A Marriage for Meghan (21 page)

Annabeth Selby’s spelling and penmanship had improved remarkably.

The first graders lapsed into
Deutsch
less frequently these days.

And the boys came running the first time she blew the whistle on the playground.

Yet during the drive home, Meghan took little pleasure from the kind words of support she’d received from her mentor.

Her mind was fixated on her sad and lonely future.

Gideon knew it wasn’t a good omen when his deacon and senior minister drove up the driveway on Monday morning. Most Amish people, having had their fill of socializing on Sunday afternoons, stayed home on Mondays. Plenty of chores awaited farmers after their day of rest, besides being the usual laundry day for
fraas.
Because yesterday hadn’t been a preaching Sunday, Gideon had seen neither of the elders. Apparently, they had news that wouldn’t wait for the following Sunday.

“
Guder mariye
, Bishop,” called Stephen, stepping down from Paul’s buggy.

“Hope your knees are feeling better,” said Paul. He stretched out his dry and chapped hand as he drew close.

“Good morning.” Gideon shook hands with both men. “
Jah
, today the knees aren’t too bad. The pain comes and goes, depending on the weather. Let’s go inside for a cup of coffee.”

“Maybe we’ll sit on your porch a while. This sunshine feels good, no?” Paul limped up the wooden steps, sounding more sociable than normal. However, his good mood waned as soon as they sat down. “As a member of the school board, I’ve heard some disturbing news. Some parents came to speak to me yesterday afternoon. A few of them were riled up.” He paused for the bishop’s reaction or interjection, but Gideon hadn’t a clue as to what he was talking about.

After no response, Paul continued. “Did you know your daughter was teaching religion in the classroom?”

“Catherine?”

“No, Meghan. Does she consider herself knowledgeable enough to train scholars in so sacred a subject?” Paul’s brittle words hung for several moments in the crisp spring air as the bishop tried to make sense of this news.

“I cannot imagine Meghan thinking as such,” said Gideon, shaking his head.

“In our district, religious instruction is a matter for the church or inside the home. It has always been thus.” Paul shifted on the bench, looking uncomfortable.

“What type of teaching has she done?” Gideon racked his brain, yet he couldn’t remember either daughter approaching him with questions about suitable curriculum.

“She shared with the students one of the parables from Scripture and then asked them to write down suggestions as to how they could apply it to their own lives. With the little ones, she brought them up to her desk to
talk about
their ideas in English.” His knuckles bleached white from his grip on the chair.

“Joanna has done this once or twice, and we have asked her not to. At least she’s an experienced teacher with a good command of the Bible,” said Stephen, solemn and grave.

“But doesn’t the teacher begin each day with a Bible reading?” asked the bishop.

“One reading from Scripture,
jah
, before morning prayers. But they never discuss stories from the Good Book as though it were no different than a geography or history text!”

“True,” Gideon agreed. “I can’t imagine how Meghan got such a notion.”

“She instructed them on Bible parables not once but twice,” added Paul. “She spoke on the parable of the banquet and also about the camel fitting through the eye of a needle from the book of Mark.”

Stephen clucked his tongue.

The bishop felt his spine stiffen. “Rest assured that I will review the accepted curriculum tonight with both my girls and see to it that Meghan doesn’t speak on sacred subjects again.”

The two elders rose to their feet, shaking hands politely before they left. Gideon stood in the driveway a long while after their buggy turned onto the road. He would decide his course of action before helping his sons with barn chores. He needed to figure out how to handle this breach in classroom procedures. This was too important to postpone even one more day.

With all the other trouble in the district, now this?

T
homas wasn’t happy with how he’d almost lost his cool at the campground. A good agent didn’t let lowlifes crawl under his skin. If that wasn’t rule number one, it must be close to the top. Questioning uncooperative suspects with plenty to hide was part of his job description. Considering his background, maybe he hadn’t been such a good choice for the assignment. But vague, disjointed childhood memories shouldn’t affect his field performance or how he assisted local law enforcement.

But today it wasn’t thugs in pickups with shotgun racks that had him agitated. The mental image painted by the campground manager stayed with him long after he returned to his hotel room in Wooster.
“I see six or seven youngsters waiting for the school bus every morning.”
He could picture their fresh-scrubbed faces, full of hope and anticipation, eager to show teachers the tadpoles they had caught in Mason jars down by the pond. Life wasn’t fair to kids when their parents were forced to move around looking for work. He’d seen women like the Kings before—trying to create normal lives for their children despite desperate circumstances. No matter how tragic the plight of certain adults, it was always the children who tugged the most on Thomas’ heartstrings.

“I prefer to look at the whole picture.”
The manager’s words echoed in his mind, bringing pangs of guilt and regret. Thomas’ job was to bring felons to justice—blind justice. Lifelong hardship and privation often led people to commit rash acts, but extenuating circumstances were matters for courtroom judges and juries. Social workers reported to a different office down the hall. So, despite any soft spot he might harbor for hard-luck kids, he was here to help the sheriff’s department solve some crimes and then go home to the heavy traffic and crowded apartment complexes he was familiar with.

But as Justin King adroitly surmised, he didn’t have signed complaints from any of the Amish victims thus far. And that’s what he sought to remedy at the Yost farm. Two of the men targeted had been his sons. And as their bishop, the other district members would listen to his counsel. Thomas pulled up the driveway close to lunchtime, hoping to catch the bishop and his boys together inside the house. He knocked and waited, listening to the musical tinkling of wind chimes.

“Hello,” greeted a pleasant middle-aged woman.

“Mrs. Yost? I’m Special Agent Thomas Mast with the FBI. May I have a word with the bishop, please?”

She grinned as though he’d said something funny. “I would let you have a word, but he’s not here. Wait here while I get him from the barn.”

“I don’t want to trouble you, ma’am. If you’ll just point me in the right direction—”

She placed her hands on her hips. “You can’t go to the barn without boots. You’ll ruin those shiny shoes. But there’s no need to stand arguing about this because I see him headed this way. Come inside. Holding the door open lets my heat escape.”

Thomas obliged, feeling like a chastised child. Entering the kitchen, it looked exactly the same as on his previous visit, with the exception of six pies lined up on the counter, cooling. By the time the bishop shrugged out of his coat, hat, and boots, Thomas was seated at the table with coffee and a slice of peach pie in front of him. Nothing he said had convinced Mrs. Yost he wasn’t hungry.

“Agent Mast?” asked the bishop. “I’m surprised to see you.” He looked momentarily dumbfounded.

Thomas rose to shake hands. “Good to see you, sir. Your wife’s hospitality is hard to refuse.”

The bishop’s face crinkled into a grin. “Sit, sit. I’ll join you in a slice of pie.”

Thomas ate a forkful before getting to the point because Mrs. Yost seemed to be watching him. “The sheriff and I have followed up on the tip we received from your daughter Meghan. A group of transient job seekers living at the campground fit the general description provided by Mr. Santos. They also own a four-wheel drive vehicle that could have damaged the crops here, besides turfing the pastures at the Miller farm.” Thomas paused, but the bishop merely stared at him with a blank expression. “Although we probably won’t be able to tie the mailboxes or your downed fences to them or anybody else, I believe these young men are the ones who assaulted your sons.”

The bishop nodded, gazing at the walls as though weighing this information. “Thank you for stopping by to let me know. If they have been warned, perhaps they’ll stop their mischief.”

Thomas ate another bite of pie so that he also could choose his words. “It’s not law enforcement’s aim to warn suspected criminals in the hope that they mend their ways. We need signed complaints from your sons and their friends so we can pursue this matter further. I have a good feeling we have the right men, but without a complaint we can’t bring them in for identification. Because I understand it was dark behind the pizza shop, we can use voice recognition rather than visual characteristics.”

Bishop Yost held up a hand. “No, Agent. I’m afraid you don’t understand at all. It is not our way to take issue with our fellow men.”

“But these men aren’t Amish. They are English, as you call them.” Thomas pushed away the pie.

“That makes no difference. My sons and the others have already forgiven those who tried to hurt them. They harbor no ill will. The bruises have faded from both their faces and their hearts.”

“What about the ruined wheat crop?”

“It’s been replanted in soybeans.”

“That was probably the fourth incident of vandalism. It doesn’t look as though they’ll be stopping soon. And if the damage to the school can be connected—”

The bishop paled to match his long beard. “It is
not
connected. Think no more of the schoolhouse. That matter is resolved and forgotten.”

“And if the criminals haven’t forgotten?” asked Mast in a soft voice. “If they’re not finished vandalizing?”

“I will pray on the matter, as I have prayed many nights of late. And I have called a district meeting after our church service on Sunday. I will seek direction from the congregation and then proceed however they wish me to go.”

Thomas rose to his full height. “Sunday? This is only Monday, sir. I can’t wait another six days to see if somebody…anybody…wants to press charges. I’m here as a courtesy to the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department, but I can’t sit around watching the corn sprout on the taxpayers’ dime.” As soon as he uttered the words he felt ashamed. An Amish religious leader would have no concept of billable hours or time accountability.

But the bishop merely smiled. “We haven’t planted seed corn yet, Agent, not for at least another month. But hay should be coming up soon if all this sunshine holds.” He struggled stiffly to his feet. “I know it’s hard for outsiders to understand our ways, but we trust in the Lord who will one day judge us all. Perhaps He’ll be more merciful if we forgive those who have transgressed against us. Thank you for stopping by. Shall I wrap up the rest of your pie to take with you?” He reached for the dessert plate.

Thomas opened his mouth to decline but reconsidered. He didn’t wish to offend either Mr. or Mrs. Yost. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

The bishop added another slice to the half-eaten piece and then he wrapped both in a foil packet. “This will make a nice snack before bed with a glass of milk.”

“You can help me stop these crimes in your community,” Thomas said, accepting the package.