pale porcelain of her skin. “He would never say such a thing—it’s vain—but I think I can say it for him.”
The simple words had reminded her better than anything else could that she was back among the people who had so fascinated her when she was this child’s age.
“And who is your father?”
“Caleb Troyer. He’s right in there.”
Emma’s breath caught. This man, who had so captivated her, who had her standing here in public staring as if she’d never seen a man before, was Caleb Troyer? The brother of the kidnapped Hannah Troyer?
“And you’re …?”
“Katie Troyer,” the girl said.
The oldest, Emma thought, remembering the file that had said Hannah Troyer had three young nieces through her brother Caleb. And that the girl’s mother, Annie Troyer, had died three years ago, leaving Hannah as the main maternal figure in their lives.
“Are you here about my aunt?”
Good guess, or had something given her away?
“What makes you think that?”
“You seem different than the others.”
“Different?”
“You dress plainer. More like us than them. Even if you do wear boy’s clothes.”
Ah, the honesty of children, Emma thought wryly.
“I am from the FBI,” she said. At the girl’s furrowed brow she added, “We’re like the police, only for the whole country.”
“Oh. You need my father, then.”
That simple statement, Emma thought, opened up a whole new set of crazy thoughts.
This, she thought ruefully, could get complicated.
Chapter 3
“Father?”
Caleb Troyer found it odd that here, where they were alone, Katie would use English. Perhaps it had been to get his attention; he could tell from his daughter’s voice that this wasn’t the first time she’d called him. With a smothered sigh he slapped his hat against his leg a couple of times, as if the slight blows could shake him out of this mood. He was losing patience with himself, slipping into useless, unproductive states of daydreaming, staring out the windows of his workshop, wasting precious hours that should be spent working.
But how could he work thinking of Hannah, lively, irrepressible Hannah, out there in the other world, not just in danger of losing her way but having already been grabbed up by the evil that resided there?
Caleb was a strong, competent man, and he’d felt truly helpless only once before in his life. And he couldn’t help thinking of that time as helplessness filled him again. He hadn’t been able to help Annie as she slipped away after laboring so hard and painfully to bring little Grace into the world three years ago. And there was nothing he could do now.
His instincts were to go himself, to search for his impulsive little sister, but he was wise enough to know he would be useless out there, in that vast expanse that was the world of the outsiders, the English. It was full of technology and other things he knew existed but knew little about. He knew nothing of their huge cities or how to deal with the wickedness that flourished there.
He knew nothing of the kind of person who would do such a thing, take a young, innocent girl off the street for purposes so nefarious Caleb couldn’t bear thinking about them. How any man, even an English, could do such things was beyond him.
“Father, please?”
Shaking off the thoughts that had occupied his mind every waking hour since Hannah had been taken, he turned around to face his oldest daughter. As usual, her sweet face both soothed and unsettled him. It was a little easier than it used to be, looking at this beloved child who was such a painful reminder. With her dark hair and blue eyes, she was the living, breathing image of the woman who had been the center of his life since they had been children. The girl he had known he would marry since they had been eleven, the age Katie was now.
Annie had known it, too. When she’d approached him and said “You’re the one,” he’d known exactly what she’d meant. That someday when they were old enough, they would be together.
“What is it, Katie?” he asked, trying to mask the sudden tightness in his throat. And again impatience rose in him. He should be worried about his missing little sister, Hannah, not mooning over a woman who’d died three years ago.
“Someone’s here.”
His mouth quirked at her expression; his already shy daughter looked beyond uneasy. And again his mind shot back to her mother. Annie, too, had been quiet, shy, and only later did he realize what a tremendous certainty she must have had to have approached him that day.
“Deacon Stoltzfus here to chastise me about my beard again?”
The church elder had made it his mission in life to remind Caleb he was going against a basic tenet of Amish life for adult males. As if he didn’t know.
He’d grown his beard, as custom dictated, when he’d married Annie. And when she’d died, in a fit of rage and grief, he’d shaved it off, nearly slitting his own throat in the process. His wife had died because of him, trying to deliver his child. And he hadn’t been able to save her. He didn’t qualify on either front to wear the badge of adult maleness.
So every day he shaved his jaw, those minutes his silent, aching tribute to the woman he missed so much. Without her, he was not a man, and thus he would be without a beard, to the dismay of the entire community.
He waited for Katie to express her usual concern, suggesting he just grow the beard and make the elders happy. Katie was all about making everyone happy, as her mother had been.
“No,” the girl said, her voice oddly strained. “It’s an English.”
Caleb frowned. “Here?”
“A woman.” Katie frowned in turn. “She says she’s from the … the … some initials.”
Initials. That usually meant government. The English had such a need for long, fancy names for their agencies that interfered in the lives of their people.
And then it struck him. Was this about Hannah? Was it some woman from the police? Did she have news? Why else would she come looking for him, specifically, as Katie had said?
He walked quickly toward the doorway of the shop. He laid a hand gently on Katie’s shoulder as he went past her.
“Stay here,” he commanded and stepped outside into the slanting November sun. Whatever the woman might say, he doubted he wanted Katie to hear it. He believed in honesty in what he said to his children, but that didn’t mean they needed to hear every detail. Selective omission, Annie had called it, and he’d known there had been a touch of disapproval in the words. Annie had been completely, albeit compassionately, honest. In her way, she had been tougher than he. She had always found a gentle way to say no or deliver bad news,
