will,” he agreed quietly, startling her. And then she silently chided herself. Ruthie had lost her mother, but this man had lost his wife. “That was not what I meant. Eleven years ago was 2001.”
“Yes.”
“And you lost them both, together.”
“Yes.”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then, his deep voice soft, he said rather than asked it, as if he already knew the answer. “September 11.”
“Yes.” She studied him for a moment. “I wasn’t sure how much impact that had in the Amish community.”
His mouth tightened slightly. “It had tremendous impact. It tested our beliefs like few things ever have. And our relationship with you English.”
She’d never really thought about it, not from their point of view. “You mean because you don’t believe in fighting back.”
“And we were often held in contempt for it. We love our country, but because our beliefs forbid flying its flag it was assumed we did not.”
“You don’t fly the flag because of your beliefs,” she said slowly, almost wonderingly, “but how do you decide to remain a pacifist in the face of people who kill us in the name of theirs?”
“It is not a decision, Agent Colton. It is who we are.”
They had proven that, time and again, so she didn’t see any use in arguing the point.
“Sometimes,” she said, her gaze unfocused as she remembered the horrors of that day, “I envy you the simplicity and peace of your lives.”
“Many do,” he said. “But few are truly willing to do what it takes to attain it.”
She refocused abruptly. He was looking at her with a mild sort of amusement. She supposed he had heard that often from visitors or tourists who enthused about their way of life until the realization came that they really would have to give up so much of what they took for granted.
“You are truly related to the English president?”
“He’s your president, too. But yes. I grew up calling him Uncle Joe.”
“He seems a good man.”
“He is. He’s already done some good things.”
“I know little of that,” Caleb said. “But unlike others, he’s done nothing of harm to us.”
Again Emma felt a pang; what must it be like to only have to judge a small portion of what craziness went on in the world, the small portion that directly affected you and yours? The idea of not having to thrash her way through all the complications and political gamesmanship that made her life an occasional morass was beyond tempting. It was like Shangri-la, something she longed for but wasn’t sure really existed.
“Ruthie’s mother,” she began, then stopped, unable to think how to phrase a question that had nothing to do with why she was here.
Caleb went very still. His mouth tightened, and his voice became rough. “I do not speak of her to my family. I certainly will not speak of her to a stranger. She has nothing to
do with this.”
The words and his tone were harsh, but Emma had had enough training and practice in reading people to realize they both were outward evidence of a powerful inward emotion.
The man had loved his wife. Enough, apparently, to risk sanction from his church, she thought as she looked again at the nick that marred his strong, smooth-shaven jaw. She wondered how long the elders’ patience would last, how much slack they would give a grieving widower before they took action. Would they really do something like shun him for shaving that Amish symbol of manhood, the beard, when it was done out of grief?
I don’t deserve that symbol.
His words echoed in her head. The harsh tone echoed what she had just heard from him. It had sounded like more than simple grief. And with a sudden flash of insight she thought she knew why. She knew because it was a trait every Colton man had in spades.
You protected your own.
And if you failed at that, you weren’t a Colton. You weren’t even really a man.
She was familiar with the mind-set.
She admired the mind-set, for the most part.
She’d just never expected to find it here. She’d thought it bred out of these men, long ago, through submission to what they saw as the will of God.
In a way, it relieved her. It took her a while to realize why.
It meant Caleb Troyer wasn’t quite perfect after all.
Chapter 6
Sometimes, Caleb thought, he would like nothing more than to walk away. As he sat in his chair next to the gas lamp, a book open in his lap but so far unread, he imagined a life without the constant reminders, a life not lived in the house he and Annie had shared. A life where everyday things didn’t jab at him, seeming to taunt him with the loss of the sweet, shy woman who had loved him with all her heart. And whom he had loved since the moment he’d first seen her.
Something the Englishwoman had said went through his mind, about taking down pictures of a loved one who had passed.
… and finding it makes no difference, because you simply always notice it’s gone and remember why …
Would it truly be that way somewhere else, away from all the reminders? Was it not the reminders at all, but something missing inside himself? Had Annie truly taken his heart with her, was that why he felt so hollow?
He felt a flash of anger that he immediately quashed with the ease of long practice. He had no right to feel anger at what had clearly been God’s will. Annie had died in the most natural of acts, bringing a child into the world. If anyone deserved anger it was he himself. He should have called for Dr. Colton sooner, the moment things had started to go wrong. Even though he’d come immediately, arriving much more quickly than Caleb would have thought possible, by the time he did get there Annie was lying still and lifeless.
Dr. Colton. A fine man, a good man, and a good doctor. And he was the FBI woman’s brother. This woman who had obviously gained wisdom from her own tragedy. Because deep inside he knew she was right. Leaving his home would not cure the pain he felt. The hollowness was not in a place or a building. It was in him.
He chided himself sharply; he had no time for self-pity or worse, dwelling on the words, however wise, of a woman not of his world. And yet he found himself staring at the rack on the wall by the door where Annie’s cape had always hung, empty now, and the simple truth in what she had said struck home.
“Father?”
Katie’s voice was hesitant, so much like her mother’s it felt like a punch to his stomach every time she spoke. But especially when he was lost in this kind of self-indulgent musing.
“Katie,” he acknowledged.
“I’m through with my schoolwork. May I read my book before bedtime?”
“Yes.”
The girl was deep into a series of novels about quilting that she had begun reading with her mother. She’d only recently begun to read them again. For over a year after Annie’s death, Katie had wanted nothing to do with them. She had stuffed them into the corner of the dresser Caleb had built for her before she was born, covering them with folded aprons and caps, as if putting them out of sight would make—
And as quickly as that he was back to the words of the FBI woman.
“Father,” Ruthie began.
“Schoolwork,” he answered, knowing her well enough that she wouldn’t be finished yet. Ruthie was bright, clever and quick, but was also easily distracted.