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 a dull moment on this job,” he mumbled, and scanned the tree line for the gunman who had nearly taken him out, back in the barn. He grimaced at how close he had come to lights out. A glance in the direction of the farmhouse had Jack wondering if the woman had fared as well. He shouldn’t care, since it was her partner who could have killed him. Whether she was hurt or not, he would deal with her after he apprehended the shooter.
He shifted position to behind the outhouse, closer to the forest. No shot went off, and he wondered if the guy was long gone. Jack silently scoffed at the idea of the woman teaming up with this bad guy with a gun. No Amish person he’d ever known dealt with guns. He hoped he lived to find out her reason, and it better be good.
For now, he had to figure out if the shooter was still out there gunning for him.
Jack crouched low and patted the ground with his free hand, still holding his gun at the ready. His fingers brushed against hard dirt. He stretched farther until he felt a rock. Throwing it might expose his body to the shooter more than he wanted, but it would be worth the risk if an ensuing gunshot determined the guy’s position.
He located two good-sized stones, and after tucking one in his jeans pocket, he searched for a safe place to throw the other, one where a bullet wouldn’t hit anyone. A shadowed clearing near more trees and the towering cliff seemed to be the best.
In as silent a motion as he could manage, Jack hurled the rock toward the clearing and quickly stepped back into the protection of the small structure. He listened for the smack and roll of the rock against the hard earth. Then he braced for the reaction.
Nothing.
Seconds ticked into minutes before he tried again, with the second stone.
When only the silence of the night followed, he figured his shooter had hightailed it out of here.
For now.
The man would be back for the horse that the woman had stolen for him that day at the racetrack. Earlier, at the Autumn Woods Ranch and Racetrack, Jack had watched her tie the horse to her buggy and drive away without anyone realizing she had just stolen a thoroughbred right out from under their noses.
No one suspected the thief to be a pretty, demure Amish woman. But her little conniving and criminal operation would end tonight—before someone did get killed.
This woman had no idea who she was in cahoots with. They would surely kill her when they had no more use for her. She had to be ferhoodled if she thought otherwise.
Jack snickered at his use of a word he hadn’t uttered for nearly eight years. Not since his Amish days before—
He pushed the thought away and made his way back to the barn. His path was now clear to get the horse he was here to collect.
Right inside the door, he located a lantern, and soon had it lit and burning. Some things were like riding a bicycle, even the bicycles he hadn’t been allowed to ride back where he had lived. Most Amish communities felt the commercially produced bicycles were too worldly and too fast, and opted instead for simple, two-wheeled scooters they could stand on.
Either way, those days were long gone and would never return, if he had something to say about it.
Jack held the lantern high to peruse the individual stalls. He counted three horses. One had to be the horse the woman had stolen earlier from the track. Were the others also stolen thoroughbreds? Just how deep was she into this heist? How many more had she taken and sold before someone realized?
The dim light showed each animal was a beautiful creature. The trader knew how to pick a good horse.
Or steal one.
“Hey there,” Jack said in a soothing tone, so as not to spook the creature he approached first. He lifted his free hand to caress the side of the horse’s head and was greeted with a soft snicker. “That’s it. Just let me see your lip.”
Jack lifted the equine’s upper lip to reveal the permanent identification number tattooed above the row of teeth.
Not one of the numbers he was looking for. Not even the right kind of horse.
This was a standardbred, not one of the stolen thoroughbreds.
Jack took his lantern to the next stall and repeated the routine. This horse also allowed him access without a snub.
And proved to not be the stolen property.
A niggling doubt crept into his mind. Had he been wrong about the woman? Maybe he had missed the real thief because she had caught his eye for some reason.
Jack chided himself for thinking such a thing. An Amish
