Chapter 1

It had been miles since Joe Matthews had taken the time to truly notice his whereabouts. Images of the towns he had driven through during the past few months blurred together like a child’s sidewalk chalk sketch in the rain. If he didn’t start paying attention, he was afraid he would end up driving into the Atlantic Ocean with no memory of how he had gotten there.

He was fairly certain that he and his little boy, asleep in the booster seat beside him, were still in Ohio. He had a vague memory of driving through Columbus a couple of hours ago.

His back hurt from too much driving, his right shoulder ached from too many years of physical punishment, and his eyes were inflamed from the strain of watching mile after mile of road pass beneath his wheels.

Where was he?

A lone oak tree near the road beckoned, offering some shade from the unseasonably warm September sun. He pulled his blue Ford pickup beneath it, turned off the engine, and unearthed his dog-eared road atlas from behind the seat. As he studied the map, he rolled down the window to let in some fresh air.

Silence, in the form of a veritable ocean of ripe, golden cornfields, surrounded him. This was an alien land, a strange universe, the other side of the moon from his home in Los Angeles.

As the dappled shade of the giant oak played over his windshield, he glanced at his four-year-old son. The simple serenity of sleep on his child’s face clutched at his heart.

He, too, longed for rest—a short break from the reality that had been thrust upon him. Hoping for a catnap, he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

Bobby immediately stirred. “Are we home yet, Daddy?”

The question felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

“Not yet, son. Try to go back to sleep.” He adjusted his headrest. Those few seconds of shut-eye had felt so good.

“I gotta pee.”

“Can it wait?”

“Daaa–ddy…” The little boy jiggled up and down. “I gotta go. Bad!”

Bobby did not have good bladder control, and the last thing either of them needed right now was a drenched seat. Joe sprang into action.

“Hold on, buddy.”

The long, straight road was empty as far as the eye could see. He ran with his son behind the oak tree and pointed him in the general direction of the cornfield. He had just pulled up Bobby’s minuscule jeans when he heard a vehicle approach. A low bass thump, thump, thump from the driver’s music grew louder as a bottle green truck with jacked-up wheels hurtled down the road. A blast of wind from the truck hit Joe in the face as it passed.

The monster truck seemed out of place in this lovely rural setting. As it whizzed by, two teens in the front seat made obscene gestures before roaring on down the road.

“I don’t like that truck, Daddy.”

“Me either, buddy.”

In the wake of the giant vehicle, it seemed strange to hear the gentle clip-clop of horse hooves. A black buggy with an elderly bearded man in a simple black hat, white shirt, and cloth suspenders drew up beside him. Unless Joe was mistaken, this man was a member of the Amish faith. Up until now, he had only seen pictures.

“Whoa.” The man pulled back on the reins and the horse pranced at the sudden stop. “Are you having druvvel—trouble?”

“No.” Joe laid his hand atop Bobby’s head. “My son just needed to use the bathroom.”

The man, who appeared as if he had time-traveled straight from the 1800s, nodded as though he found Joe’s statement to be profound. “Little boys—they are bad about not waiting. I had eight.” He frowned at the horizon where the truck had disappeared. “None turned out like them dummkopps, thank Gott! They almost ran me over.” His gnarled hands, holding the reins, were still shaking, as though he’d had a bad fright.

“I’m sorry.” Joe surveyed the fragile buggy. The old man had good reason to tremble. The buggy would stand no chance against a truck of that size. Or any size. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“It is Luke Keim’s twins.” The man shook his head in dismay. “They should plow a field in the hot sun all day. That would cool them off plenty goot.”

“Boys that age aren’t known for having good sense.”

The old man made a clucking sound in the back of his throat. “Their daett—their father—should have better control of his shtamm—his family.”

He peered at Joe’s out-of-state license plates. “You are a tourist?”

“I’m just passing through. How far is it until the next town?”

“You do not know where you are?”

“Not exactly.”

The Amishman pointed straight ahead. “Sugarcreek—two miles that way.” He slapped the reins against the front of his buggy. “Giddyap!” The buggy abruptly veered back onto the road.

Joe scratched his head as he watched the horse trot down the road. His meager store of knowledge about the Amish came entirely from the movie The Witness. It felt surreal to be nearly blown off the road by a souped-up truck one moment and discussing potty breaks with an Amishman the next.

Wait a minute.

Joe mentally rewound and replayed their brief conversation. Had that man said eight sons? As he buckled Bobby back into his car seat, he tried to imagine raising that many children—and couldn’t. It was taking everything he had to care for one.

As many times as Bobby had asked if they were home yet, Joe had asked himself the same question. He didn’t know the answer, but he had to believe that there was a place of sanctuary for them somewhere. His son deserved a better life than this. Bobby needed home-cooked meals, his own bed, and friends to play with.

The question burning a hole in Joe’s heart was—where?

Rachel was fighting a losing battle.

Kim Whitfield, a new police academy graduate, was putting in volunteer hours manning the Sugarcreek Police office—and Kim liked to chat.

Unfortunately, her presence was driving Rachel straight up

the wall.

Normally, Sugarcreek’s five full-time and five auxiliary police officers were well able to deal with the everyday problems that arose in this rural township, but the week of the famous Swiss Festival was another thing altogether.

Years ago, the local cheesemakers had joined forces with local winemakers to create a fall festival that would attract new customers. Their plan had worked even better than expected. Thousands of tourists now descended on the picturesque town every fourth weekend after Labor Day, tasting and voting on the various cheeses and local wines. They danced the polka and participated in the parades and other events—and strained the small police force to the limit.

Unfortunately, in addition to the responsibilities of the Swiss Festival, Rachel also had a pile of reports to finish. In her universe, desk work ranked somewhere below locking up drunks and cleaning out the squad car. However, she definitely needed to get her desk cleared before the crunch of the Swiss Festival hit with full force on Friday morning.

As she worked her way through the stack, Kim wandered over to peer curiously at the report she had just finished.

“A DUI?” Kim asked.

“Yes.”

“But…it says here that the DUI was a horse and buggy.”

“Uh-huh.” She really didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation right now. There was way too much work to do.

“How could you even tell the driver was drunk if he was driving a horse and buggy?”

“The horse ran a red light.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Maybe the driver just wasn’t paying attention.”

Rachel turned around to look at Kim. It was obvious the girl wasn’t going to leave her alone until she got the whole story.

“You’re right. The driver wasn’t paying attention. He was passed out dead drunk on the seat. The good horse was taking him home. Unfortunately, the horse didn’t know enough to stop at a red light. Both the horse and the driver could have been killed.”

“You mean, the driver was Amish?” Kim was not from Sugarcreek. Her voice told of her disbelief. Like many outsiders, she seemed to be under the impression that all the Amish lived unwavering, righteous lives—as though old-fashioned dress and transportation somehow made them immune to human failings.

“The buggy driver was an Amish teenager enjoying his rumspringa a little too much.”

“Rumspringa?”

“It’s their ‘running-around’ time, those years when Amish young people want to taste the outside world before settling down and becoming faithful members of their church.”

Kim chomped a piece of gum as she thought this over. “I always thought they just grew up and turned into carbon copies of their parents.”

“Some do. A few go off the deep end, but some don’t go through rumspringa at all.” Rachel turned back to her work.

“Being a cop here is different from other places, isn’t it?”

“People are people no matter where they live,” Rachel said. “They all struggle with problems. We’re lucky in that Sugarcreek inhabitants are just a little nicer than most.”

“I like it here.”

“I’m glad, but I need to get these reports finished… .”

“I won’t bother you anymore.”

“Thanks.”

Unfortunately, Kim just had to talk. She immediately began a running commentary on the tourists walking past the police station’s street-level window.

“Whoever told that woman she looked good in shorts should be shot.” Kim blew a bubble and snapped it. “And those shoes. Hello! Four-inch heels were never meant for a woman her age.”

Rachel glanced out the window. The woman Kim was targeting couldn’t have been a day over thirty—her own age. Kim seemed competent enough, and she had gotten high marks from the academy, but the girl’s mouth was getting on her last nerve. Having her working here was turning out to be a whole lot more bother than being shorthanded.

“Um—I’m trying to concentrate here,” Rachel said pointedly.

“Oh.” Kim whipped around, her long auburn hair flipping over one shoulder. Her big brown eyes were round and innocent. “Sorry.”

Rachel felt a stab of remorse. The girl really did mean well. It had been unprofessional to snap at her. Kim had done nothing wrong.

“It’s just that I have all this work to do and…”

The phone rang and Kim answered, her eyes still glued to Rachel as though she were trying to puzzle out why Rachel was annoyed with her. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

“This lady says she’s your aunt Lydia. Do you want me to tell her you’re not here?”

“Why on earth would I want you to do that?”

“I don’t know.” Kim shrugged her perfectly toned twenty-two-year-old shoulders and made a face. “Because she sounds, like, you know, really old?”

Rachel tried to excuse the girl, but the comment bugged her. Kim was from an upper-end suburb outside of Cleveland and had no idea how hard it had been for Lydia to gather enough courage to walk out to the phone shanty, unlock it, and dial the number to the police station. The shanty, the phone, and the answering machine were Bertha’s province. Lydia used it only in emergencies. The last time she had done so had been the day Bertha had fallen down the stairs.

Something was wrong. Rachel just knew it. Her pulse raced as she reached for the phone. “Lydia? What’s happened?”

“Rachel?” The elderly woman’s voice quavered. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Lydia—it’s me.”

“I am making your favorite foods for our ohvet essa, our evening meal. Will you come?”

Her heart ached at the uncertain tone in her aunt’s voice. Lydia did sound old. “Of course I’ll come. Thank you so much.”

Lydia, unused to phone etiquette, hung up awkwardly and abruptly.

The invitation struck Rachel as sad. Normally she was a frequent guest at her aunts’ table. They seldom called to formally invite her, but she had been so involved in preparations for the Swiss Festival that she had not seen them for over a week. With no guests to care for and all their Amish relatives preoccupied with harvests and canning everything from apple butter to piccalilli from their orchards and autumn gardens…they were probably feeling a little abandoned right now.

“Is something wrong?” Kim asked, as Rachel stood staring out the window with the phone in her hand.

“No.” Rachel replaced the handset. “My aunt was calling to tell me that she’s cooking my favorite meal tonight.”

“So—what’s she making?”

“Mashed potatoes, roast, homemade egg noodles with cabbage, green beans, and sugar cookies flavored with orange rind. That has been my favorite meal since I was a kid.”

“Wow. You are so lucky. I was raised on TV dinners. Mom didn’t like to cook.”

At the look of envy on Kim’s face, Rachel felt a small, guilty jolt of satisfaction. The girl’s comment about not answering the phone because Lydia was old still rankled. How dare she judge the woman’s worth by her age?

Rachel shoved away her negative thoughts and hurried to finish her desk work so she’d be on time for supper. A couple of hours out at her aunts’ farm beckoned like an oasis in what she knew would be a crazy two days. Neither she nor any other town official would draw a free breath until Sunday when the Swiss Festival would be over.

The sign said Welcome to Sugarcreek, the Little Switzerland of Ohio.

Joe didn’t care if it was the real Switzerland as long as it had a decent mechanic. His truck had suddenly developed a loud and disturbing noise. He desperately scanned the various businesses, looking for a place that might be able to fix it.

Finally he noticed what appeared to be a small, working garage. At least he hoped it was a working garage. Oddly enough, it was housed in a building designed to resemble a Swiss chalet, and it shared space with a craft store. Tires and tools leaned against the outside of the building. Nearby sat an eye-catching, ancient jalopy, developing multiple layers of rust.

As he nosed up to the open bay, his truck shuddered to a stop. From the sounds coming from beneath the hood, he feared the stop might be permanent.

“Are we home yet, Daddy?” Bobby craned his neck to see out the window.

Joe sighed. The never-ending question. “Not yet.” He tousled his son’s blond curls. “Our truck’s not running right.”

“Did it break?”

“I don’t know, but it’s got a bad cough.”

He knew that Bobby understood coughs—the little guy had been fighting one ever since yesterday morning. Joe was starting to get worried. The over-the-counter cough syrup he had bought had given Bobby little relief.

He climbed out of the cab and lifted the hood, hoping that whatever was wrong with his vehicle would be easy to fix.

“Daddy! Catch me!”

He peered around the hood. Bobby had both arms stretched toward him and was leaning out of the open window—too far out.

“Watch out, son! You’ll fall.” He caught Bobby just as he toppled from the window. “Careful, buddy. Don’t do that again. I might not catch you in time.”

Bobby stuck his thumb in his mouth and mumbled around it. “Don’t ’eave me!”

Thumb-sucking was something Bobby had outgrown two years ago. Now it was back.

“I won’t leave you. Ever. I promise.”

Bobby dug his face into Joe’s chest. “ ’kay.”

With his son’s arm looped around his neck, they checked out the engine—as they did everything these days—together.

“Need some help?” A man dressed in blue coveralls walked toward them, wiping his hands on a rag.

“My truck’s acting up,” Joe said.

“I heard. Sounded like a blown head gasket.” The man stuck his head beneath the open hood. “Looks like it too.”

Joe’s heart sank.

The mechanic stepped back from the front of the truck and glanced at the Texas license tags. “You’re not from around here.” He made it sound like an accusation.

“Just traveling through.” There was no need to explain that although the truck was from Texas, he and Bobby were not.

“It’ll take a day or two to pull the engine head and resurface it. And another day to put it in, maybe two.” He stuffed the rag into his right back pocket. “I could order the part before I go home tonight. You want me to do the work?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

The man considered. “I’m a little backed up. It might be a couple days.”

“I suppose we have no choice.” Joe shoved a hand through his hair. “How much?”

“Depends. The parts and resurfacing aren’t too expensive, but there’s a lot of labor involved. Probably run you around five hundred. Maybe a little more.” He looked him over doubtfully.

Joe knew the mechanic was evaluating his ability to pay, and who could blame him? The scruffy beard Joe had affected and the worn clothes he had picked up at Goodwill had not been chosen to inspire financial confidence. If anything, the exact opposite.

“I’ll need a deposit if you want me to order it.”

“Sure.” Joe shifted Bobby and groped his back pocket for his wallet—but it wasn’t there.

Frantically he searched his other pockets. No luck.

“I’ll be right back.” He rushed to the truck and tore the cab apart. The only thing he found were a couple of stray twenty-dollar bills and some change he had tossed into the console earlier in the week. Desperately, he tried to remember the last time he had seen his wallet.

Then it came to him—the truck stop where he had filled up with gasoline this morning.

He had gone into the restroom, carrying Bobby in his arms. Two men had jostled him as they passed in the doorway. He had not felt the hand slip into his back pocket, but he would bet money—if he had any—that one of them had lifted his wallet. It had contained several hundred dollars in cash, a credit card, and the card accessing his bank accounts—his lifeline.

He felt the blood drain from his face.

“You okay?” the man called. “You don’t look so good.”

“I think someone stole my money.” He ran a hand over his face and realized that he’d broken out into a cold sweat. “Could I leave my truck parked here until I can figure out what to do?”

“I suppose. There’s a place in back I can store it for a couple

of days.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

They maneuvered Joe’s vehicle to an empty spot behind the station while Bobby watched with wide, frightened eyes from the cab. His little forehead was furrowed with worry, his gaze glued to his father’s face. Joe wondered when it would end, when his son’s fear of letting him out of his sight would cease.

After what Bobby had been through, maybe it never would.

Bobby coughed—a wrenching sound that made Joe wince.

“I thirsty, Daddy,” Bobby said.

Joe set the emergency brake and pulled Bobby out of the truck, rubbing a smear of dirt off his son’s cheek with his thumb. He dredged a juice box from a cooler in the back. It floated, alone, in a puddle of lukewarm water. The ice had melted hours ago.

He tore off the attached plastic straw and its cellophane, inserted it into the box, and handed the drink to his son, wondering when he could afford to buy more.

As Bobby slurped the juice, Joe nervously dug at an itch beneath his chin. He hated growing a beard—but it helped to hide his identity.

“Is there a really cheap place in town to stay?” he asked.

The mechanic choked out a laugh. “There isn’t even an expensive place to stay in town right now. Let alone a cheap one.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know?” The man stared at him in surprise. “I figured that’s why you were here. This is Swiss Festival weekend. Everything in town has been booked for weeks. The place is crawling with visitors.”

“I’ve got some camping equipment. Is there a state park or public land close by?”

“There’s a campground up ahead.” The man shrugged. “The Wally Byham Airstream Caravan Club is probably already set up there by now. They come every year.” He pointed down the road. “Turn left on Edelweiss and keep going. You’ll see it.”

“How far?”

“It’s a bit of a hike.” The mechanic hesitated. “I’d take you, but like I said, I’m kind of backed up here.”

“Thanks anyway.” Joe set his son on the ground and pulled a small tent and a duffel bag out of the truck. “Come on, partner; we’re going camping.”

“I wanna go home, Daddy.” Bobby’s voice was plaintive.

“I’m sorry, son. We don’t have a choice.”

The mechanic disappeared into the depths of his garage as Joe walked toward the outskirts of town with Bobby hanging onto his belt.

He considered the odds of getting enough money together to fix his truck in the next couple of days. Without his credit cards and ID, they weren’t good. By now, his money would be enhancing someone else’s lifestyle, and his empty wallet was probably residing at the bottom of some dumpster. Fortunately, the code to his bank card would be near impossible for a common thief to break.

What should he do?

He turned onto Edelweiss, and what appeared to be miles and miles of cornfields lay ahead.

“Carry me, Daddy,” Bobby demanded.

Joe was already lugging a tent and a duffel bag. Carrying forty solid pounds of little boy would be difficult.

“Daddy needs for you to walk, buddy.”

Bobby, at the end of his emotional rope, plopped himself down on the asphalt road and began to cry.

Fearful that a car might come, Joe scooped up Bobby. The child’s sobs stopped. The baggage, in addition to Bobby’s weight, tugged at Joe’s bad shoulder. Pain shot down his arm.

So many operations over the past two years—all from the best surgeons in the world. None, however, had been good enough to turn him back into the well-oiled throwing machine he had once been.

Instead of a car, once again he heard the clip-clop of horse hooves. Turning around, he saw the same old Amishman who had stopped to talk to him outside of town. Joe wondered what the old man must be thinking now—finding him and Bobby on foot.

“Wie geht’s.” The man pulled back on the reins. “Hello. Where is your vehicle?”

“It has a cough,” Bobby reported importantly.

“Ach.” The old man’s eyes danced with amusement. “That is a pity. Perhaps you should buy a goot horse and buggy!” He slapped his knee and chuckled at his own joke.

Joe shifted Bobby in his arms. “Right now, that sounds like a pretty good idea.”

“Put the boovli—the little boy—in here.” The old man shoved a box of apples toward the back. “I can take you a piece further.”

Gratefully, Joe eased Bobby onto the buggy seat and wedged himself in next, putting the tent on the floor and holding the duffel bag on his lap.

“Giddyap!” the old man said. The horse took off with a start, throwing Joe against the back of the seat. He automatically reached for a safety belt before realizing the vehicle didn’t have one.

He felt exposed and vulnerable riding inside the buggy. It swayed with every movement. Visions of that monster truck surfaced.

“I am Eli Troyer. And this”—he nodded toward the sleek brown horse—“is Rosie.”

The horse acknowledged the introduction by raising her tail and depositing a steaming pile of fresh manure on the road. She followed that by passing gas—loudly.

Bobby was wide-eyed as he stared at the horse’s rear end.

Eli seemed oblivious to Rosie’s faux pas. “My Rosie was a racehorse,” he said. “Can you not imagine her on the track as a young mare?”

“I’m sure she was something else,” Joe said.

He had visited a racetrack a few times with friends. Never had he dreamed that any of the powerful horseflesh there could end up pulling an Amish buggy.

A low-slung red car zoomed past, rocking them in its wake. Rosie shied and danced a few steps to the right, into the gravel.

“You must get tired of all the tourists,” Joe said.

“That was no tourist. That was a local.” Eli steered Rosie back onto the blacktop. “The tourists are usually polite and careful. They stay far behind us when they follow us up a hill. It is our locals who lose patience.” He clucked for Rosie to pick up her pace. “The worst are the ex-Amish who have chosen to ‘jump over’ into the Englisch world. Some act angry when they pass us. It is as though they are saying”—Eli raised a fist in the air and shook it to demonstrate—“ ‘Get out of my way, old man! I am so smart to leave the church!’ ”

Eli pointed at the car disappearing down the road. “I know him.” His voice was filled with sadness. “He used to be one of our people.”

Joe had no idea what to say. This wasn’t his battle.

Eli changed the subject. “What is your boy’s name?”

“This is Bobby, and I’m Joe Matthews.” Joe noticed that the buggy’s rocking motion was causing the tent to edge toward the open door. He secured it with his foot.

“It is goot to meet you. Do you have shtamm—family—here?”

“No,” Joe said. “No family here. The mechanic back in town said there’s a campground up ahead.”

“Sure is. But it is not so big, and it will be full.”

“How do you know?”

“It is Swiss Festival time.”

Everywhere Joe turned, it seemed he was hearing about the Swiss Festival. Obviously, he could not have come to this town at a worse time. Where would he and Bobby sleep tonight? Joe looked at the huge cornfield they were passing and wondered if the farmer who owned it would mind if a man and a small boy pitched a tent at its edge.

A deep cough racked Bobby’s small body.

“Your son is ill,” Eli pointed out.

“He’s had a cough for a couple of days.”

“And you have no vehicle and no place to stay?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Do you have geld—money?”

Joe felt embarrassed, but it was a fair question, under the circumstances. “Not much.”

“I know a place,” Eli said. “It is not far.”

“A place to camp?”

“No. A sick child should be under a roof at night. I will take you to my cousins. It will be all right. You will see. But first I need to make this delivery of apples.”

Eli seemed so confident about everything being okay that Joe allowed himself to be lulled by the gentle rocking of the buggy. Bobby, enraptured by the novelty of riding behind a horse, sat quietly, pressed tightly against his side.

After Eli dropped off the box of apples at a young Amish housewife’s home and accepted payment, he drove Rosie back past the garage where Joe’s broken truck sat. They made a couple of left turns and then crossed over a small creek before trotting past an IGA grocery store that had also been constructed to resemble a Swiss chalet. Buggies were tied up at hitching posts at the end of the parking lot. Across the street from the IGA was a large restaurant also constructed with a Swiss chalet appearance.

“Beachy’s has goot food.” Eli pointed to the restaurant. “My granddaughter, Mabel, works there. She is a hard worker, that girl.”

They turned onto Sugarcreek Road and the village fell away as rolling farm land once again took precedence. When they topped a hill, a large, two-story white farmhouse with a blue metal roof appeared.

“My cousins have closed their inn,” Eli said, “but I think they will make room for a father and his little boy.”

Joe noticed two tiny white cabins dotting the yard to the east. A much smaller replica of the larger house sat directly behind the farmhouse. A lone horse grazed in the pasture. Multicolored chickens pecked at the grass. It was a pretty scene, and his heart lifted at the sight.

As they turned into the driveway, he noticed a shedlike structure directly to his right. It reminded him of an old-fashioned outhouse, but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why it would be there. Were the Amish so accommodating that they constructed toilets by the roadside for travelers?

“You will be wondering what that little building is for, I betcha,” Eli said.

“I was.”

“It is a telephone booth.” Eli glanced at Joe’s face to gauge his reaction to this news. “We do not have telephones in our homes, but we have them nearby for emergencies.” He pulled back on the reins to slow Rosie as she trotted down the gravel driveway. “We are very modern around here.”

Joe shot the man a sideways glance to see if he was joking and caught a telltale twinkle in Eli’s eye.

From his perch beside the buggy’s door, he spied a weather-beaten sign lying on the ground near the fence. It read Sugar Haus Inn.

“Wait here,” Eli said. “I will see if it is all right for you to stay.”

A face flashed momentarily in the window of the residence as the buggy stopped. Eli secured the reins to a hitching post before disappearing into the house.

“I’m hungry,” Bobby announced.

Joe had a few snacks in his duffel bag, but he wanted to dole them out slowly, hoping to get his son through the evening if he could.

“Let’s wait. I want to see if we’re going to be staying here or not.”

Instead of hunger, worry gnawed at Joe’s belly. When he’d left Los Angeles, he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that he would end up stone-broke in a strange place without so much as a roof over his head.

“My cousins have an empty cabin for you,” Eli called, waving them in from the porch. “Come.”

Joe climbed from the buggy and dragged out his baggage, laying the tent and duffel on the ground before reaching for his son.

“I must go,” Eli said as he came near and untied Rosie. “It is past time for milking. My cousins will take goot care of you and your child.”

Eli made clicking sounds as he coaxed Rosie to back up. Then, with a wave, he drove down the driveway and out onto the road.

Joe and Bobby mounted the steps. A short dumpling of a woman, neatly dressed in a wine-colored dress with a white cap and black apron, stood waiting for them. She bore the unmistakable features of Down syndrome.

“I’m Anna!” she announced happily.

“I’m Joe Matthews.” He laid his palm on Bobby’s head. “This little guy hiding behind my legs is my son, Bobby.”

“Wie geht’s!” Anna squatted and peered around Joe’s knees at the little boy. “We have cookies!” she sang.

Joe shifted beneath the weight of the gear he was carrying. “Eli said you have a cabin?”

“Uh-huh.” She put her hands over her eyes, peeked through her fingers at Bobby, and said, “Boo!”

She giggled while Bobby dug his face into his dad’s leg.

Joe cleared his throat. “How much do you charge for your cabins, ma’am?”

She stood up, frowned, and chewed her lower lip as she concentrated. Then her face lit up as she remembered. “Forty-five dollars.”

“I don’t have quite that much. We don’t mind sleeping in

our tent.”

“You can stay anyway.” Anna’s almond-shaped eyes were as innocent and trusting as a child’s. “Bertha says.”

“We only need a piece of level ground and access to a water spigot,” Joe said. “I’m not looking for a handout.”

“Bertha says!” She frowned and stomped her foot but then brightened and stooped to the boy’s level. “We have kitties. Wanna see?”

Bobby slid out from behind his father’s legs and nodded.

“C’mon.” Anna slipped the little boy’s hand into her own.

Bemused, Joe marveled as Bobby grabbed Anna’s hand and trotted off beside her. She was the first person Bobby had trusted since…since…

After all these months, it was still difficult for him to place his lovely wife, Grace, and the word “death” together in the same thought. His mind shied away from it like a skittish colt. As he walked toward the cabins, he tried to focus his thoughts entirely upon having miraculously found safe shelter for his son. For now.