Page 91 of Fallen

Loretta turns to me. No longer is she the mouselike woman with the dish towel tossed over her shoulder and her eyes cast down. Now, she is a mother whose child is under threat, willing to do whatever it takes to protect what is hers.

“You are veesht,” she hisses. Wicked. “Your heart is filled with lushtahrei.” Immorality. “You are not Amisch. You were never Amish.” She raps the heel of her hand against her chest. “Not inside. Not here, where it counts.”

“This isn’t about me,” I tell her. “It’s about Fannie.”

“Leave her out of this,” Loretta spits.

My mind races for some way to reach her, land upon some point that will help me negotiate my way out of this or at least defuse the situation until help arrives.

“I know what happened,” I tell her. “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

Neither of them engage, so I keep going. “I think Rachael became ime familye weg the night Dane Fletcher assaulted her. I think she hid it from her family. From everyone. She had the baby. An innocent little girl. Only she didn’t want it, did she?”

The Amish woman stares straight ahead. “Be quiet, Katie.”

I keep pushing. “I know what she did. I know what you did. I’m not blaming either of you.”

“Leeyah.” Liar. She turns to me, eyes flaring. “You know nothing. Backslider. Who are you to judge? We will not let you take her.”

In the minutes I’ve been talking, I’ve worked at the wires wrapped around my wrists, bending and flexing, but the steel holds fast. At some point, I’ve cut my skin. I feel a dribble of blood making its way across my knuckles.

“No one’s going to take her from you.” I say the words with a gentleness that belies the situation. “There may be some legal issues, but there’s no reason why you can’t legally adopt Fannie and continue to raise her as your own.”

It’s not true, of course. This couple has committed multiple felonies. They will be prosecuted and, if convicted, probably spend time behind bars.

“All you have to do,” I say, “is untie me. We go back to the house and come up with a plan. I know we can work it out.”

The Amish woman slants a questioning look at her husband. For the first time, she appears uncertain. She wants the words to be true. She wants the problem of me to go away. Most of all, she wants Fannie.

“I think it’s too late,” she whispers.

“Do the right thing,” I coax. “The police will be here any moment. Whatever you have planned isn’t going to work.”

Ben casts a warning look at his wife. “Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That is nothing but trifling talk. “No one is coming. Don’t listen to her.”

I look around. The woods are about fifty yards away. The field to my left looks fallow. There’s no cover, not a single tree or fence. I have no idea what they have planned or where they’re taking me. They’re not going to let me go. If I’m going to get away, now is the time.

Never taking my eyes from the couple, I set my heels against the wood bed. The jingle of the harnesses, the wagon bumping and rocking over the rough road, cover the noise I make as I scooch my feet closer to the side of the wagon. Using the side for balance, I get to my knees. The horses are trotting, but the pace is slow enough for me to jump without getting hurt.

Eyes on the backs of my captors, I get to my feet, set my right foot atop the side. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ben’s head swivel. I jump, land on my feet, and hit the ground running.

“Ivvah-nemma!” Take over.

Ben Bontrager’s voice rings out. No time to look. I keep going, sprint toward the tree line fifty yards away. I hear Loretta shout, but I don’t comprehend the words. I train my eyes on the woods ahead. Old-growth forest, thick with bramble.

“Shtobba!” Stop!

Ben’s voice, scant yards behind me. I pour on the speed, too fast. Praying I don’t trip. My balance off because I can’t use my hands.

There’s a ditch at the edge of the woods. Too wide to hurdle. I plunge into a foot of muddy water, muscle through, charge up the other side. Then I’m in the trees, zigzagging between trunks as wide as a man’s shoulders. I hear the sound of breaking brush behind me. Another jet of adrenaline hits my muscles. A branch comes out of nowhere, punches my cheek, opens the skin. I duck, ignoring the pain, keep running.

“Skid! Skid!” I know there’s no one around. I call out anyway. “Police Department! Help! Help me!”

I know Bontrager is going to catch me. It’s inevitable. He’s faster, not hampered by bound hands. Still, it’s a shock when his fingers clamp around my arm. One moment I’m running full out, the next I’m being yanked backward with so much force that my feet leave the ground. I land on my backside and roll. I’m scrambling to my feet when Bontrager puts his boot on my back.

“Get off me,” I snarl.

He looks down at me, breaths labored. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I see stress etched into his every feature, and I know the fear of losing the child he’s raised from birth has sent him over the edge. Looking into his eyes, I see something else, even more unexpected. The regret of a man who knows he’s about to make a mistake that cannot be undone.