Plain Roots

by Becki Willis

  “The hallways are lined with pictures and paraphernalia from past winners. We’re looking for names and faces. Anything that clicks with those we’ve already run across. Document anything interesting with your phone.”

  “Got it.”

  “Keep your face covered as much as possible. You never know who may be at the racetrack.”

  With that ominous thought, he ushered her inside.

  Chapter 32

  “I can’t believe how many King horses there are on these walls,” Taryn murmured as they strolled the curved hallway. The wall behind them was glass and overlooked the track.

  “Like I told you before, your grandfather was well known for raising the finest horseflesh in the county, maybe even the state. His legacy continues, as you can see in recent pictures.”

  Though she had no right, Taryn felt a stirring of pride as she walked through the gallery. The horses sired at King Farms were superb, each one more magnificent than the last. Manuel King—her grandfather—truly knew how to breed and cultivate a fine animal. The majority of winners came from his stock.

  The Amish breeder wasn’t featured in any of the photographs. Even if he had been agreeable to facing a camera, breeders were seldom included in the fanfare of the win. That honor went to the owners, with the jockeys and trainers sometimes included. There was only one photograph, taken in the late 1970s, where a man in a plain black jacket and long beard stood off to one side. The broad brim of his flat-topped hat tilted down to shadow his face, but the caption identified him as Manuel King.

  To Taryn’s delight, several of the photographs from that period included her father. He was even more handsome and dashing as a young man. No wonder Rebecca fell for him so easily. Taryn snapped off several shots with her phone’s camera, hoping the glass in the frames didn’t leave too much of a glare.

  “Finding something of interest?” Bryce asked, hearing her shutter click in repetition.

  “My father.” She kept her voice low for privacy sake. Sheer wonder softened it another notch.

  She saw a few other familiar faces among the photos. Celebrities were always a welcomed addition to any photograph hoping for exposure. She recognized a rock star, a well-known athlete, one of her favorite authors, and a former senator, to name a few. Taryn even saw a few former clients of Carver, Harris, and Harrison.

  She remembered that one of their clients had been a successful female jockey in a male-oriented field, and that another had owned numerous racetracks around the world. She wasn’t surprised to see Thomas Baxter cozied up to the winner’s circle, given the man’s varied business dealings. She vaguely remembered horseracing as one of them.

  “No luck, then?” Bryce asked as she turned away from the wall in dejection.

  “No. Several of those photos are the same ones I found online. Only three or four faces repeatedly pop up in more than a handful of pictures. Not a single man stands there with a sign that says, ‘It’s me. I’m The Toad.’”

  He tried to frown at her dramatic proclamation, but a smile threatened. “No telltale warts or whiskers?”

  “None that I could see. I even looked for someone who looked a bit like Ahndray Lamont, but that didn’t work, either.”

  “Well, it was a good try, anyway.”

  She remained inconsolable. “The fact is, the Toad could be any one of those men in those pictures, or none of them. We’re no closer to finding him now than we were before.”

  “It was worth a shot,” Bryce insisted, defending their time there.

  “So now what?”

  When she would have taken the floppy hat off, he shook his head. “Keep it on until we’re in the truck. And now I take you by the bank where I do business, so you can get some cash.”

  “There was an ATM back there. Why didn’t I just use it?”

  He hesitated before answering. He unlocked the door and helped her inside, then came around to get behind the wheel. Only after starting the motor did he say, “That was a reputable racetrack, but not all of them are. All the same, you probably didn’t want your card being run through their systems.”

  “Oh,” was her only reply.

  “Aunt Lillian, I have a favor to ask.”

  Lillian was in the garden, collecting the day’s bounty of fresh vegetables, when Taryn returned that afternoon.

  “If it is within my power, I will grant it.”

  It struck Taryn that her aunt didn’t offer an unconditional commitment. Most people would reply with ‘sure’ or ‘anything,’ and then backpedal when the request was too steep. Did Lillian’s faith play into her reply? Was she so dedicated to keeping her word that she used caution, even when making a token promise? Or, Taryn wondered, was her evasive answer less noble? Did she suspect that what her niece asked of her might not be so simple to grant?

  “I’d like to visit King Farms.”

  Lillian straightened from picking peas and turned her solemn gaze upon her niece. She remained silent for so long that Taryn began to squirm, caught there beneath her steady appraisal.

  When she finally spoke, it was to ask a question, “Do you think that’s wise?”

  Taryn countered with one of her own, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Because some things are best left be, Taryn Clark. Some things are best forgotten.”

  Yesterday’s riddle flashed through her mind. Forgetting the past, is best for you.

  Her aunt’s reply stung. It felt like rejection.

  “Is that what you think? That Rebecca should be forgotten?”

  Lillian’s head snapped back, and she sucked in a quick breath, as surely as if Taryn had slapped her. “Of course not!” she cried. “How can you say such a thing!”

  “I want to see the farm where my mother grew up. The horses she loved so well. The place where she met my father. Is that so much to ask?”

  Instead of answering, Lillian reminded her, “The farm belongs to Josiah now. It is not my wish to grant.”

  Knowing this answer could hurt as much as the last one, Taryn asked, nonetheless. Her voice was quiet. “Does he know about me?”

  The shake of the other woman’s head was slight, but it was enough to pierce Taryn’s heart. Her aunt hadn’t bothered telling her brother about their shared niece. That a part of their sister lived on, despite losing her all those years ago.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  It was an empty sentiment and did little to ease the pain ripping its way through Taryn’s heart. She struggled with tears burning hot beneath her lids, threatening to spill their trail of fire down her cheeks.

  “There are things you don’t understand.” Lillian’s tone was pleading.

  Instead of answering, instead of demanding she make her understand, Taryn simply stared at her aunt with her clear, violet-colored eyes. Eyes that marked her as surely as any birthmark ever could.

  Those eyes made it impossible for Lillian to deny her heritage, nor her indelible link to this family, and to the past that still haunted them. With a sigh of defeat, she dropped her head, unable to hold her niece’s unwavering gaze.

  “I will speak to him this evening,” she promised. “If he agrees, I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

  Not trusting her voice, Taryn only nodded.

  She turned away, before her aunt could say more.

  Taryn went through the journals and letters again that evening, searching for clues she may have missed. She paid careful attention to each entry about the toad, but none of them offered a good description of the man. She only knew that he puffed out his chest, barked out orders, and expected others to do his bidding. He looked down upon them with his superior attitude and left warts of dissension wherever he went.

  No matter how many times she went through her mother’s writings, there simply wasn’t enough to identify the man.

  Her phone binged several times, alerting her to multiple messages. One was from Josie, telling her the appliances were gone. Another was the credit card company with confirmation o
f her instructions to freeze the account. A similar came in from her bank. One message was from Bryce, a brief update on research into horse racing and betting. One message was from an unknown number.

  When blood spills red, violet eyes cry blue,

  What’s good for the mother, is good for the daughter, too.

  A sob caught and hung in Taryn’s throat.

  Were these messages from The Toad, himself? Was this an admission that he had murdered her mother?

  Or were they a warning that she was next?

  Chapter 33

  Susannah delivered her breakfast basket early the next day, along with another lesson on speaking Amish. On this morning, Taryn was not an attentive student. Her mind was groggy with worry and fatigue. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and she was distracted.

  The young woman finally admitted defeat. “I think we’ll save this for another time.”

  “I’m sorry, Susannah. My mind must still be asleep.”

  She sighed as she collected the dirty dishes. “No matter. Mamm says be ready in two hours. She has somewhere to take you.”

  The news perked her right up. Taryn changed outfits and was ready long before Lillian called for her, just after ten. She hurried down and met her aunt at the foot of the exterior stairs.

  “Today, I drive,” Lillian informed her. She motioned to the buggy, hitched and ready to go.

  “I’ve never ridden in a horse and buggy before,” Taryn confided. She was more than a little excited. “I rode in a horse-drawn carriage once, around Independence Park.” Collin had taken her on the romantic interlude for their first anniversary.

  “A bit slower than your automobile, but much more energy efficient,” her aunt assured her. She spoke to the horse, steadying her as she directed Taryn into the passenger’s seat.

  Taryn was surprised to see the fine burled woodgrain of the dash, all polished and shining. The intricate carvings were more graceful and more detailed than any automobile. There were several buttons and knobs, a built-in cup holder, and a speedometer. The front windshield opened on either side, and the buggy even boasted windshield wipers. The same gray-patterned, plush cloth upholstered both of the bench-style seats, the ceiling, and even the interior sidewalls. If not for the horse in front, Taryn might have thought she sat in a Model T or some such early version of the automobile.

  Lillian crawled into the driver’s seat—conspicuously minus the steering wheel—and instructed the horse to ‘get up.’ With a smooth jolt, the buggy rolled into motion.

  “Why, Taryn Clark, you look like a child on her first pony ride!” her aunt teased.

  “I feel like one, too,” she admitted with a grin. “This is exciting.”

  “You’d think not, on a cold and windy day. Or in the scorching heat of the afternoon sun, come mid-August. Or when you forget to go to the restroom before you leave, and the horse is taking her own sweet time, hitting every bump and chug hole along the way.”

  They both laughed over Lillian’s words and made light chatter as the horse clipped along down the gravel lane. As they turned left and pulled onto the public road, the chatter lessened. Both were nervous over the visit to come.

  “My, those cars go by so fast!” Taryn cried in surprise, as a pickup truck came up from behind and whizzed past them. “And they’re so close! How do your nerves stand it?”

  Lillian only laughed. “Ach, you get used to it, same as you do in an automobile.”

  It took considerably longer by buggy than by car, but in no time at all, they turned onto the property adjacent to theirs. A dark wooden fence marked the perimeter of the property, and a fancily cut metal sign welcomed all to King Farms. Unlike the crops and cattle in the Zook fields, the pastures at King Farms waved with knee-high grasses, dotted with their signature Thoroughbreds.

  “This is gorgeous,” Taryn breathed. “Even prettier in person.”

  “The good Lord has blessed my King family and given them prime pasturelands to tend and fine horses to raise.”

  The women fell silent as the buggy traveled up the rocky road, so similar to the one next door.

  “How did he take the news?” Taryn asked quietly. Her nerves jumped like spattered rain on hot tin.

  “He was most surprised.”

  Taryn didn’t dare ask if her uncle had been pleased. It was enough, she supposed, that he had agreed to meet her.

  Or had he? As they pulled to a stop in front of a pair of large and modern barns, she noticed a distinct lack of activity. Unlike the bustling farm next door, where someone seemed to constantly be coming or going, Taryn saw no one stirring here.

  “Is no one home?” she asked after a moment.

  Lillian averted her eyes as she explained, “Much of the family is in town, doing the weekly shopping. Josiah should be here.”

  Some of Taryn’s happiness seeped through the cracks of her aching heart. She could read between the lines. Josiah wasn’t ready to welcome her into the family fold. Most likely, he had failed to mention her existence to the others, conveniently arranging for a vacated farm while she visited.

  A tall, rawboned man ambled out from one of the barns. His long beard was more gray than brown. Taryn wasn’t exactly sure, but she thought he must have been several years older than her mother, making him at least sixty by now. Hard work and experience lined his face.

  After greeting his sister, the man turned his piercing violet eyes upon Taryn. Just for a moment, she saw his eyes cloud over with memories, but a few deliberate blinks cleared the mist away.

  “You must be Taryn,” he said. His greeting was neither warm nor cold, leaving her to wonder how he truly felt about her presence there.

  “Yes, sir. And you must be Josiah.” She extended her hand in a firm, confident manner.

  At the contact, he seemed to soften. “So this is what our Rebecca would have looked like,” he murmured. “She would have made a lovely woman.”

  Taryn’s eyes flew to her aunt’s. “I look like her?” she choked out. “I knew I had her eyes, but you never said… I didn’t know…” She looked back at the man who still held her hand in both of his. “I had no idea,” she murmured softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “So you’d like to see the horses, ain’t so?” Josiah said, dropping her hand and taking a step backward.

  “Yes, if I could. And the barns. Surely this one wasn’t here when my mother was a girl?” She turned to the fully modernized structure behind them.

  “No. The older barns are behind these. Come, I’ll show you around. First, let’s see the horses.”

  It struck Taryn odd that her uncle never questioned how she had come to be there, or how she had discovered her birth mother in the first place. She assumed that Lillian had filled him in, or that it didn’t matter to him. She couldn’t imagine the latter, given that Rebecca’s fate remained a mystery to them, so she assumed her aunt had shared the story with him.

  Unsure whether he knew about the journals, she kept their existence to herself. She would have denied it, even to herself, but there was the tiniest part of her that wondered if her uncle may have been in on the doping scheme, and if she could trust him with knowledge of the pages. It was hard to imagine he had worked with the horses, day in and day out, and not known something was amiss. She didn’t think, not really, that he had been involved in her mother’s disappearance, but an inner voice cautioned her to hold her tongue.

  He showed her around the stables and the wood-fenced pastures closest to the homestead, introducing her to dozens of high-spirited but gentle horses. When he offered to let her ride one, she laughed and politely declined the invitation. Watching the magnificent animals from afar was one thing. Sitting upon their backs was quite another. Taryn didn’t know the first thing about riding a horse, and she had no desire to do so now, no matter how lovely they were.

  They were an hour into the informal tour when they heard the rumble of a large truck. Josiah looked up in surprise and saw the eighteen-wheeler stirring u
p a trail of dust as it navigated the long driveway. It pulled a shiny silver double-decker horse trailer.

  “They’re early,” he said with displeasure. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we will have to cut our visit short. Business calls, ain’t so?”

  “Absolutely,” Taryn was quick to say. “I understand completely. Will it be okay if Aunt Lillian shows me the older barns? I’d like to see the stables my mother walked through.”

  His hesitation was slight, but he soon agreed. “Jah, be careful where you step,” he cautioned.

  “Thank you. And thank you so much for having me here today and sharing this beautiful farm with me.” Taryn’s eyes had trouble focusing, suddenly blurred with emotion. “It means so much to me, seeing the same sights my mother saw, all those years ago.”

  Josiah made it to the edge of the driveway before he turned back to offer, “You may kumme anytime, young lady. Our door is always open.”

  He disappeared after that, following the big truck to the holding pens and loading chutes she saw in the distance. She soon discovered the farm wasn’t as vacant as she first assumed; a half dozen or more men poured out from the outbuildings and lower fields, to assist in loading the horses.

  Taryn was tempted to watch the process, but she was more interested in seeing the old barns. She turned to her aunt with hopeful, shining eyes.

  “Can you show me the barns, Aunt Lillian? The ones where my mother spent so much of her time, brushing the horses’ manes and giving the new foals their names? And later, where she fell in love with my father?”

  With an awkward jerk of her head, Lillian led her to the ancient old barns standing behind the newer ones.

  These were weathered and worn, their roofs not quite as solid, their white paint faded and dingy. Moss crawled up the side of one of the massive structures. A stack of hay peeked from the other.

  “I’ve not been here in years,” Lillian admitted. “Every time I came here, I saw Rebecca, laughing as she hugged the young colts and made pets of their stallion fathers. Soon, I quit coming. It hurt less that way.”