Praise for MARTA PERRY

“Marta Perry illuminates the differences between the Amish community and the larger society with an obvious care and respect for ways and beliefs…. She weaves these differences into the story with a deft hand, drawing the reader into a suspenseful, continually moving plot.”

—Fresh Fiction on Murder in Plain Sight

“Leah’s Choice, by Marta Perry, is a knowing and careful look into Amish culture and faith. A truly enjoyable reading experience.”

—Angela Hunt, New York Times bestselling author of Let Darkness Come

“Leah’s Choice takes us into the heart of Amish country and the Pennsylvania Dutch and shows us the struggles of the Amish community as the outside world continues to clash with the Plain ways. This is a story of grace and servitude as well as a story of difficult choices and heartbreaking realities. It touched my heart. I think the world of Amish fiction has found a new champion.”

—Lenora Worth, author of Code of Honor

“Marta Perry delivers a strong story of tension, fear and trepidation. Season of Secrets (4.5 stars) is an excellent mystery that’s certain to keep you in constant suspense. While love is a powerful entity in this story, danger is never too far behind.”

—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick

“In this beautifully told tale, Marta Perry writes with the gentle cadence and rich detail of someone who understands the Amish well. Leah’s Choice kept me reading long into the night.”

—Linda Goodnight, author of Finding Her Way Home

Vanish in Plain Sight
Marta Perry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Thank you for deciding to read this second book in my Amish suspense series. As a lifelong resident of rural Pennsylvania, I have always lived near the Plain People. My own family heritage is Pennsylvania Dutch, so it has been a pleasure and a challenge to draw on those experiences in my books.

It can be difficult for outsiders to understand the tight bonds of the Amish community, so that it is sometimes seen as secretive or unkind in its efforts to avoid conforming to the world. For many people, the extent of their knowledge about the Amish is derived from the movie Witness, but there is far more to be understood about a unique people trying to live as they believe God wishes.

In this story, Marisa Angelo is the outsider whose personal needs require that she penetrate Amish society to learn about her mother’s disappearance. She comes in with a great many preconceptions, most of which are put to the test as she tries to uncover the truth about her mother’s background and the events that led up to her disappearance. I’ve tried to present Amish belief and practices as honestly and respectfully as I can, and any errors are my own.

I hope you’ll let me know how you like my book, and I’d love to send you a signed bookmark and my free brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. You can email me at marta@martaperry.com, visit me on the web at www.martaperry.com or on Facebook at Marta Perry Books, or write to me at HQN Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Blessings,

Marta Perry

This story is dedicated to my husband, Brian, who always believes I can find another story to tell.

Acknowledgments

I’d like to express my thanks to all those whose expertise helped me in writing this book: to Erik Wesner, whose Amish America blog is enormously helpful; to Donald Kraybill and John Hostetler, whose books are the definitive resources on Amish life and beliefs; to the Plain People I have known and respected; and to my family, for giving me such a rich heritage on which to draw.

The righteousness of the blameless makes a straight way for them, but the wicked are brought down by their own wickedness.

—Proverbs 11:5

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

LINK MORGAN NARROWED his focus to the heavy sledgehammer and the satisfying thwack it made when it broke into the old paneling.

The paneling shattered beneath Link’s sledgehammer, its shoddiness a contrast to the solid double-plank construction of the rest of the old farmhouse. Setting the sledgehammer down, he pulled fragments loose with gloved hands, tossing them into a pile in front of the fireplace. The last bit of the section came free, revealing what lay behind it.

He stared, methodically wiping the sweat from his forehead. Shaking off the foreboding that gripped him, he reached into the wall and pulled out the object that lay there. A suitcase. Not empty, by the feel of it.

Carrying it to the makeshift worktable, he set down his find. An inexpensive suitcase, its fabric sides coated in dust and marred by stains. How long had it lain there, inside the wall of Uncle Allen’s house? More important, why was it there?

He snapped open the latch and swung back the lid. Women’s clothes, by the look of it—slacks, a skirt, several blouses. Beneath them something black. He picked it up, shook it out and recognized it. An Amish woman’s black apron. His stomach twisted, rebelling the way it had in Afghanistan when they were coming upon a perfect place for an ambush.

Taking out the apron revealed what lay under it: a white Amish prayer kapp. At the very bottom was a framed photograph. He picked up the picture, bad feelings growing. A woman and a young girl, looking at each other, faces lit with laughter and love. Mother and daughter, he’d guess from the similarities in the faces. The child looked to be about four or five.

He set the picture down gently and took a step away from the table. Something was wrong here. The pair in the photo wore typical, though a little outdated, clothing. So how did that square with the Amish clothing in the suitcase? The pressure that had driven him for months urged him to ignore this, to get on with his plans. Whatever had led to this suitcase being placed inside the wall of the old house his uncle had left him, it was no concern of his.

If he hadn’t opened the suitcase, maybe he could have bought that. But the contents raised too many questions. Too late now to take the easy way out. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed the Spring Township police.

Ten minutes later a police car pulled into the driveway. The occupants got out and headed for the back door, as country people always did, and he walked out to the back porch to meet them. Before he had a chance to speak, his brother Trey’s pickup drew to a stop behind the cruiser.

He’d called Trey right after he’d called the police, figuring he would want to know. After all, he was the one who’d been here for the past six years while Link was off at college and then in the army. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on this, but even if he couldn’t, Trey was the kind of person you turned to when there was trouble.

Besides, Trey knew everyone. Adam Byler, now the township police chief, had been friends with Link’s big brother since they were kids, running around together, usually trying to brush off Link, the bratty little brother tagging after them and getting into trouble.

“Hey, Link.” Adam pulled off sunglasses and started toward him, followed by another cop…Dick McCall, fiftyish, balding, with a paunch that strained his uniform shirt a bit more each year. Mac had been a township cop when Link had been soaping windows at ten.

“Sorry to call you out.” Link leaned against the porch post, hoping it didn’t look as if he needed its support. “It’s probably nothing, but I figured you’d want a look at this.”

“No problem. That’s what you pay taxes for, right?” Adam punched his shoulder lightly, the tap a hint of the power that lay behind it. Adam was as solid now as he’d been in high school, with not an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. “Let’s have a look.”

Trey joined them, giving Link the worried look he’d been using since Link got out of the military hospital and came home to recuperate.

“What’s up?” Trey’s voice was so much like Dad’s that it still shocked Link sometimes. “Adam said you found something inside the wall of the addition.”

He jerked a nod and headed inside. “See for yourself.”

The family room, stretching across the rear of the centuries-old farmhouse, seemed smaller with four men in it. They stood in an awkward circle around the opened suitcase.

Adam took the photo, setting it so they all could see. He glanced at Link. “You know who the woman is?”

Link shook his head, frowning at a vague memory that teased at the back of his mind. “The face seems a little familiar, but that’s all.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Trey said, sounding annoyed with himself that he didn’t have the answer.

Mac picked up the photo. “You three boys are too young to remember, that’s all. It’s Barbara Angelo, that’s who it is.”

“Angelo.” The frown on Adam’s stolid face deepened. “Wasn’t there a scandal or something about her?”

“Ran off from her husband and kid, that’s the way I heard it.” Mac looked gratified at their attention. “Russ Angelo, the husband, said she’d gone back to Indiana to her family, leaving the little girl with him and his mother. Barbara was Amish, see, left the church to marry him, but the marriage didn’t work out.” He shrugged. “It happens. Nobody questioned her leaving all that much, as I recall.”

“But if her suitcase is here…” Trey let that trail off.

No point in going on. Trey was thinking what they were all thinking. If Barbara Angelo had deserted her husband and small daughter, what was her suitcase doing in the wall of Allen Morgan’s house?

Adam closed the suitcase, scanning the sides with his eyes, not touching. “No ID tags. The kind of cheap bag you could pick up at any discount store.”

To Link’s eyes, the bag looked worn and battered, but maybe that was just the effect of being inside the paneling all these years. It was thick with dust, splattered with darker stains and a few nicks here and there.

Adam seemed to scan the stains more closely, then looked around the room. “Where was it?”

“Right here, next to the fireplace.” Link showed them, concentrating on not limping as he crossed the room. Maybe that sledgehammer had been a bit much. The army said he was as well as they could make him, after what had happened in Afghanistan.

Adam squatted down, studying the area as deliberately as he did everything. “Well, it’s not a crime to put a suitcase inside a wall. You two know when this work was done?”

“We were kids when Uncle Allen built the addition, that’s as close as I can come,” Trey said. “Mom would know exactly, though.”

Adam let his gaze move around the room. “I hate to say it, but I think we’d best make sure there’s nothing else inside that paneling.” He shot a glance at Link. “You mind?”

“Hey, I’m tearing it off anyway. I’ll take any help I can get. One thing’s sure—if there is anything, it has to be in this room. The rest of the house has solid double-plank walls. Not room even for a mouse.”

Let alone a human body, if that’s what they were talking about.

“Well, let’s have at it.” Trey picked up the sledgehammer before Link could reach it. He managed a grin at Link. “You sure this isn’t just a ploy to get us to do the work for you?”

“How else would I get you to do it? You’re still dead set against my selling the old place, aren’t you?” Link softened the question with an attempted smile, but he’d be glad if everyone would stop hovering over him.

“I just wish you’d stick around for a while, that’s all,” Trey said. He punctuated the words with a swing of the sledgehammer. “Seems like Morgans belong here in Lancaster County.”

Trey didn’t understand this drive of Link’s to leave—that was clear. Link wasn’t sure he understood it himself, but life had to be easier someplace where people weren’t worrying about him all the time. A buddy of his was keeping a job for him in California. He had a simple plan: renovate the house, sell it, move to California and forget what had happened to his team in Afghanistan and the career he’d once thought to have in the military.

With four of them working, the job didn’t take long. Soon all the old paneling lay in dusty stacks on the floor.

“Nothing.” Adam summed it up, brushing off his hands. “Maybe that’s what the whole thing amounts to. I guess there could be some innocent explanation for the woman’s suitcase being inside the wall of your uncle’s house.”

“Can you think of one?” Trey challenged. Link could hear the worry in his voice. He’d be thinking about how Mom would take this.

“Not off the top of my head,” Adam admitted. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Still, crime or no crime, I guess I’d better look into it.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

That was aimed at both him and Trey, Link supposed. After all, it had been their uncle’s house. There would be talk, speculation about the possible relationship between Allen Morgan and the Angelo woman. Adam might want to keep it quiet, but they all knew how impossible that was in a place like Spring Township.

Link picked up the photograph, looking into the big brown eyes of the little girl, feeling again that sense of something wrong he’d had the first time he looked at her face, reminding him of those other children who saw death and destruction everyday. Stronger than that—it was a sense of empathy, as if the child meant something to him.

“One thing I do know,” he said. “This kid, or rather, the woman she is now—she deserves to know what happened to her mother.”

MARISA ANGELO FELT as if she hadn’t taken a breath since she left Baltimore. Cutting the car engine, she stared at the house in front of her. It stood on the fringe of the village of Springville, but still gave the illusion of privacy, hidden as it was behind a hedge of lilac bushes so high that nothing could be seen from the road.

Marisa got out slowly, pushing the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, unable to take her gaze from the house. It was probably like a hundred other farmhouses in this rural area of Pennsylvania; a two-story white frame with black wooden shutters on the windows. But instead of being surrounded by neat flowerbeds, it hid behind overgrown trees, its windows shielded by blinds so that it seemed to sleep.

A shiver slid through her. She was being morbid. She shouldn’t let this experience get to her. From the moment the police chief called her, after being unable to reach her father, she’d been focused on one thing only: get here. Find out what this place had to do with the disappearance of her mother that had left a hole in her heart nothing seemed to fill. She’d packed a bag, collected the materials she needed for her current set of illustrations, and set off.

She’d been five when her mother left, six when she and her father and grandmother moved to Baltimore. This area ought to be familiar to her, but she seemed to have only fragments of memories that didn’t amount to anything—an image of herself jumping rope on a sidewalk, the scary feeling of standing onstage in what must have been an elementary-school program.

They’d left, they’d never come back, she’d forgotten this place, even though her dreams were haunted by the need to know. To understand what happened.

Gradually, over the past few years, when every line of inquiry came up empty, she’d thought she was accepting the fact that she’d never know. But when the call came, it was as if she’d been waiting for it all her life.

She closed the car door and walked toward the house. Blank and shuttered, it looked deserted, but someone must be here. The police chief had said the owner was renovating the place. Seeming to understand her need to see for herself, Chief Byler had agreed to meet her here.

She had one foot on the porch step when she heard the noise—a steady series of thuds coming from the rear of the building. Maybe the renovator was still at work.

The yard behind the house proved just as secluded as the front. A stand of pines pressed close, reaching over a fieldstone wall to threaten a garage and a couple of outbuildings that tilted into each other in a dispirited manner. The source of the noise was instantly obvious.

The man, in jeans and a T-shirt, worked steadily, oblivious to her presence. Pick up a short log, set it on a stump, split it with an axe, toss it aside. His movements were smooth, efficient and almost angry in their intensity.

From the top of the stone wall, a large black cat watched with the casual indifference of its kind. He put up a lazy paw to swipe his face, his eyes never leaving the figure.

The contrast between the lean ferocity of the man and the lazy feline grace of the cat had her fingers itching. She pulled the ever-present pad and pencil from her bag, intent on capturing the scene in quick strokes. With a few changes, this might fit into the children’s book she was illustrating. Even if it didn’t, she couldn’t resist.

The image was nearly complete when the man clutched his side with a grunt, dropping the axe. The cat vanished over the wall. She must have made some move, because the man spun and strode toward her, transferring that angry intensity from the logs to her.

“What are you doing?” He reached her, grabbing the pad from her hand and giving the drawing an angry glance. “What right do you have invading my privacy? Well?”

Panic clutched her throat at the angry voice. She forced it back, a millimeter at a time. She would not give in to it.

“I’m sorry.” She found her voice. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m afraid I couldn’t resist the contrast between your work and your cat’s laziness.” She tried for a smile that felt stiff on her lips.

“Not my cat.” He handed the pad back to her and made a visible effort to contain himself, strong mouth firming, lashes shielding piercing green eyes for an instant. He yanked a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped away the perspiration that beaded his forehead in spite of the coolness of the October day. He ran the cloth back over short dark brown hair and along his neck. “Are you looking for directions, Ms…?”

“Angelo. Marisa Angelo,” she said, and saw his face change when he heard the name. This must be the man who’d found the suitcase, then, the man who’d inherited the house from an uncle, according to the police chief.

“Sorry.” His voice went softer, rougher. “I didn’t realize you were coming here. The person you want is Adam Byler, the township police chief. If you head back down the road—”

“I’ve already talked to him. He’s meeting me here. Didn’t he let you know?” She couldn’t let him send her away, not when the only clue she’d ever had to her mother’s disappearance had been found here.

“No.” The word was so blunt that for a moment she thought he’d still send her packing. Then he managed a smile that gentled the harsh lines of his face. “I’ve been outside most of the day. Not paying any attention to the phone. I’m Link Morgan, by the way. Sorry to meet you under such circumstances.”

The words were conventional. Could Link Morgan begin to understand what this meant to her? Or was her arrival just an unwelcome interruption to his work?

“Chief Byler said that you found my mother’s suitcase while you were renovating the house?” She made it a question, since he didn’t seem very forthcoming.

“Right.” His jaw tightened. “I guess you want to see where?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

He sent a harassed glance toward the lane, as if willing the police car to appear. “Fine.” He brushed his hands on his jeans. “I guess I’d better get washed up.”

She followed him to the back door. His gait was ever-so-slightly uneven, reminding her of how he’d ended his woodcutting. “Are you all right?”

“What do you mean?” He turned on her, his lean, strong-featured face forbidding.

“I just… You looked as if you’d hurt yourself when you were cutting wood.”

“I’m fine. Just got a stitch in my side.” He held the door for her. “This leads into the addition to the house, where I’ve been working.”

She went up the two steps into the house, steeling herself. No matter how much this affected her, she didn’t want to show her pain in front of this stranger.

But it was just a room—long, running across the width of the farmhouse, with a fieldstone fireplace in the middle of the back wall. The walls were bare to the studs, with broken paneling stacked on the floor.

“I’ll get washed up. Adam will probably be here by then.” He disappeared into a room that must be a kitchen, and she heard the sound of running water.

She set her bag on a rough worktable and looked around. There was nothing to see. Just a virtually empty room, a shell waiting for renovation. If Link Morgan hadn’t decided to tear off the old paneling, he wouldn’t have found the suitcase. She’d have gone on for maybe the rest of her life knowing nothing more than that her mother had abandoned her.

Morgan came back in, pulling a flannel shirt on over his T-shirt. He was thin, she realized, not just lean. Strongly muscled but underweight, as if he’d been sick. Maybe her question about being hurt hadn’t been too tactful.

“It was there, next to the fireplace.” He indicated the spot with a nod. “When I saw what was inside—well, I had to call the police.”

Delaying his renovation, obviously. “I guess you’re eager to get the work done so you can enjoy your house.”

He shook his head sharply. “I’m renovating it to sell. I want to get it finished and put it on the market before winter.”

His priorities were clear, it seemed.

But so were hers. She’d governed her life by the knowledge that her mother hadn’t loved her enough to stay with her. Now she had a hint, the tiniest thread, which seemed to say that might not be true. No matter who it inconvenienced, she wouldn’t stop pulling at that thread until she knew the truth.

LINK COULDN’T HELP but compare the woman in front of him with the child in the photograph who’d taken such a hold on his emotions. The adult Marisa had a slender, delicate build, like the little girl. Her brown hair, a bit darker than the shade in the picture, reached her shoulders, curling slightly.

The eyes in her oval face were those of the child in the picture—golden brown, with a touch of vulnerability that seared him. He couldn’t let anyone lean on him, especially not this vulnerable stranger with the familiar eyes.

“Is something wrong?” She brushed her hair back, flushing slightly. “A smudge on my face?”

“No.” It was his turn to feel embarrassed. “You just… I guess I was comparing you with the photo in the suitcase.”

“Photo?” She was clearly at sea.

“Adam didn’t tell you? There was a picture of your mother and you in the suitcase. That’s how we were able to identify the owner so quickly. I’m surprised Adam didn’t mention it.”

“Maybe he did. I guess I found the news all a bit hard to take in.”

“You must have dropped everything to get here so quickly.” Was it odd, her showing up so fast? He wasn’t sure.

“Once I heard, I couldn’t think of anything else.” She rubbed her arms, as if she felt a chill. “My work is freelance, so I just packed it up and brought it. I couldn’t not come, once I heard.”

He considered how that must have felt. “That almost sounds as if you were expecting something of the kind.”

“Of course I wasn’t.”

There was a hint of something held back in her tone that bothered him.

No getting involved. Stay out of it. But he had to ask. “Did your mother know my uncle?”

“I have no idea.” The brown eyes flashed. She clearly resented the implication.

Had he been implying anything? He just wanted to understand this, so he could put it behind him.

Marisa turned away, seeming to glance around the room almost at random, as if searching for something to take them away from an awkward place. “It looks as if you’re making good progress in here.”

“I wasn’t, but once the police got into the act, the paneling came down pretty fast.” Almost instantly he regretted the careless words, because she paled, obviously understanding why the police had gotten involved.

“We didn’t find anything.”

He rushed the words. It didn’t help. His hands curled into fists. The whole situation angered him. Talking to this woman was like walking through a minefield, where any step could end up maiming someone.

Relief flooded through him at the sound of a car. “That’ll be Adam.” He went quickly to the door.

Adam got out of the police car, alone this time, and pulled out the suitcase. So, he was going to show it to her. Well, Marisa had probably as much right to it as anyone.

“Adam.” He could only hope the relief didn’t show in his voice. “Ms. Angelo, this is Adam Byler.” He made introductions as Adam walked in. “Adam, Marisa Angelo. But I guess you’ve spoken on the phone.”

Adam nodded, shaking hands gravely before swinging the suitcase onto the worktable where it had lain the previous day. Link was glad to retreat into the background while Adam went over the circumstances of finding the case and identifying her mother from the photograph.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan told me about it.” Marisa reached toward the case, her hands hesitant. “May I see?”

“Of course. We’ve already run a few tests on it, just to be on the safe side.” Adam took a step back, as if giving her space.

Marisa opened the case. The photograph now lay on top, faceup, so that it was the first thing she saw. Link could hear the way her breath choked at the sight. His throat tightened in response.

She picked up the photograph, holding it for a long moment, her fingers caressing the pictured faces. Then she cradled it against her chest.

“This is mine.” She looked at Adam, as if expecting an argument.

“I suppose it is.” His voice was gentle. “Or maybe more accurately your father’s, but we haven’t been able to reach him.”

He knew Adam well. Maybe that was how he detected the hint of suspicion underlying the words.

Marisa didn’t seem to. “Dad won’t mind if I have the picture. I’m sorry you weren’t able to reach him, but since he retired, he takes off in that RV of his at a moment’s notice.”

“Doesn’t he have a cell phone?” Adam asked the question lightly, as if intent on not alarming her.

“He does, but half the time he doesn’t check it from one week to the next.” She didn’t seem to find that odd, which argued that father and daughter weren’t very close. “I’ve left a message for him to call me, and I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from him.”

“That’ll be fine.” Adam glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late, and I know this is a lot to take in. If you don’t mind staying over in the area tonight, maybe we can meet in my office tomorrow to talk things over.”

She looked at him, blinking a little. “Tonight? I’ll be here longer than that.”

Adam seemed taken aback. “That’s really not necessary, you know. We’ll continue to look into the situation, and we’ll let you know if and when we learn anything. I’m sure you want to get back to your own life.”

In other words, Adam didn’t want her here, dogging his every step. Link couldn’t agree more.

Marisa’s shoulders stiffened. She looked very deliberately from him to Adam. “I can see why you feel that way, but I have no intention of going anywhere. I intend to stay in Springville until I know why my mother’s suitcase was inside the wall of this house.”

CHAPTER TWO

MARISA COULD SEE HOW unwelcome that announcement was to both men. With her unfortunate knack for empathy, she could easily put herself in their places.

The police chief was simplest to figure. He clearly wanted a free hand with his investigation, and he didn’t want to tell her anything he didn’t have to. Not that he suspected her—he could hardly believe that a five-year-old child would be involved in her mother’s disappearance.

But her father was another matter. Didn’t the police automatically suspect the spouse when a woman disappeared?

Or died. She forced herself to finish that thought.

“Ms. Angelo, I hate to see you do that.” The police chief sounded as harassed at the thought of her staying as she expected him to. “You’ll just be kicking your heels around here to no purpose. It’s hardly likely that we can find anything else out about what happened after all these years.”

“You found the suitcase,” she pointed out.

“Link did.” Chief Byler shot a look at the other man. “If he hadn’t been renovating the house, we wouldn’t have known anything about it.”

“But you have to investigate.” A thought struck her with the force of a blow. “You must have investigated then. Well, I mean not you personally.” He was far too young for that, probably not much more than in his early thirties. “But the police must have.”

She’d never known. She could only wonder at herself. A child accepted what she was told by the authority figures in her life, of course. But later, when she’d wanted to understand, it hadn’t occurred to her to ask her father what the police had thought.

“True, they did.” Adam Byler leaned against the rough table, seeming to resign himself to the questions. “I’ve looked into the reports, talked to officers who were working then.”

“And what did they say?” Was she going to have to drag information from the man? Ordinarily she probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to confront him, but these weren’t ordinary circumstances.

She couldn’t read anything in his square, impassive face. She suspected he was trying to decide what and how much to tell her.

As for Link Morgan—well, he’d backed away, as if trying to disassociate himself from the whole business. He probably regretted that he hadn’t thrown the suitcase on the trash heap without opening it.

“People noticed that your mother wasn’t around any longer,” Byler said. “Your father said she’d left him. That she hadn’t been able to go on living English and she’d gone back to her people in Indiana. For the most part, the police accepted that.”

Byler’s lips clamped shut on the words. Was the implication that he wouldn’t have?

“You know that your mother was Amish?” Link Morgan asked the question with a kind of reluctant concern in his voice.

She nodded. That she did know, but only because she’d pried it out of her grandmother, who was easier to talk to than her father. “I know. And my father said she’d gone back to her family because that was what he thought she’d done.”

A shiver skittered along her nerves. She believed that. She had to.

“My grandmother said my mother had talked about going back to her family,” she went on. “Grandma said my mother found it hard to give up her people and her faith the way she had.”

But how could she leave me behind? The child who lived inside her asked the question she couldn’t.

“You might want to see what else is in the suitcase,” Link suggested.

She shot a look at him. That fine-drawn face, with the skin taut against the bones—she still had the urge to draw it every time she looked at him. What made him look that way? Illness? Grief? Guilt?

Slowly she lifted out folded clothing. Her fingers hesitated when they touched the black garment. Then she lifted it, shook it out.

“It’s the kind of apron an Amish woman wears. And there’s the prayer covering they always have on their heads.” He nodded toward the object in the bottom of the case, not moving.

She picked it up, her fingers tingling a little. White organdy, a kind of small hat with long strings. She’d seen pictures of Amish women, looking almost like nuns in their dark dresses and identical hair styles, with the white covering on their heads. She’d taken a book out of the school library, she remembered, and hidden it under the mattress so Daddy wouldn’t see.

“That would seem to confirm that she was planning to leave,” Chief Byler said. “As to how that suitcase ended up here, and where she went—we’re as much in the dark as we were twenty-three years ago.”

For her father’s sake, she had to ask the question. “Is this a criminal investigation?”

Byler’s expression didn’t change, but Link Morgan’s mouth tightened, as if in pain.

“Not at this time,” Byler said. “For all we know, your mother did disappear back into an Amish community somewhere. That’s possible, even in this age of instant communication. If so, and if she doesn’t want to be found, the Amish would never give her up.”

“I know.” Her thoughts flickered to her own futile effort to find out something from her mother’s relatives in Indiana. “So, if it’s not a criminal investigation, will you do anything?” She didn’t mean that to sound critical, but she had to understand.

“We’ll pursue the leads we have.” That sounded final, and the police chief closed the suitcase and lifted it from the table. “If you’re intent on staying, please let my office know how to reach you. We’ll contact you if we find anything.”

She nodded, watching him walk to the door. He hadn’t sounded particularly hopeful.

He turned at the door, hand on the screen. “Don’t forget, Ms. Angelo. Let us know as soon as you hear from your father. We’d like to speak with him.” He didn’t wait for a response.

Her stomach tightened in apprehension as she watched him walk toward the patrol car. The fact that the police would suspect her father hadn’t occurred to her when she’d rushed off in response to the phone call.

“He thinks my father had something to do with this, doesn’t he?” The moment she asked the question, she regretted it. Link obviously didn’t want to be involved in her troubles, and she certainly had no reason to confide in him.

“Adam is a fair-minded person. He wouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

“But the husband is always a suspect. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“I’m not thinking anything.” His tone was cool and dismissive. “I’m sorry for your—” he hesitated, and she suspected he’d been about to say her loss “—your situation, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

“You found the suitcase. It’s your uncle’s house. You have a responsibility—”

“I don’t have any responsibility at all.” The words came quick and angry. “There’s nothing I can do.”

He’d walk away, she thought, except that it was his house, which meant she was the one who had to walk away. Marisa took a deep breath and realized she was trembling. Confrontation definitely wasn’t her strong suit.

“I see.” She managed to keep her voice calm. “Thank you for your trouble.”

She turned and walked to the door. She’d come here looking for answers, but it seemed all she’d found were more questions.

LINK SCOWLED AT THE high-school photos that still adorned the wall of the room that had been his as a kid and yanked open a drawer to find a clean shirt. Mom wouldn’t hear of his being on his own when they’d finally released him from the military hospital, of course, and he’d been too weak to argue the point. But looking at the remnants of the life he used to live wasn’t doing a thing for his morale.

Well, it would soon be over, and he’d move on. This business with the suitcase could have been worse. Now it was in Adam’s capable hands, and Marisa Angelo’s troubles were Adam’s concern.

He’d been telling himself that all afternoon. So why did he still feel like such a loser? He wasn’t responsible for the woman.

Trouble was, he’d always been a sucker for vulnerable brown eyes.

He pushed away the image of that heart-shaped face. Marisa wouldn’t stick this out, anyway. She’d get tired of waiting around for news that didn’t come and go back to wherever she’d come from—Baltimore, Adam had said.

Adam didn’t want the woman here. But he did want to see her father. Marisa had been right about one thing. The police did always suspect the husband when a woman disappeared.

Funny that the cops hadn’t looked into it more thoroughly at the time. He’d have thought—

No, he wasn’t going to obsess about Marisa Angelo.

He started down the stairs, running his hand along the railing that four or five generations of Morgans had touched. He never used to spare a thought for things like that. Trey was the oldest son—he’d always figured Trey was responsible for carrying on the family traditions.

But somehow the tour of duty in Afghanistan had made Link look at things differently, like this old house and the countryside that surrounded it. Morgan land, just like probably half of Spring Township was Morgan land.

We have a duty to the land, Grandpa used to say. And to the people who live here.

A stickler for duty, the old man had been, accepting no excuses for not doing what you should. Like dealing with Marisa Angelo’s problem. And Uncle Allen’s possible involvement.

But he wasn’t going to see Marisa Angelo again.

Voices came from the living room. Mom had said that Jessica Langdon, Trey’s fiancée, was coming for dinner tonight, so apparently they were gathering there. He paused for a moment and then headed toward the archway.

Not that he didn’t like Jessica—she was a smart city attorney who’d recently gone into partnership with an old friend of his father’s. But tonight he wasn’t in the mood to be sociable. Maybe he could—

He reached the living room and stopped. Jessica and Trey were there all right, talking to Mom, who was poised like a butterfly in flight, waving a tray of appetizers while she talked to the woman who sat in the Queen Anne armchair. Marisa Angelo.

“Link, there you are.” His mother spun with one of her quick moves, the sleeves of her filmy top fluttering and the tray waving.

“Here I am,” he agreed, taking the tray from her. “And these cheese puffs are about to be on the floor.”

“Nonsense. I had a firm grip on them.” She patted his cheek as if he were about four. “Now, you’ve already met Marisa, haven’t you? I stopped by Adam’s office while I was in town to see what he’d found out about that suitcase, and Marisa was there. So I just brought her along home for supper so we could all talk it over.” Mom beamed, obviously pleased with her solution.

He had to suppress a groan. Geneva Morgan was known far and wide for her warm hospitality and her habit of adopting any stray that crossed her path, but he wished for once she’d restrained herself.

He nodded to Marisa, trying to look as if he wasn’t aghast to find her in his mother’s living room. “Marisa. I didn’t realize you were headed back to the police station after you left my place.”

Her eyes said it wasn’t any of his business where she went. “I thought of a few more things I wanted to say to Chief Byler.”

Trey must have thought that sounded ominous, because he frowned. “Adam Byler’s a good man. If there’s anything to find, I’m sure he’ll find it.”

That was not exactly what worried Marisa about him, Link suspected.

“Yes, he…he seems very capable.” Marisa’s expression suggested that she didn’t want to discuss it, and probably also that she was wondering what had induced her to accept Mom’s invitation.

Plenty of people had occasion to wonder how Geneva Morgan became entangled in their affairs. Trey had had his hands full since Dad’s death. Their mother never saw a problem that she didn’t consider it her duty to resolve.

“You must have been so shocked at Adam’s call.” His mother leaned over to pat Marisa’s hand. “Poor child. And with your father out of touch, it all falls on you.”

Marisa stiffened. Mom wouldn’t understand that the subject of her father’s absence was a touchy one, of course. His mind scrambled for something to say that would divert the conversation, but he couldn’t come up with a thing.

“I understand you’ll be staying around for a few days.” Jessica broke what was becoming an uncomfortable silence. “It’s fortunate you were able to take time off work.”

Marisa turned to her gratefully, maybe glad to see someone who wasn’t a Morgan. “That wasn’t an issue. I’m a freelance illustrator, and as long as I turn projects in on time, it doesn’t matter where I do them.”

“Really? That’s fascinating. I don’t think I ever met an illustrator before. What are you working on?” Jessica leaned forward, her interest sounding genuine.

“Right now I’m doing illustrations for a children’s book. The story is set in a rural area, as a matter of fact, so these surroundings are perfect.”

The first smile Link had seen from her curved Marisa’s lips and lit her eyes. With the stress momentarily wiped from her face, she seemed to glow with enthusiasm for her work, drawing him closer. Too bad she couldn’t look like that all the time. He hadn’t given much of a thought to women since his injury, but now he felt that flicker of interest that was the first step toward attraction.

“But about this suitcase.” Mom perched on the edge of a chair, clearly not distracted. “Have you any idea how it got there? Did your father ever mention that it was missing?”

“I don’t think so.” Marisa’s lips tightened again. “Not to me, anyway. I was just five when my mother left.” She hesitated. “If she did leave.”

Trey’s hand clenched. He was probably thinking, as Link was, about the implications of Uncle Allen being involved in the woman’s disappearance. Mom had had enough grief in her life with Dad’s death. She shouldn’t have to face any more.

“Surely the fact that the suitcase was packed indicates that she at least planned to leave,” Trey said.

“That’s true, but why—?”

Mom’s question was interrupted by a movement in the archway. Katie Zeller, one of several Amish teens who helped Mom around the house, stood there, probably waiting patiently for a break in the conversation.

Mom turned. “Oh, Katie, I’m sorry. Is everything ready?”

Katie nodded. “Ja. Did you want me to dish up already?”

“Please. I’ll come and help you.” Mom rose, waving toward the dining room. “The rest of you find seats. We’ll get the food on right away. I’m sure Marisa is starved, and here we’ve been keeping her talking instead of feeding her.”

“I’m not…” Marisa began, and let the word trail off when Mom vanished toward the kitchen.

“Pretend you’re hungry,” Trey advised, taking Jessica’s hand as they moved into the dining room. “Our mother is only happy when she’s feeding people.”

“Well, now, I might resent that if it weren’t true.” Mom and her helper carried steaming bowls and platters to the table. “Katie and I made chicken pot pie for supper. I thought Marisa ought to sample some traditional Pennsylvania Dutch food while she’s here.”

Link held Marisa’s chair while she sat down. Manners might be a vanishing art some places, but not in his mother’s house. Marisa, he noticed, was staring at Katie, something almost tragic in her eyes.

Thinking about that Amish apron and kapp in her mother’s suitcase? Both looked identical to the ones Katie wore at the moment. He sat down next to Marisa, turning that over in his mind.

By the time the food platters had circled the table, Marisa had regained her poise, as far as he could tell.

His mother glanced around the table, blue eyes sparkling. “This is nice, having a full table again. And you know, I think I can answer at least one of the questions that’s perplexing Marisa.”

Marisa’s fingers tightened on her fork. “What question is that?”

“How the suitcase came to be in Allen’s house, of course.”

Link exchanged glances with Trey. What was their mother up to now?

“How would you be able to explain that?” He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“It’s simple, really. I thought of it last night, but then I never had a chance to tell you because you left so early this morning, Link.”

“Tell me what?” Dealing with his mother required more patience than he possessed at the moment, and Marisa’s tension seemed to vibrate through the space between them.

“Why, that Barbara Angelo was your uncle Allen’s housekeeper, of course.”

MARISA FOUND THAT Link’s hand was in her line of vision, lying on the white tablecloth next to hers. Hers was clenched around a fork. His had tightened into so hard a fist that the tendons stood out on the back of it.

Did that mean he was as shocked at Geneva’s revelation as she was? Or did it mean that he hated the fact that it had come out?

“What are you talking about, Mom?” Across the table from her, Trey had found his voice.

Marisa studied him. A year or two older than Link, maybe, but his face, while serious, didn’t carry those lines of tension which marked Link. At the moment Trey was staring at his mother in what seemed honest surprise.

“About Marisa’s mother, Barbara Angelo. She worked for your uncle for a while, taking care of the house for him. Although why he needed a housekeeper, I never understood. There he was all by himself, practically a hermit. You’d think he could easily have done for himself…”

“Give it a rest, Mom.” Trey seemed to relax during his mother’s wanderings. Maybe he was used to the track her thoughts took. “We all know you didn’t like Dad’s brother.”

Geneva straightened, her shoulders back. “Trey, that is absolutely not true. I didn’t dislike your uncle. I just said he didn’t need a housekeeper. He could easily have taken care of things himself. Why, your father—”

“Dad was a paragon,” Trey said, smiling a little. “But you know perfectly well he never washed a dish in his life. You wouldn’t let him.”

“You always thought Uncle Allen was lazy,” Link said. “Typical younger son, taking life easy while his older brother did all the work.”

That sounded like a teasing comment. Certainly the others took it that way, joining in kidding the older woman. But Marisa had heard an undercurrent in Link’s voice that made her wonder. Was that how they’d seen Allen Morgan? Or was Link feeling guilty over something he had or hadn’t done?

She expected Geneva to come back to the subject of her mother working as Allen Morgan’s housekeeper, but that didn’t happen. At first she thought Geneva didn’t care to talk about it, but as Marisa watched them, she realized that Trey and Link were steering the conversation away from that revelation.

They were protective of Geneva. Even Jessica joined in, keeping the talk light as they ate their way through the delectable chicken pot pie and a sweet and nutty squash casserole. At least, Marisa tried to eat. She ought to be hungry, but her stomach seemed tied in a permanent knot since she’d come to this place.

How normal was their protectiveness? She couldn’t really compare them with her family. With Daddy away so much working, family had usually consisted of just her and her grandmother.

Finally everyone was finished, and Geneva suggested a move back into the living room for dessert and coffee. Jessica sat down next to Marisa, while Geneva disappeared into the kitchen and the two men halted in front of the fireplace, heads down in a low-voiced conversation.

“Don’t mind them,” Jessica said, nodding toward the two men. “I try to tell Trey he shouldn’t be so protective of his mother, but everyone does it.” She smiled. “I even find myself doing it sometimes, and the truth is that she’s probably wiser than all of us put together, despite that scatterbrained façade.”

“Is it an act?” She couldn’t help voicing her doubts.

Jessica seemed to consider. “Not entirely. I think she has the sort of mind which jumps ahead of logic, very often arriving at the right answer without apparent effort. Of course, sometimes she’s completely wrong, too.”

“I’m not sure why she thought everything would be cleared up by knowing that my mother worked for Allen Morgan. If anything, it makes the whole thing more…” She hesitated. She’d been going to say suspicious, but that was hardly the thing to say to Trey’s fiancée. “…confusing, I suppose.”

Jessica nodded. “You’ve never heard anything from your mother in all these years?”

“No.” The word had an empty sound.

“I’m sorry.” Jessica touched her hand lightly. “My mother died when I was quite young. It’s so hard.”

She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. There was a lump in her throat to go with the knot in her stomach.

Ridiculous. She was just exhausted, that was all. Getting that call, loading the car, rushing up to Lancaster County, and then all the turmoil of the day—no wonder she felt emotional. She needed a good night’s sleep far more than she needed coffee and dessert.

She also needed to talk with Geneva at some point, to see what she actually remembered about her mother’s employment by Allen Morgan. But that conversation could wait until she could catch the woman alone, without her protective sons.

Geneva came back in the room with a coffee tray, followed by the Amish teenager with another tray of dessert plates. Marisa found her gaze caught by the girl. Would her mother have looked like that, with the solid-color dress, the dark apron, the hair pulled back into a bun and covered by the white net cap? Would she have had those rosy cheeks, that shy manner? Was that what she’d run away to?

Marisa stood abruptly and then bent to retrieve her handbag from the side of the chair.

“This has been very kind of you, Mrs. Morgan, but I’m so tired I’m going to have to call it a night.”

“Please, call me Geneva, remember? And you can’t go without dessert. Just a little piece.” She sounded as if she were coaxing a toddler to eat her peas.

“I couldn’t eat another bite, really. Thank you, Geneva. It was nice to meet all of you.”

“But where are you going to stay?” Geneva put the tray on a drop-leaf table and caught her hand. “We’d be so happy to have you stay here with us. The guest room is always ready. You don’t want to go off looking for a motel at this time of night.”

“I already have a reservation,” she said quickly. “I’m staying at the Plain and Fancy Bed and Breakfast. I’m sure I’ll be fine there.”

“You’ll be fine once you find it.” Link rose from the chair by the fireplace, stretching as if he had to work out some kinks. “I’ll lead you there.”

“I’m sure I can find it—”

“No, no, Link is right. It’s impossible to read those street signs after dark, and I’ll never forgive myself if you have an accident.” Geneva patted her hand. “Just follow Link, and he’ll lead you right to the place. Rhoda Miller will make you very comfortable if you’re sure you won’t stay with us.”

It sounded as if accepting Link’s guidance was the only way she was going to get out of here quickly. “Thank you again.”

Link was already standing in the archway. She went quickly to join him and followed him through the center hallway and out the front door.

Lights came on as soon as they stepped outside, revealing a sweep of gravel on which several cars were parked. Beyond that, the circle of light quickly petered out. The Morgan house was well out into the country, probably six or seven miles from Springville. Nothing out here but dark grass, dark trees and a chilly wind. She pulled her jacket around her.

“Cold?” Link said, walking beside her to her car.

“I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”

He stood next to her while she unlocked the door and opened it. She slid in. His hand was on the door, but he didn’t close it immediately.

“What my mother said about my uncle—I wouldn’t pin too much on that, if I were you.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” She looked at him, and his face was all craggy lines and shadows in the dim light.

He seemed to shift, as if tensing for an argument. “The fact that your mother worked for my uncle doesn’t lead anywhere. I don’t know what you expect to find, but my mother can’t help you.”

“I just want—”

He stepped away. “I’ll pull my car around, and you can follow me. Just remember what I said. Don’t badger my mother about this.” He stalked off, and the darkness swallowed him up.

CHAPTER THREE

THE NARROW BLACKTOP road spun away beyond the reach of his headlights. Link glanced in his rearview mirror to be sure Marisa was still behind him.

He probably shouldn’t have said what he did to Marisa about bugging Mom on this subject. Maybe he’d just given her ideas, but he’d seen her watching Mom after the shock of her revelation faded.

It had been obvious Marisa saw his mother as a source of information. Still, if Mom was determined, she’d most likely be the one asking the questions.

Protecting their mother was Trey’s job, had been from the day of Dad’s death, and he did it as well as anyone could. The best thing Link could do was get on with the renovation, get himself back to top shape and head out to California. How much was this issue going to set him back?

He could just leave. Deed the house over to Trey, let him renovate it or rent it or tear it down, for that matter. But Uncle Allen had left the place to him. Second son to second son, he’d said once, with a wry smile. Maybe he owed Allen some loyalty in return.

He pulled up at the Plain and Fancy, frowning a little. The house, a tidy Dutch colonial on one of Springville’s cross streets, didn’t show any signs of life except for the pole lamp by the gate. Marisa had said she had a reservation, hadn’t she?

He slid out, walking quickly back to the other car. He’d help her with her luggage, maybe try to smooth any ruffled feathers.

Marisa was already pulling a suitcase from the trunk. He reached over her shoulder to grab the handle, lifting it out.

“I’ll carry this. Do you want the duffel bag as well?” He paused, hand on the strap. No point in taking in anything she didn’t want. And given the size of the suitcase, she hadn’t planned to stay long when she left.

“I can manage.” Her voice was frosty.

“I’m sure you can, but you don’t need to.” He hefted the duffel bag. “Besides, when I get home, Mom will ask if I helped you in with your luggage. You don’t want to get me in trouble, do you?”

That earned him a faint smile, but then her gaze slid away from his as if she remembered that she was angry with him.

“Look, I shouldn’t have said what I did about bugging my mother, okay?” He slammed down the trunk lid. “It’s far more likely that she’ll be bugging you.”

“I take it both you and your brother think I should leave my mother’s disappearance to the professionals.” She marched toward the gate, and he followed.

“Seems like the sensible thing to do,” he said mildly. “If there’s anything to be found, they have the facilities. You don’t.”

“They didn’t do so well before—” She stopped on the porch, taking in the dark windows. “Should they be closed this early?”

“Springville rolls up the sidewalks at eight-thirty.” He put his finger on the bell, hearing it jangle beyond the frosted glass of the door. “You did say you had a reservation, didn’t you?”

She nodded, the movement barely visible in the dim light. “I saw the place listed on one of those tourist maps. The woman I spoke to said they had a room available.”

“By the looks of it, they have plenty.” He eyed the dark windows. “They wouldn’t be busy on a weekday in October.” He set the bags down. “Maybe we should—”

“Who is there?” The gruff voice came from the dark side lawn. An instant later Eli Miller stepped into the faint light of the pole lamp, the breeze ruffling his beard, his black pants and jacket disappearing into the darkness. “What do you want?”

Marisa took a step back, sucking in a startled breath. She was so close Link could feel the tremor that went through her at the sight of the Amish man.

“Eli, it’s me, Link Morgan. I brought Ms. Angelo. She has a reservation.”

“Ms. Angelo?” Eli lifted the flashlight he held, switching it on.

Marisa’s face was white in the harsh beam of light. She didn’t speak. What was wrong with the woman, anyway?

“She called to make a reservation,” he explained.

“Ach, ja. I am so sorry. My Rhoda isn’t so gut at talking on the telephone. She thought you were coming tomorrow. It’s a mix-up for sure.” Eli didn’t sound put out at the prospect of an unexpected guest. “I’ll chust go back to our side of the house for the key. I’ll be right with you.” He chuckled. “I’ll tease Rhoda about being so ferhoodled, that’s certain-sure.”

He switched off the light and strode back toward the semi-detached wing where the family lived, apparently more comfortable without it.

Marisa let out an audible breath. He turned, frowning at her.

“What’s going on? You’ve seen Amish people before, haven’t you?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“When you saw Eli, you reacted as if he was some kind of monster.”

“I didn’t.” But her voice lacked conviction.

“You did. And you weren’t natural with Katie, either, back at the house.”

She might have told him to mind his own business, but she didn’t. “I…I just haven’t been around Amish people much, that’s all.”

“It never surprises me how prejudiced some people can be,” he said deliberately. “But your mother was Amish.”

“Yes. She was.” Marisa glared at him. “And all I ever heard about the Amish was how they wouldn’t leave her alone and how they lured my mother away from us. My grandmother said it was like a cult that wouldn’t let her go.”

“Cult?” He kept his voice low. Eli could be coming back at any moment. “That’s ridiculous. They’re as normal as anyone. More normal than most, in fact. If your father told you that—”

“Not my father. He never talked about my mother.” Some of the anger seemed to go out of her. “My grandmother. All right, maybe Gran was a bit judgmental about people who are different.”

“You see—”

“But I went out to Indiana a few years ago when I finally located my mother’s family. I thought…” Her voice trembled and fell silent.

But he could finish the sentence. She’d thought she might find her mother.

“They stonewalled me. They wouldn’t even talk to me about her. So I don’t exactly have any reason to like them.”

“I’m sorry.” He was. No matter how inconvenient her presence was for him, he couldn’t help feeling her grief.

A door closed next door, and he heard a jingling sound that might be a key ring. Eli was coming.

“Look, if you want, I’ll take you to a motel. I’ll make some excuse to Eli. But…” He was about to involve himself more deeply in Marisa’s problem, despite his determination to stay uninvolved. “But if you really want to find out what happened twenty-three years ago, you might need to have some allies among the local Amish. Eli and Rhoda Miller could be a good place to start.”

A little silence fell between them, and her reluctance was so strong he could almost feel it. Then she nodded.

“You’re right. I’ll stay.”

MARISA WOKE SOMETIME in the dark hours of the night, a cry clutching her throat. She sat upright, heart pounding. Had she cried out aloud? She didn’t think so, but she cringed at the thought of Eli Miller hearing, running to her room…

But he wouldn’t hear. First, because the cry had only been in her dreams. And second, because the Millers slept in their own separate section of the house next door. She was the only occupant of the Plain and Fancy.

She rubbed her forehead, willing herself to remember her dream. Something about herself as a child, waking in the night, calling out for her mother. Frightened when Mammi didn’t come. Crawling out of bed, drawn toward the window, her bare feet cold on the wide wooden boards of the floor.

She could almost see it, white net curtains billowing inward from the wind. Almost.

But even as she tried to focus, the dream began slithering away from her grasp in the manner of most dreams, vanishing faster the harder she tried to grasp it.

Forget it, she ordered. Go back to sleep. But she was awake now, too awake to slip under the covers. She fumbled for the clock on the bedside table. Three o’clock. And she hadn’t managed to drop off until sometime after midnight.

It was small wonder that she’d entangled herself in a bad dream, after all that had happened. That suitcase. The photo.

Her throat thickened at that. She had a copy of that picture, too, always kept carefully out of Daddy’s sight because she’d thought, with a child’s logic, that it would make him sad.

She swung her legs off the bed, her bare feet encountering a braided rug. She might as well get up. Try to distract herself from the endless questions that circled in her thoughts.

But that was easier said than done. She switched on the lamp on the bedside table, and the room sprang into view. The Miller family apparently did without electricity over on their side, but provided it for their business. The logic of that escaped her.

The second floor guest room was plain and simple, with good, solid-wood furniture pieces and a comfortable padded rocking chair. The handmade quilt that covered the bed was such a work of art that she had folded it carefully and placed it atop the blanket chest before she did anything else. The room had seemed somehow familiar, as if she’d slept here before, even though she knew she hadn’t.

After such an unpromising start, the Millers had done their best to make her feel welcome and comfortable. Rhoda had scurried over immediately behind her husband to show Marisa the room, and a teenage girl had followed in a few minutes with a tray containing a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of oatmeal cookies.

But despite their welcome, she still couldn’t feel at ease in their presence. Her grandmother’s words seemed to rattle around in the back of her mind.

They wouldn’t leave her alone. They didn’t want to let her go.

If she’d taken Link up on his offer, she’d be pacing the floor in some anonymous motel room. But little though she liked to admit it, he’d been right. If she was going to find out what happened to her mother, part of the answer must lie with the Amish people her mother had known here.

Not if. She would find out. She had to. She’d spent years trying to forget, trying to live without answers the way Dad seemed able to do, and she couldn’t. Not when there was a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in her psyche echoing with the same whisper, over and over. Your mother didn’t want you.

She forced herself to stop pacing. Gran would call these middle-of-the-night fears, treating them with a hot drink, a little comforting and the assurance that things would look better in the morning.

Gran might, as Link had hinted, have been prejudiced against the Amish, but she had devoted her life to taking care of Marisa, and she’d been the most stable force in Marisa’s life. She’d been gone nearly two years now, and Marisa still missed her.

This line of thought wasn’t helping, either. She might as well get out her drawing pad and look through the tentative sketches she’d made. See what else she needed for the current project. Maybe, as she’d told Jessica, she’d be able to do some work while she was here.

She picked up the duffel bag Link had carried in, setting it atop the suitcase rack in front of the window, and unzipped it. The shriek of the zipper broke the silence.

The old house was quiet—too quiet. She wasn’t used to this utter silence. Her townhouse in Baltimore was on a pleasant residential street, but even so, there was always noise—the distant thump of someone’s boom box, the sound of cars going past, the shouts of kids playing in the park across the street. Not so here.

Pad and pencil in hand, she paused, glancing out the window. She couldn’t even see any other lights. Link had been right—they did roll up the sidewalks.

She’d think that would seem natural to him. After all, he lived here, didn’t he? He must… She leaned close, shutting out the reflection from the bedside lamp with her hand. As her eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight, she could see the dark shadow beneath the huge weeping willow in the side yard. Had something moved?

A man-size shadow, moving out of the denser shadow of the willow, detaching itself as it took a step toward the house, the head seeming oddly misshapen until she realized it wore a black hat, the brim hiding the face. But he looked up, toward her window—

She bolted back, flattening herself against the wall, heart pounding as if it would leap out of her chest. The figure—a man, black clothes, black hair, a beard. Amish. Staring up at her window.

Memory stirred, someplace, sometime, she had looked out a window, had seen… The memory slid away, as elusive as the dream had been.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. Had she really seen someone out on the lawn? Or was it a figment of her imagination, stirred up by the dream?

She wouldn’t be a coward about it. She went quickly to the bedside table and switched off the lamp. In the dark, she could see without being seen.

She sidled to the window, grasped the edge of the curtain and peered around it cautiously.

The moon had come out from behind the clouds. It lit the side yard—faintly, but enough so that she could see. The lawn lay empty and unmarked, and nothing stood under the willow tree.

BREAKFAST WOULD BE served in a room at the rear of the first floor, Mrs. Miller had said. Marisa descended the stairs slowly. She had to find the approach that might make these people open up to her, but she hadn’t managed to think of one.

Lack of sleep had to be part of the problem. She’d already been tired, and then hadn’t been able to settle after her sighting. Or her overactive imagination, whichever it was. She’d gotten up several times to peer cautiously out the window. Nothing.

But she still couldn’t quite accept that she’d produced that staring figure out of her imagination, which left her…where, exactly?

She reached the downstairs hall. There was a closed door with a sign marked “Private,” which must lead to the Miller family’s side of the house. The aroma of fresh baking led her in the right direction. A long, sunny room stretched across the width of the house in the back, with an open kitchen on her left, divided from a bright dining room on the right by a long counter. Rhoda Miller was pulling something from the oven while the daughter she’d met briefly last night poured juice into glasses.

“Good morning.”

The pan Rhoda was lifting clattered onto the stove, as if the greeting had startled her.

“I hope I’m not too early,” Marisa began, but Rhoda smiled, shaking her head.

“Ach, no, not at all. We try to have everything ready by eight and it’s just that now. But I’m happy to serve breakfast earlier if need be.”

“Eight o’clock is fine.” She stifled a yawn. Should she mention the person she’d seen, or not?

“You didn’t sleep well?” Rhoda gestured to a long wooden table flanked by spindle-back chairs. A pink geranium bloomed vibrantly in an earthenware pot in the center of the table, and African violets lined glass shelves in one of the windows.

“Not the fault of the room,” she said quickly. “It was very comfortable. And this is lovely. You certainly have a gift with plants.” She sat down, setting her bag on the floor and nodding when the daughter—Mary, she thought the name was—gestured with a coffeepot.

“Ach, it’s nothing. I enjoy growing things already. But I am worried that you didn’t sleep well. Was it…was there some noise to keep you awake?”

Rhoda looked more concerned than seemed warranted. Was it only the feeling of any hostess, or did she know something about the man in the yard last night, assuming he actually existed?

“More like the quiet,” she said. “I’m used to city noises.”

Was that relief on Rhoda’s face? “I could never get used to that, that’s certain-sure.” She took a tray from her daughter. “Here is fruit cup to start and fresh-squeezed juice. The berries are ones I put up this summer, so they’re near as gut as fresh.”

“Thank you. It looks lovely.” She lifted a spoonful of huge blueberries, bigger than any she’d seen in the store. “I did wonder…”

Rhoda, turning away, seemed to freeze. “Ja?”

“Was your husband out in the yard during the night?”

She swung back around, her face closed. “Why would you think that?”

“I thought I saw someone out in the side yard when I got up to get something. Out by the willow tree. Maybe your husband had occasion to check something there?”

“I did not.”

The masculine voice startled her. Eli stood in the doorway, obviously having heard her. He moved into the kitchen, setting a pail he carried in the sink. Then he turned to face her.

“There was no one there.”

She had to force herself to go on. “If you weren’t there, how do you know no one else was?” Too bad she didn’t have Eileen Davies, her agent, here. Eileen would have the man turned inside out in a matter of seconds.

“There was no one.” His face bore no expression at all.

“Ach, what am I thinking?” Rhoda hurried into the kitchen. “The egg casserole is done. Komm. Sit. It’s time to eat.”

For a moment Marisa thought the man would turn and walk out. Then he came slowly to the table and pulled out the chair at the end. Mary put a basket of rolls and bread on the table and slid into her seat. Rhoda, carrying a steaming casserole dish with a towel, hurried to her place.

Marisa was reaching for a muffin when she realized that Eli had bowed his head, the others following suit. No words were spoken. After a moment he looked up, as did his wife and daughter.

How had they known he was finished with what she assumed was a silent blessing? Telepathy?

“You will have some breakfast casserole?” Rhoda asked, but before Marisa could respond she had put a giant, steaming serving on Marisa’s plate.

“Thank you. That’s plenty,” she added when Rhoda seemed about to give her more. “It smells wonderful.”

“Chust eggs and cheese and sausage,” Rhoda said.

Plates clattered as everyone was served. They began to eat, not talking. Apparently if there was going to be any conversation around the table, it would be up to her to start it. And maybe the only thing to do was to plunge right in.

“Do you know why I’m here in Springville?”

Rhoda glanced at her husband, and then she nodded. “Ja, we have heard about the suitcase Link Morgan found in his uncle’s house. Barbara’s, it was.”

She was taken aback for a moment. She’d expected some garbled story would be going around, but clearly they knew exactly what had happened. Someone in the police department must have been talking. Or someone in the Morgan family.

“Barbara Angelo is my mother.” Or was my mother. The not-knowing seized her in its grip, shaking her.

“Ja. We heard that, too.” Rhoda studied her for a moment, her round blue eyes curious. “You look more like your father, but there is something of Barbara in your face, too.”

Marisa found it difficult to tell the age of the Amish woman. With her brown hair pulled straight back from a center part and the lack of makeup, Rhoda might be as old as Marisa’s mother would be now or maybe younger.

“You knew her, then.”

Some silent communication passed between Rhoda and her husband, and she looked down at her plate.

“We remember,” Eli said. “She came to visit the Zooks one summer.” His mouth clamped shut on the words, as if he’d said all he intended.

She needed to ask another question, but there was such a huge blank in her knowledge that she wasn’t sure where to begin. “Were they relatives of hers?”

“Ja,” Rhoda said. “Cousins. She came from Indiana, I think.”

Another silence. Clearly they weren’t going to offer anything she didn’t ask. A month ago she’d have said she wasn’t interested in how and why her mother came to Lancaster County, but now she realized that wouldn’t have been true.

“Had she been here before to visit?”

“We don’t know much about it,” Eli said before his wife could answer. “If you want to know, you should talk to them. Not us.”

A look at his stern, closed face was enough to convince her that he wouldn’t tell her anything else. With the beard reaching to his chest, Eli looked like an Old Testament prophet.

He also looked like the man she’d seen from her window. But what point could there be in his standing out there?

“I can see that you don’t want to be involved,” she said carefully. “I hoped maybe you’d be willing to tell me what you remembered about my mother. There’s so much I don’t understand.”

“Poor child,” Rhoda said, her voice soft. “Don’t you remember her at all?” She asked the question despite the wave of disapproval emanating from Eli’s end of the table.

“Not very much.” Her throat tightened. “I was only five when she left. I have little bits of memory—of her making cookies, sewing a rag doll for me. Singing a little song in a language I didn’t know. Pennsylvania Dutch, I guess.”

The woman nodded, eyes filled with sympathy. “Of course you want to know more.”

“Rhoda.” There was warning in Eli’s voice. “This is not our concern.”

His wife answered him in the dialect, her voice filled with urgency. He seemed to argue with her. Finally he shook his head, mouth set.

Rhoda looked back at her. “Eli feels we should not interfere. That you should talk to your mother’s kin. It is for them to tell Barbara’s story, not us.”

She saw her chance of learning anything fading away, if they were anything like the people she’d encountered in Indiana. “But I don’t even know how to find them. Or if they’ll talk to me.”

Another quick exchange of glances. Eli pushed his chair back.

“You should talk to Bishop Amos. He can help you, if he thinks it the right thing to do. Rhoda will tell you how to find him.” He rose, dropped his napkin on the table and walked out.

She glanced at Rhoda. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“Ach, he is not upset. He chust isn’t sure what is right, and that makes him annoyed with himself.”

“Isn’t it right for me to know about my mother?”

Rhoda looked down at her plate. “You’ll talk to the bishop. He’ll know what’s best. I’ll write down for you how to find him.”

Door closed, it seemed. She didn’t pin much hope on this bishop, whoever he was, wanting to help someone like her.

She tried to marshal an argument that might sway the woman. “You understand what I feel. I know you do. If you know something about my mother, please tell me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

Because her husband had told her not to, Marisa supposed. She wanted to argue, but obviously that wouldn’t do any good. Maybe, if she approached Rhoda when they were alone, she’d have better luck.

Her cell phone rang, and she dived into her bag to find it. Maybe her father—

But it wasn’t Dad. It was the police chief, Adam Byler.

“Wonder if you might stop by my office some time this morning, Ms. Angelo? No hurry.”

“Why? Have you found out something?” It was all she could do to stay in her seat, and she realized that Rhoda and her daughter were both looking at her with slightly scandalized expressions. Surely they were used to guests with ever-present cell phones, weren’t they?

“No, not really.” Byler sounded evasive. “There’s just something I’d like to talk over with you, that’s all. Come by anytime.”

He rang off before she could ask him anything else, and she stared at the phone for a moment, her mind teeming with questions.

Despite his denial, she couldn’t stop a feeling of optimism. Maybe, just maybe, she was about to learn something.

CHAPTER FOUR

LINK PARKED IN FRONT of Straus’s Hardware in Springville, got out and hesitated, glancing down the street in the direction of the tiny office that housed Spring Township’s police station. The village and the surrounding countryside that made up the township were served by the same small police force.

Forget it, he ordered himself. Pick up the hinges you need, go back to the house, get on with the work.

But forgetting wasn’t as easy as all that. Lying in the military hospital, day after day, he’d had no choice but to accept the fact that he’d survived when the others had died. He’d made his plans. He just hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to carry them out.

First his family, so sure they could turn him back into the person he’d been before. Then there was the old house that had sheltered generations of Morgans, and even Springville itself, little changed since he’d trotted down Main Street at eight or nine with a dollar in his pocket, intent on spending it as soon as possible. All demanded he be the person he was before he left.

He could resist them. He wasn’t so sure he could go on resisting the appeal of that little girl’s pictured face. Or that same little girl hiding in grown-up Marisa Angelo’s eyes.

He wheeled, striding down the street toward the police station. He needed to understand what was going on. Adam would level with him.

He swung open the door, and a woman seated at the counter swung around to look at him, eyes widening.

“Well, if this isn’t a blast from the past. Link Morgan. I heard you were back in town. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks, Ginger. I didn’t know you were working here.” Ginger Morrison had been class comedian, cheerleader and the girl most likely to cut class if anything more interesting beckoned.

“Yeah, my youngest went off to school this year, so we figured I’d better start bringing home a paycheck.”

“You? A kid?” He perched on the corner of her desk. Ginger didn’t look much older than she had the day they’d ditched school together and headed for a rock concert in Baltimore on his motorcycle, which had conked out thirty miles short of their destination. “You have a kid?”

“Three.” She grinned. “I’ve been busy. You know I always—”

But he wasn’t destined to hear the rest, as the door opened behind him and Ginger assumed a professional expression.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

He swung round, instinct telling him who it was even before he saw her face. “Marisa. Ginger, this is Marisa Angelo. I imagine she’s here to see Adam.”

“Good morning.” Dismay at the sight of him was quickly masked, and Marisa focused on Ginger in stead. “Chief Byler asked me to drop by.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Angelo. He’s on the phone right now, but it shouldn’t be more than a couple minutes.” Ginger raised her eyebrows at him. “You here to see Adam, too, I suppose. It’d be too much to think you stopped by to chat about old times with me.”

He managed a grin, glancing at Marisa. “Ginger and I used to cut class together, back in the day.”

“Not just me,” Ginger said. “The wonder is that this boy ever managed to graduate, let alone get into college.” She winked at Marisa. “Any girl he could talk onto the back of that junker of a motorcycle would do. I figured he’d go off the road at Horse shoe Bend one night, and that’d be the end of him.” A buzzer went off on her phone. “You folks can see the chief now.”

Link fell into step with Marisa. “You look as if you didn’t sleep well.” Purple shadows were like bruises under her eyes.

“I’m fine.” The words were snapped off so quickly they denied their meaning. She gave a quick nod back toward the desk. “Nice for you to see old friends.”

He grimaced. “Especially when they go on saying the same thing they did ten or twelve years ago.” He opened the door to Adam’s office and let her precede him.

Adam rose when Marisa entered, then looked over her shoulder at Link with an expression that suggested he’d be better off elsewhere. Link gave him a bland smile. Adam should know better than to think he’d be discouraged by a look.

“Ms. Angelo, thanks for stopping by.” Adam pulled out his only visitor’s chair for her. “Link, I wasn’t expecting you, as well.”

“Why not?” He perched on the corner of Adam’s desk. If Adam thought he’d come with Marisa, so much the better. “I’m an interested party.”

Adam didn’t respond. Marisa leaned forward in her chair, hands gripping the strap of her shoulder bag. “What’s happened, Chief Byler? Have you found something?”

“No, nothing like that.” Adam wore that stolid mask he did so well…the look that had sometimes fooled people into calling him a “dumb Dutchman,” that being the sort of sophisticated epithet folks around here came up with. Adam was not that.

And Link had known him too long not to see beyond the mask. Adam wanted something, presumably from Marisa, and it was something he felt reluctant to ask.

“You asked me to come by,” Marisa said. “There must be a reason.”

“Out with it,” Link said. “What’s going on?”

Adam shot him a glance that told him to shut up. “Ms. Angelo, would you be willing to take a DNA test? Just as a matter of routine. It—”

Marisa had gone dead white. Link couldn’t help himself. He was beside her before he realized he’d moved, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“You’ve found a body?” Marisa’s voice rose.

“No, nothing like that. It would simply be a help…” Adam let that die off, probably because both of them stared at him with disbelief.

“Come on, Adam. Level with us. Why do you want a DNA sample from Marisa?” He tightened his grasp on her shoulder, feeling the bones beneath the skin, and he felt a surge of protectiveness.

She didn’t pull away, maybe because she was too shaken.

Adam lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. “You know those dark splotches on the suitcase? They were blood.”

Marisa’s hand closed over Link’s, gripping almost painfully. “My mother died. Is that what you think?”

Link’s mind raced. Blood on the suitcase, so naturally Adam assumed it was Barbara’s. The suitcase hidden in the wall of Uncle Allen’s house. It was impossible to escape a link.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Adam said. “If you remember what the stains looked like, they were relatively small patches. Certainly not enough to warrant an assumption that there was a fatal wound.”

“Are you treating it as a murder case?” Link’s voice sounded harsh to his ears. How would his mother cope with this, murder coming close to her family after all that had happened this year?

“Not at this time.” Adam’s face was his official one. “The lab says this amount could have come from a cut finger or a nosebleed. For all we know, the stains might even have been there for months or years before the suitcase was hidden. That’s why it would be helpful to have Ms. Angelo’s DNA for comparison.”

“Will that be enough to be sure?”

Adam shrugged. “According to the lab, they’ll be able to tell with a reasonable degree of certainty if the blood wasn’t her mother’s, and a fair degree if it was. So, if Marisa agrees…?”

“Yes. Of course.” She seemed to be gathering her composure around her. “Where and when?”

“Lancaster General’s lab will do it. They’ve al ready been notified, so just walk in and give them your name.”

Marisa had regained some of her color, but strain still seemed to draw the skin tight against the bones. “I’ll go now if you can give me directions.”

“No need for that.” Link heard his own voice speak without conscious volition. “I’ll take you there.”

BY THE TIME THEY’D reached the edge of Springville, Marisa felt herself beginning to thaw. It was as if the word blood, coming from Chief Byler’s lips, had flash-frozen her.

So much so that she hadn’t objected when Link Morgan steered her toward his car, but maybe that had been the best thing that she could have done.

There were far too many questions that, as yet, the Morgan family hadn’t answered. Each time the conversation had swerved in the direction of that house and its owner with Geneva Morgan, one of her sons had managed to divert it. And as for Link Morgan…

She stole a sideways glance at him. Lean, strong hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly, and he frowned at the road ahead. Link had avoided telling her anything more than what she might have learned from the police chief.

But surely he knew more. The man who owned the house had been his uncle. And Link had apparently been the favored nephew, since he’d inherited. There had to be things he could tell her, even if he wasn’t old enough to remember her mother.

And after only twenty-four hours here, she’d begun to realize that the Morgan family loomed large in the power structure of this area. How hard would Adam Byler, obviously an old friend of the family, press them?

Well, no matter how big a deal the Morgans were, they weren’t above suspicion as far as she was concerned.

She felt, rather than saw, Link focus on her face.

“Are you all right?” He asked the question almost grudgingly, as if he already regretted the impulse that had led him to offer to drive her.

He’d regret it even more if he knew how she expected to make use of this time.

“I’m all right. The idea of blood…” She let that trail off, not bothering to suppress the quaver in her voice. If Link thought her bowled over by this, so much the better. It might make him more talkative.

“Adam did say the amount was small.” He ran one palm restlessly along the steering wheel. “It could have nothing to do with…well, with your mother’s disappearance. It might not even be hers.”

“I suppose they’ll know that much from the DNA test. It seems to me I remember reading that the testing is more definitive when it’s the female side of the family.”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t prove it by me, I’m afraid. That subject didn’t come up in the course of illustrating children’s books, did it?”

“I’ve looked into some odd things, but not that. That article on DNA was just random reading. I was the kind of kid who’d read the backs of cereal boxes if there was nothing else around.”

“Not me. Always outside, running wild, my mother used to say.” He gestured, the movement seeming to take in the patchwork quilt of cultivated farms and woodlots on either side of the road. “This was a good place to grow up for that.”

“I guess it would have been. I don’t remember much about Springville, or about the people we knew here. If my mother worked for your uncle, I suppose I might have met him.”

That was a tactful way to bring Allen Morgan into the conversation, wasn’t it?

“Could be.” Link glanced in the side mirror as he merged onto a four-lane road. “Your mother might have taken you along with her to work, I guess.” He spoke off-handedly, concentrating more on the traffic than the question.

“What was he like?”

“Allen?” Now he glanced at her, his attention sharpening. “Why do you want to know?”

She tensed at the direct attack. So much for being subtle. “It’s natural enough, isn’t it? Your uncle was my mother’s employer. Her suitcase was hidden in the wall of his house.”

He stared at the road again, lips tight, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth. “The suit case being there might have nothing to do with my uncle.”

“Really?” She let disbelief show in her voice. “How do you explain it, then?”

He yanked the wheel a bit harder than was war ranted to exit at the sign for the hospital. “If your mother was working for him at the time the room was being built, she could have put suitcase there herself.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Say the stories were right, and she planned to leave. She could have brought the suitcase with her to work, slid it into the unfinished wall so no one would see it and ask questions.”

Much as she hated to admit it, his suggestion made a certain amount of sense. But…

“Then why was it still there? If she planned to run away from your uncle’s house, why wouldn’t she take the suitcase with her?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled into a parking lot marked Visitors and stopped, turning to face her. “Look, I don’t know anything. I’m just trying to come up with some reasonable explanation, so you’ll—”

Link stopped, but she knew what he’d been going to say.

“So I’ll go away and leave you alone, is that it?” It was rare for her to lose her temper, but she was on the verge of that now. “I’m sorry my mother’s disappearance has inconvenienced you so much.”

She grabbed the door handle to get out, but he reached across to stop her hand. He was very close, and for an instant she could smell the fresh male scent of soap and shaving cream, could see the fine sun lines that fanned out from his eyes, could feel the heat that emanated from his body.

Her gaze met his, her breath catching abruptly. His brown eyes grew even darker, and the air between them seemed to thicken with something she didn’t want to name.

He drew back abruptly. “Look, I didn’t mean that. Yes, this is messing with my plans, but I know that’s not your fault.”

She took a ragged breath. “Don’t you understand? The least thing, no matter how unimportant it might seem to you, could lead me to the truth. I have to know what happened to her.”

“The truth.” He seemed to muse for a moment, the lines in his face deepening, growing harsher. “Even supposing it’s possible to find the truth, you might not like it. Have you considered that?”

“I’ve thought of nothing else. But I have to know.” Her mind flickered to her father, and she forced herself to concentrate on this moment, on this man who might be able to help her. “I’ve spent my life wondering. Whatever the answer is, knowing has to be better than this.”

He sucked in a breath so deep that his chest heaved. “All right.” He nodded toward a bench set under the hospital’s portico. “I’ll wait for you there while you have the test. Then we’ll talk about my uncle. I’ll answer as many questions as you want. But I’m afraid it’s not going to lead you anywhere at all.”

LINK SAT ON THE bench, outwardly relaxed, trying to watch the world go by. Or at least, that portion of the world that had reason to be at the hospital on this sunny fall day—an extremely pregnant woman with a nervous husband in tow, an elderly woman carrying a handful of mums, an Amish couple with a young child.

People were sometimes surprised that the Amish availed themselves of modern medical facilities, but the Amish had no quarrel with the medical profession. They didn’t believe in insurance, however, so if someone needed expensive care, the whole Amish community would pitch in to help.

He nodded as the couple came closer—they lived in Spring Township, although he couldn’t call their names to mind at the moment. The two adults nodded back, and the little boy gave him a wide grin. Whatever brought them here today, it didn’t seem to bother the child.

Unfortunately, focusing on the passersby didn’t really resolve the dilemma he faced. Why had he agreed to talk to Marisa about Uncle Allen? For that matter, why had he brought her to the hospital to begin with?

The second question was easier to answer. She’d looked so flattened by Adam’s revelation that Link couldn’t help himself. His parents’ training ran too deeply to be ignored, especially when he was here in Lancaster County.

It is our duty to help those who need it.

He could almost hear his father’s voice saying the words. They’d come in answer to his whining about the fact that they’d stopped to help an Amish couple whose buggy had been run off the road by a speeding car, making him late for a baseball game. He could still remember the mix of fear and pride he’d felt watching Dad lead the frightened horse out of the twisted buggy shafts.

Pride. He’d always been proud of Dad, even during that terrible time when everyone thought he’d committed suicide. Link’s chest tightened. Mostly he’d felt guilt then, that he hadn’t been around when Dad needed him.

Even when they learned Dad had been killed by an employee who’d been ripping off the company, he’d still felt that somehow he’d failed by not being here.

His father had taken responsibility for others as a matter of course, and Trey was just like him. As for Link… He’d never forget what happened when he’d tried to follow suit.

He forced his thoughts back to Marisa. If he didn’t talk to her about his uncle, she’d go to other people for her answers. He could imagine the talk that would generate, and there had been enough talk already.

So he’d answer her questions, drive her back to Springville and that would be an end to it. As for that sizzle of attraction when he’d gotten too close to her in the car…well, that was best ignored. He didn’t need anything else tangling him up with Marisa Angelo’s problems.

He tilted his head back, letting the slanting autumn sunlight touch his face. Gentle sunlight, a far cry from the blazing sun that dazzled the eye and made a man see things that weren’t there—

A shadow bisected the light, visible even with his eyes closed.

“Link? You look as if you’re going to sleep.”

He hadn’t seen Marisa approach, but she was there. She sat down on the bench, a careful foot away from him, which might mean that she’d felt exactly what he had in the car and was inclined to be just as cautious.

“That was fast,” he said.

“It’s an awfully simple process, given what’s riding on it.” Her eyes were shadowed for a moment, but then she focused on his face. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“Nope. Ask me anything you want about Uncle Allen. I’ll try to answer.”

She studied him, those golden brown eyes seeming to weigh the sincerity of his words. Or maybe his motives.

“What did your uncle do? For a living, I mean.”

“As little as possible,” he said, his tone wry. “He always said that my father inherited the family work ethic. Allen had a teaching degree, but I don’t think he ever taught.”

“He could afford to do nothing, in other words.” She sounded as if she didn’t approve.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he did, either.

“Uncle Allen had a nominal title in the family corporation, and he made a token appearance at the office once in a while.”

“Corporation?” Her eyebrows lifted.

He shrugged. “That makes it sound more important than it is. Morgans have been here a long time. They acquired things—land, businesses, rental properties.”

“You help to run those?” She was probably trying to equate that with the manual labor she’d caught him doing.

“Trey’s in charge since Dad died. I was in the military by then, so I let him.” He’d taken as little responsibility as Allen had, in fact.

“I see.” She was frowning, as if trying to figure him out.

He’d do better to keep this on Allen, not on him self. “Anyway, Allen’s main interest was local history. He wrote some articles, did a little dealing in Pennsylvania Dutch folk art and furniture. Ostensibly that was his business, but he didn’t have a shop—just bought and sold out of his home.”

“He never married?”

“No. I suspect my mother tried to play matchmaker a few times, but nothing ever came of it. Allan was just…a loner, I guess. He never seemed to need anyone else’s company.”

She was silent, as if absorbing his impressions. Or maybe now that she had her opportunity, she didn’t know what to ask.

“You don’t remember my mother working for him?”

The question was the one he’d expected her to start with. “I don’t think so. I didn’t spend all that much time at Uncle Allen’s place.”

“So you don’t know if she was working there the summer she disappeared.” Her voice flattened on the last word.

He hesitated, but she had a right to know. “My mother says she’s relatively sure she was.”

“Relatively sure,” she repeated.

“There’s no reason my mother should remember. It wasn’t her house. Or her spouse. Your father—”

“Yes, I know. It’s another thing to ask Dad when he calls.” Her lips tightened. “I’m sure the police chief would find this very suspicious, but just because my father doesn’t like to talk about his wife leaving him, that doesn’t mean anything sinister.”

“I know.” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture. “I mean it. There are plenty of things adults don’t talk to kids about. Your questions about my uncle make me realize how little I really knew about him. It’s odd, but when you’re a kid, you just accept things as they are. Probably a lot of people never have reason to question those assumptions.”

She nodded. “You’re right. I simply accepted the fact that Dad didn’t talk about my mother, and that if I wanted to know something, I had to go to Gran.”

That brought up something he’d wondered about. “How did she know?”

Marisa blinked. “What do you mean?”

“She didn’t live with you until after your mother left, did she? So how did she know the things she told you?”

“I suppose my dad must have talked to her.” She frowned. “That’s true. She didn’t live with us. I remember her coming. It must have been a few days after…after I realized my mother was gone. But I suppose my dad talked to her about it. Why? Do you doubt what she said?”

He shrugged. “The idea that the Amish kept after Barbara, trying to get her to leave…well, that doesn’t sound right to me. That’s not the way the Amish behave toward someone who’s decided to leave the church.”

That soft mouth of Marisa’s could look remarkably stubborn. “Are you an expert?”

“No, but I grew up with Amish neighbors. I think I know a bit more about them than you do.”

“Oh, yes. You’re the one who suggested enlisting the Miller family’s help.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm. “They admitted that they remembered my mother. But they wouldn’t tell me a thing. Just said I’d have to talk to the bishop.”

He had to be honest with himself, at least. He hadn’t expected that response.

“Well, maybe you should start with Bishop Amos. It’s possible that Rhoda and her husband felt it would be gossiping if they talked about the Zook family. I’m sure they didn’t mean anything else by it.”

“According to you, the Amish can do no wrong, it seems.”

“I didn’t say that.” She’d succeeded in getting under his skin. “I just think you’re misjudging them.”

“Really. Like the Amish man who was out in the yard last night—” Marisa clamped her lips shut, as if she hadn’t intended to say that.

He frowned. “What are you talking about? What Amish man?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Her gaze evaded his.

“If you think someone is spying on you, it does matter. What happened?” He clasped her wrist firmly, determined to get an answer, and felt her pulse against his fingers.

She jerked her hand away. “I was awake sometime in the night. I looked out the window. A man was standing in the side yard. He seemed to be looking up at my window.”

There were a lot of things he could say to that, including the suggestion that she’d been dreaming. Or was paranoid.

“What makes you think he was Amish?” And are you sure someone was there?

“The hat. The beard. The dark clothes.” Color came up in her cheeks. “I know. You think I was dreaming or imagining things. I wasn’t.”

“Dreams can seem very real.” He ought to know. He’d dreamed that explosion in Afghanistan enough times, waking up covered in sweat, a cry strangled in his throat.

“I wasn’t dreaming.” She rose suddenly. “Forget it. Let’s get back.”

He stood, not sure what to say. “Maybe you ought to tell Adam about this.”

“So he can suggest I dreamt it, too?” She started toward the car.

He fell into step with her, still bothered. If Marisa was talking about something that really happened, that was troubling. And if she was imagining it, maybe that was even worse.

Marisa was wrong. She had to be. This figure in the night was a product of all the upsetting news she’d had to face in the past few days. The Amish people he knew just didn’t behave that way.

The Amish couple he’d seen earlier came out of the clinic door, their little boy skipping between them. They started toward the main walk. The man looked up, his gaze going from Link to Marisa. Then he took his wife’s arm, clasped his son’s hand and deliberately walked back the other way.

CHAPTER FIVE

MARISA FELT QUITE sure that if Link knew what she was doing, he would not approve. In fact, he’d probably try to stop her.

Still, Geneva Morgan was a grown woman, well able to decide for herself what she wanted to do. All it had taken was a thank-you phone call for the dinner, a little gentle steering of the conversation, and Geneva had suggested meeting her for coffee.

Geneva had wanted Marisa to come to the house, but she’d managed to avoid that. She didn’t want this conversation taking place where any of Geneva’s protective family was likely to interrupt.

They were getting together at a place called Emma’s Teashop at two. Marisa glanced at her watch. She was early, and she’d been walking down Springville’s main street as if she were in the city. She forced her pace to slow. People didn’t walk that way here. They didn’t avoid eye contact.

Except, of course, for that Amish couple at the hospital, who seemed to go far out of their way to avoid coming near her. Link had noticed that. She’d been sure he had, even though he hadn’t spoken of it.

There wasn’t really much to Springville—one main street that became a state road at the end of town and several side streets lined with shade trees and well-kept houses. A brick bank rubbed shoulders with a Victorian house whose decorative carving was freshly painted. The township library was housed in a two-story brick building whose historic plaque indicated it had been built in 1740 as the home of a wealthy merchant.

Straus’s Hardware seemed to be doing as much business as any establishment, and in addition to parking spaces for cars along the street, it had hitching rails for buggies along the alley. Three Amish buggies stood there at the moment, the horses seeming to wait patiently.

As she passed the front window, she could see several bearded men inside who were deep in conversation. One glanced at her, and she forced down the suspicion that they talked about her. That was paranoid.

Geneva had been right about the tea shop; it was virtually empty at this time of day. Even though she was early, Geneva herself was already seated at a small glass-topped table in the back of the room, shielded from view of the street by a white latticework screen. She waved, a silver bangle sliding on her arm, and Marisa went quickly to join her.

“This is a lovely place to chat.” Geneva smiled as warmly as if meeting Marisa was exactly what she’d most wanted to do with herself this afternoon. “I’ve ordered tea and sticky buns, because that’s Emma’s specialty, but if you’d rather have coffee…”

Marisa slipped into the chair across from her, hanging her bag from the back. “Not at all. That sounds lovely.” She’d have happily consumed whatever Geneva wanted to order for the chance to talk with her.

Geneva had been a contemporary of Allen Morgan—his sister-in-law—living in the same small area. She must surely know more about him than Link did. There had to be some fact, no matter how small, that would lead Marisa to understanding.

“You look tired, dear.” Geneva spoke as if Marisa were one of her children. “Link told me you had a bad night last night.”

She hadn’t expected that, and it took a moment to regroup. “He probably told you I have a too-vivid imagination.”

“Don’t mind him. Both my boys focus too much on what can be proved and not enough on intuition. Just because Link couldn’t imagine someone watching your room, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” Geneva’s eyes sparkled at the thought, and her silver and turquoise earrings seemed to sparkle, too.

Marisa felt a momentary qualm. Geneva looked a little too enthusiastic, bright blue eyes snapping, cheeks rosy with excitement. All she wanted from the woman was information, not a partner.

“I could have been wrong, I guess. That’s part of being an illustrator—responding to everything in visual terms. Sometimes my imagination gives me images that aren’t real.”

Like the recurring image of her mother that haunted her dreams, walking away from her, disappearing into the dark woods where Marisa couldn’t reach her.

“Well, naturally. You’re an artist. I’m sure it must be fascinating to illustrate children’s books. Some of them are so beautiful that I can’t resist buying them even though I don’t have any children in the house any longer.”

Geneva wore such a wistful expression at the thought that Marisa found herself hoping Jessica and Trey planned to provide grandchildren for her. Geneva would throw herself into that role with enthusiasm.

“The books are lovely, aren’t they? I buy them, too, and then rationalize that I have to keep up with what’s happening in my—”

Marisa broke off as a woman came through what must be the door to the kitchen. Round and smiling, she carried an enormous tray laden with teapot and cups and a platter piled high with baked goods. She was also, to judge by her clothing, Amish.

“Ach, here we are.” The woman set the tray on the edge of the table and began to unload it. “I brought some apple kuchen fresh from the oven, as well as the sticky buns. You’ll want a taste of that, for sure.”

Geneva smiled. “If we have a taste of everything, you’ll have to roll us out of here. Emma, this is a friend, Marisa Angelo. Marisa, Emma Weaver, best baker in the township.”

“Ach, I am not that.” Emma responded to Geneva warmly, but there was a reservation in her face as she glanced toward Marisa and as quickly looked away again.

So, Emma already knew who she was, obviously. And probably, like Rhoda Miller, she would be unwilling to talk.

“You will tell me if you need anything else.” She spoke to Geneva, turned and scuttled back to the kitchen.

Geneva looked after her, seeming perplexed at the woman’s rapid retreat.

“I’m afraid it’s me,” Marisa said, answering her expression. “That’s the effect I have on the local Amish. Nobody wants to talk to me.”

Geneva transferred her gaze to Marisa. “Are you sure? That seems odd.”

Marisa shrugged, pouring tea from the pot into her cup. “I tried to talk to Rhoda Miller, but her husband clearly didn’t want her to discuss my mother.” She seemed to hear again that rapid-fire patter of dialect that she couldn’t understand. “All they could say was that I should go to my mother’s cousins. Or to the bishop.”

“That’s the answer.” Geneva’s face cleared. “Bishop Amos is a dear man. He’ll know just what the problem is and how to deal with it. He’s so wise and kind.”

Maybe, like his parishioners, he’d want her to go away and stop asking questions. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Of course it is. If you like, I’ll set up a meeting for you.”

She hesitated, but it was an obvious answer. She could search out the man on her own, using Rhoda Miller’s directions, but Geneva’s intercession might be the one thing that would ensure he talked with her.

“I’d be very grateful.”

“Not at all. It’s the least I can do.” Geneva paused for a moment, staring down at the tea she was stirring. The spoon made a delicate clinking noise, the only sound in the room. Finally she sighed.

“I know Link talked to you about Allen, but you want to hear it from me, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She smiled slightly. “But I was going to try and find some tactful way of bringing it up.”

“No need for that. It’s obvious why you want to know.” Geneva seemed prepared to talk, but the vertical lines between her brows suggested that the subject troubled her. “Allen was a difficult man. I’m not sure anyone really understood him.”

“Not your husband?” She asked tentatively, having gathered that Geneva was a widow.

“Blake least of all. It’s that way with brothers, sometimes. We tried to guard against that with Trey and Link, but I’m not sure we entirely succeeded.”

She’d love to know why, but that was not her business, and she wasn’t going to betray interest in Link to his mother, of all people.

“I didn’t have siblings, so I don’t really understand, I’m afraid.”

“Fight like cats and dogs in private, but present a united front to the world.” Geneva’s face cleared, as if she were remembering something pleasant. “That was always Trey and Link, anyway. As for Allen…” She let that trail off, shaking her head. “I think perhaps he envied Blake, although he’d never admit that.”

“Link said he was a loner,” she prompted.

“He lived all by himself in that house, with just a housekeeper coming in a few days a week to do for him.” Geneva broke off a piece of the sinfully rich sticky bun. “Your mother wasn’t the only person who worked for him in that capacity, but she stayed the longest, I think. Four years, if memory serves.”

That startled her. “Four years? Then she must have gone to work for him when I was little more than a baby.”

“She took you with her, for the most part. I remember dropping some dinner off for Allen one day, and you were playing with some plastic measuring cups on the kitchen floor, good as gold while she cleaned the cabinets.”

She had another image now to add to the small store she had of her mother, and she tucked it away to think about later. “Did you know my mother well?”

Geneva considered. “Not well, but to talk to. She was a very sweet person. You could tell that by her expression.” She tilted her head, studying Marisa’s face. You have that, too. But I thought…”

“Yes? What did you think?” She couldn’t let Geneva stop short.

“That there was a little sadness in her eyes, too. My imagination, maybe. Certainly her face always lit up when she looked at you.”

There was a question to be asked, and she wasn’t sure how to put it. Maybe best just to blurt it out. “What about her relationship with your brother-in-law? Did you ever think…” Her nerve failed her then, and she couldn’t manage the rest of it.

Geneva reached across the glass-topped table to clasp her hand. “Never. There was never anything between them but a business relationship.”

She wanted to believe that, but could she? “How can you be sure of that? They wouldn’t advertise it, if there was.”

“Barbara wouldn’t have taken her child to the house if there’d been anything untoward going on.” Geneva’s voice rang with assurance. “I may not have been close friends with her, but I knew her well enough to be sure of that.”

Tension that had been stretched tight seemed to ease. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“You poor child.” Geneva patted her hand. “I understand how worrying this all is for you. But whatever caused Barbara to pack that suitcase, I’m quite sure it wasn’t Allen.” Her lips quirked. “I doubt that Allan got his nose out of his dusty old history books long enough even to notice that she was a woman.”

“Was she…” Happy, she wanted to say, but who could ever really know that about another person? “You know that she had been Amish, don’t you?”

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