Fall from Pride Read online

  “Phone and more,” he said, digging it out of his front jeans pocket. “Email, weather, global positioning, everything. I’ll show you later. It’s really called a BlackBerry, but it’s so addictive that it gets the nickname crackberry—you know, from crack…cocaine.”

  She shook her head and shrugged as he answered the phone. It was a reminder to her that they came from two separate worlds. He had to talk loudly over the storm, so she knew it was his boss and something about Jacob’s license plate. Could her former fiancé be doing all this? Yes, she was almost starting to think—to fear—he could. Surely, Jacob had seen Nate’s name in the Home Valley News, and he might figure he was called Mack instead of Nate. Could that Keep Away on the sign mean for Nate to keep away from this area or to keep away from her?

  “That phone kind of runs your life,” she told him when he punched a button and put it away. “It makes a crack in daily living, is that it?”

  “Not exactly—kind of. Sarah, the Bureau of Motor Vehicles for the state says that there’s no Jacob Yoder who has a license plate registered in this county or any other in Ohio. He must be driving with stolen plates, maybe ones he got when he was running with that auto theft ring. I’ll take your advice and talk to Gabe when we get back to see if he knows the plate number.”

  To their amazement, the huge owl flew back in with a small snake in its beak, tilting to get through the door. They watched her glide into the side bay, then heard bloodcurdling screams.

  “That can’t be the snake! What in the—” Nate muttered, seizing her arm and spinning them around as if he would protect her from something.

  “That’s the nestlings, the baby owls,” she told him.

  He nodded. “Sarah, don’t ever feel you don’t understand my world—my tools of the trade,” he said, patting his pocket where he’d put his phone. “I’m a babe in the woods when it comes to things you know, so—”

  And then they heard the knocking.

  But from where? Nate thought. What was that? Sure as heck not the owls. Outside or inside the barn? It seemed to be coming from the other side of the back wall where there was no window except high in the loft. His imagination ran wild. Was someone leaning a ladder against the barn, then moving it along? The arsonist had started one fire high, using window access. On the other hand, it could be a trap to lure them outside. He’d mentioned setting a trap, but could their enemy be one step ahead of them on that, too? Then again, it could be that the wind had shifted and a branch was knocking there or, in this ramshackle old barn, something had come loose to bang in the wind. The place had a hundred chilly drafts and strange fits of air movement.

  He put his mouth close to Sarah’s bonnet and whispered, “Close the door the rest of the way, but don’t bar it in case we need to get out fast. I’m going up into the loft to look out that window, down toward where we saw the message.”

  “But what’s that sound?”

  “I hope it’s a tree limb in the wind, but I’m not betting on it. Go.”

  She did as he said while he quickly climbed the rickety ladder to the loft. It was dark up here; the rain pounded overhead, closer, louder. As he felt his way along under the big roof beams, his eyes adjusted to the dark. Wan light seeped through the patched roof that had sprouted numerous leaks. The old floorboards creaked under his weight and once he felt the entire floor of the loft shudder. Cobwebs laced themselves across his wet face and snagged in his eyelashes. Half expecting he’d be peering out through the paned window into the face of an arsonist on a ladder, he pressed his nose to the glass, dusty on this side but running with rivulets of water outside. He turned his cheek to it, trying to look down, around.

  Suddenly, the knocking stopped. The horrible shrieks had just been owlets, natural sounds, so maybe his tree limb idea was right. He’d scramble down, take a shovel or rake with him for a weapon and go outside to be sure. He wished he had the pistol he kept in VERA, but he’d locked it up there and had shown it to no one in peaceful Amish country.

  Man, you’re getting spooked by this place, he scolded himself. Creepy house, old barn, bad storm and then that bloodred message smeared on the barn that carried the implied threat Or Else! Did it mean to keep away from this arson case, the Amish or Sarah? And, if the latter, didn’t that point to Jacob Yoder again?

  He turned to go back downstairs and bumped into someone. It was Sarah, thank God. With the pounding rain, he hadn’t heard her come up here.

  “Did you see anyth—” she got out before there was a creak, a crack—and the floorboards under them gave way.

  Nate grunted and Sarah screamed. He grabbed a beam, grabbed her. Slammed together chins to shins, they dropped partway through the floor, then stuck, suspended at armpit level. Her right arm was splayed along the floor where the rotting boards had given way. Nothing was in reach for him but her.

  “Hold on!” he told her. “Hold on to me! Pull your arm in, ’cause we’re going down.”

  As they fell, her black bonnet and cap were ripped away. They dropped amid dust, dripping rain and loose, splintered boards to land in a pile of hay, a tangle of arms, legs, her wet skirts and hair gone wild.

  “You okay?” Nate gasped, lifting his head from their landing.

  “In one piece, at least,” she said, pulling her thigh-high, mussed skirts and slip down over her bared, white thighs and black stockings. She knew her voice sounded shaky, and it wasn’t from the fall or their worsening situation with an enemy. Oh, no, she knew the enemy she struggled with right now was her own verboten desire for this man.

  “Thank God for this pile of straw,” he said.

  “Hay. It’s really hay.”

  “Sarah—you’re beautiful. We could have been maimed or killed, but you’re still teaching me….”

  His voice faded and he looked at her intently. “And you are beautiful, you know,” he whispered. “In lots of ways.”

  Still watching every move she made, Nate lifted himself on one elbow; his other arm was trapped under her, but he didn’t move it. He looked at her, down, up, then deep into her eyes, that stare that always made her feel she was falling off a high ladder. She blinked to get some of the dust out of her watering eyes, which made a double image of Nate, his gaze devouring her.

  The hay felt both prickly and soft beneath her bottom, back and limbs. He was so close—it was almost like being in bed with him. Suddenly she was aware of her body in a new, thrilling way. She was beautiful, he had said…. She should jump up, find her bonnet, repin her hair, which was splayed out under her head and shoulders with strands in her mouth that Nate gently drew out in a soft caress across her cheek.

  Something was going to happen between them that should not, but she wanted to know and cherish each moment. She wet her lips, held her breath.

  “My boss, your father and Bishop Esh would never approve of any sort of roll in the hay between us,” Nate whispered, his face coming so close to hers that his breath almost burned her. “But I can’t help this.”

  And then he tilted his face slightly to the side, lowered his head slowly, as if to give her time to turn away, and kissed her.

  Smooching, her people called it. But this was entirely new, like nothing she’d had with Jacob. Spinning, swirling. Had the fall knocked her silly? She lifted her free hand to touch the side of Nate’s face, the crisp, damp hair at his temples, his earlobe, the strong back of his neck as the kiss went on. She opened her lips for him and only moaned when his hand, trapped beneath her hip, moved, caressed the curve of her there, then slid slowly up her waist and rib cage, over her breasts to pause before coming up to cup her chin. His head had jerked a bit. He’d sniffed in a sharp breath. She’d bet he’d never known Amish women didn’t wear bras—that is, not until now.

  Every part of her seemed to come alive at his touch. And still the kiss went on, moving, deepening. He might be hovering on top, but she met him halfway until their entire bodies were pressed together as hard as their mouths. He rolled them over, her up and around
until he was on top again. A roll in the hay, he had said. They breathed in unison, then she could hardly breathe at all, before he slowly—reluctantly, she could tell—came up for air.

  “I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” he whispered, his voice deep and raspy. “Ya, me neither.”

  “I want to look around outside. We’ve got to go back.”

  “Right. This barn could have burned down around us and we would not have noticed.”

  He grinned, then chuckled. “I love an honest woman.”

  “Don’t say that—love.”

  “You know what I mean. I just—what’s that sound now?”

  “A buggy.”

  “Going or coming? I’ve got to go look.”

  He brushed himself off as he got up, but she saw pieces of hay clung to his back. He hurried past Sally and the buggy to the door. She heard him slide it open a little.

  “It must be the Millers are home and going right to their house,” he reported as she struggled to pin up her hair. He came back and watched her do it. She wished she was taking it down for him, not just stuffing it up under her kapp and the bonnet he retrieved for her and dusted off. Oh, why did this have to happen, because she felt doubly endangered now, by the arsonist and by her own feelings for this ausländer who would all too soon, unless there were more fires, take his VERA and go home.

  After brushing all the hay off each other, they went to explain to the Millers some of what had happened in the barn. While Sarah waited in the house, in the lessening rain, Nate and Levi, and the Millers’ oldest boy, Noah, went out to examine the broken loft floor and the back of the barn. They found the threatening words washed off and a maple tree limb that looked like it could have hit the back wall. When they returned to the house, Nate said they had seen the diluted, crimson paint along the edge of the barn’s foundation. But Sarah had something to tell him, too.

  “Nate, Mrs. Miller says when they pulled up just before we joined them, they found a note from Sheriff Freeman pinned to their front door.”

  His eyebrows rose. “From the sheriff? Pinned how?”

  “Not with a basting pin—a thumb tack.”

  “Could I see the note?”

  Sarah watched him stare long and hard at it, just as she had. It was in bold print, but not necessarily a match for the note she’d found. It was on lined, yellow legal-pad paper, not white letter paper. Besides, Sheriff Freeman as a suspect? Too crazy. The note simply urged the Millers to be sure they stayed home after dark and kept a good eye on their barn.

  “Which we would do, anyway,” Levi assured them with a nod as he pointed at the written warning. “Got a good notion to sleep out there with my hunting rifle, broken ribs or not I got from fighting the Esh fire. But Noah’s nineteen now, so he could take a turn guarding the place, too. The barn’s broken down, but it’s all we got now with no money to rebuild.”

  Sarah had once known Noah well, for he’d been a close buddy of Jacob’s, but she hadn’t seen him for months. She supposed Noah missed the shunned Jacob, because he’d really looked up to him.

  “So,” Nate said to Sarah as they took their leave and headed away in the buggy in what was now only light mist, “I keep getting surprised about the Amish. Levi might shoot at a person rather than turning the other cheek. Jacob’s father said he’d struggled not to want to kill his son for what he’d done to his mother and…” he said, looking sideways at her with a little crimp on the side of his mouth.

  “And I kissed you as good as you did me. See, Nathan MacKenzie, you’re finding out the Home Valley Amish are not some kind of saints but human. That sign on the barn said you should stay away, but I’d be real sad if you did.”

  12

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, NATE HUNCHED over his computer screen in VERA, parked out by the pond. He was searching for other possible arsons started by artificial fireplace logs, but he was having a hard time keeping his mind on his work. Surprised to hear a car engine close by, he glanced out and saw the sheriff’s car. As Nate walked to meet him, Jack Freeman parked at the edge of the pond, got out, slammed the door and sloshed through the puddles toward VERA.

  Nate had turned down an invitation from Sarah to join her family for breakfast. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t face the Kauffmans after his passionate encounter with Sarah but that he’d already planned to eat at the Dutch Farm Table. He hoped to find Peter Clawson there so he could speak with him casually before they had their appointment. He had some things to bounce off that quick brain of his.

  “Sheriff, I could have come in if you’d phoned,” Nate said, extending his hand. “I know you’re busy.”

  “That I am,” he said as they shook hands. It was a firm shake, almost too hard. He still wore the plastic rain cover over his wide-brimmed hat, though it had stopped raining sometime overnight.

  “Anything new, Sheriff?” Nate asked.

  “How about you call me Jack, Nate? Naw, nothing really new. I just thought we should touch bases again, ’cause I can’t see much progress, especially with that second arson making us look bad. Thanks for the voice mail about that note left on the Kauffmans’ grossdaadi haus door and the one on Levi Miller’s barn. I’m keeping an eye out for Jacob Yoder’s car, license plate number or not. A red sports car really sticks out around here. I took a look in the woodlot where he and his buddies had hidden those hot cars, but no sign of him there. We got to catch us a break somehow.”

  “At least we know the Amish aren’t hiding him, not even his parents.”

  “You probably heard I covered for that boy, but I won’t again. If he’s the one behind this, I’ll kick myself for getting him off scot-free, however hard his own people came down on him.”

  “I understand. When dealing with the Amish, it seems right to handle some things—well, differently,” Nate said, wishing he hadn’t touched Sarah and yet glad he did. It felt so good to have her holding on to him, her arms around him when they fell, her strong but soft body pressed against his. No question, he was falling for Sarah.

  “By the way,” Jack was saying, “I also hit the Hostetler house with a warning, but they were planning to do a night watch, anyway. So—Jacob still your number one suspect? He’s mine right now.”

  “My interview with his parents indicated he has not only motive and opportunity, but the background for arson. I felt really bad for them. I’d suggest we don’t both question them, if you’re thinking of that. They’re really agonized over this.”

  “See—you’ve learned to care about the Amish, too, and you’ve only been here a few days. So what’s your next move?”

  “I had a short chat with Peter Clawson at the Dutch Farm Table, but I’m going to pick his brain—definitely a close observer of things around here.”

  “Peter’s not only an asset to the community but sometimes an ass, too. Nothing’s privileged information with him, so don’t trust him with any inside intel,” Jack said, pointing an index finger for emphasis. “Just a word to the wise on that. See you later and keep in touch.”

  “Will do, Jack. Thanks!” Nate called after him as he got back in his cruiser and slowly drove out.

  Keep in touch, Nate thought. He’d do that for sure because both Jack Freeman and, he hoped, Peter Clawson were great sources of information and support. He’d rather keep in touch with Sarah in more ways than one, but he knew he shouldn’t.

  As Nate looked off into the distance, he saw Gabe walking down the lane, carrying something in a sack. He realized he hadn’t mentioned to Jack that Gabe might know Jacob’s license plate number, or that he had a hunch the boy had kept something back from him about the night of the first fire. He could only hope that, like Jack had miscalculated when protecting Jacob, he himself hadn’t screwed up by not grilling Gabe harder—yet.

  After her usual Friday run to the restaurant to drop off half-moon pies, Sarah was on the road again. She was heading Sally back toward the Schrocks’ house with potato salad and pulled pork sandwiches for them and, of course, some
pies. She had given half a dozen little pies to Gabe to take to Nate so they could talk privately about Jacob’s license plate. And, she’d grabbed a few extras to drop off to Mike Getz and Cindee Kramer. Mamm said she didn’t mind since she’d made so many for the auction and the barbecue.

  The little gift for Cindee was the perfect excuse to get a glimpse of their back area to see if the Schrock barn could be easily spotted from there. Sarah would be able to tell if Mike was home, since their garage was so full of junk that they always parked in their small front yard. And if his truck was there, she wasn’t going near the place.

  Truth be told, God forgive her if she was wrong, she was hoping the arsonist was Mike Getz, just so it wasn’t Jacob or anyone Amish. She didn’t like the way Nate kept insisting the barn burner could be a woman. It just couldn’t be Hannah, and Sarah had to convince Nate of that.

  Surely Cindee’s comments about Mike being able to handle the electric grill starter one-handed and the fact he knew the Schrocks were away from home meant he could be the arsonist. If the Schrock barn could not be seen from the area where Mike claimed he saw it, she sure meant to tell Nate.

  Sarah kept Sally going at a good pace, because she planned to get back home soon. Some other buggies were on the road, taking folks to work. Both Mike and Cindee should be at work, so she felt quite safe. No one was going to scare her away from doing her tasks and helping Nate, too. The arsonist was a coward, one who only did his deeds in the dark.

  She saw Cindee’s old car and not Mike’s truck, so she pulled into their driveway. Cindee must be going into work later. Rainwater sat deep in the ditches along both sides of Fish Creek Road, but their raised blacktop driveway was dry.

  Taking out the sack of pastries, Sarah climbed down and hustled around back instead of going to the front door. Because of their garage, she couldn’t see the black skeleton of the burned barn, but maybe she could farther on. But no—the moment she stepped into their backyard, she could see that either Mike had lied to Cindee, or he’d spotted the fire from another position. Or maybe he’d gone over on foot to start the fire and then came back to call it in. He had called 9-1-1 quite early, and that saved the structure from the complete destruction that had ruined the Esh barn. He was a hero again. But shouldn’t Cindee have known he didn’t tell her the straight story?