Katy Lee - Amish Country Undercover

She couldn’t say another word as agony overcame her, emanating from her feet.

Her bare feet.

She hadn’t thought her actions through before racing to put the fire out.

Grace stumbled back, and as she raised her head she caught the lawman staring at her. She watched shock overtake his face and knew it had to match her own.

In an instant, he dropped his hat and stepped in front of her, then swept her up in his arms.

“Put me down!” she tried to yell, but her voice cracked with pain.

“You foolish woman,” he muttered. At this close range, and without the black cap, she could see his temple pulsing. He fixed his gaze on the house, and she knew there was nothing she could say to stop him, even if she could speak through the growing burn. With her in his arms, the lawman raced forward. “What were you thinking? And I don’t just mean about your bare feet and the fire. These people are not to be messed with. Why would you ever deal with them?”

As if on cue, a shot rang out from the trees. The lawman grunted, but kept running, now bending his head to cover her as much as possible. He reached the porch steps, taking two at a time, just as another shot sounded. The bullet pelted the floorboards at his feet, missing its mark.

The door swung wide, and he carried her through. Her father had opened it for them this time, but he shrank and cowered back when the lawman kicked it shut again.

He lowered her to the floor instantly. “Stay down,” he ordered, then looked up at her father. Grace expected him to bark orders at her daed as he had with her, but he surprised her with a quiet tone. “Benjamin, I’m going to sit you on the floor. It is safer there.” He handled the elderly man gently, his strong hands guiding him down beside her.

Grace watched the lawman crawl to a window, his gun back in his hand and at the ready to shoot. The sight stupefied her. How had such an event come to be? This farmhouse had been the only home she’d ever known and had always been filled with peace and laughter, even after her mamm died. Grace did her best to put aside her grief, making sure her daed received what he needed as his mind deteriorated further. Benjamin Miller was a wonderful father—even if most days now he didn’t remember he had a child.

“It’s been quiet since we got inside,” Grace said in a timid voice at last. “Do you think he’s gone?”

“If he is, it won’t be for long. He came for the horse. He can’t go back empty-handed.” The daunting Jack Kaufman glanced her way, his expression skeptical. “As I’m sure you know.”

Grace shook her head in denial, then gave up with a sigh. What else could she say? Nothing. “Think what you want about me. I know the truth.”

“And that would be what?” His right eyebrow arched. “Let’s hear it. And I only want the truth. Nothing else.”

Grace pressed her lips tight, not wanting to tell this bullish man anything. He’d done nothing but invade her life and home, treating her like a criminal ever since he’d showed up with his gun drawn on her.

But to say nothing in self-defense could land her in handcuffs.

With her mind made up, she laid out the facts. “I’m the horse trader’s daughter. I’ve been helping my father with the dealings for as long as I can remember. It’s all I know.” Grace frowned, glancing at her daed . “And now...it’s up to me to take over the business—”

“Your bishop will allow that?” Agent Kaufman interrupted.

The air whooshed from Grace’s lungs. How did he know what to say to trip her up?

He wanted the truth, but to tell him Bishop Bontrager would be receptive to her taking the reins from her father would be a lie. The elder had already made it clear he had someone in mind to take over the business when Benjamin was no longer up to the task.

Grace reached for her father’s weakened hand. Squeezing it, she searched his eyes to see if he recognized her. His smile calmed her enough to continue. Her daed was beside her, giving her all she needed to impart the rest of the details to the agent.

“I will lose my job,” she admitted, looking around the room. “And all you see here. The horse trader is supposed to be a man. It’s not right for a woman to be dealing with such things.”

“You say that like you’ve memorized the rules, but don’t actually believe them.”

Grace searched his face. Again, the man saw too much. “It’s been three months since I started going alone to the racetrack in my father’s place,” she admitted, instead of replying to his comment. “I’ve handled it competently. I meant for Bishop Bontrager to see my father taught me well.”

“Did your father teach you to steal?”

“No. Of course not. He taught me what to look for in a good buggy horse. He taught me how to place a bid on the horses that the track rejected for racing. Just because they aren’t fast enough for harness racing doesn’t mean they should be put to pasture. The Amish live a slow life. We don’t need fast horses.”

“I know all about the slow life.”

Grace squinted up at him, not sure how the man knew about her way of life. “You’ve interrogated other Amish people before?”

He suppressed a laugh and looked out the window from the edge of the curtain, not responding.

What did she expect? He was here for answers, not questions.

“Go on,” he instructed, as he dropped the curtain and moved away from the window. He placed his gun in its holster and walked to the basin and water pump in the kitchen. He cranked the handle with ease, then brought the full basin back into the living room. “I said go on.”

But Grace could only stare at him, wondering what he planned to do with the water. Until he knelt in front of her and reached for one of her ankles.

She jerked her leg back. “No. You don’t have to do that.”

“You just keep talking. I can’t be bringing my prisoner in with burned feet. My boss won’t take too kindly to that.” He pressed a cool, wet rag to the scorched sole.

Grace inhaled sharply at the contact. She sighed as relief took over.

Then his words propelled her to finish her side of the story. She couldn’t be taken anywhere, never mind prison. Her father needed her to keep things going at home.

“I go to Autumn Woods every Tuesday and Saturday when they are testing their horses, and sit in the stands. When one fails the trainers’ tests, they look to the bidders and ask if anyone wants to buy it. I raise my hand when I see a horse that would be a good fit for the Amish. Like I said, my father taught me well. I know when to bid and when not to. They give me a ticket for each horse I buy, and I take them to the stables when I am ready to leave. I hand over the tickets, and they tie up my horses behind my buggy. That’s it.”

“What price did you pay for the horse today?”

Grace nodded at the desk across the room. “Twelve hundred. The papers are in the drawer. You’re welcome to look at them. You’ll see I paid a fair price for each one. I didn’t steal those horses.”

Jack reached into a pocket on his pant leg. He took out a sheet of paper and showed her a list of numbers. “These are the identification codes of some of the stolen horses. These are the codes for thoroughbreds, not standardbreds. They are tattooed on the horses’ inner upper lip.”

“I know all about the identifications. A thoroughbred begins with the letter of the year of its foaling, followed by four or five numbers.”

“So you know a look when we go out there will prove one way or the other if any of those are the stolen horses, but I’ll save you the suspense. I already checked.”

“And?”

“And I wouldn’t still be here if you weren’t my thief.”