The rain intensified through the night. The ping of the fat droplets against the tin roof kept Miriam from sleeping. She walked to the window and stared into the darkness and shivered, knowing who could be out there waiting and watching.
Closing the curtains, she lit the gas lamp and opened the trunk. The dress she had worn today was spattered with mud. Tomorrow she would wear something fresh to town. The smell of cedar from the inlaid wood brought comfort.
She peered at the inscription, handwritten in black ink, on the inside. To Rebecca. With my love. From your husband, Abram.
Miriam’s heart constricted. Not with jealousy or envy, but because of her own desire to have someone love her as completely as Abram had loved his wife.
Tears burned her eyes, knowing the pain of loss he must have felt when Rebecca and their child had died. He continued to carry that pain, Miriam felt sure. The look of longing in his eyes revealed the depth of his grief, even now.
Wiping her hand across her cheek, she inhaled deeply to quell the onslaught of sadness that clung to her as surely as the scent of cedar.
Miriam pulled a dress from the trunk. This one in a deep royal blue that almost seemed too rich for an Amish woman. She shook out the fabric and held the bodice against her, then looked down at the skirt that billowed around her legs in a graceful flow that made her feel totally feminine.
She twirled once. Yards of fabric swirled around her legs and, in spite of her heavy heart, she smiled, feeling as graceful as a fairy princess with the skirt swishing back and forth. She almost laughed, until the light flickered, drawing her back to the moment. She wasn’t Abram’s wife. She was a stranger who had barged into his life. A stranger who had dreamed thoughts of what could have been—of love and marriage, a home and family—all of which Miriam would never know.
A man’s love and affection were not in her future. She was her mother’s daughter, as much as she wanted to break the generational ties. Yet she would not walk the same path as her mother, who had needed a man to validate her life.
Miriam didn’t need a man.
But you want one, her mind taunted. An Amish man who is bigger than life.
A door opened into the hallway. Footsteps sounded then stopped outside her door. Miriam’s heart lunged. She clasped the dress to her heart, wanting to hide it from sight as if Abram could see through the closed bedroom door and know her thoughts.
She held her breath and looked at the gas lamp. Abram would see the light spilling into the dark hallway from under the bedroom door, and he would know she was awake.
Her right hand raised to cover her mouth as she slowly exhaled the air that burned her lungs, half expecting him to open the door and demand to know why she was holding his wife’s dress.
Again she was overcome with regret. She never should have infringed on Abram’s life.
Another footfall and another. Abram passed her door and descended the stairs to the first floor.
Daring not move for fear a floorboard would squeak, she listened to the trail of his footsteps through the house. The back door creaked open and then closed.
She extinguished the light, moved to the window and pulled back the curtain. The rain continued to fall. Overhead the moon peered between billowing clouds to illuminate the yard ever so slightly.
Miriam could see Abram walk to the woodshop. He held something in his hand. A chill settled over her. He held the rifle.
Stamping his feet, he entered the shop and then pulled the door closed behind him.
Without his presence in the house, she felt an instant dread. Again her eyes searched the land around the house and outbuildings.
A shadow moved near the woodshed.
Her heart lurched.
Had she imagined the movement or was someone hiding in the darkness?
* * *
Sleep had eluded Abram. He had been restless and unable to calm his mind or his heart. Needing to busy himself, he had come to the workshop, planning to sand a table he was making for Emma.
That he had brought the rifle surprised him somewhat, yet his sister had used it this afternoon when Serpent had chased after Miriam and Daniel. Abram had been almost too late returning to the house. Thankfully, Serpent had driven away. Next time, he might not be so easily deterred.
For a long moment Abram stared into the dark recesses of the woodshop and sensed the intruder’s presence before he heard the crack of a broken twig outside. Peering through the window, he saw the shadowy figure slink around the side of the woodshed.
A stocky man. Maybe six feet tall. He could not see his face, but he knew it was Serpent.
The man continued along the edge of the building then stopped and peered up at the bedroom windows. Abram angled his gaze toward the house, relieved that the light in Miriam’s room had been extinguished. Just so she would remain inside.
Abram reached for the rifle. Holding it in one hand, he slowly opened the door to his shop and stepped into the cool night air. The rain had slackened to a light drizzle. He peered through the mist and angled his head, listening for a footfall to identify Serpent’s whereabouts.
A twig snapped.
Abram turned to see the man dart into the clearing.
The back door opened.
Someone stepped onto the porch.
Miriam.
Abram’s gut tightened.
Serpent pulled something from his waistband. The moonlight reflected off the object.
Abram’s heart stopped at the sight of the handgun.
“No!” he screamed.
Serpent turned toward Abram, standing in the darkness.
“Where’s the woman hiding, Zook?”
“I told you to stay away from me, my sister, my farm and—”
Before Abram could complete the warning, the intruder took aim and fired. A muffled rapport. The man was using a silencer.
The bullet pinged off the nearby water pump.
“I’ll kill you, Zook, but I’ll kill your sister first.” He fired again, this time at the shadowed figure standing on the porch.
Abram’s breath caught in his throat. He raised the rifle and fired. Bear raced from the barn, growling with teeth bared. He lunged at Serpent. The man turned, nearly tripping over his feet as he ran, cursing, into the night.
“Abram?” Miriam’s voice, laced with fright. She fled back into the house.
He ran forward, his heart thumping at what he might find. After entering the kitchen, he closed and locked the door and propped the rifle against the wall, all the while searching the darkness with his gaze.
“Miriam,” he called, fearing the worst and praying he was wrong.
He raced into the main room where he found her slumped over the stairs. In three long strides he was at her side, pulling her into his arms. His hands touched her neck, her cheeks, her waist, searching for a gaping hole or blood that would confirm she was hurt.
“You are injured?” he asked, fearing her answer.
She gasped for air. Tears fell from her eyes.
“You were hurt?” Abram restated his question. Why did she not answer him?
His hands wove into her hair, not the bun that she usually wore, but long, flowing locks that fell around her shoulders.
Moonlight filtered through the nearby window and bathed them in its glow.
“Tell me you are all right,” he demanded, his voice insistent.
“I’m...” She tried to speak. “I’m not hurt. The bullet whizzed past me. I could feel the force of its momentum, but the round did not strike me. At first I couldn’t understand what had happened. The sound was muffled. I thought gunfire was louder?”
“He used a silencer.” Unable to think of what he would have done if she had been injured, Abram pulled her close and silently gave thanks.
He did not deserve Gott’s blessings, but Miriam did not deserve Gott’s condemnation.
“You might not have recognized him,” she said, her voice low and filled with emotion. “The moon peered from the clouds as he approached the house. I saw his face. It was Serpent.”
“He mentioned my sister.” Abram tried to reassure her. “Serpent thought Emma was on the porch. He wanted to kill her to get back at me.”
“But I was the target, Abram.”
“What happened?” As if hearing her name, Emma came to the top of the stairs, holding an oil lamp. Her face was puffy with sleep yet pulled tight with concern as she stared down at them.
“Serpent came back,” Miriam said, staring into Abram’s eyes. “He nearly killed me once. He tried to kill me again.”