Martin sat awkwardly on his horse, his ill-fitting clothes hanging on him as if he hung on a hook. His pants were too short and his coat sleeves were too long. He wore no hat and his hair was unruly and wind-tossed, flying in all directions. He was a rumpled mess. Rumpled Martin.

“Is your father in the shop?” Faxon Gingerich said, not bothering to look at Tessa as he spoke.

“No. My father hasn’t returned from the frontier yet,” Tessa said. “My mother’s expecting him back any day.”

After Bishop Jacob Hertzler had been injured in a fall two years ago—the only Amish bishop in all the New World—her father had traveled by horseback to the frontier twice a year to act on his behalf: marrying, burying, baptizing. The trip usually took him two weeks, but he’d been gone for three.

Faxon’s glance shifted to the stone house before resting on Tessa, the wind tugging at his beard. “Do you know which direction your father headed?”

“Up the Schuylkill River.”

Faxon stared at her, his face settling into deep lines. 

Tessa felt the first ominous tickle start up her spine. “Have you news? Has something happened?”

Faxon’s bushy eyebrows promptly descended in a frown, no doubt thinking she didn’t know her place. It was a common complaint fired at Tessa. Who did she think she was, asking bold questions of an elder?

Worried about her father, that’s what she was. Tessa stared back at him, her head held high, erect. “Is my father in danger?” Tessa looked from Faxon the Saxon to Rumpled Martin and caught their concern. Something had happened.

Faxon ignored her question. “Where’s your mother?”

“She’s gone to a neighbor’s to take a meal. They had a new baby. You know how she loves babies.” Everybody knew that, everybody except for Faxon the Saxon. He wouldn’t know that about Anna Bauer because he wouldn’t care. He did not hold much regard for any Amish person apart from Bairn Bauer, for whom he had a grudging admiration.

Faxon swung a leg over his horse to dismount. “Has he made progress on the wagon?”

“Some. It’s not finished though.”

He stood, feet planted, and she knew exactly what he wanted. To see the wagon. Faxon Gingerich had come to her father last summer with a request for him to build a better hauling wagon. Faxon made frequent trips to Philadelphia to sell and trade products and was fed up with wagon wheels stuck in mud. The provincial government was abysmally slow to cobble roads, so he had decided there must be a better design for a wagon. He just couldn’t figure one out.

Tessa wasn’t sure her father would want her to show the unfinished project, but she was proud of his ingenuity and she could tell Faxon would not be dissuaded from seeing it. “I’ll show it to you if you like. I’ll try to explain the design.”

Rumpled Martin jumped off his horse, and she was startled to see that they were now about the same height. He noticed that she had noticed and gave her a big goofy grin. Appalling.

She led the way to her father’s carpentry shop in silence. Hand tools hung neatly along the walls, but most of the shop was taken up with the enormous wooden wagon, eighteen feet from stern to bow. She opened the door and held it for Faxon, enjoying the sight of his bearded jaw drop so low it hit his chest. It was not a common sight to see Faxon the Saxon look nonplussed, and Tessa relished the moment. Savored it.

She inhaled the scent of wood shavings, linseed oil, and wax. Smells associated with her father. Worry circled her mind like bees around flowers. Where was he? 

Faxon’s gaze roamed slowly over the wagon; he peered into it, then below it. Its base set on wooden blocks, as her father hadn’t made wheels yet. “A rounded base? What could he be thinking?”

He had immediately honed in on the most noteworthy improvement that Tessa’s father had made—the one that set it apart from all other wagons. “It’s like the keel of a ship. My father used to be a sailor. He said that the curved bottom would keep barrels and goods from shifting and tipping and rolling around.”

“If he can pull that off, it will be a miracle,” Faxon muttered. He and his awful son walked around the wagon, crawled under it, bent low to examine each part of it, murmuring to each other in maddeningly low voices.

“My father said this wagon will be able to haul as much as six tons of freight.”

Faxon Gingerich shot up from a bent position so fast that his long, wiry beard bounced against his round belly. “How much?”

“Six tons. Assuming, of course, that you’ve plenty of horsepower to pull that kind of weight.”

With that piece of information, everything changed. Faxon’s countenance lightened, he continued inspecting the wagon but without the constant frown.  

“It’s not meant for people to ride in it,” Tessa said. “Strictly a freight wagon. The teamster walks along the left side.”

The frown was back. “No place for a teamster to sit?”

“There’s a board for him to sit if he grows weary.” Tessa bent down and slid out a wooden board.

“How many oxen would be needed to pull six tons of freight?”

“Quite a few. At least six.”

Faxon’s forehead puckered.  

“Or horses could be used too.”

“Not possible,” Faxon said. “They’re not strong enough. Has to be oxen.”

“My uncle Felix has bred a type of horse that can pull the kind of heavy freight the Conestoga wagon can carry.”

Now Faxon’s bushy eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “The Conestoga wagon?”

“That’s what my father calls it. To honor your valley. He said you gave him the idea for it. Credit goes to you.”

Faxon the Saxon’s chest puffed out and he very nearly smiled. It often puzzled Tessa how men needed personal significance to see things clearly. Their secret pride.

“Looks nearly finished to me. Just missing wheels.”

“Wheels, yes, but there’s still quite a bit of hardware to be made,” Tessa said. “Plus pitch will be needed to make the seams watertight. And my mother and Maria Mueller will sew canvas cloth to cover the wagon bows, front to back.”

Rumpled Martin regarded her thoughtfully. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

Sarcasm. He may be taller now but he was just as rude. She ignored him and spoke only to his father. “You can find out more about it after my father returns.”

Faxon’s pleased look instantly faded. He exchanged a look with Rumpled Martin, whose misgiving showed plain on his face. A dark cloud descended in the carpentry shop. Something had happened along the frontier. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Faxon’s face flattened and he went stone still for a full minute. “Trouble has come to our brethren in the north. There’s been another Indian attack on families who settled along the Schuylkill River.”

Tessa felt an unsettling weakness in the base of her stomach. These stories had become too common. “Did you recognize any names?”

“Just one. Zook. William and Martha Zook. The parents were found dead, the children were taken captive.”

Tessa’s heart started to pound. “Betsy Zook?”

“A girl said to be about your age. Smaller than you, though.” His eyes skimmed her from head to toe. “Much, much shorter. Blond hair.”

Tessa gave her chin a slight jerk. That’s her, that’s Betsy. The Zooks had immigrated to Berks County from Germany just about a year and a half ago. Tessa had met Betsy when the Amish churches gathered for spring and fall communion. Betsy was a beautiful girl, beloved by all, kind to the core. Tessa disliked her. 

Betsy was everything Tessa wasn’t. She was petite while Tessa was tall. She was curvy while Tessa was a table—flat with long thin arms and legs. She was perpetually kind while Tessa had touchy feelings. 

But Tessa’s dislike had nothing to do with Betsy. It had to do with Hans Bauer. From the moment they met, Hans fancied Betsy Zook.

A sick feeling roiled in Tessa’s middle. So often, she had wished Betsy’s family would just move away, go west. Go east. Go somewhere. She had even prayed for it! Especially after she learned that Hans had gone to visit Betsy numerous times.

But she had never wished for Betsy to be a victim of an Indian attack, to be taken captive.

Faxon Gingerich swept a glance over the large stone house her father had built, strong and sturdy. “Your father did well to bring you all down here, so many years ago, although your grandfather wanted to stay north. The frontier has become a devil’s playground.”

Faxon and Martin walked back to the horses and mounted them. “I will pray your father returns safely and soundly,” Faxon said, before turning his horse around and starting down the lane.

“Don’t worry, Tessa,” Rumpled Martin said. “I’m sure he’ll be home soon.” He gave her a reassuring smile before cantering off to join his father.

Until that moment, it had never occurred to Tessa that her father might not return at all.