Dark Crossings (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

“A
BIGAIL
B
AUGHMAN
!
Abby?” Ben asked
when she stared up at him a minute too long, almost as if she’d seen a ghost. He
bent his knees a bit to see under her bonnet, and came out onto the porch. “I
never figured you’d still be living with your
grossmamm
almost next door. You’ve sure changed! You’re looking
beau— Looking great.”

“I’m not. I mean, I’m not living with
Grossmamm.
She’s moved to Pennsylvania and left me the mushroom
farm.” Abby started to gesture with her hand, although he obviously knew where
she lived. She felt a fool when she realized she was waving the loaf of bread in
the air.

Abby had never spoken to a shunned person before, and Ben had
chosen to use English, not the familiar
Deutsch,
so
didn’t that hint he was content with worldly ways? When someone was under the
dreaded
meidung,
or
bann,
the Amish were not to seek him or her out in hopes that shame
and loneliness would return that person to the fold. It was permissible to give
them gifts, but not to accept things from their hands or eat with them—or, if
wed to the shunned person, to sleep with them. But since Ben had chosen the
world, his worldly wife would hardly heed those rules.

“Abby, you okay? I didn’t mean to startle you. You want to sit
down in the swing?”

“No—I’m fine.”

“How’s Liddy?”

“Oh, fine,” she blurted a bit too loudly, realizing she sounded
like an echo of herself. “She wed Adam Miller five years ago this fall, lives in
Union County, Pennsylvania, near where
Grossmamm
lives now, because she—
Grossmamm
—had arthritis bad,
so I took over for her. Liddy’s wedding was here, and I haven’t seen her for two
years since I went to another big Miller wedding there….” Realizing she was
rambling, she thrust the bread at him, careful their hands didn’t touch. “Here,
for you and your wife. You understand I won’t be able to mix with you, but tell
Mrs. Kline she’s welcome to come over anytime.”

Ben’s eyes bored into hers. She felt pinned to the porch, like
a butterfly in a collection. Benjamin Kline was tall for an Amish man; she had
to look up at him. His hair was cut close and mussed. Unlike the married
brethren, he had no beard, though a golden stubble gilded his tanned cheeks and
square jaw. His nose was a bit crooked, maybe from the brawl that had got him
shunned. His shoulders and chest muscles were bigger than she recalled.
Ja,
he’d put on some weight from the lanky boy he’d
been, but he carried it well. As ever, it was his eyes that unsettled her. They
always reminded her of a deep pond she and her friends used to swim in, even
though it was forbidden.

Ben took the loaf of bread in one big hand. There were nicks
and cuts on it and a single, flesh-colored bandage. “I understand about your
treatment of someone still under the
bann,
Abby. But
I’m not married.”

“Oh! Well, me, neither. But I saw—I mean, when I glanced over
yesterday…”

“The woman here? Maybe you didn’t see her husband. They’re
friends from Cincinnati who owned the place I rented there. They helped me move
my stuff in, lots of wooden boxes and carved chests. I’m a carpenter of sorts,
not an artist, but an artisan. I design and carve the boxes, mostly for jewelry,
and lately I’ve been doing hope chests, too—since I knew I was coming back
home.”

Back home.
His words echoed in her
head. She realized she was gaping at him again. An Amish man—former Amish—making
boxes for fancy, prideful things like jewelry. Her people did not approve of
adorning themselves with anything.

“I see,” was all she could say to that admission.

“I don’t think you do. The boxes can be used for other things
or sold outside the community, just like the Amish-built gazebos, where worldly
folk might have their parties with liquor, or like that porch swing where
someone cheating on his wife could sit with another woman. The things themselves
aren’t evil, and how they are used is the choice we all make. Abby, if you talk
to others, you can tell them I’ve come back to see if the old life is for me.
And if not, this is a great place to get hardwood and make a living—though if I
don’t ask to rejoin the church, the Amish won’t be buying a thing from me. But I
had to try to bridge the gap, come on home.”

Abby’s thoughts raced. Ben Kline was unburdening himself to
her. Treating her like someone who could be trusted, not like the young girl
who’d tried to tag along with him and Liddy and their buddy group. Best yet, he
was considering returning to the church. He’d have to atone, of course, for his
display of violence and his defiance when he’d left, though it had happened long
ago. Folks said he’d always been a troublemaker, even before he’d beaten up the
man who had assaulted his sister, and then told the bishop and elders that he
could not repent for what he’d done.

“I surely hope and pray you can find your way back to the
church,” she said, “to us, just as you’ve found your new house.” She began to
back away. “So it’s all right to let others know,
ja?
”

“Word’s gonna get out fast, anyway. I’m planning to set up a
booth at the farmers’ market tomorrow, so maybe I’ll see you there.”

“That’s good,” she said, remembering just in time to turn and
not tumble backward down the porch steps. “So, see you there.”
And everywhere else now,
she thought,
not just in my crazy dreams
.

* * *

B
EN
COULD
NOT
BELIEVE
the transformation in Abigail Baughman. Ten
years ago, she’d been a gawky girl, skinny, all legs and pretty much a pest. But
she’d become a beauty with her shapely form and expressive face. He was now used
to seeing women with flyaway bangs and long, loose styles—or one in particular
with short, sculpted silver hair. Yet Abby’s long blond hair, parted simply in
the middle and pulled back, seemed so natural. Sure, she’d been shocked to find
him here, and nervous. He tried to remember why he’d always wanted to ditch her
years ago when she’d hung around, staring at him with those big blue eyes. He
hadn’t thought of her sister, Lydia, in a long time, but he bet she couldn’t
hold a candle to her kid sister now.

He realized he was just standing there, staring at the sway of
her hips and swing of her ankle-length, dark green skirt as she walked away. He
hurried after her, his big strides easily catching up. She must have heard him
coming because she spun around.

“Forgot to tell you,” he said, “the bread’s much
appreciated.”

“It’s called friendship bread. Maybe someday you’ll be friends
with your people again.”

He nodded. They stopped about six feet apart. His eyes trailed
over her once again.

“Oh, I meant to ask,” she said abruptly. “Did you hear voices
on the bridge last night—I mean in the morning, around 4:00 a.m.? A man’s and a
woman’s? They had their car parked somewhere on the road on this side.”

He didn’t let on, but the possibility that someone could have
been sneaking around really annoyed him—scared him even. What if it was that
Cincinnati detective or the pushy female investigator from the insurance company
again? “No,” he told her. “I was so exhausted I fell asleep with my headphones
on. You know, listening to music,” he added when she frowned. He hoped she
believed him.

“They just woke me up, that’s all. See you,” she called back as
she hurried away.

He had more he wanted to say, but he had to let her leave, so
he just called after her, “Right. See you!”

* * *

O
N
HER
WAY
HOME
,
with
her head and heart full of long-buried memories of her secret crush on Ben, the
morning sun was slanting sideways into the bridge through the eastern windows.
Abby had come here once with Liddy and Ben to make plans about creating circles
in the Stutzman cornfield, a prank that got them all in trouble. Well, not
exactly, since no one knew who was to blame. She felt embarrassed now that she’d
almost blackmailed the two of them into letting her go along.

Ben had thought it would be funny to make everyone guess what
had caused the two large circles they themselves had made after dark with
boards, pushing the half-grown corn flat in one direction. After all, he had
argued, his laughter and voice echoing right here on this bridge, the Plain
People loved a good joke.

But everything had gotten blown out of proportion, kind of the
way her feelings for Ben always had. The local paper had featured the circles,
and the story was picked up worldwide.
Ja,
even over
the ocean! Aliens Visit Amish Farm, Leave Crop Circles! one headline in the
grocery stores had screamed, and people had trampled a lot more corn coming to
see for themselves.

Ben had felt guilty enough to leave fifty dollars of his
hard-earned money from his job at the sawmill for Noah Stutzman, who had lost
some of his crop. No one ever knew who was to blame. Ben had made Abby and Liddy
take an oath—those were
verboten,
too—not to tell by
pricking fingers and mingling blood drops. Besides, Ben had said to them, all
the outsiders coming into town had boosted sales in the local stores and
restaurants, so something good had come of his idea.

Land sakes, Abby thought now, heaving a huge sigh. Life with
Ben was probably always like that, exciting and amazing and—and entirely
forbidden.

Something on the planked bridge floor caught her eye, a
glitter, a tiny pinpoint dancing in a shaft of sunlight. Then it was gone, so
she backed up a bit. There it was again, sparkling in the crack between two
floorboards.

Expecting to find a drop of water or a piece of cellophane, she
bent closer. A jewel! A diamond, set in a circle of gold with a tiny spike out
the back of it. A piece of a pin? Part of a ring, or maybe an earring worldly
women wore through a hole in their earlobes? Last summer at the farmers’ market,
Abby had seen a woman who wore something like this stuck right through her
nose.

She cradled the jewel in her palm in the patch of sunlight,
examining it, turning it. Glorious colors, glinting, flashing. And since the
woman on the bridge last night must have worn a sparkly bracelet, could this be
hers, too? It was no doubt dear and precious, so maybe she would come looking
for it. But Abby dared not leave a sign saying she’d found it, or anyone could
come and claim it. She would keep it safe, though, in case someone did ask about
it.

As she walked home, for one moment she regretted that her
people never wore or possessed such beauty. After all, God had made diamonds
deep in the earth, and they reflected his heavenly light. But thoughts like that
would only get her in trouble—and so would thoughts of how much she still felt
pulled to Ben Kline. It was bad enough to dream about him at night, but now with
him living just across the bridge…

“Head home, Abby!” she scolded herself aloud. “Hide this jewel
and get busy, ’cause you have lots to do, and Ben Kline’s not any part of
it.”

CHAPTER THREE

A
BBY
LOVED
THE
farmers’ market, which ran on
Saturdays from May through October. The vendors’ booths and tables stretched
down both sides of the one-block downtown on Homestead’s Main Street. She always
set up tables for her Wild Run Woods Mushroom Products on the north side of the
street at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the Homestead Hardware Store and
across from the Citizens Bank.

On blue-and-white oilcloth, she displayed her array of fresh
mushrooms and canned relishes and chutneys in gleaming glass jars. In the near
future, she would also have walnuts gathered from the woods and bunches of
bittersweet tied with pumpkin-colored ribbons.

Besides the money she made from sales to Amish and
Englische
alike, market day meant she got to see her
buddy group friends and meet new people. She spent the whole day in town,
stocking up on supplies, chatting, getting new books from the Eden County Public
Library bookmobile parked down the street, and depositing some money in the
bank, which also had the town’s post office. First thing she always did was pick
up her week’s mail.

Today she was thrilled to find a circle letter from Sarah
Weaver, one of her second cousins who had become special friends she’d made two
years ago at the big Levi Miller–Lizzie Troyer wedding in Pennsylvania. Sarah
had proposed this way to keep in touch—a round-robin letter, she’d called it,
where each would write about her life and then pass it on in their circle of
three. Though she was anxious to read the letter, Abby tucked it carefully away
in her purse with the rest of her mail until she had time to savor it. Then she
would add her news and pass it on to Lena Troyer.

It felt so strange to bond with long-distance cousins, both
unwed and her age. Too bad they lived far apart because they had so much in
common. Their conversations were deep and sharing. All three of them wanted to
marry but had nothing definite on the horizon. How fast time had flown since
those exciting days they had spent together. Sarah and Lena were the only two
who knew about her girlhood crush on Ben. Wait until she wrote them that he was
living in plain sight now and might even become plain again!
Ja,
that’s exactly what she’d write.

The new circle letter almost burned a hole in her purse as she
hurried back to her tables.

The traffic was always diverted on market day, so only
pedestrians crowded the street. Homestead, the county seat, was made up of a
variety of businesses, including a grocery, hardware, three fast-food places and
one Amish country cooking restaurant, an antiques shop, volunteer fire
department and county sheriff’s office. A scattering of houses curled around
each end of town before the hills and rolling farms began. The charm of the
place and the large population of Amish living, working and selling their goods
here made this a tourist stop. Two buses were already parked a couple blocks
away and visitors, as usual, had poured out of them.

As she sat in her lawn chair behind her table, she saw that Ben
Kline was doing what he’d said he would. From the back of his truck parked in a
side alley, he was unloading several carved chests just the size to store linens
and quilts for a future marriage and family. A hope chest—what a good name for
that sort of big box. Someone she didn’t recognize had stopped to help him
unload.

Already he’d arranged a row of polished, smaller boxes on his
two long, wooden tables. The hand-printed sign hanging above them read Storage
or Gift Boxes. From across the increasingly crowded street, like it were a river
of people between them, she saw curious folks already stopping to look at his
goods. Worldly people pressed close to his table, and though some of the Plain
People greeted him, they were obviously keeping back.

* * *

B
EN
WAS
PLEASED
to be making sales, all tourists so far. Even the non-Amish
farm families from the area didn’t approach his table, though some called out hi
or waved his way.

Another tourist came up and stood staring at his boxes—and then
he saw who it was. Melanie Campbell, the insurance investigator who had been
watching him since the jewelry heist. He might have escaped to Amish country,
but he hadn’t escaped her.

“I suppose this is a coincidence and you’re just another
tourist, Ms. Campbell,” he said. He’d found the best way to deal with her was to
be straightforward. She usually wore imposing black pantsuits and starched white
blouses, but she had actually dressed down for once. Yet even this setting had
not softened her stiff, sour expression. She was probably in her fifties, but
tried to look younger with long, dyed blond hair that just didn’t fit the
wrinkles and frown lines on her face.

“Right. Just a tourist,” she said, glancing from him to his
boxes and back again. “One who’s real interested in how you’ve landed on your
feet far from Cinci. You must have saved a lot of money to be able to buy a home
here on the river.”

“The place is a real fixer-upper. Maybe you haven’t seen
it.”

“Actually, I have.”

He squinted up at her in the morning sun. “I don’t appreciate
having anyone dog my steps.”

“Are you calling me a dog, Benjamin Kline?” she said, crossing
her arms over her chest. “A hound dog, maybe. Yeah, I like that. And I won’t
give up on your scent until you come clean, because you reek of guilt.
Meanwhile, enjoy playing Amish!” She took a step away, then turned back.
“Actually, I am here as a tourist today. My husband’s with me and likes plain
country cooking. See you. And I will see you.” With a toss of her head, she was
gone.

Ben took a few deep breaths, as if to clear the air. He could
only hope the woman was as dedicated to keeping an eye on the other suspects who
had worked at the store. Harassment must be her standard procedure. Maybe she
and her husband were the ones bothering Abby. He’d heard Melanie Campbell would
get a big cut of the value of Tornellis’ stolen property if she could find it or
the thief. The owners of the jewelry store where he’d worked were wealthy
people.

At least he was pleased to have a clear view of Abby from time
to time. She was distracting him, but in a nice way. Since his life had blown up
in his face, both personally and professionally, the last thing he needed right
now was to get involved with a woman, especially someone Amish. But if it was
Abby…

Maybe running back here had not been the right thing to do.
He’d known it might make him look guilty, but the detective and that insurance
hound dog that had been sicced on him could search all they wanted. They’d find
nothing but a guy who had screwed up his life once and wasn’t going to let it
happen again, even if he was their main “person of interest.”

As for a real person of interest, Abby was looking at him, too,
and despite the crowd that flowed between them, it suddenly seemed as if they
were the only two people here.

* * *

A
BBY
TRIED
NOT
TO
FEEL
prideful about the bounty of
the farmers’ market with its mostly Amish vendors. But who else could fill the
laden tables and bright booths adorning the sidewalks with food and handmade
items?

Open boxes boasted pyramids of shiny crimson and golden apples,
squash and pumpkins. Stacks of fresh-picked sweet corn, globes of red and white
onions and potatoes all smelled sweetly earthy, but they, too, seemed to shine
in the sun. On beds of chipped ice, Swiss and Colby cheese and trail bologna
awaited buyers. The Zook family booth offered honey, maple syrup, molasses and
sorghum. Tables with bakery goods, from pies to cakes to breads, dotted both
sides of the street. Amish cooks often shared their recipes and baking with each
other, trading or giving them away. If one woman ran out of something or a pie
was requested that she didn’t have, she would send the buyer right over to
another table. All the Plain People ignored the American hunger for competition
and lived in cooperation.

Nonfood items included young Gabe Kauffman’s birdhouses, and
next to Ben’s display were wooden puzzles, games and kids’ wagons. Abby’s friend
Ella Lantz sold her lavender products, and beside her was a booth with
late-blooming herbs. Hand-sewn, quilted wall hangings and table runners were
displayed on dowels at another booth. Faceless Amish boy or girl dolls spilled
from yet another table, and more than one plain child too young to understand
Amish restraint and control wailed if they couldn’t have one.

Restraint and control, restraint and
control,
Abby recited to herself as her former come-calling friend,
Elam Garber, sauntered up to her table with Ruth Yutzy in tow.

“Still doing everything on your own,” Elam said. “Just the way
you like it,
ja.
”

“Hello, Elam. And Ruth,” she said, ignoring his baiting tone.
Elam had not taken it well when she’d turned down his marriage proposal and
asked him not to come calling again—a request he’d ignored at first, appearing
several nights in his new-bought, two-seat, open buggy, and pestering her to go
for a ride. While they were courting, she hadn’t been sure if he’d taken a
liking to her or her property. More than once he’d said he could help her sell
it to the gun club in town for a hunting lodge. Not that he belonged to that
group, but he had worldly friends who did.

Besides, Elam thought messing around with mushrooms and compost
piles made her look off her bean. Instead of fungi, he always said ‘Fun? Gee!”
and thought “There’s a fungus among us” was really funny. Elam worked at the
buggy shop in town, but always turned his head when a fancy car went by, and his
heart wasn’t in any kind of farming. He was brown-haired and blue-eyed, thin and
very ambitious. They’d had some fun together, but she told him he’d best spend
his money and his time on someone who might marry him.

Obviously, from the adoring expression on her freckled face,
the much younger Ruth was that girl. Sad to say, Abby recognized the look and
feeling, but not from when Elam had come calling.

As Ruth started off ahead, Elam turned back and lowered his
voice. “You have put me to shame. Folks keep asking about you, even when Ruth is
right there.”

“I didn’t put you to shame. You know it’s our way to keep
courtships quiet. You’re the one who spread the news before you asked, not
me.”

“Oh, no. Not you. In love with your mushrooms, not a man,
that’s you! You’ll be sorry,” he growled, then hurried off to catch up with
Ruth.

Again, Abby marveled at his pent-up anger. Could Elam have been
sneaking around her house, maybe with Ruth? Just two weeks ago he had suddenly
appeared and scared her silly when she was working by lantern light after dark.
But as for Ruth Yutzy raising her voice and arguing on a covered bridge or
anywhere else—no way.

The morning swept by as customers bought her products. Abby
kept trying to catch glimpses of Ben through the shifting parade of people—just
to see how he was doing. After another quick glance at him, she dragged her gaze
and mind back to business.

“Yes,” she answered Ella, who had darted down from her lavender
booth. “The red in the chutney is chopped peppers. The spices are cloves and
allspice.”

“I think that’s what I bought from you once before and really
liked,” Ella said, examining the preserve through the glass jar. “I’ll take two
and give one to
Mamm
. By the way, I can see you know
who’s back in town. Your sister’s old and now forbidden friend.”

“He’s living out across the bridge from me and says he’s here
to examine his life and maybe rejoin our people.”

“
Ja?
I’ll have to tell Bishop Esh.
If Ben’s taken back, our people will do more than just say hello. From my booth,
I can see he’s only getting short greetings and nods so far. It’s probably a
good thing your sister doesn’t live here now, ’cause she might still have a soft
spot in her heart for him, and
Daad
said he was
always trouble. Well, see you later if you’re going to stay for supper at the
restaurant.” She turned as the owner of the Dutch Farm Table came up beside her.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Logan! Table for six of us buddy group friends when this is over!”
With a wave Ella darted off with her jars of chutney.

“You all sure do love your eating and talking,” Ray-Lynn Logan
said with a smile. “What’s that expression you use?”

“Klatsche und schmatze,”
Abby told
her. “Talking and eating. It’s one of our secret rules,” she added with a little
smile.

Ray-Lynn, a middle-aged redhead with a Southern accent,
usually sent one of her waitresses to the market to buy button mushrooms for
breakfast omelets and soup. But word was that the owner of the popular
restaurant was pretty sweet on the county sheriff, Jack Freeman, whose office
was at the end of the street. He always walked the Saturday market, chatting
with the locals. Maybe that’s why Ray-Lynn had come out herself today, though
the sheriff was over talking to Ben right now.

“What’s the one that tastes like cashews, Abigail?” Ray-Lynn
asked, looking over the array of fresh mushrooms, each with its hand-lettered
label. “Not for the restaurant, but for me. I love the flavor of cashews, but if
I overeat the nuts themselves, they send me to the ladies’ room a bit too often,
if you know what I mean.”

“Better switch to the walnuts I’ll have in a couple of weeks,”
Abby told her. “But these oyster mushrooms—that’s what you’re thinking of.
Stir-fry them for about fifteen minutes or just garnish salads with them. And
here are the sacks with your standing orders.”

Ray-Lynn paid Abby and put her purchases in her cloth bag,
chatting about how she’d love to decorate her restaurant at Thanksgiving with
the turkey tail mushrooms, because they looked just like the bird. Abby tried to
concentrate on everything this kindly woman was saying, but she kept darting
looks across the street to see how Ben was doing. Sheriff Freeman hadn’t been in
office when Ben lived here before, so maybe he was checking Ben out.