“For knocking me in the ditch? For treating me like I was a leper when I offered to give you a ride home? For turning me in to the sheriff on trumped-up charges?”
Okay. Maybe this wasn’t going to be easy. It was obvious she had touched a raw nerve. “Yes. For all those things. I am . . . sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I am.”
Chris walked around her and started brushing the horse’s other side. He seemed to have forgotten she was here.
She turned to leave, when suddenly he said, “Any particular reason why you’ve got a grudge against me?”
She spun around. “No! I don’t have a grudge. I just . . . I heard the gunshot that day and remembered your pitch-black horse galloping away and then Fern’s coffee can had gone missing—and it all seemed to make sense. Like puzzle pieces that fit together. But I didn’t think it all through. I got so excited that I didn’t think it through. It’s one of my worst faults, Fern says. Acting without thinking.”
Chris looked at her, confused, squinting at her as if he couldn’t understand her. She knew she was babbling.
“Who’s Fern?”
“She’s my stepmother.”
He nodded. But then he turned his attention back to the horse. “So what’s this about the coffee can gone missing?”
“Oh that. Well, that, too, was a misunderstanding. Fern thought it was stolen—” she frowned—“come to think of it, she didn’t really think that. She just couldn’t remember where she had put it. Turns out she put it in the refrigerator while she was cleaning out cupboards. You see, she takes housecleaning very seriously. Always has. She takes it a little too seriously, I have often thought.” She stopped, realizing she was babbling again. “So it’s been found. The coffee can.”
She turned to leave again, but then he said, “Since when do Plain people turn on each other?”
She spun around. “Well, you see, that was another thing I hadn’t thought through.”
He nodded, as if he agreed, and stroked the horse’s long back with two soft brushes. One hand over the other, brushing, brushing, brushing, until that pitch-black horse shined like shoe polish.
She decided she’d had enough questions. It was time to ask Chris Yoder a few questions. “You have to admit it’s a little unusual to have a young man arrive in this little town out of the blue.”
“Something wrong with this town?”
“No, but it’s pretty small. Everybody knows everybody’s business. Except for your business. And you have a knack for staying out of sight. You haven’t shown up at church or any singings. Fern says you won’t have lunch with her or Dad. You don’t go to church.” She tilted her head. “You look Amish, you speak Penn Dutch, but you don’t have an accent. It’s like you learned it as a second language.”
Chris took his time responding. He didn’t look away. His gaze was as calm as morning, direct. He stopped brushing the horse and spoke carefully. “Is that what you think I’m doing here? Masquerading as an Amish man?”
Just like that, their fragile truce evaporated. She wasn’t born yesterday. He was answering a question with a question. He was just like Sheriff Hoffman—information only traveled down a one-way street. Same thing. Well, she had done what she came to do. Again, she whirled around to leave.
“I’ve got something of yours. You dropped it on the road the other day. The day when you treated me like I had a contagious disease.”
She spun around. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. She knew what it was the moment she saw it: the passport application. She glanced at him, wondering if he had looked at it. Of course he had. He was trying not to smile.
“Any particular reason why you might need to get out of the country quickly?”
She tucked the paper into her apron pocket, trying to look dignified. “One never knows what the future holds.”
His face eased a little. “Especially when a person accuses innocent people of murder and burglary. I can definitely see how such a habit might require one to flee the country.”
“I wouldn’t call it a habit.” She frowned.
“What would you call it?”
“A misunderstanding. And since we’ve cleared this little misunderstanding up—”
This time he did smile, but his smile did not warm the blue of his eyes. “Little misunderstanding? You accuse me of murdering a man? Of stealing from the home of the man who has given me work? You call that a little misunderstanding?”
Here, M.K. nearly faltered. She straightened her shoulders. “I felt it was my duty to protect the citizens of Stoney Ridge.” But she knew. She knew. She had made a terrible blunder. Her imagination had always been her biggest problem.
“From a trigger-happy sheep? And a coffee can hidden in the refrigerator?”
A familiar voice behind M.K. gave her a start. “She’s the one who turned you in to the sheriff? She’s the one who’s been meddling in our business?” M.K. turned slowly to face the voice.
Jenny Yoder was staring at her with her sharp, birdlike look.
“How do you two know each other?” Chris asked.
“Because she’s the substitute teacher I’ve been telling you about,” Jenny said in a flat, cold voice. She looked at M.K. with unconcealed suspicion.
Chris looked at M.K., then at Jenny, then back at M.K. “This is the teacher you described as dumb as a box of rocks?” Then he looked back at M.K., shocked.
She was even more shocked! She had been called many things in her nineteen years—impulsive, overzealous, far too curious. But when, in her entire life, had anyone ever thought of her as dumb? Dumb? She was outraged.
M.K. had enough. She marched to her scooter, picked it up, and zoomed down the drive.
The day had started out so nicely, but it was ending as a terrible day for M.K. One of the worst.
But she had discovered something tonight. Chris Yoder carried secrets. And M.K. wanted to find out what they were.
The ante was sky-high. Jimmy Fisher had found just the right horse to race—a two-year-old warm-blooded Thoroughbred, steel-gray, fresh off the racetrack in Kentucky. This deep-chested horse looked like it could run a gazelle to death. He had bought the filly for a song, though he had to weasel an advance from Domino Joe, the promoter of all races, to complete the transaction. This evening’s race would wipe clean his growing debt and give him a little nest egg.
Domino Joe’s day job was horse trading. He purchased two- or three-year-old Thoroughbreds straight from the track in Kentucky. The horses were retired for various reasons and, with some conditioning, became excellent buggy horses for the Amish. But before Domino Joe trained them for the buggy, he ran a little side business—pony racing on the racetrack.
The racetrack wasn’t really a track but a level plowed section of Domino Joe’s property, far from any paved roads that Sheriff Hoffman might be moseying past. It was common knowledge but nothing anyone talked about, and Jimmy had seen just about every male he knew, Amish or otherwise, at one time or another down at Domino Joe’s track. Just quietly observing.
That’s all Jimmy had done too. Just quietly watched. Until a few months ago, when Domino Joe asked Jimmy if he wanted to fill in for a scratched rider. Did he? Oh, yeah. Oh yeah! Jimmy had won that race, and the next one too. Soon, he was racing at least once a week. He won some, he lost some, but then the stakes kept going up and Jimmy couldn’t stop himself. He loved competition of any kind. He owed Domino Joe several hundred dollars. Maybe a thousand, if he stopped to think about it, which he preferred not to.
But that debt led him to this particular race on a late evening in September, where the stakes were high. If he won tonight, his debt would be wiped out. He was just ten minutes away from winning. He could just picture Domino Joe’s surprised face as he handed him the cash.
Jimmy’s heart was beating at what he felt was twice its normal rate, while the last few preparations for the race seemed to take forever. He thought Domino Joe needed
to kill time while the rest of the crowd filtered in to place their bets with a quiet word and a firm handshake. Finally, Domino Joe got things under way.
“Everybody back, give ’em room,” Domino Joe directed. “Line your horses up, men!”
Jimmy was racing against three other men on their mounts. As they all led their horses to the starting line, scratched in dirt, Jimmy felt the first taste of terrible doubt. It nearly did him in. These other horses looked as if they could step over him. This felt very different from the other races Domino Joe had arranged for him. Bigger. More serious. Jimmy slipped his feet into the stirrups and settled into the leather basin of the saddle. The reins were wrapped double around his hands.
“One,” Domino Joe chanted.
There was not a sound from the entire crowd.
“Two.”
Each horse’s tensed ears were sharpened to a point now. Jimmy’s were, too.
Boom!
The horses hurtled into action. Jimmy managed a perfectly nice, orderly start, but soon, there was a wall of horses in his way, veering rumps that forced Jimmy’s filly to fall back. Over the hoofbeats and horse snorts he could hear cheering and shouts of advice from the onlookers, but none of it truly registered. He was aware only that the riders of the other horses shouldered him out of the way, taking turns to rocket back and forth to keep Jimmy safely behind. He tried to collect his wits about him and focus on the turn ahead—that was where he hoped to gain his lead. By now they were thundering toward the last curve and Jimmy leaned as low as he could in the saddle, streamlining matters for the horse.
It worked. His horse seemed to sense that winning was imminent. Her ears pinned back as he stretched out and they edged ahead. They were nearing the lead! Her mane flew in the wind as Jimmy bent low over her neck. Hoof and tooth they flew, as one thought ran through Jimmy’s mind: being on the back of a running horse—preferably a winning horse—was the most wonderful place in the world to be. Just one last bend in the track and he had this race won. In the bag.
But the horse didn’t make the bend. Instead, she went straight and sailed over the fence. Jimmy lost his stirrups, then the reins, and tumbled off, landing in a farmer’s hay shock. Shouts and hoots and whoops of laughter filled the air as men and boys ran down to get a better look at Jimmy’s situation. Jimmy’s horse raced on, solo, through the alfafa field.
When M.K. reached Windmill Farm, she was surprised to see Orin Stoltzfus’s horse and buggy at the hitching post by the barn. Why would the head of the school board come visiting at such a late hour? Maybe he had news about Alice Smucker. Maybe her headache was gone and she was ready to come back to teach. That would mean that M.K. would be finished with teaching two days earlier than expected. Ah, bliss!
M.K. dropped the scooter and bolted up the porch stairs, two at a time, to the kitchen. She slowed before she opened the door—Fern continually pointed out that M.K. entered a room like a gust of wind. At the sight of Orin’s face, she broke into a happy smile. “Orin, do you have some good news?”
Orin exchanged a glance with Amos, then Fern. Amos started to study the ceiling with great interest. Fern lowered her eyes and fixed them on her coffee cup.
Something wasn’t right. M.K. felt a shiver begin at the top of her head and travel to her toes.
Orin scratched his neck. “Might as well tell you, M.K. Alice quit on us.”
M.K. gasped. “But . . . isn’t she getting better?”
“Actually, she said now that she’s not teaching, she’s feeling good. Real good. Sadie—your sister—has been trying to help heal her. Sadie told her that she thought it was the teaching that was giving her so many ailments.”
M.K. understood that! Teaching could make anyone sick. On the heels of that thought came a terrible premonition—like a dog might feel right before an earthquake. Her eyes went wide. “You can’t be thinking that I’m going to fill in for Alice for a full term. Friday is supposed to be my last day!”
Orin took a sip of coffee, as calmly as if M.K. were discussing tomorrow’s weather. He avoided her eyes. “To tell the truth, Mary Kate, it’s in the best interest of the pupils to have you remain. They’re used to you. You’re used to them.” He chanced a glance at her. “And Fern tells me you’re getting some mentoring from Erma Yutzy. Fern said that teaching has been a real good challenge for you.”
Fern! So meddlesome.
M.K.’s heart knocked in her chest so fiercely she could scarcely breathe. This was terrible news! She looked to her father for support, but he didn’t return her gaze.
She was doomed. She was only nineteen years old and already her life was over.
Later that night, as M.K. tried to sleep, a single, horrifying phrase kept rolling over and over in her mind: Dumb as a box of rocks. Dumb as a box of rocks. Dumb as a box of rocks.
There was no doubt in M.K.’s eyes. This was officially the worst day of her life.
9
Chris had just finished removing a broken windowpane in Jenny’s bedroom and replacing it, adding a thin line of caulking around it to seal it in place. She was convinced a bat liked to come calling in her room each night to terrorize her. Chris was doubtful that the bat was so single-minded in purpose, but at least the new windowpane would keep the bat—or Jenny’s imagination—at bay. He was changing the caulking cartridge when he saw a car pull into the driveway. A man got out of the car and stood in front of the house, looking up at it, before climbing up the steps.
Chris hurried downstairs and opened the door just as the man’s hand was poised to knock. “Yes?”
The man looked surprised to find someone at home. Especially an Amish someone. “Well, well, you beat me to the punch.” He thrust a business card at Chris. “I’m Rodney S. Graystone. Real estate salesman.” He lifted one finger. “Numero uno.”
Chris looked at the card.
Rodney flashed Chris a big plastic smile. “You probably recognize my face. I’m on every grocery cart at the Giant.”
Chris didn’t shop at the Giant supermarket. Too expensive. He and Jenny shopped at the nearby Bent N’ Dent where they could buy bulk foods or damaged goods that were marked down.
“I’ve been interested in listing this house for years but have never been able to locate the owner.” Rodney’s eager eyes roved behind Chris, trying to peer into the house. “You are the owner, I presume? I, uh, didn’t catch your name.”
Before Chris could reply, Rodney S. Graystone spotted Jenny in the kitchen and waved boisterously to her in an overly familiar way. Chris stole a glance at the man’s face and felt that his eyes were as flashy as the rest of him. His jacket was a brown plaid, and the elbows had been worn to a shine. Slippery, that’s what came to Chris’s mind.
Jenny disappeared from view, then peeked her head around the corner. “Adorable!” Rodney S. Graystone told Chris. “She’s adorable. Same age as my niece. Is she eight? Nine?”
“Thirteen!” Jenny snapped, poking her head around the doorjamb again.
“My next guess.” The man turned back to Chris. “Looks like you’ve been doing a lot of work.” He walked up and down the porch, peering in the windows. “I take it you’re fixing it up to flip it. Say, I could probably give you some pointers on remodeling—what to do and what’s a waste of time.”
Rodney S. Graystone was itching to get into the house and have a tour. Chris started to close the door.
“I’ve got a buyer who’s always been interested in this old d—, uh, diamond in the rough. I’m confident I could find you a buyer—” he snapped his fingers—“in the blink of an eye. Cash on the barrel.”
“Not interested in selling.” Chris closed the door in Rodney S. Graystone’s surprised face.
“Keep my card handy, in case you reconsider. I’ll stop by now and then, just to keep checking in. In case you change your mind,” came a muffled reply.
On the way to the schoolhouse in the morning, Mary Kate noticed a squirrel perched on the limb of a maple tree. It chattered at the sight
of a cardinal, darting around the squirrel with a bright splash of red. She watched for a while as the squirrel scolded the cardinal for coming too close to his tree. Then the bird flew off and the squirrel scampered away.
It wouldn’t be so bad to be a bird, would it? Summers wouldn’t be bad. Winters might get a little challenging. She liked the idea of being able to travel to far-flung places every spring and fall. No passport needed. Birds seemed so . . . carefree.
Unlike a nineteen-year-old Amish woman who had no say-so about her life. None whatsoever. Who was stuck teaching school for an entire term.
Fern! This is all your doing, M.K. thought for the hundred and thirteenth time.
Fern was always so certain that her opinion was the only one that mattered. Fern had always been so hard on M.K. And to make everything worse, last night her father had sided with Fern. Of all the times! All M.K’s life, her dad had stuck right beside her, had been her ally, had been easy to talk into agreeing with her. But when it counted most, Amos turned around and took Fern’s side—insisting that M.K. fill in Alice’s void.
And why did her sister Sadie have to butt her nose into it? Why did she have to point out that teaching was making Alice sick? Granted, Sadie was a healer and Alice was her husband’s sister, but didn’t blood sisters count more? She thought so.
M.K. wished her mother were still alive. Maggie Lapp had died when M.K. was only five and she only had wisps of memories of her. If M.K. squeezed her eyes tightly, she could conjure up a memory of her mother in the kitchen, with her black apron pinned around her waist. Under the apron, she was wearing a dark plum dress. She was humming. M.K. did remember that. Her mother was always humming.
Chocolate chip cookies. In this particular memory, that’s what her mother was pulling out of the oven. They were M.K.’s favorites. Her mother would scoot them off the baking sheet with a spatula, slipping them onto a clean dish towel so they would cool. But she would always split one down the middle and hand half to M.K. “I think this cookie was hoping we would eat it first,” her mother would whisper, as if they were keeping a secret from the other cookies.
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