His past is a mystery to everyone...

except for the men trying to kill him

When a snowmobile accident leaves a man injured and with no memory, Amish widow Sarah Burkholder and her young daughter rescue him. Even as Sarah’s feelings for him grow, they discover unknown assailants are after him—and Sarah and her little girl for helping him. But if he can remember who he is, he might just save all their lives.

By sixth grade, MEGHAN CARVER knew she wanted to write. After a degree in English from Millikin University, she detoured to law school, completing a Juris Doctorate from Indiana University. She then worked in immigration law and taught college-level composition. Now she homeschools her six children with her husband. When she isn’t writing, homeschooling or planning another travel adventure, she is active in her church, sews and reads.

Also By Meghan Carver

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Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Amish Country Amnesia

Meghan Carver

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08597-7

AMISH COUNTRY AMNESIA

© 2018 Meghan Carver

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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“Look.” Sarah’s whisper was laced with panic. One of the men blocked their exit.

Sarah dashed down another hallway. John followed close behind as the sound of the men’s shoes clumping on the floor seemed to get closer.

Around the corner, a door loomed. Sarah grabbed for the handle. “Out?”

“Yes. Go!”

Outside, he followed Sarah around the closest corner and to the back of a brick building.

“There.” He pointed across the lot. “Behind the evergreens.”

They ducked behind the trees. A small break afforded a protected view of a portion of the parking lot. John leaned forward. Through the needles, he watched a car cruise by. Their pursuers scanned both sides of the parking lot, but as far as John could tell, they didn’t have any idea where he and Sarah had gone.

Sarah was trembling, and he took her hand to steady her as he motioned for her to get down. But just as he lowered himself to his knees next to her, the vehicle stopped directly in front of their hiding place.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading my first Amish suspense. It was a thrill to write, and I pray it was a thrill to read.

John had quite a struggle with his memory loss and his faith. Even though there wasn’t much he could do to jog his memory, his faith just needed a little encouragement. Isn’t that the way it is sometimes? I know there have been moments in my life in which I knew what to do, but I appreciated encouragement. The Lord is there, through His Word and through prayer.

As she ran for her life, Sarah struggled with the constant reminder of the fleeting nature of existence. I admire her determination to take life a day at a time and trust Gott in all things. She learned to number her days as God revealed to her that He did not want her to be miserable after the death of her husband. God has good things in store for us, and she determined to rejoice in each day.

I would be honored to hear from you. You can visit my website at www.MeghanCarver.com, where you can sign up for my author newsletter, or email me at MeghanCCarver@gmail.com. If you’re on Facebook, I’d like to be your friend at Facebook.com/MeghanCarver. If you wish to write on good old-fashioned stationery, you can send it to me c/o Love Inspired Books, 195 Broadway, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10007.

Many blessings to you,

Meghan Carver

So teach us to number our days,

that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

—Psalms 90:12

To readers of Amish fiction and stories that explore the miracle of faith, and to readers of suspense and stories that keep you up at night with a chill up your spine. I pray you find this a compelling blend of both.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

Jedediah Miller jerked to the left on the snowmobile, barely skittering it around a stand of barren trees and praying for a fork in the trail up ahead. His hands slipped inside his gloves, and he hitched up his grip on the handlebars. Those two men were following too closely for safety or common courtesy.

On the other side of the trees, his two pursuers edged closer. Jed’s heart thumped stronger under his snowmobile suit, and he leaned into the machine, urging it to go faster. A small hill quickly approached, and he flew over it, the skis losing contact with the ground for a moment. As he crashed back down, adrenaline beat through him, his pulse speeding to the thrum of the snowmobile.

The rev of the snowmobiles behind him pushed him on, to a speed that he was sure was not intended for the trail. A speed he wasn’t sure he could manage much longer. These guys drove like professionals, but he was only a casual snowmobiler, saving it for his time off. Trees zipped past him on both sides, and he would have admired the quiet stillness, the hushed beauty of a winter in northern Indiana, the gentle snow-covered hills and the barren trees reaching for every bit of sunshine possible in the muted sky, if not for the two jackals behind him and their mad race.

A crack pierced through his concentration, and by instinct, he ducked down on the seat.

They were shooting at him now.

Bark flew off a tree as he whizzed past, a few bits bouncing off his windshield. Apparently, these two weren’t good shots, at least when they were going at an outrageous speed on snowmobiles. Judging from the closeness of that tree trunk, though, Jed was sure they could hit their mark when they were at a standstill. Determination to survive drove him on.

He ventured a quick look behind him. Was it Jimmy the Bruise on one of the snowmobiles? His two pursuers were wearing all the protective gear, including helmets and tinted goggles and snowmobile suits completely zipped up. Not an inch of skin or anything identifying was showing, not even Jimmy’s telltale purple-and-blue birthmark. All of their gear was black, as well, a rather standard color for snowmobilers. That bit of information wouldn’t help at all.

A shiver ran down his arms at the thought of the man at the head of the counterfeiting ring. A nasty birthmark wound its way around the man’s neck and down his arm. Being on the police force had brought Jed into contact with a lot of different people, but there was no getting used to a guy who looked like that. No matter how long he lived, Jed would never forget the look of that dark splotch that appeared to hold the man’s throat in a vice grip.

Jed had seen that mark plenty of times in the past twelve months of undercover work that had taken him from Fort Wayne to Indianapolis to Cincinnati and back to Fort Wayne. It had been a harrowing experience that still haunted his dreams, both in the daytime and at night, but it was going to pay off. In just a few weeks, his testimony in court would put the counterfeiters behind bars, at least most of them. Jimmy the Bruise and another had gone missing, escaped from police custody.

A third shot pinged off the back of his snowmobile. The case would fall apart without Jed’s testimony. If they could kill him, the counterfeiting ring would get off easy and be back in business within months. Only Jed could put them away for good.

It was time to lose these two yahoos. Without backup available, he couldn’t apprehend them. He wanted to kick himself for forgetting his phone that morning. But at least he could try to save himself and the valuable testimony he possessed. Then he would call for a search of the area. There were only so many places to hide in and around the heavily Amish community of Nappanee, and he couldn’t imagine that any Amish would shelter two people as prone to violence as these were. Jed tossed up a prayer for the safety of any of the peace-loving Amish who might come into contact with these two thugs.

He inhaled as deeply as he could with the restrictions of his helmet. Fresh oxygen infused him as he leaned his body weight forward on the snowmobile to increase the speed. What was supposed to have been a restful week off in the stillness of northern Indiana had suddenly morphed into a deadly chase. Jed allowed a brief thought of what his life might be like without the danger or violence of being a police officer, but the snowmobile shot up another ridge and brought him back to the present.

A small pocket of evergreens stood ahead, to the side of the trail. At the last moment, just at the edge of the grove, he leaned left and gripped the handlebars, shooting behind the trees and off the trail. The snow wasn’t as packed here, but he increased the throttle, urging the machine to go faster. He wound through the trees, dodging boulders, but the two men continued behind him. At least the shooting had stopped, but that was probably just because they needed both hands on the handlebars to stay in a forward motion.

He searched his memories of the area frantically. Where could he hide? It had been years since he’d been here. And he was limited in where he could go because of the snowmobile. Plowed roads were definitely not conducive to a vehicle that ran on skis. So, he couldn’t lead them to a sheriff’s office, and he certainly didn’t want to take that violence where there might be people.

A small stream burbled to his right, large rocks and snow-covered foliage on either side, and he leaned left to steer the snowmobile away from the water. Even though the sound of their engines told him they were fast approaching, he dared another glance back. They were too close. Much too close for safety.

He faced forward again as the machine arced to the left. A tree rushed up in front of him, and he jerked the snowmobile to the right. But another tree rose up in that direction. He pushed his body to the side to steer the machine away, but it was too late. The fiberglass front of the snowmobile crumpled into the solid trunk of the tree, killing the engine. Jed couldn’t control his body, and like a rag doll, he pitched forward. His helmet hit the windshield, and his head slammed against the inside of the helmet.

Pain shot through his frontal lobe. Lightning seemed to flash behind his eyes. Lifted from the seat by the impact, he soared forward and to the right. The limbs of the tree and the snow-covered underbrush flew by. He landed in the bushes on his back, snow falling on him and brambles tearing at his nylon suit. Pain coursed through his body as he rolled over just in time to see his snowmobile burst into flames.

He jerked off his goggles and helmet and gasped for air as the cold bit at his skin. Despite the snow that had fallen on him, he was still exposed in his gray snowmobiling suit. Surreptitiously, moving only his eyes, he looked toward the boulders at the edge of the stream. He would be better camouflaged among those rocks.

His two pursuers had finally stopped, but just a few yards from his wreck. Jed couldn’t see their eyes through their goggles, but from the tilt of their helmets, he surmised they were watching the fire.

In an army crawl, lifted up only on his elbows, Jed inched toward the rocks around the stream. Aches ricocheted through every inch of his body. The closest boulder seemed miles away, moving at that speed, but it was his only hope.

Suddenly, one of the men turned, appearing to survey the area. Jed buried his face in the snow and froze. There was something about a face and, in particular, eyes that always seemed to draw attention, and Jed determined that he would not be found out simply because he couldn’t look away. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, praying for safety and courage and survival, his muscles taut. When nothing happened, he slowly lifted his head, just enough to be able to scan the area.

The men still sat on their snowmobiles, watching as Jed’s machine burned. If there was anything Jed had learned in twelve months of undercover work, it was patience. He could wait there, lying in the snow, as long as necessary.

After a few minutes, the men turned around to look behind them. Jed grabbed his opportunity.

Still lying nearly prostrate, he scuttled toward the rocks and catapulted himself over the closest grouping of boulders. He landed on his back on an unyielding surface, and a sharp rock caught the side of his head on the way down. A fire of pain shot through his skull, and he reached up a hand to touch a warm, sticky spot. The sky swirled and danced unnaturally above him until all went black.

* * *

Sarah Burkholder stood at the kitchen sink, her hands immersed in the warm soapy water, and stared out the window at the snow-covered barn. An apple pie rested on the counter, its aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg filling the roomy kitchen. The pie would be a welcome addition to supper.

The mechanical whine of a snowmobile had not been far off that afternoon, the noise an unwelcome intrusion into her normally peaceful world. Her home was miles from the snowmobile trail through the state park, but it sounded as if a rider had left the beaten path. She would be glad when he stopped his racing and returned to the park.

An envelope propped on the windowsill drew her attention. Her mother’s careful handwriting scrawled Sarah’s name and address across the front. Sarah had read it so many times that she almost had it memorized. In no uncertain terms, her mother had urged her to return to live with them in Lancaster County. She had written that they could sell at the market together, and Sarah would be supported and encouraged by the love of her family. Her real point in writing, it seemed, was to tell her of one particular widower who had been asking after her.

Sarah rubbed the back of her hand across her chin. She remembered the man her mother had mentioned in her letter. He was nice-looking enough, and kind. But there never had been a spark between them. Still though, would it be better than being alone? Did Gott only grant one love in a lifetime?

The fresh dilemma swirled in her mind. Should she continue to teach school in the Indiana Amish community she had grown to love? Or should she return to Lancaster County, to Pennsylvania and the family she had left behind? A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek at the memory of her husband. Life had changed drastically in that one terrible moment, and not for the better.

Even though she had committed to teaching for the entire school year and did not need to decide for a while, she promised herself she would pray during the winter break and seek the will of Gott for her future.

She dried her hands on a nearby towel and then dabbed the corner of her apron to her eyes.

How could it have been Gott’s will that her husband die in that buggy accident? That was best for her? For their daughter, Lyddie?

Ach. That was not the Amish way, to question the authority of Gott. Another tear overflowed, and she lifted the apron again. Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine, be done. At least she had Lyddie, the joy of her life, although the poor child was growing up without her daed and at only six years old.

Where was Lyddie anyway? She had been instructed to stay close to the house and barn today.

Sarah retrieved her heavy winter cape and bonnet from the hook near the door and stepped out onto the back porch. The noise of other snowmobiles was a little louder outside, but then they moved away. She inhaled deeply, the winter air slicing through her lungs, and savored the return of the stillness.

But she still needed to find Lyddie. With snowmobiles around, the child ought to stay closer to home. Most of their Englisch neighbors were mindful of those in the Amish community, but Lyddie still had chores to complete, as well. The floor needed to be swept and the eggs gathered.

She walked to the end of the porch, her gaze sweeping from the barn to the tree line. “Lyddie!” But there was no telling if she was in earshot.

Sarah stepped back inside and changed quickly into her heavy snow boots. She would have to go searching on foot.

As Sarah pulled the door closed behind her, the child broke from the trees, followed closely by Snowball, their brown-and-white malamute. A look of alarm held fast on her face as she ran as best she could through the snow, a few blond curls that had struggled free from her kapp flying behind her. “Mamm! A man. An Englischer! He is hurt. He has been attacked.” Lyddie gasped for breath as she skidded to a stop in front of her mother. The dog barked as if to urge Sarah to help, then turned and faced back toward the woods.

Sarah’s hand flew to cover her mouth and then migrated south to cover her heart as if it could still the wild beat at Lyddie’s news. An attack? She prayed the child was mistaken.

Lyddie pulled at her mother’s hand. “Mamm. We must help the man.”

“Jah. We must.” She paused. “In case it is needed, hitch the sled to Snowball.”

Lyddie ran to the barn to retrieve the sled she had rigged to hitch to the large snow dog. Sarah stepped back inside to grab a quilt, and when she returned to the porch, daughter and dog were ready to go. With no idea what she might find, she at least wanted another way to supply warmth.

Sarah pulled her cape about her and stepped out to follow her daughter. “Show me where he is.”

She followed as Lyddie led Snowball and retraced her tracks in the snow, babbling like the brook in springtime about hiding in the trees as the snowmobiles came closer and watching two snowmobiles chase another snowmobile and the man who then did not move. The dog bounded alongside, strangely quiet, as if she knew her barking could draw unwanted attention. After hiking for several minutes, Sarah felt the acrid odor of smoke fill her nostrils.

She pushed Lyddie faster, clumping behind in her snow boots, as they followed the sight of a thin plume of gray smoke rising from over another hill. Gott, have mercy.

They crested the hill, and Lyddie led her through some trees and into a tiny clearing next to the creek. Sarah knew it well. Some wild raspberry bushes grew not far away where they would pick berries in the heat come August. But now, everything was covered with the white blanket of winter even as more snow fell.

At the site, Sarah gasped. How could anyone have survived that? A red-and-black snowmobile had crashed into a tree, and flames rose from its crumpled form. She rushed forward, the heat warming her face. Instinctively, she held out an arm to hold Lyddie back from the fire.

She turned toward her daughter, not taking her eyes from the wreckage. “Lyddie, where is the Englischer? Show me.”

The girl moved past Sarah’s arm and skirted around the flames. She held out a hand to Snowball and he sat, then she headed for some boulders at the edge of the creek bed. “Here. He has not moved.”

Sarah surveyed the area. With what Lyddie had said about the man being attacked, she didn’t want to risk any danger on their part. But all seemed still and silent there in the woods.

On the other side of the boulders, a man in a gray snowmobile suit lay with a fine layer of snow on him. A gash on the side of his head trickled a bright red flow of blood. A little bit of blood had dripped onto his shoulder and the rock where he had apparently hit his head. His snowmobile suit was torn in a couple of places, but other than that, he appeared well. His eyes were closed as if in sleep, but Sarah flew to his side. She kneeled on the snow next to him and pulled down the collar of his protective jacket to feel for a pulse. His heartbeat was strong. She released a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. The man was still alive. She lowered her head and turned to listen for his breath. It was even and steady. She then gently felt every bone, but each felt solid and unharmed.

So far, everything had checked normal, but he still had not reacted to her touch.

She prodded his shoulder, lifted his hand, rolled his ankle. “Hello? Can you hear me? Can you wake up?”

He remained unresponsive.

A chill shook through her. Whether it was fear or the cold did not matter. She needed to be careful of her surroundings, for her sake, for the sake of her daughter and for the sake of this unknown man. But she also needed to get him to warmth and shelter to treat his wounds.

She shook her head, a desperate attempt to understand human beings. What kind of person would allow an injured man to lie in the snow and not care for him? Obviously, not a good one. Lyddie had said that there were two on snowmobiles chasing the man. She had even mentioned a gun in the hand of one of the pursuers. Had they hoped to kill him? Thought he was dead?

Sarah stood and looked back to the site of the accident and what was left of the tracks in the snow. Thankfully, all remained quiet. But what if the attackers returned? Lyddie had said they had driven off and out of sight. But if they were evil enough to leave a hurt man here, a man who appeared to be dead, what would they do to an innocent Amish woman and her daughter? There were no other footprints besides their own and a couple of sets of prints near where the snowmobiles had stopped. It seemed as if they had dismounted but then left again. There were also no other snowmobile tracks, but the falling snow was quickly filling in everything. Soon, there would be no visible signs of any human presence left.

The best thing to do would be to get the man to the house immediately. To safety. A neighbor had a telephone in his barn for business, but the neighbor was farther from here than the distance to her own home. If his pursuers did return, Sarah did not want to be there, exposed, nor did she want the injured man to be, whoever he was.

“Lyddie.” Sarah kept her voice to a loud whisper. “Bring the sled. There.” She pointed to a path around the rocks.

As the dog brought the sled, Sarah leaned down to the man. “My name is Sarah, and my daughter, Lyddie, is here.” Could he hear her? She had no way to know, but she needed to try. “You are injured, and I am taking you to my house. We will load you on the sled.”

Lyddie led Snowball to pull the sled until it sat alongside the man. Squatting down, Sarah put her arms under the man’s shoulders and instructed Lyddie to get him by the ankles. “We will move you now,” she said to the man, then nodded to Lyddie, and together they swung him onto the sled, then tucked the quilt about him.

The man moved his head from one side to the other, a low groan issuing from his lips, but his eyes did not open.

With Lyddie’s encouragement, the dog strained against the harness to haul the sled. Sarah grabbed the handle and helped to pull through the snow, as well. As the hum of snowmobiles sounded again in the distance, Sarah urged the dog to haul faster. Safety behind her locked doors was close, and her hands perspired within her gloves at the thought of being out in the woods if those men returned.

The man continued a low groan off and on through most of the walk back to the house. At the back door, Sarah released Snowball and rubbed her ears, conveying her gratitude for the dog’s help. The stranger had moved in the sled, so Sarah leaned down and shook his shoulder again. “Can you hear me? We are home, and I need you to stand and walk inside. Can you get up?”

When he didn’t stand, Sarah grasped one arm and put Lyddie on the other. Together, they pulled him to a sitting position. That movement seemed to awaken something inside him, for he stood, leaning heavily on them. With his eyes mostly closed, he staggered into the house as Sarah guided him into the downstairs guest bedroom. He was not overly tall, but his solid form filled out his snowmobile suit, and Sarah knew she would never be able to get him up the stairs.

As he lay down on the quilt, his head thrashed and his eyelids fluttered as if with some internal struggle. His eyes opened suddenly, and she gasped to look into such vivid green eyes. He startled, grabbing toward his hip as if reaching for something, a harsh and intense look on his face.

She jumped back, clutching her skirt.

Perhaps he was the dangerous one after all?

TWO

An eerie quiet filtered through his mind, a stillness that felt foreign and uncomfortable. With what felt like great effort, he opened his eyes only to find more darkness, softened slightly by moonlight coming through a window. Before he could form a coherent thought or try to lift his head, the darkness consumed him again.

His next sensation was a sharpness in his temple. Without even opening his eyes, he knew it was daylight. He released his eyelids to a slit. Bright sunshine streamed through windows on either side of the bed.

He lifted a hand to his forehead, trying to locate the source of the stabbing pain. His hand came into contact with what felt like a bandage, but the hurt seemed to come from all over his head. Just the act of moving his arm made him aware of an aching soreness that consumed his entire body. Shading his eyes, he opened them further.

The walls around him were a stark white. Light blue curtains hung at the windows, but they were thin enough that they did not block the light very much. He was in a bed, covered with a colorful quilt, a wood armoire standing against the wall across from him. Near the door, a young girl with a blue dress and white cap on her head sat in a straight-backed chair, reading a book. She must have noticed his movement, for she looked up and their stares locked. Her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise, and she dashed from the room.

Before he could try to sit up, the girl returned with a young woman who wore a similar dress and cap.

The woman pressed her lips together as if concerned, and tiny crinkling lines formed around her eyes. But her gaze radiated warmth and care. “How are you?” Her voice was quiet and calming.

She pulled the chair up to the bedside and sat, her hands clasped in her lap. Her face seemed to be completely devoid of makeup, and yet a beauty radiated from her that he hadn’t seen in... Well, he couldn’t remember when.

He cleared his throat, trying to summon his voice. His mind was a complete blank, yet a sense of discomfort, danger even, seemed to hover over him. How was he? “I’m... I’m sore.”

“I am glad to see you are awake. I bandaged the cut on your forehead last night.” She fluttered her hand up to the side of his head. “May I check it?”

He nodded. She peeled back part of the bandage, her touch a whisper against his skin. “It has stopped bleeding. That is gut.” She stood and stepped to the window, lifting the curtain to look out. She stood there a moment, surveying, a frown creasing her brow. But as she returned to the chair, she seemed to force a small smile. “Now. Introductions. I am Sarah Burkholder. This is my house. And this,” she motioned the girl forward, “is my daughter, Lyddie.”

She looked at him, expectation etched around her eyes and mouth.

But his mind was blank, a black hole of nothingness. He closed his eyes to block out any distractions, including the woman’s pretty face and the sweetness of the little girl, and searched for any information about who he was. What was his name? What was his job? What had happened yesterday that landed him here in this home? And why did he have such a pervasive feeling of danger?

He had no idea.

He opened his eyes to find the woman still watching him, waiting for an answer. “I don’t know.”

Confusion flitted across her face. “You do not know your own name?”

He thought again. “No.”

“Where do you live?”

Again, he searched and came up blank. “I don’t know. Here? With you?”

“No. Not here.” She giggled, a musical sound that calmed him. “What is your job?”

“I don’t know. What can you tell me about yourself? Where is your husband? Where are we? How did you get me here?”

She held out a hand. “In good time. First, I will send Lyddie to fetch the doctor.”

At a nod from her mother, the girl ran out of the room. A few moments later, an exterior door slammed.

The woman settled herself again on the chair. “My husband was killed two years ago when a car hit his buggy. We are near Nappanee in Indiana, in the home my husband built when we moved here. We are Amish.” She gestured to her dark blue dress, her white apron, her starched kapp.

“Yes.” Somehow, he knew the word Amish and had a vague inkling of what it meant. That’s why the girl went running for the doctor. There would be no telephone in the house.

“Lyddie and I brought you here on a sled pulled by our malamute, Snowball. I did not see it, but she told me that you were chased by two men on snowmobiles. You crashed into a tree. I think you hit your head on a rock by the creek.”

“What about the two men?”

“They left you. They must have thought you were dead.” She paused, clearly thinking through her next words. When she spoke again, it was haltingly. “I do not like to bother the sheriff. He is...not friendly to me. To our way of life. But I will contact him if you wish.”

“No!” He struggled to sit up in bed, ache consuming his body. Where did that vehemence come from? A dark foreboding invaded his mind when he thought of law enforcement, and he clutched his head in an effort to calm himself. “I... I can’t explain it. I don’t know why. But no, don’t bring the police into this. Not yet.” Maybe if his memories returned and he could figure out who he was and what sort of situation he was in, then he could involve law enforcement. “I wouldn’t know what to tell them anyway.”

She laid a hand on the quilt as if to calm him. “I will respect your wishes. But you need a name. Are you sure you cannot remember your own?”

“My head aches so terribly that it hurts to try to remember anything.”

“May I call you John?” She tilted her head, and one side of her mouth quirked up. “John is a good Bible name meaning Yahweh is gracious. Would you not agree that the Lord has been gracious to you, saving you from worse harm?”

Something pinged in his brain. “Yes, the Lord has been gracious.”

“You are a religious man? You believe?”

A comfortable warmth filled him as she asked the questions. “I don’t know for sure, but I think I do.”

“That is gut. But also, you are a John Doe. Is that not what the Englisch call a person with no name?”

“How do you know that?” This beautiful Amish woman whose presence soothed him was certainly a mystery.

She ducked her head, the top of her kapp catching the sunlight. “I love to read.”

As if to change the subject, she stood and crossed the room to the armoire, pulling out an Amish-looking pair of trousers and shirt as well as a pair of suspenders. “Your clothes need to be laundered. You may put these on for the time being. They belong to my brother, but he left them here after his last visit.”

A whistle sounded from another room, and she laid the clothes at the foot of the bed.

“That is the kettle. I will bring you some herbal tea. Chamomile. It will help relieve your headache and your muscle soreness. Do you like tea?” She stood and moved to the door.

Did he like tea? He had no idea, but the lovely Sarah was so kind and so accommodating that he would drink just about anything she could bring him. A nod would have to suffice to show his agreement, as a spasm of pain shot through his head.

Why couldn’t he remember anything? Who was he? Why was he there, in the Amish countryside, and who were the two men from yesterday? A blankness settled over him, but it was cloaked in darkness as the overwhelming sensation of danger returned, and he feared not only for his future but also for the future of the beautiful widow who sheltered him.

* * *

Sarah dropped the bag of tea leaves into the cup and slowly poured the boiling water over it. She inhaled deeply of the soothing scent, in need of some calming herself after the events of the prior twenty-four hours.

A shiver threatened her, and she returned the kettle to the propane-powered stove top before she stepped to the window to survey the yard again. Her sleep had been fitful the night before, her dreams filled with burning snowmobiles and strange men come to harm her and her daughter.

Who was this man in her spare bedroom, and what sort of danger had he brought to her peaceful household?

For what must have been at least the tenth time, she mentally retraced the events of yesterday. It certainly had looked from the snowmobile tracks like this man in her house was the one being chased. But did it follow, then, that he was innocent? Good? She had no way of knowing, and it seemed, neither did he. Did it matter? She had a Christian obligation to help those in need.

As she watched, the doctor’s car pulled into her drive. Lyddie flew out of the passenger side and toward the kitchen door. Ach, the child would be so excited about a ride in the car she would chatter of nothing else for days. The tall, thin Dr. Jones unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, retrieved his black bag from the back seat and approached the door as Lyddie waited for him. The hair around his temples sported more gray than the last time Sarah had seen him, and a pair of glasses perched on his pointed nose.

He stepped inside the back room, and Sarah rushed to hang up his coat. “Dr. Jones, danki for coming.”

“Hello, Sarah. I’m always glad to visit my Amish friends and keep up the traditions of my father. Family and community are important to some of us Englishers, as well.” A teasing twinkle sparkled in his eye. He looked pointedly at the remains of the apple pie on the stove top.

“Would you like a piece of pie before you go? I would not want you to leave hungry.” The banter was as old a tradition as the house calls, but Sarah relished her friendship with the doctor.

“If you insist.” He smiled with warmth and touched her shoulder before he turned toward the downstairs bedroom. “Now, Lyddie tells me you have a man in there who was in a snowmobiling accident yesterday?”

Sarah filled him in on the details she knew, few as they were, including the man’s apparent amnesia, as she led him into the room and pointed him to the chair at the bedside. John had changed into the Amish clothing, creating quite a change in his appearance, and was resting on top of the quilt.

“Dr. Jones, this is John. At least, he has agreed to be called by that name. I gave him my brother’s clothes to put on.” She turned to the patient. “John, this is Dr. Jones.”

John attempted a smile, although it looked painful, and shook hands with the doctor. “You make house calls? I didn’t know anyone did that anymore.”

Dr. Jones laid his black bag on the bed next to John and opened it. “My father made house calls, so I choose to continue that practice, at least with the Amish. They have a bit more difficulty in getting to the office than other folks. And there’s never a poor return on being neighborly.”

As the doctor retrieved his stethoscope from his bag and instructed John to unbutton his shirt, Sarah stepped out to finish making the tea and shooed Lyddie upstairs to her room to work on her stitching. She took as long as she could and then grasped the tray and stepped toward the door. “May I come in?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

She entered the room to find the doctor slowly moving an instrument back and forth in front of John. He followed it with his eyes but without moving his head. But when he spotted her, her breath hitched as his green eyes smiled at her.

The doctor placed the instrument back in his bag and snapped it shut. He stood and moved back to allow Sarah to place the tray on the bedside table. “Your patient seems quite well, Sarah. You bandaged that nasty cut on his head quite admirably, and it should heal nicely. Apart from that, a little soreness and his memory loss, I would say he is in fine shape. I don’t see any problems.”

“That is gut.”

He held up his hands in caution. “However, my ability to examine him is limited here. I would suggest that as soon as he feels able, he get to the hospital for an MRI and a thorough examination.” He pulled a small bottle from his bag and placed it on the table. “Here is some acetaminophen, in case your chamomile tea doesn’t relieve the pain like he wants. However,” the doctor turned to John, “you should take it only as a last resort. Allergies to acetaminophen are rare, but because you can’t remember your medical history or what medicine you might be allergic to, we don’t know how this might affect you.”

“What about my memory, Doctor?”

“Well, amnesia is a tricky thing, and we medical professionals still don’t know much about it. Your memory will most likely return in time. How long I cannot say.”

John shook the doctor’s hand and thanked him for coming, then accepted the cup of tea from Sarah.

Dr. Jones looked at Sarah and nodded toward the kitchen, and she stepped in front to lead him there. As she approached the pie, he laid a hand on her arm. “Can you wrap it to go, please? I have an appointment and can’t stay.”

“Jah, if you wish.”

As she packaged two slices of the apple pie, he stood close enough that he could keep his voice low. “I admire you for taking this stranger in and caring for him. But I want to warn you, as well. I know you have, at least, a rifle for hunting. You should keep that close for protection for you and Lyddie. Just in case. If you don’t need protection from this stranger, then you might need protection from whoever caused the accident yesterday.”

She handed the pie to him. “Danki, doctor, but you know that is not the Amish way. I will trust Gott for His protection and His guidance.”

Dr. Jones grasped his bag in one hand and the pie in the other, and Sarah moved to open the door for him. “I knew that would be your answer, but I felt the need to say it.” He paused, then looked her in the eye. “One more thing. I think I see a bit of resemblance between John and Mary Miller. There’s something about his eyes that makes me think of her.”

“Mammi Mary? The widow who lives over on Woodbridge Road?”

“Yes, but maybe it’s nothing.” He stepped outside. “I’ll pray for you and for the stranger, and don’t hesitate to contact me if you need help.”

Sarah closed the door gently behind him and then turned the lock until it thudded into place. The rifle? It still rested in its place on top of the cabinets. She kept it cleaned and in good working order, but it had not been used since before her husband was killed.

No, there it would stay. She would trust Gott and His protection.

But a wiggle of worry wormed itself down her back. Who was this strange man? Had he brought danger with him? Had she willingly brought into her house a wolf that she had dressed in Amish clothing?

THREE

John helped as best he could in cleaning up their simple breakfast of sticky rolls and scrambled eggs, but his skills were so lacking that he figured he hadn’t done much kitchen work before. His shoulders sagged at the thought of how long it might take to regain his memory.

Sarah was jittery as she quickly washed the dishes and laid them out on a towel to dry. Between keeping an eye on him and jumping up to look out the window, she barely sat for the meal. He hoped his presence wasn’t too upsetting to her, but how could it not be? She didn’t know him, and yet here he sat, completely dependent upon her goodness. What kind of man was he? Could he be trusted? Was he honorable? Neither of them knew.

As she laid the last glass on the drying towel, he ventured a suggestion. “I think we need to head back to the scene of the accident. Or was it an attack? It’s frustrating not even to know what happened yesterday.” He rubbed a hand over the knot in the back of his neck and took a deep breath. “If I could just remember—something, anything—I might know what to do next. But there could be something at the site to help me remember. Fill in some of the emptiness. It’s a good time to look because of the bright sunshine. If there’s any clue there, we should be able to find it.”

Lyddie ran for her heavy cape. “Mamm, may I take Snowball and the sled?”

Sarah turned from the sink to her daughter, her eyes wide. “It has not yet been decided.” She set her worried look on John. “Do you think it is safe?”

What did he think? With this amnesia, his mind felt like it couldn’t think, or at least it was difficult to think. “You said there was no one there when you found me. And obviously, no one has found us here. To be completely honest, I don’t know. But it seems that it should be, and I don’t have any other ideas for how to figure out who I am or where I’m supposed to be. I think this is my only chance.”

“Jah. I think you are right.” She hung up the towel and headed for the stairs. “I will put on an extra pair of leggings for warmth, and we shall go. Lyddie, same for you. And we will take Snowball but not the sled. John, what do you think?”

“Yes, the sled could get in the way, but the dog could be helpful in staying alert.”

A few minutes later, John had bundled on a heavy wool coat and hat that Sarah had in the barn, and they set off toward the site of his snowmobile crash. The sunshine made the snow sparkle, but it did not add any warmth to the day, and he pulled the coat closer around him. Snowball frisked about, her white tail curled up over her back. John had no doubt that the dog would sniff out danger before he saw it. But John still couldn’t help constantly scanning their surroundings for anything remotely suspicious.

As he crested the top of the ridge, John got his first good look at the snowmobile. But all that remained were charred parts and crumpled fiberglass. A whisper of smoke half-heartedly rose from the wreckage, but it was not enough to mark their location to anyone nearby. He held out an arm to stop Sarah and Lyddie. He listened for a full minute, but the only sound close by was the panting of the malamute.

He skidded down the slope and stopped next to the debris. Would it summon up any memories? The vinyl seat remained intact, and he tried to picture himself sitting on it, his hands on the handlebars. His snowmobile suit was gray. He knew that because he had seen it. But nothing dislodged any memories.

“Spread out a bit,” he instructed Sarah and Lyddie. “Look for anything that might be the least bit helpful.”

Sarah circled around the creek bed, where she had found him the day before, her head bent to the task. Lyddie followed behind her mother, overturning a few rocks. She wandered toward the woods, picking up sticks and throwing them into the trees, and then returned toward John. Her full blue skirt swished against her black snow boots, and snow that had fallen from the trees rested on her shoulders and kapp. Snowball followed her faithfully, sniffing in her footsteps.

The child was adorable, but John forced himself to return his gaze to the remains of the accident site.

“Look! I found something!” Lyddie’s squeal of delight drew him quickly to her side. She bent to the ground and retrieved from the snow a piece of metal that reflected the bright sunshine.

The snow quickly brushed off of the edges, and she handed it to John. “What is it? What does it say?”

Sarah appeared at his side, her breath puffing in small clouds. “It is the badge of a police officer.”

“Fort Wayne Police Department,” John read. “Is that far from here?”

“It is over an hour by car.” She shrugged. “We pay a driver and go to shop sometimes. Is this yours?”

“I don’t know. It could be mine. Or it could belong to one of the men who Lyddie says attacked me. Let’s keep looking. Maybe there’s some identification.”

As Sarah and Lyddie pushed snow away from the debris, questions pinged in John’s mind. Could the badge be his, thrown off him in the wreck? What about a weapon? Was he a police officer?

Ten minutes of thorough searching yielded nothing more.

John examined the badge in his hand, trying to force himself to remember. “So, I could be a police officer. Or maybe I’m not. There’s no way to know if this badge belongs to me because there’s no name on it, just a number, and I don’t remember any numbers. I suppose it could have been thrown off me in the wreck, but if I am a law-enforcement officer, then where is my weapon?” He pulled off a glove and rubbed his temple. A dull throb began to echo through his head. Or am I the criminal the police were chasing?

“This does not help with any memories?” Sarah gazed at him with eyes crinkled and warm with tenderness and compassion.

Before he could answer, Snowball perked up her ears and uttered a low growl.

Lyddie dropped to the snow next to her, a mittened hand on her back. “What is it, Snowball?”

“Shh.” John held out his hand to silence them. He listened intently, straining against the growing thrum of the headache. A machine was approaching. A snowmobile?

“Could it be someone to help?” Sarah kept her voice to a whisper.

John shook his head. “No way to know. But we need to get out of here. I can’t explain why, but I don’t want us here when the snowmobile arrives.” He nodded toward the woods. “Into the trees. Quickly.”

He grasped Sarah’s hand to lead her, and he was instantly warmed by her touch. Sarah threw him a startled look but did not draw away. She urged Lyddie toward the woods and called for Snowball to follow.

Several feet into the tree line, John made sure Sarah was tucked behind a large cottonwood. He looked back toward the clearing just in time to see a snowmobile emerge from the far side. A glance back to Sarah revealed that she had grabbed hold of Snowball’s collar. Lyddie stood on the other side of the dog, her hand resting on the dog’s head as if to keep her calm.

It would have to do for now. Their movement through the trees, to head for Sarah’s house, would only draw attention to them. And since they could never outrun a snowmobile, it was best to hide.

John crouched behind another tree and turned his attention to the approaching snowmobile.

The driver pulled up to within a few feet of the crash debris. He killed the engine and then dismounted. He wore a typical snowmobile suit, black with white trim, and he appeared to be a thick man underneath. But since the man wore a helmet and goggles, John could not tell anything more about him.

The man surveyed the accident site, then picked up a stick and poked at the debris. When he seemed satisfied, he dropped the stick and slowly scanned the surrounding area.

Snowball continued to pant, although the sound was so quiet that John had to strain to hear it. Lyddie put her hand over her mouth and clamped it shut. John wanted to tell her that the dog would not take kindly to that, but he didn’t dare whisper or leave his hiding place. The dog pulled her head away, a low whine issuing forth as she shook her muzzle free.

John dared a peek around his tree. The man had taken a couple of steps in their direction. He had removed his gloves and tucked them in a cargo pocket and was working on his goggles and helmet. John’s gut clenched at the possibility of being discovered, but all he could do was wait.

With his head cocked, the snowmobile driver stared at the trees, a look of deep concentration on his face as if he were listening. Had he heard Snowball whine? It could have sounded like a wild animal, and yet there weren’t many animals out in the winter. John turned back to Sarah and Lyddie just in time to see Sarah move to correct the girl, probably for holding the dog’s mouth shut.

As she reached out a hand, Sarah seemed to lose her balance, and she wobbled out from her hiding place.

Helpless where he was, John watched the man’s stare zero in on Sarah as she leaned out. She immediately grasped the trunk of the tree and pulled herself behind it, but not before a loud inhalation escaped.

John’s heart beat wildly against his rib cage, and he swallowed down bile as his stomach churned at the look of evil on the man’s face.

* * *

Sarah’s gasp seemed to echo through the empty woods. She shot her hand up to cover her mouth, but it was too late to stifle the sound.

He had seen her.

Whoever that man was that radiated evil intent, he now knew they were there.

But just as startling was the blue-and-purple bruise mark around the man’s neck and on his hand, peeking out from the cuff of his jacket. Even in the midst of her fear, a small wave of sympathy rose for the man with such a birthmark. Her gaze flew to his eyes again, and the sympathy quickly disappeared at the malice she saw there.

She clutched at what felt like safety—the solidness of the tree trunk. Her feet felt mired in the deep snow and the boots. She could not run if she tried.

Lyddie stood from kneeling next to the malamute and looked at Sarah, her eyes wide with questioning and fright. The girl was just trying to be helpful, but it could get them all killed.

Gott, help us!

But in that moment of desperate prayer, Lyddie’s whisper filtered in.

“Mamm! That is the man! I saw him yesterday!” Even through the mitten, the point of her finger was unmistakable. “See his neck and hand? Scary!”

“Lyddie!” Her whisper came out more harsh than she intended. She needed to have a talk with her daughter about kindness and compassion when others looked different, but now was not the time. “Get back!”

As Sarah grasped Lyddie’s shoulder and pulled her behind the tree, she snuck another glance through a few fall leaves that still clung to several branches. The man’s eyes were wide, and a small smile snaked across his lips as if he understood the situation. Perspiration dampened her brow despite the cold of the winter day. She struggled to even her breathing and remain calm, but her breath continued to puff out in short spurts.

She looked at John, and he simply held a finger to his lips to indicate she should remain quiet.

At the very least, the man had to know now that she had been around the site of the crash and, most likely, knew something about John. He knew that she was involved.

If there was any doubt of the man’s knowledge of her, it was all erased as he drew a weapon out of a cargo pocket and pointed it at her.

Her breath hitched. She clutched at Lyddie and Snowball, both to protect them and to keep from collapsing.

He slowly approached the tree line, each step an ominous crunch in the hardened snow.

“Sarah.” John’s whisper filtered through the panicked haze in her mind. She forced her gaze away from the gun to see John motioning for them to run deeper into the woods.

Somehow, she moved her head enough to nod her assent.

With a death grip on the arm of her only child, she turned to run. Her heavy winter boots felt glued to the ground, too bulky to move, but she clunked along for a few steps. The weight of her despair sank her farther down into the ground. How could she possibly outrun a bullet at her slow speed? Gott was always there, she reminded herself, and she begged for His protection.

The cracking sound of a gun firing rang in her ears. Would she feel the pain of death? Or would she just suddenly find herself in the presence of Gott? Who would care for Lyddie?

A strong force—a hand—pushed on her back. Strong enough to push her down. She landed face-down in the snow, her hand still on Lyddie, who fell next to her.

Lyddie turned to look at her, fear contorting her face.

“I love you,” Sarah mouthed.

Then she closed her eyes, praying that her death would be quick and painless.

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