Never Far From Home (The Miller Family 2) (40 page)

Simon swept off his hat and turned his face skyward. “I suppose so.” He didn’t sound very convincing. “But what about you, Emma?”

“What about me? I’m soon to be seventeen, not thirty. Am I that loathsome a daughter that you and
mamm
are anxious to get rid of me?” Her voice rose a notch.

Simon looked just as surprised as when Curly delivered an unexpected head-butting. “No, Emma. Why would you ask such a thing?” He cocked his head to the side.

She felt her face flush. “Because you sure sound eager to marry me off to Joseph Kauffman.”

“No, no, no, not if you don’t have feelings for each other. Your
mamm
and I…we just hate seeing you so lonely and unhappy. Do you think we haven’t noticed?” He touched the sleeve of her dress. “We would be content if you never wed and lived here forever with us, as long as you laugh and smile again. You haven’t taken me to see your new lambs yet, like you did last year.” He lifted her chin with two fingers to meet her gaze. “I love you, daughter. I only wish to see you at peace.”

Emma swallowed hard. “I am happy. I just have a hard time showing it.” She felt the salty sting of tears in the back of her throat. “And I love you too.” Abruptly, she shook the reins on the pony’s back. “Git up there, Maybelle.” As the pony cart started rolling, she called over her shoulder, “We’ll take a walk to see the lambs as soon as I get back.”

Simon waved while Emma headed for Winesburg. There would be no crying today. The weather was too nice for tears.

In town Emma chatted with the shopkeepers as she found everything on her list and
mamm
’s, and then she treated herself to an ice-cream cone while they baked the pizza. She sat outside at an umbrella table, waving at passing buggies and enjoying the perfect spring weather. Across the street, sparrows were busily building a nest in the crook of a tree while bees went from flower to flower among the lilacs.

Now that she was out and about, Emma didn’t want to go home. But her afternoon chores awaited besides a promise made to
daed
. Tucking the fragrant pizza into the wooden storage box, Emma clucked her tongue to the small horse and left the charming town.

She wasn’t the only one who appreciated the warm, sunny day. Everywhere Emma looked she saw children on swing sets, women hanging clothes on the line, men tilling small gardens or large fields, even one English teenager stretched out on a lounge chair, working on an early suntan. Emma waved at them all as the last of her winter melancholy faded in the bright sunshine. Her thoughts turned to the Sunday singing this week—maybe she would go after all. She needn’t worry about Joseph. He was busy courting Martha with her blessing. She also mulled over Aunt Hannah, who’d been keeping closer to home lately. Something was going on at the other Miller brother farm, and she had a good idea what it involved.

Thoughts of her
bruder
, happy to be done with school, and of Leah, quite the accomplished baker these days, ran through her mind. But as usual, thoughts of James came creeping back too. But no heart-ache was attached to these reminiscences, only the fuzzy memory of a different springtime in her young life.

The face of James Davis, with his ruddy, suntanned complexion and bright blue eyes, was the last thing she saw in her mind’s eye. Then the horrible sound of screeching tires, the crunch of gravel, the discordant blare of a car horn, and finally the mournful wail of an animal in pain filled her ears. Emma’s world turned black. For a moment, she experienced the weightless sensation of flying through the air…and then she felt nothing at all.

James jammed his English and math textbooks into his backpack and swung the heavy bag over his shoulder. Emma had hit one nail right on the head: What did a farmer need with all this book learning? At least in the fall when he returned to school, most of his courses would be agriculture oriented. And then he wouldn’t feel like such a box of rocks, not that he didn’t appreciate the help from his tutors. His grades wouldn’t be as high as they were without their coaching.

But it was Thursday afternoon. The weekend stretched before him like a sweet field of four-leaf clover. Maybe he would drive to Sam’s tonight and shoot hoops after chores. If this fine weather held out, maybe he’d go for a trail ride into the hills and get lost among the pine trees. Or maybe he and Dad would take the rowboat out on the pond and do some fishing. This time of year, he might even get lucky and catch a fish.

Or maybe not.

Trail rides reminded him of sweet Emma, while anything near water brought back their canoe trip on the Mohican River. How he wished they’d paddled down to the Ohio River when they had the chance. And how he still missed that girl! So, other than maybe basketball tonight at Sam’s, he would probably work the entire weekend on the farm. There was always something needing to be done, plus the busier he stayed the less he thought about the prettiest girl in Holmes County.

James usually took the roundabout way home on Thursdays to forget about school and soak in the countryside he loved so much. Especially on gorgeous spring days like today. He didn’t even bother to tune in to his favorite country music station, preferring peace and quiet, except for the occasional buzz of truckers talking on the CB radio. The CB caught snippets of conversation from people on Highway 30, hurrying either in one direction or the other. He had thought about seeing the world, or at least visiting different parts of the country, but without someone special to travel with, he’d just as soon stay home.

The town of Apple Creek was busier today than usual for a week-day as he drove through. The sight of the Amish ladies coming from the grocery store made his mouth dry and his palms clammy. He hoped that one day he could gaze on those gentle Plain people and not be reminded of Emma.

But today wouldn’t be the day.

Suddenly, the CB radio crackled to life, and James heard a rescue worker on his way from home to the fire station. He was talking about a wreck on a Holmes County road—an accident involving an Amish buggy and a full-sized pickup. James’ spine stiffened while his blood turned to ice. His truck quickly built up speed until he eased off the accelerator. As horrible as any accident was, he had no reason to believe he knew the victims.

Thousands of Amish families lived in Holmes and the surrounding counties.

Nevertheless, he grabbed the CB transmitter and began asking rapid-fire questions. He heard fear in his voice and felt his stomach turn over. When the emergency worker came back on line with information, his worst nightmare was realized. The Amish buggy driver was a young woman, riding alone, and the Amish conveyance was described as a small two-seat trap.

A pony cart.
James swallowed several times to keep the stomach acid from rising up his throat. The CB responder had no information regarding the condition of either driver.

But the scene of the accident was along the same route Emma Miller took to town.

James fought back tears as horrific images flooded his brain. He tried to tell himself that plenty of Amish ladies owned pony carts for short trips to neighbors or to run errands. There was no logical reason to assume the victim was Emma, yet in his heart he knew. With mindless concentration, he drove toward the location as fast as safety would allow.

While still half a mile from the accident site, traffic crawled to a dead stop. For a moment, James considered driving on the wrong side of the road to reach the scene. From where he sat at the bottom of a hill he couldn’t see anything. A visualization of crashing head-on with the ambulance carrying injured people to the hospital flashed through his brain. He slapped his palm on the steering wheel several times in utter frustration. Without a logical alternative, James threw the truck into reverse and backed up the shoulder into the first driveway he came to. Feeling fingers of panic closing around his heart, he turned off the ignition and abandoned his truck in the front yard of a ranch house with morning glories climbing up the mailbox post.

Then he started to run—toward his past and, God willing, toward his future. He couldn’t think about what he might find at his destination, but something inside told him Emma would be there. He ran past cars and trucks, semis and Amish buggies. A few people hollered questions to him, but he paid them no mind. He passed up people impatiently glancing at watches, mothers scolding restless children, even an older man who had leaned his seat back and closed his eyes for a nap. On James ran, heedless of the blistering sun or the fact he’d lost his favorite Indians ball cap on the side of the road.

He was oblivious to the countryside he passed—the things he and Emma cherished about their rural county: tidy farmhouses, rolling fields abundant with golden grain, the cows and sheep and horses that occupied so much of their lives, and the people who had left their chores to see if they could help. Someday he would again appreciate the world, but right now he had to see what had stopped traffic in both directions.

He needed to know.

James saw flashing lights around the next bend in the road. Police cars, ambulances, and a fire truck had parked at odd angles, forming a cluster around something he still couldn’t see. But at least nothing was burning. He slowed down to a fast walk and struggled to catch his breath. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip while perspiration soaked through his shirt.

Close to the accident, people had left their vehicles and stood in groups; talking, wondering, maybe some were praying. James hurried on, trying not to listen to their conjectures. In the next moment he heard a sound that stopped his heart—the piercingly cold report of a single gunshot. All chatter around him ceased; even the birds and insects turned eerily silent.

Fighting back a gag reflex, he pushed through the crowd of onlookers, including one heartless fool who was taking photos with a digital camera. James resisted the impulse to punch out the ghoulish photographer. His goal was to reach Emma, if it was Emma, and nothing else.

“Hold up there, young man.” A highway patrolman reached out and grabbed onto James’ arm.

“Please, let go of me,” he said, trying to shrug off the officer. “I’m family of the female victim in the buggy.” It was a bold, outright lie. James had no idea who had been injured in the accident. It might be a total stranger, but he couldn’t stay back with the crowd, immobile and impotent.

Surprisingly, the highway patrolman released his hold on him. “All right, go on up, but don’t get in the rescue workers’ way.”

“I won’t,” James promised and hurried on. In another twenty feet, he caught sight of an animal on the side of the road, lying very still. A sheriff’s deputy stood beside it along with Dr. Longo, the county veterinarian.
Emma’s family uses Dr. Longo, same as us
, he thought abstractly. He turned away from the heartbreaking scene, preferring not to lock the visual into his mind.

But within fifty paces lay something he couldn’t turn from—the mangled remains of a wooden pony cart. It had been knocked clear off the pavement into a soybean field. James crept closer to examine the wreckage. Splintered slats of wood jutted in all directions. The metal wheels had broken off the axle while the steel frame had crumpled from the impact. The twisted heap was barely recognizable as to its former function.

Then James spotted something among the soybeans he could identify—a multicolored patchwork quilt. It had been made by Leah and given to Emma to keep her legs warm. Although torn and wadded up, James was certain it was the one he’d seen when Emma arrived at the volleyball party. Bending closer to inspect, he realized it was sodden with blood—Emma’s blood. A searing pain began in the pit of his stomach, paralyzing him as it inched its way up his spine. He felt dizzy and light-headed, while his throat started to close as though he had been stung by a bee.

James Davis did what he hadn’t done in years—alone in a soybean field on what had been a perfect spring day—he began to cry.

The highway patrolman tentatively placed a hand James’ shoulder. James quickly swiped at his face with his shirtsleeve.

“It’s okay, son,” the officer said. “Your relative is alive. She’s in that ambulance over there.” He gestured with his gloved finger. “You can go see her, but remember what I told you before—don’t get in anybody’s way. They’re getting ready to head for the hospital right about now.”

James’ head turned until he focused on the rescue vehicle. People were swarming around the back door. “Thank you,” he called to the patrolman. And he whispered a second thank-you to God, who held the life of even the humblest creature in His hand. On wobbly legs, James started moving toward the flashing lights.