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The next morning, Brad forced himself to rise obscenely early – it was hardly 7 o’clock – and beat it out to the overgrown tract of land that adjoined the King farm. To his relief, no one else was there, so he parked the truck and hoofed it across the field of prickly vines to the property line.
He had spent the previous day calling Jemima’s number, since it was a low-risk strategy, but as he had feared, they weren’t answering their phone. So now it was on to the next scenario – the one that seemed at least plausible, since it had worked before.
Brad skirted the garden, taking care to keep out of sight behind the bushes. He peered out, and his heart jumped up into his throat. There was a young woman in the garden. Her face was turned away from him, but it had to be –
She turned her head, and his shoulders sagged. It wasn’t Jemima. It was a plump, sharp-faced preteen with sandy brown hair and freckles. She was picking onions and putting them in a basket.
He bit his lip and cursed silently. As long as she was there, he couldn’t get hold of the Duchess.
The girl worked her way closer to the edge of the garden, but never glanced his way. Brad looked closely at her. She was as ordinary as the Duchess was dazzling, but there was something about her – the way she moved, maybe – that suggested she might be a kid sister.
He was trying to decide whether or not to enlist her help when the girl settled the matter for him. Without turning her head, she said, just loudly enough:
“I see you standing there. What do you want?”
Brad’s mouth dropped open. Why, the sneaky little...he straightened and looked around before answering: “I want to talk to Jemima.”
There was a sputtering sound that might have been laughter. “You and everybody else in the world. What’s it worth to you?”
He cocked his head to one side. “What?”
“You heard me. What’s it worth to you? You won’t get her without my help, I promise. The driveway is barricaded, and all I have to do is call my father, and you’re busted.”
Brad glared at her, torn between surprise, and the urge to laugh. He fished in his pocket. “I don’t carry much money,” he told her.
She shrugged, and made as if to walk away.
“Wait, wait!” he hissed and dug in his wallet. “How about a twenty?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she replied dryly.
He shot her an impatient glance and dug deeper. “Okay, a fifty. But it’s all I’ve got.”
She pretended to drop the basket and to retrieve the onions rolling across the lawn. He stuck the fifty out just far enough for her to grab, and she took it. She put it in the basket, and covered it with vegetables.
She turned her head slightly. “Wait here. I’ll send her out to you.” Then she made her way back to the house – slowly, and with many leisurely detours. She walked up onto the porch, and disappeared inside.
Time passed. Brad stood sweating in the bushes, craning his head for any sign of life at the front door. There was nothing.
He cursed under his breath. He was beginning to think that the girl had played him when the screen door squeaked open, and someone stepped outside. He couldn’t see who it was.
His heart began to pound, and he cursed again. Even after all these months, the Duchess did crazy things to his pulse, but he couldn’t let her, not this time. He had to be at the top of his game. He made himself look down at the ground and tried to clear his mind.
When he looked up again, Jemima was walking out to the garden, her coppery hair framed by the new light shining through the trees. She was backlit by the morning sun, with a network of shining strands floating around her head like a red halo. Her eyes were that vivid, unearthly green, and her delicate profile was dreamy and soft.
She knelt down in the garden and dug in the soft earth with her small white fingers. He watched her, fascinated. She was like a Flemish painting come to life somehow, a...
He shook his head. It was happening again. But he wasn’t going to let it throw him.
He shot a quick glance toward the house, saw no one, and took a deep breath. It was now or never.
He moved toward her quickly, hoping to close the distance before she noticed him. And it worked: he was at her elbow before she looked up. But when she did, his plan went south—disastrously.
For a split second, she stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. And then her green eyes blazed.
“You!” she gasped. “How do you dare to show your face to me again, after all you’ve done to me, and to my family!” She put her hands on the ground and pushed up to her feet, and squared off against him, hands on hips.
“I haven’t had a moment’s peace since I sold that hateful letter! I’ve been hunted like a rabbit, I have no privacy even in my own home! All because of you, and your – your lust for fame!” Her angry eyes impaled him. “You used me, Brad Williams, and I – I –”
He tilted his head apologetically to one side. “I’m sorry it turned out the way it did, truly, Duchess,” he told her, and oddly enough – he meant it. “But I wasn’t the one who hounded you, was I? Is it fair to blame me, for what other people did?”
She turned and began to walk back toward the house. “You and your slick words! But I won’t listen to them anymore! You are a liar, and you used me, and you’ve hurt my family, and stolen our peace! You’re an evil, crafty man!”
He moved to follow. “Listen to me, Jemima! I’m here to help you. I saw your lawyer on the TV yesterday, he was asking for witnesses to come forward, and –”
She whirled to face him. “Leave me alone! Leave, and never come back! How plain do I have to make it? Go away!”
She turned again, and he grabbed her shoulders in desperation. “Listen to me Duchess,” he said urgently, looking down into her face. “I can testify at your trial. I can help –”
But she twisted in his arms, turned her face away from him, and cried out in frustrated German.
The next thing he knew, two big hands twisted him around. He had a split-second glimpse of some black-haired guy, and then, fist city.
Weren’t the Amish supposed to be pacifists?
Brad went sprawling into the cabbage bed, rolled, scrambled up, and lobbed a haymaker at the stranger’s jaw, sending the guy flying back into the dirt.
Brad’s fist throbbed, but fear and adrenaline kept him from focusing too hard on the pain.
“Oh halt es, bitte,” Jemima sobbed, clawing at his shoulder. He stopped long enough to look back at her, and saw that her eyes were now on the house. He followed the direction of her gaze.
Oh, no.
Brad backed away as he caught sight of the red giant – Jemina’s father—and turned to run. Jemima screamed something in German, but her father kept coming. Brad didn’t want to count on this man’s pacifistic tendencies, not after how the other Amish man had slugged him. Instead, Brad vaulted through the underbrush, and when the fence loomed up in front of him, jumped it like a race horse.
He plowed through the brambles as hard as he could go, scrambled down the bank to his truck, flung open the door, and jammed the keys into the ignition. The engine roared to life, and he gunned the motor.
There was suddenly a shattering crack, and when Brad looked into the mirror, the rear window had a hole in it.
And even more unsettling: there on the passenger seat was a rock the size of a baseball.
