Colton Destiny

by Justine Davis

  Doggedly, she went on.

  “I’m here to explain that I will be contacting each of you, probably more than once, to ask you questions. Some of these questions may seem pointless to you. Some questions I may ask repeatedly. You may honestly believe you know nothing relevant, but I will be talking to you anyway. The slightest thing could matter, even if it seems unimportant to you.”

  In an ordinary group, questions would be peppering her by now. This group sat quietly, even the children, waiting. It was a nice change, and she tried to reward it by anticipating their questions.

  “It is our recommendation that you keep girls between the ages of fifteen and twenty under close watch. The presence of adult males might be a deterrent. Don’t let them walk to school alone or out to play unless in a large group.”

  “Our girl was not alone,” someone said. “She was in a large group.”

  “Yes,” Emma said, recognizing Miriam’s distraught mother.

  Although the woman didn’t know it, she’d voiced Emma’s biggest problem with the idea of a stranger abduction. How had he done it, three of them, out of a crowd? It seemed as if they had to have known him, trusted him. And that idea led to someone from within the community. Which she already knew would be met with stubborn disbelief.

  “But,” Emma answered, “she also didn’t know there was any threat. Your girls must know there could be danger, so they can be alert, aware. That is one of their best protections.”

  She heard the murmuring, knew that in a community built on mutual trust, learning to distrust would go deeply against the grain. But in her view, now they had no choice.

  “We have no suspects yet, nor a certain motive. We’re considering every possibility we can, and please, we will entertain all theories. At this point, everything is wide open.”

  It seemed odd, the lack of questions from the group. She’d like to think it stemmed from faith that she knew what she was doing, but she had a feeling it was as much from the

  fatalistic turn of mind so many seemed to have. What will be, will be, or something.

  The only thing she was sure would be was that she would be having a difficult time keeping her thoughts off that one tall, lean man in the back row.

  * * *

  It was all Emma could do to drive past the turnoff to the Troyer house. She’d spent the past two days talking to everyone in Paradise Ridge, many more than once.

  Everybody, that is, but Caleb Troyer.

  It wasn’t that she’d purposely avoided him, she told herself. She was a trained professional, and she could keep even unexpected and unruly emotions in check.

  What she couldn’t seem to do was figure out why this man inspired them in her.

  And she truly had been busy. And there were two other families hurting as Caleb was, missing their daughters, afraid for them out there in the English world they kept apart from. She supposed for them it was something like living in a peaceful village on the edge of a jungle full of predators. When one of their own vanished into that jungle of his own will it was one thing; when one of those predators came out of the jungle and attacked, it was something else entirely.

  She made herself keep going past the turnoff, and halfway to the village of Paradise Ridge, she discovered it was just as well. She spotted Caleb, with Ruthie and Katie walking beside him and a sleepy-looking Grace in his arms.

  No buggy? She’d seen one of the iconic Amish carriages carefully placed under cover by the side of the Troyer house.

  She slowed, wondering if she should offer them a ride. Amish did ride in cars, she knew; they just wouldn’t own them. It did seem rude just to drive on by. Didn’t it?

  She slowed even more and rolled down her passenger-side window. Ruthie, not surprisingly, spotted her first.

  “Daed!” she exclaimed, giving it the Pennsylvania Dutch pronunciation as she pointed at the car. Dad, Emma thought, not Katie’s more formal “Father.” And correspondingly,

  Ruthie’s cap was a bit askew, the loose ties hanging unevenly, while Katie’s was precisely centered and tidily anchored.

  She didn’t look at the man Ruthie was speaking to. She didn’t know if she was up to facing the man who had given her such a restless night first thing in the morning.

  Ruthie waved. “Guder mariye,” she said.

  “English,” Katie said, and for a moment Emma thought she was describing her, before she realized the older girl was reminding her sister to speak in English for Emma’s sake.

  “I’m sorry,” Ruthie said, flushing at this public correction.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Emma said, rather childishly pleased at Ruthie’s relieved smile, grateful the simple greeting was one of the few phrases she remembered. Emma spoke some German thanks to a college roommate, and from childhood knew a little of the Pennsylvania Dutch the Amish routinely spoke. Probably just enough to get her into trouble, she thought wryly.

  “You are off to school?” she asked.

  Katie answered her with a nod. “Except for Grace. She goes to Mrs. Stoltzfus, who watches her until Ruthie or I come get her.”

  Emma remembered Esther Stoltzfus, a formidable woman with a stern face and an assessing look. Emma also had gotten the distinct impression, in their brief contact yesterday, that the woman had her eye on Caleb for her unmarried daughter. Emma had wondered if that was behind her offer to care for little Grace while the two older girls were at school and Caleb working in his shop. Some might think her cynical, but she was of the belief that people were people at heart, and just because the Amish perhaps had better control of ungenerous thoughts didn’t mean they didn’t have them.

  Everybody thinks bad things now and then, Emma-girl, but that doesn’t mean you act on those thoughts. That’s what being a good person means.

  Emma’s breath caught for a moment as the memory assailed her. Her father, holding a distraught Emma, not much older than Ruthie, on his lap as he tried to explain that she wasn’t evil just because she wanted to call Jackie Wasserman names back when the nasty-tempered child had started making up stories about Emma’s biological parentage.

  “Are you all right?”

  Caleb, still holding Grace, who was a bit more awake now, was staring at Emma with interest.

  “Fine,” she responded, realized she sounded a bit abrupt and quickly added, “I just thought perhaps you would like a ride. I’m headed right past the school and your shop.”

  “May we?” Ruthie asked, sounding excited at the idea.

  “It is not far,” Caleb said rather stiffly.

  It was true, the school was just up the road and his shop less than a mile. “That’s true,” Emma said neutrally. “But it is a chilly morning.”

  “We walk by choice,” Caleb said, rubbing at his jaw. Still missing the beard, she guessed. “It is good to get the blood flowing on a cold day.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Emma said. She told herself not to feel stung. This man, as all Amish, lived by their own rules, and there was nothing personal in the rejection. “I was thinking of saddling up one of our horses and riding over this morning.”

  He lifted a brow at her, as if he’d heard something unexpected. “But you did not.”

  “No. I didn’t want to appear as if I were...” She stopped when she realized the word she’d been about to use was pandering. But he seemed to understand.

  “You would not. Everyone in the village knows the Coltons have lived nearby for a very long time. And that fine horses are an interest of your family.” For the briefest moment she thought she saw his mouth quirk. “They might be surprised you still ride.”

  “They’d be more surprised if for some reason I had to chase down someone on horseback,” she said.

  Emma heard Ruthie giggle. The quirk almost became a smile. But it died quickly, and as quickly Emma guessed at why.

  “I did not mean to make a joke about the situation or make you think I find anything amusing about any of this,” she said, putting every ounce of sincerity she
could muster into her voice. It wasn’t hard, because it was absolutely true. And Caleb seemed to sense this, for after a moment he nodded.

  “Father?” Katie’s voice was quiet, somewhat tremulous, as if she dreaded interrupting her father. “We will be late for school.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said quickly. “I didn’t mean to make you late. Will you accept a ride now that I have?”

  Caleb considered for a moment. Katie seemed very anxious, while Ruthie apparently had the wisdom to hold back the excitement that Emma had seen in her face. Riding in a car was clearly a novel and enticing experience for the lively girl.

  “Very well,” Caleb finally said.

  With a stifled whoop of glee, Ruthie was the first to scramble into the small rear seat of the truck. Katie followed, clearly relieved that they would not be late after all. Grace was more hesitant, but both her sisters quickly soothed her and secured the seat belt Emma pointed out around her before they fastened their own, fumbling only slightly with the unfamiliar mechanisms.

  And then the moment she should have realized would unsettle her—Caleb got into the front passenger seat. The cab of the ranch pickup seemed suddenly smaller. Too small.

  “Is this yours, this...truck?” Ruthie asked.

  “Ruthie,” Caleb said, “you speak when spoken to.”

  Emma opened her mouth to say it was fine, then stopped, not wanting to contravene his authority. So instead she said it to him.

  “I don’t mind if she asks questions. That’s all I did at her age.”

  Something changed in his eyes then; they went slightly unfocused, as if he were seeing an image in his mind. Her at Ruthie’s age? Or more likely, she thought ruefully, he was picturing a Ruthie at her age, afraid she might turn out like her.

  She’d heard it often yesterday. Annie, she’d been told repeatedly, had been the perfect woman: quiet, almost shy, humble and self-effacing about her considerable domestic skills.

  In other words, the exact opposite of Emma herself. Although sometimes given to introspection, quiet she was not, nor shy. Humble? Well, she had four brothers, three of them older than her, so she’d certainly been humbled in her life, but humble? She didn’t brag—it wasn’t the Colton way—but they excelled, and that got noticed.

  And of course, there was that little fact that she didn’t have many domestic skills to be self-effacing about. She was a decent cook, Charlotte had seen to that, and she loved to bake, but sewing was beyond her. And as for the gas-powered wringer-style washer she’d seen in most of the Amish homes, and the vision of hanging clothes to dry during weather in the teens, the thought made her shudder. No, she likely wouldn’t do well in this world.

  Caleb’s small nod cut off the train of thought that, surprisingly since it shouldn’t have, unsettled her. It took her a moment to realize he was giving her leave to answer Ruthie’s question.

  “The truck belongs to the ranch,” she said. “Anybody there can use it.”

  “You have beautiful horses there,” Ruthie said.

  Emma smiled. “We do. Horses were a hobby of my father’s and we’ve been very lucky the lines have continued strong. We have three mares due this spring, and we have high hopes.”

  “I’ve seen your horses,” Katie put in hesitantly. “Mother used to convince Father to go down the road along your ranch. She loved to look at them.”

  Caleb said nothing but something again changed. Could he not even bear the mention of his dead wife? From his own child?

  “And the foals in the spring?” Emma guessed.

  “Most of all,” Katie said, the hesitancy wiped out by the happier memory.

  “You should have come to the house, seen them up close.”

  “That would be too forward,” Katie said gravely. “Mother wouldn’t.”

  “We would have welcomed you.” She gave the girls a glance over her shoulder. Katie looked rapt, Ruthie as if she were holding her breath and her words. “And we would now, too. Besides, now we know each other.”

  Katie brightened. “Yes, we do. Don’t we, Father?”

  Caleb made that apparently universal male sound, a cross between a grunt and “hmm,” that served as a noncommittal answer to just about anything. It was so familiar to her from her own world that it made her feel absurdly warmed to hear it from him, as if their worlds weren’t quite so far apart as they seemed. Some things, it appeared, never changed.

  Emma chose her words carefully, keeping in mind the

  nature of these people. “It’s good for the foals, too. They need to interact with people when they’re young. So you’d actually be helping us out. In fact, perhaps this spring? If you’re interested and your father is willing?”

  The question was directed at Caleb, and Emma expected a repeat of the unhelpful grunt. Instead, Caleb glanced at his daughters. Emma caught a glimpse of them in the rearview mirror, two eager, innocent faces, and wondered how he could refuse them. Was he so stern he would deny them even this innocent pleasure in the outside world? She knew doing things purely for pleasure was not their way, which was why she’d brought in the idea that they would be helping with the foals, and it had the added benefit of being true.

  She knew the Amish world was built on that sense of community, of all pulling for the whole, of help when needed, and she hadn’t been above playing on that.

  “Perhaps,” Caleb finally said.

  The girls squealed with delight, albeit quietly. Emma wondered if Caleb was assuming, or at least hoping, that when the time came they would have forgotten or lost interest. And maybe they would. But for now, two girls were transported at the idea of playing with baby horses, and that made her smile.

  And the fact that such a simple thing had such an effect made her wonder if the simplicity of this life wasn’t infecting her.

  Chapter 10

  It was the hands, Emma thought as she stood on the Yoder front porch, that had thrown her back to her childhood. She remembered the time when her mother had paused to chat with an Amish woman selling home-baked pies from the bakery that was down the street from the mill that was now Caleb’s workshop. An impatient ten at the time, Emma had shifted restlessly, wanting to be on their way home so she could ride, while at the same time loving the luscious bakery smells.

  It had been when the woman had boxed up the beautiful apple pie that Emma had noticed her hands. They were reddened and work roughened, unlike anyone’s hands she’d ever seen. Her mother was no pampered flower; Charlotte Colton dug into work like any Colton. And her own hands were constantly doing, be it climbing trees, digging out horse stalls or washing the various animals that lived on the ranch, but they were still not in the shape of that woman’s hands. And even in her ten-year-old brain she realized what it meant.

  It meant this woman worked harder with her hands than probably all of them put together.

  “It is not an easy life,” her mother had explained on the way home when she’d asked. “But for them, their reward comes after this life.”

  At the time, Emma had thought her life rewarding enough, but now that she’d spent a few years dealing with the darker, grimmer side of adult life in her own world, she wasn’t sure the Amish weren’t onto something.

  “—news?”

  Emma snapped back to the present. She’d never been so prone to memories and introspection as she had been since she’d started this case. It had to be being back home that had the memories stirring.

  “Not yet, although Detective Colton is following a lead in Philadelphia,” she said to Mrs. Yoder, who looked as concerned as she might if her own daughter were missing.

  The woman nodded, her brow furrowed, as if merely the name of the huge city made her uneasy. But she invited Emma inside and offered her coffee, which at this early hour Emma accepted with genuine thanks.

  As the woman busied herself with the task, Emma glanced around the room. It was, like Caleb’s home, simply furnished, although she didn’t see any furniture pieces on the level of Caleb’s own cr
aftsmanship. The room was bigger than Caleb’s main room, but she supposed farm families ran to more children, because the more hands the better.

  At that moment she heard someone on the stairs, and moments later a girl stepped into the room. At first Emma thought she was one of those children she’d been thinking about, but three things changed that assessment quickly. She was older than she had first appeared, she was wearing jeans and her blond hair was uncovered and cut short. Even an Amish girl on rumspringa was unlikely to cut her hair like that, even if it would accomplish what it did for this woman. Her brown eyes seemed impossibly large and expressive.

  Belatedly, Emma realized there was something familiar about the woman. Even as the awareness dawned, Mrs. Yoder spoke.

  “This is our guest,” the woman said, but hesitated as if she wasn’t sure about providing a name.

  “You’re from the police?” the newcomer asked, approaching. She was several inches shorter than Emma, yet there was something about her that made her seem taller. Just as, despite the soft, almost vulnerable look of her mouth, something in those doe-brown eyes warned Emma there was much more to her than that.

  And not only did she look familiar, but she sounded familiar, yet Emma was certain she’d never met her.

  “FBI,” Emma said, reaching for her ID in a reflexive motion. The woman stayed her with a wave of her hand. “I heard you’d come. And you look the part,” she said.

  Not certain exactly how that was meant, Emma wasn’t sure what to say.

  With a sudden smile that lit up her face and the entire room, the blonde held out a hand. “I’m Violet,” she said.

  Emma barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping. “Violet Chastain,” she murmured.

  “Yes.”

  Emma’s mouth quirked. It wasn’t that she was easily impressed by celebrity—as a Colton she’d moved in those circles before—but this one...