A Marriage for Meghan

by Mary Ellis

  Mary thought about that and then nodded her head. Around the circle, suggestions for Christian living abounded. Meghan straightened to check on the rest of the class and saw that everyone was hard at work. Catherine circulated among the desks, helping students spell unfamiliar words.

  A ripple of pleasure shot through Meghan’s veins. As the young scholars provided practical suggestions for dealing with money, a sense of accomplishment grew deep within. She was teaching and maintaining classroom control at the same time. When the last first grader thought of a way to share their harvest with those less fortunate, it became hard for Meghan to sit still. Joy swelled her heart to near bursting. This felt even better than winning the girls’ barrel racing competition many years ago.

  Because enthusiasm for the subject remained high, they went around the circle a second time, sharing additional ideas as long as they didn’t lapse into Deutsch. While the older students finished their essays, the younger were able to practice their English. Glancing up, Meghan noticed Owen Shockley still writing something on his paper.

  After ten more minutes, Meghan rose to her feet with the grace and bearing of a grossmammi. “We’ll begin reading our essays aloud tomorrow and finish the rest on Wednesday,” she announced to the class. “Those who are finished may quietly place their papers in the tray, get their lunches, and begin to eat. You may either eat indoors or outside, but make sure no rubbish blows around the playground.” She spoke in the firm, modulated voice she’d learned from Joanna, neither squeaking nor stuttering as she had done weeks before.

  About half the class stood immediately and complied with Meghan’s instructions. Owen continued writing for another sentence or two before he strode to the desk with his paper and then hurried out the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, the two sisters were eating ham-and-cheese sandwiches side by side in the weak rays of a February sun. Catherine leaned over to whisper in Meghan’s ear. “Well done, schwester. Well done.”

  And it took an enormous amount of effort for Meghan not to cry.

  Early March

  Catherine washed the breakfast dishes, left them to air dry in the strainer, wiped down the countertops and stove, and went for her bucket and mop for the kitchen floor. With breakfast finished, Meghan headed to the cellar to start the laundry, and then she would join her mother upstairs dusting and sweeping bedrooms and stripping beds. They would have to wash all bedding today, hang it on the line, and then remake the beds. Afterward, they would prepare the sliced roast beef and cold potato salad they would take to the church service tomorrow. And, of course, they couldn’t neglect lunch and dinner with three hungry men in the house.

  Mamm had mentioned using the last of the cabbage in the cellar to make stuffed cabbage, but rolling up dozens of pigs-in-a-blanket could take hours. Catherine sighed as though the arduous day was ending instead of just beginning. Now that she and Meghan worked as teachers, many chores were left for Saturdays. By the time the Sabbath arrived, the Yost women were grateful for a day of rest.

  As Catherine finished mopping half the floor, she heard the back door open, along with the distinctive clomp of boots. The stomp even sounded muddy. “Stop there, whoever you are! Don’t track up my clean floor with muddy boots,” she ordered, hoping the interloper wasn’t her daed.

  John stuck in his head. “I shucked them off, Cat. Can I come in now? I want to refill the thermos. We’re chilled to the bone and need a warm-up.”

  She smiled at her brother. “Come in, but I’ll have to make a fresh pot. If you like, I’ll bring it outside. Are you and James done with barn chores? Which field will you be in?” She took the coffee canister down from the shelf.

  John sauntered in and sat down. Fortunately for him, his gray wool socks were clean. “I’ll wait for it and warm up in here. James has gone next door to use the neighbor’s phone.”

  Catherine lit the burner under the coffeepot before turning to look at her younger brother. “Who does James need to call at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning?”

  “The sheriff,” he said calmly, stretching out his long legs.

  “Why? What’s happened?” Catherine felt her gut tighten with dread.

  “Don’t work yourself up, Cat.” He sounded cool and relaxed, definitely not traits he shared with James, Meghan, or herself. “By the time we finished milking, it was full daylight outside. We walked to see how wet the fields looked and that’s when we saw it.”

  “Saw what, John? Spit it out all ready.”

  “Our crop of winter wheat, ruined. It had come up thick and green after the last of the snow melted away. Now it’s gone.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Somebody in one of those trucks with big tires drove through our field last night, churning it into muck. I can’t believe they didn’t get the truck stuck in the mud, considering the thorough job they did.” He gazed at her from under his dark, thick eyelashes. “We need a watchdog to alert us when something’s up. With the windows closed and everyone under heavy quilts, apparently we could sleep through a bomb exploding in the backyard.” He rose to wait by the stove as though his proximity might hurry the coffee along.

  “Don’t say things like that,” she chided. “Can the wheat crop be salvaged or will you have to replant?”

  “Neither. There were only patchy sections still standing, not enough to let grow until harvesttime. But we don’t have a long enough growing season to plant spring wheat. That’s why we set Turkey Red last fall before the first frost.”

  “So daed told James to call the sheriff?” she asked, fearing his response.

  “Nein. Daed left at first light on district business. He headed east out of the driveway, so he doesn’t know about the wheat crop yet.”

  “Oh, no. He won’t like this one bit. I overheard our parents talking a while back. The other ministers are angry because daed involved the English police without consulting them first.”

  “I told James to wait, but you know our bruder. He was hoppin’ mad. He said that daed might not get home till just before dark.”

  “We usually live to regret things done in haste and anger.”

  John met her eye. “James takes farming seriously, Cat. We have bills to pay from that wheat crop. There will be no profits whatsoever unless he tills the field and plants something else. And whatever he puts in probably won’t bring in as much as that wheat would have.” He filled the thermos the moment the coffee finished brewing.

  Meghan entered the room just then, carrying a basket of freshly folded laundry. “It’s lunchtime already? Goodness, John, didn’t you just stuff your face with sausage and eggs?”

  He grinned at their youngest sibling. “I can still taste your fine cooking with every burp.” He ambled toward the back hall. “I’ll let Cat fill you in on the news while I take this coffee to the barn. I’ve got stalls to clean.”

  Meghan slipped into the vacated kitchen chair. “Tell me what?” Her pretty face was the epitome of youthful innocence.

  Catherine repeated the news, trying to calm Meghan’s fears and field questions she had no answers for. Then she finished mopping the floor while Meghan hung the next load of wet clothes. Both women agreed not to tell mamm anything until lunch. When the sheriff’s cruiser pulled up the Yost driveway forty minutes later, their mother was still upstairs cleaning. The sisters piled lunch sandwiches on a platter in the center of the table, pulled on tall boots, and then headed outdoors. Neither wished to miss the excitement that once again arrived at their doorstep.

  “I see them!” exclaimed Meghan, pointing toward the fence separating pasture from crop fields. “James, John, the sheriff, and some tall guy in a suit. Goodness, that’s a bad wardrobe choice when you’re visiting a farm in early spring.”

  “Wardrobe choice?” Catherine asked. “You watched too much TV when you worked at Mrs. Wright’s.” But it wasn’t Meghan’s English expressions that set Catherine’s teeth on edge. “Oh, no,” she said. “That’s the FBI agent who came to school asking questions after you
’d left for the day. I was hoping he had gone back to Cleveland.”

  “He must be the man who stopped at the Shultz farm to interrogate Jacob,” whispered Meghan, squinting her eyes. “Jacob told Glen, who told James, who told me a few weeks ago.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t interrogate him.” Catherine’s heart filled with remorse from her personal culpability in implicating Jacob. Tenderhearted Meghan had never questioned who might have directed the agent to the Shultz farm.

  When they reached the pasture fence, the four men were talking and pointing, while James gestured wildly with his hands. Because their attention was focused on what had been forty acres of new wheat, they didn’t notice Catherine and Meghan at first. For as far as the eye could see, deep tire tracks crisscrossed the land in a crazy pattern, leaving ruts that had filled with water. With deep furrows slashing through the rows, proper drainage would be impossible.

  “They broke through the fence half a mile down the road and didn’t leave until they had ruined the entire crop.” James gestured in the direction of the vandals’ apparent entry and egress.

  “You didn’t hear anything last night?” asked the sheriff.

  Both brothers shook their heads. “Not this far from the house in winter.” James sounded more dispirited than Catherine could ever remember.

  “I still see some wheat plants left on the high ground,” said Meghan. She climbed up on the bottom fence rail and pointed at a lonely patch of green. “Maybe some will still grow.”

  Everyone turned to stare at her. “No, Meggie,” said James, putting a steadying hand on her arm. “I’ll have to plow this under. There’s not enough left to work with. Maybe I’ll set soybeans when the field dries out.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Catherine,” greeted the sheriff. He removed his wide-brimmed beige hat. “And here is our new teacher-in-training, Miss Meghan.” He stretched out a hand to the youngest Yost.

  Meghan grinned and grasped his hand, using it to jump down from the fence. Even standing on the rail, she wasn’t as tall as the English lawman. “How do you do, Sheriff?”

  “I’m fine, miss, but I’ll feel better once we catch whoever’s doing the damage in your community. This is Thomas Mast of the FBI.” He turned to the man in the suit. “Agent Mast, this is Meghan Yost. I believe you’ve already met her sister Catherine.”

  “How are you?” asked the FBI man, extending his hand.

  Meghan’s outgoing, friendly demeanor vanished when her attention moved from the local English sheriff to the out-of-town newcomer. This is the man who interrogated Jacob. She shook his hand with exactly one pump and then pulled her hand back as though scalded by boiling water. “I’m fine, thank you.” She moved to a position behind James’ tall frame, something she hadn’t done in many years.

  “I noticed something when I walked the field,” said the sheriff, turning back to James and John. “I believe a different truck was here last night, one with dual back wheels. I can’t say for sure since they both had huge, knobby tires. From what my deputy could tell, the tracks left in the snow behind the pizza shop had a single set of back wheels, probably a Ford F-250 or Chevy Silverado.”

  James scratched his jawline. “So you think they’re not the same varmints who jumped us in Shreve?”

  “That would be my guess. I’m putting your neighborhood on nightly patrol and assigning a deputy to keep an eye on things in your district, providing we don’t get too many emergency calls. Sooner or later they’ll leave behind more evidence than tire tracks in the mud. I just hope for your sakes it’s sooner.” He gazed over the ravaged field once more before turning around.

  As the four men walked toward the two cars parked in the driveway, Catherine looked at her sister. “I suppose you and I should set the table for lunch. We have a long list of chores for the afternoon.”

  “Give me just another minute.” Meghan ran after the Englischers, apparently losing some of her earlier shyness. “Wait, Sheriff. May I have a word with you? I think I know something that might help.”

  Customary among Amish men, her brothers hung back a little because they hadn’t been invited into the conversation. However, the FBI man from Cleveland possessed no such reticence, and he moved to the sheriff’s side.

  “What is it, Meghan?” asked Strickland, using his hat to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.

  “Mr. Santos told me Englischers at the camping park have been saying bad things about Amish people. They’re supposed to be looking for work, but instead they sit around drinking beer…even before noon.” She crossed her arms over her apron.

  Catherine, James, John, and the two cops stared at Meghan. Agent Mast stepped forward and lowered his head as though speaking to a small child. “What kind of bad things, Miss Yost?” His voice was soft and nonthreatening.

  Meghan glanced up at him, flinching a little from his closeness. “I wasn’t there, was I? But Mr. Santos described it as ‘trash talk.’ One of his regular customers, who lives year-round at the park, said these people came up from the South looking for work.”

  “Thank you, miss, you’ve been very helpful.” The agent stepped back and murmured something to the sheriff. He nodded and jotted something down on a tablet. Her brothers followed the two Englischers to their cars, peppering them with questions.

  Catherine took hold of Meghan’s sleeve and began pulling her toward the house. “Is that what you were doing the night you brought home the pizza? You were questioning Mr. Santos? You shouldn’t interfere in this. Let the police do their job.”

  But Meghan didn’t seem to be listening to her admonishment. She continued to stare at the FBI agent’s back until he slid into his shiny sedan and drove away.

  Thomas left the Yost farm with his jaw clamped down hard on his back molars. He’d already exhausted every dead-end lead provided by local law enforcement that had resulted in zero arrests and not even a serious suspect. His conclusion? The school trashing had been irate student retaliation, while the rest had been random acts of vandalism, probably by youthful hotheads with too much time on their hands. But not hate crimes, and therefore not matters for the FBI.

  With no additional tips, he’d been ordered back to Cleveland and had already checked out of his hotel room on Main Street USA. He would miss the complimentary breakfast buffet, but he would be able to return to Friday night happy hours in the Warehouse District, Saturday afternoon touch football games, and Sundays on his couch, emulating a root vegetable.

  Now this—his first real lead since he’d personally questioned the restaurant owner. And whom did the pizza man tell when he’d heard some useful information? He certainly hadn’t called the number on the card Thomas left behind. Or even the local sheriff’s department, who were paid to investigate crimes within the county. Instead, the man had told a young Amish girl who didn’t even have a clue what ‘trash talk’ meant. She probably thought it was a discussion whether to visit the recycling igloos, the town dump, or perhaps fire up the backyard burn barrel.

  Thomas grinned as he recalled the sparks in her eyes when he’d stepped too close for comfort. An isolated, insulated Amish girl would have a different perspective of personal space than the sophisticated, assertive English women he knew. His social friends were so aggressive they would squeeze themselves in anywhere if they weren’t getting the desired amount of attention.

  Little Meghan Yost, five feet tall, with blond hair that refused to stay inside her bonnet, looked all of fifteen years old. No wonder the eighth grade boys were giving her a hard time. They probably considered themselves her peers, not her charges. And no wonder Paul Bunyan was determined to protect her. Even inside the Amish world, Meghan seemed like a lost lamb in a pasture of wild goats.

  It must be time to go home if I’m thinking in barnyard analogies. But considering the tip from the unlikely source, he couldn’t go anywhere but back to the Wooster Best Western, hoping his room-with-a-view was still available. The supposed Southern job hunters could be the thugs who beat up t
he Yost brothers and their friends out for a pizza. And the motivation could very well have been culturally oriented. With the new lead, he would call his director at the bureau and change his status update. Next, he would ask his landlord in Cleveland to water his two houseplants, both gifts from his mother. And then he’d swing by the Justice Center to discuss the case with the sheriff instead of filing the report he had ready in his laptop.

  But at least he wouldn’t have to make excuses to a girlfriend as to why he wasn’t coming home. His last relationship had ended right before he accepted the Wayne County assignment. The breakup had left a bad taste in his mouth, besides a crater-sized hole in his wallet. But better a nasty breakup than the constant emotional turmoil and financial drain that Victoria Hamilton had been for two years. High-maintenance didn’t begin to describe the woman’s insistence on being the center of attention every minute of every day. No handy controversy or mini drama? Victoria could create one on demand, systematically alienating every one of his female friends or any males who didn’t fall victim to her siren song.

  Tall and thin but curvy, with waist-length dark hair, big brown eyes you couldn’t find your way back out of, and creamy porcelain skin—Victoria was hard to ignore but also difficult to be with. Gym memberships, spa treatments, weekly sessions with yoga masters and fitness trainers, hair stylists, massage therapists—not to mention designer clothes and shoes—didn’t come cheaply. And because she considered him the beneficiary of those beauty enhancements, he had been expected to pick up most of the tab.

  Yet the drain on his bank account hadn’t been the deal breaker.

  What had pushed him over the edge had been Victoria’s decision that they should get married…spur-of-the-moment and nonnegotiable. He hadn’t asked her to become his wife, whether on bended knee or otherwise. It seemed as though one too many girlfriends had become engaged, and Victoria had suddenly felt left out or worse—passed over. Their Sunday drives to the country now included open houses featuring five-bedroom Colonials in excellent school districts. Any visit to the mall must include the expensive lingerie shop, where she added pieces to her trousseau—a word he’d never heard of until recently. The final showdown arrived when she announced her trip to New York with her mother to check out samples of designer wedding dresses. After college he’d worked for the federal government in crime investigation, yet she’d somehow confused him with a Wall Street investment banker.