A Marriage for Meghan (27 page)

“Of course.” He scrambled to his feet and shoved everything into a briefcase. “I’ll get out of your way, but you never answered my question about taking coffee into the front room.”

She perched a hand on her narrow hip. “Can you drink it without spilling it on the carpet, Officer Mast?”

“I believe I can, Miss Yost.”

“Then you may. And it’s Meghan. We don’t stand on all that formality of ‘Miss’ and ‘Mr.’ down here.”

His smile turned his eyes a deeper shade of blue. “Thank you, Meghan, but it’s not Officer Mast. That would refer to the police or the sheriff’s department. It’s Special Agent Mast, but you may call me Thomas.”

They locked gazes for a moment, and then he picked up his cup and briefcase and walked from the room. But in those few seconds, she had felt an odd shiver snake up her spine. It felt as though the reverse raffle was down to the last two names and she was about to win the honey-glazed ham.

She tried to shake off the sensation as she set the table, poured tall glasses of milk, and mixed the coleslaw. Her uneasiness not only remained but increased as Catherine, her brothers, and then her parents returned home and washed up for supper. Why in the world had she told the FBI about Owen? That confession should never have left the Amish community. If she inadvertently made trouble for Owen or his family, she would never forgive herself. Finally, as the family gathered around the table, her father called the nosy lawman to eat.

Mast didn’t act surprised when they bowed their heads in silent prayer. And no one seemed uncomfortable with the man’s presence at dinner except for her. Catherine shared some local news she’d heard from a student. James and John chatted about the outlook for hay and corn prices as though down at the grain elevator. The recent crime wave was not mentioned.

Meghan picked at her food, focusing her attention anywhere but where Thomas sat. Soon he would leave and go back to Wooster to do his job. She wouldn’t have to talk to him or divulge any more confidences or fall under his hypnotic blue-eyed spell. Relaxing somewhat, she walked to the counter and sliced a peach pie into six equal pieces. She would pass on dessert for herself.

“Oh, Meghan, I almost forgot,” said Gideon. “Your sister can clean the kitchen tonight. I’ve rented the
dawdi haus
to Agent Mast to use while he’s here. I’d like you to show him around and answer his questions. Things work differently in there than what he’s used to. Make sure he has whatever he needs.”

“Take fresh linens and towels,” added her
mamm.

“What?” she asked with the pie server aloft in one hand. “The
dawdi haus
?”

“Yes, daughter. The small white building behind our house.”

Her brothers laughed uproariously.

“Ah, yes. I remember it now.” Meghan turned back to the pie, feeling her shiver of anticipation change into a premonition of doom.
My prize will be a lot worse than a honey-glazed ham.

Thomas swallowed a delicious bite of pie, trying not to laugh. The look on Meghan’s face when her father announced their new renter had been priceless. She need not worry about the confidences she shared with him. The schoolhouse mystery had been solved and the matter laid to rest. Because Owen Shockley had nothing to do with the other crimes, whatever punishment his father dispensed would settle the matter.

Leaning back in his chair, Thomas sipped his coffee as though he had all the time in the world. For one thing, his schedule had become more manageable with him staying at the farm. It appeared to be the epicenter of criminal activity with much of it focused on the Yost family. He would be able to set up surveillance on the spur of the moment. And because district members came to the bishop with their problems, he would have firsthand information within a community distrustful of the media and outside world.

Another reason? He couldn’t remember enjoying a meal this much in a long time. Although he loved the family banquets at his parents’ home at Christmas and Thanksgiving, this was an ordinary Monday night supper. Maybe he’d lived alone for too long, subsisting on canned soup and deli takeout, but the delicious food and lively conversation had made the meal seem festive. The witty and talkative Yost sons told their parents of the day’s events without complaining. James tried to draw the reticent Meghan into conversation several times and seemed genuinely fond of her. Catherine, reserved and dignified, was respectful of her father and solicitous of her mother. She appeared to consider her opinions carefully before expressing them.

But it was the youngest Yost who intrigued Thomas the most. At times naive and childlike, Meghan also showed spunk and determination, uncommon among Amish women. And she certainly was pretty—blonde and green-eyed, with a complexion that could land her a career as a skin care model. Except that she didn’t watch commercials or use fancy skin care products. Frankly, he couldn’t believe nobody had as yet driven off with her as a new bride.

“I said if you’re ready, I’ll take you to the
dawdi haus
now.”

Meghan’s words jarred Thomas from his pleasant woolgathering. He blinked and glanced around, noticing that his coffee cup, still positioned midway to his mouth, was empty. Every member of the Yost family was staring at him. James smirked, while Ruth looked a bit concerned, as though she was wondering if they had just rented the building to a madman. Meghan stood scowling with an armload of linens and towels.

“I’m sorry.” He put down his cup and pushed back from the table. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal this much in a long time. I guess I drifted off into a daydream.”

Everyone laughed, except for Meghan.

“No harm done,” said Gideon, rising to his feet. “I find myself doing the same thing at times.”

“It’s usually when I ask him to take me somewhere he doesn’t wish to go,” added Ruth. “Welcome, Agent Mast. Please don’t be shy while you’re staying on our farm. Take whatever you want and ask for anything you need. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at breakfast.” She stood and then pushed her chair to the table.

“Thank you, ma’am, for everything.” He dipped his head politely.

“It’s Ruth,” she corrected over her shoulder, walking toward the living room.

Thomas had begun to gather his dirty plates and bowls when Catherine intervened. “Hey, that’s my job. You run off now with Meghan before I end up in the unemployment line.” She smiled at him as she took the stack of dishes.

“Good night, Agent,” said Gideon. “We’ll talk again at breakfast.” He followed his wife through the doorway, shuffling his feet with fatigue.

James grabbed a cookie from a plate on the counter. “Good luck, Agent. Just fire off an SOS if Meghan asks you to wash windows or repaint the ceilings tonight.” James pointed at Thomas’ holster. “We’ll come to your rescue.”

Thomas didn’t need to look at Meghan to gauge her reaction to her brother’s teasing; he heard her derisive snort. Instead, he collected his briefcase and coat by the door. Outside under a clear night sky blazing with stars, he marveled at the sweet scent in the air. “Man, do you smell that?”

“It’s spring, Offic—Agent Thomas. We fertilize our fields with composted cow and horse manure.” She marched down the gravel path to the second, smaller house as though in a military parade. Her eyes stayed focused straight ahead.

“Just Thomas, if you don’t mind. And I’m talking about something that smells
good
.”

She halted so abruptly he almost collided with her. Then she sniffed like a bloodhound gathering a scent from a person’s clothes.

“Lilacs. My
grossmammi
planted several bushes, both purple and white, behind the house you just rented. They must have bloomed. I love that scent. It reminds me of her.” She stomped up the steps and opened the door, motioning for him to enter with the bundle of linens in her arms.

The door hadn’t been locked, he noticed. “My grandmother had lilacs too.” He stepped into an austere living room that looked as though nothing had changed for decades.

She followed him in, kicking the door shut with her heel. “Home, sweet home for a couple of days.”

“I might be here longer than that,” he murmured, scanning the room. It contained an upholstered sofa, a rocking chair, an easy chair by the window and a second chair along the opposite wall. Next to the easy chair, a marble-topped table held a kerosene lamp, creating a comfortable reading spot. A tall bookcase, half filled with books, and an oak writing desk with a matching chair completed the furnishings. “That’s a beautiful desk,” he said. “Did someone in your family make it?” He set his briefcase on the swivel chair.

She walked to the desk, still clutching the linens as though protection from an unknown threat. “One of my uncles works as a wood craftsman at the furniture store in Mount Hope. He made this piece for his father in his spare time. It took him more than a year to finish.” She ran a finger along the smooth, rounded edge.

Thomas took his laptop from his briefcase and set it on the desk’s polished surface. After digging out the power cord, he hunted for a nearby outlet. He found only a bemused expression on Meghan’s face.

“You did notice that we were Amish, didn’t you? No electricity.”

He laughed, feeling a bit silly. “Yes, I noticed that, but plugging in gizmos is a force of habit.” He shoved the cord back into his briefcase.

“Hmm, it’ll be impossible to use your computer here. Maybe you would be more comfortable at the hotel in town.” She smiled eagerly.

“Oh, no. It won’t be a problem at all. I can recharge both my cell phone and my laptop with my car battery. And if I need to print anything out, I can do so at the Justice Center. The sheriff offered any and all amenities.” He matched her grin.

She marched into one of the bedrooms. “I’ll change the sheets while you bring in the rest of your stuff.” Like a whirlwind, she stripped off the quilt and pillows, heaping the linens onto the bedroom chair.

Instead of returning to his car, he walked to the pile of bedding. Lifting a corner of the fabric to examine it, he felt an inexplicable rush of nostalgia. The quilt, baby soft from dozens of launderings, had tiny, perfectly spaced stitches. “Who made this?” he asked, trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.

She paused and glanced up. “My
grossmammi
. It was a wedding gift to my parents. Lovely, no?”

“Lovely, yes. Isn’t it called the Wedding Ring pattern? My mom has one like it in bright navy and red instead of pastel blue and green.”

“It’s a common pattern. Your mom’s was probably machine made,” she said while stuffing sheets inside the pillowcases. “That’s the bureau for your clothes.” She pointed with a slender index finger. “That cedar chest holds extra blankets. If this room gets cold, build a fire in the kitchen woodstove and keep your door open. You do know how to build a fire, don’t you? Follow me,” she ordered, without waiting for his reply.

Thomas felt anger build like summer thunderstorm. “Meghan, I—”

But she’d grabbed her bedding and stack of towels and marched like a drill sergeant out of the room.

He followed her down the hallway, resisting the impulse to grab the back of her apron.

“Here’s your bathroom,” she said. “You’ll have plenty of hot water, thanks to a separate propane water heater.” She plunked the towels on the vanity. “Bring your used towels to the back porch. I’ll leave fresh ones in a basket for you every
other
day, but there’s no maid service. Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier at the hotel? You’re probably used to folks waiting on you. That’s not going to happen here.” She crossed her arms, staring with more defiance than two defensive linemen across a scrimmage line. Her lips pulled into a pout.

Thomas leaned one shoulder against the door frame and crossed his arms to mimic her pose. His size effectively blocked her escape. “First of all, young lady, my mom’s quilt was handmade by my grandmother, same as yours. Secondly, I earned a merit badge for building campfires while in the Boys Scouts, so the woodstove shouldn’t present any problem. Besides, it’s April. I doubt I would freeze to death either way. And thirdly, I’ve never been
waited on
in my life. I cook for myself, wash my own dishes, run the sweeper, use a dust rag, and do my own laundry. No maid.” He lowered his brows and glared to hone his point.

Her innocent, young face turned cherry red. “You have no wife?” she asked, rather meekly.

“No wife either. I do have a mom, but she hasn’t picked up after me since middle school.”