lungs, and she had to refill them, realizing the only thing she could hear was her heart pounding in her ears. No other sounds drifted her way, not even the flapping lips of the sleeping horses. She felt ferhoodled at her slip. She must have simply imagined the crunching. Maybe it had been one of her horses shifting in its sleep.
That had to be it, she figured.
With a disgruntled sigh, Grace eased back onto her makeshift bedding. The pitchfork she’d used to fluff the hay earlier now leaned against the back of the wooden stall. Her white organdy kapp lay on the lumpy sack she had propped up to use as a pillow. Catching a thief in the act was proving to be a long and tiring endeavor, and most likely a ridiculous waste of time for an amateur like herself. There was a reason the English called on their police for this type of work. But not the Amish. They shied away from involving law enforcement in their business. Even if Sheriff Maddox had repeatedly made his willingness to help her known, she would not take him up on his offer. Ever since her mamm died in the buggy accident, the sheriff learned about her daed’s illness and took it upon himself to check in. He came by after the first theft occurred and wanted her to report it. But she could handle this on her own, even if it took all night.
Scooping up her kapp, she settled it back on her head and tied it in place. There would be no more dozing. She had to keep her wits about her if she hoped to succeed without involving the local law enforcement or the elders. Calling on either of them would bring her daed’s illness to Bishop Bontrager’s attention. Grace held out hope her father’s illness wouldn’t grow worse.
Thinking about Benjamin Miller had Grace frowning and biting her lower lip to halt any more tears. Nighttime was the hardest. She didn’t think it could be so, but most nights she spent thinking about and planning for what all his needs would require of her the next day.
But there never seemed to be adequate planning for what the day would bring.
By the time the sun shone over the ridge that shadowed her farmhouse 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
