. And no wonder Paul Bunyan was determined to protect her. Even inside the Amish world, Meghan seemed like a lost lamb in a pasture of wild goats.