Forbidden (23 page)

The Appalachian Highway opened up a new world for Roc. He'd never known or imagined rolling hills quite like this, many expanding into lush green carpets and fields of corn, while others dipped and dropped into deep ravines or dried creek beds. Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, had been flat as a pancake, but this Amish world seemed hidden from the rest of civilization, set apart by the towering pines and maples. Whitewashed barns and houses dotted the landscape. Most had front porches and swings and laundry flapping on the lines. Some homes had a modern look to them, with cars and farm equipment in the drive, while others gave the appearance of weary trailers, exhausted from having traveled nowhere.

It had taken less than an hour to make the drive. On either side of the barely two-lane road, they'd passed farms where men worked in the fields. One Amish farmer sat on a metal contraption behind a team of honey-colored horses, a small child riding behind his father.

They eventually turned down Hidden Drive, a twisting, turning road, which ended up as one lane traversing a rickety bridge that must have been built at the turn of the nineteenth century. At a bend in the road, a large gray barn stood watch over the area. It looked as if it had been abandoned for some time.

The farther they went, the farther the road took them from modernization. They swooped and swerved around bends and turns, finally approaching the small community of Harmony Hollow. It didn't look like any community he'd ever known, just a smattering of houses, silos, and barns, more spread out than grouped together. Along the narrow road there was an occasional fruit stand, a saddle shop, general store (where they were told they could buy a newspaper and learn the local gossip), and bakery.

The curving road eventually led to a covered bridge, which looked like it was held together with spit and a prayer. They first had to pull to the side of the road and wait for a horse and buggy to travel through the tilted structure.

They survived to turn onto Secret Cove Road. Up ahead, a wooden sign read: Fisher Woodworking. They veered down the sloping gravel drive and through a white picket fence. It led to a whitewashed house surrounded by an assortment of summery flowers in all shades of yellows, blues, and pinks. Set apart from the house was a separate building with double-wide doors standing open, and Adirondack chairs spilling out into the expansive drive. Past the house, a paddock housed a chestnut horse, and a smaller pen kept a pig and a couple of piglets, which tumbled around in the grass together. A barn occupied the space behind the house, and beyond the laundry line, a garden grew corn and a wide assortment of other plants.

Rachel peered over the front seat through the windshield. “This is lovely.”

“Let's hope it's enough of a secret,” he said as he opened the back passenger door of the station wagon.

The wind stirred the leaves of the towering oaks and maples surrounding the homestead, sealing it off from the rest of the world. The dense forest border gave it a protective feel. Maybe this would be a good hideout.

A stern-looking Amish man walked toward him from what appeared to be a workshop, from which came the grating and hungry sounds of saws and sanders chewing into wood planks. Straightening the confounded black coat, which seemed to absorb every ray of sunlight and trapped the heat against his skin and reset his shoulder on fire, Roc slapped the new flat-brimmed straw hat on his head.

The Amish man's disgruntled, dyspeptic look gave Roc a bad feeling.
What
had
he
gotten
himself
into
this
time?
Fighting vampires seemed infinitely easier than fitting into this out-of-date world, of which he knew nothing.

Roc leaned back into the car. The young teen sitting behind the wheel looked like he could have been Richie Cunningham's long lost brother. “Better stay behind the wheel…” Roc said to the teen who had driven them. Out of the corner of his eye, Roc measured the approaching Amish man's dirge pace. “I'll clap the top if all is clear for you to head on back. Otherwise…” He paused, for he wasn't at all sure this was going to work out.

“Rachel,” Roc said, extending a hand to her. As she emerged from the backseat, he whispered, “Is this Jonas Fisher coming toward us?”

She nodded, her shoulder brushing his arm as she stood, and her fingers tightened on his hand.

“Is Levi's dad always this happy?”

Her mouth twitched with the start of a smile, and then she suppressed it.

Roc closed the car door behind her and turned to greet the older man. Every Amish man Roc had met over the past few months may have appeared stern or somber on the outside, but so far they'd also transmitted a tranquil manner, as if they were at peace with their choices, and a kindness toward others. Not the case with Jonas Fisher. Something about this man—maybe it was his metallic gray beard that seemed far older than his features required, or maybe it was the weariness in his wooden brown eyes—gave Roc a cold sensation in his gut.

Sticking his hand out toward Jonas Fisher, Roc greeted him. “Your son, Levi, sends his greetings, Mr. Fish—”

“Levi was wrong to send you here.” Jonas Fisher's mouth was a straight, firm, uncompromising line. He ignored Roc's outstretched hand. “I won't have you here.”

“But—” Rachel started, and Roc silenced her with a slight touch to her elbow.

“Mr. Fisher,” Roc said for the two of them, “you of all people should know why I need a safe place for Rachel.”

He didn't even glance in her direction. “I have my own family to think of. I won't get involved with—”

“Excuse me, sir, but I believe you're already involved. Now, we can stay here shootin' the breeze, or we can appeal to your neighbors down the road there.”

The older man's eyes pinched at the corners. “You're not Amish.”

“No one else has to know that.”

“You open your mouth, and they'll know.” The older man's gaze traveled over Roc. “You won't even have to open your mouth.”

“Look, I'm here to protect Rachel till her baby gets here safely. Not preach or chat up the neighbors.” If there were neighbors around. Because right now this place seemed very isolated.

Fisher stared at him, and beneath his thick, scraggly beard, a muscle tightened. “Rachel can stay in the house there.” He tipped his head toward a white, clapboard, two-story house with a small front porch. A wire stretched outward from the porch toward the side building, and on the wire, clothes danced like skeletons in the breeze. “There's a spare room in the workshop for you.”

The distance between house and workshop was far too wide, Roc couldn't take any chances. He had to keep Rachel safe, which required twenty-four-hour monitoring. “We're married.”

The older man's eyes widened. “Levi didn't tell me that.”

“Do you and Levi discuss everything?”

“He would have told me.” He finally glanced at Rachel. “This is true?”

Her hand smoothed over the bump of her belly, and she hesitated a second too long.

“I'll not have anyone living in sin under my roof,” Fisher said sternly.

Roc laughed. “You think we're gonna be doing
anything
with her in this condition?”

Fisher blanched at Roc's words.

“Jonas,” Rachel said softly, “I wouldn't bring shame to your home or family.”

“You didn't consider that when you went off with Jacob—” Abruptly, he stopped himself, and his features tightened.

“Jonas, please,” Rachel pleaded.

The sun's rays slanted downward, and the heat soared beneath Roc's black coat. Sweat trickled down his spine.

Rachel stepped toward Jonas Fisher. “You've lost a son, and I've lost a husband.” Her voice cracked. “I don't want to lose my baby too.”

Fisher's lips compressed, and his gaze finally flickered downward to Rachel's rounded stomach. He scuffed his work boot over the gravel drive as if he were teetering on the brink of sending them packing.

“Mr. Fisher,” Roc began, “the fact is, if we don't stay, you are still in danger. Even in this remote place. While I'm here, I can protect your family too.”

“Why do you say—?”

“Because Jacob could just as easily seek you out, along with your wife and youngest son. It's his family too.”

The older man's mouth pulled sideways. “Sally don't know none of this. Neither does Samuel, my youngest. I'll not have them learning about it. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Rachel agreed before Roc could argue against it.

Roc reluctantly nodded, buttoning up his own lips in case he spoke out again.
Really, what did this old man think? That Jacob, now Akiva, might never come knockin' on his family's door? That his middle son was really buried in a lonely cemetery in Pennsylvania?

For a long while, Fisher remained quiet, as if thinking over his options. Hammering came from the workshop, a pounding out of the seconds. Finally, Fisher shook his head. “This will never work,” he stated plainly, and his gaze traveled over Roc. “Who would believe you were Amish?”

Contempt saturated the older man's words. Roc thought of telling the man he'd gone undercover many times as a panhandler, a pimp, a drug dealer, and even once as a teacher. But he didn't think any of those examples would impress this man.

“He doesn't have to leave the premises,” Rachel interjected. “We'll stay here, keep quiet. No one except Sally and Samuel has to know.”

“It'll be all over Harmony Hollow by sunset, probably already is. Sally has been looking forward to having company.” Fisher's lips flattened against his teeth. “How long will you stay?”

Roc glanced at Rachel. “Till the baby comes.”

“What if—?” Fisher glanced back toward the house, and when he turned back, he lowered his voice. “What if Jacob comes here?”

“I hope we led him away from here.” Roc glanced down the sloping drive. “We didn't take a direct path from New Orleans. But if he comes, then I'll be ready for him. And I hope this nightmare will end.”

Suddenly Fisher's face looked as if it had aged a decade, the creases around his eyes and along his brow deepening, his skin sagging with the weight of his secrets and fears.

Roc took the moment to press his point. “You can't hide here forever.”

Fisher's chin snapped upward. “I'm not hiding.”

Okay, mister, whatever you want to believe.
“You and I want the same thing, Mr. Fisher: to keep all of you safe.”

Fisher swallowed hard. After a few silent moments, he turned his gaze away from them and toward the two-story dwelling.

“Go on to the house, then. Sally will see to your needs.”

Sally Fisher was as accommodating and kind as her husband was austere and contrary.

Roc couldn't blame Fisher for his attitude or fears. If the older man knew anything about what his son Jacob had become, then he would want to protect what was left of his family at all costs.

Still, Roc smiled at the pleasant woman, who bustled them into her kitchen and sat them at an old wooden table. Despite the warm weather, the kitchen felt cool in the shade of the trees, and a soft breeze blew through the open windows. Sally fussed over Rachel and her condition, and within a few minutes, she'd discovered they hadn't had a solid meal in a couple of days. She tsked as she pulled out dishes from the propane-powered refrigerator and fixed them hearty sandwiches of carved ham, along with potato salad, orange-and-carrot Jell-O salad, pickles she'd put up herself last week, and fresh strawberries sprinkled with sugar. Roc had never seen such a large offering for a simple midday meal, but he was grateful since he hadn't had his fill in days.

“For dessert, there's rhubarb pie,” Sally said as she set glasses of iced tea and lemonade beside their heaping plates.

“Now this woman”—Roc got a solid grip on the sandwich with both hands and leaned toward it greedily—“knows the way to a man's heart.”

Rachel stopped him with a soft clearing of her throat. “Shall we say grace?”

Roc pulled his teeth out of the home-baked bread and closed his mouth. “Oh, yeah.” He set the sandwich back on the plate and watched Rachel for what to do next. “Okay.”

She bowed her head. He followed suit. He checked clandestinely and saw her eyelids close, so he closed his too. Then he waited. No one said anything.

Were
they
expecting
him
to
speak, to utter some sort of prayer, since he was the only man at the table?
He tried to remember back to when he'd eaten with Hannah's family, but beyond the potato rolls, his mind was a big, blank canvas. Silence drummed on with a steady beat of guilt.
What
should
he
say?

His father had been more on the bottle than not, but occasionally Remy Girouard had tipped his head back and glared up at the ceiling, offering his own version of prayer, which Roc wasn't sure St. Peter would approve of: “Thanks anyway, God, but we got this ourselves.” The only real prayers he remembered from childhood were things his mother uttered as she clutched her rosary beads and whispered
Hail
Mary
and
Glory
Be
.

The latter seemed better suited to these purposes, so as the silence stretched interminably, he spoke in his deepest, most solemn voice. “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.” He rushed through as a child might in his race to remember all the words. “As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “Bless this food.” He opened his eyes then shut them tight again. “Amen.”

Feeling a mixture of relief and pride, he reopened his eyes and raised his head. He couldn't help glancing in Rachel's direction for approval, but the look in her eyes was anything but pleasure.

It was Sally Fisher who finally broke the strained quiet. “Well,
danke
, Roc, that was a right nice prayer.”

Heat surged up his neckline. So he focused on the food, grabbing it and stuffing a bite into his mouth. One thing he'd learned about the Amish: they appreciated when folks enjoyed their good cooking, and he grunted and munched and chewed in blessed silence.

When Sally rose from her chair to fetch him more tea, he dared a glance at Rachel again. He shrugged a silent question at her, wondering what he'd done wrong. She leaned toward him and whispered, “We often pray silently to the good Lord. Not always. But—”

He coughed, choking down the big bite of ham sandwich. Silent prayers. He could do that.

Sally turned as she poured tea into his glass. “You all right?”

He nodded and kept quiet. He figured silence was the safest thing he could do while they were staying at the Fishers'. Just keep quiet and keep a lookout.

“It is a long journey you two have made,” Sally said after they'd finished dessert. “You must be mighty tired. Especially you, Rachel. If you want a rest, I can show you to your room.”

“
Danke
, Sally.”

“Mrs. Fisher,” Roc began.

“Please, call me Sally. We don't hold to formalities here.”

He nodded, beginning to feel the heaviness of the food filling his belly and his shoulder aching. “We appreciate your taking us in like this. Your husband was…” He floundered for the right words. “Well, Levi said…” He fumbled again.

Longing filled Sally's soft brown eyes. “How is Levi?”

Rachel set her fork on her plate. “He is good.”

Sally smiled the type of smile only a mother has when speaking about her children. She started asking questions in Pennsylvania Dutch.

What
was
he
supposed
to
do
now? Pretend to understand or confess he didn't?
He hoped she wouldn't ask him anything directly.

“He and Hannah are happy,” Rachel said, speaking again in English so Roc could understand. She gave a nod toward him. “He doesn't speak Pennsylvania Dutch well yet. I'm teaching him.”

Sally's eyes widened. “You married an
Englisher
?”

“He was. That's how he was raised. Now he's Amish.”

“Oh, ach!” Sally's cheeks flamed red. “I am sorry for—”

“Don't worry about it,” Roc said. “I'm just trying to learn your ways. So if I flub up, just let me know.”

She gave him a solemn nod, as if taking a pledge. Slowly, her shoulders relaxed, and she glanced back at Rachel. “I am glad Levi is happy now. He loved Hannah a long time.”

“No one really knew that.” Rachel giggled. “Although I suspected.”

“A mother always knows. He will make a good husband. I always thought…” Sally's voice trailed off, and she shifted her gaze toward her lap. She tapped her hand against the edge of the table and then looked up with an overbright smile. “I wish I could have been at the wedding.”

An awkward silence filled the spaces between them. The shades over Sally's kitchen sink flapped with the breeze, which floated through the open window and brought the smell of cedar. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask Sally Fisher or her husband, Jonas, but any answers would only satisfy curiosity, and few would help today's predicament.

“This was delicious, Mrs.…Sally.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin.

“
Gut
.” She rose and took the dishes to the sink. Rachel scooted her chair back to rise, but Sally shook her head. “Rachel, you should rest.”

“I can't not help while I'm here.”

“Well, that's fine. Tomorrow, you can have chores, but today you rest.”

Rachel rubbed the side of her belly, and Roc caught himself watching her, the curve of her fingers, her clean white nails, her strong yet soft-looking hands, the movement of material across the thickness of her waist and narrow hip. Then he jerked his gaze away only to find Sally watching him. The heavy material of his coat shrunk across the width of his shoulders.

“When is your baby due?” Sally asked Rachel as she scraped the plates.

“A few weeks yet.” Rachel lifted her feet out in front of her, pointing her toes and then flexing her feet. “And I'll be glad for the baby to be here. My ankles have started to swell.”

“Oh,
ja
, that will happen. I can make you a cup of tea.”

Roc cleared his throat. “Think I'll go over to the wood shop and see if I can find something useful to do.” He stood and walked toward the back door, feeling awkward. He'd scope out the property, get his bearings, scout out any vulnerable areas and any good watch points. “I'll, uh, be back later.”

“I hadn't heard about Josef,” Sally said to Rachel as he stepped out onto the porch, “…until Levi called to tell us you were coming here.” Roc headed quickly across the yard, more than willing to let Rachel field those questions on her own.