Forbidden

by Leanna Ellis

  From the doorway, Roc saw the two men out by several white boxes that sat near the back of their property and housed beehives. Jonas was wearing some sort of baggy covering, long gloves, and a helmet. Samuel was there too, and they were doing something with the bees, probably collecting more honey, which they sold in jars at a local bakery. Even though Roc had enjoyed honey on his biscuits each morning, he kept his distance from the hives.

  A soft clearing of the throat alerted him to a visitor behind him. He turned toward a woman wearing shorts that showed off white, dimply skin and a tank top that revealed too much of everything—the rolls around her middle, her droopy breasts, and excess skin on her arms. With a last-ditch glance over his shoulder, wishing Jonas or Samuel were unoccupied, he strolled toward this woman, brushing sawdust off his sleeves and looking for all the world like a plain Amish man, and yet knowing he didn’t come close. He hoped he could just point this woman in the right direction.

  “Guten morgan,” she chirped then laughed. “Oh that’s morning not afternoon. Sorry. What is it you folks say in the afternoon?”

  He blinked at the tourist, not quite knowing how to answer. “Hello works fine.”

  Disappointment made her cheeks sag momentarily. “Well, hello, then.”

  He nodded politely.

  “I’m looking at these.” She spoke in a distinctly loud and annoying tone, as if she thought he was hard of hearing or having a difficult time translating. She waved toward a wooden birdhouse that was anything but plain. It had an intricate roof with wood-chip shingles. The three-story complex could be a homestead for several generations of martins. “How much are these?”

  To answer the woman’s question, Roc nodded toward the sign on the wall.

  Her jaw went slack. “That much? Good grief.”

  He simply waited, the way he’d seen Jonas do when customers came into the shop. Often they tried to bargain him down, but he knew what his woodwork was worth, and he didn’t budge.

  Finally, the woman shook her head, making her neck waggle like a turkey’s wattle and shifted her focus. She meandered around, peering at the other woodwork: dressers, lazy Susans, which she spun, and grandfather clocks. She examined pieces as if she were an expert, even testing a rocker and moving it back and forth.

  “So”—she clapped her palms against the rocker’s armrests—“will you knock down the price?”

  He shook his head, indicating no in any language or culture. Jonas had told him to stay clear of customers and neighbors, and not to talk, since he’d found it difficult to alter his New Orleans drawl to resemble the more clipped Pennsylvania Dutch accent. Since the Amish weren’t talkative to strangers, he hadn’t had too much difficulty so far.

  “Are you—?” The woman stopped and glanced beyond his shoulder. Her hopeful expression flipped into a frown.

  An Amish man stood in the doorway of the workshop. Roc had met a few neighbors who had come by to chat with Jonas, exchange a bit of news, or borrow a tool. By and large, Rachel and he had avoided church so far because last week was a “between Sunday” when the Fishers stayed home rather than traveling to one of their neighbors. Still, he hadn’t met this neighbor.

  “Well,” the woman sighed, “I guess there’s no arguing with you about it. You all stick together, don’t you?” She pushed up from the rocking chair and waddled past quilt stands and turkey callers, past the Amish man, who stepped out of the doorway to accommodate her, then stepped back into the workshop. Roc bent, readjusting the rocker and hoping the Amish fellow would decide Jonas wasn’t available and move on.

  “Jonas here?”

  Roc thought carefully about the best way to answer without revealing he wasn’t truly Amish. Finally, he simply nodded.

  The man said something in what Roc recognized as Pennsylvania Dutch. He had no idea what was said, but he took a steadying breath and tried to think of something else to say. Finally, he kept to the basics. “Ja.”

  The man frowned.

  Roc swallowed hard. Now what?

  “Can I help you?” a female voice asked from behind the Amish man. At first sight of Rachel, Roc breathed easier.

  “You Jonas’s daughter-in-law? All the way from Pennsylvania, eh?”

  She carried a tray with glasses of lemonade. “His son, Levi, is married to my sister. I’m Rachel.”

  “Aaron Weaver. And this here your husband?”

  Her gaze shifted toward Roc. A smile touched the corner of her mouth. Or maybe it was his imagination. Finally, she said, “Ja. Would you care for some lemonade?”

  Aaron shook his head and gave Roc a strange glance. “I was looking for Jonas.”

  “Honey.” Roc pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward the back door.

  Rachel’s blue eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed a rosy hue. Had she misunderstood him? Then she laughed, a delicate sound that acted like a potent drink to Roc. “Oh, yes, Jonas was planning on checking the hives today.”

  Aaron folded his arms over his chest. “I’ll wait, then.”

  “Of course. You are welcome to some lemonade. If you don’t mind, I came to borrow my husband for a moment.”

  Roc grinned out of relief and walked out of the workshop with Rachel. She led him away from both the house and workshop, and when they were far enough, she giggled like a schoolgirl. “Jonas won’t be happy you were chatting with neighbors.”

  “Or customers.” He nodded in answer to her silent question. “But it wasn’t my fault. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  Their gazes met briefly, and Roc felt the stirrings of awareness. He wondered if he should apologize again for last night, but then she slipped her arm through his and led him away from the house and toward the barn. She was still smiling, still walking, still acting like all was normal and comfortable between them.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To town. Will you go with me?”

  “How? On Samuel’s motorcycle? It’s fixed, but…”

  Her footsteps slowed, and she looked shocked at his proposal. “We couldn’t do that. We’ll go in the buggy.”

  This time, he slowed and pulled back. “Rachel, I don’t know—”

  She kept moving toward the barn with a determined stride.

  “—how to drive a buggy. Or even hitch it up. Can’t—”

  “I’ll help,” she said.

  He planted his feet in the path, clasping her hand and forcing her to face him. “How are you going to do that? You’re eight months—”

  “Please, Roc.” Her hand settled on his chest. At that very moment, he’d do most anything for this woman. Not a good place to be as her protector. “I need to go. If you won’t take me, then I’ll go alone.”

  “Well, that’s not happening.” He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a slight pinch in his wounded shoulder, which was healing, thanks to her ministrations.

  She met his gaze solidly, not backing down either.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “If the horse cooperates, we’ll get it figured out.”

  Her smile gave him a disjointed feeling. She brushed a kiss against his cheek and then hurried on to the barn. “The horse could probably do it by himself.”

  “Good.” Roc returned the smile. “Then I’ll ask him.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Akiva set the pace, and Brydon matched it as they wove through the swarming tourists. They circled the building that paid tribute to the greatest of the greats in rock ‘n’ roll history, Akiva’s gaze searching beyond teen groups and families on vacation, beyond the tourist buses. He searched out the individual, set apart, not belonging to a group or crowd or partnered with anyone.

  Then he spotted a young man leaning against a concrete-slab building, his shoulders slumped indolently as he puffed on a cigarette, and his trousers hovered a centimeter from th
e tipping point where they would fall to his ankles. Akiva said to Brydon, “‘Opposition is true friendship.’”

  “Yeah?” Brydon’s response sounded more like a grunt. “So what? Why’d you say that?”

  “I didn’t, actually. William Blake did.” Akiva skirted a group waiting at a street light and jogged across the busy intersection, Brydon at his heels. Gray clouds bumped against one another overhead, and thunder rumbled in the distance. “But I was contemplating your dilemma.”

  Brydon shifted his dark gaze toward him. “What’s that?”

  “You and this Girouard.”

  Brydon grunted again.

  “You were friends, right?”

  This time, Brydon remained silent and brooding.

  “Weren’t you?”

  “What of it?”

  “Well, he killed you.” Akiva hooked a corner. “Or tried to. That don’t bother you?”

  Again, silence pulsed between them, and Akiva gave him space. He coughed into his hands. “Guess you’re a better…well you know…than me.”

  Brydon’s brow folded downward. “How’s that?”

  Akiva circled around the building again, slowing his pace as they approached the young man whose thin T-shirt was covered with skulls. “Mamm always said I had a bit of a vengeful streak. And if someone, especially a friend, done me the way Girouard slit through your throat—”

  Brydon touched the neckline of his button-down shirt.

  Akiva hid a smile. “Girouard didn’t pause or have any regrets. Well, if it’d been me, I’d have already done away with him. But maybe you’re the ‘turn the other cheek’ type.”

  “Don’t know what I’ve done to give you that impression.”

  “Pardon me, then.” Akiva moved past the young man, who paid no attention to them. He wore earbuds in his ears, and his head bobbed to a hip-hop beat, which would keep him from ever hearing Akiva’s approach later on.

  “You think I should—?” Brydon stopped himself. “Roc was a good friend. At one time, anyway.” His brow furrowed with what Akiva figured were conflicting thoughts.

  “Girouard didn’t let friendship get in the way of what he believed he had to do.”

  “That’s what makes a good cop.” Brydon defended his friend.

  “He isn’t a cop anymore, is he?”

  With flat lips, Brydon kept his thoughts inward. “So you think I should go after him, then, just because you say?”

  “‘The revenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer: when he meeteth him, he shall slay him.’”

  “That your stance?”

  “Actually, it’s biblical.”

  Brydon laughed. “You quoting the Bible now?”

  “There is wisdom to be found in the good book, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t know.” Brydon shrugged. “Never had much need of it.”

  Akiva nodded. “Of course, that is why you are ignorant.”

  Brydon shot him a look. A flash of lightning pulsed out of the clouds. Akiva changed the subject. “You hungry now? Or would you rather wait till dark?”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The tack room held the bridles and reins, and Rachel pointed out what was needed to hitch the horse to the buggy. Roc carried the equipment, noticing in the corner two rifles. Twenty-twos. He remembered Samuel saying he hunted deer and quail during season. But these might be handy for something else.

  “Do you need help?” Rachel asked, backtracking to see what had delayed him.

  “What are you in such a hurry for?”

  “I’m not in a hurry.”

  But clearly she was. Roc followed her instructions and hitched the horse. He then helped Rachel into the open buggy.

  He eyed her belly and wondered if it was a good idea for her to jounce all the way to town. “You sure you’re okay to do this?”

  She smiled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He could think of a few reasons, but then he had a few reasons why he wasn’t up for the task either.

  She took the reins in what appeared to be very capable hands.

  “Whoa, now.” Roc put a hand on hers. “I’ll take those.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Have you ever done this?”

  “No, but—”

  “Well, I have.” She held tight to the leather straps.

  “You have?”

  She made a face like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Any Amish woman can do this simple task.”

  “Really? Any Amish woman, huh?”

  “Ja.”

  “Then I should be able to handle one old nag.” He winked at her.

  Rachel batted his hand away from the reins and clicked her tongue. The horse trotted forward. Yellow and pink flowers led the way to the gate.

  Roc frowned at the steep road ahead, which was shaded by birch trees. This hamlet was fairly secluded because of the hills, dales, ancient trees, and deep ravines. There might not be anyone to see now, but in a few minutes they’d be on a busier roadway, maybe even a highway, depending on how far Rachel wanted to go, and folks would stare at them as they passed. He wasn’t the type to let a woman or anyone else drive as long as he was conscious, but he had no choice now.

  “Won’t it look odd if folks see you driving and me just sitting here?” Like a doofus, he thought but didn’t say it. “Besides, this isn’t what I would call safe.”

  “Who’s looking? And besides”—she emphasized the word—“life is full of uncertainty and dangers.”

  “Like vampires,” he mumbled.

  Roc slumped in his seat. They were going fairly slow, and he began to relax. Until they came to the covered bridge.

  “You might want to slow down.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone might be coming on the other side. Only one car…or buggy can go through at a time.”

  “I’m watching.”

  His frown deepened. Roc’s nerves began to jump and jangle. He wasn’t a good backseat driver or even a passenger-seat driver, so to speak. A rumbling noise startled him, and he glanced behind them—a car was practically sitting on their bumper. “Whoa, now, you better pull over and let that car pass.”

  She shot him a disgruntled look. “There’s not enough space to pull over. We’re fine.”

  He clutched the side of the buggy with one hand. “This is not safe.”

  She reached over and patted his arm in a patronizing way that set his teeth on edge. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I can handle this.”

  The buggy crossed the rickety covered bridge, the sound rumbling and echoing around them as they traveled over the wooden boards. Roc held onto the buggy and braced himself in case the bridge gave way. But it managed to hold together.

  Rachel pulled to the side and allowed the zippy little Z-4 to pass. The car sped up, taking the hill and disappearing around the bend. “They’re in a hurry, no doubt.”

  Rachel kept her gaze on the road, her back straight, and her chin firm. The buggy’s wheels rolled along, and the horses’ hooves clopped on the asphalt. It would have been a soothing sound if they hadn’t been on a roadway surrounded by trees, and basically alone. A great place for Akiva to attack.

  His hands fisted, knuckles white until they turned one more time, pulled next to an unassuming building, and stopped at the hitching post. Rachel set the brake and smiled at him, which didn’t do his nerves any better.

  Three steps led up to the door, and he followed her inside. It looked like a store straight out of the 1800s. One side of the store held cards, stationery, pens and pencils, as well as slates and chalk. On the other side of the oversized room were shelves of books, magazines, and newspapers. A couple of Amish men stood next to the newspaper rack, with papers Roc had never heard of before but seemed to
carry farming and Amish news. He avoided those men, not wanting to strike up a conversation, but their gazes followed him. Rachel made her way to the stationery and picked out a box of plain off-white paper with envelopes.

  She walked back to him. “This will do nicely.”

  Roc stepped up to the check-out, which was an old table with an even older register. A young girl, maybe seventeen, nodded to Rachel and rang up their purchase.

  “Do you carry stamps?” Rachel asked.

  “Ja. How many? A sheet, book, or roll?”

  “Just a sheet, danke.”

  Then Roc was hanging on for his life as they turned back onto the roadway and made their way back to the Fishers’.

  Soon they were back on a quiet road with shading oaks and hickories surrounding them, and the fields burgeoned with crops of corn and wheat. How little he saw of the land and scenery when he drove his Mustang. A sudden longing pained him. He doubted he would ever see his Mustang again. Because how could he ever go back to New Orleans? Except to be arrested. He’d have no need of his Mustang if he sat in jail.

  He tapped the box of stationery on his thigh. “So what was the hurry for this?”

  Rachel glanced sideways at him then back at the road. She was a confident buggy driver, which should have eased his concerns more. “No hurry, I guess.”

  “Who are you going to write?”

  Her mouth stretched thin. “Hannah.”

  Her answer surprised him. “How come?”

  “She wrote me.” She released a soft breath. “She apologized for not telling me the truth about Josef.” She glanced at Roc, gauging his reaction, but he said nothing. “She believes I know what happened to my husband the night he died.”

  Still, he gave no response.

  Her hands tightened on the reins, the skin stretching over her knuckles. “Do you know what happened to Josef?”

  “Would it matter?”

  “I’d ask you to tell me.”

  “Would knowing the details make you feel better or worse?”

  “I don’t know. But at least I’d know.”