A Marriage for Meghan (35 page)

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.”

“I picked them up when I went home.” Thomas lifted his legs straight in front of him to admire the boots. “How did you find me here?”

“You’re joking, right? This is
my
secret hiding place. I’ll let you stay only if you promise not to tell a soul.” She winked at him before settling herself on her favorite log.

“This place is special.” He arched his neck to view the treetops. “I’ve come here several times since I discovered it. All my frustrations disappear the moment I arrive.”

“I hope that works for me today,” she said softy. “I just said some mean things to my father and I feel terrible.” Out the words tumbled, despite Meghan having no desire to reveal family matters. She picked up a handful of pebbles. One by one she tossed them into the stream.

“That happens when a person is your age. Nobody reaches adulthood without a few go-rounds with their folks.” Thomas rested his chin on a knee and stared into the water.

“You talk as though you’re so much older than me.” She pulled off her head covering to scratch her scalp. “How old are you anyway?” She replaced her
kapp
and then chanced a glance at him.

“Almost twenty-nine, and I still get annoyed with my mother.”

“What do you two fight about?” She inched closer on the log, as though someone might overhear them.

“We don’t really argue. It’s more of a constant subtle pressure I feel while I’m home. Well, it’s really not subtle at all. She wants me to settle down with a nice, proper girl.”

“And you have your heart set on a rotten, improper one?” Meghan tried to keep her face composed.

Thomas nearly fell off his rock. “I keep forgetting that, unlike Catherine, you have a wicked sense of humor. But I must admit that meeting women in bars and clubs hasn’t worked out very well for me. The women I’ve met lately only seem interested in how much money I make.”

Meghan tossed in the rest of her stones before leaning over to share a confidence. “There are some Amish women like that. I once heard a girl say she intended to marry the farmer with the biggest number of acres. I’m not joking about that. I thought her mother would faint dead away.”

Thomas smiled with a wistfulness that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So even Amish men aren’t safe from women with agendas.”

“What do you mean by ‘agendas’?”

“A plan for their future instead of seeing what God has in mind.”

She reflected on this. “I just hope God brings me the right one.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s what we all hope for. I’d better get back. My laptop should be recharged, and I have plenty of work to do before I heat up my supper.” He offered her a hand as they climbed up the embankment.

“Thanks, Thomas. And you can come here anytime. But you’re still not allowed to tell people.” They walked through the meadow in silence until something jarred her memory. “I almost forgot what I was on my way to tell you.” Meghan repeated what Owen Shockley had told her on the playground.

Thomas mulled over the information for a minute. “Thanks for letting me know, Meghan. This is the second time you may have helped the investigation.”

“My father says everybody fills gas cans this time of year. And that I’m seeing suspects lurking behind every tree.”

“Your dad has a point, but an investigator never knows which tips will pan out. We often wander down plenty of dead ends before we catch a break in the case.”

Daylight faded as they walked, and a thin crescent moon rose over the distant hills. “Thanks, Thomas,” she whispered.

“For what?” He angled his head toward her.

“For not treating me like a silly little Amish girl.” She was glad it was too dark to see her face.

“Well, you are a tad on the short side, and no one would dispute the fact you’re Amish. But, Meghan, you’re the smartest woman I’ve met in a long time.” He patted her on the shoulder.

She didn’t thank him or try to refute his assertion, despite his statement being a gross exaggeration. She neither chatted about the weather nor inquired further about his investigation. Because without warning, her emotions rolled themselves into a boulder-sized lump, and it had lodged smack in the center of her throat.

Gideon hadn’t been watching for his daughter. Not at all. He just happened to pull back the kitchen curtain to peer outside. And who should walk into the moonlight by the
dawdi
haus
but Meghan and Agent Mast. He ground his teeth but held his tongue when she entered through the back door. With Ruth and Catherine busy with dinner, pressing the issue right now would only further alienate the girl. He concentrated on his newspaper when Meghan came into the room, grinning merrily.

Ruth and Catherine both turned from their tasks. “I’m sorry,
mamm
and Cat, for not helping with supper,” she said. “I decided to take a walk to clear away my headache. I’ll clean up the kitchen alone tonight to make up for it.”

Ruth transferred pork chops from the baking sheet to a platter with tongs. “Wash your hands, child. We’re ready to eat. The spring fever bug bites everyone eventually. No harm done.”

Catherine carried four bottles of salad dressings and a bowl of greens to the table. “I’d rather cook than scrubs pots and pans anyway, so I’m pleased with the arrangement.”

After Meghan disappeared into the bathroom, Gideon laid down his paper. “Does that gal seem different to you? More lively…and distracted?”

“Meghan?” the other two chimed in chorus. Catherine shrugged her shoulders, while Ruth said, “She seems to be our Meggie to me. No different than usual.”

Soon the prodigal daughter returned with clean hands and face, along with his two sons. During the meal James and John talked endlessly about which single young ladies might attend an upcoming social event. Even his bold as brass youngest couldn’t get a word in sideways.

But Gideon hadn’t been reassured by either Catherine’s or his
fraa
’s opinion. Meghan was acting strangely in his estimation. And he believed the cause of her exuberance lived in the house next door. Because talking to her had worked as well as harnessing a goat, he decided instead to speak to the object of her fascination. With everyone busy with evening chores, Gideon crossed the yard to the house his parents had lived in.

“Hullo, Agent Mast?” he called at the window. He’d always hated knocking.