Karen Harper - Return to Grace

“God’s will that I came along to help in time—and that it was you. Even through your friend’s screaming and your pain, I knew it was your voice. Talking, singing, even shouting, your voice has always been beautiful to me.”

She gaped at him, eyes wide, mouth open before she caught herself and, not trusting that voice, nodded. Marlena fidgeted in his arms and sneezed. He cleared his throat.

“That’s all I had to say,” she whispered.

“It means a lot to me. Can I talk to you a minute before I head home? But not out here, where Marlena might catch cold. Can we step into the barn? I have my buggy there.”

She was afraid of the rush of feelings that overwhelmed her near this man, memories, yes, but too strong a reaction to him even now. Distrust, dislike for what he’d done to her, but also raw need, far different from the curiosity she felt about Linc Armstrong. Not moving to follow him at first, she asked, “Do we really have anything but the shooting—which we’ve been over backward and forward with Linc Armstrong—to talk about?”

“I want to show you—you, not him—something I found stuck or caught in the widow with the slit screen late this afternoon. He didn’t climb a ladder to look at your window from the outside so I did.”

“Which means now your footprints are probably where you said they weren’t!”

“We’re both starting to think like him, aren’t we?”

“But what did you find?” she asked, following him around the corner of the barn, not that she wanted to feel even more alone with him, but she understood about Marlena. If she had a little girl like that, especially if she was rearing her alone, she’d be so overprotective that she’d be as uptight as Ella.

He went to his buggy, not the two-seat courting one Hannah was picturing. Of course he’d have a family-size one now. He put Marlena on the front seat, where she sat primly, while he reached in past her and brought out what looked to be a big chicken feather, until Hannah noted its strange black-brown markings in the light from the open barn doors.

“That was stuck in my bedroom window?”

He nodded. “So you couldn’t see it from inside, or almost from outside, either. Wedged lengthwise with the side of the quill and the outer edge of the feather holding it.”

“So, wedged there carefully, intentionally, by someone who managed to open the window itself at least a crack.”

“I’d say so. You can see I damaged it a little, pulling it out. If I wouldn’t have been nearly on top of it, I never would have seen it, either.”

“It’s a big one. From …”

“From an eagle, I think. A wing pinion.”

“An eagle? Like the American bald eagle?” she said, picturing the eagle with arrows in its talons on Linc’s FBI badge.

“I think they’re endangered and government-protected. But that kind of eagle is also sacred to Native Americans. I heard the eagle and the panther were special animals to the historic Indian tribe that once lived around here.”

Her good hand on her hip, she demanded, “Indian tribe? From long ago? You heard that where?”

“At your father’s request, my daad ’s been reading up on Iroquois and Erie Indian history because of tribal rights disputes to some lands around here—some of our land. We’ve got to be prepared if there’s a lawsuit or more bad publicity. It’s all come to a boil since you’ve been gone. John Arrowroot, their local spokesman, is on a mission about getting Indian land back from people in this valley.”

“I remember him. He’s a retired lawyer, isn’t he? He’d always show up at our auctions or fundraisers, stalking around and looking grim. I used to be scared of him when I was little.”

“That’s him. He’s been a lot louder about it lately, giving interviews in the Cleveland and Columbus newspapers. He has an eagle feather like this one painted on the picture window of his house, like a talisman or a warning. I’ve only seen it once when I was hunting with my daad , and we wandered onto his isolated piece of land. I saw him last in the butcher shop outside of town, in an argument with Harlan Kenton, who owns the place.”

“I know where that is. Harlan’s the brother of Amanda Stutzman, who runs the Plain and Fancy B and B. Ella says she’s offered me a job, which I’m thinking of taking.”

“If you do, I’ll buggy you there and back, or if I’m working away, get someone else to. You shouldn’t be out alone.”

“As soon as Naomi’s married, she’s giving me my old horse and buggy back. By then, maybe all this will be over. By the way, the Plain and Fancy is where Sheriff Freeman’s ex-wife is staying.”

“Sheriff Freeman’s ex-wife is back in town? But the thing is, I’ve been trying to decide whether to get the sheriff or our mutual friend Linc in on this feather clue or not. I don’t want to falsely accuse Arrowroot or get him stirred up again over Indian rights to our land. But this feather says he needs a closer look.”

“That’s pretty flimsy evidence. Maybe we could talk to him about something else, just psych him out.”

“I like the sound of that ‘we,’ if it doesn’t include Agent Armstrong. But no, I don’t want you around Arrowroot. Listen. There’s more. That day in Harlan Kenton’s butcher shop, before their argument, I heard Arrowroot say the large mound—mound, not hill—with the Amish graveyard on it had once been holy land his people used for sacrifices.”

“Human sacrifices? Did they bury people there, too?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

THE NEXT MORNING, SETH DROPPED MARLENA off at the Eshes and told Mrs. Esh he’d be back to continue reroofing in about an hour, but he didn’t tell her why. He’d decided to talk to John Arrowroot without tipping him off by questioning or accusing him about the feather, let alone about shooting people in the cemetery.

After Seth had questioned his daad last night about what he knew of Arrowroot’s Erie Indian tribe, he’d come up with a few facts that might point to him as a suspect. Which tribe Arrowroot claimed was a bit confusing as the Erie had supposedly been wiped out years ago by their enemy, the Iroquois. But many of the Seneca tribe were descended from Erie blood, as Arrowroot claimed to be.

The Erie had been farmers and hunters who once flourished in this area, living in small groups. That, Seth thought, sounded like his own people. But the tribe were fierce warriors, known for their skill with poisoned arrows.

So, Seth told himself, Arrowroot deserved watching, not only because he wanted Amish land returned to Seneca-Erie tribal members, but because he could have been the cemetery shooter, especially if that hill had once been sacred to his tribe. Maybe he’d been there for some special, secret ceremony and thought Amish or goth intruders were defiling it. If Seth picked up any proof, he’d tell the sheriff or Linc Armstrong. Right now, he didn’t need the FBI Goliath jumping in with both feet and stirring up this man against the Amish again. If Seth could prove Kevin Pryor’s killer was John Arrowroot, that would get him out of the way for good.

Seth buggied down the main street of Homestead, getting caught at the single traffic light. He’d seen the Dutch Farm Table Restaurant was busy already. Though he’d fixed oatmeal for Marlena and himself this morning, his stomach rumbled. No way he wanted her hooked on those sugary, boxed cereals just because they were easy to serve.

He turned down Fish Creek Road, passing the Rod ‘n’ Gun shop, which was attached to its owner’s one-floor house. The shop was run by Elaine Carson, a former U.S. army officer who bled, as she put it, “red, white and blue.” A big American flag flapped in front of her store with a shooting range out back. Linc had told Seth he’d asked to obtain her list of customers who’d purchased high-velocity rifles in the past two years, but since both Amish and English around here hunted in droves, he’d given up on that tactic.