Fall from Pride (19 page)

And he'd talk to Peter Clawson soon, Nate thought. He would get on his case if he kept meddling. How Ray-Lynn, whom he hadn't mentioned to Mark as a person of interest but maybe should have, put up with Clawson as a partner
was beyond him. Of course, if she could act as agent for Sarah's art, maybe she'd earn enough to buy full control of the restaurant and get Clawson off her back, too.

 

Sarah was glad that church was in the Hostetler barn today instead of the house. Not only did it allow the nearly one hundred and fifty Amish in their district to sit in the same room—men and women on separate sides of the aisle on backless benches—but their presence seemed to bestow a blessing on the only barn left with one of her quilt squares. The painting was Sunshine and Shadows, with its contrasting pattern of yellow, white, gray and black.
Ya,
she thought, life was like that, too. Much joy but much sorrow.

She stood with everyone for the first hymn, led by the deep-voiced
vorsinger,
or song leader. As usual, it was Seth Lantz, Ella's brother, the man Hannah should have married. Sarah remembered how beautifully their voices had blended together. For sure, Seth's sin was part of the reason Hannah left home. Sarah's rejection of Jacob didn't help him, either, but what he got into wasn't her fault—was it?

The barn had been swept and scrubbed. She loved being in it, feeling its strength over and around them. Her eyes took in the rows of her people all dressed up for the service as the chantlike first hymn began. Like some of the others, it had been penned by imprisoned Amish martyrs in Europe awaiting their torture or deaths. No wonder
Grossmamm
had fears buried deep inside her, despite the fact that was generations ago and they were safe here in America.

But lately, not safe enough. Noah Miller might die and was horribly burned. Someone was waging war on their barns, someone still hated and persecuted the church
leaders—perhaps her, too—for her prideful art. Tears in her eyes, she sang the traditional hymn in German.

After a hymn of praise, Bishop Esh began to preach, gesturing broadly, walking back and forth before the congregation. Forgiveness and turning the other cheek were his first topic. He shared passages from the Book of Psalms that promised protection even in the hardest of times, which, as far as Sarah knew, was right now, the worst since the old days of death and burnings.

“‘I called on the Lord in my distress…I will not fear, for what can man do to me,'” Bishop Esh recited.

He was much heartened she knew, by the thousands of dollars raised at the auction that would go toward his new barn and some toward the Schrocks'. Now there would be huge medical bills for Noah. The local lumber mill had donated part of the timber for the new barn, and it had been announced this morning that the raising would be this coming Saturday. Nate had said he wanted to help. She hoped he had the arsons solved by then but she still wanted him to be around to be part of that. His completing his work here was something they all hoped for, yet something she dreaded.

As the congregation knelt in silent prayer with their
el bows on their benches, Sarah prayed extra hard for her own weaknesses and sins. But she prayed, too, for the
Englische
man she would never have but would never forget.

 

Nate followed the Cleveland Clinic burn unit nurse down the hall into the sterile area of private rooms. The nurse had said they'd worked hard to stabilize Noah, to keep him from going into shock. This afternoon he would have a hyperbaric treatment in an oxygen chamber, the beginning of months of painful but necessary healing and rehab.

Like her, Nate wore scrubs and booties and had been warned not to touch Noah or anything in the room. “The third-degree burns on his legs are, in effect, an open wound,” the nurse told him.

An open wound
. The words stuck in his mind. Once you lost someone in a fire, there was always an open wound, even when your body healed, even when someone gave you a good home and the years passed. But you always longed for your own people and place.

“His mother's sitting with him, and I believe his father and two friends who came with him have gone to the cafeteria,” the nurse said as they stopped at one of the closed doors. “If you'd like me to have her step out, I will.”

“Yes, I'd appreciate that.”

She put her hand to the door but didn't open it. “Did the young man start those Amish fires?” she asked. “I've been reading about those in the
Plain Dealer.
”

“That's what I need to talk to him about.”

The room seemed bare with just the raised bed, a bank of blinking monitors, the IV stands—Noah had two tubes snaking into his arms—and minimal furniture. Mrs. Miller rose from a chair and came over to them.

“I can't thank you enough for pulling him out of the barn, Mr. MacKenzie. I thanked Sarah Kauffman, too, for her quick thinking. And the sheriff. We might have lost Noah, sure could have.”

“Has he said anything about the fire?”

“Just that he's sorry, very sorry. I'm sorry he didn't see whoever set it to help you out, but he must have been so busy in the loft when that person sneaked in, that's for sure.”

Nate nodded, thinking how Hannah had kept repeating that she was sorry the night she came back to see her family's newly burned barn. He regretted that Mrs. Miller might not be so grateful to him when she learned why he was really here. After a brief talk with the nurse and another peek at her son, she left the room.

Nate approached the bed quietly. Noah's legs were uncovered and looked horrible. His torso, where he had more shallow burns, was covered with white gauze. He hated to wake him because the pain must be awful, despite the meds they were pumping in him, but it had to be done.

To Nate's surprise, Noah opened his eyes. They were bright blue, feverish above the breathing tube attached to his nostrils.

“Noah, you know who I am?”

“Ya.”

“I need to hear what happened in the barn to start the fire. I know you'll tell me the truth. I don't think the arsonist was anywhere around. Did you accidentally spill that kerosene and ignite it somehow?”

His eyes widened in surprise. He grimaced slightly. Nate could see even that movement hurt him as a deep frown furrowed his brow. Tears tracked from the corner of each eye into his hairline.

“Ya,”
he whispered.

“I thought so from the burn pattern. Was it an accident or not?”

“I—it's an old barn. We need a new one.”

“That's not what I asked. After the kerosene ignited, why did you go back into the loft?”

“I left
Daad
's tools up there—forgot. Expensive.”

“Exactly how did that lantern spill and ignite downstairs?”

“Needed more light up there. You remember,
ya?
Dark up there.”

“Noah, I know you're in pain, but you know your people are, too, fearing the arsonist will strike again, so I have to find him.”

“It's not me.”

“I know it isn't. I asked your father last night where you were during the other two fires. So maybe it's still Jacob Yoder.”

“He wouldn't. Can't say more. Sorry, that's all,” he said, and closed his eyes.

“All right, then. I'll tell you a true story, since you won't tell me one. The reason I am so dedicated to my job is because my father deliberately lit our house on fire when I was a boy, much younger than you.”

Noah opened his eyes and fixed them on Nate as he spoke. “He wanted insurance money for the house because he was going into debt—didn't have as much money as some of his friends and neighbors. I know the Amish don't have insurance, but they have donations and barn raisings.”

More tears ran down Noah's cheeks.

“But my father made a mistake. He didn't know the flames would spread that fast. He used an accelerant that got out of hand. He was going to be a hero and get us out. But
my mother was burned so badly in the fire she died, and my dad got trapped, too, and died. The fire got out of his control and trapped him. Is that what happened to you? You lit it so you'd get a new barn and so your friend Jacob wouldn't look guilty? You ran back up to the loft for the tools, but fell through the hole in the rotting floor and got trapped, right? I'm trying to help your family and your people, Noah. I need the truth. Is that what happened?”

Noah closed his eyes tightly; his lips moved. Nate could barely hear the response, one he wanted yet dreaded because it would make a bigger mess than he was already in with the Amish in this case.

“Ya,”
Noah said. “I did it.”

AFTER THE CHAOS OF THE WEEKEND, SARAH was glad to get back to her normal Monday morning schedule, even if it was the Memorial Day holiday for worldly folk. As she carried her basket of half-moon pies through the back door of the Dutch Farm Table, she saw the place was already full of
ausländers.
She peeked in all three rooms but didn't see Nate. He'd driven VERA past the
grossdaadi haus
toward the pond late last night and had left early. Though she longed to see him, she had her whole day planned. After having breakfast with Ray-Lynn, if her friend had time to sit down, she was going to begin to paint the pattern on her family's barn.

Sarah wanted to get a start on it before Bishop Esh and other church leaders called on
Daad
this afternoon to discuss whether setting a trap for the arsonist would be permissible. Despite her belief in forgiveness, she couldn't see why they would even hesitate. The arsonist was a dangerous criminal who needed to be caught and that was that.

“You didn't get any sleep, did you?” Ray-Lynn greeted
her, took the basket and handed her the money right away. She looked upset and rushed.

“Not much, but how about we tell each other we look and feel great?”

“Ah, the power of positive thinking, though even little lies are not very Amish. Here, sit at the far end of the counter, and I'll be back to chat if I have time. We're full of gawkers and media-types this morning, so hide under that bonnet if you don't want to be bothered. In other words, try not to look like your picture in the special edition Peter put out this morning. He must have been up all night, too. I'll be back in a sec,” she promised, and darted away.

Her picture in the paper? That's all she needed after the comments and looks she got about the feature on her painted barn squares, Sarah thought as she climbed into one of the tall-legged, wooden chairs and slid a copy of the paper down the counter.

“Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no!”

The story about the fire had bumped coverage of the community auction off the front page with the headline Amish Heroine Helps Save Man Trapped in Barn Fire. Arson #3?

She forced herself to read it slowly, whispering, her lips moving.

Wide-eyed, Sarah studied the largest of the three color photos. It was her all right, a full, clear profile of her face because she'd shoved her bonnet back to see better. She was up the ladder. A distraught Mr. Miller and the angry sheriff were standing below her. Right under that, two other photos were almost as large. The one on the left was of Nate in his fire gear, emerging from black smoke and flames, pulling Noah after him. The one on the right was of her half-burned quilt square on the barn with two streams of water from the pumper truck crisscrossing in front of it.

“I'm not an Amish heroine,” she told Ray-Lynn, who bustled up and poured her a cup of coffee. “I'm just trying to help.”

“I know you feel that way, and this doesn't help with the humility I know you all value. But you
are
a heroine. Listen, Sarah,” she said, leaning close and putting one hand on her shoulder. “I don't want to see you scolded or persecuted by
the people you love, but you have got to realize that your painted squares make you special. If you'd ever agree to draw and paint the Amish daily life scenes you've shown me, the sky's the limit.”

“I just want us to catch and stop that arsonist. None of us need this kind of publicity,” Sarah said with a nod and glance that encompassed the entire restaurant.

“I can't argue how good it is for business,” Ray-Lynn admitted. “So, are you still fixing to help Nate?”

“He's got his feet pretty well on the ground now, but when I can.”

“You should let him see your sketchbook. Maybe when he goes back to Columbus, he could show it to my friend for us.”

“I can't think about all that now.” She sighed and took a sip of the coffee. She almost told Ray-Lynn Nate had already seen the sketchbook and about her sketches being defaced with blood and flames, but something held her back from sharing that.

“Gotta go,” Ray-Lynn said, “but I was just wondering if Nate has said anything about other suspects, if Jacob Yoder doesn't pan out.”

“You'd better ask him,” Sarah said. For once the pancakes with strawberries Leah Schwartz placed in front of her didn't look good at all. If she'd lost her appetite, things were getting to her really bad.

 

Sarah had a good start on her Ocean Waves painting when the church leaders—minus Levi Miller, who must still be at the hospital with Noah—arrived in separate buggies. Bishop Esh, elders Reuben Schrock and Eli Hostetler, and two deacons went into the house to meet with her father. To her
surprise, Nate drove up in VERA, parked on the lane, then jogged back to her house and, with a wave, went inside, too.

Was he invited to let them know how Noah was doing or was he going to plead his case for staking out Hostetlers' and this barn? No doubt the Amish leaders weren't happy with the newspaper coverage. Sometimes, she had to admit, it would be nice to live in a community where the women could sit in a gathering of leaders making big decisions, but that just wasn't their way. The home and children were the woman's realm, and that didn't include painting pictures of people on barns or anywhere else.

 

Nate saw that the meeting was going to be around the Kauffmans' big kitchen table. That was fine with him, except the seat they'd left gave him a view of Sarah out back, up the ladder, which was distracting. Every time she leaned or stretched to paint, her raised hem flaunted the edge of a white slip and her shapely black-stockinged legs. It was incredible that a glimpse of stocking could be arousing in this day and age, but she always got to him that way.

He fought to keep his eyes on the eager, bearded faces as he told them Noah's condition had stabilized but that he faced a long, painful battle for full recovery.

“We'll need more money raisers, another auction and dinner,” Bishop Esh said. “Let's hope the women can go back to quilting soon. We have some money in reserve to help the Millers with the hospital costs, but we have three barns to rebuild now, not two. Anything else about this third arson before we discuss plans for stopping the arsonist, Nate?”

“Yes, there is something I need to go over with you. The Miller fire was an arson, but not by the arsonist who set the first two. I suspected that from burn patterns I saw in the
barn. Noah confessed that he set the blaze, and he asks for forgiveness.”

They sat in silence until Bishop Esh's fist hit the table and rattled his sugar spoon against his coffee mug. The Amish men looked at one another, then at Nate. No explosions, no swearing, no name-calling or accusations. Finally, the bishop spoke. “He's paid a steep price for that sin, as all must for theirs.”

“At least he's confessing,” Reuben said. “It was an old tinderbox of a barn. He must have hoped for help rebuilding.”

“That,” Nate said, “and he thought another barn fire while his buddy Jacob was in jail would get him freed. Like others I spoke with, Noah believes however distraught Jacob was, he would not burn barns. Noah had no idea that Jacob was locked up on other charges. But the circumstances of this third fire make Jacob's guilt possible again, and Sheriff Freeman says he will probably be released on bail soon.”

“Government law is sometimes not God's laws,” Ben Kauffman said. “Will you, Nate, as the government's official here, charge Noah Miller with arson, even if he's not the arsonist we really want to stop? Just to be clear, he isn't, is he, maybe working with Jacob Yoder?”

“After interviewing him, I believe it was a naive attempt at what we call a copycat crime. Since I've returned from Cleveland, I've checked out Noah's alibis for the other two fires and he was not involved. When I told his parents what he'd done, they, of course, refused to bring charges. I'm willing to let your church deal with him. Under the circumstances, I can't see prosecuting him, if you'll handle things. He's already facing years of pain and rehab and may be crippled the rest of his life. Besides, prosecuting Noah would distract, in town and in the local paper, from finding
the one we still need to capture. But can we agree to set a trap for the other arsonist?”

“Would you mind stepping into the living room for a minute or two?” Bishop Esh asked. “This won't take long.”

“Sure. I understand,” Nate said, and went into the neat, sparsely furnished living room. He could hear their low voices, but of course, they were speaking in German now. Looking out the window toward the road, he wished he could see how Sarah was doing from here.

He began to pace back and forth across the hardwood floor. Mark Lincoln trusted him to handle this delicate investigation. Nate had broken a minor rule or two, like hauling civilians around in VERA while heading for a fire. He was about to break a bigger one if he didn't arrest Noah. But the Amish had to be handled differently, didn't they, or was that wrong, too? His offer to let Noah Miller off scot-free from prosecution was a breach of ethics, but worldly ones. This was a different world here, and the Amish would see that Noah was punished and rehabilitated. But the worst—and, somehow, the best—thing he'd done here was falling in love with his Amish aide.

He stopped pacing and shook his head. He was sweating but a shiver snaked up his spine. In love? Was he crazy? In eight days he was in love and with an Amish woman? No way. He was just grateful to her, fascinated by her and under such pressure he wasn't thinking straight when he absolutely needed to.

“You can come in now, Nate,” Ben Kauffman said, interrupting his thoughts. He went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table again.

“About your deal that we should set a trap for the arsonist, we don't make deals with the government,” Reuben said.
“Whatever the crime, is entrapment of the criminal fair and moral?”

“The government has made deals with Amish ways before. You know that. Being able to run your own schools, for example,” Nate argued, keeping his voice calm and leaning forward over his clasped hands on the table. “The fact the U.S. government agreed that the Amish need pay no Social Security taxes because you refuse to accept Social Security benefits. Again, I think we need to work together for the safety of your people. So let me explain my plan, and then we can all seek the advice and permission of a higher power to get it done.”

 

“Can I see you in private, Ray-Lynn?” Jack asked as he stepped in the back door of the restaurant.

Why the back door? she thought. What was going on? It was nearly time to run home for a while, but she'd been so busy this morning she was thinking of skipping her break.

“Why sure. Can't you come in for a cup of cof—”

“Right now, out here, if you wouldn't mind.”

She told Leah and Anna she'd be right back and went out the door he held for her. The sheriff's car was parked behind the restaurant. No one else was in sight. Her heartbeat kicked up as he took her upper arm and steered her around to the other side of his car, almost as if he was going to put her in it, arrest her.

“So what is this ab—” she got out before he interrupted.

“I learned something yesterday that teed me off, Ray-Lynn. I was gonna let it slide, but I just can't. Our state fire marshal investigator and I had a debrief about first tier and second tier suspects for the arsons, and I recognized a name I knew real well on the second tier. Now why in Sam Hill
didn't you tell me you were at the Esh barn right before it went up in flames?”

She'd sensed that question was coming, but it didn't help. Although her stomach twisted, she was angry, too. “Because I didn't see anything suspicious, as I hope Nate MacKenzie told you. And, with the restaurant and all—as a partner to a man who puts every ding-dang thing in the paper he can find and manages to make everyone look guilty—I didn't want to get involved!”

“Didn't want to get involved?” he exploded when he'd been almost whispering before. “You should have told me, told MacKenzie right away, at least. He got it out of some kid who spotted you and then you confessed! Not get involved? You and I are involved, aren't we? You should have told me so I knew, so I could question you—protect you if it came to that.”

“Protect me? And no, we aren't involved in any way other than I bring your food and pour your coffee and provide a sympathetic ear once in a while. Is that your idea of involved?”

He looked shocked either at the fact she'd shouted back or just maybe, hopefully, at what she'd said.

“I thought we were…friends,” he said, looking hurt, almost like a little boy. Yet he was still Jack Freeman, former-marine hard-as-nails sheriff, standing there in that sharp uniform, six inches taller than her with his macho gun belt. He was a bright man but dumb as a doorknob when it came to soft feelings, to emotion. She had to keep remembering this was a man's man, her own Rhett Butler, not an Ashley Wilkes. But she was no Scarlett O'Hara, who didn't know what man she wanted.