Abigail's New Hope (The Wayne County Series) Page 8

  “Daniel! You startled me. I had been wondering when you would get back.” Catherine finished brushing the child’s long hair and then braided it into a loose plait.

  “Put that wet towel in the hamper and go upstairs, daughter. It’s thirty minutes past your bedtime. I’ll be up to say gut nacht in a few minutes.” After Laura did as instructed, he turned his hard-edged dark eyes on Catherine. “If you have any questions, ask them of me instead of a six-year-old.”

  She stood and walked to the stove while her back arched like a cat. “I was curious as to why you have kept your cousin hidden away in a cabin instead of letting him mingle with other people. Would you like a cup of tea, Daniel? The water’s hot.”

  “Jah, tea, danki.” Daniel walked across the kitchen and settled his tall frame against the counter. “Isaiah isn’t hidden away. He chooses to live by himself down by the river. He’s happy keeping his own counsel without folks asking nosy questions or giving him advice he doesn’t need.”

  “Honey or sugar?” she asked, dunking tea bags into both cups.

  “Honey, two teaspoons.” His pique changed to an expression of bafflement.

  “My, you like things sweet,” she murmured, while measuring the precise amount of honey into his cup. “I asked because I’m filling in for Abby for a while, and I would like to know the number of mouths to feed. And if the arrangement is to set a plate of whatever we’re having on the porch picnic table, or send a hamper of sandwiches tied to a pack mule down the back path, please just let me know.” She handed one cup to him, keeping her gaze locked with his.

  Daniel was struggling not to smile as he accepted the cup. “We don’t own a pack mule, Catherine, only Percherons, standardbreds, and one Shetland pony.” He singed his lips when he sipped his tea.

  “No mule? All right then, that question has been settled. You should let that tea cool a tad.”

  “If you put a plate of food on the porch after breakfast and dinner, that would be fine. Cover it with plastic wrap. It doesn’t bother him if the food gets cold. Fill a travel mug with coffee in the morning and milk in the evening and snap the lid on tight.”

  “What about lunch?” She blew across the surface of her cup.

  “Two sandwiches, any kind. Mustard, no mayonnaise. Sliced tomatoes if we have them, and any variety of fruit. And if you’ve baked cookies, he’ll take as many as you can spare. Just put his lunch in one of those cooler bags with a can of cola and leave it on the table. He’ll come for it by-and-by. Sometimes he gets busy cutting deadwood in the hills or working the back fields, but he always comes eventually.”

  Catherine sipped her tea. “Good to know. That’s useful information and not idle gossip.”

  Daniel nodded. “Abby bakes him banana nut bread whenever the IGA puts bananas on the reduced rack. She buys all they have and freezes the extra loaves.” He took a gulp of tea. “Don’t be surprised if he avoids crossing your path, Catherine. He’s simpleminded and keeps to himself.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “He’s not all there, but he’s a fine man and takes good care of himself in his cabin. You don’t have to worry about him except for setting out his meals. Danki for the drink. I’m going to read in my room for a while. Gut nacht.” He left the kitchen before she could ask any more questions.

  While finishing her tea, she pondered the cousin who had grown only more mysterious with Daniel’s explanation. If the Graber family was concerned about gossip, the young man must have been shunned for some past transgression. She wandered onto the porch. With Daniel and the children already upstairs, she knew she should also retire to her bedroom, but she wasn’t sleepy and felt too addled to read. Setting the empty cup on the rail, she grabbed the flashlight from the steps and started walking from the house at a brisk pace. Walking always brought peace whenever her siblings were annoying or daed’s rules thwarted her plans. If she hiked for a while, sleep would come more easily to a weary body. She headed around the barn and down the path toward the river for some much-needed exercise.

  She wasn’t spying on Daniel’s cousin.

  She hadn’t planned to pick her way through the increasing gloom in the orchard, fending off low-hanging branches with an upraised arm. Mosquitoes feasting on her face and hands were no reason to turn back. After all, the moon rising low on the horizon would soon flood the fields with light to illuminate her way home. The evening breeze carried the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle and jasmine, while whippoorwills and owls joined the serenade of tree frogs and cicadas.

  Catherine paused on the narrow path to catch her breath. With the orchard behind her, she spotted a line of swamp willows a quarter mile ahead. Those trees loved moist rocky soil. In between, briars and spiny shrubs encroached on the path on both sides. Who knew what critters lurked in the brush? She considered turning back, contemplating what her brother-in-law would say if he spotted her flashlight beam from his bedroom window. But Catherine Yost had always been a curious child. As a grown woman, that particular characteristic hadn’t diminished. With a final glance over her shoulder, she inhaled a deep breath and forged ahead, concentrating on where she walked as sharp blackberry thorns threatened both eyes and clothes.

  As the path entered the woods and shadows soon enveloped her, Catherine stood still for several moments. The flashlight became more hindrance than help because it revealed too small an area to gain her bearings. Switching off the narrow beam, she waited patiently for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Soon the well-trodden path dimly reappeared between the trees.

  What am I doing here? Why am I spying on someone who wishes to be left alone? Haven’t I annoyed Daniel enough my first day in his house? But Catherine inched forward until scrub forest gave way to the tall sycamores and willows that grew near water. She paused and listened to the faint but distinctive sound of a rushing river, trying to ignore the chilling cries of a coyote up in the hills. Beyond the line of trees she spotted a black void, warning of the steep drop-off of a riverbed. She gingerly picked her way along the path, illuminated only by the light of a full moon overhead.

  As she pushed aside some low tree boughs, she gasped. Yellow light from a kerosene lamp flickered through the wavy glass of a window. She had found the cabin—the residence of Daniel’s reclusive cousin, Isaiah. Though she yearned to peek inside his home, to discover the tastes of a man who lived by his own design, she didn’t dare. She’d already wandered from her sister’s home and had been gone too long. Feeling a shiver of excitement snake up her spine, Catherine watched spellbound for another minute. Then she turned and began the painstaking journey back to her new home.

  Creeping along the path, darker now than on her way in, tiny hairs on the back of neck suddenly stood on end. She peered off to her left into the brush, maybe ten or twelve feet. Sitting motionless in the thicket with ears at full alert sat a very large yellow animal. His eyes reflected the moonlight with an evil, netherworld glint. The beast neither barked, nor howled, nor made any menacing approach, yet Catherine’s heart stopped beating within her chest for several seconds.

  Was it a fox? Or a coyote? Perhaps a lone wolf that had wandered down from Canada across a frozen lake?

  She didn’t stick around to ask questions or gather additional canine details. She picked up her skirt and ran pell-mell for the house. She didn’t stop until the porch loomed before her eyes, and then she doubled over, panting like the species she had encountered.

  Despite her best effort, Catherine hadn’t been remotely unobtrusive. Alive to the nuances of the night, Isaiah Graber had sensed her approach from the moment a blackberry briar had first caught the sleeve of her dress and she’d muttered in dismay. Overcome with his own curiosity, he’d circled around in a wide arc to watch the stranger approach his cabin.

  He knew she was afraid—he’d caught the scent of fear—but on she’d crept.

  He could tell she had little experience in the great outdoors, yet she hadn’t turned back when the path left the sparse orchard and entered the dense, dark
woods. Little illumination reached the forest floor until a person reached the clearing for his cabin, but the woman had waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and then kept going. Will she boldly let herself in and sit down on my sofa? Maybe fry up a few eggs for a late night snack? At the spruce tree she had paused and approached no farther. She stood staring at his cabin, watching what he couldn’t fathom. Then she’d tripped over the same rocks and been scratched by the same briars all the way back. Utterly perplexed, Isaiah followed her until she reached the orchard without breaking her neck.

  This was the same woman who had arrived this afternoon with a bulging a suitcase. He’d seen a buggy pull up to the house while he’d been repairing fences in the high pasture. Little happened on his cousin’s farm that escaped his notice, unless he was off hunting in the autumn or buried under a blanket of snow during winter. Was she the one who had cooked the delicious fried chicken, buttered noodles, and spinach salad with pieces of bacon? He’d watched Abigail climb into a car with flashing red and blue lights and not come back. Isaiah couldn’t imagine what Daniel would do without his wife. And he’d been rather curious about the woman ever since her arrival. But now that she had bravely ventured down the path, all the way to his cabin, he was downright mystified.

  Six

  Nathan Fisher paid no attention when the late model sedan drove up his driveway. English folks often pulled into the yard to ask directions or to see if they were selling eggs, cheese, or garden produce. Once an elderly Englischer asked if he had any cuckoo clocks for sale. When he had been dumbfounded by the question, the woman explained that because the Amish originally came from Switzerland, she thought he might have maintained an old-country trade.

  Cuckoo clocks. Just when you think you have heard it all.

  Whoever this person was, most likely he or she would soon leave when no one came out with things for sale. He had chores to do. His recently baled hay needed to be stacked in the barn loft out of the weather. Cows needed milking and garden vegetables were ready to be picked. Although Ruth had managed their garden on her own, he couldn’t expect his aunt to keep house, cook meals, care for his son, and do outdoor chores too. He needed to do more than his share because she owed him no lifetime commitment. Besides, he couldn’t drop what he was doing in his present condition. He was dirty from head to toe and probably smelled worse than their sow after a roll in fresh mud.

  Pulling on the rope with all his strength, Nathan raised another pile of bales up to the loft. Two more loads and his latest cutting of hay should be finished. He would cover the remaining bales with plastic and leave them outdoors to supplement pasture grass for the next few weeks.

  “Hello? Mr. Fisher?” A female voice called from the barn doorway.

  Nathan clenched down on his back teeth. “Jah, I’m Nathan Fisher, but I’m busy right now. We have no eggs for sale if that’s why you’re here. And if you’re collecting donations, my aunt’s up at the house. Tell her there’s some money in the canister by the door.”

  The woman chuckled, stepping inside rather than going on her way. “I’ll remember that come time for the March of Dimes drive, but today I’m not soliciting money. I’m here to talk to you.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her from the ladder. The woman was as skinny as a fence pole, with curly yellow hair standing out from her head like a lion’s mane. But her manner of dress was all business—gray suit, white blouse, and high-heeled shoes. As Nathan stared, she ventured deeper into the barn. “Careful there, ma’am, in those fancy shoes. There are things in here you do not want to step in.”

  She instantly stood still. “Right, then. I’ll wait for you outside in the shade.” She pivoted and headed to the pasture fence, where low dog-wood trees offered cool relief.

  Because she did not appear to be leaving, Nathan had little choice but to tie off the pulley rope, wipe his dirty hands on a rag, and walk out into the oppressively hot sunshine. He shielded his eyes from the glare. “What can I do for you, Miss…”

  “Mrs. Patricia Daly,” she said, digging in her purse. “I’m a social worker with Children’s Services. I’m here to make a home inspection regarding the care of an infant, Abraham Fisher.” She smiled pleasantly and held out her identification card from a brown wallet.

  He blinked once or twice like an owl. “What kind of inspection?”

  She slipped the wallet back into her shoulder bag. “Just routine. Nothing to worry about. Your son was admitted to the hospital for observation following your wife’s passing. In these situations, the case is assigned to Children’s Services. A follow-up visit is scheduled to make sure the baby is receiving proper care and nutrition. And please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss.”

  What she just said took a moment to sink in, but when it did Nathan felt his back go rigid. “You’ve come to check if I’m feeding my boy?”

  “Put in those terms my job sounds awful, doesn’t it? And I am sure you’re taking fine care of your son, Mr. Fisher, but not everyone, especially not every widower, faced with so enormous an undertaking rises to the occasion.”

  Nathan shifted his weight and tucked his hands under his suspenders. “You would be better off speaking plain English, ma’am, so I don’t misunderstand your meaning.”

  She nodded after a moment’s thought. “Some fathers looking after a baby alone for the first time don’t care for them properly. They don’t change diapers often enough or maybe they can’t handle a fussy eater. My job, my responsibility, is to the children of this county—Amish or English. I’ve been sent to observe Abraham and fill out a report.” She pulled out a pad on a clipboard from her leather bag and stared at him with more determination than he’d ever seen in a woman.

  He looked away to gaze at the sow slumbering in her pen as her tiny piglets nursed in a neat row. “All right, then. Had I known you were coming, I would have made myself more presentable. I wouldn’t walk downwind of me on the way to the house, if you take my meaning.” She laughed much too loudly. “I do, but don’t worry, Mr. Fisher. I’m not here to describe you in my report, only your son. And we’re required to make our assessment visits unannounced.”

  “So nobody puts on a dog and pony show just for your benefit?” He sounded caustic and hadn’t meant to. This Englischer was just doing her job and he had no cause to be surly. He’d heard that some folks didn’t take good care of their kinner, but thought none of them were Amish.

  Mrs. Daly didn’t seem to mind. “That’s right. Some people clean up their act when somebody’s watching but go right back to their neglectful ways once my tires hit the pavement.”

  As they walked toward the house, the social worker gave him a wide berth, and then she paused at the porch steps.

  “Go in,” he said. “The door’s open.”

  She went up the steps, pushed open the screen door, and entered his kitchen. Iris had opened every window and door in the house, and a battery fan rotated on the countertop. The room smelled of ripe peaches and brown sugar.

  “Hello. Come on in,” said Iris, glancing up with flour dusting her cheeks and nose. “I’m baking peach pies before my fruit turns mushy. You’re right on time. The first batch is ready to come from the oven.”

  Mrs. Daly took in the entire kitchen with a quick, perusing glance. “I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing, and you might not want to offer pie when you know why I’m here.” She introduced herself and then repeated everything she’d explained to Nathan by the barn, omitting the reference to a dog and pony show.

  Iris listened wide eyed and bewildered. “Do you think we would let a man fend for a baby by himself?” Her tone betrayed how ridiculous she found the idea. “Amish men don’t know much about infants, and they don’t have time to sit around reading books sent home by the hospital.” She talked over her shoulder while washing her hands. “That’s what his family and the community is for. And if he didn’t have me, some other woman in the district would have stepped in to help.” She dried her hands and
then offered one to shake. “I’m his aunt, Iris Fisher.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure. Why don’t you have a seat?” Iris pointed toward the end of the table not covered with baking supplies. “And that’s I-R-I-S for your report.” She nodded at Mrs. Daly’s clipboard.

  Patricia grinned and lowered herself into a chair. “Let me write that down right now. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Iris supplied Patricia with her permanent address, an emergency contact phone number, and the expressed assurance that she would remain in Nathan’s home for as long as she was needed. Mrs. Daly wrote fast and asked few questions because Iris volunteered plenty of information.

  Nathan stood in the doorway watching the interview like a reluctant bystander. Fancy-dressed Englischers made him nervous. The only Englischers he could relax around wore bib overalls, Carhartt jackets, and ball caps advertising a particular brand of tractors.

  After a short while, Mrs. Daly glanced up at him. “If I can see little Abraham, I won’t take up too much more of your valuable time.”

  “Sure thing,” crowed Iris. “Just follow me. He’s asleep in the front room because the kitchen gets stuffy on baking days.”

  Nathan watched the social worker trail after his aunt, subtly peering left and right to see if any wild beasts lurked in dark corners or if other hidden dangers waited to befall an innocent baby. He followed after them, too nervous to return to his chores. What would happen if this overdressed inspector saw something she didn’t like? Would she snatch up Abraham and run out the door to her car, maybe sticking a receipt in his mailbox like an English dry cleaners? He wouldn’t take his eyes off her until she left his property.

  “There he is.” Iris pointed toward the bay window. “Inspect all you want.”