A Marriage for Meghan Read online

  He would savor two or three cups of coffee while reading The Budget and then eat his bowl of cold cereal. He would settle into his easy chair to read Scripture, delving into the book of Ecclesiastes that he’d recently begun to study. Maybe the family would visit his daughter Abigail and her husband, Daniel. Ruth loved to rock in their porch swing, playing with little Laura or listening to the child read. Catherine would be eager to hear any news of her beau, Isaiah, who was Daniel’s cousin. And the FBI agent would soon be on his way north, back to his normal life. Gideon didn’t like the way Meghan behaved whenever she was in the man’s company. And the bishop didn’t want her growing overly fond of the English world because she’d yet to become baptized and join the Amish church.

  After he had washed and dressed, he found Catherine seated at the kitchen table, waiting for him. “You’re up early, daughter,” he said, reaching for the coffeepot. “I would have thought you would sleep in after yesterday.”

  She remained silent for a few moments with folded hands and a rigid back. Exhaustion pinched her features, well beyond the effects of the busy previous day.

  “What is it, Catherine? Is something wrong?” he asked, feeling fingers of dread crawl up his neck.

  She pursed her lips and exhaled noisily. “Ach, daed, the news isn’t good.” Her red-rimmed eyes met his. “Last night Agent Mast received a call from Sheriff Strickland. A barn was burning. An Amish barn.”

  “Nein,” he murmured, clutching the back of a chair.

  “Jah, at the Josiah Esh farm over on County Road 38. I rode there with Thomas in case I could help in some way. Meghan came along too. We were still awake, but you and mamm had already gone to bed.”

  “You should have woken me. I’m the bishop of this district, not some dotty old grossdawdi to be coddled and protected.” He slapped his palms on the table.

  Catherine’s expression remained neutral. “There was nothing anyone could do by the time we got there. It was a total loss—barn, equipment, and silage, but at least their animals were all outdoors last evening. Meghan rejoiced when she heard that.”

  Gideon slumped into a chair, sloshing his coffee over the rim of his cup. “That is a blessing.”

  Catherine cleaned up the spill with a quick swipe of her napkin. “The fire was no accident, daed. Someone intentionally started the blaze.”

  “How do you know that? Don’t make up tall tales to add to an already bad situation.”

  Her eyes flashed but Catherine kept her voice level. “That is the opinion of the fire marshal and the arson investigators. Thomas said the firemen smelled a strong odor of gasoline when they first arrived.” She rose to refill both their coffee cups with composed dignity.

  Gideon sighed, frustrated with his own defensiveness. “Mir leid, Catherine,” he apologized. “I don’t mean to take this out on you.”

  “I understand your disappointment, daed.” She settled back in her chair.

  “Is Agent Mast gone?”

  “No. He’ll be staying longer, I imagine. He might not have arrested the right man. The one in jail certainly didn’t start last night’s trouble.”

  The bishop leaned his head back and rubbed the tight muscles of his neck. “Oh, this is onerous and mostly my doing. My brethren advised me not to overreact, and not to involve English law enforcement, but I wouldn’t listen. Now, after several weeks of the FBI poking around in Amish business, we’re no closer to solving the mystery. The district won’t be happy if this latest misfortune casts more attention on our community.”

  Catherine shifted in the chair and began tearing her napkin into long, narrow strips.

  “What is it, daughter? Tell me the rest.” He knew Catherine only shredded paper when she was nervous.

  She stared at the window, where rain pelted the glass. “It was pandemonium when we arrived at the Esh farm. We saw Amish friends and English neighbors, but also newspeople. Men came in vans with satellite dishes mounted on top and then ran around with giant cameras. One woman, all dressed up, stuck her microphone in people’s faces, asking questions of everybody, even the Plain folk.” She focused on what had been a napkin.

  Gideon reached for Catherine’s hand. “What sort of questions?”

  Catherine shrugged one shoulder. “The kind that nobody can answer. ‘Who do you think started the fire?’ ‘How will Mr. Esh manage without his farming equipment?’ ‘What’s your opinion of the efforts being made to catch those responsible for this string of vandalism?’” She withdrew her hand from his to sweep up the shredded napkin. “Reporters came from two different news stations, plus the Wooster paper.”

  “How could they get there so fast?”

  She looked uneasy. “They weren’t there at first but arrived soon after. We ended up staying until three o’clock. Thomas wanted to make sure the deputies hadn’t overlooked something around the crime scene.”

  “Three a.m.? No wonder your sister is still asleep. These newspeople will only make things worse.”

  “The reporters also asked questions of Thomas. They asked, ‘Why is the FBI involved in a Wayne County matter?’ ‘Do you suspect someone of some group is out to harass the Amish?’ And ‘Do you think this fire is connected to the quilt shop vandalism and the fire at the Glen Yoder farm?’” She deposited her napkin in the trash can. “They even knew the location of the widows’ store. I asked Thomas how they could learn so much about Amish business. He said reporters listen to police scanners.”

  Gideon raised his hand. “Enough. I’ve heard enough. Danki for letting me know, daughter. But now I must think and pray that I start making the right choices.”

  Catherine wearily left the room, leaving Gideon to stare at his folded hands for a long while. The fact the police might have locked up the wrong man churned his gut like spoiled food. What anguish would the young man suffer if he had nothing to do with these crimes? After traveling to the Wooster Justice Center, James and John listened to men speak identical phrases as a means of identification. Yet they weren’t able to tell one voice from another. They had been unable to tell if their suspect had been one of their attackers or not. Nothing good had come from involving his sons in this mess…not for his sons, not for his district, and not for the man who might be unjustly accused.

  Guilt and shame over his rash misjudgments trailed the bishop throughout the day, distracting his studies and disrupting his sleep that night. Doubts regarding his capability of serving his flock took root and began to grow.

  Have I lost all common sense? Have I assumed too much authority instead of turning to others for counsel and direction? Have I put my family’s needs ahead of those of my congregation?

  That Sunday’s sorrows and recriminations continued for the rest of the week. Almost daily a district member visited his home to complain of Englischers stopping them in stores, appearing at their doors, or hailing them on the road. On Wednesday the two widows arrived with a hired driver to share their tale of woe. When they had returned from town, newspaper reporters had set up camp in their yard, filming the repainted store besides their home and outbuildings. The cameramen even took pictures of them, despite repeated requests for privacy. The widows hid indoors for more than two hours before the intruders finally packed up and left.

  According to Glen Sr., the Yoder family suffered a similar humiliation the following day—cars blocking the driveway and scaring livestock, reporters invading Esther Yoder’s vegetable garden and then following her around the yard as she hung laundry on the clothesline. Only when Glen Jr. threatened to unleash their pack of vicious watchdogs did the newspeople retreat to their cars and leave.

  The bishop smiled when he heard that. The only dog the Yoders owned was an elderly, overweight basset hound, but he felt that under the circumstances the Lord would probably forgive that particular falsehood.

  Gideon didn’t blame the media circus on the sheriff’s department or Thomas Mast—who had paid him for another week’s room and board. They were just doing their jobs. He might not l
ike invasive newspeople, but he blamed only himself for this debacle. His community was angry. His friends felt betrayed. A young English man, who didn’t like Amish people to begin with, might be sitting in jail for crimes he didn’t commit. Wouldn’t that only fuel his hatred?

  For the first time Gideon contemplated something that never was done in the Amish world—stepping down as bishop of his district. As the district’s chief minister, he had been selected by lot and chosen by God.

  But what could a man with feet of clay do when he could no longer lead his people?

  Sixteen

  Meghan clutched her wool cloak tightly against the strong wind. Although the April sunshine warmed their faces, the cold breeze cut through to a woman’s bones. “Yeeoouu,” she complained. “According to the calendar, it’s spring. So why am I still freezing?”

  “Because your blood has thinned over winter,” answered Catherine, always the voice of reason. “It’ll take a while before you’re no longer a freeze-baby.” She wrapped an arm around Meghan’s waist and pulled her close. “But look at the fields. Hay is almost ready for the first cutting. I love spring! And today daed is borrowing the neighbor’s rototiller to prepare ground for mamm’s garden. That’s always a good sign.”

  A passing pickup truck sprayed icy water on Meghan’s legs. Biting back her annoyance, she moved to walk ahead of her sister instead of at her side. “I’ll be happy when the roads dry up. Some of these potholes are deep enough to hatch fish.”

  “In less than a month we won’t have this walk to and from school each day. What will you complain about then, dear heart?”

  Meghan pulled her hands up into her sleeves, reflecting on the question. “Probably that I’m bored and miss our students.”

  “Mamm will keep you busy this summer, especially if I move back to Abigail’s to direct the work on Isaiah’s cabin.” Catherine tilted her face to catch the sun’s rays on her pale cheeks.

  “You’re only adding a separate bedroom and a bathroom.”

  “And a mudroom addition for my laundry, plus a dining area off the kitchen. Besides, I want to figure out where to place the future two-story wing when the kinner start to come.”

  “He hasn’t officially proposed yet, has he? Maybe he’s met someone new at the school for the deaf—someone who doesn’t rattle on so much.” Meghan picked up her skirt and ran the rest of the way, avoiding a pinched arm or being pushed into the sloppy ditch. After too much teasing, Catherine resorted to painful methods of retaliation.

  Breathless and soggy, Meghan opened the kitchen door to find her father at the sink, filling the kettle. “Tea?” he asked. His gaze drifted down her muddy, wet skirt. “You look like you could use a cup.”

  “Jah, good idea. While it steeps I want to change clothes. Then I must speak to Thomas about something I heard from a student.” Meghan ran up the steps, missing Gideon’s glower.

  Ten minutes later, after redoing her bun, changing clothes, and donning a fresh kapp, Meghan reappeared in the kitchen. A mug of tea sat waiting for her, along with the bishop. The latter wasn’t smiling.

  “Agent Mast isn’t home yet, Meghan. He has a job to do. He’s not on vacation like some English tourist.”

  She paused, contemplating Thomas’ revelation the night of the fire. She had never told her father that their renter used to be Amish. Problems in the district had so troubled him that the opportunity hadn’t presented itself. She picked up her tea, now cool enough to sip. “I understand, daed, but I heard something that might be helpful to his case.”

  “What could you have heard from a child that might help catch an arsonist?”

  “Owen Shockley approached me on the playground after recess. He waited to talk until the others filed back into the classroom. A couple weeks ago, when Owen and his father were at the Marathon station south of Shreve, they saw Solomon Trotsler filling up two gasoline cans at the pumps. The Shockleys were buying gas for their chain saw.”

  Gideon appeared to ponder this before shaking his head. “Probably Solomon Trotsler needed gas for the same reason as the Shockleys, or for a gas-powered washing machine or for a dozen other tools that run on gas. I’ve told you before, daughter, not to let your imagination run away with you.” He cut a sliver of pie to sustain him until supper.

  “But Solomon Trotsler is English and—”

  Gideon didn’t allow her to finish. “For goodness’ sake, girl. You’re seeing suspects lurking behind every tree. The man might have run out of gas down the road or wanted to fill his lawn mower back home.” He ate his pie quickly to avoid detection by Ruth.

  Meghan was about to argue until she heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway. Only a car made that distinctive sound. “Excuse me, daed, but Thomas has come home. I’d like to speak to him before he heads to town for supper. Sometimes he eats at that sports restaurant in Wooster.” Carrying her mug, she walked toward the door.

  “Nein! I will not excuse you because I’m not finished talking to you. Sit down and drink your tea at the table.”

  She pivoted with surprise. It had been years since he’d treated her like a child, but considering the expression on his face, Meghan slipped into her usual chair. “What is it?” she asked. “Have parents observed something amiss in my classroom? Catherine has me teaching almost every subject now. Our roles have virtually reversed.”

  “I’ve heard no negative reports from parents or board members.” Gideon drummed his fingers. “I have questions of a more personal nature.”

  She blinked in confusion. Daed always left any “personal nature” discussions to her mother. “What is it?”

  “I was wondering when you planned to take the classes and get baptized. You’re nineteen years old, Meghan, almost twenty. Isn’t it time you left your rumschpringe and joined the church?” He studied her carefully from across the table.

  Meghan released an audible sigh. “Is that what you’re worried about?” She fanned herself with her apron. “I feared the school board had come to some decision against me or found another candidate.”

  “Don’t make light of this, daughter. The board would prefer hiring a woman who’s made a commitment to the Amish faith, not some willy-nilly girl still sitting on the fence.”

  Anger flared from old wounds years ago—anger Meghan couldn’t easily tamp down. “I’m not sitting on any fence,” she said, loud enough to be heard anywhere in the house. “I intend to commit myself to the Lord and remain Amish.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” the bishop demanded. “Both Abigail and Catherine had taken their vows by twenty.”

  The comparison to her sisters tipped Meghan over the edge. She felt a flush creep up her neck all the way to her earlobes. She stood abruptly. “The time to end the running-around years and join the church is personal. The individual should make the decision and no one else. I hope you will trust my judgment.” She set her cup in the sink on her way to the door.

  “Getting too interested in the English way of life won’t help you land a permanent job, Meghan.” His voice matched his daughter’s in intensity.

  “Finding out how the rest of the world lives is a normal part of rumschpringe. I didn’t think it was up to my father—or my bishop—to squash that kind of curiosity.” She shot him a glare she would regret later, but Meghan’s patience had been stretched too thin.

  “Sometimes the lamb that wanders far from the fold never returns.”

  With one hand on the doorknob, she turned back to him. “I’m not a little sheep who’s wandered from her ewe. I am a grown woman!”

  Meghan turned and rushed out the door—hurt, confused, and angry. Why did her parents insist on comparing her to her sisters? She knew she would never be as smart or as talented as Abby or Cat, but why couldn’t she just be herself? Would her best never be good enough? She loved her parents dearly, but sometimes even lost lambs must find their own way.

  In her present state of mind, she chose not to go to the dawdi haus. Instead, she ducked under the
fence and headed across the pasture. Soon the walk changed into a sprint. She picked up her skirt and ran, heedless of where she stepped, expending her anger in a burst of energy. When breathlessness forced Meghan to slow her pace, shame over her treatment of her father tightened her gut.

  Please forgive me, Lord, for dishonoring my father. I know he has my best interests at heart. Maybe if I tried to be more like Cat or Abby, he wouldn’t get on my nerves so often.

  With a lighter conscience, Meghan headed toward the creek. Along the back property line of the Yost farm, the meadow sloped down to a tributary of the Killbuck Creek. A thick band of trees followed the waterway as it snaked its way through Wayne County. She had visited this quiet, secluded spot almost daily as a child whenever her brothers teased or her sisters offered too much advice. She would wade into the cool shallow water during summer or sit on her favorite fallen log in autumn to appreciate the foliage and to cope with her large family. In the winter she often encountered deer coming to drink from the fast-moving current, while in spring she’d see huge flocks of migratory birds pausing in treetops on their journey back to Canada.

  Dampness seeped through Meghan’s well-worn tennis shoes. Spring hikes required rubber boots to navigate marshy pastures and flooded trails—something she’d forgotten in her hurry to leave. But soggy sneakers were worth the price of a restored soul.

  As she picked her way down to her private oasis, she found that someone else had discovered the secret location.

  Thomas sat on a granite boulder, throwing pebbles into the sparkling water. He glanced up when he heard her approach, surprise registering on his handsome face. “Hullo, Meghan.”

  She jumped down to the creek bed with a splash and stared at his feet. He wore sturdy hiking books instead of his usual black dress shoes. “I see you have on the right footwear, while I came in flimsy sneakers. These will be fit only for the trash can by the time I get back.”