A Marriage for Meghan Page 13

  Her determination to run each and every show had driven him away. He was no chauvinist, but he also didn’t wish to be led around by a rope through his nose. What was wrong with two people sitting down to plan their future together? And whether it was sexist or old-fashioned, he believed the man should propose, not the woman.

  Maybe the Amish had it right. They had rules set in stone that everyone knew, accepted, and rarely challenged. Although he wouldn’t want to give up his plasma TV, espresso machine, or the vintage Thunderbird he and his dad had restored, much could be said about agreed-upon expectations. In the Amish world women didn’t back men into corners or think of dating as a blood sport.

  As Thomas drove into the quaint town of Wooster, leaving rolling farmland with tidy white houses behind, he felt his muscles begin to relax. Maybe spending more time in God’s country, away from the nightlife and competition of the big city, was exactly what he needed.

  Nine

  I thought I’d find you in here.”

  Thomas had just finished sopping up the last of his sausage gravy with a piece of toast when he heard Bob Strickland’s low, baritone voice. “Good morning, Sheriff. This breakfast spread is hard to resist. How about some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had three cups already.” Strickland slipped into the seat across from Mast. “I got the message you left with one of my deputies and thought I’d save you a trip to the office this morning. I’m riding with you out to that campground. I’ve been hearing reports for quite some time about that place. I want to check things out for myself.” He leaned back in his chair. “I liked it better when that campground closed at the end of October. We didn’t get that many complaints from the summertime vacationers—just the occasional noise disturbance.” The sheriff waited until the waitress finished refilling Thomas’ cup before continuing. “There are two types of campers: Ones who get up to see the sunrise. Those folks are usually tucked in bed by nine o’clock with a warm glass of milk.”

  Thomas wrapped both hands around his coffee mug. “What about the other type?”

  Strickland smiled. “They love to sit around the campfire until the wee hours, telling jokes, ghost stories, or rehashing the good old days. Problem is, they often consume vast quantities of beer while reminiscing and get louder as the evening unfolds. Too bad we can’t segregate the type A’s from type B’s, but that probably wouldn’t be politically correct.”

  Mast rose to his feet and left enough cash on the table to cover a healthy tip for the attentive waitress. “I gather there’s a type C now that the place is open year-round?”

  “Yeah, now it really gets complicated,” Strickland said as they walked out of the hotel. “Most of those who stay year-round are decent people who have lost homes to foreclosure. They send their kids to local schools, watch out for their neighbors, and help maintain the grounds. Then there’s a fourth type of folk living on the fringe of society—most with a secret or two. That’s why I’m riding shotgun today. You never know what it is they’re hiding.”

  “You’re thinking fugitives on the run?”

  “Or just people trying to hide from back taxes, overdue child support, or irate relatives they owe money to.” Strickland peered up at the sky, gauging the weather. “Let’s take your sedan instead of my well-marked Expedition. We’ll stay more low-key that way.”

  For much of the drive, Strickland spoke on his cell phone, while Thomas contemplated cases he had studied at the academy about FBI agents who had entered the compounds of religious cults or hippie communes and then run into well-armed, well-trained domestic terrorists. He was a semi-experienced agent headed to Misty Meadow Campground with a rural sheriff—and they both had only their sidearms. Yet gazing over the rolling countryside, he couldn’t generate much anxiety. White picket fences, purple martin birdhouses, and half-melted snowmen wearing tattered straw hats lull a man into a false sense of security.

  After arriving at the campground they parked near the log cabin marked “Registration” and slowly unfolded themselves from the vehicle. For a moment both men listened to the utter silence of early spring. Then the sounds of barking dogs, a ringing telephone, and a faraway train whistle broke the peace and quiet.

  Inside the office, a man sat on a tall stool at the counter reading the paper. A small TV, tuned to the Weather Channel, hung on the wall above his head. He glanced up when they entered and smiled. “What can I help you gentlemen with? You two don’t look like campers.”

  “How ya doin’ today?” Strickland asked lazy-like, propping one elbow on the counter. “We have just a couple questions. Do you remember renting spaces to a group from the South that came up looking for work? They might get a little frisky from time to time, maybe too loud in general?”

  The manager wasted no time pointing them in the right direction. “I know the ones you’re looking for. They arrived about six weeks ago in three different silver bullets pulled by pickup trucks. Considering the condition of their trailers, I have a feeling it’ll be the final destination for two out of the three.” He hooked his thumbs beneath bright red suspenders over a red plaid flannel shirt. “They’re on three adjacent sites down by the pond. They said they wanted to do some fishing, but I haven’t seen anybody throw in a line yet.” He opened a campground map across the counter and marked some sites with a big red X.

  “Are the people in the three campers related?” asked the sheriff, leaning over the map. “May I see their registration cards?”

  The manager dug around in the file box and produced two cards with block letter printing. “They might be two married sisters with their husbands, kids, and grandkids spread over the three sites. I’ve never talked to the men. The women come up to pay the weekly rent, use the pay phone, and wash clothes. I’ve got a little coin Laundromat through those swinging doors, but it barely generates enough quarters to pay the water bill for this building.”

  While the sheriff looked over the map, Agent Mast studied the registration cards. As usual among those on the run, only female names appeared on the forms. Fewer women than men had outstanding warrants. “Have they been making trouble among the other residents?” asked Thomas.

  The manager’s expression turned wary. “There are four or five punks I could live without. They tear up and down the lanes, not minding the speed limit, blaring their radios at all hours, and doin’ way too much cussin’. They endanger the lives of pets and children alike. If those were my sons, I would have taken away their keys and applied a bar of soap to their mouths long ago. This is a family-run business for families. We hold church services on Sundays in the pavilion, no matter what the weather.” He narrowed his gaze to Thomas in particular. “But the problem with me complaining to you is you’re likely to throw out the baby with the bath water. I see six or seven youngsters waiting for the school bus every morning from that group. I don’t want their parents pulling up stakes like caravan gypsies without real cause.” He turned back to the sheriff. “I prefer to look at the whole picture.”

  “We understand your concerns,” interjected Strickland. “We’ll do our inquiring tactfully. Thanks for your information and the directions.” He tucked the map inside his jacket. The manager cast Thomas one final distrustful glance before returning to his morning paper.

  Back in the sedan, Thomas scanned the FBI database on his laptop, but it yielded nothing of interest on the women. As they drove through the mostly empty camping park, he said to the sheriff, “Good thing you decided to come along. That manager didn’t seem to like me much.”

  Strickland laughed. “Don’t take it personally. Some folks like the idea of ‘local’ cops over the feds. But I would bet that where we’re headed, they will despise us equally.”

  Mast could have found the campsites even without the map with its red X mark. Three old-fashioned silver trailers sat on the bank of pond that was rimmed with cattails and overgrown with lotus and water lilies. With no nearby neighbors, the trailers were surrounded by cars and trucks in various levels o
f disrepair. Some vehicles looked roadworthy but suffered from terminal body rust. One car had four flat tires, while another rested on concrete blocks, missing two of its three wheels. Among this motley assortment sat a new four-wheel-drive pickup with oversized knobby tires.

  Strickland shot Thomas a cursory glance as they approached two young men huddled under an upraised hood. “Morning. I’m Sheriff Strickland and this is Special Agent Mast. Do you boys live here?” He nodded toward the closest silver trailer.

  One young man stepped back from the truck, while the man holding the tools barely glanced up from his tinkering. “For the time bein’ we do, but we ain’t boys, if you catch my drift.”

  “Duly noted,” said Strickland, “but I’d like your full attention for a couple minutes for a few questions. And let’s start by showing me some ID.” His tone didn’t imply another option.

  “What for? You ain’t showed me a warrant or nothing.”

  Strickland shrugged his shoulders. “It’s like this. You’re new in the area, we’ve had some complaints of vandalism, and both you and your vehicle fit the general description involved in the crimes. I need far less than that to demand identification.”

  After a short eyeball showdown, the mechanic pulled a wallet from his back pocket and extracted a driver’s license.

  “Welcome to Wayne County, Mr. Justin King.” The sheriff studied the license another moment before handing it back.

  Thomas watched the other beefy youth during the exchange with King. He shoved a greasy rag into even greasier work pants and then tucked a hank of stringy hair behind one ear. As though on cue, two more disheveled-looking men stepped from the trailer, using stacked cement blocks for stairs. Although careful not to as much as blink, Thomas felt a frisson of electricity shoot up his spine.

  King turned and slammed down the truck hood. “Suppose you tell me what this is about so I can deny it and get back to work. My garage ain’t got the world’s best shop lights.” He hooked a thumb toward the open sky.

  Strickland’s gaze drifted around the foursome. “This is about a group of men fitting your general description who jumped five Amish men when they left a pizza shop in Shreve. They left behind tire tracks that would pretty much match these.” He kicked one huge tire lightly with his boot.

  “Amish? Now why would we want to beat up sweet little Amish boys? They don’t bother anybody a’tal, except maybe their horses spreading pollution all over the roads. And maybe the fact they don’t pay taxes but still feel free to use their share of services.” King wiped his hands on a rag tucked in his belt.

  Mast felt a muscle tighten in his jaw. “You’re operating under some misguided notions, Mr. King. This gas-guzzling V-8 does more harm to the environment than horse manure. And the Amish do pay taxes, both income and property taxes, yet they almost never take advantage of social services.” He clamped his jaw shut before he offered more of his opinions.

  “Looky here. We got ourselves a real bleeding heart liberal. That’s rare among the feds. They’re usually conservative to the core.” The mechanic sneered while his friends snickered.

  Strickland stepped forward to intervene. “Politics aside, I understand you’re mighty fond of Santos Pizza.” His smile stopped short of his eyes.

  “Like we have choices around here?” The ringleader leaned his muscular frame against the truck fender. “I don’t know who’s feeding you this line of bull, but I’d bet there are plenty of men fitting our general description, as you called it, besides lots of trucks with big tires.” He shifted his weight to the other hip, and then he began cracking his knuckles one at a time. “You take any tire impressions like they do on TV?” A slow smile bloomed across his face. “Oh, no, that would be impossible in the snow, wouldn’t it?”

  His comrades laughed while the mechanic narrowed his gaze with near evil intensity. “I don’t suppose those Amish sissies gave you much description to go on. They probably didn’t even sign a complaint. In which case, you fellas are just wasting my valuable time.” He reached down to the toolbox and began digging around for a wrench.

  Agent Mast stepped forward so he was inches away when King stood up. “Does it make you feel powerful to beat up people whose convictions won’t allow them to fight back?”

  The man’s smirk vanished. “Like I said, it’s not against the law to eat pizza. And that’s all you got on us.”

  “And pizza eating had better be all you do in town.” The sheriff stepped forward, keeping one eye focused on the men by the trailer. “We don’t like trouble in Shreve, if you catch my drift.” He turned to face Thomas. “Agent Mast, why don’t we let these upstanding citizens get back to work?” He angled his head toward their car.

  Thomas strode to the vehicle without another word. Why do I allow punks to crawl under my skin? So not a good idea. But their ignorant, prejudicial attitude had gotten on his nerves. This man resented an entire society of people based on misinformation. All prejudice was wrong, but violence against Plain people was particularly loathsome to him.

  Saturday morning

  Meghan awoke to sunlight streaming through the muslin curtains and the sound of buggies beneath her window. She threw back the covers and sat up, alone in the bedroom she shared with her sister. Why didn’t Catherine wake me? She peered down on the commotion in the yard. Men and teams of draft horses hauling farm implements were arriving at some appointed hour nobody had told her about. However, it took little intuition to figure out a work bee had been scheduled for the Yost farm.

  She washed and dressed quickly, knowing her help would be needed in the kitchen. On her way downstairs she smelled bacon frying and cinnamon nut bread before she reached the kitchen. “Guder mariye,” she greeted. Several wives who lived nearby were already helping her mamm and schwester. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she whispered in Catherine’s ear.

  “Because you needed your rest. I saw you up till past midnight studying the teacher manuals.” Catherine handed her a cup of coffee.

  “Danki. I see men have come to help James and John.” Meghan breathed in the aroma and then took an appreciative sip.

  “Jah, they began arriving at first light with teams and plows. They’ll make short work of that ruined wheat crop. They’ll plow it under and ready the fields for James to set soybeans.” Catherine stirred chopped ham and onion into the omelet she was creating, which looked large enough to feed twenty, and then she added a layer of shaved cheddar cheese. “When the cheese melts you can take this out to the men. Some may need a bite to eat before starting work.”

  “I’d be happy to.” Meghan looked around at the other ladies. Sidelong glances seemed to be flying her way.

  “Guess who organized the men into the work party today?” asked Ruth.

  Meghan gulped her coffee. “I would imagine my bruders sent word they needed help.”

  “Nein.” Ruth lifted crisp bacon strips onto paper towels. “They asked for nothing. The men showing up today came as a complete surprise.”

  Meghan set down her cup and faced her mother. “I give up. Who sent word throughout the district?”

  “Jacob Shultz organized the men.” Ruth’s tone could only be described as smug. “He rode around to the nearby farms, lined up available equipment, and then arrived here first this morning.”

  Meghan felt a pang of sorrow but maintained a placid expression. “That doesn’t surprise me. Jacob has always been one to pitch in whenever someone needs help.”

  “He’s a kind and decent man,” declared Ruth, more to her friends than to her daughter. The other women nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t think you’d find anyone to disagree.” Meghan grabbed a stack of paper plates, a handful of forks, and a large serving spoon. “Is that omelet done yet, Cat?”

  “As we speak.” Her sister winked as she pulled the pan off the stove with an oven mitt.

  Considering her mother’s odd behavior, Meghan was glad to carry the pan outdoors to the workers. However, she barely set the eggs and p
lates on the picnic table when the subject of her mother’s conversation arrived at her side.

  “Guder mariye,” said Jacob, sweeping off his felt hat. “Danki for the eggs. I left before mamm finished cooking breakfast.”

  “Good morning yourself. Look how many turned out today. I want to thank you for organizing the work frolic.” She lifted the lid and cut the omelet into squares for easier serving.

  “I didn’t do this because of you, Meghan. I’m here to help James and John.” He scooped up a hearty portion onto three different plates.

  “Of course not.” She felt herself blush. “I only meant—”

  “In fact, I was a little miffed when you sic’d the cops on me. You should know I’d never do anything to hurt you or your family. You might not want to court me, but I thought you said we’d still be friends.”

  He locked gazes with her briefly, but it was long enough to spot his pain and disappointment. Meghan swallowed hard. “I didn’t talk to the police, Jacob. I know you would never wreck the schoolhouse.”

  “You haven’t spoken to that FBI guy, Agent Mast?”

  “I haven’t,” she said impetuously before remembering her conversation with the sheriff. “Well, I suppose I did once, but it wasn’t about you.” She chewed her lower lip, a former childhood habit.

  “I see.” His green eyes had brightened and then dulled. “For the record, I understand about your wanting to be a teacher. Joanna Kauffman stayed longer, but usually a gal loses the position when she gets married. I just want you to be happy. Now, I need to get these eggs to my bruders. Tell your mamm I said danki.” Balancing the three plates, he walked toward the men clustered by the barn.