and cornfields, Grace would find herself exhausted, with no rest in sight.
“Please, Gött, help me keep him safe,” she whispered. “Help me to know what to do and how to protect and care for him.” And help him not to forget me anymore.
The crunch came again.
Grace’s nerves shot back to full alert. She was certain sure that she wasn’t alone, after all. And in all the time she had relaxed, the thief had been creeping closer. There was no time to prepare. Grace quickly reached for the pitchfork with both hands, and in one movement, jumped to her feet and came running out of her stall.
“Leroy Mast, you leave my horses alone!” she yelled. Her voice carried weight and authority.
Except it was not Leroy who stood before her. It wasn’t an Amish man at all. Because no Amish man would ever hold a gun in his hand, never mind point it at someone.
Grace had expected to see Leroy, or perhaps a young Amish boy pranking her. Perhaps an elder setting her up for her own good, so the bishop could give her father’s job as the horse trader to an Amish man, a much more suitable choice than her.
But none of her ideas matched the grave reality before her.
All she could focus on was the black barrel of the handgun less than two feet from her eyes. Its ominous closeness meant nothing compared to the speed of the bullet that could come through it and sink into her flesh. Being Amish, she’d never fired a gun, but sometimes hunting was necessary, and her daed had a shotgun for such a case.
Oh, why didn’t I think to grab that, instead of this pitchfork?
Because I never dreamed this would happen.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” the man aiming the gun on her said in a sad tone. “These are not your horses.”
Cautiously, Grace glanced up into the face of the gunman. In the dim light of moonbeams filtering through the windows and door, she could make out black, shaggy hair beneath a cap, but his eyes were in shadow behind the gun. Without seeing his face, she couldn’t tell why his tone of voice didn’t match his threatening stance.
A quick glance down showed he was dressed in full black attire, from his booted feet to the cap. Dark and sinister, maybe, but his deep voice didn’t correspond to the dark clothing, either. He sounded disappointed in her.
“I really wished I was wrong about you,” he said. He even sighed and shook his head.
More cues that didn’t match up.
Grace couldn’t follow his words. In the moment, her brain struggled to compute the whole scene, never mind what he meant about being wrong about her. The only thoughts running through her mind were of escape.
In her peripheral vision, she saw the heads of the horses, watching from their stalls. She silently prayed for their protection as her gaze swung back to the gun. Grace became aware of a large lump growing in her throat. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. She finally managed to gasp, “The sheriff knows.”
The words were meant to warn the man and cause him to run, but instead, he gave a short laugh. His head lifted a bit as the jovial sound slipped from his lips.
That’s when she saw he wasn’t alone.
The silhouette of another gunman at the door also had his gun aimed right at her. She couldn’t make out his face at all, but she could tell by his outline that he wore a cowboy hat perched low on his head, and he was much shorter than the man in front of her. But height didn’t matter when one had a gun.
“What do you want?” Grace whispered, as her gaze flitted between the two men. Fear threaded through her words even as her hands tightened around the handle of the pitchfork. “Are you the ones stealing the horses?”
“Ones?” the man in front of her said and turned his head to look behind him.
In that instant, Grace had a choice to make. Stand and be shot or make a run for it. With the pitchfork still in her grasp, she took the opportunity to thrust it at the man in front of her. As he stumbled back, she veered around him, heading for the side door.
Two gunshots rang out behind her. Grace ducked her head as the bullets whooshed by her and splintered the wood frame of the door she ran toward. Two shots meant for her that missed their mark, but there would surely be more that might not. She could not stop running.
She reached the door and flung it wide, bursting out into the pitch darkness just as multiple gunshots went off. Throwing herself to the ground with her hands up over her head, she felt the hard gravel bite into her cheek. But adrenaline had her moving again, scuttling forward a few feet with her head low. Then she lifted her face with the goal of seeking safety. The refuge of her home was straight ahead...but still so far. The structure was dark, with no candles or lanterns burning in the windows. Grace prayed for it to stay that way.
But nothing was going the way she had planned tonight, for the upstairs bedroom in the far right corner lit up as a lantern’s flame burned bright.
The gunshots had awoken her father.
More shots rang out behind her, and Grace began to run even before she stood up completely. She had to get to him before these men did. Nothing could stop her, not even the blasts behind her.
With her head bent low, she scrunched up her long dress and apron in her hands and ran all the way to the porch stairs. Tiny rocks flew up with each step and hit the backs of her calves. The hard wooden boards of the stairs scraped her bare feet when she reached them and took them two at a time. The door beckoned; she was almost there. But just as she reached the door, it swung wide and Benjamin Miller blocked her way.
Grace barreled into her father’s chest with a loud oof. “Daed! Get down!” she gasped. She tried to push him back.
“Intruder!” her father hollered. Anger filled his face as he stared at her.
Tears of fear filled Grace’s eyes. “Please, Daed. Get back inside.” She pushed on his chest with all her might, but even in his weakened condition she couldn’t budge him.
He leaned close and yelled in her face, “Intruder! Get off my land!”
Grace wanted to cry at his lapse of memory of her, but then another gunshot went off behind her. Desperate, she grabbed her daed’s bearded face and forced him to look into her eyes. “Daedi, it’s me, ya? It’s your Grace. Your daughter.” She willed him to see her, rising up on her tiptoes to get closer.
“Was ist letz?” Benjamin Miller squinted at her in a fogged state. “Grace?”
“Ya, it’s Grace. Komm. We have to get inside.” She pushed him again, and this time he allowed her to steer him backward into the safety of their home. Grace slammed the door behind them just as another shot rang out in what had become a nightmare of a night.
But this wasn’t a dream Grace could wake up from. Just like her father’s illness, it was a trial she would have to face head-on—and alone.
Jack Kaufman held his gun close and ready to fire again. A simple arrest for a horse theft had turned dangerous. As an FBI special agent, he was put on this case when an anonymous caller from the local racetrack reported a stolen horse. A little digging and Jack found the missing thoroughbred at an overseas illegal betting operation. The transporting of the animal across borders brought the theft into his jurisdiction, so here he was in a sleepy little Kentucky town planning to close this case tonight. He had hoped to make his arrest and get back to fighting some tougher crimes.
Boy, did I misjudge that.
Never had he thought he would walk straight into a shootout on an Amish farm. He also never thought a pretty Amish woman would be involved. Any Amish, for that matter.
“Never