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Brad Williams moved through the crowd toward the company truck. His cameraman was still sitting in it. The other man looked up as Brad approached, and relief flooded his face.
“There you are! Where you been, man? I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes! Do you have something lined up?”
Brad opened the car door and slid in. “I have a new lead. Here’s the game plan. Get plenty of crowd shots, lots of generic local color, and I’ll fill in the blanks when I get back.”
“You’re taking the truck? We’re supposed to be working the festival!”
“I’ve got a lead on something more interesting.”
The cameraman shook his head. “Man, Delores is going to have your hide.”
Brad winked and grinned. “Delores loves me.”
“Yeah, you’re going to find out how much she loves you,” the other man retorted, wrestling with his camera equipment. “I am so glad, that I am not you.”
“I’ll be back, Eddie!” Brad called after him.
“Wait, how long are you going to be gone?”
But the roar of the truck engine was the only answer he got. The cameraman slumped, and shook his head, and hoisted his equipment on his shoulder. He was still muttering to himself as he disappeared into the crowd.
It took fifteen minutes of crawling traffic to get out of the festival traffic, but once he was clear, Brad stuck the piece of paper on the truck dashboard and squinted at the handwriting.
“Yoder Road...where the heck...okay, okay, there it is.” He made a left turn onto a long, straight two-lane road that plunged immediately into corn fields, and stayed there for fifteen minutes. The only signs of life on it were the occasional Amish buggy, and guys out working the fields.
He squinted at the paper again. “Stay on Yoder Road until the river...what river? Where is the stupid – okay, coming up.”
There was a wide, shallow river visible on the road ahead. There was a bridge, and barely visible beyond it, a tiny, unmarked dirt road. Brad thought dryly that it was just as well that the old man had warned him, because he never would have noticed it otherwise. He made a hard right turn and the truck plunged onto the dirt road, kicking up a trail of dust.
“Okay...follow it for five miles, and take the second left...big oak tree.”
The truck bounced along the dirt road, jouncing over potholes and the occasional rock. The only things visible on it were a line of trees overhanging the river, on the right, and dense forest on the left. There wasn’t even a house now.
At the five mile mark, just as the directions said, there was a huge old oak tree on the left side of the road, and a turning onto another, even smaller, dirt road. He turned left, and consulted the paper again.
“Third farm on the road...big house...green shutters.”
He drove down the road, which was getting progressively worse. The potholes were getting bigger and harder to navigate. He craned his neck, looking for a farm, but there were only more and bigger trees, crowding more and more closely to the edge of the road.
At last he pulled the truck to a stop. The sign across the road read, Dead End.
He groaned and pressed his head against the wheel.
An hour later Brad Williams walked into the Satterwhite Gift Shop, tired, rumpled, and grim.
“Ha ha,” he said sardonically.
Mr. Satterwhite smirked, and continued scribbling in a ledger. “I told you I wasn’t going to give you information, boy,” he said dryly. “You should learn to take a hint.”
Brad slumped against the wall, and eyed him. “Look, what if that clock turns out to be something valuable, and your friend doesn’t know it? That guy sure sounded anxious to get it back.”
“What’s your interest in it?” the old man drawled.
“A story, of course.”
The old man shook his head. “You’re new here, aren’t you boy? None of the Amish folk are going to talk to you.”
Brad sighed, bit his lip, and turned to go, but couldn’t resist a parting shot.
“You can still do an interview though, right?”
“Get out!”
Brad walked out onto the street and into a running stream of tourists. He shielded his eyes, squinting. There might still be time to get a few good interviews before the festival was over for the day, and he had to go back to the paper. To report to his editor, Delores.
He bit his lip.
With yet another boring story about a vegetable festival in Amish country.
It was true that he was fresh out of school, a greenhorn reporter, but Delores hadn’t assigned him anything more important than horse auctions and business openings since he arrived.
It was past time for something more substantial.
He rolled a pen between his fingers. The clock thing was intriguing, and possibly newsworthy, if his hunch was right. And if the clock turned out to be something old or valuable, a story about it might help him move up from the grunt assignments, to actual news.
His mind returned to the redheaded beauty. The old man at the store had been tough as an old boot, but maybe one of the other shop owners in town would know who the girl was, and be willing to give a name, at least.
And he had to admit, the prospect of seeing her again was hardly less pleasant than that of getting a good story.
He wiped his brow with one arm, straightened, and walked into the store to the left of the Satterwhite Gift Shop.
“Yes, she comes into town every so often to sell her dolls.”
The woman behind the counter was plump, matronly, and, to Brad’s relief, fond of talking.
“Do you know her name?”
“Oh yes, her name is Jemima King. Pretty little thing, all the Amish boys are wild about her.”
Brad nodded pleasantly. “I guess she must be a local, then.”
“Yes, her family has lived here for hundreds of years! Her father has a blacksmith shop about five miles out of town.”
“Could you tell me how to get there?”
She giggled. “If you’re hoping to get a date, young man, you’ll be disappointed. Her father will never let her go out with a young man who isn’t Amish!”
“Oh, it’s not that,” he smiled. “I just wanted to ask a question.”
She shook her head and smiled. “You can try, but you’ll most likely be wasting a trip.” She looked at him amiably, and began scribbling out directions on a piece of paper.
