Janice Kay - Plain Refuge

“Pennsylvania. There, we have so many tourists.” She shook her head. “I was scared every time I crossed a street or heard a car coming up behind my buggy.”

A twitch of his expressive eyebrows made her realize her mistake.

“You think I am not trusting in God.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I do in my head,” she explained, “but my heart still races and my hands shake.”

“Post-traumatic stress,” he said quietly.

She pretended to look puzzled.

“Your body reacts without waiting for permission from you. It takes time for that kind of response to go away.”

She shivered. “Ja.”

He laid a big hand over hers. “You’re cold.”

Her fingers curled into her palms and she quickly withdrew from him. “My hands and feet are always cold.”

A smile crinkled the skin beside his eyes. “Even in August here in Missouri? Teach me your trick.”

She wanted to laugh. Instead, she said shyly, “There is no trick. It’s fine in summer, not so good in winter.”

“No.” His gaze rested on her face a moment longer. Then he reached for his door handle. “We should go in. I see your uncle coming from the barn.”

Oh, heavens—everyone in the house was probably peeking out the window by now.

“Ja, you are right.” She leaped out faster than she ought to have and slammed the door. “I should have been helping to cook, not sitting here like a lump.”

Walking beside her, the sheriff said, “I suspect your family wants you to rest until you don’t hurt anymore before you dive into chores.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to listen to them. It is so kind of them to take us in.”

Another mistake—he must know that visiting was a favorite pastime for the Amish, who loved having family even for extended stays.

But Sheriff Byler only glanced sidelong at her before remarking, as if at random, “It occurs to me your last name isn’t Graber.”

Her mind stuttered in panic. She couldn’t admit to being divorced. The Amish didn’t divorce. Widowed. She would be widowed, except then she would have retained her husband’s last name. And she’d never heard of anyone among the Amish with a last name of Gregory.

Lie? But Matthew might give her away. Oh, no—if he ever told anyone his last name was Gregory, they were in trouble.

“I... No,” she said.

The front door opened just as Onkel Samuel reached them, his long strides eating up the ground. Amid the greetings, Rebecca was able to slip into the house and take Matthew to the bathroom to wash his hands. Heart still thudding, she realized how important it was that she avoid giving Sheriff Daniel Byler any more chances to corner her. She’d made too many slips already. He wasn’t Amish, of course, but she suspected he knew the citizens of his county well enough to notice anomalies in her speech or behavior. And he was too interested in her.

Once back in the kitchen, she took a seat at the far end of the farmhouse table, staying silent as her uncle talked with the sheriff about local happenings, including an upcoming street fair and auction in Hadburg to raise money for the volunteer fire department. She tensed, knowing everyone would go. People would comment if she and Matthew didn’t.

When Sheriff Byler finally rose to leave, her uncle politely standing to show him out, Rebecca only joined the others in murmuring “Goodbye.”

She nudged her son, who said, “I liked looking at your police car,” which was only polite. That was the moment when Rebecca realized in horror that they had been speaking in English the entire time. Of course they had been. But an Amish boy Matthew’s age shouldn’t be fluent in English.

Frantically trying to think of an excuse if the sheriff ever asked, Rebecca didn’t let herself meet those dark blue eyes, and she stayed seated until he was gone. Once she heard the engine, she let Matthew run outside.

Onkel Samuel came back to sit across the table from her. “Curious about you, he is.”

She nodded. “I think that’s why he came by this morning.”

“Ja, that is so.” Lines in his forehead deepened. “I didn’t tell you, but after you got off the bus, he asked about your face.”

Her aenti Emma and Grossmammi bustled in the background and didn’t contribute to the conversation.

“I knew he’d seen my bruises,” Rebecca said. “When we were sitting in his car, he asked how it happened. I made it sound like an accident, but told him the driver didn’t stop and the police hadn’t been able to find him.”

His face relaxed. “That is good. There was no need to lie.”

“No.” Onkel Samuel wouldn’t approve of lying, but... “He asked what my last name is. You greeted him then, so I didn’t have to answer, but what if he asks again?”

He pondered that. “Outsiders join us sometimes. Someone named Holt could be one of them.”

“Yes, but if he looked me up in his computers, he might find me. And Matthew’s name is different from mine, besides.” She hesitated. “I did lie to him. I said I had come from Pennsylvania.”

He frowned. “Perhaps we should tell him what you fear. Someone must set things right. I think he can be trusted.” Still, he sounded reluctant.

Inexplicably, the idea of confiding in Sheriff Byler was appealing...as was he. And that triggered a new kind of alarm. Being attracted to him was a really bad idea. Plus, a physical attraction was absolutely the wrong reason to trust him. She could easily imagine him being cocky enough to think he could solve her problems, and arrogant enough to do what he thought best without asking her first. And that was assuming he didn’t have more in common with Estevez than she wanted to believe.

“The fewer people who know I’m not Amish, the better,” she said slowly. “What if he tells a friend, or one of his officers, who tells someone else? So fast, everyone could know.”

“If you ask him to keep silent...”

“Why don’t we wait and see what happens?” she said. “He came out here and saw that I’m doing fine. He may have satisfied his curiosity.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Ja, that is so.”

Rebecca hesitated. “You don’t think I’m off in the head to think someone was trying to kill me?”

“Wu schmoke is, is aa feier,” he said without hesitation.

That much of the language she remembered: where there is smoke, there is fire.

“God asks us to trust in Him, but He does not say to be a fool,” her uncle added. “When a horse lifts a hoof and I see he will set it down on my toes, I move my foot schnell.”

“Denke,” she said, torn between humor and tears.

He only smiled and said, “I must get back to work.” Clapping his straw hat onto his head, he departed.

It took her a moment to collect herself enough to rise and say, “Let me wash those dishes, Aenti Emma.”

* * *

DANIEL DROVE AWAY from the Graber farm no more satisfied than before. He knew he didn’t have Rebecca’s whole story. She’d failed to offer her last name, which increased his suspicion that she was running from an abusive spouse.

He didn’t much like that explanation for several reasons. At the forefront was the danger to Rebecca and her kid. In his experience, domestic violence was like dynamite, volatile and deadly.

What was most puzzling was the rarity of an Amish woman fleeing from her husband. They were a peaceful people, committed to nonviolence. Domestic abuse existed among them, but forgiveness was so ingrained that women rarely gave up on a husband. Or perhaps it was more that the women knew how few alternatives they had. If the abuse was bad enough, she might go to her bishop, who would chide the husband, maybe going so far as counseling him and demanding he confess and beg forgiveness from the entire congregation. But for the wife to take her child and run... Daniel had never heard of such a thing.