Page 57 of Outsider

A knock on the door startles us. Gina gets to her feet, looking around. “You expecting someone?”

“I’ll go check.” Lizzie scoots back her chair, but I set my hand on her shoulder.

“I have a better idea,” I say easily. “Why don’t you girls get your checkers set up and I’ll get it.”

Gina looks at me. “Where are Adam and Sammy?”

“Breaking ice for the livestock,” I say. “Stay here.”

Quickly, I go to the mudroom, grab my .38 from the top shelf of the cabinet, and walk back to the living room. I check the cylinder, shove the weapon into my waistband at the small of my back, and go to the front window. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of the two Amish women. They’re bundled in winter capes and black winter bonnets, standing on the porch, their backs turned to the blowing snow. Both are holding casserole dishes that are covered with tinfoil.

I open the door. “Guder mariye.” Good morning.

The woman to my left is a tad past middle age and heavyset, with round cheeks and wire-rimmed glasses. The younger woman is about twenty-five, with big brown eyes and a flawless complexion that’s blushed with cold. I’ve met her a couple of times over the years. Her name is Ruthie Fisher and she works at The Carriage Stop in Painters Mill, which is one of several shops that cater to tourists visiting Amish Country.

The women look flummoxed by my presence, so I open the door wider and make an effort to appear welcoming. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside. I look past them to see a sleigh, the horse tethered to a hitching post, a heavy winter coat draped over its back and buckled at its chest to cut the wind and keep it dry.

The women enter. Both are cognizant of tracking snow and take a moment to wipe their shoes and shake snow from their coats.

I introduce myself and look at the younger woman. “You’re Ruthie Fisher?”

“Ja,” she says. “Chief Burkholder?”

“We met at the shop last fall.” Nodding, I smile. “You have the best caramel popcorn in town.”

The compliment earns me a reciprocal smile. “We’ve got jalapeño now, too.”

“Next time.” I turn my attention to the older woman. I’ve met her at some point, too; Painters Mill is a small town, after all, and I interact with many citizens regularly. But I don’t recall where and I don’t remember her name.

“I’m Martha Stoltzfus.” She looks past me, toward the kitchen. “We brought food for Adam and the children. With all the snow, I thought he’d appreciate some grub.”

“Hinkelbottboi,” the young woman tells me, using the Deitsch word for chicken potpie.

“Shtengel, too,” Martha adds. Rhubarb.

“Adam’s in the pasture, breaking ice,” I tell them. “Would you like me to get him for you?”

Both sets of eyes move past me. Surprise and bewilderment overtake their expressions. I turn to see Gina and Lizzie standing at the kitchen doorway, and something sinks in my chest.

Familiar with the women and delighted by their presence, Lizzie approaches, smiling. “Mrs. Stoltzfus.” She goes to the woman, hugs her, and does the same with the younger woman. “Hi, Ruthie.”

“I thought you’d be outside making a snowman.” The older woman says the words with a brightness that doesn’t quite mask her thinly veiled disapproval at finding not only me but an Englisch woman in Adam Lengacher’s home.

“We might get to go to the creek later to skate if Datt needs to cut wood,” the girl says.

“Well, I hope so!” Ruthie puts in.

Annie runs to the women and hugs are exchanged. “Do you want to come with us, Ruthie?” she asks. “You can wear Mamm’s skates.”

“Not today.” Ruthie passes the casserole to the girl, runs her hand over the girl’s kapp, but her attention is honed on the mysterious English woman who has yet to speak.

Gina stands in the kitchen doorway looking a little too comfortable in snug blue jeans, a turtleneck, a flannel shirt, and a homemade sling. Her dark hair is mussed, giving her a slightly disheveled countenance. The stocking feet speak of a woman who’s made herself at home. She stares back at the two Amish women as if they’ve entered without an invitation. Etiquette dictates I introduce them. Of course, I can’t. The fewer people who know Gina’s here, the better.

With my eyes I urge Gina back to the kitchen. Amusement drifts across her features as she slinks away, out of sight. Turning, I take a breath and address the women. “Adam is going to want to thank you personally for the lovely food. If you’d like to sit down and warm up, I’ll get him for you.”

The two women exchange looks, and for the first time it occurs to me the delivery of food isn’t the only reason for their being here. Ruthie, after all, is a pretty, single Amish woman; Adam is an eligible bachelor in need of a wife and a mother for his children. Enough time has passed since the death of his wife that it’s appropriate, expected even, for him to partake in the courting process and remarry. If my assessment is correct, Martha has taken on the role of, if not matchmaker, then facilitator. Of course, they didn’t expect to find me, let alone an attractive and mysterious Englischer woman, making ourselves at home in Adam Lengacher’s kitchen.

“We didn’t know Adam had company,” Ruthie says.