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Amish Christmas Memories
Vannetta Chapman


All she wants for Christmas is her memoriesAn Indiana Amish Brides bookWhen a young Amish woman collapses in the snow shortly before Christmas, Caleb Wittmer rushes to her aid. Only, “Rachel” remembers nothing of who she is. Now his family has taken in the pretty stranger, disrupting Caleb’s ordered world. He’s determined to find out where she belongs…even if Rachel’s departure means saying goodbye to his old-fashioned heart forever.







All she wants for Christmas is her memories

An Indiana Amish Brides book

When a young Amish woman collapses in the snow shortly before Christmas, Caleb Wittmer rushes to her aid. Only, “Rachel” remembers nothing of who she is. Now his family has taken in the pretty stranger, disrupting Caleb’s ordered world. He’s determined to find out where she belongs…even if Rachel’s departure means saying goodbye to his old-fashioned heart forever.


VANNETTA CHAPMAN has published over one hundred articles in Christian family magazines, receiving over two dozen awards from Romance Writers of America chapter groups. She discovered her love for the Amish while researching her grandfather’s birthplace of Albion, Pennsylvania. Her first novel, A Simple Amish Christmas, quickly became a bestseller. Chapman lives in the Texas Hill Country with her husband.


Also By Vannetta Chapman (#u2b1d1c03-f850-5246-9a57-b45354f86271)

Indiana Amish Brides

A Widow’s Hope

Amish Christmas Memories

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Amish Christmas Memories

Vannetta Chapman






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08642-4

AMISH CHRISTMAS MEMORIES

© 2018 Vannetta Chapman

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 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.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


“So why did you want me to come out to the barn?”

“I told you—”

“To brush down the horses at seven thirty in the evening,” she said. “Ya, I heard you.”

“Could be a guy just likes a little help with the work. Plus, I get a little restless, especially on winter nights.”

She only smiled wider, and he knew that he wasn’t fooling her.

He thought Rachel looked especially pretty in the glow of the lantern. He was suddenly glad that she had fallen into their lives. He was already starting to think of events in terms of before Rachel or after Rachel, as if she was some sort of dividing line in his life. She was certainly unlike any of the girls he had stepped out with.

What did that mean?

Was he falling for her?

It wasn’t like she was staying here. It wasn’t like they had a chance to build a life together. Then again, how much control did one have over who they fell in love with?


Dear Reader (#u2b1d1c03-f850-5246-9a57-b45354f86271),

Our memories are dear to us—we keep pictures on our phones, frame schoolwork from our children and place our wedding photograph on the mantel. In many ways, our memories define us. When those memories are stripped away, we’re left simply with who we have become. We’re left with the knowledge that our Heavenly Father knows us—truly knows us—and cares for us more than we can fathom.

As Rachel rediscovers her past, she also learns to trust the woman she has become. And without that past, she must depend on the kindness of strangers. God provides for her, even in the midst of her pain and confusion. God is with her, even when she doesn’t know exactly who or where she is.

Caleb is very busy with the life that he believes God has laid out before him. He scarcely has time for rescuing ladies in distress, or making new friends, or listening to his heart. Furthermore, he clings to tradition as if it were the single thing keeping him afloat on the sea of life. Then he meets Rachel, a quite untraditional person, and God begins to work on Caleb’s heart and set into motion the special plans He has for him.

I hope you enjoyed reading Amish Christmas Memories. I welcome comments and letters at vannettachapman@gmail.com.

May we continue to “always give thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:20).

Blessings,

Vannetta


And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.

—Ephesians 4:32

He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.

—Psalms 147:3


This book is dedicated to Vicki Sewell,

who is so much like family that she is family.

I know you know—but I love you.


Acknowledgments (#u2b1d1c03-f850-5246-9a57-b45354f86271)

I would like to thank my editor, Melissa Endlich, for pushing me to write better. I’d also like to thank the art department and editorial team for helping me through the art forms, line edits and everything in between. Finally, thank you to my agent, Steve Laube, for your continued guidance.

Also a big thanks to my family, who remind me to step away from the computer and experience this thing we call life. It’s when I’m with you that I find the heart of my stories.

And finally, “Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:20).


Contents

Cover (#u210b4a77-55ab-58d4-b674-11a5eb22c382)

Back Cover Text (#uda384569-3c02-5659-96b9-18b931e23572)

About the Author (#ua7287a12-79a5-5356-ae86-0a8bb9e553f1)

Booklist (#u202f5496-60c0-5227-8de8-3f042cd7da0d)

Title Page (#u74aa61bc-f837-567b-9a94-d070113c6f9c)

Copyright (#ud0c50d6f-7c1d-59f9-a77c-2fd1a44b6281)

Introduction (#u5114c71b-3eeb-5cdf-95b4-c60d9e91e78f)

Dear Reader (#uaf7643cf-0827-5069-8a7d-a2a91a62980d)

Bible Verse (#ub66fa9dd-cf53-5b79-b0ae-589c48d2d46c)

Dedication (#ub4524f66-fd10-556b-8365-5464174e08af)

Acknowledgments (#u47a3462b-59e5-56c6-9a41-2a8c57d3595a)

Chapter One (#uf7b506fd-56fc-5cf1-9f94-c7704ae0fe94)

Chapter Two (#u51155d79-ffa1-59f4-9855-93ed915dc5c8)

Chapter Three (#u090642e3-6857-5385-a992-6b0b2d4b7566)

Chapter Four (#u8db2a33a-f382-582d-b447-16b10da69f22)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u2b1d1c03-f850-5246-9a57-b45354f86271)

Caleb Wittmer glanced up from the fence he was mending. Something had caught his eye—a bright blue against the snow-covered fields that stretched in every direction. There it was again, to the north and west, coming along the dirt road.

He stepped closer to the fence. His horse moved with him, nudged his hand.

“Hold on, Stormy.” Caleb squinted his eyes and peered toward the northwest, and then he knew what he was seeing—he just couldn’t make sense of it. Why would a woman be walking on a cold December morning with no coat on?

Goose bumps peppered the skin at the back of his neck. As he watched, the woman wandered to the right of the road and then back to the left.

Something wasn’t right.

He murmured for the gelding to stay, climbed the fence and strode toward her. He’d covered only half of the distance when he noticed that she was wearing Amish clothing, though not their traditional style or color. She was a stranger, then, from a different community. But what was she doing out in the cold with no coat? More disturbing than that, she wore no covering on her head. All Amish women covered their hair when outside—Swiss, Old Order, New Order. It was one of the many things they had in common. The coverings might be styled differently, but always a woman’s head was covered.

He was within thirty feet when he noticed that her long hair was a golden brown, wavy and thick, and unbraided.

At twenty feet he could see the confused look on her face and that she was holding a book.

At ten feet she tumbled to the ground.

Caleb broke into a sprint, covering the last distance in seconds. The mysterious woman was lying in the snow, her eyes closed. Dark brown lashes brushed against skin that still held a slight tan from winter. Freckles dotted the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. A small book had fallen out of her hands. Her hair was splayed around her head like a cloak she’d thrown on the ground, and a pale blue scarf was wrapped around her neck—but no coat.

Where was the woman’s coat?

He shook her gently, but there was no response.

Looking up, he saw Stormy waiting for him at the property line. He’d never be able to take her that way, unless he was willing to dump her over the fence. He couldn’t begin to guess why she had fainted, but throwing her over barbed wire and onto the ground wouldn’t be helpful.

No, he’d have to go the long way, by the road.

Caleb shook her shoulders one more time, but still there was no response. He clutched her hand. Her fingers were like slivers of ice. How long had she been outside? Why was she wandering down their road?

Scooping her up, he turned toward the house.

She weighed little more than a large sack of feed, which he’d been lifting since he was a teenager. Carrying her was not a problem, but now his heart was racing and his breath came out in quick gasps. What if he was too late? What if she was dying?

He strode toward his parents’ house, pulling her body closer to his, willing his heat to warm her, whispering for Gotte’s help.

Stormy kept pace on his side of the fence.

The farmhouse seemed to taunt him, as it receded in the distance, but, of course, that was impossible. It was only that he was scared now, worried that he should have seen her sooner, that he might be too late.

Snow began to fall in earnest, but he barely noticed. Tucking his chin to keep the snow out of his eyes, he increased his pace.

* * *

“She just collapsed?” His mother had taken the sight of him carrying a nearly frozen woman into their home in stride. She’d told him to place her on the couch as she’d grabbed a blanket.

“Ya. She teetered back and forth across the road and then fell into the snow as I was watching.”

“No idea who she is?”

“Obviously she’s not from here.”

Ida nodded. Her dress was of a bright blue fabric, while their community still wore only muted blues and greens, blacks and browns. They were a conservative Amish community, a mixture of Swiss and Pennsylvania Dutch, which was why they lived in the southwestern part of Indiana. They weren’t a tourist destination like Shipshewana. And unlike some more liberal Amish communities, they didn’t abide solar panels and cell phones and Englisch clothing. Not that the woman’s dress was Englisch. It was obviously plain in style, but that color...

He didn’t normally notice the color of a girl’s dress, but in this case...well, the blue fabric seemed obscenely bright. She remained unconscious, though she seemed to be breathing. Caleb pulled off his knit cap, shrugged out of his coat and tugged off his gloves. Squatting in front of the couch, he watched his mother as she attempted to revive the woman.

She murmured slightly, tossing her head left and right. Almost of its own volition, his hand reached out and touched her face. Her skin felt like satin.

Still she didn’t wake.

“She had nothing with her?”

“Nein.”

“No purse or coat or—”

Caleb jumped up, snapping his fingers. “A book. She was holding a book when I first saw her.”

“You best go and get it. Perhaps her name is written inside. Maybe there’s someone we can contact.”

Caleb snagged his coat from the floor where he’d dropped it and hurried back outside. Fat snowflakes were still falling. It looked as if the current snowfall was going to be a significant accumulation for only the third of December. Already the front path was completely obscured, any trace of his previous trek across the yard erased. At this rate they would have a Christmas to remember. It was unusual, as most of their snow usually came in January.

He jogged back the half mile, passing the place where he had been mending the fence. His tools were still there. He’d need to return them to the barn, but that wasn’t an emergency. The woman? She was. He slowed when he reached the tall pine tree and scanned the ground. Nothing, not even his footprints from earlier.

He’d forgotten his hat and the snow was cold and heavy on his head. He shook the snow off his head, wiped his eyes and walked up and down the fence line—a hundred feet in both directions. There was nothing, but he was sure that she had been holding a book of some sort. He closed his eyes, saw it fall from her hand as she dropped to the ground. She’d wandered off the east side of the road, closer to the fence.

This was not the way his Monday was supposed to go. He didn’t mind helping a neighbor, or a stranger, but he’d had an entire list of chores to complete. Farm life, his life, worked better when he stayed focused on the things he’d committed to doing. When women entered his life, trouble often followed. He pushed that thought away as soon as it formed. This wasn’t about him. He needed to find the book. He hadn’t opened his eyes that morning knowing he would save a stranger from freezing to death, but now that he had there was nothing left to do but see this thing through.

They’d find out who she was and where she belonged.

They’d return her, and he could get on with his life.

But first he needed to find the book.

He turned east, walked back and forth between the road and the fence, making a zigzag type of pattern. Then just when he was beginning to think he’d imagined the entire thing, that he’d return home and find there was no mysterious woman on their couch, he spied it—a lump of snow where there should have been flat ground.

He dropped to his knees and brushed the snow away.

The book had a green-and-gold cover with a photograph of a snowy path going through the woods, and beneath that the words The Road Not Taken and Other Poems. Had he read something like that in school? He was twenty-five now and that had been many years ago. He shook his head, picked up the book and hurried back home.

* * *

When he walked back into the living room, his father was there, and his mother was placing a cup of hot tea into the woman’s hands. She was sitting up now, looking around with a dazed sort of expression.

“I think this is yours.” Caleb placed the book on the couch beside her.

“Danki.”

That one word confirmed what he’d suspected earlier. She wasn’t from their part of the state. The Daviess County Amish had a distinctive Southern twang. This woman didn’t.

Caleb’s father sat in the reading chair. His mother perched on the edge of the rocker. Caleb folded his arms and stood behind them both. Across from them, the woman stared at the tea, then raised her eyes first to his mamm, then his dat, and finally settled her gaze on him.

“What happened? Where am I?”

“You don’t know?” Caleb glanced at his parents, who seemed content to let him carry the conversation. “You were walking down the road, and then you collapsed.”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

Caleb shrugged. “What’s your name?”

The woman’s eyes widened and her hand shook so that she could barely hold the mug of tea without spilling it. She set it carefully on the coffee table. “I don’t—I don’t know my name.”

“My name is John Wittmer,” Caleb’s father said. “This my fraa, Ida, and you’ve met Caleb.”

“How can you not know your own name?” Caleb asked. “Do you know where you live?”

“Nein.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“Out where?”

“Where’s your coat and your kapp?”

“Caleb, now’s not the time to interrogate the poor girl.” Ida stood and moved beside her on the couch. She picked up the small book of poetry. “You were carrying this, when Caleb found you. Do you remember it?”

“I don’t. This was mine?”

“Found it in the snow,” Caleb said. “Right beside where you collapsed.”

“So it must be mine.”

“Perhaps there’s something written on the inside.” Ida tapped the cover. “Maybe you should look.”

Caleb noticed that the woman’s hands trembled as she opened the cover and stared down at the first page. With one finger, she traced the handwriting there.

“Rachel. I think my name is Rachel.”

* * *

Rachel let her fingers brush over the word again and again. Rachel. Yes, that was her name. She was sure of it. She remembered writing it in the front of the book—she’d used a pen that her mamm had given her. She could almost picture herself, somewhere else. She could almost see her mother.

“My mamm gave me the pen and the book...for my birthday, I think. I wrote my name—wrote it right here.”

“Your mamm. So you remember her?”

“Praise be to Gotte,” John said, a smile spreading across his face.

“Is there someone we can call? If you remember the name of your bishop...” Caleb had sat down in the rocker his mother had vacated and was staring at her intensely.

They all were.

She closed her eyes, hoping to feel the memory again. She tried to see the room or the house or the people, but the image had receded as quickly as it had come, leaving her with a pulsing headache.

She struggled to keep the feelings of panic at bay. Her heart was hammering, and her hands were shaking, and she could barely make sense of the questions they were pelting at her.

Who were these people?

Where was she?

Who was she?

She needed to remember what had happened.

She needed to go home.

Instead she dropped the book into Ida’s lap and covered her face with her hands. “I think—I think I’m going to be sick.”

She bounded off the couch and dashed to the kitchen, making it to the sink just in time to lose whatever she’d eaten. Unfortunately, the sink had been full of breakfast dishes. She turned on the tap and attempted to rinse off a plate, but her hands were shaking so badly that she kept knocking it against the side of the sink.

“I’ll take care of that.” Ida’s hands slid over hers, taking the plate and setting it back into the sink. She pulled a clean dish towel from a drawer and handed it to her. “Come and sit down.”

She sank into a chair at the table and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. If only the pounding would stop, she could think.

“We best take her to town,” John said.

“I’ll get the buggy.” Caleb brushed past her.

She remembered being in his arms, the way he’d pulled her close to his body, the way he’d petitioned Gotte to help them. Or had she dreamed that? But then he turned, and his blue eyes met hers, and she knew she hadn’t imagined it. She could smell the snow on his coat, remember the rough texture of the fabric, hear the concern in his voice.

“We best wrap her in a blanket,” Ida said. “And bring the book. There might be other clues in it.”

And then they were bundling her up and helping her into the buggy. The ride passed in a blur of unrecognizable farms and stores and hillsides. The only thing familiar was the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the feel of the small heater blowing from the front of the buggy.

Had she been in a buggy just like it before?

Caleb directed the horse under a covered drop-off area, next to a door marked Emergency.

“I don’t think—”

“That it’s an emergency? Ya, it is.” He helped her from the buggy. Ida had rushed in ahead of them, and John said he’d park the buggy and meet them inside.

The next few hours passed in a flurry of hospital forms and medical personnel and tests. Finally, the doctor who had first examined her walked into the room, computer tablet in hand. She was a young woman, probably in her thirties, with dark black hair, glasses and a quick smile. Something about her manner put Rachel at ease, though another part of her dreaded hearing what the woman was about to say.

John had left to find them coffee and a snack, but Ida and Caleb both stood when the doctor walked into the room.

“Thank you all for your patience.” She motioned for them to sit back down. “I know the barrage of tests we put a patient through can be trying, but trust me when I say that it’s important for us to collect as much information as we can.”

She turned toward Rachel.

“Hi, Rachel. Do you remember me?”

“Ya. You’re Dr. Gold.”

“Great. Can you tell me what day it is?”

Her eyes darted to the whiteboard that listed the name of her nurse and orderly. “December third.”

“Very good.” Dr. Gold laughed. “We know you can read.”

The doctor placed her tablet on the table next to Rachel’s bed. “Mind if I check that bump on your head one more time?”

Rachel leaned forward and jerked only slightly when the doctor gently probed the back of her head.

“Still tender.”

“Ya.”

“Still no memory of what happened before Caleb found you?”

“Nein.”

“And you can’t remember how you got this bump?”

“The first thing I remember is...is Caleb carrying me to his house.”

The doctor plumped the pillows behind her, waited until Rachel had sat back and then shone the penlight in her eyes again.

“I’m sorry. I know this is uncomfortable.”

“It’s just the headache...”

Dr. Gold nodded in sympathy and then clicked off the light. “Rachel, you have a slight concussion, which is why you’re experiencing a sensitivity to light, a blinding headache and nausea.”

She remembered vomiting in Ida’s sink and grimaced.

“How long will that last?”

“In most cases, symptoms improve in seven to ten days.”

“That’s gut.”

“But the actual healing of your brain could take months.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Most often a concussion occurs when you’ve sustained a blow to the head. In this case, you have a sizable knot at the back of your head and toward the top. Can you remember anything at all that led up to your accident?”

Rachel shook her head and spikes of pain brought tears to her eyes.

“I’m not surprised. You have what we call retrograde amnesia caused by a concussion. Often in such a situation, patients have problems remembering events leading up to an accident.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Retrograde amnesia or a concussion?”

“Both.”

Dr. Gold smiled and patted her hand. “Concussions happen all too often. The brain itself is rather like Jell-O. When a concussion occurs, your brain slides back and forth and bumps up against the walls of your skull. Basically the brain is bruised, and like all bruises it takes time to heal.”

“What would cause such a thing?” Caleb asked. His expression had turned rather fierce. “Does it mean that someone hit her?”

“Not necessarily.” Dr. Gold cocked her head, studying both Ida and Caleb for a few seconds. Then she turned her attention back to Rachel. “You could have been in a car accident, or fallen off a bicycle or simply tripped, and hit your head against the ground.”

“And that would cause a concussion?” Ida asked. “Just falling?”

Caleb sank back into the chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. “Did it happen when she fell in the snow?”

“Not likely,” Dr. Gold said. “I suspect that Rachel sustained her injury before you ever saw her. It’s why she was meandering back and forth across the road. Concussions often result in vertigo.”

“Can you tell how long it’s been?” Ida asked.

“I can’t. There was no bleeding from the wound, so I rather doubt that someone hit her. More likely it was a simple accident.”

“What about my memory?” Rachel asked. “When will it return?”

“Memories are tricky things. You remembered my name, and you know who these people are. Correct?”

“Caleb.” She met his gaze, remembered again being in his arms. “And Ida, his mamm.”

“Which is a good sign. This tells us your brain is still working the way it should.”

“But I wouldn’t have remembered my name if it hadn’t been written in that book, and I still don’t know where I live or who I am.”

“In most cases those memories will return in time.”

“How much time?”

“Remember what I said earlier? You don’t just have a concussion. You also have retrograde amnesia.”

“And what does that mean?”

“That it may be a few days or weeks or even months before you regain your memories.”

Rachel felt as if she was falling into a long, dark tunnel. She stared down at the cotton blanket covering her and grasped it between both of her hands. “That long?”

“I’m afraid so, but the good news is that your memory is working now, and it will continue to work. You may not be able to remember what happened before the accident, but you can create new memories. Plus you’re healthy in every other way.”

“But what am I to do? Where will I live?”

“If you’d like, we have a social worker here at the hospital that can meet with you and find temporary housing for you. We’ll also put you in contact with a liaison with the Daviess County Sheriff’s Office. Perhaps your family has reported you missing. It could be that they’re looking for you even now.”

“What do I do until they find me?”

“Be patient. Give your brain time to heal. Live your life.”

“I don’t have any money, though.”

“There are charities that provide funds for those in need. You don’t need to worry about money right now.”

“She doesn’t need to worry about where to live, either.” Ida stood and moved to the side of the bed. She was about Rachel’s height but looked a bit shorter, owing to her weight. She wasn’t big exactly, but rounded, like a grandmother should be. She was probably close to fifty with gray and brown strands of hair peeking out from under her prayer kapp. “Rachel, we would be happy to have you stay with us. We have an extra room. It’s only Caleb and John and myself, so it’s a fairly quiet environment. You can rest and heal.”

Rachel didn’t know if that was a good idea. Ida and John seemed like a nice couple, and Caleb had saved her, but she wasn’t sure they wanted a brain-injured person living with them. Then again, what choice did she have?

She didn’t want to go to a police station.

She didn’t want to wait on a social worker.

“Stay with us,” Ida repeated.

“Ya.” Rachel nodded, wiping away the tears that had begun to slide down her cheeks. “Okay. Danki.”

Dr. Gold was pleased with the arrangement, and Ida was grinning as if Christmas had come early, but when Rachel glanced at Caleb, she wasn’t sure if she saw relief or regret in his eyes.


Chapter Two (#u2b1d1c03-f850-5246-9a57-b45354f86271)

They returned to Ida and John’s house. The snow had stopped, but it sat in heaps on the side of the road. The clouds had cleared, the sun was shining and Rachel suspected the snow would melt completely by the next day. The Englisch homes they passed already had Christmas decorations out on the lawn. Rachel wasn’t sure what Amish homes did to celebrate for the season. She wasn’t sure what her family had done in the past.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

She met with the local bishop, Amos Hilty, a kind, elderly man as round as he was tall with tufts of white hair that reminded her of a cotton ball.

She learned that the local community was a blend of Swiss Amish and Pennsylvania Dutch Amish, but she couldn’t tell them which she had been. From the style and color of her dress, they guessed that she came from one of the more progressive districts. Amos assured her that he’d contact the local districts to see if anyone had reported a young woman missing.

“We’ll find your family, Rachel. Try not to worry. Trust that Gotte has a plan and a purpose for your life.”

She wasn’t sure how Gotte could use her accident, her loss of memory, for His good, but she smiled and thanked the bishop for helping her.

Several times that afternoon she had to excuse herself and lie down because of the vertigo and nausea, and bone-deep exhaustion. Ida’s cooking smelled wonderful—it was a meat loaf she’d thrown together and served with mashed potatoes, canned squash, gravy and fresh bread. Rachel thought she could eat three plates, but when she’d taken her first bite, the nausea had returned, and she’d fled to the bathroom.

Now it was ten thirty in the evening and everyone was asleep, but she was starving. Pulling on the robe Ida had loaned her, she padded down the hall to the kitchen. She pulled a pitcher of milk from the icebox and found a tin of cookies when Caleb walked in.

“If you’d eaten your dinner, you wouldn’t be so hungry late at night.” When she didn’t answer and just stood there frozen, as if she’d been caught stealing, he’d walked closer, bumped his shoulder against hers and said, “I’m kidding. Pour me a glass?”

So she did, and they sat down at the table together. She could just make out his outline from the light of the full moon slanting through the window. Oddly, the darkness comforted her, knowing he couldn’t see her well, either. She felt less exposed, less vulnerable.

“I can’t remember if I thanked you...for finding me in the snow. For bringing me here.”

“You didn’t.”

“Danki.”

“Gem Gschehne.”

The words slipped effortlessly between them and brought her a small measure of comfort. At least she remembered how to be polite. Surely that was something.

“You owe me, you know.”

Her head snapped up, and she peered at him through the darkness.

“You scared at least a year off my life when I saw you out there.”

“Lucky for me you did.”

“I’m not sure luck had anything to do with it. Gotte was watching over you, for sure and certain.”

“If He was watching over me, why did this happen? Why can’t I remember anything? What am I supposed to do next?”

“I’m not going to pretend I have the answers to any of those questions.”

“Might be a good time to lie to me and say you do.”

Caleb’s laugh was soft and low and genuine. “We both would regret that later.”

“I suppose.” She sipped the cold milk. At least her stomach didn’t reject it. Maybe she would feel better if she could keep some food down. She hesitantly reached for an oatmeal cranberry cookie.

“Your mamm’s a gut cook.”

“Ya, she is.”

“So it’s just you? You’re an only child?”

“Ya, though my mamm wanted to have more children.”

“Why didn’t she?”

“Something went wrong when she had me, and the doctors said she wouldn’t be able to conceive again.”

“Gotte’s wille.”

“She always wanted a girl, too, so I suppose you’re an answer to that prayer, even if you’re a temporary answer.”

“When you marry, she’ll have a daughter-in-law.”

“So they keep reminding me.” He laughed again, but there was something sad and bitter at the same time in it. His next words had a serious, let’s-get-down-to-business tone. “How are you feeling? I know you keep telling my parents that you’re fine, but it’s obvious you aren’t.”

“Lost. Confused. Sick to my stomach.”

“Food should help settle your stomach.”

She bit into the cookie, which was delicious but could use a little nutmeg. “I just remembered something.”

“You did?”

“Cookies need nutmeg.”

Caleb reached for another. “It’s a beginning.”

“Not much of one.”

“The doctor told you this could take a while.”

“I know...but can you imagine what it’s like for me? I don’t know who I am.”

“You know your name is Rachel.”

“Only because you found my book.”

“Not many Amish girls read Robert Frost. That narrows the prospective field of candidates down a little.”

“Perhaps we could advertise somewhere...”

“The Budget.” Caleb nodded and ran a thumb under his suspenders. “Actually that’s not a bad idea. If you write something up in the morning—”

“What would I write? I don’t remember anything.”

“Okay. Gut point, but perhaps your family will post there. We’ll watch the paper closely.”

“Danki.”

“Gem Gschehne.”

And there it was again—an odd familiarity that bound them together.

“Are you always this nice?”

“Nein. I’m on my best behavior with you because you’ve had a brain injury.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“My normal personality is bullheaded and old-fashioned, which are both apparently bad things. And that’s a direct quote.”

“From?”

“My last girlfriend.”

“Oh. Well, I can’t remember my last boyfriend, so you’re still a step ahead of me.”

Caleb cleared his throat, returned the pitcher of milk to the refrigerator and then sat down across from her again. When he clasped his hands together, she knew she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. She suddenly felt defensive and bristly, like a cat rubbed the wrong way.

“My parents wanted to give you a few days to adjust, but I think there are some things you should know.”

“There are?”

“Our community is quite conservative—we’re a branch of the Swiss Amish, as Bishop Amos explained.”

“He’s a nice man.”

“As long as you’re staying...well, this is awkward, but...”

“Just spit it out, Caleb.” She’d had this sort of conversation before, though she couldn’t remember the details. Somewhere in her injured brain was the memory of someone else trying to set her straight. Why did people always think they knew what was best for her?

“Our women always keep their heads covered—always.”

“Oh.” Rachel’s hand went to her hair, which was unbraided and not covered. “Even in the house?”

Caleb glanced at her and then away. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Depends, but my point is that for some reason you weren’t wearing a kapp when I found you.”

“Maybe I lost it.”

“And your hair was down—you know, unbraided, like it is now.”

She pulled her hair over her right shoulder, nervously running her fingers through it. “Anything else?”

“Your clothes are all wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wrong color, wrong...pattern or whatever you call it.”

“The color is wrong?”

“We only wear muted colors—no bright greens or blues.”

“Because?”

“Because it draws attention and we’re called to a life of humility and selflessness.”

Rachel jumped up, walked to the sink and rinsed out her cup. When she had her temper under control, or thought she did, she turned back to him. “Any other words of wisdom?”

Caleb was now standing, too, but near the table with his arms crossed in front, as if he was afraid she’d come too close. “Not that I know of...not now...”

“But?”

“Look, Rachel. I’m not being rude or mean. These are things I think you’d be better hearing from me than having people say behind your back.”

“Is that what type of community you have? One that talks behind people’s backs?”

“Every community does that, and it’s more from curiosity and boredom than meanness.”

“All right, then, tell me. What else do I need to know? So I won’t incite gossip and all.”

“It’s only that you’re obviously from a more progressive district.”

“Oh, it’s obvious, is it?”

“And so you might want to question your first instinct for things, stop and watch what other people do, be sensitive to offending others.”

“You are kidding me. That’s what you’re worried about?”

“I’m worried about a lot of things.”

“I’ve lost my entire world, everyone I knew, and you’re concerned I’ll offend someone?”

“I’ve hurt your feelings, and I didn’t mean to do that.”

“That’s something, I suppose.”

“But you’ll thank me tomorrow or the next day or a week from now.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Caleb, but there is one thing I do know.” She stepped closer and looked down at her hair, which was still pulled forward and reached well past her waist. When she glanced back up at him, she saw that he was staring at it. She waited for him to raise his eyes to hers.

He swallowed and shifted from one foot to the other. “There was one thing you wanted to say?”

“Ya. Your old girlfriend?”

“Emily?”

“The one who told you that you were stubborn and old-fashioned.”

“That would be Emily.” He reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck. When he did, she smelled the soap he’d used earlier, noticed the muscles in his arm flex. His blond hair flopped forward, and it occurred to her that he was a nice-looking guy—nice-looking but with a terrible attitude and zero people skills.

“Between you and me—she was right. You are stubborn. You are old-fashioned, and you should keep your helpful hints to yourself.”

And with that, she turned and fled down the hall, feeling better than she had since Caleb had rescued her from the snow.

* * *

The next morning, Caleb took as long with his chores as he dared. There was really no point in avoiding Rachel. She lived in their house now, and he would have to get used to her being around.

His mind darted back to her long hair. It wasn’t brown exactly, or chestnut—more the warm color of honey. It had reminded him of kitten fur. As she’d stood next to him in the kitchen, he’d had the irrational urge to reach out and comb his fingers through it. The moonlight had softened her expression, and for a moment the look of vulnerability had vanished. Sure, it had vanished and been replaced with anger.

He remembered her parting words and almost laughed. He’d only been trying to help, but he’d never been particularly tactful. The fact that she’d called him on it...well, it showed that she had spunk and hopefully that she was healing. He decided to take it for a good sign rather than be offended.

When he walked into the kitchen, he noticed that her hair was properly braided, and she’d apparently borrowed one of his mother’s kapps. Unfortunately, she wore the same dress as the day before. She gave him a pointed look, as if daring him to say something about it, but what could he say? It really wasn’t his business. He’d done his duty by warning her. The rest was out of his hands.

Everyone sat at the table, waiting on him, so he washed his hands quickly and joined them. After a silent prayer, he began to fill his plate. He heaped on portions of scrambled eggs, sizzling sausage, homemade biscuits and breakfast potatoes, which were chopped and fried with onions and bell pepper.

“Someone’s hungry this morning,” Ida said.

“Ya. Mucking out stalls can do that to a man.” He noticed that Rachel was eating, and she looked rested. “How are you feeling this morning, Rachel?”

“Better. Thank you, Caleb.” Her tone was rather formal, and the look she gave him could freeze birds to a tree branch.

He nodded and focused on his plate of food. When he was nearly finished, he began to discuss the day’s work with his father. They had a small enough farm—only seventy acres—but there was always work to do.

“Guess I’ll finish mending that fence this morning.”

“Ya, gut idea.”

His mother jumped up and fetched the coffeepot from the stove burner. She refilled everyone’s mugs, starting with Rachel’s. Usually his mother threw in her opinion on their work, but she’d been deep in conversation with Rachel the entire meal. They’d been thick as thieves talking about who knew what—girl stuff, he supposed.

“Have you thought any more about the alpacas?” Caleb asked.

His father added creamer to his coffee. “I’m a little hesitant, to tell you the truth. I know nothing about the animals.”

“They’re a good investment,” Caleb insisted. “Mr. Vann has decided he’s too old to manage such a big farm.”

Ida looked up in surprise. “It’s hardly bigger than ours, and Mr. Vann is only—”

“Nearly seventy.”

“Not so old, then.” His father shared a smile with his mom. Must have been an old-people’s joke, though his parents were only forty-eight.

“He has no children close enough to help on a daily basis,” Caleb explained. “He’s gifting the farm to his children and grandchildren, who will only use it for a weekend place. Obviously they can’t keep the alpacas.”

“I’m wondering if it’s the best time of year to get into a new business.”

“Better than planting season or harvesting, and he’s letting them go cheap. I’m telling you, if we don’t get them today, they’ll probably be gone.”

“Even a bargain costs money,” John said.

“Ya, I’m aware of that, but we have plenty put back.”

“What good are they, Caleb?” His mother held up a hand. “I’m not arguing with you. It’s only that I know nothing about them.”

“The yarn is quite popular,” Rachel said.

Everyone turned to stare at her. She blushed the color of a pretty rose and added, “I don’t know how I knew that.”

“Did you maybe have alpacas before? At your parents’ farm?”

“I don’t—I don’t think so, but I can remember the yarn. Spinners and knitters and even weavers use it.”

“Any chance you recall how much trouble they are to raise?” His father laughed at his own joke, and then he reached across the table and patted her hand. “I don’t expect you to answer that. I was only teasing because my son seems set on bringing strange animals onto our farm.”

“I thought you were a traditionalist,” Rachel said, then immediately pressed her fingers to her lips as if she wanted to pull back the words.

But if Caleb was worried he might have to answer that, might have to explain in front of his parents their conversation the night before, he was pleasantly mistaken.

Ida was up and clearing dishes, and she answered for him. “Oh, ya. In nearly every way that’s true. Caleb is quite traditional.”

“Unless it comes to animals,” his father said. “We’ve tried camels.”

“How was I to know they’d be so hard to milk?”

“And goats.”

“We learned a lot that time.”

“Ya, we learned if water can go through a fence, then so can a goat.”

“We’re a little off topic here.” Caleb tried to ignore the fact that Rachel was now grinning at him as if she’d discovered the most amusing thing that she might insult him with later. “Let’s just go look at the alpacas together. We could go this morning, and I’ll fix the fence this afternoon.”

“How about we do it the other way around?”

“Deal.”

He was up and out of his chair, already glancing at the clock. If he worked quickly, they could be there before noon—surely before anyone else came along and bought the alpacas out from under their noses.

“Caleb, would you mind making sure that the front porch and steps are free of ice?”

“The front porch?”

“We’re going to have visitors, and I don’t want anyone slipping.”

Visitors? On a Tuesday morning? “I was headed out to work on the fence line.”

“And then look at alpacas. I heard.”

He tugged on his ear. His mother was acting so strangely. Since when did she have weekday visitors? When had she ever asked him to clean off the front-porch steps?

“Shouldn’t take but a few minutes,” his father said. “Your mother wouldn’t ask if she didn’t need it.”

The rebuke was mild, but still he felt his cheeks flushing.

“Ya, of course. Anything else?”

“You could move your muddy boots off the front porch, as well as that sanding project you’ve never finished.”

“Did I miss something? Are we having Sunday service here on a Tuesday?” He meant it as a joke, but it came out as a whine.

Rachel jumped up to help his mother, not even attempting to hide her smile.

“Some ladies are stopping by.” His mother reached up and patted his shoulder. “I just don’t want them tripping over your things.”

He rolled his eyes but assured her that he’d take care of it right away.

When he stepped out onto the front porch, his dad clapped him on the back. “Give them a little space. Your mamm, she’s happy to have another girl around the place.”

“Ya, that makes sense, but—”

“She’s convinced that Gotte brought Rachel into our lives for a reason.”

“To give me more work?”

“And, of course, we all want to make the transition easier for Rachel. This is bound to be a difficult time.”

From the grin on Rachel’s face, he didn’t think it was as difficult as his father imagined, but instead of arguing with him, he found the stiff outdoor broom and began sweeping the steps to make sure there was no ice or water or snow there. Woman’s work, he thought, but that wasn’t what was bothering him. Change was in the air, and Caleb had never been one to embrace change—unless it was regarding farm animals.

In every other way, stubborn and old-fashioned was more his style.

* * *

Ida had shared with Rachel that a few ladies would be stopping by. “They heard about your situation and want to help.”

She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she’d nodded politely, and then Caleb had brought up alpacas, and the conversation had twisted and turned from there.

Now it was nearly noon, and she plopped onto the couch and stared at the items stacked on the coffee table.

Ida sat across from her, holding a steaming mug of coffee. “Seems everyone from our community pitched in. It’s gut, ya?”

“Of course. I’m a bit stunned. How did they even know that I’d need these things? How did they know I was here?”

“Word travels fast in an Amish community. Certainly you remember that.”

“We used to call it the Amish grapevine.”

Ida laughed. “I’ve heard that before, too, but ‘grapevine’ has a gossipy sound to it. This is really just neighbors helping neighbors.”

Rachel picked the top dress off the pile of clothes. The color was midnight blue—Caleb would be happy about that—and the fabric was a good cotton that would last. It was also soft to the touch. She ran her hand across it, humbled by all that these women, who were strangers to her, had given.

“We’ll need to take those in, of course. You’re shorter and smaller than Rebekah’s girls.”

“Won’t they need these?”

“Not likely, both have put on a good bit of weight since marrying, and that was before they were expecting her first grandchildren. No, I don’t think they’ll be needing them back.”

There were underclothes, kapps, two outdoor bonnets and a coat. All except the underclothes were used, but in good condition. Someone had brought a Bible and a journal for writing in. She thought those might come in handy. Dr. Gold had mentioned that writing a little every day might help her memories return. There was also a new scarf and gloves, knitted in a dark gray that had a touch of shimmer to it. “This is beautiful work.”

“Melinda can do wonders with a knitting needle. I’ve always been more of a crochet person myself.”

Rachel stood up, went to the room she was staying in and returned with the blue scarf she’d apparently been wearing when Caleb had found her. No coat, but a scarf—strange indeed. “I think—I think I might be a knitter.”

“That’s why you knew about the alpaca yarn.”

“Maybe. I think so. I know this is called a stockinette pattern—you alternate rows of knitting with rows of purling.” She closed her eyes, could almost see herself adjusting the tension in her yarn, squinting at a pattern, knitting needles flying. She could be imagining, or she could be remembering. There was no way to know.

“Are you remembering anything else?”

“Only that this—” She ran her fingers over the scarf, then draped it around her neck. “It seems very familiar.”

“That’s a beginning.”

“If only I could remember more, but when I try, the headaches return.”

Ida walked over to the bookcase and brought back the packet of information from the doctor at the hospital. Rachel had already rifled through it twice. There were instructions, what to expect, warning signs, as well as two cards—one for her next appointment with Dr. Gold and another card with the name and contact information for a Dr. Michie. She’d spoken with the doctor a few minutes before leaving the hospital. She was a counselor of some sort and had told Rachel to call her if she’d like to make an appointment.

Ida sat beside Rachel on the couch and they both stared down at the top page.

Ida read aloud from the sheet. “‘Symptoms of a concussion include brief loss of consciousness.’”

“Check.”

“‘Memory problems.’”

“We all know I have that.”

“‘Confusion.’”

Rachel leaned forward, propped her elbows on her knees and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Sometimes, when I can’t remember how I know something, I feel terribly confused.”

Ida nodded and continued with the list. “‘Drowsiness or feeling sluggish.’”

“Twice this morning I went back and laid down on the bed for a few minutes.”

“Only because I insisted. You need to recognize when things are overwhelming you. It’s important for a woman to learn to take care of herself. You’re no use to your family—”

“I don’t have one.”

“Or anyone else if you allow yourself to become ill or exhausted.”

Rachel heard the concern in Ida’s voice, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet her gaze. “I’m batting a thousand, as my bruder would say...”

She slapped her hand over her mouth.

Ida reached over and clutched her hand. “That’s gut, Rachel. You’re starting to remember. That’s a gut sign.”

“I suppose.”

“Can you remember his name?”

“Nein.”

“Older or younger?”

She closed her eyes and tried to picture her family, tried to recall anything from her past, but to no avail.

Her heart was racing and her mind was spinning off in a dozen directions, but she couldn’t quite grasp even one solid piece of information about her former life—other than she had a brother. Was he worried? Was he looking for her?

Finally, she motioned for Ida to continue with the list of symptoms. They knew she had a concussion, the doctor had confirmed as much, but it helped to know that the things she was feeling and experiencing weren’t unusual.

“‘Dizziness or blurred vision.’”

“A little yesterday, when I first woke up in the hospital.”

“‘Headache.’”

“Ya, especially when I try to remember.”

“‘Nausea or vomiting.’”

“Not since I started eating.”

“‘Sensitivity to light.’”

“That’s on there?” She scooted closer and peered at the sheet. “I tried going outside for a few moments earlier, but the sunshine felt like a pitchfork in my brain. I found myself wishing I had my sunglasses.”

“Another puzzle piece. You have a bruder and you wore sunglasses.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Perhaps.” Ida tapped the last item on the list. “What about balance problems? Any trouble there?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s check.” Rachel jumped up and pretended to walk a straight line, holding her hands out to the side. She pivoted and started back toward Ida, touching her nose with first her right and then left index finger as she walked. Ida began to laugh, and then Rachel began to laugh, and soon they were giggling like schoolgirls.

And, of course, that was the moment that Caleb walked inside, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. Why did he always seem to be disapproving of her? She pitied the woman that did decide to marry him or even date him. Caleb Wittmer might be a good man, but he wasn’t much fun to be around, and life should include some fun. Shouldn’t it?

“We’re about to head over to see the alpacas.”

“Oh, well, I hope it goes well, dear.”

“Actually I was wondering...”

“About?”

“Lunch.”

Ida started laughing again, and then she spread her arms to encompass the pile of goods their neighbors had brought. “We’ve been pretty busy in here.”

“I see that.”

“Our neighbors brought all of these things for Rachel.”

“Wunderbaar.”

“Honestly I forgot about making lunch, but I’ll throw some sandwiches together.”

Caleb nodded as if that made sense. His mother brushed past him, humming as she went into the kitchen.

“Let me guess.” Rachel couldn’t have stopped the smile spreading across her face if she’d tried, which she didn’t. “You’re not used to eating sandwiches.”

“Actually I can’t remember the last time Mamm didn’t have lunch waiting on the table.”

Rachel attempted to make sympathetic noises, but it probably came out like she’d managed to choke on something. She knew she should keep her mouth shut. Instead she said, “Men can make a sandwich, too, Caleb. Maybe you should give your mamm a little bit of a break here. Having me around? It’s a lot of extra work.”

He narrowed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath.

Rachel immediately regretted baiting him.

“Your community has been very nice. They even brought me some appropriate clothing.” Oops. She’d done it again.

Instead of aggravating Caleb, he seemed to relax. Perhaps poking at one another felt like safe ground to him. “That is a gut thing. I see you even have several kapps and bonnets there.”

He picked one up. Unfortunately, it happened to be on top of the pile of underclothes. When he glanced down and saw the stack of underthings, he dropped the bonnet, turned a bright shade of red and then pivoted and fled from the room.

Rachel grabbed a pillow and buried her face in it so that he couldn’t hear her laughter. Which felt so much better than worrying about what Caleb thought of her—that question was behind the laughter. She didn’t want to think about that, though, or about why it mattered.

She needed to remember who she was. Borrowed clothes, a guest room in someone else’s house and Caleb looking over her shoulder to see if she was following the rules were not how she wanted to live the rest of her life.


Chapter Three (#u2b1d1c03-f850-5246-9a57-b45354f86271)

Caleb bought the seven alpacas that afternoon.

His father had finally said, “You saved the money yourself. If it’s what you want, then give it a try.”

“Strangest animal I’ve ever seen” was his mother’s only comment.

Caleb spent the rest of the week making sure the alpacas had adequate space in the barn, reinforcing fencing where he would pasture them and generally getting to know the strange beasts.

His parents came out once a day to check on the animals and his best friend, Gabriel, had been by twice. Mostly he’d laughed at Caleb’s feeble attempts to interact with them.

As for Rachel, she hadn’t stepped outside of the house at all. If anything, she’d seemed physically worse on Wednesday and Thursday. At one point, his mamm had walked down to the phone shack and contacted the doctor, who had called in a prescription for nausea and told her to be patient. “These things take time” were the doctor’s exact words.

So Caleb was surprised when he was in the field with the alpacas on Friday morning and looked up to see Rachel leaning against the fence. She wore a proper dress and coat, plus one of the outer bonnets she’d been given, though there was little wind and the sun had melted away every last trace of snow. She also sported sunglasses, an old pair of his mother’s if he remembered correctly. In the crook of her arm she was carrying a bowl that his mother used to dump scraps into.

“Nice to see you outside.”

“If I sit in the house one more day, I might go crazy. One can only read so much or do so many crossword puzzles.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that I work every day from sunrise until dark.”

“Life of a farmer, I guess.”

“Amish women work hard, too. At least most of them do.”

“Kind of hard to find a job if you can’t remember anything more than your first name.”

Caleb shrugged. Rachel could find work if she wanted it. They both knew it. Instead of defending herself further, she changed the subject.

“Have you named them?”

“Nein. We don’t name our cows.”

“I don’t see any cows.”

“We only have three—all dairy cows. They’re in the east pasture.”

“Oh. I guess I haven’t been in that direction yet.” She reached out her hand and one of the alpacas moseyed over to sniff at her palm.

“I’d call you Mocha.”

The alpaca stood completely still and allowed her to rub its top notch of hair.

“How’d you do that? They won’t let me within five feet of them.”

When the male alpaca began to crunch on something, one of the females bounded over to join him. Soon he could barely see Rachel because the entire herd of alpacas had congregated near the fence. Caleb walked over to see what she was giving him.

“Apple slices?”

“Ya. Your mamm is making an apple pie, but she didn’t want to include the skins. It seems like I always did when I baked a pie...” She shook her head back and forth, as if she could rattle the memory free.

Caleb scratched at his jaw. “I didn’t think of giving them scraps.”

“Makes sense, though. Most animals enjoy apple slices. We had a dog once that loved them.”

Her head jerked up and she met Caleb’s gaze, surprise coloring her features.

“You’re remembering more every day.”

“Small inconsequential things. It’s frustrating.”

“Not to my alpacas.”

She smiled at that, and Caleb felt inexplicably better. He didn’t pretend to understand Rachel, but he somehow thought of himself as responsible for her. Perhaps that was normal considering he’d found her in the snow only a few days before.

“Did you get a good deal on the animals?”

“I think so. Less than three thousand dollars for all seven, and there are two females.”

“Hopefully you’ll have baby alpacas running around by spring.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Do you expect they’ll be much work?”

“Not according to Mr. Vann. They mainly eat hay and grass, though some mineral supplements are good, too.”

“So you won’t be spending much money to maintain them.”

“Nein. Also, they don’t bite or butt or spit. I tried raising a llama once, but that didn’t go so well.”

Rachel crossed her arms on the fence and rested her head on top of them, watching the group of alpacas dart away and then flop and roll in a patch of dirt. He’d seen them do that before, but watching Rachel watching them, seeing the smile grow on her face, he realized for the first time what funny animals they were.

“They’re herd animals, so it’s a good thing I was able to buy seven.”

“I think you made a good business decision, Caleb. You’ll know for sure once you shear them, but my guess is that you’ll make a nice return on your investment.”

“Mr. Vann said to watch the top notch. If the hair grows to cover their eyes, I’m supposed to have it cut, which will mean learning to do it myself because I’m not about to pay someone else to do it.”

Rachel covered her mouth to hide a giggle, which Caleb heard nonetheless.

“What’s so funny?”

“Explain that to me,” she said.

“Explain what?”

“You’re so old-fashioned about other things.” She held up a hand when he began to protest. “You admitted it yourself, the first night I was here. The night that you told me about your last girlfriend.”

“She wasn’t right about everything.”

“But you said...what was it? ‘My normal personality is bullheaded and old-fashioned.’”

“Ya. I suppose it’s true.”

“Not exactly unusual among the Amish.”

“Oh, you remember that, do you?”

“So why are you such a risk taker as far as animals?”

“Crops, too,” he admitted. He’d been watching the animals, but now he turned to study Rachel. “I’ll answer your question, but first tell me why you want to know.”

“Curious, I guess. Sort of like your alpacas.”

The horses were grazing in the adjacent pasture. The gelding had wandered close to the fence separating it from the alpacas. The horse was focused on the winter grass, but one of the tan alpacas had zeroed in on the horse. It stuck its nose through the fence, then jumped back, jumped almost vertically. Which caused the other alpacas to trot over, and then they were all gawking at the horse and making a high-pitched noise that sounded like a cat with its tail caught in a door.

“So you’re not asking merely to give me grief?”

“Not at all.” With her fingers, she crossed her heart. “Promise.”

He leaned against the fence, studying the animals but thinking of the woman standing beside him. Rachel was a jumbled mix of paradoxes. One moment she seemed vulnerable, the next fiercely independent, and then sometimes she was quietly curious.

Glancing at her, he realized—not for the first time—what a beautiful woman she was. Probably back in her own community she had a boyfriend who was wondering what had happened to her. The thought made him uncomfortable, as if they should be doing more to return her to her home. But what could they do?

Nothing, so far as he knew, so instead he settled for being honest and answering her question.

“I like the Plain life. I’ve seen my fair share of folks leave our faith—about half of them came back, tails tucked between their legs. The other half? They either never visit their family at all—”

“Is it allowed?”

“Oh, ya. Our bishop encourages families to support one another, even when a member chooses a different path.”

Rachel nodded, as if that made sense.

“These people I’m thinking of, they have a standing invitation to come home and see their loved ones.”

“But they don’t?”

“Most don’t. The ones that do, they seem put out that they have to leave their cell phone in the car.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“You’re asking if anyone in my family has gone over to the Englisch side?” Caleb ran his hand along the top rail of the metal fence—it was smooth and cold to the touch. “Two cousins, on my mother’s side.”

“So that makes you conservative...as far as people are concerned.”

“I think being Plain means we stand for something. We stand for a different lifestyle. Once we start making compromises, there’s no difference between us and the Englisch—in that case, who wouldn’t leave?”

Rachel was shaking her head, her bonnet strings swaying back and forth, but she smiled and said, “All right. I’ve never heard it expressed that way before, but—”

“You might have. Maybe you don’t remember.”

“Good point. So you’re conservative because you think it’s good for families and believers.”

“Right.”

“But the farming? And animals?”

“In business you want to be conservative—for sure and certain you do.”

“But?”

“It’s exciting to try something new. Ya? Look at those animals. They seem like giant poodles to me. Who figured out that their wool would be a good crop?”

“Caleb, you surprise me.”

“Ya?” He reached forward and brushed some grass off her coat sleeve, no doubt left by one of his alpacas that had been nosing closer for apple peels. “Is that gut or bad?”

“Both. The alpacas will be entertaining.”

They’d returned to flopping down in the dirt.

“Your herd looks like they will produce a variety of coffee colors.”

“Coffee, huh?”

“Something Englischers love—lots of browns and tans and mochas and cappuccinos. Maybe even a cinnamon hue on that far one.”

“Cappuccino?” He could feel the frown forming on his lips. No doubt she loved visiting a coffee shop and wasting her money.

“Plus their fiber is hypoallergenic, which is what makes it very popular.”

“Funny that you know that.”

She simply shrugged.

“I know nothing about shearing, but I can learn.”

“Do you have a local library?”

“Sure.”

“You can search how to do that on their computers.”

He felt something freeze inside of him. This happened every time he began to feel comfortable with Rachel. She said or did something that reminded him she didn’t belong here and probably wouldn’t be staying. He stepped away from the fence, so now they were facing each other, though Rachel was a good head shorter than he was.

“We don’t use the computers.”

“Why?” She cocked her head and looked genuinely puzzled.

“Because we choose not to. We’re Plain...” He couldn’t help emphasizing the last word, though he realized it sounded patronizing.

“Uh-huh. Well, I can tell you’re getting aggravated, so I suppose I should go back inside.”

“We just talked about what it means to be Plain, and then you throw out a comment about using computers.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a computer, Caleb.” She stepped closer, right up into his personal space, and stared up at him.

He took a step back.

“Computers aren’t evil.”

“Never said they were, but they’re not Plain.”

“A computer isn’t going to cause anyone to leave the faith.”

“It could. The things you can see on one...well, it’s like bait to our youngies...”

“Of which you are one.”

He laughed at that. “Turned twenty-five last year.”

“Me, too.”

They both froze, the argument suddenly forgotten.

“Another piece of the puzzle of Rachel,” he said softly.

She glanced at him uncertainly, a range of emotions playing across her face, and then she turned and wandered back into the house, pausing now and again to look back at the alpacas.

* * *

Rachel spent the rest of Friday morning helping Ida, but honestly there wasn’t much to do for a family of three—four if she counted herself. Was she a part of Ida’s family? Was this her home now? When would she remember her past?

And beneath those questions were Caleb’s words, mocking her.

Amish women work hard, too. At least most of them do.

Did he think she liked not being able to remember her own last name or where she was from? Did he think she enjoyed being ill?

“The headaches are better, ya?” Ida was crocheting a gray-and-black winter scarf for Caleb. She only brought it out during the day, not wanting him to see it until Christmas morning.

Rachel was sitting and staring at the crochet needle that Ida had given her. She’d even shown her how to use it, but the rhythm and stitch pattern seemed completely foreign. If she’d crocheted in her other life, she certainly couldn’t remember doing so.

“Some.”

“That’s gut. You’re a little better every day. You could be entirely well by Christmas.”

“Does your community celebrate on December twenty-fifth or on January sixth?”

“Both. The older generation—older than me even, they prefer Old Christmas.”

“Probably includes Caleb.”

“Caleb likes both holidays—mainly because I cook his favorite dishes.”

“I wish I could remember how to use this.” Rachel stared at the crochet needle. “I wish I remembered something useful.”

“That seems to happen when you’re not thinking about it.” She pointed to the journal that contained the list that Rachel had made. The list was pitifully short, in her opinion. She opened the journal and stared down at the first page.

My name is Rachel.

I have a brother.

I know about alpaca wool.

Used to wear sunglasses?

I’m 25 years old.

“Those things could describe a lot of women.”

“And yet they describe you, and Gotte made you special and unique.”

“Now you’re trying to cheer me up.”

“Indeed.” Ida peered at her over the reading glasses she wore while crocheting. The frames were a pretty blue, which probably irked Caleb to no end. A blue dress was out of the question—blue frames couldn’t be far behind.

“Do you know what I think is wrong with you?”

Rachel nearly choked on the water she’d been sipping. She’d known Ida for only less than a week, and yet already she knew the woman had a gentle spirit—one that wasn’t critical.

“What’s wrong with me?”

Now Ida was smiling. “Uh-huh.”

“Tell me, Ida. Because it may just be that my brain is bruised, but I feel all out of sorts.”

“You have cabin fever.”

“Pardon me?”

“Cabin fever. I used to suffer from it something terrible when Caleb was a babe. That was a hard winter, and we were inside—in this very house—too much. Finally, his father came into the kitchen one morning and told me that he had finished all of his work in the barn.”

“A farmer’s work is never done...”

“Exactly. When John came in that morning, he claimed he’d finished the work that had to be done, took the babe from my arms and told me to go to town.”

“And did it help?”

“Immensely. After that, one day a week he’d come in and take care of Caleb for a few hours while I went on little errands.”

“So I need to go on little errands?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” Ida dropped her crochet work in her lap and pulled a scrap of paper from her apron pocket. “Here’s some things I need from the general store. It’s on the main road. You won’t have any trouble finding it. While you’re out, maybe you can find something whimsical to do.”

“Whimsical?”

“Impulsive. Something you hadn’t planned on. Life on a farm can be awfully predictable. A surprise, even a little one, can brighten the spirit.”

“How am I supposed to get there?”

“John told me he’d bring around the buggy after lunch.”

“What if I don’t remember how to drive a buggy?”

“We won’t know that until you try. If you don’t remember, then I’ll ask Caleb to go with you.”

The rest of the morning sped by and suddenly lunch was over and the buggy and horse were waiting near the front porch.

Maybe it was the thought of a little freedom, or perhaps it was fear that Caleb would be saddled with her for an afternoon when he’d rather be with his alpacas—he’d frowned fiercely when Ida shared their plan during lunch—but whatever the cause, Rachel was determined to drive the buggy herself. She needn’t have worried. As soon as she climbed up into the buggy, something deep inside of her brain took over.

Her hands picked up the reins.

She clucked to the horse.

Her spirit soared, and she pulled away.

Ida had given her an envelope with cash in it and drawn a crude map on the back of the list. The way to the general store was simple and consisted of driving down the lane to the main road, making a right and heading into town. Rachel suspected the map was in case she forgot how to get home, but her confidence had surged as soon as she’d begun driving the buggy. She didn’t think she’d be getting lost.

The dark cloud that had been hovering over her mood lifted by the time she hit the main road. Farms dotted the way into town, and many had Christmas displays in the yards. Englisch homes had lights strung across shrubs and trees. She wondered what they’d look like at night.

Other houses sported giant inflatable yard decorations. There were large white polar bears wearing red neckties, yellow cartoon characters with blue pants and round eyeglasses that she had seen on Englisch coloring books, and even reindeer pulling a sleigh. A few Amish homes had wooden nativities, and their porches were decorated with green cedar wrapped around the porch railing.

As she neared town, she passed a sign that read Welcome to Montgomery, Indiana. The name didn’t ring any bells. But then, she already knew she wasn’t from here.

So how had she happened on the road that led to Caleb’s home?

Where was she from?

In town, the main road was filled with other buggies as well as cars. She saw even more decorations, including festive window displays, city banners wishing everyone “Happy Holidays” and churches reminding people when their Christmas services would be held. It was only December seventh, but it seemed that everyone was getting ready for the holiday early.

She was waiting at a signal light when a car of Englischers pulled up beside her, and a young child waved. She waved back as they pulled away. If it hadn’t been for the child, she wouldn’t have been looking in that direction, but she was...and so she saw the sign that said Montgomery Public Library.

She was in the wrong lane. She had to drive another block before turning, but the entire time she could hear Caleb’s words in her ears.

Amish women work hard, too. At least most of them do.

He might not want to use the Englisch computers to learn about his new alpaca herd, but she was more than willing to look for a job on them. Something told her that if she wanted to move forward, the internet would be the place to start.

Find a job. Earn some money. Remember who she was.

It was a short list, and suddenly Rachel was sure it was one she could conquer.


Chapter Four (#u2b1d1c03-f850-5246-9a57-b45354f86271)

Rachel’s library search was not fruitful.

First of all, the library was small—smaller than she had imagined. The room was about the size of Ida’s sitting room. The walls were lined with bookcases that were filled to capacity with books, but there wasn’t exactly a large variety of material and much of it looked quite dated. Worse, there were only two computers. Both were being used when she walked in, so she had to wait. While she did, she perused the bookshelves. There was a single shelf with books labeled Christian Fiction. She thought to check one out, then realized she didn’t have any identification.

The librarian had been watching her—she was an older lady with shoulder-length silver hair and was wearing a bright red sweater that said Ho Ho Ho across the front. She stood about only five feet tall, and Rachel couldn’t help envisioning one of the elves she’d seen as part of a lawn display on her drive into town.

“Problem, dear?”

“Only that I don’t...well, I don’t have any identification. I’m staying with John and Ida Wittmer.”

“You must be the girl Caleb found in the snow.”

“Ya. Unless he found two, and I haven’t met the other one yet.”

“I’m pretty sure it was you—Amish, young, pretty and with freckles.” She walked over to Rachel, patted her on the arm and smiled. “I mean no offense, dear. You’re quite the topic of conversation around our little township—a real Christmas mystery.”

“I never thought of it that way.” Rachel turned back to the books, allowed her fingertips to caress the spines. Had she always liked to read? What were her favorite types of books?

“You can pick out up to three items.”

“But I don’t have an identification card.”

“So you mentioned.”

“I don’t even remember my own last name, and...and I don’t have a home address.”

“For now, your home address is Ida and John’s place, which I know because they both have a card here.”

“They do? I thought Caleb said...”

“I’m well aware of Caleb’s opinion on the matter, but I suspect one day he will marry and perhaps his wife will be able to soften that stubborn spirit.”

Rachel didn’t know how to answer that. From what she’d seen of Caleb Wittmer it would take more than a wife to change his attitudes—it would take divine intervention.

“As far as your last name, we’ll just put Rachel for now. I make up the entire library staff—well, me and one part-time girl who works a few hours in the afternoon. So there’s no one to tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m Mary Agnes Putnam, by the way, but most people just call me Mary Agnes.”

The woman was as good as her word. While Rachel picked out one novel and a slim volume of poems by William Blake, Mary Agnes printed her a library card on an old printer, which sounded as if it was in distress. Rachel looked over a few cooking books, several historical tomes and some children’s titles. As she was walking toward the checkout desk, she spied a pile of books with the word Self-help neatly printed and taped to the wall beside it. She dug through the stack and came up with Crocheting for Dummies. Maybe she’d feel useful if she could at least use Ida’s crochet needle properly.

Mary Agnes checked out her material, and Rachel confessed, “I came in to use the computer.”

“Indeed? We get that a lot around here.”

“Maybe I should come back.” She glanced over at the two old gentlemen who were still at their monitors.

“I’ll take care of those two for you. They’re playing chess—with one another—on the computer!” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “We have a chessboard on the game shelf, and even a table where they can play, but both Albert and Wayne say they need to learn to travel the information highway. That’s what they call it. So they play chess every day on the monitors. Fancy the things that people do.”

Mary Agnes ran off the two men, who claimed it was time for their lunch, anyway. She showed Rachel how to log on and directed her to Montgomery’s virtual job-search board.

But thirty minutes on the computer only increased Rachel’s frustration. She couldn’t fill in any applications with no last name. She didn’t know what her educational level was. Ida had mentioned that most Amish students attended school through eighth grade. Had she? Who knew? Maybe she’d lived in a district that went to school through twelfth grade like the Englischers. Did any Amish do that? She certainly couldn’t recall her employment history, though if she was twenty-five she must have worked somewhere.

Sighing in frustration, she logged off, picked up her three books and thanked Mary Agnes for her help. She stepped out into a day that felt more like fall than winter. She should go on to the store and pick up the items on Ida’s list, but then she remembered Ida telling her to take her time. What was it she had said?

Do something whimsical.

She couldn’t imagine what that might be, so she walked over to the parking area and checked on the buggy horse, who was contentedly cropping grass.

Whimsical?

There was a park bench in the middle of the grassy area on the north side of the library. No one else was around, so she made her way across the small area and sat down, eventually putting her head back and closing her eyes. The sun felt good on her face, and some of the tension in her shoulders eased—as long as she didn’t think about her predicament.

Instead of worrying, she focused on the word predicament




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