A Love Made New (26 page)

“Then you believe Bartholomew will return? Even after he . . .” She glanced away. “After he left you for someone else?”

How Naomi wished she could tell Rhoda the truth. But she couldn't. It was bad enough that Irene, Andrew, and Joanna knew. She couldn't risk anyone else in Birch Creek knowing the real reason she and Bartholomew were apart. “There's always a chance,” she said. “I will never give up on him.”

Rhoda's gaze moved back to Naomi. Her lips lifted in a small smile. “Then I will never give up on Emmanuel, either.” She released Naomi's hand. “Are you feeling up to eating a bit of lunch? It will be a late lunch, but that's all right.”

Naomi nodded. “Lunch and company would be nice. Let me get dressed and I'll prepare something.”

Rhoda rose. “You don't have to prepare anything. I saw Joanna in the kitchen when I arrived and she was making a sandwich for you to have later. I'll finish getting
yer
meal ready while you get dressed.”

Relief coursed through Naomi, but not because she didn't have to make a meal. For the first time since she moved to Birch Creek she felt she had a true ally. Not just a friend, but someone
who could walk this new, unknown journey with her. An ally born out of pain. They were very different women, but they were now bonded by the fact that their husbands weren't there. How could a blessing come out of that tragedy? Yet it had. “Thank you,” she said, drawing Rhoda into a hug.

Rhoda quickly returned it and stepped away, her expression showing her surprise at the spontaneous show of affection. Color brightened her cheeks. “I'll see you in a few minutes.”

When Rhoda left, Naomi looked up at the ceiling, her mind moving past the drywall and the roof and to the heavens. “
Danki
for pulling me back.” No, her circumstances hadn't changed. Both Bartholomew and Emmanuel were gone. But Naomi had her hope back. With that she could get through anything. She paused and prayed that Rhoda could do the same.

B
artholomew walked into the seedy-looking bar. He knew he would find Mike here. He scanned the small joint looking for the burly guy. Since it was a Friday night, it was hard to spot him in the crowd, but after a few minutes he found him, sitting in a back booth alone, nursing an amber-colored drink. Bartholomew slid into the seat across from him.

Mike looked up, surprised. “What are you doing here?” His gaze darted around. “You shouldn't be in a place like this.”

Bartholomew leaned back in the seat. He hoped his body language was calm because inside he was seething. “Afraid someone will find out about your on-duty activities?”

“I'm off duty. Have been for the past hour. And if you know so much about me, you would know that I don't drink on duty.”

He nodded. He was aware Mike was off duty, but he couldn't resist making the verbal jab. After he'd written his last letter to Naomi, something inside him snapped. Since then he'd been a mess. He couldn't take it anymore, and he'd done something he'd never done before—followed Mike instead of Mike following
him. “I know,” he said, not flinching. “Just like I know that back at my apartment complex is an unmarked car with one of your agents sitting in the front seat keeping an eye on me.”

“I guess you gave him the slip?”

Bartholomew smirked in reply. Being part of a drug ring had given him some skills he never forgot, and had never planned to use again. But tonight he'd been desperate.

“How did you find me?” Mike asked.

“I followed you from your office. I bet you come here every Friday night after work to unwind.”

“If you had my job, you'd be drinking too. Even my wife understands I sometimes need this buffer before I go home at the end of a hard week.” Mike took a sip of the liquor. “I'm impressed. If you hadn't taken a wrong turn years ago, you could have had a career in law enforcement.”

“If I hadn't taken a wrong turn, I would be home with my wife and my kids. Where I belong.”

“Back with the Amish, then. I thought after twelve years you'd be used to modern comforts.”

“Comforts don't matter if you're not with the people you love.” Bartholomew was turning maudlin but he couldn't help it. Computers, air conditioning, cars—they were convenient but they didn't stem his desire to go back to his family and his roots. If anything, living in the
Englisch
world had made him appreciate the simplicity of his former Amish life. He'd been too young, stupid, and greedy to appreciate it before. He set his jaw, refocusing his attention on the reason he was in this dive of a bar. “I'm giving you a heads up that I'm done.”

Mike's brow lifted. “Done with what?”

“With witness protection. With being away from my family.” Leaning forward, his emotion got the best of him, and he
had to force the next words around the lump in his throat. “I can't even contact my wife anymore, Mike. Do you know how hard that is? I have followed all of your rules—”

“No.” Mike held up his hand. “You haven't. You were specifically told not to contact your family. You've been writing to your wife for years.”

“Can you blame me?”

Mike's chest heaved. “No. I can't.”

“Those letters kept me sane.” He wasn't going to say this out loud, but they fed his heart and soul. He fisted his hands under the table. “I've lost everything now. I can't live like this.”

“You may not live at all if you leave our protection. You do remember why you're here, right? You turned state's evidence. Because of that there are people out there who want to shut you up permanently.”

“That was twelve years ago. The drug gang wasn't that big.”

“It was an international ring, Jack. You were a small fish, but a fish with information.”

“Which must be outdated by now.” He narrowed his gaze. “Either you're part of the worst law enforcement agency in history or there's something you're not telling me. I don't believe you just found out I was writing Naomi. I think you knew how important it was for me to be in contact with her. But then something changed. Something you're not telling me.”

Mike's gaze didn't leave Bartholomew's. After a long pause he pushed his drink away. “I'm not authorized to tell you anything.”

“But?”

“There are no buts. You're released from protection when we tell you. When the job is finished. End of story.”

Bartholomew leaned back in the seat, taking in what he thought Mike was hiding. “You mean when you've caught everyone. And
I have a feeling you might have a break on that front, maybe you even have only one person left.” When Mike's gaze flicked to the left, Bartholomew had his answer. “Use me as bait.”

Mike picked up his drink and drained it dry. He slammed the glass on the table. “This conversation is over.”

“Fine.” Bartholomew stood. “I'll draw whoever it is out myself, then. I'm sure I can't do a worse job than your agency has.”

“You can't do that.”

“Want to bet on it?”

Mike tossed a five-dollar bill on the table and got up. He took Bartholomew by the arm. “We're taking this outside.”

He'd never seen this look on Mike's face before and it set off alarm bells in his mind. During the past two years he'd been assigned to Bartholomew, he had been slightly friendly and pretty easygoing. Now he was agitated, his thick brow stern over icy blue eyes. Which confirmed to Bartholomew that he had been on the right track. He yanked his arm out of Mike's grasp as they left the bar and walked out to the parking lot.

They went to the far end of the lot where there weren't very many cars around. Bartholomew spun around. “Are you going to tell me what's going on? And I want the whole truth or I promise you I will take care of this myself.”

Mike nodded his head in the direction of the dark blue sedan, a car Bartholomew recognized as his. They walked over to it. “Get in,” Mike said. “Then we can talk. We'll pick up your car later.”

They drove away from the bar, which was on a back road on the west side of town. As Mike turned onto a gravel road with no streetlamps, Bartholomew was losing patience. “Who is it?” he demanded.

“Wes Trickey.”

Bartholomew shook his head. Despite Wes's last name, the guy was anything but tricky. Or clever. Wes had been only sixteen when he started dealing drugs and joined the gang. He'd just turned twenty when Bartholomew had been arrested, and from what Bartholomew remembered, Wes wasn't street savvy. “How has he eluded you for this long?”

“His family is well connected in Sarasota. Father is a state congressman, and his mother comes from old money.” Mike shook his head and gripped the steering wheel. “Talk about wasted potential. So far his parents have kept him out of our reach. But he must have finally drawn the last straw because word is out that he's been disinherited. And with all the major players behind bars now, he's on his own. He's running out of friends.”

“Then he should be easy to apprehend.”

“He's gone underground. Like I said, he's desperate.” Mike sighed. “We can't find him. And until we do, we have to keep you on the move. I was going to tell you tomorrow, but we're sending you to a new location.”

Bartholomew shook his head. “No. I'm not moving again. I told you, this ends now.”

Mike stepped on the brakes. The car screeched as it slowed. He pulled over and put the car in park. “We didn't spend twelve years protecting you just to have you get killed. Give us some more time—”

“No.” He slammed his fist on the dashboard. “This is not life, Mike. Not one worth living.” He turned to him. “I'm tired of hiding. Of not doing anything. Let me help you bring Wes in.”

Mike shook his head. “I can't authorize that.”

“Then go to the person who can and get the authorization.”

Mike squeezed the steering wheel. “You're serious about this.”

“Dead serious.”

“You're throwing that word around too lightly,” Mike said. He sighed. “I'll see what I can do.”

“And when Wes is in custody, I'll get to go home, right?”

Mike turned to him. “Yes. You can see your family again.” His cell phone rang and he pulled it out of the pocket of his suit jacket. “Yeah, I got him. He can be stubborn when he wants to be. I'll bring him back. No, rookie, I won't report you . . . this time.” He shut off the phone. “You've got the newbie scared witless he's going to lose his job.”

“Wes isn't the only one who's desperate.”

“Even if I do get the okay to let you help us, you don't know what you're getting into.”

“Doesn't matter. Whatever I have to do . . . it will be worth it.”

When Abigail woke Monday morning, she went to her window. The sun was peeking over the horizon. It was the second week of April and the weather had finally turned warm enough to open the windows during the day. She crossed her arms and leaned against the window sash.

She thought about her fight with Asa. It hadn't been far from her mind all week as she found refuge in her bedroom and with her loom, coming out only for meals and to help with household chores. Sadie told her to take off as much time as she needed from working at the store. But Abigail knew both of her sisters were worried about her. For a while she was worried about herself.

Asa had stopped by once during the week, but Abigail had refused to see him. She wasn't angry with him anymore. Time and distance had made her realize that. While he should have told her about Susanna, he hadn't been overtly dishonest with her. It was her extreme reaction to what happened that scared her more than anything—that, and facing him again.

She'd thought about how she had basically offered herself to him, thinking he was just like Joel. How embarrassing. But there was more to it than humiliation. She didn't trust herself, didn't trust her own judgment. If she couldn't trust herself, how could she make a relationship work?

She turned and looked at her loom. All week she'd been weaving, and with each attempt she'd made mistakes. She'd redone so much work she'd lost track, and she had nothing to show for it. She couldn't move forward with her weaving, and she felt like she was at a standstill with her life. She couldn't hide in her bedroom forever. She couldn't avoid Asa forever. But how could she face her family, her friends, the community . . . when everyone knew by now what happened with her and Asa?

Her stomach rumbled. She'd been eating less lately, but that didn't seem to have much effect on her waistline. Not that she cared anymore. Her weight was the least of her problems, and she felt foolish for making such a big deal out of it in the first place. She dressed and went downstairs. She'd make breakfast for Sadie and Aden this morning, instead of the other way around.

But when she walked into the kitchen, she was surprised to see Joanna putting a pan of cinnamon rolls in the oven. “When did you get here?” Abigail asked, going over to her sister.

“Andrew brought me over about an hour ago.” She turned to Abigail. “I wanted to surprise you with
yer
favorite breakfast.”

“I have a lot of favorite breakfasts,” Abigail said with a half-smile.

Joanna grinned back. “I also thought we could talk.”

“Where are Sadie and Aden?”

“They decided to take a walk this morning. Aden's ready to set up his beehives, now that the weather has turned warmer.” Joanna went to the table and sat down. The limp she had from the accident was barely noticeable. “The rolls need to bake for a little while.”

Abigail joined her sister at the table. Joanna poured them both a cup of coffee. “How are you doing?” she asked.

Abigail sighed. “Confused.” She looked away. “Feeling like a failure.”

“Because of Asa?”

“Asa, Joel.” She thought about the loom upstairs. “Everything.”