people he didn’t know, he blinked hard. Tears stung the back of his eyes. He hadn’t cried since—
It was there, just at the back of his mind, a feeling of grief, a feeling of overwhelming sadness. But why or for whom he had no idea. The harder he tried to concentrate on the feeling the faster it slipped away.
He forced himself to focus on the present. “Please tell your cousin how grateful I am.”
“You can tell her yourself when you see Doc White to get your stitches out.”
After gathering his few belongings together, John bid the nursing staff farewell and slipped into the passenger’s seat of the squad car parked in front of the hospital. Within minutes they were outside the city and cruising along a narrow ribbon of black asphalt.
The highway rose and fell over gentle hills, past manicured farms and occasional stands of thick woodlands. Looking out the window he saw herds of dairy cattle near the fences. The cows barely glanced up at their passing. A half-dozen times they came upon black buggies pulled by briskly trotting horses. Each vehicle sported a bright orange triangle on the back warning motorists it was a slow-moving vehicle.
John waited for something, anything, to look familiar. He held tight to the hope that returning to where he had been found would jog his absent memory. As they finally rolled into the neat small town of Hope Springs he was once again doomed to disappointment. Nothing looked familiar.
Sheriff Bradley pulled up in front of a Swiss-chalet-styled inn and said, “This is the only inn in town. The place is run by an Amish woman named Emma Wadler. The rooms are clean but nothing fancy.”
Now that he was actually at his destination, John struggled to hide his growing fears. How would he go about searching for answers? Was he going to stand on the street corner and ask each person who walked by if he looked familiar? When the sheriff got out, John forced himself to follow.
A bell over the doorway sounded as the men walked into the building. The place was cozy, charming and decorated with beautifully carved wooden furniture. An intricately pieced, colorful quilt hung over the massive stone fireplace at one end of the lobby. A display of jams for sale sat near the front door.
Behind the counter stood a small woman in blue Amish garb. Her red-brown hair was neatly parted down the middle and pulled back under a white bonnet. She was talking to someone inside a room behind the desk. She glanced toward the men and said, “I will be with you in a minute, gentlemen.”
John watched her eyes closely for the slightest sign of recognition. There was none.
Turning her attention back to the person inside her office, she said, “I would gladly send overflow guests to your farm, cousin. It would be much better than telling them they must go to Millersburg or to Sugarcreek.”
A woman replied, “We have spare rooms and as long as they don’t mind living plain it will work. The extra money would be most welcome. If I can get Dat to agree to it, that is.”
There was something pleasing about the unseen woman’s voice. He enjoyed the singsong cadence. Her accent made will sound like vil and welcome sound like vellcom. It was familiar somehow.
The grandfather clock in the corner began to chime the hour. John reached into the front pocket of his jeans, but found it empty.
Confused, he looked down. Something belonged there. Something was missing.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
John turned around as the inn owner began a conversation with Nick. The hidden woman came out of the office and headed for the front door. She wore a dark blue dress beneath a heavy coat. An Amish cap covered her blond hair. Slender and tall, she moved with unhurried steps and innate grace. When she happened to glance in his direction, John’s breath froze in his chest. His heart began thudding wildly.
Rushing across the room, he grabbed her arm in a crushing grip. “I know you. What’s my name? Who am I?”
Karen recoiled in shock when a man grabbed her arm and began shouting at her. She threw up one hand to protect herself and tried to twist out of his grasp.
“Tell me who I am,” he shouted again, his face only inches from hers.
A second later, the sheriff was between her and her assailant. Pushing the man back, Sheriff Bradley said, “John, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I know her. I know her face. She knows who I am,” he insisted, pointing at Karen.
By this time, Emma had rounded the counter and reached Karen’s side, adding another body between Karen and the angry man. “Cousin, are you all right?”
Rubbing her forearm, Karen nodded. “I’m fine.”
Karen glanced at the man and recognition hit. This was her Englischer, the man she had discovered lying injured beside their lane. That recognition must have shown on her face.
His eyes widened with hope. “You know me, right? You know my name.”
She shook her head. “Nee. I do not.”
The sheriff spoke calmly but firmly. “John, this is Karen Imhoff. She’s the one who found you.”
His body went slack in the sheriff’s hold. The color drained from his face as the hope in his eyes died. His look of pain and disappointment twisted her heart into a knot.
She said, “It was my little sister who spotted you lying in the weeds.”
His eyes suddenly narrowed. “I was told I was unconscious when the paramedics arrived. How is it that I know your face?”
As her racing heart slowed and her fright abated, Karen took a step closer. He was alive and standing here before her. Joy gladdened her heart. He had been in her thoughts and prayers unceasingly. It took all her willpower not to reach out and touch his face.
She said, “You opened your eyes and spoke to me. You told me you were cold. I put my coat over you.”
The sheriff released his grip on John. “She doesn’t know anything about you. I’ve already questioned her and her family. There’s no connection between you.”
A look of resignation settled over John’s features. He raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed it as if trying to rub away pain. “I’m sorry if I hurt or frightened you, Miss Imhoff. Please forgive me.”
He did not remember her holding him close. Perhaps that was for the best. She had come to the aid of a stranger, nothing more. The rest, the closeness, the connection she felt with him, those things would remain in her secret daydreams.
“You are forgiven,” she said quietly. What she didn’t understand was why he had insisted that she tell him his own name.
The sheriff looked toward the innkeeper. “Sorry for the disturbance, Emma. This is John Doe, the man found injured near here a week ago. John has amnesia.”
“What does this mean?” Karen asked, unfamiliar with the English term.
John’s eyes locked with hers. Once again she felt a stirring bond with him deep in her bones. It was suddenly hard to breathe.
He
