Forsaken (6 page)

Levi stood in the cleft of darkness, his body relaxing against the slats of the barn wall, his eyelids drooping closed. He'd been awake since four that morning, which was not unusual considering the work he did for Daniel Schmidt, but staying up this late, keeping an eye on things at the barn singing, was. He wished the voices would quiet and the playing would end. It was obvious Hannah was not coming.

She'd stayed away again. He'd watched and waited and hoped that, despite her words, she would be lured by the fun. Disappointment weighted his chest like a hefty sack of feed had been plopped on it, a sensation he should have been used to.

The first time he'd really noticed Hannah, she couldn't have been more than twelve, with those wide brown eyes, humor making them the color of autumn leaves. He knew then he would have done anything for her.

It was foolishness, for she'd only ever had eyes for Jacob.

But Levi hadn't been able to help himself. He had studied the way she carried herself, never hesitating to help someone, never quibbling about obeying her mamm. And when her laugh rang out, sounding like the angels, Levi had thought he'd landed in heaven. Jacob had known how to make her laugh—dangling upside down from a tree branch, balancing a bucket on his head, or whispering something in her ear. But Levi had rarely coaxed a smile from her and now the task seemed impossible.

But at night he dreamed of Hannah smiling for him. Only him.

The soft click of a door closing made him tense. His eyes opened and blinked against the darkness, but he remained still, as unmoving as when he and his friends went hunting in the hills for deer. He eyed the barn, the Schmidt front porch, the back door. A slight figure crept among the shadows.

He straightened. His heart kicked hard against his breastbone.
Hannah
.

She was coming. Finally. Hope bloomed inside him. He took one step out of the dark crevice but then laughter erupted behind him from inside the barn.

Hannah stopped, turned. A slant of moonlight glinted on her pale face. Fear widened her eyes. But why fear?

When she scampered down the steps, the hem of her skirt snagged on a gardenia bush, which she jerked loose before rushing forward, her footsteps light and quick as she moved away from the barn, and he understood. Her destination was the reason for her fear—fear of discovery. What she didn't know was that he had followed her before.

With the moon veiled by thick clouds, darkness made it difficult for him to follow her, but he knew the way. Why did she feel compelled to go? Had it become a ritual with her? Love was a river that had to run its course, shifting and turning, slowing and tapering down to an eventual stream. He hoped there would be a moment, a boulder plunked in the middle of her defenses, a dead end to her resolve, and he would jump in and chart a new course for them, open a new current for a new love to flow open and unrestrained.

Until then, he would watch and wait.

Carrying a thirty-pack of Keystone Light, iced as cold as the weather, Roc located Straight Edge Road. It sure wasn't Bourbon Street, but he remembered his own surprise at what New Orleans offered. What would these boys do if a stream of floats with partiers came dancing down one of their gravel roads, tossing about bright purple and green beaded necklaces and flashing body parts?

Then again, the teens couldn't be strangers to the baser needs of life with places nearby like Intercourse. Virginville had to be a main attraction, right? These young Amish men were still men, bursting with hormones, and they couldn't be naïve about the birds or the bees or any other farm animal for that matter. Why else would they marry so young? Mike had told him they were plagued by ordinary teen problems, just like any other part of America, from drug abuse to the occasional teen pregnancy. Hadn't the Amish fellow he'd met earlier—
Evan…Ethan…Ephraim?
—admitted as much?

Still, how much did they really know of the darker side of evil and depravity? Of that, these healthy, young men were probably completely ignorant. And Roc was glad of it; he'd grown tired of the weary looks in twelve-year-old eyes back in New Orleans, from some kid who'd spent too much time and too many nights on the streets. These young Amish folks had healthy appetites, appetites for discovering life, experiencing the forbidden—appetites that any red-blooded American boy would have.

Even now, some ate out of red-and-white striped buckets; others scarfed down pizza, while he supplied the perfect beer to wash it all down. They eyed him skeptically when he first walked up, but they gladly accepted the offered beer. Roc handed out the cans, then popped open one for himself, and poured it down his throat, giving the kids time to get used to him being there.

Less wholesome activities—kids groping in cars and buggies, bottles of whiskey passed around a bonfire, and joints passed from hand to hand—were also prominent. Roc helped himself to a few blood-warming gulps of whiskey since nothing else beat the cold.
Nothin' wrong with that
. He doubted these unseasoned kids knew many of the things he'd seen over the course of his life—both in his career as a cop and since.

The teens stared at him oddly, timidly at first. They didn't know he might be the only thing standing between them and pure evil.

He warmed himself at the blazing bonfire the young men had started in the middle of a cleared field. Eventually they began to loosen up; whether it was the beer or simply acceptance of him he wasn't sure, but their boisterous laughter rang out in the night. Just as Ephraim had told him, they all sported jacked-up buggies with state-of-the-art stereos and high-def speakers. Hard-edged rock music poured out, an electric guitar wailing, the music pulsing and throbbing through him. It was like a 1950s movie, minus Elvis—just kids being kids.

He'd brought the beer as bribery to barrel through any defenses they might have about strangers, but the young men seemed more open than their elders. The clincher was the Mustang. Several of the lanky teens circled the bumper, and Roc felt obliged to leave the warmth of the fire and answer their questions.

“How many horsepower?”

“How fast can it go?”

Speed was the same in any language or culture. Roc lifted the hood and showed them the engine, the muffler, the rims, and tires.

“It looks like it has aftermarket headers.”

Roc grinned. They had quick minds and didn't come close to the dumb “Jethro” he'd thought they might be. They were curious and, even inebriated, somewhat naïve.

Finally, getting a sense he wasn't going to get back to the warmth of the fire, he took a different track. “Wanna take a ride?”

“Really?” One kid's pupils were already dilated, and his skin flushed. “
Ja!
”

“All right then.” Roc shooed them back from the car. “Hop in.”

“Which one?” one of the boys asked.

“Me!” The eager kid held out his hand. “Gonna let me drive?”

“No way. Only I drive this baby.”

With a no-big-deal shrug, the kid climbed into the passenger seat, grinning from ear to ear.

“What's your name?”

“Adam.”

“All right, Adam. Buckle up.”

So began a line of eager young men—Joshua, Luke, Zachariah, James, Caleb—who wanted a taste of life in the fast zone. It was hard to differentiate between the boys at first as they all had similar haircuts: straight across the brow line, then longer and cut straight across the back. Either they all had the same barber or this was another one of their many rules; he'd learned they went by what their leadership, the
Ordnung
, told them. But he gave them credit: they didn't scare easily. Instead, they whooped and hollered as Roc pushed the edge. They won his respect as he won their confidence.

After punching the accelerator and turning deserted roads into a local drag, he U-turned like James Bond on a high-stakes pursuit, then took it slow on the way back to the field, put-putting along Sunflower and Stone Haven Roads, half afraid of running into a buggy in the dark. They steered clear of Slow Gait, where he'd been earlier in the day, before the wedding, although the name sorely tempted him to give it a taste of the Autobahn. The boys showed him Hallelujah Creek, which bisected the community, winding past the local cemetery and an old, broken-down mill.

By the time he'd given them all rides, he'd learned much of the Amish lifestyle, how they used propane to fuel refrigerators as well as farm equipment, how they would probably each abandon their running around and join the church and community through baptism, and how they only went to school through the eighth grade. If he'd been a teen again, he'd have gladly given up school for this lifestyle. At least temporarily.

Holding a beer and pocketing his keys, Roc leaned back against the driver's door, watching the boys still admiring every aspect of the Mustang. “I hear an Amish teen went missing not too long ago.”

One of the teens still looked under the hood and said, “Ruby Yoder. I don't think she's missing at all.”

Roc started to ask why he thought that but another broke in with: “Heard today the Yoders gave something of Ruby's to the
English
police. Some kind of test.” His voice lowered. “They're thinking they found a body might be hers.”

Another poked a tire with his foot. “Nah, don't believe it. She done run off with the
English
boyfriend she fancied.”

“You know his name?” Roc asked.

The first teen snapped down the hood of the Mustang. “Can't remember it now. He ain't from around here. But I reckon she'll be back. Iffen he tires of her, or she tires of the
English
ways.”

“So you get many strangers around here?”

“Not many, no,” Caleb, an extra tall boy who had a fuzzy upper lip, answered.

“Occasionally though.” Adam rubbed his jaw, and his skin turned a deep shade of red. “Remember that fancy gal?”

“Oh
ja
!” Zachariah clapped a hand against his thigh. He had more freckles than Louisiana had crawfish. “I know the one you mean.”

Luke said something in Pennsylvania Dutch, and Roc shook his head. “What?”

Joshua let out a low, slow whistle, while James waved his hands in the air in that timeless shape that all men instinctively recognized as purely feminine.

“Her car broke down over toward the cemetery one night.” Joshua crossed his arms over his chest. “Said she wanted some action.”

Roc grinned. “Uh-huh, I bet you boys gave her some, huh?”

Caleb shook his head. “She was into some crazy stuff.”

“Oh yeah?” Roc didn't move a muscle. He imagined all sorts of sexual deviations that might curl the hair on these boys' chests. “Like what?”

Adam glanced over his shoulder before whispering, “Drinking blood.”

Roc's pulse jolted.

Caleb backhanded Adam's arm. “It was chicken's blood, you imbecile.”

Adam shrugged, his lip curling. “Don't matter. Blood's blood.”

“There are those that believe in the power of blood,” Joshua whispered, sliding into the passenger seat.

Adam's face looked paler. “Still, it wasn't right.”

“Would you recognize this woman again?” Roc asked, casually eyeing his thumb.

The boys nodded and gave their usual, “
Ja.
”

“Good.” Roc made it sound like “
goot
” as in their dialect, which tugged a few smiles from them as he slid behind the steering wheel and punched the gas.

Music pulsed around them, accented by the thrum of the powerful engine, pushing him on, pushing him further and faster. But it wasn't really the music. The music only stirred up the rage and resentment inside him. He was in this peaceful, bucolic place for one purpose, which was the same reason Brody had sent him away from New Orleans. But Roc sensed he was on the right trail for something else—revenge.

You scared of the devil?”

Hannah wiped her hands on her apron and turned toward the customer at the bakery where she worked three days a week. “Excuse me?”

“You all here seem so scared of worldly influences, like thinking buttons are sinful and all. And I seen some of them hex signs…” The woman leaned close and her cloying scent made Hannah's nose twitch. “I just thought, ya know, that you're scared of the devil himself.”

Hannah fingered the straight pin at her waist. Why didn't these
Englishers
realize some of their questions jabbed harder than a pinprick? “We aren't afraid of buttons or modern conveniences.” She went back to stacking jars of chow-chow and jams on the shelf. “We simply choose not to use them.”

“Why?” The woman's nose was straight and long and sticking into things that were none of her business.

“It is attachments to worldly things we avoid. Not the things themselves.”

“Like cars?” A short, stocky man joined them, and it looked as if he could use a little restraint in sampling the pretzel rolls.

Hannah separated out the blackberry and blueberry jams and put them in their proper places. “Yes.”

“And electricity,” the woman added.

“But ain't you using electricity with all this baking here?” The man nodded at the woman like he'd caught Hannah in hypocrisy.

“You are right that Old Order Amish districts do not allow electricity, but we can use generators and gas-powered machines. The Raber family is allowed to run this bakery because they don't own the building. They lease from a Mennonite family. Mennonites do not have restrictions about electricity.”

“Seems like just a lot of hairsplitting to me.”

“Hannah!” Grace called from the kitchen.

“If you'll excuse me…” Grateful for the excuse to leave, Hannah lifted the box of jam jars and carried them toward the back. After putting away the remainder of the jars, she peered toward the front of the store where the man and woman added more goodies to their carts. She nudged Grace and gave her a relieved smile. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Grace pinched the edges of a piecrust.

English
customers poured into Lancaster County to gawk at the horse and buggies, plain clothes, quilts, and fields. They asked about the straight pins in her apron, her white prayer
kapp
, and why she didn't believe in buttons and telephones. They drove on Amish farms and snapped away with their little cameras or even videotaped Amish children at play.

“Need help?” Hannah asked Grace.

“Sure. You can stir up the filling for the shoo-fly pie. So, have you decided to go tonight?”

Hannah grabbed the large metal spoon and began to stir the thick batter. “Where?”

Grace swiped her forearm across her forehead, leaving a trace of flour. “There's a gathering, just some of us hanging out.”

Hannah shook her head, making the ties of her
kapp
waggle back and forth. “I don't think so.”

“You should come. It'll be fun. Here.” Grace handed Hannah one of the four piecrusts, laid out smooth in a pie pan, the edges neatly crimped. While Grace poured in the dark, thick batter, Hannah turned the pan in her hands until it was evenly distributed, then helped place the pies into the oversized oven.

Hannah wiped her hands on her apron and carried the empty bowl to the sink where an older woman, Marnie Raber, washed. She was a sister-in-law of the owner and had worked in the kitchen every day, except Sundays, since her husband had passed away a few years back. Glancing over her shoulder at the tourists browsing in the shop, Marnie said, “You should help the customers now.”

Grace sent her a sorrowful look and Hannah went back to the front of the shop, steering clear of a woman who looked a bit harried as her two children jostled through the shop, pretending to shoot each other and knocking a package of jellybeans off a shelf. Hannah picked up the candy and went back to realigning the jars along the shelves, adding more jars of apple butter and chow-chow. The couple who had pestered her with questions earlier had left, but others had taken their place, gawking at Hannah as if she were on display with the gift items.

“Are these organic?” an older woman asked, indicating the shelves of jars.

“No.” Hannah pointed out a separate section to her. “But these over here are.”

The woman's gaze narrowed on Hannah, scanning her from prayer
kapp
to worn tennis shoes. Finally, she nodded, settled reading glasses across the bridge of her nose, and studied a jar label.

Easing herself toward the display of freshly baked pies, cookies, and breads, Hannah spotted a man who seemed more intent on studying the customers and Amish behind the counters than the apple dumplings and whoopie pies. He had dark hair pulled back and fastened with a rubber band. His dark complexion only made his scowl more menacing. “May I help you?”

He turned serious brown eyes upon her. “I'm looking for someone.”

Someone, not something?
His statement surprised her. “Where are you from?”

“New Orleans. Have you been there?”

He might as well have asked her if she'd been to the moon. She shook her head but said, “I know someone who went there once.” Suddenly she wanted to change the conversation's direction. “Do they have apple dumplings in Louisiana?”

The skin between his dark brows furrowed, then he glanced toward the display case where snickerdoodle cookies were wrapped in Saran Wrap, along with tiny loaves of pumpkin bread and gingerbread and cherry crumb. “I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Did you make these?”

“Some.”

“Show me something you made.”

“This chocolate shoo-fly pie.”

“Is it good?”

She gave a shy smile. “Of course.”

He laughed. “All right then. I'll take it.”

Hannah scooped it up and gave it to him, his fingers brushing her hand, and she pulled back abruptly. Gesturing toward the cash register, Hannah said, “You can pay over there.”

“Thanks,
ma cherie
. And…”

Hannah turned back when she would have turned away. “Yes?”

“Have you seen a stranger hereabouts?”

She glanced around the shop, busy with tourists perusing the Amish quilted potholders, aprons in bright fabrics that no Amish woman would ever wear, postcards and books telling about life in Lancaster County. “Like you?”

A burst of laughter erupted from him. “You're quick. And yes, exactly. Someone like me. From far away. But more dangerous.” His words gave her an odd prickly sensation at the back of her neck. “What's your name?”

She hesitated only a second. His gaze, though brazen, had a trustworthy glimmer. “Hannah.”

“I'm Roc.” He took a step toward her. “Do you know Ruby Yoder?”

“Sure.”

“She's missing.”

Hannah glanced down at her hands, twisted her fingers together. “She ran off with her boyfriend.”

“That's not necessarily true.” Roc touched her forearm with one finger, just a glancing contact, not even something anyone else would notice. “You be careful. All right, Hannah? I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.”

She met his concerned gaze. “Nothing can happen to me that isn't the Lord's will.”

Those words came back to her like a belch while she rode her red scooter home later that afternoon. Her hypocrisy nettled inside her like a sticker burr. She'd once believed in God's will whole-heartedly, but now…How could she have believed God wanted her to marry Jacob and yet God took him? Why would He do that?

A cold rain began to fall, slowly at first and then gaining strength. Thankful for her coat, she tucked her chin and hurried, pushing off the road with one foot and pressing into the handles of the scooter with her hands. The clippity-clop of hooves behind alerted her, and she glanced back through the slant of rain and saw a horse moving toward her. She scooted onto the side of the road so as not to be sprayed by the wheels rolling through puddles. But instead of passing her, the buggy pulled over and came to a stop. A dark figure swung down from the buggy and Hannah caught a glimpse of Levi's face beneath the rim of his hat.

“Hurry into the buggy.” Levi reached for the scooter. “I'll take care of this.”

Nodding and full of gratitude, Hannah hurried ahead and climbed into Levi's buggy. A minute later, he joined her, his strong muscles rippling beneath his white shirt and black coat, his actions fluid and assured. Even though they were both wet and shivering in the cold, he shared a warm smile with her that started a flicker of a flame inside her that could have melted a marshmallow.

“Saw the clouds approaching and thought I'd pick you up and give you a ride home, spare you the wet, but I missed you at work.”

“Thank you. That was kind of you, Levi. Marnie told me to leave early when we saw the rain coming. But I suppose I wasn't quick enough.”

He nodded and clicked the horse back into motion. “Wouldn't be such a bad walk if not for the weather. You'll not take a cold, will you?”

“I'll be fine.” But she felt her skin contract and a shiver pass through her.

“And how was work today?” he asked.

“Busy. But that is good,
ja
?”

“
Ja
. 'Tis.”

The swoosh of the wheels and the clopping of the hooves filled the space and silence between them. It was already getting late, and Mamm would have supper on the table. Usually Levi left the farm by this time to go to the small house he rented from the Huffstetlers. When Levi's father sold his carpentry shop, which included their home above the showroom, and moved the rest of his family to Ohio, Levi took over Jacob's job with her father and moved in with the Huffstetlers.

Did he miss his dat and mamm something awful? She couldn't imagine being far away from her own parents for any length of time. He had told her once when he worked late in the fields during harvest and ended up eating supper with her family, “These rolls are near as good as my mamm's.”

His compliment made her smile and gave her a warm, gooey feeling inside, like a melted chocolate chip. “Oh, no one could make potato rolls like Sally Fisher.”

“Just to be sure,” he'd said, “let me try another.” He'd taken a roll out of the basket. “
Ja
,” he mumbled, “just as good.”

Mamm's gaze had shifted toward her, and Hannah knew what she was thinking and it erased the smile she had felt blossom from Levi's compliment. But was he really interested in her?

Now, his steady gaze settled on her, not with the weight of a heavy hand but like the feather brush of a finger against her cheek. With her skin tingling, she tucked her chin downward.

“There was a man in the store today,” she said, not knowing why she was talking, babbling like a crazy, overflowing brook, “from New Orleans.”

“Hmm.”

“It made me think of…” her voice drifted, her throat closed and she stared out at the gray sky and falling rain. “I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Jacob went to Louisiana.”

“And he came home.”

“Hannah,” Levi's voice dipped lower, “I know your feelings for Jacob ran deep but—”

“You're going to miss the turn.”

His gaze shifted back to the road and he pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse and turning into the lane that led toward her house.

She stared down at her clasped hands and wished he would hurry. She felt a shivering start deep down inside of her, the quaking spreading through her limbs.

Levi didn't speak again until he pulled to a stop in front of her house. “Hannah…”

She didn't move, but her heart fluttered like an injured bird unable to flee.

“I know you cared for Jacob. So did I. He was my brother.” Levi rubbed his thumb along the leather reins. “I loved him.” He too stared straight ahead, not looking in her direction. “I don't know if he made you any promises, but he's gone now.”

Her fingers clamped hold and she squeezed until her nails bit into her palms.

“And we all have to move on. This is the way of life. This is our—”

“
Danke
, Levi, for carrying me home.” She scrambled out of the buggy, tripping on her skirt and practically leaping for the waterlogged ground. She didn't look back, didn't stop to help with the scooter, but simply ran for the safety of her room.