7

Abigail’s mother would say she was getting obsessive. She could hear her mother’s voice as if she were standing in front of her, fists planted on her hips, exasperation written on her face: “Why must you always be looking backward? Look at your sisters. They only look forward.” Abigail was used to the inevitable comparisons between her and her sisters. The comparisons didn’t really bother her. Quite frankly, she agreed with them.

Besides, Abigail couldn’t help what drove her. She was gripped by the past. The stories and struggles of olden days worked their way from the pages of old books and records into her mind and soul. It felt as if she was figuring out a gigantic jigsaw puzzle.

It was her father who understood. He would teach her how to collect references and track down leads. He tacked a large world map to the wall in the basement, and they would plot out origins of family histories on it, sticking little pins into Europe.

Her father never failed to point out the good qualities she did have. “You’re as smart as they come, you are,” he’d say with a hug. Or, “In your own unique way, you can find a solution to any problem.”

However, a solution seemed unlikely in this particular circumstance.

Early Saturday morning, she arrived at the post office to coerce that recalcitrant clerk into revealing to whom Box 247 belonged. She brought with her a loaf of her grandmother’s cinnamon raisin bread, still warm from the oven—guaranteed to make anyone sing like a canary. She hoped.

Naturally, this particular droopy-mustached postal worker was immune to delectable baked goods, the one canary who wouldn’t sing. He glared at her, even when she waved the loaf of bread under his nose. Finally, as a line was forming behind her and Droopy Mustache threatened to fetch the police if she didn’t leave, she turned to go. In the outer room, where the boxes lined the walls, there was Dane Glick, turning the key to close his postal box.

He smiled brightly when he saw her, then his smile faded. “Why are you staring at me?” He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is there something on my face?”

“Why are you getting Francis’s mail?”

“Because . . . that’d be me.”

“That’s impossible!” She pulled a letter out of the stack in his hands. “Look.” It was a bill addressed to Francis D. Glick, Box 247, Stoney Ridge, Pennsylvania.

“Yup. That’s my official name.”

A fog started to obscure his words in Abigail’s mind. “But you can’t be.”

One of those thick black brows of his rose. “But I am.”

“But you’re not . . .” Anything like Francis Glick. “You just can’t be.”

“I go by Dane but my full name is Francis Dana Glick.”

She was stunned. Nearly speechless. Francis was a he, not a she. “But . . . why? Why would you do such a thing?”

“Me? It wasn’t my idea. My mother always wanted a girl and kept having boys. I think she just gave up and used the names she’d been saving for a girl on me. I hate my name. Can’t stand it. All through school, I insisted that everyone called me Dane. But for anything written, I use Francis.”

Abigail was remembering all the correspondence that had passed between Francis Glick and herself. And all of those times she had imagined her—him—to be a woman much like herself.

As they had discovered how much they had in common, their letters started to drift from family trees and genealogies, and on to hopes and dreams. Oh, the things Abigail had confided in her. No, not her. Him! How she had always felt as if she were on the outside of the circle. As if she was peering into windows but never invited inside. How studying genealogies made her feel as if, for once, she was inside the circle.

That odd shiver she felt last night when Dane had talked about Pat Parelli’s horse management at dinner—that was a precognition. She had ignored the foreboding, convinced herself it was just a coincidence, but somewhere deep inside, it triggered a tiny doubt.

It had always struck her as odd to think of Francis, a woman, as a horse trainer. But she had dismissed those thoughts as she grew to know Francis in her letters, realizing she was more open-minded than most women she knew. A little odd. And yet Abigail liked odd people.

But Francis wasn’t an unusual and bold female horse trainer. She was a man.

She felt her palms get sweaty and her heart start to pound. She wanted to respond rationally but her mind was spinning. Her emotions were out of control.

Dane was posing as Francis Dana Glick. She had been posing as her father. She felt queasy. This was bad news. This man knew too much about her. This was a disaster.

“Abigail, are you all right? You look like you’ve just taken a bite of some bad fish.”

She looked up, into those dark, trusting eyes. “I have to go.”

Abigail had no direction in mind as she left Dane. She just knew she had to go someplace to clear her thoughts. She came across a path that led through the woods and veered onto it, picking up speed, breaking into a run, then running hard until she was hot and panting. She stopped at the base of an old dead oak tree and fell on the ground beside it, gasping for breath. When she opened her eyes, there was Dane, walking up the hill toward her.

He must have run to keep up with her, but he wasn’t out of breath like she was.

“Why did you—” she gulped in some air—“follow me?”

“I was worried about you.” Dane sat down on the ground beside her and leaned on his elbows. “Horses run when they’re frightened. Sheep do it even when they’re not frightened.”

“I’m not—” she said, still panting—“a horse. Or a sheep.”

“No, but you do seem frightened.”

She was. She waited until she caught her breath, extremely agitated. She didn’t want to have to explain anything to him. Where would she even begin?

But Dane didn’t seem to expect anything from her. He didn’t say anything else. He just sat beside her, legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other boot, his eyes on the clouds above as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “This property, as far as you can see, once belonged to my grandfather.” He pointed toward a distant hill. “You can see the top of my horse barn from here, if you squint.”

She looked in the direction that he pointed, and she could see the peaked metal roof of a barn. She was conscious of her heart starting to return to a normal pace.

Dane seemed unaware of the inner quandary she was experiencing. He was gazing up in the tree. “Interesting that this is the spot you chose to stop running. The Hanging Tree.”

“The hanging tree?”

“Legend has it that the sheriff chose it to hang outlaws on because it was the tallest, oldest tree in Stoney Ridge.”

She craned her neck to look up at the dead branches. A chill went down her spine. “Think there’s truth in it? The hanging part?”

He glanced over at her and smiled. “No idea. What I do know is that whenever we could come to visit my grandparents, I would try to disappear at the earliest opportunity. I used to climb up this old tree to hide. My grandfather, he was scary. A lot like Freeman.”

“Like Tillie Yoder Stoltzfus,” she said flatly.

“Your grandmother? Oh, not so much. She’s got a bigger bark than her bite. It’s all about intention.”

“How so?”

“Your grandmother only wants the best for her family. She just doesn’t go about it in the right way.”

“Exactly right.” She was startled by Dane’s insight. Then she realized that the letters he had written, when she thought he was a she, showed great sensitivity and insight. She was still trying to get her mind around the fact that Francis, whom she had pictured as a petite young woman, very much like herself, and in whom she had hoped she would find a true friend, was in fact, Dane, a rather manly man.

And right between them was a stack of mail that Dane had brought, with the letter she had written to him and mailed yesterday, asking to meet, sitting on top like a hot potato. She looked at the toes of her shoes.

She would have to confess, partially, at least. “My father . . . he helps people with genealogies.”

Dane Glick’s brows furrowed together. “Abigail, what are you talking about?”

She closed her mouth with a frown and then tried again. “My father helps people trace their family tree.” She pointed to the stack of mail.

He picked up the letter. “Father? Simon Stoltzfus is your father?”

She hoped he wasn’t noticing the local postmark. “Yes. He’s . . . been a little under the weather lately and asked me to help finish up your case.” She looked down at her hands. “He was explaining all that in the letter you’re holding. He was . . . introducing me. I had no idea you were the client . . . not until I saw you opening up Box 247. I thought . . . that is, my father assumed . . . he thought you were a woman.”

Dane grimaced. “Because of my horrible name.”

She nodded. A truly awful name for a manly man.

He looked at her for a long time, then he put the letter down without opening it, lifted his head, and grinned at her. “Well, maybe I can help. We can figure it out together.” He winked at her. “It’ll give me an excuse to see more of you.”

It occurred to her that Dane did not have any suspicion that she was posing in the letters as her father. With any sort of luck it might never become known that it was Abigail with whom he had corresponded. But she never had any luck. Besides, she didn’t believe in luck. Her deception was safe, though that seemed like an oxymoron.

She felt a sense of shame—and at the same time, overwhelming relief. The two emotions went to battle inside her.

Jesse tried to rub the grease off his hands with an old rag. “Hank, wake up.”

Hank Lapp had stopped by the buggy shop to offer his wisdom and advice, he said, which meant that he was looking for a place to catch a nap. He had lain down in the front bench of Eli Smucker’s old buggy, with his stocking feet hanging out the window.

“Mer schloft net wimmer, wammer die Aage zu hot,” Hank mumbled. Closing one’s eyes is not always a sign of sleeping.

“Perhaps it’s not a sign for a preacher, but it is for you.” Jesse tossed the rag on the workbench. “Have you been borrowing some of my tools without asking?”

Hank popped his head up. “MY TOOLS, you mean. Don’t forget you are my apprentice.”

“Was your apprentice. You retired.” Jesse stared at his pegboard. His good Stanley hammer and expensive cat’s claw nail puller were gone from their spot. His tools had specific spots. It was something he was very particular about since he had moved into his own apartment. There was a place for everything and everything in its place. He had never cared about things before, but he certainly did now.

Hank crossed his arms on the window opening, bent forward, and propped his chin on a wrist. Ever since he married Edith, he’d been trying to grow a beard, but he had only enough chin whiskers to make him look prickly. “They don’t make buggies like this anymore. Benches stuffed with sheep’s wool—softer than a goose down pillow.” He patted the outside of the buggy. “I’d be in no hurry to fix this one up.”

Hank was in no hurry to do anything.

“Eli is breathing down my neck. He wants the wheels switched out and runners replaced on it before the first snowfall.” Jesse pointed to the old wooden sled attachments that Eli had brought over, lined against the wall.

“He’ll be stuck at home if we don’t get much snow this year.”

“On the other hand, if we do get a lot of snow, he’ll be the one who’s laughing while the rest of us are snowbound, stuck at home ’til the snowplows come through.” Jesse searched his workbench for the missing tools. “You’re sure you don’t know where my tools are? I use that hammer all the time.” C.P. whined to go out, and Jesse stared at him, wondering if the puppy was the guilty one. But the hammer would have been too heavy for his little mouth to drag out. Besides, how could he have jumped up on the workbench to reach the pegboard?

“No idea. But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“En schlechder Schitz as net immer ee Laaf gelaad hot.” It’s a poor hunter who does not always have one barrel loaded.

Jesse turned to look at him. “Meaning?”

“Besser scheel as blind.” Better blind in one eye than both.

“Try again?”

“Jesse, ol’ boy, you gotta get up to speed. There’s always another way to get the job done.” He thumped his black hat on top of his wiry white hair and left the shop to go beg a cup of coffee off Fern, C.P. trailing behind him with his tail wagging in a circle.

Abigail looked out the window to see Ruthie hanging laundry. She rushed downstairs, grabbed a shawl off the wall peg, and hurried out to help. “You want to hang pants the other way.”

Ruthie spoke around a laundry pin pinched between her lips. “This is the way my mother used to do it.”

“Perhaps, but it isn’t the correct way.” She reached out to unclip a clothespin as Ruthie grabbed her hand.

Ruthie took the pin out of her mouth to speak clearly and distinctly. “Gabby, it doesn’t really matter.”

Abigail was frankly astonished. “Doesn’t really matter? Of course it matters! Details have enormous consequences. The way you hang clothes on a clothesline makes a huge difference to reducing wrinkles and drying more quickly.” She licked her finger and held it up in the air. “When you hang your clothes on a clothesline, make a note of which way the wind is blowing and hang your clothes so that the smaller items are in the front. That way the wind can pass through to dry the large things at the back. If you put the large things in front, they block the wind from getting to the smaller items behind them.”

“I knew that.”

“If you were aware of that fact, then why have you hung the clothes in the opposite way?” She reached out for a pair of pants that were hung incorrectly. “Always hang pants by the legs. Then the water will wick down to the waistband, which is the heaviest part. The weight of that water and the waistband combined will pull on the pant legs, drawing out the wrinkles.” She pulled out all the pockets. “In cold weather, the pockets won’t dry unless they’re exposed.”

“Our pockets have always dried just fine.”

“Next,” Abigail said, “hang shirts upside down by the side seams. Just like with the pants, this puts the heaviest part of the garment at the bottom so that the water wicks out. Additionally, you won’t get the puckers from the clothespins that you’ll get if you hang shirts by the shoulders.” She smoothed out the last shirt, then started to redo the socks. “What day do you do sheets?”

“Day?”

“Yes. What day of the week do you wash sheets?”

“They have to be washed once a week?”

Abigail gasped. Her hands flew to her throat. “Never mind. Never mind.” She took a deep breath. “We can plan out a schedule.”

Ruthie scowled at her. “I didn’t ask for any help.”

“It’s no bother at all,” Abigail said. “I’m an excellent problem solver.”

“But who said we had a problem?”

“Socks must always be hung by the toes. I usually hang two socks together to save time and clothespins.” One by one, Abigail redid each of the socks on the line. It was distressing to find that there were many socks without partners. “Ruthie, how could this be? Where would the missing socks have gone?”

“There’s a lot of socks in this house! I can’t keep track of everything.”

Abigail stood back to examine her fine work, satisfied. “Next, we can work on ironing skills. There’s a right way to iron and a wrong way to iron. I find most everyone irons the wrong way. I will teach you the right way. I’ve noticed that your sisters have a severe rumpled appearance.”

In the distance, Abigail heard a door slam. She looked around but Ruthie was gone.

Well, well. It was abundantly clear that Ruthie took after their grandmother. She was always quite certain she was right.