Taken for English (23 page)

Roper leaned over and tucked his pistol into the wide cuff of his trouser leg and fastened it in with a snap. “Put your guns away, boys. And get those cans. Your daddies won’t be happy if they think I led you to the den of wickedness.”

If someone in Joseph’s family spoke of a den of wickedness, it would be with all seriousness. Roper found amusement in his defiance. Despite the grand jury clearing the Denton brothers, after John Twigg died, Sheriff Byler made it clear that further illegal pistol shooting would not be tolerated. Even if Jesse Roper’s recent arrival meant he did not know this, the others certainly did.

Joseph watched Roper carefully pick up the jacket that matched his trousers from the bush where he had laid it. As reckless as he was toward authority, Roper was a stickler for his clothes and appearance. The young men collected pieces of the cans they had blasted and tossed them in a burlap sack, which one of them slung over his shoulder as the group ambled toward the path that would take them out of the woods and toward the ranch where Roper presumed lunch would be waiting.

None of them looked back to see that Joseph had not moved.

Joseph gave them a head start, while he briefly considered his options, and then followed. His father had taught him well to track prey through thick woods without giving himself away, and Joseph had no trouble following without causing any of the foursome to suspect their surroundings. Curiosity compelled his soundless steps. He and Zeke worked long hours on the Denton cattle ranch, but other than one dinner with Maura Woodley and her father, he had scant experience with
English
households.

It was surprisingly easy to climb a maple tree and lean comfortably into the cradle of its thick branches. From above the sight line of the home’s inhabitants, Joseph had a clear view of the front porch, into the front parlor, and through to the dining room. Digger Dawson’s mother scowled, but she served lunch. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, beets, chocolate cake. The table was laid with a light blue tablecloth and adorned with a vase of daisies. The curtains were yellow with white eyelet trim and hung against pale green painted walls. Knickknack shelves and formal photographs reminded Joseph he was looking into a world not his own.

Even with the windows open to catch the breeze, Joseph heard little of the conversation, but periodically Jesse Roper erupted in laughter and the others followed in nervous imitation. Joseph was glad he had not gone in with them.

A horse trotted toward the house pulling a wagon driven by a man Joseph did not recognize. At the porch, the man climbed down and rapped on the front door.

“I’ve come about the pistol shooting,” Joseph heard the man say when a weary-looking Mrs. Dawson opened the door.

She turned and glared toward the dining room. “It’s Deputy Combs for y’all.”

A moment later, Jesse Roper filled the open door frame.

“You’re under arrest,” Deputy Combs said, “for shooting pistols. We’ve had a report from an eyewitness.”

Joseph’s heart sank. Surely not Walter.

“All of you,” Deputy Combs demanded, “come with me.”

Roper spread his feet and crossed his arms. Behind him, the other shooters assembled.

Deputy Combs pointed at each one in turn. “I brought the wagon. You get on out there and let me take you into town and do this properly.”

One young man came forward. “I only shot once.”

“Once is against the law,” Combs said. “In the wagon. If you resist, you’ll only make more trouble for yourself.”

One by one, Digger and his two friends slipped past Roper and straggled toward the wagon.

From his branch, Joseph watched
English
justice in process—and was once again glad he did not take hold of the pistol Roper offered.

“I do believe I will finish my lunch,” Roper said.

“You’re resisting arrest,” Combs said. “You must come with me.”

Roper whipped out his pistol and laughed. “You don’t say!” He aimed the pistol, his thumb ready to cock it.

Combs turned on his heel and ran to the wagon.

Roper roared in laughter.

O
n Thursday, Annie and Ruth both had afternoon shifts, a coincidence that allowed them a leisurely late breakfast together. Annie laid out bacon strips on a tray to put in the oven while Ruth pulled eggs and cheddar cheese from the refrigerator and whole-wheat bread from the bread box Rufus had made for Annie.

“I’m so relieved no one was hurt in the fires yesterday.” With thumb and forefinger, Annie nudged a slice of bacon to the edge of the pan to make room for one more.

“Bryan says there’s definitely an arsonist.” Ruth positioned two eggs between the fingers of one hand and cracked them simultaneously on the edge of a mixing bowl before reaching for two more.

“I have to learn how to do that,” Annie said.

“I’ll teach you sometime.”

“When did you see Bryan again?”

Ruth cracked two more eggs and picked up a whisk. “Last night. He came by.”

Annie pinched her eyebrows together. “How did he know where to find you?”

“I told him I was staying with you.”

“He does have a habit of just showing up, doesn’t he? Where was I?”

“Upstairs reading in bed already.”

“That late?”

Ruth rolled her head toward Annie. “Annalise, it was eight thirty.”

Annie slid the tray of bacon into the warm oven. She had to admit it was not unusual for her to be upstairs with a book by that hour. Lately it was the volume on Arkansas history. She was surprised to discover a Sheriff Abraham Byler of Baxter County, who seemed a gentle, well-loved soul.

“So what did Bryan say about the fires?” Annie asked.

“There was nothing in that shed on county land that could have sparked a fire. And it was locked. They found the padlock, and it had not been opened.”

“So it caught fire from the outside.”

“Except nothing around it burned.” Ruth lit the burner under a frying pan. “Somebody started that fire at the back of the shed.”

Annie leaned against a counter. “Is Bryan compromising the investigation by telling you this stuff?”

Ruth paled. “It’s just his theory. It’s nothing formal. It’s not like he’s the official investigator or anything.”

While Ruth shredded cheese, Annie poured orange juice.

“What did you and Elijah find to talk about?” Ruth asked. “Did he mention why he was even there?”

Annie kept her back turned as she returned the orange juice pitcher to the refrigerator. “It turns out he is interested in fires. I suppose he’s curious, like a lot of people. He and Bryan might actually have something in common.”

“Oh.” Ruth shredded with more vigor.

Annie carried the juice glasses to the table in the dining room, where she had laid out two place mats a few minutes earlier. Ruth had given her a perfect opening to say that Elijah had moved off his parents’ farm and into town. In fact, the room he rented was not more than half a mile from Annie’s home. She wanted Ruth to know. It might change things between Ruth and Elijah before things went further with Bryan. But shouldn’t Elijah be the one to tell Ruth? Annie returned to the kitchen and took two plates from the cabinet.

“So do you really think you are going to get Leah to come and stay here?” Ruth dumped the eggs into the sizzling pan.

“I’m going to try. I hope you don’t mind that I cut the living room in half to make space for her.”

“Would you rather I stay somewhere else while she’s here?”

“No! Of course not.”

“If I weren’t here, you’d have room for her.”

“I
do
have room for her.” Annie put a hand on her friend’s shoulder while Ruth gently stirred the eggs. “And I hope that she’ll soon be ready to go home.”

Ruth pointed at the oven. “Don’t burn my bacon.”

When Annie walked through Mrs. Weichert’s shop door a few hours later, the older woman was putting the telephone in its cradle. Annie smiled at the gesture. That phone had to be thirty years old, but Mrs. Weichert had no interest in updating. It was an antiques shop, after all.

“You just missed him,” Mrs. Weichert said.

“Who?”

“Rufus.”

Annie’s stomach sank. He was not likely to call again. “What did he say?”

“He’ll see you on Sunday. He’ll be home all day.”

Annie suppressed a grin and walked around the counter to stow her purse on the shelf underneath. A moment later, Mrs. Weichert gave her a short list of tasks for the afternoon and Annie settled into routine.

But the fire still blazed in her mind, and over and over she saw the flash of Amish blue escaping her sight. As she wiped a dust rag over the porcelain pieces and straightened up the Amish jam jars, Annie prayed for peace to come to Leah Deitwaller’s heart. And she wondered if it did any good in God’s eyes to pray after the fact that Leah please not be the one who was starting fires.

On Sunday afternoon Rufus put his thumbs through his suspenders and leaned a shoulder against the partial wall that divided the dining room from the living room. From this perspective, he had a clear view of Annalise, but she was not likely to see him from her seat on the sofa. For this moment—and he knew it would not last long in the busy Beiler household—she was alone. Her quilt nearly swallowed her up as she bent over her stitches. He had seen her in this pose often enough in the last few months to know that her tongue peeked out of the left corner of her lips when she was concentrating. His mother had been the one to offer to teach Annalise to quilt. A few weeks ago, typical of Annalise’s independent streak, she had declared that she would finish on her own. Now she was working on the binding of a traditional Amish nine-patch quilt made from solid-colored fabrics that had once belonged to her mother. She found sentimental pleasure in bringing memories of her
English
childhood into her new life in the Amish church.

With quiet steps Rufus crossed the room and moved enough of the quilt off one end of the sofa to allow him to sit beside her. Her smile melted something at his core every time.

“The quilt is beautiful,” he said.

“Well, it’s not perfect, but for my first attempt, I think it’s pretty good!” She laughed. “That sounds like pride. Forgive me.”

“I admire what you have done and the qualities that have allowed you to do it.” What he wanted to say was that he was proud of her. “It’s a nice afternoon.”

“Yes, it is.” Annalise pulled the thread taut in preparation for another stitch.

“How would you like to take a driving lesson?”

Her fingers immediately released the quilt. “Really?”

“I’ll get Dolly ready.”

“I’ll put this away and find my sweater.”

By the time Rufus pulled the buggy to the front of the house ten minutes later, Annalise was standing on the front porch in the blue sweater his mother had knit for her last winter. While he scooted over on the bench, she clamored down the steps and around the back of the buggy, appearing on the driver’s side.

When she grinned, he could not help but grin back. Most Amish women Annalise’s age had been driving buggies half their lives.

Annalise straightened herself on the bench and picked up the reins. “Giddyup.”

Dolly responded with gentle forward motion. Annalise tugged the reins to the left, and the horse circled the Beiler front yard. Once they traversed the long driveway and approached the main highway, Rufus felt his own foot pressing against the floor as if to slow the buggy. On her side, Annalise pulled on the reins and pushed the brake slightly too hard, and they lurched forward. Rufus only allowed himself to watch her in his peripheral vision lest the turn of his head imply any lack of confidence. Annalise managed to stop Dolly right at the edge of the road and took her time looking in both directions.

“Is it all right if we go toward town?” Annalise asked.

“Wherever you wish. You’re the driver.”

She giggled. “You don’t know how long it’s been since anyone said that to me.”

“It’s probably a good idea to stay on a familiar stretch of road.”

“I’m a little nervous about being on the main highway.”