Eight

Fatherless. There was that word again.

Izzy had opened the King James Bible Luke had given her and thumbed through the pages, then finally pressed her finger on a random verse. It was a little game she played each morning, a silly way to find out what God might have to say to her today. This whole notion of reading the Bible, seeking God’s guidance, looking for answers . . . it was still new to her. How could words from an ancient old book jump out and give you a direction? It’s not that she doubted, she’d just never experienced having God communicate directly to her the way Luke had. Or Fern. Or David. Definitely like David. He was always talking about the Bible like it was a living thing.

Today her finger landed on Hosea 14:3. “For in you the fatherless find compassion.”

The word fatherless ran through her mind again. It was strange how thoughts had a way of circling around one’s head, then settling in for a stay. Or was it God’s way of reinforcing a message? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t stop thinking about her own biological father, where he was, who he was. If it would matter to him to know he had a daughter. A granddaughter.

Should she even try to find out who he was? Or could that only open up a Pandora’s box of trouble? After all, she’d come this far in life without a father. She had no real need for one, not anymore. She wasn’t seeking money, or validation, or even much of a relationship; nor did she want to disrupt this man’s life.

But maybe that was good too. Maybe it was best that way, to pursue this out of curiosity, not out of neediness. She squeezed her eyes shut. She had no idea what to do or how to do it. Pray. She could practically hear Luke’s voice, like he was right in the room with her, though she knew he was meeting with David at the Bent N’ Dent this morning. She opened her eyes wide and looked up at the ceiling.

Praying didn’t come naturally to Izzy, not with the practiced ease it did for Luke. She couldn’t get past the feeling that God was much too busy to be bothered with her. Luke said that was faulty thinking. He said the Bible told us to pray about everything. “Everything,” he emphasized to her, more times than she could count. She had read that verse too, but mostly she let Luke do the praying for both of them. That, too, was faulty thinking, and she didn’t need Luke to point that out. Was she still leaning on Luke’s faith?

“Well, Lord, sir, this Bible says that in you, the fatherless find compassion. Is that really true? And . . . if it is . . . what exactly does it mean?” Because I was raised fatherless, she thought but didn’t say aloud, as if she could hide her thoughts from the Almighty. There were plenty of times I could have used some of that compassion.

She sat very still and listened. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was listening for. Luke said he never had a doubt when God was telling him something. He said it might not be audible, but he knew. It sounded different from anything else.

But all Izzy heard were the sounds of Katy Ann stirring from her nap. Soon, she’d be calling out for her mama to come get her. Izzy closed her Bible and hugged it against her chest before tucking it away on her bedside table. She had come to love and revere the Lord God, and she appreciated this wise and holy book, but it wasn’t easy for her to understand. She’d never been much of a reader, and reading the King James Version was no walk in the park. Better than Luke’s Luther version in High German but still full of words and thoughts she didn’t know. Sometimes she just wished God would talk to her in a loud, clear voice so she would know it was unmistakably him.

Her eyes flickered up to the ceiling. Was that okay to say, to think? If prayer is supposed to be a two-way street, Lord God, then please, please, please . . . make your words clear.

The November morning sky was just starting to lighten as Jimmy took the bus into Lancaster the next morning and went straight to state senator Elroy Funk’s office. There was a bite to the wind, a smell of snow in the air. He was so early that he had to wait for the receptionist to arrive. She was a small, middle-aged woman, with lips pursed primly.

“Good morning,” Jimmy said cheerfully as she unlocked the door to the state senator’s office.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I don’t. I was just hoping to ask him a quick question.”

“Impossible. He has a fully booked day.”

“Ah, I see.” Not to be fobbed off so easily, Jimmy followed her inside. “It will be very, very quick.”

She flicked on the light switch and set her purse on her desk. “Maybe I can help. What’s your question?”

“A while back, the state senator gave a horse, a white Arabian, to a fellow out in Stoney Ridge.” He watched the woman move with military precision, hanging her coat on a coatrack, yanking a drawer open, dropping in her purse, closing it. “An Amish fellow, like me.”

“What’s your question?”

Jimmy smiled, but it seemed to have no effect on her. She remained stoic. “Well, you see, the state senator bashed down his fence, and in exchange for fixing the fence, he gave him the horse. I was hoping he might have a bill of sale or some kind of receipt. I can’t seem to find any paperwork on the horse.”

She crossed her arms, pondering. “That doesn’t sound like a tax-paying constituent concern.”

“Huh? A what?”

“In my office.”

Jimmy spun around at the sound of a man’s gruff voice. State senator Elroy Funk, he gathered, had arrived, and was glaring at Jimmy like he knew him, knew exactly why he was standing in his office, and he sure didn’t like it. He marched straight to a door to the right, opened it, and disappeared inside. Jimmy looked back at the receptionist.

She shrugged, eyebrows lifted, and said, “You heard him.”

Jimmy went to the inner office but stood by the doorjamb.

“Close the door behind you.”

Jimmy did as he said and took a few steps inside.

The state senator sat at his desk and glared at Jimmy. Midfifties, Jimmy guessed. Maybe older. His hair looked like it had been recently colored, his cheeks hung in jowls, and his eyes looked a tad too bloodshot for only eight in the morning. “So Jake King sent you. What does he want now?”

“Pardon?”

“Jake and I had a deal. The horse for the fence. Fair and square.”

“Jake said that?”

“Instead he just keeps coming back for more. He thinks he found a pot of honey in me. Just when I think he’s gone for good, he dips back in for another scoop. He promised me he wouldn’t go to the papers or the police. Well, I’ll deny the whole thing.”

Jimmy tried not to look as confused as he felt, which was not easy. “Because . . .”

The state senator pounded his fist on the desk. “Because there’s no proof that I’d been drinking that night.”

“I see,” he murmured. And with another glance at Elroy Funk, he thought, Oh yes, I do see . . . Jimmy was starting to get a full picture. Clearly, this man was not aware that Jake had passed on. “We were hoping you might have some paperwork on the horse. A bill of sale. A receipt. Anything.” If he worded things carefully, it wasn’t really a lie. He felt no remorse about the sin of omission. “Jake never was much of a fellow for details.”

The state senator narrowed his eyes. “And just why do you need paperwork?”

“We want to try to use the horse as a stud. I just thought it might help if I could trace his lineage.”

He scoffed, relaxing a little. “Young feller, you know anything about horses?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

“Well, I do. I was raised with horses. And one thing I know—a horse needs to earn its keep. That horse ain’t worth a plug nickel except to take a pretty picture. Hot blooded, those Arabians. Too spirited. Too hard to handle. Hay burners.” He leaned back in his chair.

“Excellent points.” Jimmy didn’t disagree. “I wonder . . . how’d you end up with the horse in the first place?”

Elroy Funk shot forward on the desk and pointed a finger at Jimmy. “Young fella, you trying to nail something on me? Cuz I’ll deny it.”

“No, no.” Jimmy lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just interested in the horse.”

“I won him in a card game that same night I accidentally bumped into Jake King’s pasture fence.”

“Poker?” Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

Elroy’s bushy eyebrows furrowed as he wagged his finger at Jimmy. “I’ll deny that too.”

“And you don’t have any paperwork on him? Nothing at all?”

The state senator looked up at the ceiling and scratched his cheek jowls. “I might have something.” He unlocked a drawer and pulled out a metal box. From another drawer, he took a key to unlock the box. In it were all kinds of bits of papers, plus bills—big ones. Jimmy squinted to try to see more, but the state senator noticed and shielded the box from his sight line. He rooted through the papers until he finally found something. “Here. This is all I’ve got.” He handed a folded piece of paper to Jimmy and rose to his feet. “This is the last time Jake asks me for a favor. Is that clear?”

“Yes. Crystal clear. You don’t have to worry about Jake anymore.” That was the truth. “Thank you for your time.” He held up the paper. “And for this.”

“Tell Jake I don’t want to hear from him again. Not ever again. I’m done. Tell him that he’s dipped in the honeypot for the last time.”

“You won’t be hearing from Jake again. I promise you that.” Jimmy went out the door, closing it quietly behind him as he gave the receptionist his most dazzling smile—yet still, no response. Outside, he opened the slip of paper. There wasn’t much on it, but it did have the official name of the horse on it: America’s Prince.

Next stop was the public library. When Jimmy arrived, the doors were locked. Snow had started to fall, thick flakes that stuck on the ground. He had an hour to kill before the library opened and it was too cold to stay outside, so he walked a few blocks to City Hall and located the Tax Claim Bureau that managed property tax. A young woman with frizzy hair was working the front desk, but her attention was completely focused on a computer screen. She barely responded when he said he had a problem with property tax that needed straightening out. In fact, she seemed annoyed to be interrupted from . . . what was she doing that took such attention? Jimmy leaned over the counter. Aha. She was playing a video game. She glanced up at Jimmy, then did a double take. She rocketed off her chair, straightened her skirt, then fussed with her frizzy hair. He beamed, and whatever reservation she had seemed to dissipate.

“How can I help?”

Relieved he hadn’t lost his touch, he kept on smiling. “I’m not sure what this letter means.” He handed Sylvie’s registered letter to her. Before she took it, she ran her eyes down his lanky form. He didn’t really want to know what was going through her mind, but whatever it was, she couldn’t have been more eager to help. She looked up the history of taxes for Rising Star Farm, printed out a copy for him, and handed it to him, leaning so far over the counter that he nearly sneezed from her heavy perfume.

As he scanned the tax history, his heart dropped to his feet. Jake King hadn’t paid property taxes for the last two years.

Jimmy lowered his voice and asked, “Off the record, what might happen if this bill doesn’t get paid soon?”

“Rachel. Call me Rachel.” She grazed a fingertip along the tax history paper, and he noticed her long fingernails were painted red, like talons. “When the owner defaults and doesn’t pay the property tax, then the property will be sold in an upset tax sale. So did you and your, uh, wife, forget to pay the taxes?” Her eyes flicked down to his left hand.

“I’m not married.”

She smiled.

Jimmy offered his most charming, boyish smile. “Rachel, is there any way to stop the sale?”

Rachel was leaning so far over the counter between them that Jimmy had to remind himself to keep his eyes up, away from her well-endowed chest with its low-cut blouse.

“There might be a few things we can do.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear in a coquettish way. “Best option is to pay the amount that’s due. Maybe I can make those extra fines”—she waved her hand in the air, like a bird in flight—“go away.”

“What if . . . the property owner can’t pay it all at once?”

Rachel drummed her painted fingertips along the counter, reminding Jimmy of a clacking crow. Sylvie, being such a bird lover, would find that amusing; he’d have to remember to tell her.

“Four payments can be made in four equal installments, to stop the sale. The first payment has to happen right away, though. As soon as possible.” Rachel ran a finger along her lips, as if she was sharing a secret. “But if you need a little more time, I might be able to help,” she added with a big exaggerated wink.

Those winks! So many lately. Used to be, Jimmy was the winker.

He thanked Rachel, accepted her business card, smiled when she pointed out she had added her personal phone number on the back. “I’ll put this in a safe place,” he promised her, holding the little card against his heart as he walked backward to the door.

As soon as the door shut behind him, his smile faded. He used to enjoy those kinds of flirty and harmless interactions with women. Not so much anymore. This last year of defeats—losing Bethany to another man, losing ranch work in Colorado—had taken the wind out of his flirting sails.

On the way to the library, he fretted over Rising Star’s property tax bill. He shouldn’t be worried. This wasn’t his problem. He was getting too involved with Sylvie’s financial matters. It really shouldn’t matter to him—he was just working as a farmhand for her. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. Exactly why, he didn’t know—perhaps it was because she seemed so vulnerable, so alone. Or that she wasn’t looking to anyone else for help. Perhaps it was nothing more than the dismissive way his mother treated her, like she didn’t belong in Stoney Ridge. Whatever the reason, he found himself wanting to do all he could to help Sylvie.

He wondered why Sylvie had ever married Jake King in the first place. Over the last week, he had tried to cobble together bits and pieces of her life without asking her directly, because he sure didn’t want her getting any ideas that he was interested in her. No sir. Not after getting warned off by Hank Lapp that she was casting her web around him like a black widow spider. Sylvie’s winks, they thoroughly confused him.

With the help of a librarian, Jimmy located the site for an Arabian horse registry on one of the public computers and typed in Prince’s full name. He skimmed through pages and pages of pictures, until he saw one that looked just like Sylvie’s Prince. He clicked a few more links and came to the names of Prince’s sire and dam. More clicks to the sire’s link led to a long list of notable progeny.

Jimmy’s heart started to pound. Oh wow. Lord-a-mercy. “Jackpot.”

Sylvie Schrock King was sitting on top of a gold mine and she didn’t even know it.