Katie's Choice (9 page)

She pulled away from him, feeling an even-deeper red flood her cheeks. She straightened her dress and raised herself to her above-average height. “We are not animals to be put on display. If the world wants to know about us they can just wonder. It is no concern of anyone’s how we choose to live.”

Zane Carson blinked, then stared at her as if she had suddenly grown horns on her head. She resisted the urge to smooth a hand over her
kapp
to make sure all was in place.

“Is that what this is about? You think I’m here to exploit you?”

She crossed her arms in front of herself and pressed her lips together. It was one thing to harbor wicked thoughts and quite another to admit them . . . out loud . . . to an outsider.

“That’s not my intent. I . . .” He stumbled over his thoughts. “I was invited here to do a job. Write a series of articles about life in a small Amish community. And that’s what’s I plan to do. I’m not here to make anyone look bad, or stupid, or anything.”

He sounded so sincere, Katie Rose wanted to let her resolve crumble right there on the spot and tell him anything and everything he wanted to know. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Instead, she picked up her steps again, leaving him to follow behind.

“This is where I turn,” she said, indicating the red dirt drive that led to her brother’s house. A white fence lined the property, and the sight had never been more welcome. Ahead she could still make out the boys, Samuel’s bright red head among them as they made their way home.

She nodded down the road they’d been traveling. “About half a mile, you’ll reach my
elders’ haus. Gut dawk
to you, Zane Carson.” She turned down the drive and didn’t look back.

Zane watched her walk down the road, behind the children. As far as he knew he hadn’t done a thing to warrant her antagonism toward him. But whenever he was around she acted like he was the Big Bad Wolf who had come to eat her up.

Maybe she was naturally suspicious, maybe she had been hurt by a man before, or maybe she didn’t trust him because he was an outsider. He remembered the sisterly affection he’d witnessed between Katie Rose and Annie. She didn’t have any trouble with
that
Englisher
.

Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Carson
.

He should tell her that he had a fiancée waiting at home. Almost fiancée, he corrected himself. Maybe if she knew he was practically engaged to another she would trust him a little more—not stare at him like he was an ax murderer in Amish clothing.

He hadn’t realized that the oldest and the father were neighbors. Yet out in the country like this, he knew “neighbor” was a loose term.

He hooked his thumbs through his suspenders and glanced down at his feet. He was going to have to do something about these pants. And while he was at it, get that suspicious light of mistrust out of Katie Rose’s green eyes. How was he supposed to get a good look at the school if she wouldn’t let him within three feet of her?

That was the only reason he cared. Truly, the only reason.

He smiled to himself and continued on his way to the Fishers’.

The chickens were fed, the cows milked, and he had helped Annie and Ruth pick the last of the tomatoes from the garden. Now it was time to put his plan to befriend Katie Rose Fisher into place.

Zane dusted off the knees of his ugly Amish pants and knocked on the door. He was surprised no one had already come out onto the porch, considering the ruckus the dogs made, barking at him as if he were a rabid vacuum cleaner salesman.

Yet nothing stirred inside the rambling, white house. There were no curtains on the windows, something he was beginning to think was part of the Amish culture, so he peeked through the glass. He made a mental note to ask about window coverings at the next opportunity. The inside looked quiet and dark. Dark he could attribute to the lack of electricity, but quiet? With six kids? That could only mean one thing—no one was home.

So much for his brilliant plan, but it wasn’t like he could call first. Now he’d have to get John Paul to take him into town to pick up his computer and his cell phone from the charging station at the general store.

He sighed and made his way back down the steps. Oh well, the walk had been good for him. The fresh air, too. In fact, there was a lot about this trip that had been good for him. In the barely three days that he had been here, his shoulder had started to limber up. Evidently the Amish Farm Workout was proving to be better than organized, paramilitary physical therapy.

Zane rolled his shoulder to test the range and was pleased with the results. By the end of his three months in Oklahoma he’d be more than ready for whatever awaited him in Mexico.

4

S
omehow—maybe by the grace of a higher power—he’d made it into town and back in the front seat of John Paul’s rattletrap of a Ford.

Zane dropped his laptop bag on the bed and fished his phone out of his pocket. He was long overdue to call Monica. She’d probably think he’d forgotten all about her. Knowing her, she’d expect more attention during this trip since he was barely six hundred miles away, but assignment meant work, no matter the distance. He had to keep focused on the task at hand and not get distracted. The sooner he finished here, the sooner he’d be on his way across the border. After the wedding, of course.

He punched up his phone book, and scrolled through the contacts until he found her name.

She answered on the second ring. “Hi, darling.”

He smiled at the sound of her cultured tones, hating that he compared them to the gentle German-country twang of Katie Rose. And Ruth and Mary Elizabeth. Annie was the only one who didn’t sound like a cross between a good-natured hillbilly and a German scientist.

“Hi, yourself.”

“I was hoping you’d call today.”

“Sorry, it’s been busy here, and there’s no electricity at the house.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“I thought that was like an urban legend. So they really live that way, huh?”

“And of course without electricity, my laptop and phone died. We had to take them into town to charge. So I’ll be incommunicado at least every other day, depending on the work schedule.”

“I understand.” This was one of the things he appreciated most about her.

“It could be worse,” he added.

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked. “You said ‘we’ had to take it into town.”

“Oh, me and John Paul, the youngest Fisher. He has a car so he drove me into town.” He purposefully left out the details of the horrific ride into Clover Ridge, probably because he felt so guilty over his walk home with Katie Rose. Or maybe because he sought her out this morning. He shook away the thought. He’d done nothing wrong. Not really.

“Wait. They don’t have electricity, but they do have cars?”

“No,” Zane scrambled for the words to describe Amish customs. “It’s not that simple.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said, but it’s too complicated to go into right now. I need to keep the charge on my phone as long as possible.”

“That complicated?”

“You know it.”

“All right, then. I need to go anyway. I have a spa appointment at four.”

“Sounds wonderful,” he said, giving Monica the answer she expected. He’d never been to a spa in his life.

“I love you,” she said, her voice earnest, even as he imagined her grabbing her designer purse before heading out for an afternoon of pampering.

“Me, too,” he said. The words didn’t slip out like they normally did.

Monica seemed not to notice, blowing him a kiss before hanging up.

In silence, Zane stared at the wallpaper of his computer screen. After a moment he pocketed his phone and sighed.

He was tired. That was all. He had stayed up a little too late last night logging questions and answers about the Amish and writing down the anecdotes from the day. He was sure Jo would be pleased. Except for the part about no pictures. But he’d figure out a way around that. A twinge of something—
remorse maybe?
—pinged him at the thought.

Again, it could have been the fatigue. After the troubles from the day before, he had opted not to take something to help him sleep, and that had meant dreams. It was unfair to true sufferers of post-traumatic stress syndrome to call them nightmares or terrors. They were disturbing. Dreams so real he could smell the war surrounding him, feel the hot desert air on his face, the grit in his mouth and eyes. There wasn’t anything overly horrific in these night visions he had, just work and war and death, same ol’ same ol’ of his job. But they didn’t let him rest. It was beyond strange to him that when he was living it everyday, the dreams never came, but the minute he returned to the States, they returned. Haunting him at night. The people he couldn’t save—the soldiers, children, innocent civilians.

Longing for a nap, he looked at the colorful quilt on his bed, and then checked his watch. He had about fifteen minutes before he would need to start the evening chores with John Paul. Fifteen glorious minutes of daytime sleep more restful than his efforts in the dark, but not nearly enough to make up for what he had missed.

He shook his head and hiked up his too-short pants. Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight he’d take a sleeping pill and go to bed early.

Sunday morning dawned bright and beautiful, another crisp day that Zane had learned would quickly turn into a warm afternoon. He caught Ruth in the hall of the ambling house reaching a hand up to her bonnet, ensuring it was in place.

“
Guder mariye,
Zane Carson,” she said with a wan smile.

Zane had gotten used to everyone calling him by his first and last name, but the sound still brought a smile to his lips. “And to you too, Ruth Fisher.”

“There is somethin’ I need to speak to you about.”

He nodded. “All right.” He waited for her to begin, but she just smiled.

“Let’s go to the kitchen, we will talk this out over a piece of pie.”

If pie was involved, surely the topic couldn’t be too serious. Zane nodded and followed her down the stairs.

He got out plates and cups for coffee as she cut and served the pie. Together they carried their early morning after-breakfast snack to the table.