“I will tell you everything I can, if it will help you find my sister and her friends.”
Those gray eyes watched her steadily, and for a moment she lost track of what she’d intended to say. Which made no sense to her. She was no stranger to powerful men. She was a Colton after all, and it ran in the family. Not to mention the men she worked with. And then there was that little fact of the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue being her “Uncle Joe.”
Yet none of them had ever made her so addle-headed or disconcerted as this man did.
She cleared her throat and began to ask the questions. For now they were, as she’d said, routine. She and Tate had agreed, before he’d headed back to Philly to pursue that end of the investigation, that it was unlikely that the suspects would come out of the tight-knit Amish community. Not impossible—they were humans like anyone else—but they were held together by their faith and that sense of responsibility for each other that was often lacking outside their society.
As she went through the questions—confirming what she’d read in the file about the date and circumstances of Hannah’s disappearance, Hannah’s friends and the last to have seen her or them, and adding a few more—Emma’s mind was stubbornly gnawing away on other unsettling thoughts. And as she reached the end of the string of standard questions, she reached a rather unsettling, if not downright embarrassing, conclusion.
She had always thought of Amish men differently. It probably stemmed from growing up familiar with them, and the differences between them and the strong, powerful Colton men. She’d spent years watching women fall for brothers, cousins, all of them. She knew what sent them into raptures—although privately she’d been laughing, thinking if they’d grown up with those Colton men they might be singing a very different tune.
By comparison, the Amish men she’d seen so often as a child had seemed almost another species. Like priests or nuns or monks or anyone else focused on religion. Not less than human, just a different persuasion of human.
Whatever the cause, she’d never had reason to modify that childhood perception, that Amish men were so religious and staid and proper they had little interest in other things. Now that seemed silly. She knew perfectly well the Amish were given to large families, but as an innocent child she hadn’t realized the correlation between big families and those...other things. Somehow in her young mind, before she even fully realized what it meant, she’d stuck them with a label of “asexual” and had never revisited the issue.
Until now.
Until as an adult, breathing female, she had to admit what couldn’t be denied.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing asexual about Caleb Troyer.
Chapter 5
“Your name is the same as the president’s.”
There in the middle of the simply furnished room of Caleb Troyer’s equally simple but solidly build house, Emma crouched down to look young Ruthie Troyer, Caleb’s middle daughter, in the eye. The seven-year-old had a rebellious mane of blond hair that kept escaping what was supposed to be a tidy, plain bun. Her blue-green eyes were fastened on Emma boldly and without fear. Emma guessed from her demeanor, the way she stood and the way she seemed to have only two speeds, stop or full run, that she would be Caleb’s biggest handful. In fact, Emma sensed a kindred spirit in the girl and had a strong suspicion that had she been born into the outside world, she would be an irrepressible tomboy.
She felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. How would she herself have survived if not for the indulgence of her family, allowing her to run a bit wild on the ranch, keeping up with the boys and showing little to no interest in learning domestic skills? Eventually she’d learned to cook passably well, but only accepted the lessons because her brothers were forced to learn, as well; there would be no helpless men or women coming out of her house, Charlotte Colton had sternly announced at the start of the summer spent in the big ranch kitchen.
“Yes, my name is the same,” Emma said solemnly. “My father was the president’s cousin.”
The girl didn’t look surprised. Perhaps because in her smaller world, the same name often meant a familial connection. Instead, the bright-eyed and obviously smart child fastened on the critical word in what she’d said.
“Was?”
Funny how it could still sting after all these years, Emma thought.
“Yes,” she said quietly, sensing that this child, like the girl she herself had been, would see through any dissembling, and then quickly put her in the category of adults who thought you were too young or dumb to understand. “He was killed eleven years ago. Along with my mother.”
She wasn’t sure if that date that was so infamous in her world registered much in theirs, so she left it at that.
“Both?” Ruthie asked, her eyes widening as she flicked a glance at her own father.
“Yes.”
Ruthie absorbed that. And Emma thought she saw the realization dawning in her eyes that bad as losing her mother had been, it could have been worse.
“Eleven years? That’s older than me.”
“Yes.”
“What did they look like?”
She asked it so fiercely Emma was a little taken aback. And then the probable reason for the urgent question struck her, and she answered carefully and in detail.
“My father was like a force of nature. He was tall, about your father’s height. He was very strong and handsome. His voice was deep, strong, and when he hugged me and spoke I could feel it booming up out of his chest. He looked a lot younger than he was, with lots of sandy hair and green eyes.”
That had always been a comfort to her, that Donovan Colton’s eyes had been so like her own that no one would suspect he hadn’t been her biological father.
Ruthie was still looking at her, that touch of desperation in her eyes, so she went on.
“My mother was beautiful. Her hair was a bit lighter than yours, and her eyes were just as blue. She was always smiling. Serene, like a warm, sunny day. She could calm a room just by coming into it. They were always there for me, and I still remember and miss them every single day.”
Some of the intensity in the girl’s posture ebbed, and Emma saw a touch of relief in her eyes.
“Just as you will always remember your mother, even when you are old and gray,” she added softly, knowing she’d read the girl who reminded her of herself correctly.
“Ruthie.” Caleb’s own deep voice seemed tense as he interrupted. “Go gather your little sister from Mrs. Stoltzfus.”
The child hesitated, her gaze flicking to Emma as if she were reluctant. But only for a moment, then she quickly went to obey her father, so quickly Emma wondered if that undertone in his voice was more than simply sternness, if Caleb was so strict with his children that they dare not even protest an unwanted command.
For a command it had been, there was no doubt about that, she thought as she straightened up. She knew Amish men were the undisputed heads of their house, but she’d always thought their women were a quiet power behind closed doors. But perhaps they were not; perhaps they were completely submissive, dutiful. And she—
Emma interrupted her own thoughts as the idea struck that perhaps it was not his daughter Caleb Troyer was tense about. Perhaps it was her.
She swiftly reviewed what she’d said to the child and found nothing that could provoke such a response. She hadn’t even really asked the girl any pertinent questions other than if she’d spoken to her aunt the day she’d vanished, if Hannah had said anything unusual to her. She would want to talk to the girl in more detail later, but right now her focus had been on getting the child to trust her a little. And she thought she’d done that, by sharing her own painful memories, and—
“I never realized,” Caleb said.
She turned to look at him then. He was rubbing his jaw, and one glance at his face told her the person he was upset at was himself.
“Realized what?” she asked, a little startled at the relief she felt that he wasn’t angry at her.
“That she was afraid of forgetting what her mother looked like.”
“It’s only natural. And,” she added honestly, “perhaps more difficult in your culture, because there are few photographs.”
“We do not believe in images.”
“I know. I’m not criticizing, just saying it makes it harder at times like this. Then again, perhaps always seeing a picture on the wall as a reminder of your loss—or taking it down and finding it makes no difference, because you simply always notice it’s gone and remember why—is even harder.”
Caleb stared at her for a long, silent moment. “You are...not what I expected a person from the FBI to be.”
“Human, you mean?” She smiled when she said it, determined not to return to that confrontational demeanor.
“Caring,” he said. “I would think, with the work you do, you would avoid that.”
“They do their best to train it out of you,” she admitted. “They know it drains you, sends you on the way to burnout faster.”
She didn’t mention that this training hadn’t taken very well with her. She always struggled to maintain that detachment, her natural empathy becoming both a strength and a weakness. This was something she barely even admitted to herself, because then she’d have to admit they were right. After seven years she was already closer to burnout than some of her colleagues who had been around twice as long.
“And yet you care about the feelings of a child who has lost her mother.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with this case.”
“And you have felt this pain yourself.”
She was uncomfortable with his steady regard and with the personal turn this had taken. She had opened that door herself, however, with Ruthie, so she could hardly complain about it now.
“I have. I do.”
“Eleven years?”
“I’ll still feel it after fifty,” she said, almost defiantly, wondering if he was one of those who would tell her it was time to get over it.
“You will,” he agreed quietly, startling her. And then she silently chided herself. Ruthie had lost her mother, but this man had lost his wife. “That was not what I meant. Eleven years ago was 2001.”
“Yes.”
“And you lost them both, together.”
“Yes.”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then, his deep voice soft, he said rather than asked it, as if he already knew the answer. “September 11.”
“Yes.” She studied him for a moment. “I wasn’t sure how much impact that had in the Amish community.”
His mouth tightened slightly. “It had tremendous impact. It tested our beliefs like few things ever have. And our relationship with you English.”
She’d never really thought about it, not from their point of view. “You mean because you don’t believe in fighting back.”
“And we were often held in contempt for it. We love our country, but because our beliefs forbid flying its flag it was assumed we did not.”
“You don’t fly the flag because of your beliefs,” she said slowly, almost wonderingly, “but how do you decide to remain a pacifist in the face of people who kill us in the name of theirs?”
“It is not a decision, Agent Colton. It is who we are.”
They had proven that, time and again, so she didn’t see any use in arguing the point.
“Sometimes,” she said, her gaze unfocused as she remembered the horrors of that day, “I envy you the simplicity and peace of your lives.”
“Many do,” he said. “But few are truly willing to do what it takes to attain it.”
She refocused abruptly. He was looking at her with a mild sort of amusement. She supposed he had heard that often from visitors or tourists who enthused about their way of life until the realization came that they really would have to give up so much of what they took for granted.
“You are truly related to the English president?”
“He’s your president, too. But yes. I grew up calling him Uncle Joe.”
“He seems a good man.”
“He is. He’s already done some good things.”
“I know little of that,” Caleb said. “But unlike others, he’s done nothing of harm to us.”
Again Emma felt a pang; what must it be like to only have to judge a small portion of what craziness went on in the world, the small portion that directly affected you and yours? The idea of not having to thrash her way through all the complications and political gamesmanship that made her life an occasional morass was beyond tempting. It was like Shangri-la, something she longed for but wasn’t sure really existed.
“Ruthie’s mother,” she began, then stopped, unable to think how to phrase a question that had nothing to do with why she was here.
Caleb went very still. His mouth tightened, and his voice became rough. “I do not speak of her to my family. I certainly will not speak of her to a stranger. She has nothing to do with this.”
The words and his tone were harsh, but Emma had had enough training and practice in reading people to realize they both were outward evidence of a powerful inward emotion.
The man had loved his wife. Enough, apparently, to risk sanction from his church, she thought as she looked again at the nick that marred his strong, smooth-shaven jaw. She wondered how long the elders’ patience would last, how much slack they would give a grieving widower before they took action. Would they really do something like shun him for shaving that Amish symbol of manhood, the beard, when it was done out of grief?
I don’t deserve that symbol.
His words echoed in her head. The harsh tone echoed what she had just heard from him. It had sounded like more than simple grief. And with a sudden flash of insight she thought she knew why. She knew because it was a trait every Colton man had in spades.
You protected your own.
And if you failed at that, you weren’t a Colton. You weren’t even really a man.
She was familiar with the mind-set.
She admired the mind-set, for the most part.
She’d just never expected to find it here. She’d thought it bred out of these men, long ago, through submission to what they saw as the will of God.
In a way, it relieved her. It took her a while to realize why.
It meant Caleb Troyer wasn’t quite perfect after all.
Chapter 6
Sometimes, Caleb thought, he would like nothing more than to walk away. As he sat in his chair next to the gas lamp, a book open in his lap but so far unread, he imagined a life without the constant reminders, a life not lived in the house he and Annie had shared. A life where everyday things didn’t jab at him, seeming to taunt him with the loss of the sweet, shy woman who had loved him with all her heart. And whom he had loved since the moment he’d first seen her.
Something the Englishwoman had said went through his mind, about taking down pictures of a loved one who had passed.
...and finding it makes no difference, because you simply always notice it’s gone and remember why...
Would it truly be that way somewhere else, away from all the reminders? Was it not the reminders at all, but something missing inside himself? Had Annie truly taken his heart with her, was that why he felt so hollow?
He felt a flash of anger that he immediately quashed with the ease of long practice. He had no right to feel anger at what had clearly been God’s will. Annie had died in the most natural of acts, bringing a child into the world. If anyone deserved anger it was he himself. He should have called for Dr. Colton sooner, the moment things had started to go wrong. Even though he’d come immediately, arriving much more quickly than Caleb would have thought possible, by the time he did get there Annie was lying still and lifeless.
Dr. Colton. A fine man, a good man, and a good doctor. And he was the FBI woman’s brother. This woman who had obviously gained wisdom from her own tragedy. Because deep inside he knew she was right. Leaving his home would not cure the pain he felt. The hollowness was not in a p
lace or a building. It was in him.
He chided himself sharply; he had no time for self-pity or worse, dwelling on the words, however wise, of a woman not of his world. And yet he found himself staring at the rack on the wall by the door where Annie’s cape had always hung, empty now, and the simple truth in what she had said struck home.
“Father?”
Katie’s voice was hesitant, so much like her mother’s it felt like a punch to his stomach every time she spoke. But especially when he was lost in this kind of self-indulgent musing.
“Katie,” he acknowledged.
“I’m through with my schoolwork. May I read my book before bedtime?”
“Yes.”
The girl was deep into a series of novels about quilting that she had begun reading with her mother. She’d only recently begun to read them again. For over a year after Annie’s death, Katie had wanted nothing to do with them. She had stuffed them into the corner of the dresser Caleb had built for her before she was born, covering them with folded aprons and caps, as if putting them out of sight would make—
And as quickly as that he was back to the words of the FBI woman.
“Father,” Ruthie began.
“Schoolwork,” he answered, knowing her well enough that she wouldn’t be finished yet. Ruthie was bright, clever and quick, but was also easily distracted. A simple school essay could take hours because she would veer down a side path she found irresistibly fascinating.
Grace, thankfully, was sound asleep tucked in her small bed in the girls’ room. Next year, when she turned twelve, Katie would move to her own room. She could have had it much earlier, but after her mother’s death, she had clung to Ruthie and new baby Grace, and he hadn’t had the heart to part them. But the room they all shared was crowded, and it was silly to continue the practice when there were four empty bedrooms in the house. Hannah had told him it was past time Katie had her own room and she would soon need privacy.
A shiver went through him. Hannah loved her nieces and was always ready to lend a hand. In fact, she got more cooperation out of them than he sometimes could; her irrepressible spirit and her sense of humor usually had them laughingly complying with even the most onerous of tasks.
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