CHAPTER ONE

 

 

Lord, please let the leaves start turning, and I apologize ahead of time for being anxious.  Martha Yoder was ready for fall, her favorite time of the year, and not because of the weather change: her annual October holiday to the sparkling beaches of sunny Florida was around the corner. 

Finances were tucked deep within the back of her head as she lifted the heavy bag of oats from the pallet. As usual, the feed store she worked at was busy with eager shoppers, and the air mingled with dust and the strong smell of corn from the grinder machine.

Flexing her arm muscles, she placed the heavy bag of oats atop a smaller pallet. She wiggled her nose before she finally reached up and scratched it. The unseasonably hot autumn affected her sinuses to the point that she found it hard to breath at times.

Martha had no health insurance and was paid a small wage for her work at the feed store; therefore, she was forced to use over-the-counter meds. Sometimes they worked.

Today, they didn’t.

 

Being a single mother had had an effect on Martha. Her daughter, Alice, had needed new shoes, preferably the pastel-pink pair at Fayette Mall that had bouncing-red lights at the heels like the flickering light above ‘sky ride’ at the annual horse and fair show. The freckled-faced child had sprouted two shoe sizes and grown three inches taller, but Martha’s salary hadn’t skyrocketed like Alice’s growth spurt;.

Martha’s weekly paycheck had grown stagnant like the water in the muddy pond back in her childhood home in Holmes County, Ohio.  Over the years, there had been no room for advancement, and Martha had gotten too comfortable with her job.

Too comfortable. 

That had been Martha’s problem ever since she’d left the rolling green hills of Holmes County. She’d gotten accustomed to living paycheck-to-paycheck. She’d gotten accustomed to swinging out the EBT Food Stamp Card at the local supermarket. And she’d gotten very accustomed.

To being alone.

Martha had been trying to keep busy. She worked her regular work week at the bustling feed store and helped her daughter with her schoolwork after a simple dinner around their small table for two each night. She volunteered to pick up trash alongside part of US 127 Highway once a month and read to the elderly at Harrodsburg Manor. On the outside, with her tanned, smooth complexion, wide, sparkling, brown eyes, and beautiful figure, she looked like the typical, ‘make do and be happy’ single mother of the Harrodsburg Projects.

She was not.

But she didn’t complain. Complaining meant that she’d have to pack up her meager belongings and yank her daughter out of school.  Moving created new hardships for her and Alice and starting over would be painful for them. Martha hated change. She was a woman of habit and forced back any change, whether it would benefit her and Alice in the long scope.

A rare exception was the roof over their heads. A better home, for the right price, would entice her to move locally.  On misty, rain-soaked nights, she would tuck Alice into bed and curl up with a steaming mug of strong, black coffee and read a good book.

And dream.

About a place of their own: a place for her and Alice to call ‘home,’ plant their own garden, and rake their own leaves. Like some of the strong, sassy single heroines in the historical novels, Martha wanted a spacious flower garden, several tall, heaven-reaching oak and maple trees, and a huge vegetable garden, so she could plant, harvest, and can a variety of fresh vegetables.

Martha had a spot picked out. The elegantly-stoned house was surrounded by neatly manicured, lush green shrubs and tall oak and maple trees that reached their giant yellow, orange, and ruffled-brown leaves toward heaven. The lovely home had a beautiful balcony overlooking the side flower garden. The blossoming garden had plump orange, golden, and deep-red mums and fragrant red, pink, and yellow roses.  

A table for four rested against the cobblestoned garden entrance, and a beautiful crème-colored fountain sat perched atop a marble-stoned, heart-shaped design, streaming gleaming stands of water-pearled tranquility in the middle of the lush garden. It would be perfect for Alice and her.

And a husband.

And maybe another child, one day, when she got her life straight. Martha and Alice dined alone most nights. Martha was a Gourmet and enjoyed providing traditional Southern hospitality; therefore, the quaint, gardenside table for four on the grand estate would allow her to share her culinary skills.

Martha would have whipped out her blue, leather checkbook and snagged the bountiful property up if the quaint home hadn’t been a historic mansion.

A mansion on Elm Street.

The wealthiest of the wealthy lived on Elm, private gardeners all around.

But Martha had once been a gardener.

In Amish Country. In Holmes County, the thriving place called, “God’s Country.”

The Harrodsburg Projects Complex, where she and Alice called home in a simple second-level apartment, was a far cry from Holmes County. The residents did not drive any open or closed buggies, did not read the German Bibles, and did not hang their laundry out to air-dry with the swaying wind. Relationships didn’t last long.

Even marriage.

Marriage was important to Martha. Alice needed a father. She knew that it would be impossible to find an Amish husband in the Harrodsburg projects. The values were so different, being centered on one’s own desires and not what benefited the whole community. Nonetheless, Martha was searching for a godly man, one who read the Bible daily, even if it was an Englisch one, kneeled and prayed every night, and praise God with a joyful hymn when he awoke in the morning.

She felt inferior having to compromise and give up her German traditions, but she saw no other future in sight. Her life had changed, her heritage fading away into the blue Kentucky sky.

The day she’d sinned.

 

 

Young and innocent, Martha had given in to her own desires during Rumspringa. Jeremiah had been the handsome Amishman, also in Rumspringa–the ‘running around time’ for the Amish youth before they made a decision to buckle down and join the church, who had swept her off her feet.

Literally.

In the barn loft where the party had taken place, Martha and Jeremiah had confessed feelings for one another as the music cranked, the her white kapp came off, and a pond of liquor filled a new silver twenty-pound tub.

Martha hadn’t acted like a young lady after drinking one glass of alcohol. Her friend, Rosemary, also in Rumspringa, had been partly to blame. She’d assured Martha that the large chunks of yellow pineapple, deep, rich cherries, and bright red watermelon that floated atop the alcohol-laced liquor were alcohol-free.

They had not been.

Martha had an energetic eight-year-old to prove it. That strong fruit had destroyed Martha’s life. It had made her have to grow up way too early.

 

 

Martha’s sore, left shoulder played tug-of-war with a twenty-five-pound, dusty-brown bag of oats resting over it, the sun’s rays gleaming against her golden hair.  Her saddle-brown eyes deepened, and her upper lip pushed up under her sun-kissed nose. I am still loading feed into handsome men’s trucks. Maybe I’ll catch one of their eyes and finally get a daed for Alice?

Twisting with the heavy bag of oats, Martha nodded a smile to the dark-haired man that leaned against his black Ford pickup. Tossing the feed atop the other three bags, she leaned down to straighten the stack, sliding her eyes gently toward his tall stature.  He is not Amish. He has pockets in his navy pants and no suspenders. Her eyes traveled back to the bags as she tugged on the top bag to try to level it over the other two bags that sat in the middle of the dirt-covered truck bed. She made a mental note to work out on the used treadmill that she’d gotten for ten dollars at a yard sale on Elm.

Her eyes couldn’t help but notice the handsome man’s muscular chest. Maybe he had a treadmill too?  Her eyes traveled to his double chin. He has no beard so he can’t be married. 

Flexing her arm muscles up, she gripped the bag with her sweaty hands and tugged. The smell of dirt entered her nostrils, making her cough. He should help me. An Amish man would jump right in and help me. But this man had no beard, wore pants with pockets, and had no suspenders. Probably a single farmer.

“Ma’am, I am okay with one bag slipping off the top. Once I put my truck gate up, the feed’s not going anywhere.” The deep but attractive lines in his forehead wrinkled, his eyes narrowing. “What’s a young lady like you doing loading feed for Truman?”  He tilted his head, his brow arching into the “V” shape of the yellow finches that flew in harmony above his head. “Well?”

Martha puffed out steam. It had been a hot day, and her mouth ached for a cold drink of water. She didn’t have an answer for him. And he wouldn’t be interested in the truth. “I guess I needed work.”  Her face reddened, her brow disturbed above her deep brown eyes.

Martha tugged at the bag of oats before the top bag was evenly placed atop the other two bags. “I have an eight year-old to support. I need the money. Kids grow fast.” The school always has their hand out for money. One week, it’s a field trip, and another week it is more crayons or glue that the school needs.” Martha’s ruby-red lips flipped into an upward half-moon. “I love my daughter. I wouldn’t trade her for the moon.”

The man’s attractive eyes flickered with intrigue. “I bet a lucky man got you under the moon?” The man grinned, the sun’s rays beating down on his smooth, dark brown skin. “Where’s your husband?” After a brief silence, the man’s tone rose, the wind ruffling his gorgeous black hair. “You don’t have a husband, do you?” 

Martha looked up and clapped her palms together to wipe away the dirt from the feed bags. For once, she felt out of place as a feed store worker. She felt like a lady who’d been forced to take a man’s job.  Sweat pouring off her tanned face, she answered, “No, I’ve never had a husband.”

The man’s right hand loosely gripped the side of his black pick-up, and he glanced down at his wedding finger. A round, sparkling band of gold was snug at the bottom of the finger, his skin puffed up around the edges. “Marriage is needed if you’re going to raise kids.”

“I see you are married.”  Martha stared at the man’s hand and admired his union. Would she ever be united with a caring, handsome man, under God?

“I’ve never taken this ring off,” the man said before looking at the feed and then back to her. “I guess I married my high school sweetheart and that is why we are together today.” He smiled, the wind dangling stray strands of his black curls atop the middle of his head, where his round-brimmed straw hat should be. “Thank you.” He nodded.

“Have a good day.” Martha smiled as the wind fanned her flushed cheeks. She looked down to see her chin. There are no dancing white prayer kapp strings. There is no tickle against my chin. There is no Amish man coming to take me away. I have strayed away from any possible man that would be chite. Sadness entered her chest.

“I wish you the best.” The man said before extending an arm to help her back up onto the concrete loading deck. “I just bought a farm here. I’ll see you around.”

Martha forced a snicker back. Just like every new man that shopped at the feed store, this man had one intention:  to pity her. Martha reluctantly said, “I’ve been here for years, and I’ll be here forever.”

“At least you picked a good, friendly town to be in forever.” The man smiled and closed the gate to the pick-up. “Two of my grown children live here so I guess I’ll be here forever too.”

Martha held back a few stray tears and looked away from the man. Forever?  Now, that would be a very sad life. To be stagnant and forced into a life of emptiness would be the saddest story ever. That can’t happen to me. Gott wants the best for me: an Amish man like Jeremiah Yoder.

The black-haired man walked toward the loading dock and said, “I’m sorry if I upset you. I can tell that you are bothered. Your life is none of my business. I was a little out of line, Ma’am.”  He extended his right hand, but she refused to shake it.

“You are fine. All of the new men say that,” Martha snapped, a half-smile etching between her bronzed cheeks. “They all wonder how I got here.”

A warm smile washed over the man’s face, his blue buttoned-up shirt’s loose collar waving around his neck with the cool blast of nippy wind. “I guess it was just an impulsive comment because you are way to pretty to be doing a man’s work.”

Martha laughed. “Really?” The lines in her face creased as she studied the intriguing man. Lines of wisdom were etched above his thick, dark brow, and he seemed empathetic. Her mouth lightened up. “I am a farm girl. I’m used to doing a man’s work. I can rope cattle, outride most men on bulls, and plant one-hundred acres of fresh produce.” A slight blush of red entered her face, and the sun shot down a refuge of warm glare between the two. Martha shielded her sun-kissed face. “I am one of the best farm girls who’ll ever find.”

The man laughed before turning to walk back to his truck door. The sun let up, and a blast of fresh air blew dust up from the gravel parking lot. A second wave of chilly air feathered the man’s short black curls backward and lifted his blue collar against the back of his neck. “Sounds like the Amish. They are the best farmers.”

Martha drew an incredulous smile and replied, “Exactly like the Amish. Hard-working, God-fearing, and child-bearing Amish women.”

The man opened the truck door and warmly said, “You’re not doing too badly if the Amish are your role models. All you need is a husband.”  The man nodded. “And a dozen more children.”

Martha’s smile fainted, and her shoulders shrugged as she turned and walked away. How smart this man was to assume that all Amish would bear a dozen or more kinner.  She hated stereotypes like the one the cute man had just made because not all Amish could be squeezed into one category. Each community was different, and each community had their own Ordnung, and such a set of verbal rules was voted on at a shtill hokka, or member meeting, every six months. What one community allowed, another one would ban. It was not this man’s place to judge her life, even if he was older and married.

Martha didn’t want a man telling her that she’d be stuck in Harrodsburg forever. She could beat herself up all day and love it, but a man couldn’t do it. A man had caused her to fall, to sin, to give birth.

And to be judged.

 

 

It was a man that had caused her to be standing in the middle of the room of quilts, being judged by the deepened, sad eyes of her mamm’s quilting buddies. The man did not fall. The man was not judged. The man got to stay.

She had to leave. She was forced out. “It will be a good change for you, Martha,” Mrs. Dailey, the head of the quilting bee ladies had said, and Martha hadn’t agreed. But Mrs. Dailey had kept on, “You want to be in the ban for six months? Want to stand before the bishop?” Finally, Martha had agreed to leave to Harrodsburg, Kentucky, where she knew no one.

She’d taken a field trip to Fort Harrod State Park and Shakertown, and loved the town’s quaint, warm feeling and rich heritage. Years later, on this warm autumn day, Martha still called Harrodsburg home. Being that she didn’t like change, she wanted to stay here.

But not forever.

Martha had dreams of having a husband, her own home with beautiful gardens, and a couple of kinner for Alice to play with as she grew up.

 

 

Martha turned and willed her slender legs over the concrete porch. Making her way through one of the open bay doors, she felt a chilly breeze drift across her back, lifting the fabric up to fan her hot back. Leaning over a blue pallet of oats, her mind had forgotten the married man and had returned to the topic of finances again. Maybe she could look for a new job after she got her bonus. Her fall bonus check, given the first Monday of October provided the means for buying fall produce to can for winter.

The noise of happy shoppers trekking against the gravel parking lot below the loading dock shook Martha’s mind back to the busy Saturday morning feed store she’d worked at for years.

Too many years.

Years of loading feed, fertilizer, and trays of tomato plants.  The back of her golden locks rested against the open bay beam as her saddle-brown eyes watched eager shoppers, all dressed up as most shoppers were on Saturday mornings. From elderly farmers to wobbling toddlers, this Saturday’s crowd had an eye out for bargains as they looked through the discount bins and bargain tables that set to the left of the loading dock.

Martha rubber-necked and strained her eyes through the heavy parking lot of head-bobbling shoppers.  One of her regular customers was a late arriver, one that was never late. Where was Mrs. Dailey?  Why was she late?  She had to have good reason to be an hour late. 

Mrs. Dailey had always been a regular Saturday morning shopper, and in the many years that Martha had manned the loading dock at Truman’s Feed Store, she’d always see her little spunky face at five minutes ‘till eleven o’ clock.

  All of these customers, and I just want to see Mrs. Dailey! Martha blushed, feeling ungrateful and selfish for thinking such, but she had been a little selfish ever since Alice had turned eight, and she couldn’t figure out why she had gotten that way.  Was it the stress of being a single mother of a first grader, with all of the back-to-school ads, showcasing the cutest little fall-colored outfits that stressed her out?   The newest ads had some tee-shirts with glitter-splashed teddy bears and butterflies, and matching bows were sold separately. The glossy ads had tennis shoes that flashed a deep pink or fire-engine-red at the heels and colorful backpacks with attached themed water bottle.

Maybe it was the clash in values. The Amish always had morals, and it was typical for a young woman to check to see if a man that wanted to court her was “chite,” or fit in his morals before she said, “Ich glie de,” or “I love you.” Martha wanted to raise her daughter the strict, moral way without all the candy make-up, dyed cereal, and cartoons. Having bright-eyed Alice give up her chocolaty Coca Puffs would be a losing tug-of-war for Martha. How could she get Alice to the simpler, calmer life?

Martha looked up at the dust-covered clock that hung above the bay doors and strained to read the numbers: she couldn’t, so she walked closer and saw that the small hand was fixing to click over to one o’clock; the regular customer was more than an hour late.

The feed store was a two story older building in need of painting.  The weathered white walls had been stained a dusty brown for as long as she’d worked there.  The faded blue wooden pallets were stuffed next to each other behind the bay doors and allowed for a tight toe to heel walk. The smell of ground corn was constant, as was the taste of dust in one’s mouth. 

Occasionally, a new employee or two would get to chatting and forget about the corn grinder, and the cement floor would be a valley for heaping soft flakes of corn. 

Martha had never run the corn grinder because the men thought that it was a man’s job.  She knew that they were being a little bias, but to admit such would be a cardinal sin in the sleepy little town of Harrodsburg, so she just did what they said, and she did things well.

Martha crisscrossed over to the first open bay door and scooted the stand alone seed display over to the front sidewalk.  Surely, eager shoppers would snatch up the broccoli seed. It always made a good late crop.  If she had enough room to plant a late crop, it would have lots of broccoli. Alice loved broccoli and cheese casserole with pimentos, and so did her off and on again boyfriend, Ray L. Brown.

A small lump emerged in Martha’s throat as she saw a red-eyed sheriff get out of his car.  Had Mrs. Dailey had a car accident?  A silent prayer was sent up as Martha tipped her chin up and eyed the heavens. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. In the sleepy town of Harrodsburg, Kentucky, grown men never cried, even at funerals; it just wasn’t the thing to do. Harrodsburg brought up tremendously hard-working, God-fearing, stoic men, and it had always been that way. 

A quick, cool breeze entered the open bay area, the refreshing oxygen making any hard-working person slowly close their eyes and relax from their daily activities. Martha’s luscious, dark brown eyelashes slid over the tanned puffy patches under her eyes as she inhaled the smooth air and felt it fan her hot, tanned face.  The misty vapor bathed her nostrils and mellowed out the thick lumps that were in her throat.

Martha stood next to the palate of oats and lowered her gaze to the busy parking lot of customers, some old, but still farming, and some young and eager for the glass candy jars that perched atop the wooden four by four that doubled as a check-out in the only room that was adjacent to the loading bay. 

Oreo, the stray cat, which certainly did look like a black and white-stuffed Oreo cookie, made his way across the hot sidewalk to the seed display.  Martha smiled and reached down to stroke his thick, furry coat.  At least he was thinking ahead a month to the late garden.  He’d been part of the Saturday morning shopping day ever since she’d been there, and according to Mr. Truman, his mother, Blue, had staked out her own spot, litter provided by Mr. Truman at the back of the store.  Oreo was the last of the litter, and feed store employees and customers kept him well entertained and fed.

“Oreo Cookie! Momma, Oreo is here!”  A little red-headed girl in matching pigtails came barreling out of the front check-out door with a red-and-white peppermint stick dripping down her chubby mouth. 

Her mother smiled and replied, “Go ahead and love him, but don’t get that sticky candy on him!”  The mother’s eyes twinkled as she watched her daughter lean down and tilt her head against his long back. The mother looked up and gave a curious gaze, the sun’s light rays beating down and making her shiny Saturday dress’s back look like glittering silver. “Where is Mrs. Dailey?” the woman queried, her brow arched high. “I saw the Sheriff here. I’ve never seen him so upset!”

Martha’s face tightened before releasing into a sigh, “I don’t know.  Maybe she had car trouble.  I hope that she wasn’t in a car wreck.” If something bad had happened to Mrs. Dailey, Martha owed her enough respect to not gossip about her. Back home in Holmes County, it was “gossip central.” No matter how hard the bishop worked to maintain a good environment, church members would still contribute to the daily gossip vine.

The mother cleared her throat and grabbed her daughter.  “Have you heard about the shoot-out in Louisville?  That lady was former Amish. I have to run. I will see you next Saturday.”

Just as Martha was processing what the woman had said, Robert C. Truman came rushing from the check-out room to the loading dock, worry on his face.  A crisp autumn breeze feathered his grey hair. The blast of crisp air lingered in the feed storage area before it zoomed out the open bay door. Within seconds, the hint of winter gushed through the second open bay door, dangling Martha’s blonde bangs atop her head.  A hint of the earth swirled in with the third cool snap; rain was right around the corner.

The dust that Mr. Truman’s brown cowboy boots wore was a couple shades lighter than her eyes.  Mr. Truman forced a couple of breaths and coughed; the menthol cigarettes had taken a toll on his lungs.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Truman?” Martha asked as she felt the crisp snap of air bath her overheated tanned face.  “I saw the sheriff pull in, and he had a worried look about him.”  She tilted her head, awaiting a response, but he drew back, crackles bouncing up from his barrel-shaped lungs, and said nothing.  The color drained from his face, but his eyes looked in control, just as they had for years that she’d known him. 

A stray tear forced its way down Mr. Truman’s pale face followed by streams of sorry.  “Mrs. Dailey won’t be coming today!”  His head dropped, and a solemn silence hit the whole loading dock, for Martha’s assumptions about something terrible happening to Mrs. Dailey had been right.  He mustered to speak over the thick lump that nestled in his wrinkled throat, “She was killed.”

“Oh no, how—?”  Martha jerked her head so that he wouldn’t see her cry.  She didn’t want to be at the feed store today; actually, she didn’t want to be alive today, for Mrs. Dailey was more than a regular customer at the feed store, and she knew that, but she had never told a soul. 

“I can’t believe this has happened.  She was a fine woman.  She will be missed,” Mr. Truman spoke softly as he shook his hanging head.

Martha nodded and wept. In a way, both she and Mrs. Dailey had messed up by leaving such a peaceful place. Martha was yearning to return to her close-knit Old Order Amish community by the minute.  Could she have the courage to do that?  Would she have the courage to sit in Mrs. Dailey’s funeral with a room full of the deceased lady’s farmer neighbors, those who thought that they knew her, but undoubtedly had no clue what kind of woman she had truly been? 

 

She judged me and sent me away.  Martha’s mind returned to the past when she had stood before the group of quilters in her mother’s upstairs quilting room.  Mrs. Dailey, with her perfectly-bleached prayer kapp as white as snow, sat in the middle of the women judges, handing down a terrible sentence for her:  the bann.

Not just the regular bann, but a bann from Holmes County until the baby was born.

For years to come, Martha had endured bittersweet feelings for Mrs. Dailey since she was the one that read the sentencing that chilly, crisp day in her mamm’s oversized quilting room. The woman had put her in the ultimate ban.

“Be glad that we are proceeding over this and not the bishop.  Go and have the boppli in another city, and then, one day, when you’re right with the Lord, you can come back with the child. People won’t turn their heads to it much because you had left and returned to the community,” Mrs. Dailey had sternly said.

Neither Mrs. Dailey, nor the five fellow quilters including her own mamm had the authority to do what they had done, but they did it anyway, and it wasn’t the first sentence that they had handed down: they had been secretly doing it for over twenty years.

 

Snapping back to the situation at the feed store, Martha nervously said, “It just wasn’t like her to be late. I knew something was wrong!”

There were more blanks as they all stood, heads in condolence, hearts torn apart, and the world upside down.  The side check-out area door swung open getting their attention.  The sheriff walked out of the check-out room side door with puffy eyes and a nod to Martha. 

“I knew she would never be late,’ Martha raised a brow, eyed the Sheriff, and nervously blurted, “It just wasn’t like her.” She brought a dust-covered hand up to her cheek and wiped the stiff, gelled tears away.

The Sheriff nodded and then informed, “She was killed in nearby Louisville, Kentucky.” 

“Louisville?  She must have been going to see the Oncologist; I think I remember her saying that he was in downtown Louisville.  She was trying everything to beat that cancer; she had just bought Caisse Tea, which is supposed to help fight cancer.”  Martha informed in a low tone, her face still streaming heartache. 

The wind circled around them, but none of them wanted its invigorating, sharp feeling, so they tightened their faces and stayed in shock of the bad news.  Two of the regular men, who hung out and drank black coffee on Saturday mornings, came walking into the open bay doors, alarmed looks on their farm-tanned faces.   

Martha’s face tensed and her hands trembled as she rubbed dust off on the sides of blue handkerchief. “I am going back to Ohio. I don’t want to be in Kentucky anymore. I miss my family.”

“I need you, Martha.  You’re one of my best workers,” Mr. Truman begged, but Martha swung her head down, drew a hard frown and said, “I want to go home.”

“Crime is everywhere, young lady.  Move and you’ll find it again,” the Sheriff assured.

Martha didn’t agree, for she knew one place where there was no crime: Amish Country: Holmes County, the city of Walnut Creek, the city she’d been born in, and the city Mrs. Dailey had been born in.  Martha crossed her arms around her chest as a chilly blast of air made her shiver, “I’m moving where we will bury her at; back home.”

“Detroit?”  The Sheriff shook his head, for he did not know the secret behind Mrs. Dailey’s background.

“Amish Country, in the heart of Ohio.”  Martha confidentially added, “Our family is there, and that was where Mrs. Dailey was from before she left the Amish community. That is where we belong, and I assume that is where she will be buried. We both made tremendous mistakes by leaving.” Martha tried to dissolve a lump by massaging her throat, her brow wrinkled, “It’s time to go back home.” If only she’d accepted Mrs. Dailey’s remorse and made things right. If only she’d gone back home. If only she’d been able to open her heart.

And forgive.

“Looks like it cost Mrs. Dailey her life; that is so sad.”  The sheriff sighed and then said, “Don’t let the mistake cost you your life.  Go home and be with your family.  They always say that one’s heart is their home.”