* * *
GRACE HELPED RUTH make cookies in the early afternoon. It was past time for her nap when Granny Weaver drove her buggy into the yard.
Grace clutched Ruth’s dress. “Should I go to the safe place?”
“It’s only Granny Weaver. She’s a safe person. You met her at the bishop’s home and saw her at church.” Ruth still didn’t understand why Grace needed that reassurance when she met someone she didn’t know but she continued to use the phrase to make the child feel better.
Grace relaxed and went to the window. “It’s an old woman. I remember her. She gave me a cookie. Maybe she wants a cookie.”
“We will certainly ask her.” Ruth opened the door and Granny Weaver tottered in on her cane in a wave of black shawls that swirled about her form.
“I don’t think this cold snap will ever break.”
Ruth smiled. “I think it’s almost forty degrees outside today.”
“Not warm enough by half in my book. How are you, child?” She began peeling off her shawls. Ruth hung up three of them, but Granny Weaver insisted on wearing one in the house.
“I’m fine. My knee is completely healed.”
Granny grabbed her arm. “What’s under this bandage?”
“It’s nothing serious. I burned myself on a hot pan. Stupid really.”
“There must’ve been a man in the kitchen,” the older woman said with the waggle of an eyebrow. “That’s what you get for paying more attention to him than to your stove.”
Ruth knew better than to try to explain. Granny saw the world as she wished and often took steps to tell others what she saw. “Grace and I just finished making oatmeal raisin cookies. Would you like some?”
“Danki, don’t mind if I do. Have you kaffi?”
“There is a pot of fresh-made coffee on the back burner.”
“Goot. I’ll have milk.”
Ruth was confused. “Milk and coffee?”
“Just milk and cookies. Come out of hiding, child. I may look like an old crow, but looks often deceive one.”
Grace peeked around the doorway. “Come, come,” Granny said, crooking her finger at her. “Let me look at you.”
Grace stepped into the room. “I like milk and cookies.”
“Then you are my kind of people. The Amish drink way too much kaffi. Morning, noon and night. Bah! Gives me a sour stomach.”
“I never have a sour stomach.” Grace seemed intrigued by the older woman.
“I imagine you don’t drink kaffi.”
“Nee, Mamm and Ruth and Owen say I’m too young for it.”
“Never start drinking the stuff. Stick to water and milk. Bring me one of your cookies.”
Ruth stood back and watched as Grace carried the plate from the counter to the table. Granny Weaver patted her head. “Danki.”
Grace grinned. “I helped Ruth. She made them, and I put them on the pan.”
“They’re goot. Are they as goot as the ones your mudder makes?”
“Mamm’s are better.”
“Do I know your mother? When you live to be as old as I am, you know just about everyone. What’s her name?”
“Becky.” Grace slapped her fingers over her mouth. “I can’t say. She’ll be mad.”
Her mother’s name was the first thing the child had told them about her mother. It was a small step, but it was a start. Maybe Grace would tell them more as she grew less fearful.
“Nee, your mudder won’t be angry. Ruth, how are you getting along with Owen?”
“Well enough.”
“Still squabbling, I see.”
“Nee. Not at all. We’ve discovered some common ground.”
“Have you now? That’s intriguing.”
“I can’t imagine why you’d think so.” Ruth turned away and busied herself at the sink. “Owen was my husband’s cousin, and there are many traits that they share.”
“You speak of him much too often, Ruth.”
Ruth bowed her head. She knew what Granny Weaver was referring to. “Nathan was everything to me. I miss him as much now as the day he died.”
“Do you doubt that his death was part of Gott’s plan?”
“Of course not.” It was the right thing to say, but did she believe it?
“I miss my husband, too. But I know he waits for me in heaven. I do not need to remind myself and others of our life together. Doing so shows you question Gott’s will. To mourn is a human thing. But we must also rejoice that our loved ones are with the Lord.”
“I try. I do try. I pray often that I can find acceptance.”
“Prayer is always a good first step to overcoming any problem. Don’t hoard the love you have in your heart for your husband. There are better uses for love in this world. After all, there is no end to it. A mother knows this. A mother of fourteen loves each child as much as the mother who has only one. My grandmother had three husbands. I asked her once which one she had loved the best. Do you know what her answer was?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“She loved each one of them the best. I will never forget that. To her, each husband was the best husband until Gott took him home. Then the next became her best husband until Gott took him home. The last one she loved was my grandfather and I can remember how happy they were together. There is plenty of room in your heart for more love if you don’t hoard what you already have.”
Granny Weaver levered herself up off of the chair. “Grace, fetch my shawls for me.”
The child returned with an armload of woolen garments and handed them to her. Granny Weaver put them on one at a time until she resembled a padded woolly black sheep. “Danki for the cookies. When Ernest returns, tell him I’d like to see him. I haven’t enjoyed a good laugh in a long time.”
Granny Weaver waddled toward the door. Ruth rushed to open it for her. “Is there some reason that you came by today?”
“I wanted to see the child for myself. She reminded me of someone when I saw her at church, but I can’t quite put my finger on who. I thought seeing her again might jog my memory, but it hasn’t. At my age memory is a fickle gift. Sometimes I see the past as clear as day and yet I can’t recall what I needed at the grocery store ten minutes after I’ve left my house.”
“That’s not just age. It happens to me, too.”
Granny’s expression soured. “You aren’t as old as I am, but you’re no spring chicken.”
Ruth snapped her mouth shut until she caught the twinkle in the old woman’s eyes. “A mature hen is what I am.”
Granny laughed. “Ernest is rubbing off on all of us. Grace is a sweet child. I hope you find her family. The bishop tells me he has had several couples in mind that might be willing to take her in.”
“I’m afraid the Englisch law will have the final say in that.”
“I prefer to think that Gott has final say in everything. Sometimes when He speaks we are simply too busy to listen.”
After Granny Weaver left, Ruth asked Grace to sweep the front porch and steps. It was an easy task for a child her age and it left Ruth time to consider what losing Grace would mean to Owen when her family was located. For him, it had to be like losing his sister all over again. But instead of moving away from that hurt, he was embracing Grace with love and kindness while she was with him. He would be happy to hear Grace gave them her mother’s name. He made Ruth ashamed of her resistance to loving someone again. Was Granny right? Could she love another man as much as she had loved Nathan?
It was easy to think she could open her heart, but she feared it would be much harder to do it. She had years of practice at keeping men at arm’s length. Few of them wanted a bossy, determined, independent woman as a wife. She had cultivated those traits unconsciously but now she saw she had used them to protect herself from a new relationship. Owen had breached the outer walls of her heart’
s fortress, but she would have to open the last gate and ask him in. Was she ready to do that? She wasn’t sure.
The front door swung inward as Owen walked into the house with Grace in his arms. “Who was that in the buggy?”
“Granny Weaver,” Ruth said quickly, trying to gather her wits.
“What did she want?”
“She came to see Grace. Granny thought Grace reminded her of someone last Sunday, but she couldn’t place her. She came today to see if she could jog her memory.”
“And?” he asked hopefully.
“Nothing, but Grace let slip that her mother’s name is Becky. I think we should let the sheriff know.”
“I agree.”
Ruth heard someone shouting for Owen. He heard it at the same time. They stepped out on the porch to see who it was. Peter Troyer came running up to the house. The winded boy leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.
A few seconds later he looked up at Owen. “We found her.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
OWEN’S HEART BEGAN thudding in his chest. He knew exactly what the Troyer boy meant. He was also aware of the child he held. “Where?”
“On the rim of the stumbling blocks.” A swath of rugged county with deep canyons and rock-strewn hillsides at the south end of the lake and less than a mile from Ernest’s farm.
Owen handed Grace over to Ruth. “I think she’s ready for a nap.”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t want a nap. Who did he find?”
Ruth took her from his arms. He saw Ruth’s eyes were wide and filled with concern. “A lost sheep. Owen will tell us about it later.”
“That’s right,” he said and tried to smile. He didn’t want to alarm her.
When Ruth had taken Grace upstairs, Owen turned back to the boy in front of the steps.
“Is she alive?”
He shook his head sadly. “Nee. Andy and I were rabbit hunting with Wayne Zook. Andy spied a rabbit that darted into a clump of cedars about fifty yards from where the road turns and goes down to Harold Miller’s place. Wayne crawled in under the branches to try to scare the rabbit out for us. He came back white as a sheet and told us there was a dead woman in a car wedged in between the tree trunks. I didn’t go look. Andy went to get our daed, and I came straight here. Wayne stayed out there. He’s the bravest of us all.”
She had been so close and yet no one knew it. Poor Grace was never going to see her mother again. Owen knew exactly how it felt to hear such news and he dreaded trying to make the child understand. He thought he knew the spot the boy was talking about. “Go down to the phone shack and call the sheriff. Tell him exactly what you told me. Wait at the phone in case he doesn’t know where he should go.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go see if there’s anything I can do. Get going. The sooner the sheriff gets here, the sooner we will all have answers.”
The boy took off at a run. Owen turned toward the house. He considered telling Ruth what the Troyer boy said but he would wait until he was sure Grace couldn’t overhear. He retraced Peter’s steps back to the site as quickly as he could.
Wayne Zook was standing near a clump of cedar trees just as Peter Troyer had said. Wayne was pale and visibly shaken. “I went in just to look for a rabbit. I’ve never seen a dead person up close before.”
“Are you okay to wait until the sheriff comes?”
The boy took a step back. “The sheriff? Why? We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Don’t worry. You aren’t in any trouble. I’m sure he’ll have a few questions for you and then you can go home. It was good of you to wait here.”
“I didn’t think she should be alone, you know? What with her being Grace’s mamm and all.”
“Danki.” Owen gathered his courage and crouched low to get under the low thick tree branches. Inside he found a triangle of trees grown close together. The dense shade had kept the snow inside from melting completely. In the gloom he saw a green car with its hood wedged against the center tree. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was the car that had hit Ruth’s sleigh. The passenger-side door was open, but the driver’s-side door was still closed. It didn’t seem as if the woman had tried to leave the vehicle.
It was easy to see why the searchers had overlooked the spot. The evergreen branches laden with snow swept the ground around the outside and had several feet of snow drifted on top of them. Someone passing by wouldn’t realize there was room for a car in between the trees.
Through the frost-covered windows he could see a woman resting with her head against the seat back. She wore a white kapp. The driver appeared to be Amish, which didn’t make sense. Why would an Amish woman be driving a car? He couldn’t make out her features. The glass was coated with ice. He rubbed his gloved hand against the glass to clear a spot.
If not for the glaze of ice on her eyelashes and skin, he might’ve thought she was asleep. Her skin was as pale as porcelain. She had blond hair beneath her kapp. She wasn’t wearing a coat. He started to open the door when he recognized the woman. His legs gave out and he dropped to his knees on the snowy ground. A roar filled his ears.
“Oh, dear Gott. Not little Rebecca. Nee, nee. Not like this.” He buried his face in his hands and wept.
That was how Sheriff McIntyre found him twenty minutes later, mourning the little sister who had been snatched away from him years ago and for the young woman who had been afraid of him when he’d finally found her. He would never close his eyes without seeing her like this. Waiting to be found.
“Owen?” He felt the sheriff’s hand on his shoulder and realized McIntyre had been calling his name.
He looked up at the man leaning over him. “It’s my sister. Her name is Rebecca Mast. No, she went by Stoltzfus, our aunt’s name, and I have no idea why she’s here.”
“You didn’t recognize your niece when you met Grace?”
Owen shook his head. “I didn’t know Rebecca had a daughter. Grace has dark curly hair while Rebecca is blonde. I should’ve seen the resemblance. I should have.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. I need you to step away from the car.”
“I have to take care of her.”
Sheriff took his elbow and helped Owen to his feet. He staggered as his vision reeled before settling down again.
“Our coroner will take care of her. You should go back to Ruth and let her know what you discovered.”
“I can’t go. I can’t leave my sister. I couldn’t do anything for her while she was alive, but I will see her properly taken care of in death.”
The sheriff moved to stand in front of Owen, blocking his view. “I know you want to help, and I promise you can stay with her after we get her out of the car, but I need you to step outside with that boy and make sure he is okay.”
Owen nodded. He heard the car door open and the sheriff’s sudden intake of breath. Owen turned back. “What?”
The sheriff sank on his heels beside the open door and pulled his hands away. “I’m going to have to take back that promise, Owen. You can’t stay with her. This is now a crime scene.”
“What crime? A car accident isn’t a crime.”
The sheriff rose and laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Your sister was shot.”
Owen stared hard at him. “Why do you say this?”
“I’m going to have to ask you to move away from the car and not touch anything. Did you touch the car?”
“I used my hand to clear away the frost to see inside. Who would shoot her? Why?”
“That’s what I intend to find out. Now, please, do as I asked and go out the way you came in. Then I want you to go home, but don’t leave the area. There’s nothing you can do here.”
Owen opened his mouth to argue but realized there wasn’t anything he could say that would ma
ke a difference. His sister was gone. He would never know the meaning behind the words in her letter to him. I need your help. Don’t tell anyone. What kind of trouble had she been in?
Grace was without a mother, but at least they knew who she belonged to. Owen now had the right to care for her. She was his niece. There wouldn’t be any more talk of adoption or placement in foster care. He would see to her needs for the rest of her life if need be.
After crawling out from under the low-hanging cedar branches, he rose to his feet and walked over to Wayne. “You said you were hunting rabbits. Is there any chance one of you fired a shot in the direction of the trees?”
“Nee, none of us got a shot off.”
“Okay. You can go on home.”
The boy looked uneasy. “What about the sheriff?”
“He knows where to find you.”
“Be sure and tell Grace that I’m sorry about her mamm.”
“I will do that.” As soon as he figured out how he was going to tell Grace she would never see her mother this side of heaven.
He walked back to the road and saw Thomas Troyer coming his way on his tractor. Peter and Andy were with him. He stopped beside Owen. “Is it true?”
“Your boys found a car. The woman inside was dead. It’s my sister Rebecca. I spoke to her a few months ago. I have no idea why she is here...”
“Wow. I’m sorry for your loss, Owen. We cannot understand Gott’s plan, but your sister is at peace.”
“Danki.” He climbed on the tractor and stood behind the driver while the boys each sat on one of the broad fenders. When they stopped in front of Ruth’s house, Owen got down.
“I appreciate the ride.”
“What can I do for you? My boys will take care of the chores at Ernest’s place. They have done it before, so they know what to do. I will let some of our friends know and I will tell the bishop that you will be over to see him about the funeral when you can. Do you need help with the sheep here?”
Owen couldn’t remember what needed to be done. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
“Ja, I will do that. Seek the comfort of your friends, your family and Gott. They will see you through difficult times.”
The Hope Page 20